**Hey guys! Sorry the updates have been taking so long. Tons of school lately. -_- Anyways! Here's the next chapter:) Hope you guys enjoy it! Please feel free to review, I'd love to hear your input and criticism is welcome:)**
Hermione was slowly spiraling into depression. She just couldn't get over the death of her parents. Of course, no one could blame her. And her constant fighting with Ron wasn't helping her moods. She often found herself sitting on the couch at home, drinking tea and thinking about nothing. Literally, nothing. She couldn't even care enough about anything to care about anything.
Except Michael. He was the only one who cared, who really understood her. Sure, Harry had lost his parents, but he'd been one. Never even really knew his parents. Michael's parents had died the year before in a car crash. He understood how she felt. Weeks after the funeral, Hermione was still confined to her house. She'd refused to move, barely eaten, and rarely showered. When she did sleep, she did so on the couch. Michael was there for her. Everymorning, he came and took care of her. Tried to feed her, made sure she wouldn't waste away into nothing. At the least, he made sure she didn't hurt herself. He made her tea when she wouldn't eat and sat with her while she drank. He always drank with her, but whatever it was he was drinking, it wasn't tea. He stayed there with her all day. Sometimes, he didn't even leave at night and they would both pass out on the couch.
She didn't cry anymore. She had no tears left to cry. And she was there, but not really. Her mind was always somewhere else. Always on her parents. Always sad. It was contagious, her misery. Not a single person could walk into her house and not leave feeling ten times worse. Not even Michael was immune to it. He almost gave up. Seeing her like this made him feel terrible, and reminded him of his own parents. When they'd died in the winter the year before, he'd gone into a deep depression. He had no one except his grandmother who took care of him, but she was nearly a hundred and wasn't fully there in the mind. He eventually turned to alcohol to erase the pain. Nearly a year he was an alcoholic, and when he'd heard that Hermione was out trying to stop Voldemort, his worry just made it worse. He'd stopped drinking when he found out that Voldemort was dead and she was ok. He'd been sober for months, not even a sip of alcohol in his system. But the new dread he felt now, with Hermione in depression and his memories of his parents bubbling to the surface, well, it only took a few days before he once again succumb to the temptation of alcohol. At first, only one glass a day. But one slowly became two, which became three, which became a bottle.
Hermione couldn't help her depression. When Michael wasn't on the alcohol, he'd finally gotten her to see a therapist. She'd been seeing him for two weeks, an hour every day. He'd helped her none, aside from sending her to someone to prescribe her medication. Even with it, she couldn't help the memories of her parents from filling her every waking moment. The only days that kept her sane were those rare times when Michael wasn't drinking. He'd officially moved in with her, two months after the 'accident.' He would wake her up and make her breakfast. Instead of going for the firewhiskey, he'd make her shower and dress and he'd take her out. They'd lived together for five months, so he knew her pretty well. Sometimes they went to the library, which was still her favorite place. Sometimes they just walked around aimlessly. Once they went to the zoo. It was days like these that kept her from being completely absorbed in her depression. When she was mostly happy, he was sober, and the world seemed almost perfect.
Days like this were what made her fall in love with him. And days like this is what made her say yes when he got down on one knee, pulled out a simple diamond ring, and asked her to marry him. He'd been sober for nearly three days when he asked her, a record for him. A few months passed, most of it with Michael sober. Four months to be exact. They told no one of their engagement.
Hermione was still deep in her depression. No matter how hard Michael tried, it wouldn't leave her. Sometimes it was bearble, sometimes she wanted to die. Michael tried to help her. He did his best, but she was still depressed, and he nearly gave up. He was trying as best he could to stay away from the alcohol, but it wasn't enough. As quickly as he pulled himself off, he was hooked once again. His addiction became worse and worse and eventually got to the point where he was always under its influence. It had at least been managable when it came back. Then it turned into something that he couldn't control. He wake up hungover, get drunk, forget the rest of the day, and do it all again the next morning. Hermione pulled herself together enough to take care of them, but she hadn't a job and Michael stopped going to his. They lost her house and eventually had to move into Michael's parents old one. They had little money, and what they did have went towards Michael's addiction.
Tomorrow, Hermione kept telling herself. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow he'll be the Michael I fell in love with. Tomorrow he'll finally stop drinking. But he didn't. And what had once been harmless drunkness, turned into anger. And then to violence. He would get angry for no reason and hit her. Tell her she was worthless. But even through the pain, through the agony and bruises and blood, she stayed. Tomorrow, she thought. There's always tomorrow.