CHAPTER ONE.
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Hermione's eyes were bloodshot and full of tears as she gazed at the slab of stone that bore the name of one of her best friends, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. She had known he was damaged after the death of Fred, taken from them all during the war, but never in a million years would she have expected something like this to happen.
The sky was grey with storm clouds as she stood alone at his graveside. She thought back to their last conversation and how she had assumed he was being overly dramatic when he said his life wasn't worth living. She wondered what would have happened if she'd taken him just that little bit more seriously. Would he still be here?
It was six months after the war and things were still going so horribly wrong. It was ironic, really. They had fought so hard to live a better life and now her life was rapidly falling apart in front of her. With Ron gone and the Weasleys laying the blame firmly with her, she was alone.
Harry had told her that he didn't blame her, that he could be held as accountable as she could for not heeding the warning signs. If they had taken more notice, acted sooner, perhaps they could have changed things. But it was pointless to think of such things now, as Ron was already dead and buried.
The Weasleys hadn't spoken to her since Arthur had found his body, hanging, in his bedroom a month ago. He'd left a note, firmly naming her as the final catalyst in the journey to the end of a rope. The final push had come from her, he'd said. Molly had said that she may as well have tied the noose.
Hermione was weighed down with guilt for Rons suicide. He may have been the one to take that last action, but it was her words and feelings that took away his final will to live. He had said that he loved her, that she was the reason he woke up in the morning, and she had turned away from him.
But she couldn't bring herself to lie to him, and she shouldn't have to either. She couldn't force feelings to be there or not. She had obviously harboured feelings for the redhead through the years, but it had settled into familial affection, like a brother, like Harry.
Harry, who had said he didn't blame her, yet had chosen to side with the Weasleys for fear that they would shut him out, too. She wasn't angry at him, but she was definitely disappointed that he had chosen to walk away from their years of friendship. That was his choice though, and now she had to make hers.
She had no idea where to go. Usually she would turn to the very family that had just lost its second son, but that was out of the question. Her parents were dead, having died in a car crash while oblivious to her existence and she had no other real friends to speak of. Should she stay in the magical world, where she was sure that gossip was currently spreading that she had essentially signed Ron Weasleys death warrant? Was it worth it when she was completely alone?
In the distance, Hermione heard a clap of thunder and the sky lit up with fork lightning. Knowing that the skies would open up and she would get drenched if she stayed here, she left the graveside and walked to the edge of the Burrows wards before dissappearing.
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Theo Nott gazed around the Three Broomsticks from the relative privacy of his corner table, wondering what the customers were drinking to. Perhaps that blonde, smiling man at the bar was celebrating a promotion at work. Maybe that black haired woman was drowning her sorrows after her husband left her. The brunette man in the opposite corner to him had probably been toasting the end of the working week, at least he had before he'd passed out in a puddle of his own drool.
The Three Broomsticks was Theo' s favorite haunt, as he was pretty much guaranteed his solitude, and for that he was extremely grateful. Since the demise of Voldemort, he had been subject to hateful glares everywhere he went, and as much as he felt that he fully deserved them for his actions during the war, the public were not aware of the full story.
He had never wanted to be a part of the horrible things that his father had introduced him to. He felt physically sick just thinking of some of the things he had seen, letalone some of the things he had done. No, Theo knew that he deserved the hate, but he had never wanted to do the things people hated him for in the first place.
Draco had bragged to him relentlessly when he got the mark, but Theo was smarter than anyone had ever given him credit for. He saw how depressed and terrified Draco had become during the course of their sixth year and had been desperate to avoid that life for himself.
Unfortunately, his father had volunteered him for the honour of being marked at Christmas during seventh year. Voldemort had taken the place of Santa clause that year, giving him what his father called the ultimate gift. The hideous black skull and snake that had adorned his arm ever since.
He had tried so many different ways to try and rid himself of the tattoo. From burning to cutting and even so far as an attempt to cut off his own arm, but Madam Rosmerta had found him and St Mungos had managed to repair the damage, despite his protests and him telling them let the damn thing fall off. Regardless he still had his arm and he still had the bloody mark.
His gaze around the pub came to a grinding halt when a new person walked through the door and went straight to the bar, ordering what appeared to be a whole damn bottle of firewhiskey. He hoped for her sake that she wasn't planning on drinking alone because that amount of alcohol would damn near kill her if she drank the whole bottle.
When the bottle was delivered to her and her galleons paid, she crossed the pub towards him and opted for the table in the opposite corner. Sitting down and shrugging off her coat, she unscrewed the bottle and Theo gaped as she took a full straight from the bottle. She winced, but other than that showed no sign of the telltale burning sensation that followed a sip of the liquor.
Her eyes were swollen and red, and he could tell she had been crying. He genuinely wanted to go over and comfort her but knew that she wouldn't give her the time of day. As he watched, though, fresh tears escaped her eyes and she made no move to brush them off of her face. Well, that forced his hand somewhat and made the decision for him. He stood up and crossed over towards her table, hoping she wouldn't throw the bottle at his head.