Since the war ended, the highlight of Hermione's life was quite literally the day she opened up her own bookshop on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn. Though Hermione personally thought that the Ministry was heavily misguided in thinking that any amount of galleons would make up for hers, Harry's, and Ron's trauma, she took their "gratitude" with a whispered thanks.

The truth was that her parents were still somewhere in Australia. In her quest to restore her parents' memories, she had already drained what was in her Gringotts vault consulting with all the mind healers she could afford-and a few who volunteered to work with her just because of who she was. She had already pulled her "celebrity card" to acquire portkeys to and from Australia. She tried every remedy that was recommended and every suggestion from all the books she could get her hands on.

The countless nights she spent crying on Harry and Ron's shoulders were nights that she never wanted to relive. Eventually, she accepted that maybe she needed to listen to Ron when he told her, "The cure just hasn't been invented yet." The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of her mouth when he went on to say, "Have you seen these healers lately, though? They're coming out with new stuff all the time. It won't be forever. You'll see!"

Had it not been for what wound up being her start-up fund, she would currently be scrambling to even get quills and parchment. Properly supporting herself without getting her N.E.W.T.s would be another matter entirely, because under no circumstances would she ever take Harry's money, no matter how many times he offered it. It didn't feel right.

Sure, the war heroine could have opted to join the Auror program along with the boys. However, there was just one not-so-tiny problem... her personal feelings about using her newfound fame to take shortcuts aside.

Hermione let out a sigh of both satisfaction and relief as she flipped the sign on the door to "Closed" and locked the door. As much as she loved her Book Nook, by the time it was nearing the end of the day, her nerves were beyond rattled, and she needed to indulge in her evening fix. She would need to hire another hand around here, and soon, if for no other reason than she would need someone to run the shop while she went back to Hogwarts.

Steeling her nerves to appear normal, she fixed a gentle smile on her face and turned to her part-time employee. The only person (apart from the boys) who knew the true store owner's identity slumped against the counter and returned Hermione's tired grin. It had indeed been a long day for both of them. Hermione, however, needed to get Amanda out of the store. Now. She sent up a desperate silent prayer to whatever deity would hear her and said, "Why don't you go ahead and go home, Amanda? It's been a long day. I'll count down the drawer tonight." That drew the older woman up short. "Oh, no, dear! I couldn't..."

Despite needing to get to her office, something akin to a tinge of warmth touched her heart. She placed a soft hand on the woman's shoulder and tried her best not to sound robotic. Such a trustworthy, kind soul deserved all the emotion she could muster. "Please. I insist. You should be with your family, especially since your son just came back to town."

Finally, Hermione got the acceptance she was looking for. Amanda softened immediately and gazed back at her with warm eyes and a grateful smile. "Then in that case, I'll open tomorrow. Get some rest for me, alright?" Guilt knotted in Hermione's stomach. She was about to have to lie to another person she held dear. Her nod was a bit jerky as she mumbled the words, "I will. Thank you."

Hermione locked the back door behind Amanda and immediately darted down the hallway to the very back of the store. She flung her office door open with a fairly loud bang, racing to her desk. Her fingers fumbled in the top drawer until she found what she was looking for. Without another moment's hesitation, she popped the cork on the vial of Calming Draught and tipped it back with a shaky hand. Once the last drop landed on her tongue, she slammed the bottle on the desk, her chest rising and falling dramatically with each heaving breath.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she licked her lips, blocking out all the thoughts in her head that screamed at her, like they always did, that it was sick to be this addicted. That it was wrong. That she needed help. Even as her body trembled. Even as tears pricked at her eyes. Even as visions of battlefields that reeked of death flashed across her eyes. She saw Ron's face, twisted in anger, when he came back from wherever-the-hell he disappeared to.

Bellatrix standing over her with maniacal glee as she carved that damning word into her arm. The agony of the Cruciatus curse tearing her mind, body, and spirit apart. The sting of the cursed blade cutting her up like a slice of meat...

Malfoy standing there, watching her as she writhed on the floor in agony-completely emotionless. For the briefest of moments, Hermione swore that she saw a small flicker of something there. Merlin knows she reviewed that night dozens, no, hundreds of times, but now she couldn't be sure if she imagined it there or not.

The faces of corpses strewn across the fields and the Great Hall filled her mind. Even as Harry, limp and lifeless in Hagrid's arms came to the forefront. Voldemort's cruel laughter ringing in the air...

Hermione's hands flew to her hears as she doubled over. "STOP IT!" She screamed, the sound echoing off the walls. "STOP IT!" Her aching throat didn't stop the way she fell to her knees and continued to scream until the potion worked its way through her veins.

"Godric," she whispered. As the first bits of what she thought of as a fog started to cloud her mind once more, she gathered herself up off the floor. Once she cleaned her face up, she swiftly nodded. "Alright," she said clearly. "Time to get to work."

Four hours later, the ledger was balanced, deposit made at Gringotts, inventory was updated, and she was heading back to her home at Grimmauld Place that she shared with the boys. After all, someone had to help Harry with dinner. The last time Ron tried, he nearly burned the house down.

When Hermione walked through the door of number twelve, she was greeted with the sight of a flour-covered Harry barreling into the room with anxious relief. His poor hair was messier than normal, and he was practically waving his arms like a chicken with a spatula in his hand. "Thank goodness, Hermione! I'm so glad you're here!"

Harry's smile was infectious. She shook her head with an amused grin as she sat her purse on their couch and hung up her coat. "Calm down, Harry! I'm glad to see you too." It was just then when Hermione realized Ronald was not on the couch, nor was he at their designated Wizard's Chess table. Nor was he at the kitchen table.

Harry's shoulders dropped a fraction at the same time his smile did. "He's at the Burrow again?" Hermione asked. Harry's eyes told her all she needed to know.

Grief was everywhere.

However, that was not going to stop her from helping Harry in the kitchen. Ron would come back when he was ready. He simply needed time. They all did.

Life had to go on, so she straightened her spine and tried to put a smile back on her best friend's face. "Alright," she grinned. "What are we cooking?"

Harry's returning smile was everything.