*Updated*

She stood at the edge, leaning against the railing of the astronomy tower, with her head falling back. A gust of wind caressed her face, causing a shiver to run down her back. She slowly reached into her robes and pulled out what she really wanted; cigarettes.

Hermione Granger grew up in a townhouse home with two lovely parents who owned a dentistry. She never would have even thought to smoke. It is, after all, terrible for the teeth. So why would she start now? Because that was before. Before her life turned to hell, or whatever it was now. She was at a standstill and...she wanted to do something. She wanted to feel alive.

It started a month ago. She still remembered the first time she grabbed a cigarette; she had just returned from Australia empty-handed. It wasn't that she failed in returning her parent's memories. It was quite the opposite, actually. She did return her parents' memories. The question is whether they wanted them back or not. If she was waiting for her parents to scream at her, to break everything in their path, or disown her right there on the spot, she was wrong. They didn't do any of that. Not at first, anyway.

Her parent's house was strange. It had a Victorian-era look. The house was a three-story with a stone exterior with an elegant metal trim. There was both nothing and everything wrong with it. Where was the lovely, lively couple? Where was the woman that hated candies and sweets? Where did the man who spent his Sunday afternoons reading the newspaper while the Sunday football game played go? They were right in front of her, but they were so far away. Did so much really happen in a year? Who were these people that clearly remembered her?

Her parents would never live in a Victorian home. They'd live in some cute, cosy cottage. So what the hell were they doing there? She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. Ten seconds went by and she was starting to get nervous. She was certain this was where they lived. She searched for weeks. Were they not home? No. Their car was in the driveway. Their car! It wasn't a car; no. It was a limousine! Since when were her parents interested in limos?

A woman in her mid-40's or early 50's opened the door. Hermione's heart stopped beating. Her mum. Her hair was tied back into a tight bun. Why was it like that? Jean Granger-or Monica Wilson- was the mirror image of Hermione; all except for her hair colour, which Hermione got from her dad. It felt like centuries since Hermione last saw her mum. Tears burned her eyes. "Mum," she whispered.

"Can I help you?" The woman asked, not quite meeting Hermione's eyes.

"Erm, yes. Could I...could I borrow your-your phones please? I've lost mine?" Monica's eyes squinted, but she moved aside, allowing Hermione passage. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"Where are your parents?" She demanded, not bothering to introduce herself. Monica led the strange girl to the living room and sat her down on the sofa. "They're...at home. I was in the area and I seem to have lost my phone. I need to call them."

"I could arrange a ride for you…"

"No!" Hermione yelled-a little too loud- and burst up from her seat at the sofa. "No. Please, I'd rather just call them."

"Listen here, young lady. You come knocking on my door, god knows why. Your story doesn't seem-"

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, raising her wand. It took her a while to return her mother's memories. She didn't realize just how many memories she had to cover up. Midway through, Wendell Wilson barged in the living room, demanding what Hermione was doing to his wife. After half an hour, the three Grangers were sitting on the couch, each unsure what to say.

Hermione was beyond nervous. What if her parents never wanted to talk to her again? What if they wanted to stay in Australia? Could she ever forgive herself if they didn't? The worst part of it all was that it wasn't even their fault. No matter how much she'd try to, she couldn't blame them. It was her fault. All her fault. "Hermione," Jean said aloud in amazement as if she'd never heard it before. "My dear girl." Jean crushed Hermione into a bone-crushing hug. Richard hesitantly followed. Whether minutes or hours passed, Hermione didn't know. She did it. They forgave her. The war was over. The war. No. She'd think about that later.

Jean made dinner and Richard set the table. Hermione watched the couple in awe. They worked like gears in a clock. When her mum did something, her father followed. And vice-versa. They didn't even need to say anything out loud to understand each other. She wanted something like that. She frowned. She felt like a stranger here. She didn't really belong. This wasn't her home. It was theirs. She was an intruder in their life. Australia was theirs, not hers.

"So, honey," Jean started, wiping her mouth on a towel, "Have you been thinking of any Universities?"

"What?" Hermione asked, dropping her fork on her plate. Her parents looked at her expectantly. They expected her to leave the wizarding world? No. She wouldn't get ahead of herself. They were muggles, maybe they didn't know that the wizarding world didn't have universities. So she told them that. Minutes passed, and it seemed like they were having a conversation through their eyes. Hermione uncomfortably shifted in her chair. This wasn't going as well as she thought. "You can't be serious. You're going back to them?" Her mum asked.

"Well, yeah."

"You don't belong in their world!"

"It's my world too, Mum!" When would they understand that she's a witch? That she'd always be a witch? "No, Hermione. This is your world. You don't belong there! When-" Hermione angrily stood up. "Glad to see that you and the Death Eaters I've been fighting agree on one thing."

"That is enough from both of you!" Richard said, "Hermione, your Mum means well. We're worried about you. We know you like that world, but that world was what took you away from us! Why can't you see that?!" Hermione closed her eyes, counted to three, and sat back down. She would act like a civilized adult, not a temper tantrum-throwing-child. "No, Dad. That world didn't take me away from you. If it was up to that world, I wouldn't be there in the first place. That world is where I belong. I've always belonged in that world. It's my world. Not the muggle-"

"So we don't belong in your world anymore?" Monica asked. Hermione vehemently shook her head. "You do. I want you to. You're still in my world, but the wizarding world is too!"

"Okay, let's calm down," Monica said, sitting down. Her fingers massaged the bridge of her nose, "If not university, what are you doing?" This was better. Acceptance.

"I'm going to finish my 7th year and get my N.E.W.T.S."

"Okay. And after that, you'll return?" Hermione froze. Did they not get that she was never coming back to the muggle world? "No, Mum. I'll still see you and Dad. I'll still love you and Dad. I'm going to get a job in the wizarding world. I want to become a Potions Mistress. And after that, I want to maybe start my own apothecary and do some research on the side." The room was so silent, you could hear a water droplet drop.

Hermione's parents always assumed that Hermione would get her magic in control and then come back to the muggle world after her schooling was over. They assumed that the reason why she went on and on about her classes was that she just loved learning. They never realized that Hermione actually planned on staying in the Wizarding world!

Everything went downhill from there. Thinking back, Hermione couldn't remember exactly what was said. She remembered a lot of yelling, mostly on her and her mum's part. She remembered plates being thrown. She remembered her dad calmly asking her to leave because she was upsetting her Mum. As if it was Hermione's fault that her Mum had hope for her to return to being a muggle. Then, she remembered her Mum yelling at her to not come back unless she was planning to throw away her "nonsense stick," and return to civilization.

Hermione didn't listen. She came back. The day after. And the next. And the next. And the next. She returned every day for two weeks with the same answer. Her dad didn't seem to mind Hermione's decision, but he wouldn't go against his wife. He made it clear that if he had to choose between them, he'd choose his wife.

Hermione cried herself to sleep each day that she spent in Australia. Wasn't a parent supposed to love their child regardless? No matter what happened? So why were her parents giving up on her? Why won't they choose her? No. That wasn't fair. She wasn't exactly choosing them, was she? By continuing her education in the wizarding world, she basically chose them. But...she wasn't the one who gave them the ultimatum. She was willing to make space for them now. She knew that she failed in her daughter duties for the past 6 years; missing breaks, spending so much of the breaks that she did spend with them studying, choosing her friends over her parents. But, her friends needed her more than her parents did.

Harry would have died years ago if it weren't for Hermione! The wizarding world would have crumbled if she had chosen her parents! People needed her. They relied on her! How could she have just turned her back on them? Was she a Gryffindor or not?

Hermione's stomach sank. Her parents needed her too, did they not? No. They didn't need her. No one died because of her lack of attention to them. Quite the opposite, actually. They wanted her, sure. Who wouldn't want their own child? But they never needed her. They never relied on her. They loved her, but Jean and Richard Granger were independent people. They didn't mean to have a child. They were perfectly fine without children. That didn't make Hermione any less loved, of course, but they never pampered her as other parents did. They never treasured her, nor made her feel like she was the luckiest little girl in the world. They made sure she was able to take care of herself. They treated her like they would a friend's daughter. So, it wasn't really a big deal, her going away to Hogwarts. At first, her parents were okay with it. Yes, it was a magical school, but she most likely would have been away from home if she were going to a normal boarding school. It was only around the summer before her 5th year when they wanted her around more. And, by then, she didn't need them anymore. She was perfectly fine on her own. She found her place in her world. Or, at least she was in the process of finding it.

But, even then, they were okay with her staying in the magical world. They did have a few arguments, which resulted in her not returning home for Christmas break, but they let it go the following summer, telling her that it was okay for her to do as she wished. Why would they change it now? Did they really expect her to not get attached? How could she leave? How could she not stay and enjoy the world she lost blood for? How could she walk away from the world for which she lost the perfection of her body for? She was willing to die for her world, so she was damn well willing to live for it. In fact, she'd rather live for it.

So, a month-and-a-half after she first arrived in Australia, she left back for Great Britain. She gave her parents her contact information, packed her bags, got a plane ticket, and left. It was nearly July by the time she returned home. But...was it home? It wasn't her home, that's for sure. It was her parent's home. That's what it was. Even before she left for Hogwarts it never really felt like home. She spent most of her childhood sitting in trees, or the swings, or the grass, and reading books. This was just a place. A place that was just barely familiar.

By August, she grew restless. There was nothing to do. She already threw herself into restoring Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall informed her there was nothing else she could do. She ordered her to take a break and spend the rest of the summer doing what she wanted to do. Didn't McGonagall know that restoring Hogwarts was what Hermione wanted to do? Restoring Hogwarts was her break. Still, Hermione didn't tell any of this to McGonagall. That would only bring up questions. Questions she wasn't able to answer. Questions she didn't know the answers to. One day she went on a walk and ran into a man smoking without a care in the world. He gave her one look and handed her a cigarette without saying a word. Hermione looked at the cigarette for the longest time.

What was she doing? What would her parents think? But they wouldn't, would they? Her parents don't care about her anymore. They wouldn't approve of this. But why should she care about whether they approve or not? She'd reached her majority already. Her parents were out of her life. She was alone and bored. She'd seen things that would make anyone run away, screaming. She'd killed before. She'd seen people be killed. She'd seen it all; blood, guts, corpses. What is one cigarette compared to all that?

So, she lifted the cigarette to her lips, taking a few moments trying to hold it correctly. The guy handed her a lighter, and she lit it. And then, she inhaled it. She inhaled it much too quickly and ended up having a coughing fit. It felt like...breathing underwater. Her throat burned. She felt as if she'd never known the concept of water. Her lungs were on fire. It tasted like chemicals. Because that's what it was; chemicals thrown together in a...stick.

But, she felt calm. Calmer than she'd ever felt. It may have taken her a couple of tries to get the hang of it. She ran home that day, not giving the man another glance. She wasn't sure if she liked it. No. That was a lie. She didn't like it. She hated it. How do people like that? It tastes terrible. But, there she was the next day at the convenience store, purchasing a pack of cigarettes. Sure, she had to confound the poor employee. But she got it. She told herself it was because she just had to do it right. Who was she if not a perfectionist? The brightest witch of her age certainly could handle learning how to smoke.

And learn, she did. It took her one entire packet to perfect it. She found that even though they don't taste great, she became used to the taste. The smoke was like a blanket on her lungs. She knew she'd have to stop. Just not yet.

And, now here she was, two weeks into the school week. She was bored. What was she thinking, coming back to Hogwarts? She is the brightest witch of her age; she could pass her N.E.W.T.S. even now and still get the best grade in her year! Still, it gave her something to do. She was always bored. School didn't give her the same thrill that it used to. She'd learned everything there was to learn. And, the professors didn't challenge her. They treated her like a hero. Hermione Granger was no hero. She was selfish. She didn't do what she did to save the world. She did it because she wanted to prove that she could. She, a muggle-born witch, could be the best, regardless of her blood status. Maybe even because of it. She saved the world because she wanted to just prove anyone who'd ever said that she was worth less than dirt wrong. Not because it was wrong of those Death Eaters. Not because people were dying because of the Death Eaters.

She wanted to save Harry, but not because he didn't deserve to be hunted like that. She saved him because he was her friend. No. She saved him because if he died, she wouldn't have any friends. She snorted. How pathetic was that? She'd risked her life, time and time again. Just so she could have a couple of friends who she could sometimes talk to. Because let's face it. Hermione Granger had next to nothing in common with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. They liked Quidditch. She didn't. She loved reading. They didn't. What did they talk about? Trivial things, really. They talked about their classes. They talked about Voldemort and the war. She listened to them talking about Quidditch. But they never talked about things Hermione was interested in. Why did she care so much whether she was friends with them or not?

Being lonely wasn't a new concept to Hermione. She was always lonely. Even as a little 5-year-old. But, she didn't like being alone. At least, she used to. Now, she doesn't mind so much. There was no one she really wanted to talk to anyways. Ginny and her friends were forever talking about some boy or other. Ron and Harry talked about Quidditch. And anyone else wanted to hero-worship her. She probably surpassed her professors in their classes, even. And, even if she hadn't yet, none of them would want to engage her in intellectual conversations. Well, maybe Snape would if he didn't hate her.

Snape. Professor Severus Snape. He was the biggest enigma she'd ever known. Who was this man? He'd miraculously survived the war. It wasn't so miraculous for Hermione; after all, she was the one who had saved him. But, no one knows she saved him. Not even the man himself. And she was going to keep it that way.

Though he wouldn't like it, Hermione understood him. She understood why he blew up at Harry when Harry visited him in his hospital room. She understood why Snape avoided the media and general civilization at all costs. She understood why he'd yell at anyone insinuating he was a hero. She knew Severus Snape was not a hero. She wasn't either. They were just people. People who did the right things for the wrong reasons. People who did what they had to, to survive. To live. Yes, they were willing to die for the cause, but only because they wouldn't want to live in a world where mudbloods and muggles were being executed for...what? Living?

No. Severus Snape was not a hero. So wasn't Hermione Granger. But, people would forever pledge them as heroes. Would she ever get peace? Will anyone ever refuse her a job, regardless of whether she is qualified for it or not?

"Miss...Granger. It's past curfew." Speak of the devil and he shall arrive. Hermione didn't turn around. She knew that voice from anywhere. That silky voice, which almost never raised past a low volume. That voice that could send anyone trembling to their knees. That voice that soothed her pains. That voice that she could fall asleep to. The voice in her dreams. And her nightmares. Sometimes Hermione thinks that she's more scared of Professor Snape than she is Voldemort. "I'm Head Girl, you know. I don't have a curfew."

"Head Girl is not meant to abuse her position, Miss Granger. 5 points from Gryffindor." Surprisingly, Snape didn't leave. He didn't tell her to leave either. Instead, he walked up beside her and lit up his own cigarette. What was he doing here? "I'm not. Perhaps I was...patrolling and took a break."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps you've got the idea that you are above the school rules imprinted in your brain." Hermione didn't respond. How was one supposed to respond to something like that? "I'll be the first to let you know, Miss Granger, that war hero or not, the school rules do apply to you."

"Yes, professor," She said tonelessly. How was she supposed to explain to him that she knew the rules applied to her? It wasn't her fault that no one, professor or not, expected her to follow these rules. And she never really broke the school rules...except for when she was helping Harry defeat Dark Lords, basilisks, and madmen. She only ever broke rules when it was necessary. Not like how Harry and Ron broke them for trivial activities such as going to the kitchen. Not that Snape would ever believe her. In his mind, she was the devil sent to make his life a living hell. And a living hell, she did make it. By accident, of course.

They stood there in silence for a long time. Her nerves settled, and soon she was...comfortable in his presence. That isn't good. Maybe she was catching a cold? It was never good news to get comfortable in the bat of the dungeon's presence. What was his game? She didn't care. It didn't seem as if she were in trouble for smoking. "I must say, Miss Granger...I never took you for one to participate in such...unhealthy habits."

"You're smoking too," She shot back before she could bite it back. She held her breath, waiting for the ball to drop. How many points would he take? How many nights would she have to spend in detention slaving over one task or other? She messed up, she knew that. From where did this newfound courage come from? Old Hermione would never have dared speak back to a professor, even if said professor was an arse. "Touche," he chuckled. His chuckle was beautiful. That's the only word she could think of to describe it. It was low and melodic. It was music to her ears. His lip was curled into a smirk. His pink, full, soft- Stop. No. She wasn't going to think of how kissable her professor's lips were. She wouldn't go so far as to describe how his voice makes her cream her knickers. She definitely wouldn't even think about how she dreamed those hands-those perfect hands- to explore places unexplored. He was her professor. She was his student. So what if they went through a war together? So what if she'd seen him in only his trousers, covered with dirt and blood? So what if he might be the only person in the world who understands her? He is off-limits. "Well? What brings you out here?" She inquired before she could shut her mouth. "Believe it or not, I am a professor at this esteemed institute, Miss Granger. I am allowed to be out at whatever time I wish."

"Hermione."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hermione. Call me Hermione." Hermione wasn't sure what was going on inside her mind that decided it was an acceptable decision for her to ask him to be on a first-name basis with her. It certainly was not because she wanted to hear her name on his tongue. No. It is not that. A few minutes passed, and she was sure he hadn't heard her. She wasn't sure if she was happy about that or not. She released another cloud of smoke into the warm atmosphere. "I do not think that would be appropriate," he finally said. It didn't miss Hermione that he didn't call her by any name. Suddenly, he turned around, disposed of his cigarette properly, and left the tower, his cloak billowing behind him. How can one be so damn graceful?

Hermione sighed and fell back on her bed. Even though she was a Gryffindor, her room wouldn't show it. Her room was decorated in colours of green and black. A Slytherin colour. Of course she didn't do it on purpose. She just loves the colour green. It had always been her favourite colour. Though, to be fair, these days, she feels like she's more Slytherin than Gryffindor. Well, maybe not Slytherin -she didn't know if she could claim to be able to practice the art of subtlety- but she didn't feel Gryffindor either. At all. She used to, but, come to think of it, she'd never been brash. Well, for the most part anyway. She had to fight deep within her to be brave. Was she noble? She'd like to be. But, she knew when it really comes to it, she was willing to do whatever it takes, even if it wasn't the noble thing to do. She proved that when she obliviated her parents against their will. But, they wouldn't listen! Was she supposed to just stand back and let them die? Was it selfish of her to want them to live, even if they didn't see the danger? Didn't they know that just because they can't see danger doesn't mean danger is not present? She was being unfair. How could they? To them, this war was just stories. It wasn't real to them. Her parents. No. She wasn't going to think about them. Not right now.

She'd been doing that for quite a while; forgetting. She didn't want to remember. Perhaps she could convince someone to obliviate her? No. She'd be losing who she was. Like it or not, this war was a part of her. Who would she be without this war? Who is Hermione Granger when no one is reliant on her? People have always relied on her. Whether it was to teach them, to do their homework, or give them orders. Now people leave her alone. Because she wants to be alone. She doesn't do people's homework anymore. And that was why people talked to her, wasn't it? And now she won't speak of the war. What else do people have in common with Hermione Granger? Nothing!

She could feel herself getting angry again. That's all she does these days; she's either numb or angry. Sometimes she feels sad. It's only those three emotions. When was the last time she was so happy? When was the last time she was able to forget without trying? Does she truly want to forget? Should she remember? There's really nothing she could do about it now.

Just as she was able to doze off, someone was pounding her door. She groaned and flicked her wand at it, nonverbally opening it. "Come on. I'm tired of seeing you...moping. We are going down to eat," Draco Malfoy ordered. He was Head boy this year. If you had told Hermione that her best friend was going to be Draco fucking Malfoy last year, she would have thrown you into the Janus Thickey Ward of St. Mungos. Alas, it was true. They mutually decided to put their differences and past apart and they made a truce. Somehow that truce turned into a friendship of sorts. And since he really is her only friend, that makes him automatically her best friend. She threw her pillow at him, hoping to chase him away. That didn't work and he dragged her down to the Great Hall. They were a bit late and all eyes turned towards them. Draco led her to the Slytherin table. She never once thought she'd feel more at home with the Slytherins than the Gryffindors, but she does. The Slytherins mostly ignore her, which was fine with her. The Gryffindors on the other hand...no. She wasn't going to think about them either, because then she'd think about Harry and Ron...and she didn't want to think about them. She piled food on her plate and brainlessly started to eat. She wasn't even hungry. She looked down at her torso, disappointed. She'd lost a lot of weight this past year. She was basically a stick. She hated it. She used to have curves. Yes, she wasn't the most beautiful girl in the room, but she used to have some sort of beauty; her breasts used to be full and silky, her stomach used to have a little roundness to them, her hips used to flare out. She used to have a perfect hourglass figure. Now, her wrists were too thin. So were her arms and legs. She didn't have any excess skin to spare. Her throat seemed too long and thin, and her once round face became thin. Her hair was brittle and dead. It came down to her waist. But, it was no longer silky and healthy. She was ecstatic when her hair started getting less bushy and softer sometime between her fourth and fifth year. Well, dead and long is still better than short and bushy. At least no one could complain that her hair was obscuring their view anymore. Her arse used to have a shapely figure, and now...it doesn't. This is what she gets for saving the world. God, she needed to get back in shape. But, she was in shape. She had muscles now. No, what she needed to do was put on some weight. How could she do that when she was never hungry?

Hermione felt like crying. Not here. She wouldn't cry in front of all these people. No. She'd cry when she was alone in her room. Merlin, when was the last time she cried? She knew the answer to that: The Final Battle when she was healing Snape. Draco patted her shoulder, sensing her emotions. She gave him a small smile, which hurt her soul a little. "It's okay," he murmured. He wasn't sure why she was distraught, but that wasn't his place. He didn't need to know why. He just needed to help her. It was the least he could do for her.

She quickly finished her food and abandoned the Great Hall. She couldn't do it. She ran to the Moaning Myrtle girl's bathroom and sunk to the ground.