~*~ Prologue ~*~

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

– Anaïs Nin

For Cymbal: You were the bravest itty, bitty kitty in the entire world, surviving with joy and love even as the cancer took you in the end. May all of us learn from your bravery and love, even in the darkest of times.

The embers smoldered in the fireplace as Hermione scanned the lines of the book in front of her. She'd read it a million times, stared at the illustrations until the colors bled together. It held the answers; she was utterly convinced of it, but had no idea what they could be. Sighing, she set down the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

It had arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place some days after her trip to Spinner's End. There had been a note with the seal of the ministry indicating that Dumbledore had left her the book. A golden snitch and a device the ministry note indicated was a deluminator had also been in the package. Hermione hadn't touched either the snitch or the device as both Harry and Ron's names were clearly printed in elaborate script upon the parchment tied to each. The boys hadn't passed through Grimmauld Place in over two months and she had no idea where they were. Not that she would personally deliver the items even if they did arrive.

She'd hardly talked to anyone since the morning she'd returned, glimmering pendant at her neck. Lupin had been a bit miffed about the stupefy incident in the bedroom, but hadn't mentioned it to anyone else at headquarters. Hermione now made sure to make him fresh coffee every morning. Otherwise, it had been a solid two months of waiting for the burn of the necklace and trying to figure out the intricate workings of Albus Dumbledore's mind.

Luna had stopped by once, moving between safe houses with her father after the attack on Bill and Fleur's wedding. Hermione hadn't been invited to the wedding, a slight that had spared her that particular horror. Luna had been different; her brilliant blue eyes dimmer, an oppressive gravity hanging over her. But she'd smiled at Hermione as though a veil hadn't been drawn over her eyes. They'd talked about Draco and his decision, about the gifts from Dumbledore and the war. Luna was the only person Hermione talked to, with the rare exception of Lupin when it was just the two of them.

Hermione ran a finger down the spine of the book. It was Luna who had told her the significance of the story of the three brothers, of the Deathly Hallows. And after two months, Hermione was absolutely sure Dumbledore wanted her to learn about the Hallows, but she couldn't ascertain a use for the knowledge. He certainly hadn't intended to have her waste away in the Ancient House of Black while a war raged beyond its doors.

When she'd told Moody about Draco's choice, one night long after the others had settled in their rooms, he'd stared at her long and hard, magical eye flying this way and that. Fine, he'd murmured at last. And then he'd banned her from all missions with the exception of meeting Draco or gathering information from Harry and Ron. She'd gone from utterly useless, to one of the Order's most important assets within the blink of an eye, but it hardly mattered. She was still confined to Grimmauld Place, still stuck searching a library for answers far beyond the scope of its shelves.

Luna was convinced the Peverell brothers and the Deathly Hallows were real and having spent enough time with Luna to understand the intelligence behind those misty blue eyes, Hermione was inclined to believe her. But that left her having only the faintest suspicion of what they might be aside from the growing certainty that Harry's Invisibility Cloak was likely the third brother's cloak.

Her fingers traced the elaborate H dangling at her neck, the motion familiar after months. Her memories of him were blurry now, like an aged photograph with all the colors leeched away. She dreamt of him often, when she could manage to sleep at all, but there was no clear picture, only the ephemeral sense of him beside her. Even those impossible silver eyes that transformed her in unfathomable ways had begun to fade. She'd stopped expecting the necklace to burn, started listening carefully to conversation in the kitchen and the hall, for any mention of him at all. There had been nothing.

About Severus Snape, however, there had been plenty. He was now the headmaster at Hogwarts, the right hand man of the Dark Lord, the killer of Dumbledore. That lie, at least, had become truth. Some in the Order still didn't trust Snape, but with Hermione's memories within his purview, Moody knew better. The Auror didn't seem inclined to share the extent of his knowledge with anyone besides Shacklebolt, Lupin and Tonks, but Hermione was mollified knowing that Moody would never make a move directly against Snape.

The embers of the fire finally died, leaving the library awash in the eerie glow of the moon spilling from the sole window. She should get to bed; attempt to sleep, or at least let her body rest while her mind travelled in nauseating circles until she could barely hold on to hope. Even the occasional dreamless sleep potion didn't seem to work anymore. She slept, but only after weeks of exhaustion had driven her to surrender. And then it was only him, so ethereal that he slipped between her fingers as she tried to pull him to her, nothing but grains of sand blown away by the gentlest of breezes.

So Hermione studied until she could almost pretend it was okay, that Draco wasn't risking everything for her, that he was still alive, that one day the necklace would burn.