"Oi! Two Fire Whiskeys over here!" I yell in a disgruntled manner the barman of the Hogs Head receives daily. I look around as my stranger/friend sits in the furthest, foggiest corner. Many things haven't changed, many figures hover over a strange goblet of smoke, whispering to each other, often passing strange (and what would used to be illegal) items. But the atmosphere has definitely changed, this pub used to be edgy but laughter could still be heard and smiles could be seen through the hovering cloaks. Now grunts and groans could be heard through smirks and grimaces. No one looks to trust anyone, but can you blame them? I don't think I could trust anyone in this pub anymore. So I walk to the furthest and foggiest corner where my companion waits. Harry wears a little too much robes around his face and they bulk up over his chest with his arms wrapped firmly inside. He doesn't look comfortable, he look like he has something to hide. I sigh. Maybe I dragged him away from Hogwarts too early. I just didn't see the sense in keeping him somewhere where all he could do was dwell. At least this place has life, a spirit even if it is a burning one. The Fire Whiskey's arrive shortly after I sit down and I pay the barman quickly and hesitate to say a word to Harry until he is gone.

I hesitated too long, and Harry bores into me instead; "Are you mad bringing me here? You said you knew a safe place where I could shelter."

I look at him strangely, a selfish request, I feel, but I know it is down to his nerves.

"I've asked the landlord for lodgings here tonight", I reply.

"Are you crazy? No, I am sorry but here is too near." I can barely see his face, a skull of worry with swelling eyes.

"Too near to what?"

"The wizarding world. Hogsmeade is being monitored very closely. They know I used to know people from this village."

I sigh. He is defeated. I feel the urge to get up and leave him to sulk but as I do I see him yawn. I wonder how many weeks he has been gazing into the Hogwarts Lake without any real sleep, food. Without any real life.

"I don't care about them at this moment in time. What I care about is you and getting you to rest so that tomorrow, whenever you awake, we will be able to discuss things properly."

"What things are there to discuss?" he asks, bewildered. I wonder now if he really has given up hope. He appears to have cut his mind off from all discussion, like He Who Must Not Be Named has won and that is a fact; there is no room to debate now for Harry. It's just the lack of sleep talking, I assure myself.

"Just go to bed," I demand and pass over an old rusting key which was clearly labelled "4".

He downs the rest of his Fire Whiskey and leaves with a look of great reluctance on his face.

I gesture the barman over: "Another in there please, make it a double."

Numb, I sit there. Six drinks and two hours later. I never used to be a heavy drinker but bad habits develop in bad times. Now, I love to drink. The alcohol oozes through my veins and the room around me blurs. I love the feeling of excommunication it brings. Depression is what my neighbours call it. They say: "That woman is drinking herself into a depression" and my husband tries to stop me. He fails, of course. I guess they care. But I don't. I am too overwhelmed by this self-pity that I fail to notice a figure approaching me. Before I know it he has slammed down my seventh drink in front of me; completely invading my space. He is wearing an outdoor black travelling cloak, which doesn't shock me. Most people are pretending to look dark and mysterious to suit the Dark Lord. It has almost become a fashion. I ignore him, he probably just fancies me.

"Miss Granger?" the man asks.

I slam my drink down immediately, startled by this question. A wave of fear runs through my veins instinctively. Recognition. I have already blown my cover, and Harry's. I have already screwed up. Telepathy, I remind myself, this man may hear my thoughts. But, the name he uses. My old name. My pre-betrayal name. My maiden name. When I used to be Hermione Granger, the smartest and most cocky witch of them all. I shudder to remember her.

I open my mouth, I stutter, "Yes"

The man coughs, and then takes another sip from his goblet.

"Do you know where Potter is?" was the next question.

How do I respond to this one? Leave? Lie? Great, I obviously lost my bravery when I lost my surname.

"What's it to you?" I ask in a discontent manner.

"What it is to every other wizard in the country."

This answer is witty, I guess. I would have said similar. True, every good wizard in the county is praying for Harry's return.

The man continues, "I recognised you as soon as I walked in here about half an hour ago. I've been watching you, though you are too drunk to notice. Lucky really that I am not here to harm you. I just want the information. You wouldn't be back in these parts without the desire to find Potter. You would never have risked it. None of you would have done."

None of you would have done? Us? Is he talking about the Order? No, this is too risky. Yet, the voice sounds familiar. Vaguely. It isn't rough but it is cold, smooth but harsh. Unfeeling yet soulful. Evil yet Saved. I know.

"I thought you were dead?" I ask very quietly but with great malice for this man.

"Is that why you left the Order? Because you thought I was dead?"

I felt my heart sharply skip a beat; yes I had left the Order because his supposed death was the one too many. I should have known it was a farce, nothing about him is real.

"That doesn't matter." I shrug off.

"Neither is the fact that I'm dead. You are supposed to be a happily wedded woman who has abandoned your duties as a witch for the duties of a kitchen. Your cover is no different to mine."

I shudder at his obvious chauvinism to my role, however it is true I did become everything I said in Hogwarts I would not become.

"Mine isn't a cover. Can't a woman come for a drink every once in a while? I have nothing to hide!"

I get angry, or is it just the drink talking now?

"Smart witches don't drink here. You've stooped low since I last saw you"

I grin with the sheer craziness of the statement; "As low as you, you mean?" I ask mockingly.

"Yes, as low as me."

And with that he left, I watched mesmerised by the fabric of his robes swishing behind him. Slumping my head against the cold wooden table I think little more of what he said. Humbug, he shouldn't be alive.