Author's Note:

Hello everyone! If you've read my profile, you know I'm currently having to make changes to the stories I had previously written under the alias of 'TheFreckledKangaroo'. This is the new and improved version of "Chances" the story that was here before. Again, I'm trying to keep the theme largely the same, but there are some definite changes between the versions.

Thank you all for sticking around through my absence, and bearing with me as I try to pick things back up again as far as posting to this site goes.

TW: Trigger Warning - Character Suicide Attempt (mentioned), Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Language

This story deals with adult themes. It is a mainly Hurt/Comfort topic and the majority of the plot revolves around characters dealing with the aftermath of the War. PTSD will be a major factor and with that there will be some triggering topics discussed. Before Each chapter I'll post the trigger warning (if there is one) so if you feel the need to skip the chapter because of that particular topic, you'll be able to. The topics will be discussed in a mature, appropriate way. I am not and never will be a medical professional, so please understand that these are not perfect nor one hundred percent accurate depictions.

This chapter mentions a main character's attempt at suicide. It is not graphic, and I will not describe what was used or anything like that. It is mentioned that they are in the hospital because of that attempt, and that is as far as I take it. The rest of the chapter does mention the character's struggle with depression and the suicidal type thoughts that go along with that.

If you are struggling with anything, please reach out to someone.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline : 1-800-273-8255

Please R&R and let me know what you think! It's good to be back.

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Chapter One

April 2008

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It was her master.

A monster that controlled every inch of her; body, soul and mind. There were days when she questioned it, but deep down her conscious knew that if she stopped, she would go insane. It physically hurt her to be away too long, the pain growing until she could barely stand, her body aching until she struggled to form rational thoughts. Without it, everything was dull, meaningless and void of life. In its absence she felt like a machine, programmed to fulfill daily tasks, but finding no joy or motivation to go forward.

Everything was better once she had it. The world turned whimsical again like it had years before and everything was perfect. She never needed to worry about what was happening outside. It was all she needed; this perfect, twisted relationship.

Falling for it was almost effortless. The game was easy to fall into and once you were in, there was no way out; not that she wanted it. It had become her everything. When it was gone, there was a clawing need within her to get it no matter the cost, even if she had to lie, steal and cheat. Deep down she knew it had changed her into something that would sicken those closest to her, but she couldn't help but return time and time again. It made her feel like the entire world was at her fingertips, like she could do anything. The energy and freedom she felt was unrivaled.

Everything else fell to the wayside. Her family, friends and even her career became faint thoughts in the back of her head. There was no way to convince herself that she was being poisoned, that what she craved from him wasn't healthy and would undoubtedly bring about her downfall.

She needed it.

Hermione jolted awake in a cold sweat, heart racing wildly in her chest. Everything had seemed so real, so tangible. She was alone but the comfort and security she'd felt was long gone.

Blinking slowly, she took in the basic surroundings of the room. It seemed as devoid of detail as she was of hope; of the will to live. The walls were blue. They weren't patterned, or peeling, or dirty, just blue. There was no decoration or interior addition save for the limp plastic looking curtains that partially covered the singular window. The faint scent of bleach hung in the air like a stale promise, signaling the presence of cleaning supplies but not recently. She shifted, wincing as the movement aggravated the thick needle taped to the inside of her arm. Squinting against the harsh lighting, she read the label on the plastic bag hanging beside the bed, unfamiliar with the name. It didn't feel like any sort of depressant or sedative, and from the frequent spasms in her fingers, she could assume that even if it was it couldn't have been very potent.

There should be pain. The deep, gut-wrenching kind you read about in books and saw portrayed on movie screens. Instead she felt nothing. There was a hollow void, where she assumed the pain would have been. The emptiness had always been there, but it had been the background before; ever constant, like the air she breathed. Hiding behind the masks and lies. She'd been good at pretending. Decent human emotion wasn't hard to replicate. If you smiled, even if it didn't mean anything, people assumed you were fine. No one thought to question why you smiled. Pain and sadness were things people questioned; things they tried to fix. But not happiness. You could hide an entire world behind a facade of happiness.

At one point she could remember being truly happy. Back then, she hadn't had to pretend. But it had felt off. For so long she'd been the one to fix things. People wanted her when there was something to be fixed, something to be made perfect. Even as a child she'd rarely relied on others. She was the one people sought after when they were hurt, or troubled and she gave them her all; poured out love, compassion and reassurance until she had nothing left to give. Still she never asked for a thing. She didn't need other people to help her the way she did with them. For who was Hermione Granger if she couldn't fix a problem? If she wasn't perfect?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to avert the blinding pain in her head. It felt like someone had driven a bolt through her brain and was banging radically on either end. The bed was uncomfortable, and she could have sworn she could feel every spring and pole within and below the lumpy mattress.

Granted, she shouldn't have been here at all.

With a sinking feeling the actualization of the situation hit her. There was no doubt that she was in some sort of hospital. Probably Saint Mungos, but she couldn't be sure. She'd only been there once before, and hadn't taken the time to mentally catalog the details. If she was in the hospital and had no recollection of getting herself there, someone else knew where she was. Being internationally known meant that if someone knew where she was, there was bound to be press. Where there was press there was always a story, and she most definitely had not cleared this with her publicist or anyone else for that matter.

That brought her back to wondering who had brought her to the hospital. No one was in the room currently, and there wasn't a coat or bag to indicate anyone had been in the room at any point.

Her silent question was answered as the door to her room opened, admitting the last person she would have thought possible.

"What the hell?"

Her voice was dry and raspy; unrecognizable even. The tension in the room was so thick one could cut it with a knife.

"The same could be asked of you," he responded, remaining by the door.

She groaned, attempting to push herself into a more upright position, stars flashing in her peripheral vision. "The story must be pretty bad for you to come all the way back."

"The papers? That's what you're worried about right now?" His tone was both incredulous and infuriated. "You haven't changed a bit."

Hermione sighed, pressing a hand to her temple. "You don't understand—"

"Actually out of all the people you know I think I'm one of the few who actually does," he interrupted harshly. "You are though, the only one who hasn't figured out how to keep their obsession with the damn papers from ruining their life."

She swallowed painfully, digging her nails into the palms of her hands until she could barely feel it anymore. It was a familiar coping mechanism; something to distract from everything else going on. If she felt physical pain, it kept her from focusing on the lack thereof everywhere else in her life. "Just tell me what's hit so far, so I can figure out where to go from here."

"You tried to fucking kill yourself," Draco snarled, sparing her no cushion when it came to the reality of the situation. "The papers should be the very least of your worries."

It felt different to hear it out loud. She spun the idea so often in her head that it had started to become something of a contorted reality, something she couldn't ever bring into existence. It wasn't as if she didn't know what kinds of thoughts were picking at the edges of her mind, after all, she thought she would have been able to control them. She'd always been able to control everything in her life, save those few years when she'd been on the run with Harry. Sure the thoughts had been frightening when they first arrived, but with time they'd become an almost comforting familiarity. She supposed for a normal person that realization alone would be horrifying, but for her it was just another thing to add to the list.

Absentmindedly she pulled at the fraying ends of the blanket. Her fingers were freezing, but the sweat around her hairline told a different story. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd moved back to the States."

"When you get a call about your wife being in emergency care after a nearly successful suicide attempt, you show up," he responded stiffly.

It wasn't a surprising response, though the situation was undoubtedly more complicated than that. Though he would be hesitant to admit it, Hermione was sure part of the reason could be attributed to the press. Reporters had followed her since the end of the War, clamoring and fighting for a better story and a better picture. It was always something. If she went out to eat the reporters were there, and the next day a story appeared, meticulously picking apart her meal choices and what the color of her napkin could have meant. Everything always had to have an ulterior meaning. It escalated to preposterous levels after she'd married Draco, and had remained that way ever since.

The press had a field day when word of her separation dropped and everything started all over again. For months every story had speculated about the cause, bringing up the War and Draco's involvement with the losing side at every possible opportunity. The stories questioning her motives and blaming her for the split had been few and far between. And while they weren't non-existent, those stories were much kinder than those written about her husband. After he'd moved away the papers had calmed down considerably, but where she remained there would always be mentions of him.

Of course he would be back. If he didn't return for something like this, he looked like a monster. "

What happens now?"

Draco sighed, his gaze fixed on something through the single paned window. "You'll be here until the healers can confirm they've flushed your system and there's not an immediate concern that you'll try to hurt yourself again."

The room was far too quiet for her liking. It made the already stilted conversation even worse. "I didn't intend for you to be involved in this."

"Yeah I'm well aware," he responded, frustration bleeding into his tone. "You've never wanted anyone to have anything to do with it."

She wanted to say she was sorry, that she'd never meant to hurt him like she had. She wanted to pour out her heart to him and apologize for everything she'd ever said and put him through. The words were sitting on her tongue, waiting to flow out again and again. But sorry between them was meaningless and over-used. Saying sorry wouldn't fix the heartbreak and pain she'd caused, the fear and betrayal she'd carved into him. Sorry was just a word; one that she couldn't even bring herself to say. If things had been different, she might find it easier to apologize. To let him know just how god-awful she felt for the whole thing. She'd cry and let him know how much she'd missed him, and without him her life was even more fucking empty than it had been before. There wasn't a single person in the world who would know exactly how much more it hurt to be without him than it ever could be to remain together. But they weren't together, and she only had herself to blame. She'd left someone who had loved her unconditionally, despite her many flaws. She'd driven him out in fear, not wanting to let him see the darkness she'd kept hidden away inside. Now he was seeing it anyway, but there was a chasm between them that she couldn't breech. And somehow that made it so much worse.

He looked at his watch every couple of minutes. No doubt he was missing important things to be there with her. "If you need to leave, you can," she shrugged half-halfheartedly. "Trust me, I'm not going anywhere."

"Trust is something you have to earn, Hermione. And right now I find it difficult to believe I'll ever trust you again." He retorted, colorless eyes flashing.

Before she could respond, an elderly healer entered the room, stopping to talk with Draco. She couldn't really hear what was said, and honestly she didn't care all that much. Her brain told her she should, they were talking about her after all, but she just couldn't muster the energy needed to focus and care about the conversation. Whatever happened she was still going to feel like this. Draco would stick around until she 'got better' and then he'd be off to America and she'd go back to faking it for the public at work.

Hermione really didn't see the point anymore.

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