Hermione woke up around 10:45 and checked her sheets. She hadn't wet the bed. She mentally congratulated herself. She hadn't wet the bed in a week. The nightmare had still come however. Harry's dead body. Voldemort's hideous face. Bellatrix standing over her. She could still feel the pain of the Cruciatus curse. In the beginning she had woken up screaming. The nightmares hadn't started till after the Battle of Hogwarts. She had gone home, restored her parent's memories and moved back in with them. About a month later she'd moved out. Her mum said her drinking had gotten out of control. Hermione agreed, but she didn't want to do anything about it. Hermione got out of bed and wandered to the kitchen. She poured herself a shot of whiskey from the same bottle she'd drank from last night. She continued reading the book on Celtic history she'd checked out from the library. She'd been out of Hogwarts for a year and a half, but couldn't keep her nose out of books. She smiled at that. Part of her old self was still in there, buried beneath the alcoholism and the nightmares and the bedwetting. She wondered if she should shower this morning. She wondered if she should go to college. There were about one-thousand things she wondered as she poured herself a second shot. The whiskey took away the memories. She hadn't talked to Ron or Harry or Ginny in ages. The Death Eaters could have come back and killed them and she wouldn't know. She had dropped out of the wizarding world. Too many memories. She'd signed up for college classes and dropped out of that after a week. She'd dropped out of everything. There was nothing left for her to drop out of. Her mum and dad called her every so often to remind her that she was "a very smart girl" and "used to have ambitions" and "whatever happened to wanting to teach?" She didn't know what to tell them. She'd just nod and tell them what she assumed they wanted to hear. She'd promised to go to rehab so many times the words had lost all meaning. She actually considered going to rehab once or twice. She poured herself a third shot. She wasn't going to get any better .It was a slow way to kill herself, but she was too much of a coward to off herself any other way. She truly disliked pain.

"Crucio!"

She shuddered as she remembered the wild-haired witch and the painful curse jolting her body. She held her head and decided to forget the shots and chugged the rest of the bottle.

That was a bloody stupid thing to do. She thought as she slid from the chair. If she had her wand she'd just use it to get rid of the now pounding headache. But she'd left her wand somewhere by a train station. She'd decided magic had no place in her life anymore. She was beginning to regret that decision, beginning to long for the power of magic to flow through her body once more. It must be that wizard blood of hers. Trying to embrace her muggle heritage was pointless. Once you tasted that kind of power there was no going back. The problem was that if she did go back she'd probably turn into a dark wizard. She had too much anger and hatred. The first month after the Battle of Hogwarts she'd dreamed about torturing Bellatrix, slowly dismembering her. The next few nights had all been of her slowly becoming a dark wizard, using her spells to torture her enemies. Those dreams frightened her far more than the dreams where she was the one being tortured. She wondered if that's how dark wizards got their start. The anger and the hatred took over till that was what was fueling your magic.

The first muggle-born dark-wizard…that'd be an accomplishment, now wouldn't it? She thought to herself as she struggled back onto the chair. She laid her head on the table.

"I've got to get myself back together." She muttered. That didn't seem possible though. She rubbed her arm where her skin was still lightly scarred. She could just barely make out the slur. She felt anger rising in her as she looked at it.

Mudblood. A cruel laugh escaped her lips. It was not mud that flowed through her veins, but the blood of the greatest dark wizard that ever lived. She had stumbled upon that when she was doing family research at fourteen. Her line traced back to Herpo the Foul, Herpo the Foul who had hatched the first basilisk, Herpo the Foul who had created the first horcrux. When they had gone searching for Voldermort's horcruxes she had convinced herself that she needed the books on dark magic for research. That was only partially true. She had always been fascinated by dark magic, a fascination she had tried to hide away and control. Sometimes she'd spent entire evening in the library reading books on dark magic, fascinated by it. Magic came easy to her, easier than it should come to a muggleborn. She had mastered most of it by her third year at Hogwarts. That was how she'd wound up studying the dark arts. It was a way to pass the time, to satisfy her restless intellect. The dark arts called to her, they tempted her to give in to her wrath, her anger and her hatred.

But she knew she couldn't give in. If she did she'd wind up like Voldermort, a soulless shell or Bellatrix, driven completely mad.

But if she had all that power she'd never be afraid again. No one dared to call a dark wizard mudblood. She could be strong and powerful. She'd always desired knowledge and she could have all the knowledge of magic, including forbidden knowledge. Nothing was more tempting to her than forbidden knowledge.

The darkness called to her and she knew that she had to answer. But then she began imagining how her friends would see her. A traitor, evil, soulless. What would Ron think? Would Ron kill her if she turned? Would she kill him? She imagined a twisted version of herself standing over Ron's dead body. She then made her way to the refrigerator and got a beer. She chugged it within minutes then passed out on her kitchen floor.

When she woke up she was on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her. She held her head.

"Bloody hell Hermione you don't look too good."

She looked around. Ron was standing behind the couch looking down at her.

"A bit early too be drinking isn't it?" He asked.

"Shut up, Ron." She said nearly reflexively. "What…wait, why are you in my apartment?"

"Your door was unlocked."

Hermione shifted on the couch. "That doesn't answer my question."
"We've been worried about you. And guess who showed up at my door this morning? Trelwaney. Said you were in danger and she even predicted where you'd be."
That old loony? "Yeah well I'm fine."
"Passing out drunk is not what I'd call fine. It's not even one o'clock yet."

"What's it to you?" Hermione asked, growing annoyed.
"Because I'm your friend?" He offered. He lightly stroked her cheek. "Actually, I thought we were more than friends."
"We were." She said sadly.

"What'd I do?" He asked.

"You didn't do anything. I chose to leave that life behind." She explained.

"Why?" He asked, insistent.

"You really want to know Ron?" She held up her arm so he could see the insult carved into it. "Because I don't belong in that world."

He held her arm and kissed it. His lips tickled. It was so Ron-like that she started laughing. A real laugh, not the bitter cackle she'd developed. He blushed.

"What'd I do?"
She sat up on the couch and hugged him. "I missed you, Ron."

"I missed you too." He hugged her back. "Why'd you leave? The real reason?"
"I had too many memories in the wizarding world. You were one of the good memories, Ron. You and Ginny and Harry and Luna…. But there were others. I can't go back to Hogwarts. I remember the battle, the smell of death, your brother…" She teared up. Ron hugged her.

"I know how you feel Hermione." He let her go, then sat down beside her. She leaned into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her.

"Admit it, Ron. If you had another world to go back to, wouldn't you leave? I know, it's not very brave of me, but I needed to get away."
"How've you done in the muggle world?" He asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"Not too well. I dropped out of college after a week. I genuinely thought my mum was going to track me down and slipper me silly."

"My mum would've." Ron's eyes widened. "You dropped out of college?"
"I showed up to class drunk." She explained. "The professor said I had to choose between my education and my drinking. Guess which one I chose?"
"Hermione, you didn't drink this much back when I knew you. What happened?"
She suddenly pushed Ron away and stood up. "God damn you purebloods are sodding stupid aren't you?! I was tortured, Ron, tortured into bloody unconsciousness! Don't you think that might affect me?! I still have nightmares! I drink to get through it! "
"I might be stupid, Hermione, but at least I'm smart enough to know when I need help." Ron said.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Did my parents send you here?"
"No." He said. "But you can't drink your life away. Have you even looked into getting help for this? Talking to someone?"

"Who Ron? Certainly not a muggle, I'd be locked away in a loony bin." Though that might be where I belong.

"We have psychologists, Hermione. Hell, we have rehab."

"I don't want to talk to a wizard, Ron. Well, except you."

"Why don't you want to talk to a wizard?"
Because I'm turning dark or insane, possibly both. "I've been having thoughts Ron. Dark thoughts."

"What kind of dark thoughts?"
"Dark thoughts as in the dark arts. As in tracking down every former Death Eater and torturing them with curses until they die in agony." Hermione clenched her fists as she said it.
"Don't you think I've had the same thoughts?" Ron asked. "Don't you think I've fantasized about revenge ten-thousand times? You're not alone, Hermione."

He walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to face this alone."
"I sometimes dream about becoming a dark wizard. What it would be like, what it would feel like. Remember all those books I read about the dark arts? I think they infected me." She said.

Ron held her close to himself and whispered in her ear, "You could never be evil, Hermione. You could never go dark dark. You're good."

"Haven't you wondered, just for a split second, why I'm so brilliant? Why I seem to have an intuitive grasp on magic-including dark magic? My ancestor was Harpo the Foul."
His grip on her didn't waver. "We're cousins then. Harpo the Foul had ninety wives. Practically every wizard has some relation to him. Harry and Voldermort shared blood too, but you don't see him having a breakdown."
"My hobby is reading about the dark arts, my ancestor was the greatest dark wizard of all time, I'm a drunk with serious PTSD and none of this bothers you? Not even a bit?"

"Of course it bothers me." Ron responded. "It bothers me because it bothers you. I hate seeing you like this."

"You don't have to look then." Hermione muttered.

"I want to let you know that I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you, alright?"

He spun her around so she was facing him. She refused to look him in the eye.

"You're going to get help, Hermione. Muggle or wizard, whichever you prefer, but you will get help." He said in a commanding tone she'd never heard him use before.

She rested her head on his chest. "Ron, please, please go away. I don't want for you to see me like this."
"I'm not going anywhere." Ron told her. "Not until you promise me you'll get the help you need."

"Fine, I promise." She said. "I'll check into St. Mungo's tomorrow."
"Good. I'll check to see that you do."
He kissed her forehead. She grabbed him by the collar and kissed him fiercely before letting him go.