This one was a bit tough to write, especially the end. I wasn't entirely sure how to end it, given the day of the week it is. But I plan on continuing her actions and such in the next chapter in some manner.

Also, I apologize if it seems short, because it definitely is compared to the first two. Hope you enjoy :)


Chapter 3: Sunday

Hermione stood, rooted to the spot, staring in horror down at Dolohov as he lay writhing at her feet, screaming insults and threats. Suddenly, Draco burst into the room, froze upon seeing the scene, but regained momentum almost immediately.

He jumped over Dolohov's body and ripped the encumbered wizard's wand from Hermione's limp hand.

"Granger, go." He steered her around the man on floor and pushed her toward the door.

"What are you going to do to him?"

Dolohov spat more curses and began to rise.

Draco spun Hermione around and physically thrust her from the room. "GO!"

As soon as she was in the hallway, Draco slammed the door shut and locked it magically. Hermione, still shocked, didn't move for several seconds. Then she heard a bang and a yelp of pain. But it wasn't Dolohov's voice.

She lunged at the door and clawed at the handle. "Draco!"

The men's voices mixed into an incoherent cacophony of agony while Hermione pounded her fists on the door, screaming…

"Hermione!"

Hermione opened her eyes. Her arms were crossed under her head and a strip of dried drool ran from the corner of her mouth to the clerical desk she sat behind. Someone was poking her shoulder urgently.

"Hermione, are you alright?"

"What?" Her tongue was thick and lethargic in her mouth, which was as parched as the papers spread haphazardly on the desktop.

"You were having a bad dream again."

Hermione lifted her head which spun threateningly from the still waning hangover she'd inflicted on herself the night before.

"Are you getting enough sleep?"

Finally, Hermione found the owner of her interrogation. Courtney Ilsley, her co-worker at Amergin Aisling's Bookshop, stood next to her, a concerned look on her face.

"Sleep? Yeah, sure," she brushed the comment off.

Courtney didn't look convinced. "It's 'cause it's Sunday, isn't it?"

Hermione glanced sharply at her friend. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you don't really seem to like Sundays…"

"You're being ridiculous. Sundays are a perfectly acceptable day of the week." Hermione stood and pushed her hair out of her face. She rearranged the numbers she had been going over before dozing off.

Courtney's skepticism didn't fade as Hermione sat back down. "Okay. I'll be on the floor."

Once the meddling girl had vanished into the fantasy section to help a bemused looking grandmother, Hermione allowed her head to fall into her hands.

She desperately wished for a reprieve from the nightmares…

She envied Courtney for her lack of memory.

Once Voldemort's downfall had made the headlines two months ago, Ministry Officials had deemed it necessary to perform clinical memory modifications on any surviving Muggles. The process had been extremely arduous, and many obstacles had arisen.

Memory modification had always been a complicated, capricious brand of magic that only the most skilled wizards and witches could perform, especially depending upon the recipient's health status.

Such horrific memories coupled with complete emaciation did not bode well for many Muggles receiving the treatment. There had been several hundred deaths as a result of the Ministry's attempts to reestablish the Statute of Secrecy Voldemort had long since destroyed.

Courtney stood among the successful cases. Hermione didn't know the girl's full story, obviously, given patient/modifier confidentiality, but she knew Courtney had been a victim. All Muggles had been. The ones who had attempted hiding away via underground groups or bunkers were always found. That was the thing. Their bunkers hadn't been equipped for magical warfare…

Besides, there were always the physical signs that someone had been a victim.

Occasionally when Hermione talked for long periods of time with Courtney, the girl would suddenly get silent and stare off into space with wide-eyed terror. But as soon as she went into this semi-coma of shock, she'd slip right back out and continue the conversation, unaware of her odd behavior.

Other times she'd frown in concentration, as though trying to remember something important, but as soon as she did, she'd gasp and attribute it to nightmares.

More often than not, though, Courtney would suddenly hug herself tightly and whimper, especially if a tall male with black, shoulder length hair entered the shop.

Such memories, Hermione knew, weren't totally escapable. And most of the time, she preferred knowing why she felt or acted the way she did. Whereas if Courtney ever caught herself behaving oddly, she'd worry about what could be causing it.

But, there were times, like Sundays, when Hermione wished the Ministry had offered memory modifications to Muggle-borns. It certainly would have cut-back on the ill-fated attempts of self-modification that ran rampant immediately following Muggle/Muggle-born liberation. Dennis Creevy now had a permanent home in the Spell Damage wing of Saint Mungo's…Hermione shuddered at the thought.

The Ministry of Magic had remained adamant that Muggle-borns should instead consult specialized Healers for treatment. Hermione rolled her eyes every time she thought of Dr. Connelly.

Yet, Hermione understood that the Ministry was still working on building itself up to the grandeur it had been during Fudge's initial reign as Minister. The new, albeit temporary, Minister was a business-like, capable witch named Alameda Dean, who spearheaded many of the restoration plans the Ministry currently worked on. This included reinstating Muggle-born bank accounts in Gringotts, reestablishing Goblins as the heads of Gringotts, appointing heavily armed, full-time Aurors to guard Azakaban and its prisoners (many of whom awaited death sentences), and, of course, creating the Muggle-born rehabilitation program at the hospital.

Alameda Dean was certainly capable, by all accounts. Hermione did not deny this. But she still couldn't help but feel bitter toward the pureblooded, Spanish witch. She hadn't directly felt the force of Voldemort's regime. She had been tucked away in Costa Rica, having been "vacationing" from Spain (one of Voldemort's captured countries), watching the mayhem from the safety of the protected island.

And she had whisked down upon the European countries as soon as Voldemort was dead, knowing full well that the government would need as much foreign assistance as possible. Hermione hadn't questioned why foreign countries hadn't helped during the siege—Voldemort's name spelled death for everyone. It was easy to fathom why no one had helped.

Hermione also wanted Dean to consider aiding Muggle-borns to find wizarding jobs, something the Ministry had yet to acknowledge, as far as she knew.

Because she hated working in the bookstore. She hated the mundane, predictable routine the Ministry clearly thought she'd appreciate when they stuck her there. She wanted to be in the thick of it all, knew Harry and Ron would have wanted to be as well.

Her eyes burned, but Hermione did not cry for her fallen friends.

Harry had fallen at the hands of Voldemort, failing to survive the Avada Kedavra for a third time.

Ron had wasted away in a cell of Azkaban with the rest of his family, blood-traitors that they had been.

She had no idea of Neville's fate. Luna had disappeared in the chaos following Harry's defeat.

Hermione knew long after her capture that they'd have all wanted her to survive. She had wanted to survive.

She just didn't have any more tears left for them. They were never coming back.


Hermione watched her alarm clock.

11:00 p.m.

She was in her pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the bed, just staring.

Her eyes burned. She hadn't blinked in at least five minutes.

Her stomach snarled hungrily. She hadn't eaten since her lunch hour at the store.

11:01 p.m.

Courtney had waved good-bye, wishing her a pleasant evening. Hermione had sneered at the retreating girl's back.

11:03 p.m.

Hermione blinked and her eyes graciously thanked her. Her stomach continued its raging.

11:04 p.m.

What had she eaten at lunch?

She had checked her phone messages when she got home, (a habit she hadn't broken yet) to be greeted by scavenging solicitors.

11:08 p.m.

"Hello!" A friendly woman's voice had cried, "We'd like you to consider taking our—. " Delete.

"This is Jerry Minley from your local traveling agen—. " Delete.

11:10 p.m.

Her fingers gripped the blanket beneath her.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

And opened them.

11:11 p.m.

The scent of Firewhiskey floated through the air. She put her head in her hands.

11:12 p.m.