Disclaimer: Work of fiction based on another work of fiction. Goodness me, it's not owned by me, my homework is. Well, and my teachers own it too I guess.

After stepping out of Harry's fireplace, I can't help but brush myself down once. I don't want to look too bad. I only have a few seconds to straighten my hair before I'm pulled into a big hug from Ron.

"Hermione! You came!" thank you, Captain Obvious, for pointing out... the obvious.

"I said I would, didn't I?" I say with a 'happy' smile. I want to snap at the oblivious red-head, but undoubtedly Harry would get pissed off if I messed up his flaming birthday party. It was a 'surprise' party—which of course meant that the Daily Prophet had been publishing it and details of it on the front page all week. Thankfully, no photographers were here, and no reporters were either. After the war, I'd become known for hexing the media.

I don't do interviews, I don't do autographs and I don't do photos. I do drink, though. A lot. One fucking war and I've suddenly become a drunken wreck. I'm scared shitless of the dead, and the living aren't much better these days. I look at Ron, and I'm reminded of the fact he has brothers. And then his brothers... well, I can't look at Fred anymore. When I look at George, I feel like shit because he probably feels ten times worse than I do, and he's handling it ten times better than I am too. When I look at Bill, I see a werewolf attack, and that brings me to Lupin, and from Lupin to Tonks, and from Tonks to Black, and from Black to Harry's parents, then to my parents, then to Ron's and to all that we've all lost and somewhere along the way, when I'm looking at Charlie I see Hagrid and then I see Hedwig, and then Moody, and Snape, and Voldemort and his big red eyes like double-decker busses running over my heart.

And then I reach for vodka, or beer, or rum, or wine, and I can sense the change and taste the poison and feel—really feel—my liver shrivel up like my heart and my brain. What is the point of a heart, when it hurts to love? What is the point of a brain, when it hurts to think? And what is the fucking point in having a liver if you don't abuse that too? I control how and when my liver has to deal with alcohol, and I'm not a bloody addict like Harry and Ron think. I'm not addicted to alcohol, or to sex. The sex is so I can feel; the alcohol so I can forget. They say I'm killing myself, and they're right there.

They try to stop me, tell me it's not worth it, and tell me I'm better than that, but I'm not. I'm not better than anyone or anything, I'm just me: Hermione Granger, all-round train wreck and—Draco Malfoy?

What. The. Fuck. Is he doing here? I blink and rub my eyes, but he's not disappearing. He's not a bloody hallucination, but he could still be a figment of my imagination...

"Can you see him?" I ask Ron hurriedly, and he turns to look at me, the spitting image of confusion.

"See who?" he asks, one ginger eyebrow raised.

"Draco fucking Malfoy, you prat!" I hiss back, frustrated with his obliviousness. How could he not have noticed the blonde? Then again, nobody else has, either.

"Malfoy?" asks Ron, looking around gormlessly. "Where?"

I point shakily over to the blonde and Ron does a double take and then, as if I didn't already think him stupid enough, he says "What's he doing here?" as if I willknow the answer.

"I don't know," I wish I did know why he was here. I also wish I wasn't here. If Draco Malfoy sees me here, he'll find out the truth. He'll know what Perfect Hermione Granger has been reduced to and how little miss know-it-all doesn't really know anything. The bastard would never let me hear the end of it.

Fuck.

"Hannah?" Draco fucking Malfoy called. He'd seen me; the game was up.

"Hannah?" Ron asked me, looking around. "I think he means you, Hermione." Perfect timing, Ron. You finally notice something, and it's not what I want you to notice. You were supposed to always be my oblivious friend, the one with a good heart and no eyes...

"Right, I'm leaving." I say, and Ron gives me a look as if to say 'what about Harry?' "Tell Harry I said happy birthday, and give him this, will you? It's his present." I hand Ron the red and gold wrapped gift, and move the few paces back to the fireplace I'd just stepped out of, hastily throwing some glittery green powder into it and quickly shouting "5 Sycamore Street!"

I hate floo-ing, but sometimes it's necessary. And it's much more convenient than brooms. The sensation of floo-ing isn't terrible, but apparition is much more preferable. But Harry wasn't allowing anyone to apparate to his or from his. Flinching while drunk? Been there, done that, and it's not pretty.

I've been sitting down for about ten minutes, staring into space, when my fireplace lights up, and an annoying blonde steps out from it. Draco fucking Malfoy, but this time he's clued in.

"Hermione." He says. It's all he says, and I look at him in silence while he looks back at me in silence. Minutes pass. It's a staring competition in the extreme. He looks away first.

"Are you alright?" he asks eventually. Are you alright? Are you alright? That's a fairly anti-climatic question. If I were him I would've started with 'why the fuck did you lie to me?' and 'who the fuck let you out of the padded room with white walls?'

I shrug my shoulders and ask him he's alright. He says he is. Then we sit in more silence. If I can get up my nerve, I'll ask him what he's doing here with Hermione Granger, skeletal mudblood and overall wreck. At the moment, the silence is pleasing. I'm going to wait for him to speak. Eventually, he does.

"You're probably wondering why I'm... oh, fuck it. Want to go out some time?" he asks me with a smile. I can't help but smile back. If there's going to be drink, I'll be there, I tell him, and he laughs.

After spending the night talking about what's happened since The Dark Days, as they're commonly referred to as, we fell asleep in each other's arms. And that's how Ginny found us the next morning...

Authors Note: I feel terrible, just so you know. Cold, hungry, tired, nauseous, I keep coughing and sneezing all over the place... and I wrote for you this laaaaavely chapter. Hope you enjoyed it and understand the huge sacrifice I'm making here. In a choice between my A-Level homework (of which I have lots) and this story, this story won. Review, ta.