She pauses outside a door then moves on.

She feels the rifts between her friends as they move far and away from each other, then return like tide drawn back to the shore. It aches inside her, an empathy she can't control and isn't sure she'd want to, though it hurts sometimes more than she can bear. When that happens, she turns to her books and goes off in search of a snaggle-horned pixilune in the wilds of Hartfordshire until everything is all right again and she feels like she can breath.

Another door. Another pause.

Ron hurts the most, though he'd never admit it, but he wears his pain like a robe, cloaking him from true happiness. It hurts to touch him, even to lay a hand on his sleeve, because the pain and sadness bristle up like porcupine quills.

Another door and she stops, her robes swishing around her ankles and the socks that she found in Muggle London when Hermione took her shopping. They have dancing monkeys all over them, sparkling purple on a pink background. She wears them when she's nervous or scared.

Or tonight, when she needs courage.

She opens the door and he's there, just as she knew he would be. She does her research, has honed her skills at reading upside down to the point where nothing is safe from her, unless it's from Harry, as his handwriting is atrocious. But his is not. It's letter perfect and precise, which is a lovely offset to the slight tilt of his glasses as he looks up in the candlelight, surprised to see her standing not three feet from him.

"Can I help you?"

She shakes her head, his pain far more pronounced than even Ron's, filtering off him in waves that crash on her heart. She moves into the room and closes the door, the breeze causing the candle flame to waver, flicker and go out, leaving them in darkness.

"But I can help you."