Enjoy!

She was obsessing over the Belay file over lunch when she received the news. She had feeling-so dark and pungent, her rich meal of carne guisada fell heavily against her stomach. Leaving her tongue with a heavy coat of dust no matter how many swigs of Cabernet Sauvignon she swallowed, her throat felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper with it raw. She had gone to her favorite Gaelic restaurant, Flor de Cerdeira, the host already recognizing the heroine, seating her in her usual seat away from the windows and her back to the wall. All where she can see who entered and left the premises. She had suffered through too much to be stupid enough to let someone sneak on her now.

They brought her her meal without taking her order- it's Thursday and it was raining harshly therefore Ms. Hermione Granger will order the beef stew and the richest wine (to the taste, but can also be stated the most expensive.) on the menu. She had the same server, the same man who everyday gave her a tight-lipped smile, his eyes glancing warily at the photos laid out before her. Her eyes, the color of wet mud, staring harshly at the notes and the images of blood and mutilated bodies of men, women, and children for Merlin's sake. Hermione Granger was respected and dining at this fine establishment despite it being known to refuse Muggleborns any type of service before the war, now deeply respected the quiet and reserved witch.

She didn't do so well with change now after the war.

But she had changed for the better if that counted. She was doing well. She was Dr. Hermione Granger, Head Psychiatric for The Criminally and Mentally Insane under the Ministry. Everyone wanted her to study the Death Eaters' file who landed on their desk. She had no one to go home to-even Crookshanks died from complications of being half-kneazle. So she stained her fingers and tainted her mind even more than what it was. Reading and obsessing (that's a harsh word-trying to understand is much better) over the files of the people responsible for the decades long wretched war. A war that caused so many deaths. A war that caused her best friend to throw himself into work and trying to find the end of the bottle and another to be wary of guests in his very own home or near his children

She was damaged. They all were.

He had placed the parchment over her file, ignoring the grunt of disapproval from the witch, a sharp glare at Donnach who equally returned it. His deep voice was a jolt to her skull and she winced. She didn't do well with loud. Loud voices and crowded streets. Not anymore. He watched as her brows furrowed and he nodded at the parchment before gliding away.

Hermione glanced up, a sweep amongst the other luncheons had her opening the letter. Gently prying it apart:

HG,

There was an attack against my home. A breach. Astoria has died quickly. Scorpius is at St. Mungos critically ill. Hurry.

dM.

Like she said.

She had a bad feeling.

She was 26 –almost 30-and had seen more violence and death then should be considered healthy. In her line of work, she knew healthy was a misused term. The war screwed them all to hell to the pits of Tartarus and back. No one in this generation was remotely healthy- or normal. They were abnormal and the scars that graced their body and minds were a sign.

She was still an emotional wreck. Her hair was in a loose bun and her eyes were now the color of fire whiskey- a deep amber hue. Tears still cascaded down her cheeks, wetting her shirt as she stood in the foyer holding a scalding tray of casserole Hermione knew Draco liked. The same foyer where she would hug and swing the little Malfoy, where she would kiss her closest friend's smooth cheek and they would trash talk anything and anyone for the hell of it. Despite burying her six year old godson and his pregnant mother five months ago….she still cried.

Six years old.

How many sick fucks can this world actually hold? Again, with her line of work, this question shouldn't have even remotely touched her mind.

She handed the veal casserole to one of Draco's elf (She had given up on S.P.E.W when she was viciously threatened by one of Malfoy's senior elf to give up on ridiculous notions of trying to save everything or he would beat her unconscious with a stick) and slowly walked towards the study. Her heart racing at the thought of the torn up blond. He has yet to return to his desk at the Auror dept., she had his caseload sent to him, hoping he'd somewhat appreciate the gesture, but she received a curt response and that was it.

That was two months ago.

As she walked down the hallway of Malfoy Manor, Hermione couldn't help but think of the irony of where she was now walking down. The lighting was still bright and the wallpaper was still its navy blue and soft grey that Astoria had whisked on last spring. She had wondered briefly if it had gone back to its original coloring and mute lighting like Narcissa had before Astoria became the Mrs. Malfoy. Back to the succumbing darkness that the Manor was known for.

The death and the screams that had plagued and placed roots here since the start of Voldemort's reign. The press would probably think Ron would go ballistics for the cold heroine with the pale skin and purple under eyes to be walking past the room where she was tortured and scarred. In reality Ron would have shrugged and hoped Hermione didn't drag herself all bloodied and tattered to his home and have his twins witness how cruel the world could be. How vile and destructive it really is. Hoped she stayed where she was tortured or go to Harry's home in Godric's Hollow. Just away from the little bubble he had for Hugo and Rose.

Hermione swallowed back the lump in her throat-well tried to since her efforts were futile-it as like when she was eight and was in a hurry to catch the bus before it left her and she swallowed a hard-boiled quail egg without chewing. She had coughed until her father slapped her on her back. She would never forget the sensation of not being able to open her throat well enough. Lifting her hand, she knocked on the deep mahogany wood. The knock echoed loudly amongst the empty hallway

Silence always irked her.

Silence comforted her.