AN: I originally started this as an OC/Draco fic, but the fact that it would weigh so much heavier on my heart if it was a DMHG fic forced me to change it. That being said, if you read my previous version, the second chapter will remain the same. I love this story. I'm so excited for it… but please review, I'll assume you hate it if you don't, and will curl up into a ball of depression.

Enjoy guys..

Hermione Granger sat idly in her small flat, watching as the dust particles float around the room in the sunlight. She wondered in passing exactly how many one inhales in a day, sure she'd read it in a muggle textbook somewhere. Instead of pursuing the thought further, though, she glanced around the room in search of a lighter—or, more conveniently, her wand. She found the latter buried under numerous papers and writing utensils in her end table, muttering a quick spell to ignite the fag in her hand. Returning to her wand to its previous location, she took long strides to her balcony. If you could call it that, it's basically only big enough for two people—and even so, the depth isn't big enough to step onto it and be completely outside. She ended up smoking half inside of her flat, and half out. The smell will undeniably drift into the small room, but she knows that no complaints will be filed from her landlord or any other tenants. It's not uncommon for her to look to her left and see their neighbor doing the exact same thing… the result is the entire building smelling like fags.

She likes to contribute that greatly as to why she began smoking in the first place. Honestly, though, she couldn't explain it. She's a smart witch; most would argue the most intelligent of her age, so you would think that she'd know better. Her parents had risen her stressing the dangers of lung cancer. At one point, she'd even held a blackened lung at a museum. She knew, above all else, her new habit was likely due to the people she hung out with.

You see, after the war, Hermione was flourishing. After returning for her final year at Hogwarts as Head Girl, she had become quite happy with a job at Flourish and Blotts. Sure, it was minimum wage work—and far under her qualifications, at that. Despite that, she enjoyed it. Ronald and she had become quite serious; moving in together merely two years after Voldemort was brought down. She found herself unsettled, though. Despite having everything, she felt that she was missing something important.

She had thought that the answer was obvious. I mean, who wouldn't miss their parents after not seeing them for years on end? Ron was supportive when she said that she was going to set off to Australia to find them and bring them back to her, which was exactly what she did. After a very long and tearful reunion (after she returned their memories to them, of course,) the three of them traveled to muggle London.

It was odd, Hermione couldn't help but to reflect –even then, as she sucked upon her cigarette, how still the house was. How can some things stay exactly the same while everything else is completely transformed, so much so that you cannot even recognize your life anymore? As she gazed upon the table that she used to eat breakfast at every morning, she couldn't help but to wonder what she used to want to do when she grew up. Surely it wasn't 'become a war hero'... or better yet, it certainly wasn't 'the girl of the Golden Trio.'

The realization struck her so quickly and fiercely that she literally had to catch her breath. She turned wordlessly from the dining room, and walked slowly toward the stairs. Pausing once she realized she was trekking through the house with her shoes on—no doubt staining the carpet—she cast them aside. As her toes dug into their soft carpet, she could almost hear her mother scold her as a child, "Shoes, honey! I just cleaned that carpet, honestly." With the feeling that seeing them couldn't be anything other than her imagination, she glanced toward her mother dusting the living room for confirmation. She couldn't quite place the last time that she'd been as happy for her dreams- usually nightmares- to be reality instead.

Slowly, she continued her trek. She passed by two doors before arriving at her own, her door painted a light shade of purple. She recalled her parents sharing looks with each other as they arrived home to the smell of paint, and said door glistening. Her dad simply shrugged, "As long as you paint it if we move." That time never arose, and she was secretly glad for that. Something felt so personal about this house, the one that she was raised in. It seemed that with every step that she took, another memory overcame her. They were ordinary things, things that she was eager to cast aside when she entered the wizarding world. Although she had returned home during summers, the feeling of nostalgia wasn't quite the same. .She had known with each passing summer that she would return again— until she didn't.

Her hand had gripped the doorknob tightly, before twisting it and letting the door open on its own. She took in the room that she had adored as a child, eyes brimmed with tears. She knew that she was the same person, but too many things had happened to ensure that completely. Sure, her purple walls had five whole bookcases pressed against them throughout her fairly small room, which was very similar to wizarding Hermione. However, she was astonished to think about the fact that the second she had left on the Hogwarts Express, she hadn't thought twice about her passion for artwork.

Her walls were absolutely covered in paintings, mostly of everyday things but others of her family, as well. Along with paintings were drawings, much less elaborate but just as good. The tears that had threatened to spill before finally made their way down her smooth cheeks. Hogwarts didn't have many classes that focused on muggle art—or any, to be more specific. She'd always been studious, so she put all of her energy into that, instead.

Now that she had matured and grown, she couldn't help but curse herself for how bloody stupid that was. She was really talented, and she'd never realized the extent before. Feeling a presence behind her, she glanced toward the doorway. Her mum was standing there, a look of pride on her gorgeous face. Hermione couldn't stop herself from taking in all of the older woman's features, another thing that she'd taken for granted before that day. The list seemed endless; Hermione couldn't help but note in her mind.

"I'd always wondered why you would give such a gift up," Her mum spoke to her, stepping so she was standing next to her daughter, and intertwining their hands. "Being a wizard is a very special gift," she admitted, "but at times I couldn't help but to wonder which was more special: powers that many others have or the ability to see into the human soul and put it onto paper. The latter seems rarer to me. Sometimes I'd come in here while you were away and snoop." Another confession... and a wonderful one, at that. The light tears that had danced across her cheeks had dried, but now they were forming again.

"I… I can't remember the last time I painted anything. I can't even remember doodling in class." Hermione admitted back to the older version of herself, devastated for forgetting so quickly her old dreams. She used to promise herself that she'd become a famous artist one day, and how quickly she abandoned those dreams for new ones. During first year, she sketched a bit. By second, she'd almost forgotten that she ever had the ability. When she arrived home for summer, she would do a piece or two out of boredom… but nothing that ever stuck. The passion she had carried was forgotten like an old toy, exchanged for a new and improved one.

"Well, you never were one to get distracted when you could be learning valuable information." Her mum chuckled lightly, nudging her daughters shoulder with her free hand, "Some things never change, ay?"

"I suppose not." The younger granger found herself mutter back, eyes darting across her old bedroom walls. Something strange settled in her stomach, and she couldn't quite place the feeling. Guilt? Definitely not... Regret seemed more likely. She couldn't help but to wonder what her life would be like at that moment if she'd never gotten on that train to Hogwarts. Surely she'd be a different person, but the question lingering in her mind was if she'd like the muggle version of herself better. It's something that one would assume that she's thought about in the past, but oddly it never passed her mind before that moment.

"Are you hungry? I was just about to start lunch." She drowned out her mother's words for a moment, as she considered both lives. If she'd lived her whole life in the muggle world, it's undeniable that she wouldn't have quite the maturity level that she was graced with as a wizard. On the other hand, she'd always been mature …and sometimes the extent of her maturity from the war made her feel more like an old hag than a knowledgeable young woman. She would have never met Harry or Ron. Harry might very well be dead without her. She sighed, knowing in her soul that she had made the right choice when she was eleven.

'But do I have to stick with said choice throughout my entire life?' her thoughts had rang out, loudly, echoing in the confines of her mind. "Yes, I'm starved." Lunch with her parents came and went, them telling her all about their travels in Australia, and her informing them of the results of the war, as well as her education.

"'Mione," Her father had spoken at one point, reaching across the table to hold her hand. She eagerly accepted it, staring into her father's dark chocolate eyes. "Are you sure you're alright?"

She knew her surprise was entirely visible at that point as she replied, "Yes, quite. Why do you ask?"

Withdrawing her hand, he shrugged slightly. Taking time out to take a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich, her surprise turned to a strange hollowness as he elaborated, "You just don't seem to have the same zest for life that I used to see in your eyes during the summers after Hogwarts." The regret she had previously felt in the pits of her stomach was replaced with something else, something she couldn't place. Uneasiness? No, not quite.

After returning to her flat with Ron that night, she laid awake, trying to figure out exactly what it was. The thought plagued her throughout dinner with her significant other, and hadn't left her mind once since that lunch. She found herself gazing at the boy… no—the man asleep next to her. Did she love him? Yes. Unequivocally yes. Was she still in love with him? She wasn't as sure. Never having had a real relationship, she often found herself wondering, even before seeing her parents once again, if her feeling were supposed to lessen over time.

Naturally you get used to seeing someone every day, so she'd always assumed that the lessening of the butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling was natural. Thinking back to her childhood, though, she could recall her parents gazing at each other like school children. They'd done it even the day that she was reunited with them. That was when the unease with Ron, as well as her life, really started.

From that day on she began to wonder what kept the two together. Their conversations never had the flow that they once did when they went to school together, and often after they sat in silence around each other. Not altogether unpleasant silence, but silence all the same. She was struck at the repetitive nature of their conversations when they did talk. 'How was work?' 'At the Burrow…' and 'Harry and Ginny…' were often the starts.

She found herself wondering the last time they'd laughed together. She found herself also wondering when all the little things that Ron did started to bother her, because they did. When he wouldn't get up for the remote, but simply levitated it, she couldn't help but to roll her eyes. Surely one can't be that lazy, she would think. She missed simply taking strolls for the sake of walking, something that Ron used to comply with for the sake of her happiness but had given up somewhere along the way. The thought crossed her mind that maybe she had given up on them after realizing that she'd given up on her true self, but even if that was the case the result was the same: unhappiness.

Mostly, she found herself missing her artwork. She had tried to do it after work, or whenever she had time, but she often lacked inspiration. She would draw Harry and be satisfied with her portrayal of her best friend, but draw Ron and be taken aback at the lack of soul. It would be simply a picture, not capturing who he was but what he looked like.

Sometime around there, she decided what she wanted to do. One night before bed, after their ordinary conversation and boring TV dinners, she brought herself to say something. "Ronald," She spoke, her voice sounding stiff and uneasy. His ears immediately perked, glancing over. He knew just as well as she that being called by his full name meant that something was off. "I… I'm not sure I know who I am anymore. Or, or maybe I just remembered who I am and I realized that you and the real me don't really know each other."

Always the supportive boyfriend, he ran a hand through her hair and she felt him scoot closer. "Then show me who you really are and we can get to know each other. Honestly, I'm not even quite sure what you're talking about… but I'm willing to try. I'll do anything for you, Hermione."

She meant the statement to come out strong and empowered, but somehow it was only a whisper when she replied, "I'm not sure I want you to know who I really am. I'm not sure you'd fit in the life I wish to lead, with muggles, at a muggle school. And besides that," she glanced away, unable to face his intense gaze, "I'm not sure I believe in us anymore."

She could practically hear his heart as it broke to her words. Their discussion progressed into a shouting match, and it had been that night that she packed her things and apparated into the house she grew up in. Less than two weeks later, she had her GED (seeing as most muggle colleges would see her Hogwarts diploma and laugh their arses off) and was accepted into a muggle college with art as her focus.

It was a month after that when she got the flat that she was smoking in now. Her parents had offered to help her get a nicer place, because frankly, it was shit. She wanted to be on her own though, for the first time in what feels like her entire life. She got a job at a coffee shop, of course, but only worked there enough to keep up her rent, utilities and food. Her wonderful parents were funding her school and she wasn't sure she'd ever felt so alive.

She met her best friend, Rachel, at school. A free spirit would be the best way to describe the girl with cotton candy pink hair and two sleeves of tattoos gracing on her arms. She was wild and carefree, and she balanced Hermione in the perfect way that Harry and Ron had in school. She had made a variety of other acquaintances between work and school, but none of which seemed to understand her in the harmonious way that Rachel did.

Hermione stubbed out the fag and threw it into the jar she kept on the balcony, glancing at the sky as drops slowly began to fall. She retreated into her flat, leaving the sliding glass door open so she could bask in the simple sound of the rain puttering on the roof above and the ground below. Her flat was really the bare minimum, but she found herself in love with it for that reason.

A small kitchen was in the corner with no wall separating it from the rest of her place. The only room that was separate was her bathroom, and even that simply had a doorway without a door. She'd gotten a good discount on the place simply because it was missing a door, such a simple fix. She never bothered to fix it though, content with hanging a thin sheet as a replacement.

Her walls were splattered with various colors, and hung on said walls was the various pieces of artwork that she'd made since the move—with the exception of a few that she'd taken with her from her childhood room.

She kept in touch with her wizarding friends, of course; the only exception being Ronald, who was still feeling sore over the fact that she chose muggles over him. Harry and Ginny grimaced when they came to visit, complimenting her decorations but offering to help her get a better place. She simply giggled and shook her head, happier than she could remember ever being and assuring them that it was exactly what she wanted. They didn't pretend to understand completely, but they were supportive and that's all she could ask of them.

She surprised herself at the person that she was when given the chance to be anything she wanted. She even ventured into getting a couple tattoos, one of a paint brush on her forearm and one of the deathly hollows on her neck. She could see herself getting more, but decided that plunging straight into them would eventually lead to regret. Instead, she had dozens of ideas that floated around in her head until she was absolutely sure that they were worth it.

All in all, Hermione was a happy, independent woman, who didn't need a plethora of friends, magic or even a boy to be happy. Or so she told herself.