She was in a dark room. 

At first, it was hard to make out the surroundings. She rubbed her eyes in hopes to see better. In the dark, cold room, Hermione didn't like the fact that she couldn't see anything. It was disconcerting. Her eyes slowly adjusted, and she narrowed her eyes and peered around herself. She could see dark shapes and outlines.

What was she doing here?

She wasn't supposed to be here.

The maroon couches, the little vase on the centre table filled with dandelions and bright yellow flowers, the familiar picture over the fire, bound in a thick wooden frame. Her own face smiled down at her from it. On her left in the photograph, a raven haired boy with wireframe spectacles grinned widely. On her right, a boy with flaming red hair sported a slightly lopsided grin. The people in the picture couldn't be more than twelve or thirteen years old. They looked carefree, and happy, like children are supposed to look. They didn't look at though they had faced an adult war that they were thrown into. Arthur had taken this picture of them at platform nine and three quarters, with the last remaining film in his camera. She smiled fondly at the picture.

But something wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be here. The smile faded from her face as she looked around. Beyond the living room window, all she could see was darkness. There was no moon in the sky, no stars, not even a single whispy cloud. It was black. Just black. The fireplace was sooty, and looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. The flowers in the vase, which had been alive and colourful a few moments ago, were now dead and brown.

"Look at what you've done."

Hermione snapped around. The photograph was gone. She swivelled around again, and the couches were ripped, there were dark stains on the carpet. Her heart started beating frantically, wanting escape. She needed to get out of here.

"Look how you've left me, 'Mione."

Hermione whimpered and ran to the front door. She desperately tried to grasp the doorknob, but she couldn't hold it, turning it seemed far from question. Her hands were slippery and oily. 

"You know you were wrong."

Hermione kicked the door. It didn't budge. The darkness outside was trying to suffocate her, pressing down on her. She wanted to see light. She needed light. 

Only, there was no light. Nobody came to her with a light.

"It was your fault Hermione."

"No," she had meant for her voice to come out as a growl. It came out as a whisper instead.

"You could have saved Fred, you were right there."

"You were right there too!" Hermione shrieked, looking around for the source of his voice. But she couldn't see him. Her skin erupted in goose flesh.

"You weren't there for me when I needed it."

"No, no, I was, I swear," Hermione cried, starting to run around the room in search of an escape, or to find where he was speaking from. Somehow hearing a disembodied voice was worse than seeing him actually standing in front of her.

"Maybe if you were good enough," his voice sneered, "we'd still be together. But you are not good enough."

"You're wrong!" Hermione covered her ears in her desperation, tears streaming down her face, "You're wrong!"

"Look at what you've done," he continued, "there's blood on your hands."

A loud ringing filled the air, and she covered her ears over more and sank to the floor. A pair of shoes appeared on the floor in front of her. She'd recognise those shoes anywhere. 

One of the feet lifted backwards, then flew through the air, aimed at Hermione. She raised her arms in a vain attempt to defend herself.

Just before his foot could make contact, Hermione's eyes snapped open.

Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

It was just a dream. Like all the others. Nothing to worry about.

The ringing persisted. She was disoriented at first, but then realised it was her alarm clock. She slammed her hand atop it so that it would stop making that awful racket. 

She was shivering, even when she was buried under her comforter. 

She'd been dreaming about Ron for a long time now. She would have thought that she'd grow accustomed to it over time. Clearly, this wasn't something that she could get used to just because it had happened several times before. No, this hit her afresh and with renewed energy every time that it happened. Now, the frequency was lesser than what it had been a year ago. She only witnessed it around once or twice in two months. Of late, they had reduced to nil. Of course it had to come raging back with more fervor.

"My fault," she whispered to herself, "all my fault. I left him."

Nobody to help her face the light again. 

No light.

She hoped the silencing charm she had cast last night was still holding. The tears came slowly at first, then sped up. 

She cried until she could cry no more. 

Feeling kind of dehydrated, Hermione dragged herself out of bed and out of her bedroom. 

Talk about a terrible day. 

"You're three minutes late."

Hermione closed her eyes. She did not want to handle Carson and his bullshit today. Today, she had her own bullshit to handle. Not to mention her day at work. But then, that fell under bullshit as well.

Hermione ignored Carson and made her way to the bathroom. 

"Oh, and your hair's terrible today, did you know that?" Carson drawled on teasingly, "I think there's a twig in it, let me get that for you. Have you seen the apple jam jar? If you've hidden it, you'd better-"

"Shut up."

Hermione hadn't meant for it to happen. But it had slipped out before she could stop herself. She stood with her fists clenched, trembling like a leaf on a windy day. She was breathing too harshly. To add to things, she could feel a pounding headache building up.

Carson was looking at her with his forehead creased by a frown. She always had something witty to retort with, what happened today?

"What's wrong, Granger?" he tried to keep his tone light, "Got off the wrong side of the bed, have you?"

"I said," Hermione spoke without really wanting to, "shut up."

Did Carson listen to her? No, of course not. He walked over to her cautiously.

Hermione could feel the warmth of his body. She could feel that all her senses were screaming at her to turn and properly face him, look at his stupid storm colored eyes and curly hair. But she wouldn't. 

Did he have a light?

"What's happened?" Carson took another step so that he was in front of her. He surveyed her warily.

Maybe he did have a light. Only, she was too stubborn to let her eyes see it.

There's blood on your hands.

Hermione closed her eyes and turned away from him, and his stupid concerned face and storm colored eyes. Those storm colored eyes that made her insides squirm and seemed to release butterflies in her chest and make her heart flutter along with them. Stupid storm colored eyes.

For no valid reason, it infuriated her that he was so concerned. She didn't want pity. Why couldn't he see what was wrong? Why wouldn't he just help her? Couldn't he hear anything that was going on in her mind? Why did she always have to explain things to people? Just because she was strong and independent didn't mean she couldn't have a bad day, couldn't he just understand that?

Why wouldn't he just leave her alone?

Hermione pushed past him and shoved the bathroom door open. A shower ought to make her feel better, right?

She turned the shower until the temperature was enough to make the mirror fog up in under thirty seconds. It was scalding. She enjoyed it.

Why wouldn't Ron just go away, for Merlin's sake. Why couldn't he just leave her alone and be out of her life? Surely it wasn't too hard? Hermione was sure he didn't even miss her. Not that she missed him either, but sometimes, when at her most vulnerable, she wished that what they had could be fixed. She wished she could go back in time and fix everything. But she knew that Ron wasn't worth it. He was not. 

Was he?

No, he was not. She would never, ever, let him have power over her again.

Then what was she feeling nostalgic about?

Definitely not Ron or his presence. He had made it clear about what kind of person he really was on that fateful night. 

She didn't miss what they had, either. If they ever had anything, that is. All they had was an impulsive decision they took together based on a childhood crush. It was stupid, really.

They never even did anything together that was of significance. Sure, they had laughs. But whenever she'd bury her nose in a book, he'd call her boring and ask her to 'loosen up a bit'. They didn't like the same things. Not to be rude or anything, but he wasn't exactly intellectual. He did a spectacular job of making her feel terrible about herself.

But if she didn't miss any of those things, what did she miss?

It took some thinking, but she figured it out. 

She needed someone to love.

She was sick and tired of being alone. Sure, she had Harry and Ginny. All the Weasleys bar one. Poppy and Professor Slughorn. But she didn't mean that kind of love. She meant the other kind of love. The one which makes your stomach do a flip, which makes your whole day brighter and better and makes you feel like you're actually worth something. She needed someone to love and care for, who she could worry over and who wouldn't like her based on physical attractiveness or physical appeal, but just because she was her. She wanted someone to love her for who she was and be with her despite knowing that she was a terribly boring bookworm. She just needed someone to be there for her. Was that too much to ask?

She stepped out of the shower and cast her concealment charm. It hid her 'mudblood' scar, and made her look healthier on a whole. 

Carson was seated on one of the armchairs when she got out. She only spared him a fleeting glance and nothing more. He looked at her with concern in his eyes. Those stupid storm colored eyes.

She wished he'd stop looking at her like that.

There was no time for breakfast. She'd wasted time in crying, and then taken an over long shower. She'd just have to skip breakfast today. Hopefully she would be able to have a decent lunch.

A few quick drying spells, and her hair and towel were dry. She regretted using the spell on her hair though, it made it look extra frizzy. Hermione collected her papers, placed them in her bag, and walked out of the room prepared to face another doleful day at the Ministry. She walked past Carson without saying goodbye. She just didn't want to. Besides, why would he care? She wasn't worth his worry anyways.

Hermione stepped into the fireplace, and was gone in a whoosh of green flames. Carson was left staring at the spot she had been standing some time ago. 

The Atrium was busy as always, with the last few people coming in. Memo airplanes flitted around people's heads. Hermione ducked as a few of them came her way. She tried in vain to spot Ginny or Harry. They hadn't even tried to contact her yet. And no matter how much she tried to ignore it, it hurt. 

A lump developed in her throat. She swallowed it. This wasn't the time. After taking a few deep breaths, Hermione walked swiftly to the lifts. She was jostled along to the back, and was nearly pressed into the railings. The man in front of her had a terrible case of body odor. Hermione was grateful she hadn't eaten anything for breakfast, because she would surely have thrown up about now. 

She nodded in way of acknowledgement at the witch who sat at the reception, and the witch nodded back. Today she was donning red glitter on her eyes. Hermione truly couldn't understand the woman's obsession with glitter. 

"Well, hello."

Hermione stumbled a few steps as she tried to stop. She turned around to face the person slowly, praying that by the time she finished turning he would go away. But he didn't, of course.

"Theodore." she said tersely.

"I see that you're late today," Theodore checked his watch for reaffirmation, "you generally come in around eight thirty."

"I, uhm," Hermione thought of an excuse, feeling cold fury when she realised that if he knew what time she came in, he'd been watching her, "wasn't feeling that well in the morning, that's all."

"Oh," Theodore said as he nodded solemnly in understanding, "feeling better now?"

"A few quick spells made it better," Hermione shrugged, uncaring.

"Good to hear," he smiled.

"If there's nothing else, I should be going," Hermione said.

"Oh no, just thought I'd say hello," Theodore held his hands up.

"Alright," Hermione nodded, "I'll see you later, perhaps."

"Have a good day at work."

Hermione watched for a few seconds as Theodore turned and walked down the hall. When he took a turn, he glanced back at her. She looked at him coldly and turned away. 

The records room was already full of the sound of people scratching quills on parchment. Hermione made her way over to her desk and sat down. She breathed in the smell of parchment and ink. It comforted her somehow. She warily eyed the stack of new files placed on her desk. She counted sixteen. Atop the first was a note from Penelope asking her to turn these in before Saturday. Hermione sighed and pulled the topmost file towards herself.

-----

Carson was seated at the kitchen table, reading one of the physics books he had borrowed last night. He had an apple in his hand, and he spun it around idly as he read. Occasionally he would take a bite out of it before continuing reading.

He hated the apartment when it was silent like this. He liked it to some extent, but he hated it as well. It was too much like his own home, and the similarity haunted him. 

Granger's presence with her annoying comebacks, witty insults, and bloody mane of bushy hair made this place more…bearable. It always kept him thinking of something, always kept his mind occupied. But when it was all silent, he was left to himself and his overworking mind. 

His neck snapped as he looked up sharply from his book at the sound something tapping the window pane. He scowled at the now-familiar jet black owl. It seemed to be glaring at him with its piercing yellow eyes as it impatiently tapped the window pane again. Carson quickly paid it, took the letter, and shut the window. He unfolded the letter with a slight tremble in his hands.

   I know where you are now, filthy blood traitor scum. 

 Your father's released, ain't  he? He doesn't deserve to be alive, to be able to live in the comfort of his home. Him and you both only deserve death. 

 Especially you, after what you did. Filthy scum.

 I'll get you sooner or later, and when I do I'll torture you so much you'll beg for death. But I'll kill your parents before that, and even that mudblood bitch who I know you're living with. You'll lose everything just like I did.

Carson balled the letter up. The thought of incinerating the letter evaded his mind, and he admitted to himself that it was very, very inviting. But, he knew it would be irrational, because the letters could come in useful later. For evidence, or whatever. He glared at the bright green ink used to write on the parchment and decided that from that moment on he would hate green ink.  

He needed firewhiskey. 

Carson pulled the door of one of the shelves open and brought out a bottle. He unstoppered it and tipped it back. He swallowed without hesitation or reluctance. The liquid made his eyes water and his throat feel parched, but he continued drinking. The burning sensation helped numb his other raging feelings and emotions that were begging to be let out in some way. 

Filthy blood traitor scum.

He tried not to let the letters affect him, he really did. Sometimes they just became too much. The words carved themselves into his head and wouldn't go away. Whatever the letter said seemed to be true in every aspect. He knew it was true. He was only scum. Filthy. Useless. He was a coward who couldn't even face the world as who he was. 

Scum. Coward. Useless.

Useless. Coward. Scum.

The words reverberated in his mind. He groaned, gripping the edge of the table to hold himself up. He tried to clear his mind, but to no avail. The bottle slipped from his grip and shattered on the ground.

Coward. Blood traitor. Scum.

Coward.

He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be gone and never wanted to return. He didn't want to live in this world anymore. 

Coward. Scum. Filthy.

He wanted to be gone.