A hurt, angry and frustrated Hermione sat alone on her bed waiting for something, anything to happen. Her work with the poison had hit a brick wall, and since the Ministry were refusing her request for the identities of the other researchers she had no-one to bounce ideas off or to talk over reference material with. She longed to be back at school with the expert guidance of her teachers and the insurmountable library that it held. Not that Hogwarts's staff would be unwelcoming, nor that they would deny her access to the library, but the one member of staff that would be ideal to help wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere, and it was her fault. She could have saved him, but no she just stood there gawping and fearful. His death was on her hands.

The torment that was Severus Snape's death was just the tip of the iceberg that threatened to engulf her in depression. Her heart ached for companionship, for love and passion. Not that she believed in flowers and chocolate and sunset picnics, but she longed for someone to grab her, seize her and take her, to dominate her for once and to allow her to relinquish control.

Her thigh was bare and milky against the dark emerald of the sheets and it called to her.

"Accio," she whispered looking directly at the glinting silver on Draco's dresser. Silently the razor flew through the air and landed next to her. Picking it up and testing the weight in her hand she slowly exposed the blade and held it up to the late evening light. The edge sharpened by magic twinkled and shone calling to her, to her flesh, unblemished and clean. Shakily she drew a deep breath visualising the pattern she could make in deep Gryffindor blood.

Calming herself, she placed the blade away and blinked back tears. She was Hermione Granger, Hermione Malfoy she corrected. A Gryffindor who fought against Voldemort, the most evil wizard to grace the Earth, and she helped secure a victory for the light. She was a powerful witch in her own right, and could count numerous of the most powerful witches and wizards of the age as her friends. However, despite these friendships she was often not amongst these friends and, save from the odd owl, she was isolated from them. Her intellect was challenged, but restrained to the confines of her work, which usually did not come close to sating her thirst for knowledge. She had a relationship that seemed to be falling down around her; one that she had grown tired of defending. One that left her unfulfilled and numb.

Her eyes flicked back to the blade next to her and she sighed. She wanted to feel, would that help her? Would the cool metal bite her skin, tearing it and releasing her from the torment? Fighting back tears she grabbed the razor and ran to the dresser slamming the sliver down before retreating to the covers of the bed to stifle her tears and allow her to regain her composure.

Hermione pulled herself together and retreated to the sanctuary of her lab to continue working on the poison. She sat for a while pouring over her notes trying to spot something that would indicate a reaction, a marker, anything. In frustration she slammed her hand down and made several bottles on her desk judder before she placed her head on the desk. 'Think Hermione. Think.' Thoughts careened around in her head. 'Where do you go when you've a problem to be solved?' Her head snapped up. 'Research. Books. Which texts though? Your's haven't helped you. Draco had an old copy of Unusual Elementals which may help you find out something, but where is it? Not the library. His lab!'

Jumping up from her stool, she took off through the house to her husband's sanctuary. Their joint love of combining volatile elements was what had drawn them to each other, and, if she was being honest with herself, it did illustrate their early relationship quite well. His laboratory was warded, however she knew her husband well enough to get through the password, and the others had been keyed to her anyway so that in an emergency she could gain access. His lab differed from hers minimally, his bookshelf was much lighter than hers, but he had the advantage of being closer to the library, something she was convinced he'd done on purpose.

Scanning the shelves she looked for the text she needed. Her eyes were however drawn to the desk. There were photographs of their wedding, a picture of Artemis playing with muggle toy cars, a picture of him with his parents, and one of a young Draco flying with Professor Snape. The picture caused a tug on her heart that brought back all the memories of him.

'Last people to see him alive' the Ministry said, 'where's the body? We can see the blood, but where's the body? Why didn't you try to save him, if you thought he was on the right side?' Each of the questions the auror spat at her made her feel like she'd killed the man. Draco never blamed her, neither did any of the Order, but she still blamed herself. She still had the nightmares where he accused her of murdering him. She looked determinedly at the wedding picture again, Draco's hair fluttering in the wind, hers straightened and coerced into submission, and therefore defying the breeze. They were smiling at each other and so happy.

Looking back to the shelves she quickly found the text and as she plucked it from it's place it revealed a magazine. She knew she shouldn't touch it, but intrigue got the better of her as it always tended to and she pulled it out to look at what he'd felt the need to hide. Looking at it made her thump down onto his chair. PlayWizard, the cover proudly declared, her eyes scanned the cover. It was a well used magazine, the binding had been spellotaped and the corners were dog-eared. She opened it to find the pages that seemed most viewed, pictures of naked women cheekily winking at the camera were on most pages but those favoured by her husband were startling. Hermione never considered herself a prude, but whilst she was inexperienced with men, having only slept with Draco, she had read and considered many sexual scenarios, but these images stunned her. The most viewed pictures were of two women, kissing, touching, pleasuring each other using fingers, mouths and, the surprising part, inserting lit candles into each other. Ignoring the pornographic element, Hermione studied the women that he obviously found a turn on; barely breasted, sleek blonds that obviously had never given birth and were in no way at all like her. She felt insulted, she wasn't his type, she didn't turn him on any more. Did she ever?

Slamming the magazine shut, she hastily shoved it back on the shelf, and then taking the book she scampered back to her lab before the tears overcame her.