I try - everyday I try, but it's never going to work. I can try until I'm blue in the face, until my knuckles go white and my heart stops beating, but I will always know that it's useless. I know that I will never be whole again. The war ripped me up, it turned me inside out, it made me a fragment of who I used to be. I feel like I have nothing left, nothing left to fight for, nothing left to challenge.

Everybody knows who I am and nobody dares deny me anything. I think that's what I miss most of all, having to work for approval. The Ministry passed The House Elf Labour Laws with a soft smile and a firm handshake. I didn't need to research, debate, or convince, all they needed from me was my face and my signature.

My tea is cold.

I finish my toast from my perch atop the kitchen counter. I like to eat up here. I can see into Hyde Park from the kitchen window of my seventh story flat. I can look down on the people walking their dogs along the street or the joggers running through the park's many paths. In a way, it reminds me of Gryffindor Tower and it makes me feel safe and untouchable.

It's raining today, the water is running in rivulets down the glass. It will be a wet walk to work.

I sigh and push myself off the counter before pouring my abandoned tea down the drain. I pull my hair back and out of my face, zip up my boots, and don a muggle coat instead of traditional robes. As I walk out the door, I grab my umbrella off its hook. I feel a familiar sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach; I know it's going to be a long day.

As I walk through the Ministry halls, I'm greeted by smiles and polite nods from faces that have been, and forever will be, nameless. I push aside the door with shiny brass lettering - Department of International Magical Cooperation, Muggle Liaison Office.

The office is loud and chaotic. Two rows of desks line the walls with various Ministry officials behind them. I line my sight up with the door in the back wall of the office. I step forward, determined and purposeful. I'm almost at the door, my door, when a cheerful voice stops me.

"Hermione!"

I turn.

"Oh. Hello Hannah."

She's looking at me with a smile plastered to her face, her eyes are bright and big. She looks so innocent and full of life, I can't stop the jealousy that makes clench my jaw. Then I notice the ring. Her hands are clasped over a file of papers that she has clutched to her chest. The ring glints in the light. It definitely wasn't there yesterday.

She follows my gaze. Her smile broadens as she holds her left hand out for me to inspect. I feel awkward standing there, squinting at her new ring, paper airplane memos whizzing around our heads. I'm sure I look like a drowned cat, I can feel as the water drips from my hair to my clothes, finally forming a pool beneath my feet.

"Neville proposed last night! We were at dinner, well, not actually at dinner. He cooked for me at his flat, it was so sweet and romantic, except, it was kind of a disaster too - you know Neville," she rambles on excitedly.

I try to slowly inch forward towards my door. As much as I adore Hannah, I'd rather not do this here. The office is so loud.

"Well, he burnt the potatoes and the trout was undercooked. The salad would have been edible, had he not soaked it in an entire bottle of salad dressing. So, by the time I showed up, he was completely frazzled and he kept apologizing for ruining our date."

I get to my door and manage to usher her into the room. I breathe out a sigh of relief as the door slams behind her. She plops into the chair in front of my desk, only pausing long enough in her story to examine her ring in the warm light of my office.

"And so, I said to him, 'I don't care what we eat, as long as I get to spend the day with you.' And he got all sweet and stuttering, and offered to take me out instead, but I wanted it to be just the two of us, so I told him that I was sure I'd be able to whip something up. Except, all he had in his kitchen was some butterbeer, bread, tomatoes, and a jar of kippers."

I can't help but smile, it's so typical.

"So, we sat on the floor of his balcony, eating kippers on toast and watching the people walk by on the street below us. After we finished, he brought out this cupcake, that he'd apparently hidden from me earlier, and two forks. Well…we eat for silence in a few minutes before Neville starts choking, and so I pull out my wand and dislodge his throat. And he…he spits out this ring!"

I nearly choke on my breath as her words register inside my head.

"What?" I manage to gasp.

"He, literally, spit out the ring. Don't worry, I cleaned it."

"Why was he eating the ring?" I ask curiously.

"Well, that's the thing, it was really very sweet. We watched this muggle film a few weeks ago where the guy proposes to the girl by hiding the ring inside a piece of chocolate cake. I mentioned in passing that I thought it was a very romantic thing to do, and he remembered," Hannah gushes the last line dreamily, "I couldn't be happier."

"Well, congratulations. It sounds like it was a very memorable proposal, at least."

"Oh, it was!" She says as she stands up. "I have to get back to work. We're having an engagement dinner sometime next week, I'll owl you the info."

She walks through the door, sending one last radiant smile in my direction.

"Dammit!" I curse to the empty room.

I love Hannah, I really do. She and Neville are perfect.

But I don't want to celebrate. I'm tired of this enjoyment and happiness that everyone is hiding behind. I'm tired of pretending. It's like this mask that the wizarding world has been wearing for the past six years, it's like they think that they will fall apart if they let themselves remember all the horrible things that happened.

That's why they skate around me like I'm a china doll, they worry that they'll break me. That's why the Minister lets me pass whatever laws I want, no matter how ridiculous. Harry is oblivious to the way they treat us, having been treated this way for years, but Ron adores it. If he asked to be captain of the Chudley Cannons, he'd be flying with them tomorrow.

That's why Harry and Ron are Aurors. That's why I'm head of the Muggle Liaison Office. That's why I'm miserable. Everyone tries hopelessly to keep us happy, because if we're happy then the rest of the wizarding world will be happy. In a way, we're just pawns that are used to boost the public's morale and the Ministry is trying desperately to keep this facade from shattering.

Harry and Ron have grown so used to it that they've nearly forgotten the horrors of the war. But I haven't and I can feel myself cracking.

I make my way through the piles of paperwork that litter my desk. Report after report. None of this really even matters. I could fill a report with nonsense from the Quibbler and no one would even care.

The door opens but I ignore it, not bothered to look up.

"You?!"

The incredulous, accusing drawl makes me freeze. My quill is poised a few centimeters above the parchment and I'm too startled to move. He's here. He's standing inside the doorframe, his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white from exertion. He looks positively livid, as if my presence deeply offends him. I know it does, but in no way, is that my fault. I let my shock dissipate as I gently place my quill back on the desk, I clasp my hands in front of me and lean forwards on my elbows slightly.

"Well, this is my office, Malfoy."

His face contorts bitterly before he grasps the handle of the door and slams it shut, leaving me alone in the room.

I lean back slightly in my chair, picking up my quill once more. Just as I'm about to start my last report, the door opens again. I look up as he carefully closes the door behind him and stands directly in front of my desk. He's regained his composure and he looks considerably less like he's going to punch a hole in my wall. Somehow, I still don't find this situation ideal.

"Yes?" I ask him, hoping to get whatever this is done with, as soon as possible.

He sits in the chair across from me, resting his right leg over the knee of his left. He leans back casually and narrows his eyes as he looks me over. One corner of his mouth pulls upwards slightly into a teasing smirk. I feel a nearly uncontrollable urge to reach over and slap him as hard as I can.

"I was hoping to never see you again, Granger."

"I had similar ambitions."

"Really now?" he taunts. "You know, you could just stop looking in mirr-"

I cut him off sharply. "What are you doing here?"

"Apparently, I've been transferred."

"What?! Here?" I ask in disbelief. This cannot be happening.

"Obviously. Don't worry, Granger, I'm sure I won't be here long."

"But why? This is the Muggle Liaison Office. I thought you hated muggles."

"Oh, I did. And I still don't particularly like them, however, I appreciate their value now," he says calmly.

I hate how cool and composed he's acting, it's as if the man who first entered my office, less than five minutes ago, never existed. I hate that he's here, intruding in my life, when I'd been so sure that he was gone. I haven't seen him since the final battle, and he really doesn't look that different. He's a little less sallow and gaunt, but his eyes are still shadowed with anger and resentment. He looks like a petulant child who loathes the whole world.

"You still haven't told me why."

"Oh, that's easy. I'm running out of offices."

"Huh?"

"I've been kicked out of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the Department of Magical Transportation, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures…"

His voice trails off, and I know that there's more to the list. He leans forward suddenly, his fingers gripping the edge of my desk. His eyes bore into mine, as if he's trying desperately to read me, but I've had lots of practice of making my expression passive. A perfect poker face.

"And it seems your office is next on the list."

I don't say anything in reply. Maybe, if I don't acknowledge him he'll just leave. Maybe, I'll wake up from this horrible nightmare.

"There's one empty desk out there, I think I can safely presume it's mine."

He stands up and slides a form across the desk for me to sign.

"Why do you even need to work?" I ask as I scrawl my signature across the bottom of the page.

He shrugs, "The Minister thinks that it's the best way to keep me out of trouble."

"So basically, I get to babysit…" I mumble as I roll my eyes.

"Don't worry, Granger. Like I said, I doubt I'll be here for long."

And with one last smirk in my direction, he leaves.

I drop my head onto my arms and groan in frustration. This is not what I need. I need to move on from the war. I need to stop myself from shattering. I need to try to be happy and whole. How can I do that with him intruding in my life? He'll bully, and ridicule, and taunt - and I don't think I have it in me to fight him.

This is going to be a challenge.

I freeze.

Maybe, that is what I need. After all, isn't that what's been missing? Something to fight, something to challenge.