A/N: This is officially my first Harry Potter fanfic. I've written a few drabbles before, but never a continuous nor have I ever published them before. Anyways, before I ramble on-this takes place three years after the war. It'll focus on the healing of the people involved, so mentions of PTSD all throughout. Mentions of drugs and alcohol as there are some ways of coping for some people. If for any reason I misinterpreted something, I'm open to constructive criticism!

It was almost surreal—how things had turned out after the war. Three years had passed since, and Hermione often woke up in the morning startled. Still feeling the effects of the trauma that still resided in her memories.

They happened in short bursts that came and went briefly. Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself. She was safe—there was nothing to be afraid of. Safe in her one bedroom flat, smackdab in the middle of the city.

The sun was streaming in through wind swept curtains—promises of what had to entail later that day had her climbing out of bed to shower and dress before heading down to the ministry. Not likely that she would ever catch a break

Harry greeted her first thing in the morning with a cup of coffee with a splash of hazelnut, just the way she liked it. As an Auror in training, he barely caught on a break either. But just for that one brief moment, they both took a small ten minute break for a chat.

"So what brings you in today?"

"I've got to take after you-know-who's arse before I get into anymore trouble," Hermione cursed—which was odd, considering she ever did the latter. But concerning the person in question, she had an excuse to do it, and Harry nodded in understanding. After all, this was just another typical morning and nothing was going to change that. "Well I'm sure you-know-who just needs time to adjust," Harry interjected. "As much as I hate him, we're all still adjusting-"

"Three years," she choked out and took a sip of her drink. It eased the migraine that was sure to follow in the next hour or so. But before he had time to protest, he glanced at his watch and bid her a farewell, until the following morning.

A heavy sigh fell from her lips- just what was she going to find this morning?

The you-know-who she was just talking about was curled up in the broom closet. Hair disheveled, clothes out of place and smelling like a brewery. Hermione made a sound and shook him awake. "Malfoy!" She seethed, loud enough to rouse him from his deep slumber. Features wincing from the pounding headache that had him seeing stars. "It's half past ten, and we're needed in ten minutes!" She charged at him. "Hurry up!"

Again, his features winced at her heightened tone. "Get out of my room, Granger!" He slurred and shoved a mop her way, which she artfully dodged. She would make a perfect keeper for having kept up this long for the past couple of years or so. "I said get up! We've been through this before! If you don't show up again, then I'm going to be behind again! And I'm already behind as it is, and you can't do this to me! You can't!"

But Malfoy barely listened to her—instead he just watched her with a dazed, glazy expression. His features paled with an almost green-ish tint to it. By that time, he had rolled over to the side and retched all over the side and all over his robes.

It didn't end there, sadly. Hermione's heels clicked at the floor impatiently. Her arms crossed over her chest as the sounds of his retching continued to echo loudly around her. Not only that, but she was in the men's lavatory! The amount of stress he gave her was possibly equal if not more than the stress he used to give her back at Hogwarts. But this was different—as her official partner, she really had no choice but to go through this every other day. She wasn't sure when the drinking had started, nor has she bothered to ask, but it was starting to become a nuisance. A nuisance that would very well leave her without a job.

By the time the retching had stopped, Draco limped out of the stall and Hermione pointed her wand at his chest—muttered a small scourgify and the remains on his robes were gone.

"You're too much, Granger," he remarked thickly as she splashed cold water over his heated skin. "To be fair—at least I had some clothes on this time." He retorted back at her in his defense. Hermione thought about it for a moment and silently agreed. There had been one incident where she found him wearing muggle clothes. To this very day, she didn't dare ask him what had happened that night. She didn't want to know.

She adjusted his robes, pulled his pants up, straightened his hair out and brushed the dust from his robes. "Now sober up—we have a meeting with the minister and we're going to see through it this time."