Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns. heck, she PWNS!

miraclesomajic: aaaaawh, thanks!

siriusfanatica: I have some ideas in mind, if you really mean it. –wink-

mrs skywalker: I'll try not to. Hair?

darkmoon-on-dragonwings: I'm so delighted that you like my story. I'm quite fond of it, too. 

Broken Rain: sings Hallelujah

Slinky-and-the-BloodWands: Hehe, thanks!

A/N: I should have mentioned this before: if you have any of these diseases or problems, a relative does, please don't take offense at this story. Here's a quick refreshment on the people's reasons for going to Hermione, just so you know who the people are and stuff. (I changed Doug's a bit) I kind of just added this so that you all would know that I had NOT abandoned this story or anything.

-Sheila Adams: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
-Mark Bowler: Severe depression
-Draco Malfoy: Anger Management problems
-Doug Marshalls: Drug Addict—Heroin
-Laura Medgaus: Bulimia


Sheila Adams had been a long-term patient at Saint Mungo's, but her family recently decided that she needed more personal care. So they sent an application to Hermione's place of work, and bing-bang-boom there she was, in a limo at 11:57, waiting outside the apartment. Her aggravated family and chauffeur (and Sheila as well, though she wasn't aggravated for the same reasons) had been waiting there for five minutes. To Sheila's way of thinking, it wouldn't be appropriate to even step up to the door until 11:59. Then, once every one of her three watches said that it was noon, she was free to ring the doorbell. To the family and chauffeur, the sooner she stepped out of the car and they drove off, the better.

Sheila was a strangely beautiful sort of person. She had long golden hair that was flying perfectly in the wind. It was sort of unnatural, like the way model's hair just "happens" to be soaring spectacularly behind them, the monster-sized fan conveniently out of our view. She was wearing casual jeans, and a plain white T-shirt. She wore a huge trench coat over this though, with yellow rubber gloves coming out of each pocket.

Sheila rang the doorbell, and a very composed Hermione stepped out of the hallway and greeted Sheila with a warm, "Hello! You're Sheila, correct? Hi, I'm Hermione." Sheila smiled and nodded, but didn't shake Hermione's potentially-contaminated hand. She visibly flinched when she stepped into the apartment, and stared disgustedly at everything she saw on her way to the kitchen.

Maybe this wasn't the best choice for a living space for an OCD patient...Hermione thought she sat Sheila down and got her a glass of water. "So, we'll just chat a bit while we wait for the others to get here." As Hermione racked her brain for interesting conversation starters, the only thing going through Mrs. Depilo's head was that maybe she wouldn't have to do as much housework with one of these cleanliness-obsessed people.

A few minutes later—two minutes and thirty-five seconds to be exact (Late sods...-Sheila)—Mark Bowler could be seen standing outside the apartment, knocking dejectedly on the door. Hermione knew who he was—since she'd received pictures of them all—and put out her friendliest, kindest smile as she opened the door. She was met with a sullen expression that added years to the man's face with every passing minute. It practically wore off on Hermione. But she welcomed him as warmly as possible into the house, trying to keep her smile from looking too fake. Mark still had yet to say anything.

He was a big sort of man, not exactly fat, but the kind of person who was doomed to never lose his baby fat. He had a mess of dark brown hair on his head, coming down to around his large ears. Not handsome at all. His face, too, was chubby, and he had a long, hooked witch's nose, complete with a wart at the tip. It was easy to see why he was depressed. Imagine the teasing as a child...

Once again, Hermione sat her new roommate down, offered refreshments, and attempted to revive the conversation. These two were going to be difficult to get out of their ways. The only comments that Sheila made were "How many times do you clean the sink?" and such. And the only input to the conversation that Mark made was, "It's pointless," and things like that, that made a few adorable chipmunks outside hang themselves.

The third member of their party, Doug Marshalls, was barely at the door when Hermione had opened it; she was that desperate to get away from the horrible company of Sheila and Mark.

Doug Marshalls was a fairly striking young man of nineteen, but years of drug abuse had made some of his features—eyes, hair, nails, and such—slightly distorted and not quite as pleasing to the eye as they once were. He had ridiculously orange hair, it reminded Hermione of Ron and almost put the Weasley name to shame. But it was made greasy with lack of care. He was oddly tall—six foot four--, but hunched over so his height only averaged about five foot nine. It was as if he was always bent over something—Hermione stopped herself from imagining what.

Doug said, with glazed eyes, "You've got a few dead chipmunks in the front lawn." Hermione's smile faded into an incredulous position as she imagined this.

"O-oh...thanks...hi..." Hermione couldn't quite manage to regain her smile as she beckoned Doug into the apartment. Doug looked longingly at a bowl of sugar, and Hermione quickly ushered him past it and introduced him to Mark and Sheila. Doug appeared friendlier—or, at least, more talkative—than the other two. Still, Hermione couldn't wait for the others to get here—promptly, she prayed—so that she could give the newcomers a tour of the apartment, eat some dinner, then send them off to their rooms, to analyze them and make plans. She loved plans; even when they were a tad far-fetched, if she was feeling nervous or upset she could trust them to make her feel secure.

After a few minutes, the doorbell rang again, and waiting at the door was an awfully frail twenty-year old. Her hair was a dull brown; her clothes were boring, solid colors—beige, by the way—and in short, she was a very plain person. But she had this "potential" look. Her mother often referred to her as a "flower in the winter". Her hair, though currently in an ultra-listless state, had the look that at one point, it had been rich and gorgeous, and with proper care, could leap back into that condition. Such was the case with the rest of her. Her clothes were not form fitting, and you could tell that with an expert outfit (and the latterly hair) she'd be a regular model. But of course, the model!Laura was not the Laura Medgaus that was waiting on Hermione's doorstep.

Her sunken eyes did not light up when Hermione received her gaily into the house. She mumbled hi, and sort of tried to be pleasant. But this was so not where she wanted to be. She didn't have anywhere to go—no boyfriend, no job either—but this was degrading. She was going to have to spend eternity—or so it seemed—with a bunch of lunatics. LUNATICS...she started mumbling to herself, as she walked ahead of Hermione and into the kitchen, where Mark and Doug were calmly discussing the mating habits of Martians. Hermione was not aware. She had completely zoned out.

She was trying to calm down. It was all right. This was going to be a placating place; a comfort zone; a happy place.

Draco Malfoy could be seen through the window in the dining room approaching the door. All of her school-time apprehension, hatred, and even fear came rushing up her throat as he knocked on the door. Her head pounded.

She shook it vigorously, swiped a tissue from the dining room, and dabbed her face. She pulled a hand through her hair, exhaled, and then opened the door.