Author's Note: Fair warning, this might be a little sad. I couldn't help it! Character building and all. Also, like the title of the story suggests, this story is all about depression. (If you haven't noticed yet, ALL of the characters are struggling with their own form and they're handling it in different ways, some healthy, most not.) If you're expecting a fluffy, happy story, this ain't it. None of my stories fit that description, I'm afraid. No worries if you decide this story isn't for you. It's okay. I understand and you don't owe me an explanation. The depression aspect of this story is why it's not the easiest to write. It's a pretty heavy topic.


Chapter Ten

With a grin that proved he was quite pleased with himself, Harry rolled over onto his side to kiss the beautiful blonde next to him. When he made the drunken decision to seek out company to help him with his disorganized thoughts, he'd made the right choice dropping in at Luna's. She had been giving him odd advice since fifth year that always had a way of making sense.

The extra fun they started a few years earlier completely by accident. One minute she was talking about Snorkacks or nargles or something he didn't fully understand and the next his lips were pressed against hers. A little part of him had wondered what it would be like to kiss her even back in Hogwarts. Though she let him kiss her, Luna pushed him away before it could go any further than that because she was worried what Ginny might think if she found out she sent late-night owls to her ex-boyfriend. Friendship meant everything to Luna. In the end, they decided it didn't matter. Ginny moved on and they were all adults.

"Did you miss me while I was gone?"

"I still miss you."

"Luna, love, I know sometimes you speak in riddles, but I'm right here."

Harry moved the sheet covering her body to kiss her neck. His lips moved down to her shoulders just to prove that he was actually there. It took her a moment to respond coherently, a fact that he enjoyed immensely. When they were alone together, he could often make her forget everything she'd been saying or thinking with just a flick of his tongue or a press of his lips.

"Your body is here, but the rest of you is far away. Where did you go?"

Luna put her hands on either side of Harry's face to guide his lips to hers. For the immediate present, neither of them wanted to talk any longer.


No matter what position Hermione took in her bed, she couldn't get comfortable. After an entire day of reading in bed and trying to hide from the lingering shame she still felt following Kingsley's late-night visit the night before, she thought sleep would welcome her with open arms like an old friend. Sadly, it didn't seem to be home.

Part of her knew that her issue with falling asleep was she was waiting to hear Barty scream out again in his sleep. It was an uncomfortable anticipation. After all that she knew about his past experiences, how he was able to remain the least bit sane should've been considered a medical miracle. Clearly he possessed a stronger disposition than most people. She was unsure what she would do if he started screaming again. It wasn't really appropriate for her to try to comfort the man, especially since a part of her believed he deserved at least part of what he got.

The Dementor's Kiss was barbaric and should've never been used on anyone, but she couldn't deny that he deserved some sort of punishment for his crimes as a Death Eater. What exactly did he do? She knew that he kept Mad-Eye Moody locked in his trunk for nearly an entire year to impersonate him, a bad enough crime to be sure. He was also instrumental in getting Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire and then getting him to the old graveyard where Voldemort's new body was regenerated. Those were all terrible acts. Because of his meddling, the war began again. Every single death could be traced back to the moment he charmed the goblet into a portkey. Every single one. Indirectly, he had a lot of lives on his conscience.

But what about directly? He'd been there for the torture of Neville's parents. How large of a role did he play in that travesty? What other lives did he bear any responsibility for ending when he was a young Death Eater fresh out of Hogwarts? Or still in, she wasn't sure exactly when he was recruited. Maybe like Draco Malfoy he was marked while still a student. Clearly Voldemort wasn't too pressed about using child soldiers in his disgusting war.

Hermione hated that the more she got to know Barty, the more sympathy she felt for him. That just felt wrong. He was a monster and she couldn't afford to forget that for a single moment. Ignoring history presented the very real danger that it would be repeated in the same painful manner. Could a person really ever change? She could still hear the anger and hatred he felt for his father even so many years after his murder. The murder that Barty was most definitely directly responsible for committing. Was it foolish to believe that a person could stop being a monster because they decided to or because of the experiences they went through? She didn't know enough about human psychology to know for certain. Maybe no one did. She doubted she was the only one who struggled with those kinds of questions and thoughts. Most, however, didn't have to wonder if the person laying in the room next door was still a murderer.

Barty had his moments of kindness she didn't expect. That had been a surprise, especially after he made the disgusting comments about her body when he was still in the hospital. Part of her believed that he was just making a show for everyone else in the room. It wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibilities to assume that he was terrified out of his mind when he woke up again after so many years existing in a state of nothingness. What did he think was going to happen to him?

That wasn't who he really was. She knew that with confidence after just the few days he'd been in her home. Already he'd been able to show a side of his personality that she believed was a little more accurate than the performance he made that first day. Terrified by his nightmare or not, if he was truly that disgusting he would've made a comment about being able to see straight down her nightgown the night she literally climbed on top of his bed to wake him up. The fact that he turned his gaze away to the wall spoke volumes. There was respect where she was concerned, possibly begrudged, but still there. It was a small step in the right direction if their living conditions were to continue much longer.

He had been kind to her the day before when he told her she deserved more than just what Kingsley was willing to offer. Of course he was correct. Deep down she really did know that even if it was sometimes difficult to believe. Kingsley satisfied an inch when all she had the emotional energy for was a scratch with no strings attached. It was her fault she let it go on too long just because it was easier than pushing him away when it got too complicated. Maybe the tiniest bit of her hoped that one day he would open his eyes, see how well they worked together, and desire a real relationship where there was a possibility for real love and a future worth dreaming about. Though she never really loved Kingsley, she thought that she could under the right circumstances.

That would never happen and after his drunken display in her kitchen, she no longer held any hope it might. She understood the Minister was only a simple man behind all of the pomp and tradition of his office, just like the rest of them. He had his flaws and despite his ability to put on a good show, he didn't emerge from the war undamaged. None of them did. It was easy to expect more out of him just because of his important job, but she didn't think that was fair. He was responsible for his behavior, however, and it would be a long time, if ever, before she was able to look at him the same way again.

What would it be like to be around Kingsley again when she returned to the Ministry on Monday? Would he try to pretend like nothing happened or would he snub her? She didn't think he would actively try to harm her or her career in any way, but she couldn't be completely sure. Even good people had vindictive streaks when they felt insulted or disrespected. He had gotten used to a certain level of deference in his years of the Head of their government. Power could go to his head.

Or he might just avoid her until he was no longer angry or embarrassed. That seemed like the best scenario even if it made Hermione sad to think about the potential loss of a friendship she'd valued highly for nearly half her life. Letting him pull up her skirt in an empty office during an office party three years earlier had been a great deal of fun, but maybe it would've been better for both of them if she'd kept a cooler head.

She was nervous about the accusation he made about her and the Death Eater in her spare bedroom. Would others in the Ministry begin to suspect the same thing the longer Barty remained in her home? Everyone she knew loved to gossip. It would only take one well-placed rumor for her entire reputation to be ruined and for her to once again be reduced to nothing but a joke. Kingsley could just imply there was something happening for the entire Ministry to be convinced. The thought of being intimate with Barty repulsed her and made her want to laugh. She might be lonely, but she wasn't that lonely.

Was it any wonder she couldn't sleep? Tossing and turning wasn't helping nor was trying to force her mind to focus on other less stimulating topics. She didn't want to resort to taking another sleeping potion just to shut out the world and her irritating thoughts. At that time of night she would end up sleeping most of Sunday and mess up her internal clock. It was best to just try to get tired the natural way. Besides, Barty was right. They were addicting. All of the labels and textbooks said so. She didn't want to become another statistic.

At half past two Hermione couldn't stand being in her bed another minute. A quick decision was made to brave the cold and the promise of an approaching winter storm to take a walk to clear her mind. That usually calmed her and she felt safe where she lived even in the middle of the night. Leaving her nightgown on, she pulled on a pair of warm trousers and then her heaviest boots. If she was fortunate, it wouldn't take long for her to get sleepy.

The house was dark when she exited her bedroom. Growing used to the sound of the television being on at all hours, she thought it odd. Barty's room was silent. She hoped that meant he was able to fall asleep. It was terrible to imagine what it would be like to be afraid to sleep. It was her favorite escape from reality.

With her thick cloak settled on her shoulders, she tried to leave through the back door as quietly as possible just in case her guest was able to sleep peacefully. There was an annoying squeak to her door hinges she kept meaning to fix. When she was alone in the house, it hardly seemed necessary. The cold air was biting. She cast a warming charm on herself as she began her walk to the cliffs.

She always walked to the cliffs when she needed to clear her head. It was as if her body was not under her control. The cliffs called to her. They were at least half the reason she bought her house. Every time she stood on the edge to watch the waves crash against the rocks down below, she was mesmerized. Nature could be violent and beautiful all at the same time.

"You're not about to throw yourself over the edge, are you? Because I doubt the Ministry would believe me if I told them I had nothing to do with it."

Startled out of her near-trance by the voice, she relaxed once she saw it was only Barty. Clearly she hadn't been as quiet leaving as she hoped she'd been. It should've disturbed her more than it did that he was able to so easily sneak up on her in the dark. If he was intent on harming her, she couldn't have made it any easier. Had peace made her foolish? Or did she feel a strange sort of trust in the man already after only a few days? Neither option gave her much comfort

"No, I'm not planning to jump today."

"That's good. That water would be frightfully cold. I hate being cold."

"I think the rocks would kill me before I even felt how cold the water was."

"Possibly or they could just break most of the bones in your body leaving you in agonizing pain. Of course at that point the numbness the icy water could provide might be welcome."

Hermione stared at the wizard unsure if she should laugh or not. Would that make her unhinged if she managed to find a little bit of humor in what he said? It was a morbid topic and he was so matter of fact about it. What went on inside his brain? She was sure it would either be frightening or fascinating.

"My point is, if you want to kill yourself, there are much better options, much less painful options."

"I don't want to kill myself."

"I'm glad to hear that because you're the only person keeping me out of Azkaban right now. Selfishly, I'd like very much to keep you alive."

Was he the only person who cared whether she was alive or dead? As soon as she allowed that thought to enter into her head, she chastised herself for it. She had people who cared. Maybe not as many as most but there were some. She hoped anyway. How depressing would it be to die and find out no one really cared?

She didn't know why she was having such terrible thoughts. What was wrong with her? Some days she knew she had friends and she felt loved while others she feared if she ever had a Tom Sawyer-moment and was able to attend her own funeral, it would be frightfully empty. Making friends had always been hard for her. Lots of people didn't like for various reasons. After the war when true history was inevitably rewritten to make the victors seem more interesting than they really were, all but Rita Skeeter seemed to go out of their way to make her appear as if she was loved by all and friends to everyone. It was flattering and embarrassingly untrue. There were times she thought she might never have made a single friend if she hadn't nearly been crushed by a mountain troll. Hating those depressing thoughts, she returned her attention to their conversation.

"You deserve to be in Azkaban."

"Oh, I won't argue with you there. I absolutely do, but all the same, if I could avoid it, I'd like to. Didn't like it the first time."

"What was it like after you were Kissed?"

The question just sort of tumbled out there with no way to stop it. Hermione surprised herself just blurting it out with little thought. As curious as she'd been to hear about his experiences after his soul was sucked out of his body, she never thought she would work up enough courage to ask. It was incredibly personal.

His initial heavy sigh made her worry she'd gone too far. Tempted to just tell him to forget she ever asked, she couldn't actually form the necessary words to say so. Her intensely curious nature wasn't always socially adroit or appropriate.

"I'm not really sure how to describe it. I was aware at least somewhat. Couldn't feel my body though. That was good. The process was unbearably painful as well as terrifying. It literally felt like I was being torn into pieces. But I've already told you that part. What came after was… bizarre."

Barty paused long enough that she had plenty of opportunity to tell him he didn't have to continue, but she didn't take her chance. The wind blowing off the ocean made him shiver. Or he was lost in thought about his experiences. Either way and remembering how he said he hated being cold, she cast a warming charm on his cloak. When he realized what she'd done, he granted her a small smile. Maybe that was the extra bit of support he needed to speak.

"I remember feeling like I was floating around semi-conscious in a state of nothingness. It didn't hurt but it was frightening. I believe that dementors were at least partially made up of the souls they stole. I did a lot of research about them years before the Kiss. They terrified me so much in Azkaban and after my father made me a prisoner in my own home… well, there wasn't much else to do but read."

As could be expected, she had a number of questions she wanted to ask him. Only the very real concern he might clam up and refuse to explain anything kept her from asking. If she pushed him too far, he had every right to his silence. His experiences were obviously traumatic. It wouldn't be unreasonable if he never wanted to think about them again.

"After losing my soul, I can see the validity of that theory. The stolen souls made up the bulk of their energy but they had to keep feeding on emotions to survive and eventually to breed. Those emotions were all negative so everything I felt and experienced in that state was negative too."

"That sounds awful."

"Bit of an understatement." He gave her a smile, but it was clear there was pain behind it. "Have you ever been close to a beehive?"

She nodded. Even though she knew bees were beneficial and even critical to keeping the world's flora healthy, she found the creatures to be unnerving.

"It's like how you can hear all of the bees buzzing. Except the buzzing is a collection of the worse memories and emotions of their victims. I don't know of any other way to describe it than that. It was just constant noise. I haven't gotten used to the quiet yet."

They both stared back at the crashing waves down below unsure what more to say. It wasn't quiet at the cliffs nor was it quiet in her home when he had the television on. Was that his way of trying to cope, trying to keep from dwelling on his worst thoughts? Muggles had little electronics that they carried around in their pockets that played music through tiny headphones. Would one of those help him feel calmer, more centered? It was worth looking into. She hadn't had a reason to spend much time shopping in Muggle London for a long time. Maybe she could change that.

"Some day when I can think a little clearer about it, I should write my experiences down. With all of the dementors gone, thankfully no one else will ever have to experience what I did, but I feel like there should be a record of it somewhere."

"I agree. There should. If for no other reason than to remind us all that we should be better than those that came before us. That punishment was beyond cruel. It never should've happened to anyone."

Barty smiled another sad smile. Part of her wished he was ready to write down his experiences. Morbid curiosity to be sure, but also because she wanted to know more about what went on inside his mind. Reading a person's writing gave an insight into their true selves. No longer could Hermione deny that she was more curious than she probably should be. Maybe it was the forced close proximity or maybe they were more alike than she realized.

The wind grew stronger forcing the ends of their cloaks to flap around them. All promises of an approaching storm came true. Rain started to fall in thick, heavy drops. It would be sleet soon and maybe even snow before the next morning. Standing outside as the wind grew more violent and loud thunder crashed was madness.

Neither of them made the suggestion out loud that they return to the safety of the warm house. Likely it was just human instinct of self-preservation that sent them both rushing back at the same time. Visibility was low thanks to the heavy fast falling rain. Lightning struck somewhere very near the house when they were only steps from the kitchen door. The ground shook underneath their feet, startling them both so much they froze for a second before laughing and running again.

A large woodpile was stacked up against the back of Hermione's house. When she was in the mood for a fire, only real wood would do. Between the wind and the lighting strike, the wood shifted. Barty grabbed her arm to pull her back just in case the whole pile fell. Just as she opened her mouth to either thank him or demand he never touch her again, she hadn't decided which it would be, a loud cry of pain came from somewhere near the bottom.

Barty released her arm to run towards the wood. When he got near enough he threw his body down on the wet ground to look for the source of the cry. It only took him a few seconds of frantic searching.

"There's a cat under here! I think her leg is trapped."

He leapt back up to his feet to start pulling logs off the top. Able to throw three large pieces off beside him, Hermione grabbed his arm to stop him from taking another.

"Wait! If you pull off the wrong ones, you could make it even more unstable and it could crush her."

Seeing the logic in her statement, he didn't even argue about stepping back when she pulled her wand out. A simple levitation spell could remove all of the logs at the same time, lessening the chance of the poor, trapped creature being injured further. Once all of the firewood was in the air at the same time, Hermione flicked her wrist to send them to another corner of her garden. By the time she was able to turn her attention back to the spot where the woodpile had been, Barty was already back on the ground.

A grey cat, far too skinny to be healthy, was badly hurt. It didn't take an expert in animal health to know it was in a serious condition. More than just a leg was crushed by the shifting wood. Its breathing was laborious and rapidly slowing. Unable to even move, there was no question it wouldn't survive. Even if they could rush it straight to an animal Healer, it would be too late. Healing spells were different for humans and animals. Never needing to know one before, Hermione was at a loss.

"Do you know any healing spells?"

Barty shook his head sadly. In an emergency like that she would've risked handing over her wand. But it was no use. He gently brushed his fingertips over the cat's head, careful not to upset any of its injuries.

"Poor little mite."

He lowered his voice to speak soothing words to the cat in its final moments. It was hard to understand exactly the words he used, but the tone was enough. Maybe only a minute or two passed before the animal went completely still. Barty's shoulders slumped with a heavy, defeated sigh.

"I wish I'd known she was here. I could've made her a safer house."

His voice was shaking, heavy with emotion. Hermione felt her eyes fill up with tears when she saw his watery eyes. Sometimes it was easier for some people to show emotions for animals than humans. He might have been able to kill his father with seemingly no remorse, but the sadness he felt for the skinny stray cat confirmed he wasn't cold and unfeeling. The way his hand tenderly slid across the cat's wet fur proved that even further.

Hermione excused herself to go inside to give him some privacy. It was jarring to see that side of him. Had he always been like that or was that a result of twelve years floating around in nothingness with only negative emotions for company? She went straight to her wardrobe to pull out an old jumper to wrap the cat in. It seemed only proper. A decorative cardboard box she kept mementos in was easily emptied and adjusted with a spell to be large enough to hold the poor creature's remains. Somehow she knew it would be important to Barty that the cat be treated with dignity and care even in death.

When she stepped back outside she could tell he had been crying in her absence. What a strange man he was turning out to be. He sighed when he saw the jumper and the box.

"Thank you. I'll… I'll bury her in the morning. Unless you think I should do it now."

"No, she'll be fine inside the kitchen tonight."

With a tenderness she never would've guessed he possessed, Barty picked up the broken body to wrap in the jumper. Movement underneath her made him gasp. Two small kittens, one grey like its mother and the other solid black, seemed to be unharmed. Barty's voice cracked again with more heavy emotion.

"What a good mummy, protecting your babies. I'll make sure they stay safe and warm."