A/N: Welcome one and all to this story. I have yet to decide whether this will be a multi-chapter story or if it will be a one-shot/collection of one-shots. Based on your feedback I'll make a decision so if you have any preference feel free to let me know.

Enjoy!

Hermione took a slow drag from her cigarette, holding it loosely between two fingers. It was a Muggle habit she had taken up after she disappeared from the Wizarding World a few years after Harry had won. The acrid smoke burned her lungs, She had hated it at first, but once she felt the warm tendrils of nicotine dull the pain of...everything, she knew she would turn back to it. It hadn't been easy for her after the war. She had been through so much-they all had-but Hermione had been broken at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. It was something Harry and Ron had never understood, the way she was haunted by the memory, the permanent reminder of all she was and ever would be crudely carved into her arm. They had tried, of course, to help her, but she was so far beyond help. She had held on until Harry had won, but after that, she couldn't find reason to. She had lost all interest in Ron but had allowed him to court her, for a little while, at least. But she had grown tired of him, and Harry and Ron were pushing too hard for her to go to St. Mungo's for some treatment. So, she left. She left what had been her dream job growing up, and she left the two boys she had grown up with. She had given no explanation, no warning, didn't even say goodbye. She just woke up one night, after a nightmare, of course, and decided she was tired of it all. She didn't pack anything, not even her wand. She had no need of it, she had all but mastered wandless magic, but there was hardly a need to use it in the Muggle world anyway. She hadn't tried to find her parents, hadn't gone to the house she grew up in. She had found a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood and decided to call it home.

She had enough money to never work again, especially being where she had chosen. She had saved the majority of her money, ending up with a large sum to sustain her when she had fled. Fled wasn't the right word. Escaped, maybe. She was sure Harry and Ron had looked for her, but they had never found her. She had gone somewhere no one would think to look, a nearly abandoned neighborhood where crime was high. She had carved out her own reputation among the criminals and low-lives. She was never bothered, but she was occasionally beseeched for her help. She had a reputation as a woman who could do impossible things. Word had spread quickly of a woman who could make sure the police never noticed you, even if you were right in front of them, among other things. She was respected-no, feared-and she had taken pride in the name she had made for herself. Once, she would have been disgusted at her current life, but something had been broken inside of her, something that could never be fixed, so she didn't care. The Wizarding World would never recognize their Golden Girl, even if they did manage to find her. Hermione heard footsteps approaching and she pushed off from the wall with her foot, harshly flicking her cigarette to the ground and crushing it under her heel.

"Shadows follow me," a voice said uneasily.

"Embrace them, and you will be brought into the light," Hermione responded, ignoring how Biblical it sounded. It was a code phrase people had created to ask for her help, and she played along, humoring them. Hermione jerked her head, turning down the alley and entering a small dive bar. Customers usually found her around this bar, it had become one of her favorites because of the dark and quiet atmosphere. She frequently conducted her...business here and had even done a favor or two for the owner of the bar. Hermione didn't speak, waiting for the person across from her to begin.

"I need to erase my file. Aaron Stockman," came the simple statement.

"Is that it?"

The person nodded, sliding an envelope across the table. Hermione took it, not opening it and standing up.

"Tomorrow."

The person nodded, sighing in relief as Hermione left. Hermione lit another cigarette as she walked, unnoticed by everyone the passed her. She had done this so many times it was almost too easy. Taking one last drag, Hermione walked into the police station, making her way to the archives. No one saw or heard her, there was no trace she was ever real. Hermione searched through the files, pulling out the one associated with the name she had been given. There would be copies, but she didn't need to worry about those. The spell she had created erased every trace of a person's history, similar to the one she had cast on her parents. It grew easier every time, evaporating someone from existence. Without a word, the file in her hand vanished, and Hermione exited the same way she had entered. She walked, through the now rainy streets, toward the shit-hole she called an apartment. She was in no rush, she knew what was waiting for her. An empty apartment that was little more than a room with a kitchen and a toilet. It didn't bother her, not really. She spent most of her nights outside, in the dark alleys being approached by criminals needing her help. It was laughable, how far she had fallen in the years after the war. She slept through the days, emerging at dusk. It was easier for her to sleep when the sun was up, the noise of the streets drowning out the noise in her head.

Hermione entered her apartment, stopping inside the door. A figure she had come to memorize from her dreams and hallucinations stood at the lone window, silhouetted in the moonlight as she so often was when Hermione was too lonely.

"Hello, pet. Miss me?" The darkly sweet voice of Bellatrix greeted.

"You're not real," Hermione said flatly.

"I'm as real as you."

"I wish I weren't real."

"But you are," Bellatrix said, turning to face Hermione completely.

"I do miss you, crazy as it is," Hermione admitted, her eyes roving over Bellatrix's frame.

"I know, pet. But I must say, I'm quite proud of you. You've done more than anyone thought you would."

Hermione couldn't help the pride that bloomed in her chest, even if the compliment came from her own mind. "I do what I have to."

"We both know that's not true." The sun began peeking through, the first rays of light bathing Bellatrix in an angelic glow.

"Fine, I enjoy it, repetitive as it is," Hermione admitted bitterly.

"Being bad is fun, isn't it?"

Hermione didn't respond, instead, she dropped herself onto her futon, joined by her brain's conjuration of Bellatrix. Hermione closed her eyes, knowing when she woke up Bellatrix would be gone. She always was.