Life was supposed to get better after the war. That's what they all said. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Minister Shacklebolt, the bloody Daily Prophet. It was the promise they fought for. Died for. That someday, someday soon, they would all wake up, and the grief would still be there, but dimmer. And the nightmares would be faded, faded, gone. And the sun would creep back out from behind the clouds and warm their cheeks again, forever.

Well, the sun was a big fat coward.

"Granger?"

Hermione's eyes peeled away from her hand, which had been resting on her sternum. "Hi Gemma," she said, promptly straightening in her chair. Her palms fell onto the desk as she looked expectantly up at her supervisor.

The dark-haired witch cocked a tapered eyebrow. "Everything alright, Granger?"

She attempted a smile. "You know me. Eager to send more memos," she said, eyeing the stack of folders in the witch's arms.

"Right. Well, it looks like you could use an assignment other than quilling off memos to every moon-eyed Unspeakable in this department." The sarcasm dripped from Gemma's tongue. "Come with me. I have an assignment for you."

They strode down the row of wood-framed cubicles, the other junior staffers eyeing Hermione curiously as they passed. Hermione wrapped her arms around her chest and sped up, heels clicking against the marble floors.

Perhaps this is it, that swotty, work-obsessed part of her mind teased. Your first real project! It was a fate that had yet to unfold for Hermione. Soon after starting her job at the Department of Mysteries, Hermione had learned that the only mystery she was likely to encounter was the unreliable schedule of pumpkin juice in the cafeteria.

In truth, the junior staffers were all quill-pushers. Secretaries. Coordinators. All just waiting for the day that one of the more experienced Unspeakables took them under their wing and gave them the keys to the kingdom.

Hermione should be thrilled. She figured it just hadn't set in yet.

Gemma ushered Hermione inside her office. "Tea?" she offered, settling into her leather armchair and waving a wand at the tray in the corner.

"No thank you." She took the seat across the desk and crossed her legs, one foot dangling.

The older witch shrugged. With a swish of her wand, the tea set began its eager business of preparing a fresh mug. Hermione kept her eyes trained on it in a resemblance of fascination. Her cheeks grew hot as she felt Gemma's astute gaze. Gemma Farley had been a Slytherin prefect during Hermione's first year at Hogwarts. Apparently, she hadn't lost her ability to make those beneath her squirm without even a word. Glancing down, Hermione noted her shaking foot and forced it still, took a breath, and raised her eyes to meet Gemma's.

"Is something the matter, Granger?"

"No, erm…just restless. I have an appointment at three."

Gemma glanced at the clock. Half an hour till. "Ah. Getting ready early for the memorial celebration at Hogwarts? I almost forgot that was tonight. Dreadful party. I only went the first year."

"No. I mean yes, I'll be at the memorial, but I have something before that. But if you need me to stay, I'd be happy to–"

Gemma waved her off as a steaming mug floated gently into her outstretched hand. "Nonsense. It should only take a few minutes to go over, then I'll leave you with some reading to catch up on the project," she said, nodding at the stack of folders."Tell me, Granger, what are your feelings towards Azkaban prison?"

Hermione blinked. The prison was hardly in their department's jurisdiction. With Harry and Ron working in the Auror Trainee Scheme, though, she was relatively up-to-date. "Azkaban?" She wet her lips. When Gemma gave no guidance, Hermione continued, "The fortress was built in the fifteenth century by a dark wizard and was later used as a prison beginning in the early eighteenth century, when the Ministry became aware of its existence. Due to the colony of dementors already living on the island, and the fortress structure already built, they commandeered into a wizarding prison. Dementors constituted the major line of security until just a few years ago, when Aurors replaced them. Today, the prison population remains mostly made up of Death Eaters captured or re-captured after the second war."

"I asked you for your feelings, not a history lesson."

Hermione's cheeks flushed. "Right. Well, I suppose I feel…rather neutral?" she said finally, after racking her brain and finding nothing better to say than the truth. "I acknowledge that the prison has caused harm to those few who were unjustly imprisoned, such as Sirius Black, but for the majority who were sentenced there, I believe their fate just. Kingsley's removal of the dementors remains a precarious political decision, but from what I hear, the effectiveness of the Auror guards and visitor safety measures has held up."

Gemma's mouth twitched into a smile. "Good. Because for your next project," she said, sliding the stack of folders across the desk, "you'll be spending quite a bit of time there."

Hermione had never liked hospitals. Muggle or magical. They made her feel like a specimen. A clump of cells on a petri dish. Ready to be studied, then promptly tossed in the bin when the findings were determined 'inconclusive'.

When the door to the St. Mungo's appointment room swung open, Hermione forced a smile on her face. A lean wizard stepped inside bearing a pleasant expression and obnoxious lime green robes.

"How do you do, Miss Granger? I'm Healer Lockwood," he said brightly, shutting the door behind him.

"I'm fine."

Healer Lockwood pointed a wand at a box of gloves, and a pair zipped over, promptly encasing his hands with a smack of latex. "It's so nice to see you finally made it to our appointment! That Ministry you work for, they sure like to change up their workers' schedules at the last minute. How long has it been since we've been trying to see you…two years?"

Three, she silently corrected. Three years of booking appointments in the busy Janus Thickey Ward, only to find herself unable to call out St. Mungo's in the floo every time. Today was an anomaly. After leaving Gemma's office, her nose buried in the files she'd been given, Hermione had taken the lift up to the atrium, stepped inside the roiling green flames, and said her destination without even a second thought.

"Something like that," Hermione murmured as Healer Lockwood took a seat on the rolling stool by the exam table. A clipboard with her chart floated in front him, which he used his wand to flip through.

"Your intake form says you're here for a consultation on a scar, is that right?" When she nodded, he continued, "And how did you obtain this scar?"

"It was a…it was during the war. A curse."

"And how old were you?"

"Sixteen."

"And the attacker?"

"Antonin Dolohov."

The healer grimaced "Dolohov? Are you sure?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no, it's…I thought we'd seen the last of that wizard's handiwork at St. Mungo's, since the war ended. Nasty piece of work, his curses are." He shook his head, and his irritably pleasant expression washed back over his features. "Would you explain your issues with the scar? There's a note here from the Hogwarts Matron describing it as healed completely by the end of your fifth year."

Hermione frowned. She hadn't known that Dolohov was famous for his curses. "A few months after the end of the war, the scar began…itching. Itching turned into pulsing. Pulsing turned into…" Hermione swallowed thickly. "Turned into a near constant pain. I tried to ignore it, but I believe…I believe it's grown infected. I did my own research at the Ministry library, but I couldn't find any condition that seemed to match. Magical scars heal, or they don't. But they don't suddenly get worse years after healing."

Healer Lockwood scooted closer, hands outstretched. "May I?" he asked, glancing at her blouse.

Hermione pressed her lips together, then nodded. With her eyes on the ceiling, she felt the buttons pop magically open, then the two panels moved gently to the side. When the cold, sterile air of the room washed over her skin, Hermione swallowed down a gasp.

Fingers prodded. Her eyes watered. "Fascinating," Healer Lockwood murmured, as his rubber fingers pulled the skin around the scar taut. "Does this hurt?"

She shook her head.

He dragged a light touch directly over where she knew the scar to be. "And this?"

"No," she whispered.

"But you describe pain?"

"Yes."

"Where does it hurt, Miss Granger?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing up her courage. She could do it. She could look. She just had to tip her chin down and open her eyes. She had finally made it to the appointment. Maybe she wouldn't be just another petri dish in the rubbish bin, after all.

With a shudder, Hermione forced herself to look down at her body. Her fingers curled into the foam edge of the table. With her blouse hanging open, she could see her entire torso. The black bra, cupping her small breasts. Her belly, a soft curve above the waistband of her trousers. And in between, was it. It was a foul thing. Stretching from the end of her ribs up her sternum, ending just below her breast tissue. Silvery scar tissue had torn open into a gaping wound at the center, tendrils of sickly, blood-red magic quivering from the black chasm. The tendrils stretched like gnarled fingers, searching for flesh to latch on to. Many of the tendrils already had, worming into the skin of her belly in one spot, the underside of her breast at another. But the greatest number of tendrils had latched onto the skin above her heart. They pulsed like arteries. Lumps of magic traveled through the tendrils like a meal through a snake, feeding directly into her heart.

With a trembling hand, Hermione pressed her palm into the forest of tendrils clumping over her heart. They had no corporeal feeling; her hand passed straight through the writhing mass. "Here," she croaked, staring at the tendrils now encasing her hand. They pulsed in unison. "I feel it inside here. Like…like my heart is dying inside me. Or…"

"Or your soul," Healer Lockwood suggested in a small voice. Gone was the sugary pleasantry he'd arrived with.

Hermione tore her hand away and clutched her blouse around her, hiding the scar beneath the dark fabric. "You've seen something like this before?" she asked hopefully.

Healer Lockwood rose from his seat. "I will have to take this back to my team, but in the meantime…I would like to bring in my colleague for a consultation. Would you mind waiting here a little while longer?"

Hermione agreed. As soon as the healer left the room, she buttoned her blouse, not even reaching for her wand as her muggle instincts took over. She never looked at the scar. Most days, she kept it glamoured. The sight of it now, more infected than she'd ever seen it, made her sick to her stomach.

At least I skipped lunch.

After waiting ten minutes, the door swung open again. This time, Healer Lockwood was accompanied by a stout little witch in lime robes striped with white.

Psych?

Before Hermione could question the presence of the wizarding shrink, the witch plopped down on the seat and drew a chart from her robes. Healer Lockwood hung back by the wall. "Miss Granger, I am Healer Thomas. Healer Lockwood has informed me that you require a psychiatric consultation. Are you agreeable?"

"I…I suppose."

"Good. Then we shall begin with a series of screening questions." She waved her wand in a circular pattern, though Hermione couldn't tell what magic had been done. Diagnostic out of her eyesight, perhaps.

Healer Thomas went through her list at the speed of someone riding a broom on fire, contrasted quite peculiarly with the blank expression of someone under the Petrificus Totalus curse.

"Are you satisfied with your life?"

"Erm, not especially. But–"

"Do you often get bored?"

"Well, work is quite dull–"

"Do you often feel helpless?"

"I suppose we're all in a bit of a state since the war. Social turmoil, and all that, but–."

"Do you prefer to stay at home, rather than going out with friends or trying new things?"

"Yes, but I do try–"

"Do you feel worthless?"

"I do when you won't let me speak!" Hermione snapped. Anger coursed through her, making her cheeks hot and her heartbeat race. The sudden rush of an emotion was gone as quickly as it came, leaving Hermione with an ache at the realization that even the feeling of anger, one of the most visceral, overpowering of feelings, had drained away after just seconds. Her shoulders slumped back down. "I'm sorry, I…"

"No need to apologize, Miss Granger. One last question. Are you capable of casting a patronus?"

She frowned. "I am."

"On a scale of one to five, with one being rarely and five being every time, how consistently are you able to cast your patronus?"

"Five."

"Can you cast one for me now?"

Hermione drew her wand. When was the last time she'd cast one? During the war? Once she'd nailed the first several castings, the little silvery otter had come easily to her. She just had to shuffle the correct memories in place, center her focus, and breathe the word…

"Expecto Patronum."

She opened her eyes. Not even a shield of light came out. It was a wisp, if that. Like the spoke of a tobacco pipe. "I can try again."

"Go ahead."

This time, Hermione took longer to collect her happiest memories. She reached for them, like favorite books on a shelf, the covers known by heart. When she tugged the memories forward, she remembered the stories behind them–meeting Harry and Ron for the first time, soaring on Buckbeak's back, Christmas at her parents' house–but the feelings behind them felt…empty. Books with no words.

Ignoring it, Hermione lifted her wand and said, more determinedly, "Expecto Patronum!"

If the first attempt was the puff of a pipe, the second was the breath of a cigarette.

She glanced at Healer Thomas. "I'm sorry, I must be under the weather. I learned the spell during school, you see. I've been practicing it since I was a teenager. I know how to cast it, but…it's just not coming to me right this moment."

Healer Thomas sighed. "I want to show you something, Miss Granger." She lifted her wand and drew the tip towards herself. An image flew past Hermione's head, rotating around to hover in front of her. It looked like a clock, except the face was segmented like a color wheel ranging from bright white, to red, to black, with shades of grey and pink in between. "Are you familiar with diagnostic projections?

"In the literature, yes, but I've haven't used them in practice."

"This here is a Mind Meter. It measures the state of a witch or wizard's emotional state. With white being pure joy," she said, indicating with her wand towards the segment, "and black being a depressive state. In between is red–anger. Before I began asking my questions, you were here," she continued, pointing at the blackmost color. " As you grew more disgruntled with my rudeness, the Mind Meter adjusted to the central emotion–anger." Healer Thomas shifted her wand tip towards the crimson segment. "But only seconds after my questioning ended, you returned to your original state. And during the patronus test–"

"I assume I didn't make it to white," Hermione said dejectedly.

"You barely made it to grey." With a wave of her wand, the Mind Meter vanished. "I'm sure a smart witch like yourself can reach the same conclusion I can."

"I'm depressed?"

"Yes and no. Depression in magical folk can work differently than in muggles. Our magic, which originates in our souls, can feed into our minds. Alter our state of being. Alter our emotions, making the world feel bleak even when everything is going well. It can also limit our ability to feel anger for more than a few seconds. Healer Lockwood informed me of your scar. It is our belief," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the quiet healer, "that the dark magic Dolohov used is decaying your magical soul. In turn, it eats away at your ability to feel most emotions. The clinical term is a Dark Magic Induced Depression, or DMID."

Hermione swallowed. "And the cure?"

Healer Thomas wore a grave smile. "DMID is highly variable due to its connection to the specific curse inflicted on the patient. I'm afraid that until we have a better understanding of what Dolohov left behind, there isn't anything we can do. We have a team of curse breakers, though. I'll send in a tech-witch to collect a sample of the curse's signature before you leave. We'll alert you by owl if any progress is made."

"And the prognosis? If you don't make any progress?" She already knew the answer. Cold dread slid down her throat, thumping into her gut. She already knew, but she had to ask. To be sure.

The healer rose to her feet. She clutched Hermione's chart to her chest as her gaze drifted down Hermione's torso, then back up to her face. "The magical soul is a finite resource, Miss Granger. You of all people should know that."

She nodded, just barely. Everyone knew of her involvement in the horcrux hunt. "I'm aware."

"Then I believe you already know the prognosis as well. When the magical soul dies, so does its witch or wizard."

Hermione was in absolutely no mood to attend this year's Celebration of Light and Victory, held in the late summer grounds of Hogwarts castle. Even without her recent diagnosis, Hermione reckoned she would have grown tired of the blasted memorial after its first rendition. Unfortunately for her, one third of the Golden Trio didn't exactly have a say in attendance.

Every year was the same; the only difference now was that instead of smoking rubble littering the grounds, high heels and dress shoes covered the lush lawn outside the castle. What had been a way to honor the fallen had twisted into a scheme to bring the rich and famous into one spot, in a grand display of unity for the cameras and reporters. And to raise money, of course. Even Kingsley, proponent of Light and Justice, couldn't run a political campaign on good intentions alone.

"Can I get you another drink, Mione?" Ron asked, sidling up to her as he batted a mosquito from his own glass of champagne.

Hermione frowned at her empty flute. She was already on her third, and starting to feel woozy. It was nice; she had learned months ago that alcohol was one of the few methods of inspiring a semi-positive feeling. And it made perfect sense now, with what Healer Thomas had told her. But overdoing it may cause more trouble than it was worth, with all her friends here tonight.

"I'm alright, thanks Ron." She gave him a small smile, then turned to face the mostly empty chairs set up by the shore of the Black Lake. The glassy surface reflected back a peachy, cloudless sky, stretching with soft ripples to the island that held Dumbledore's tomb. She remembered staring at the same image during the first celebration. She remembered the anger bubbling inside her, threatening to spill out as Kingsley droned on about Dumbledore's sacrifices. Apparently his lies didn't make the final cut of the eulogy.

She felt that same anger surge up inside her now. Her fingers tightened around the flute. But with an exhale, the feeling was gone. The lake lapped lazily at the shore. And Hermione felt nothing at all.

Ron's hand had found her lower back, his thumb stroking circles against her silk dress. Another bolt of anger flashed within her at his touch. With a start, Hermione stepped away from his touch. Instantly, her annoyance faded to guilt.

"You okay, Mione?" Ron asked. She could feel his heavy, worried gaze on her. Analyzing her. Her boyfriend may not have been the brightest wizard of their year, but he certainly knew her. He knew she was more troubled than usual.

"Fine."

The breeze picked up, pushing back the curls from her forehead.

"You know, I am your boyfriend. You're supposed to tell me when things aren't good. And I can tell things are worse than usual. I'm not blind, you know," he said, a touch of irritation in his voice. This wasn't a new argument. When she couldn't find the right words to placate him, Ron let out a frustrated sigh. "Is it work? The party? Me?"

It was all those things, yet none of them. All cogs in the wheel of her rotting soul.

"I need the loo," she said brusquely, thrusting the empty flute into his chest. "Excuse me."

"Oh!" he startled, before adding quickly, "Yeah me too. I'll go with–"

But she was already off, heels sinking into the grass as she hurried through the crowd towards the castle.

The room outside the great hall welcomed her with a rush of quiet. Hermione paced along the stone floor, footsteps echoing as the murmur of portraits began to pick up. After a minute, one of the portraits screamed at her to stop stomping.

"You may be piles of oil paint, but I can still hex you" she snapped, shooting the portrait in question a nasty look. Hermione turned to face the wall, hands on her hips as she stared blankly at the paintings.

Should she tell Ron and her friends about the diagnosis? The prognosis? Though Healer Thomas said that the curse breakers would investigate the sample she'd given them, Hermione had her doubts. As a child, after learning that Bill Weasley was a curse breaker by trade, she'd gone down a rabbit hole researching the profession. Curses were almost always broken by analyzing the curse at the source of its power. Not years-old remnants of the curse.

"Hermione?"

She knew it was Ginny before the witch even stepped up beside her. Still, Hermione glanced over. The pretty red-head was glowing tonight, her belly adorably round beneath her violet dress. "Hello," Hermione said softly. "Gosh, the bump already looks bigger than last week."

"I know. I wanted to glamor it, but Harry thought it was better to break the news to the paparazzi on our own terms."

Hermione hummed her agreement. Witch Weekly had turned Ginny Potter into the wizarding world's darling. 'From Star Seeker to Star's Special Someone: How The Chosen One Chose his Bride!' had just been the beginning.

"Ron sent me in here to find you," said Ginny softly.

"Figures."

"I'll tell him you're on the rag, if you like."

It almost made her smile. "Yes please, actually."

They were silent for a minute, studying the portraits who had mostly gone back to sleep. Hermione knew that Ginny wouldn't let up until Hermione gave her something to work with. She was too stubborn for her own good. "I got a new assignment at work," she began quietly, her eyes roaming a portrait of the Forbidden Forest. Ancient trees swayed in the wind, and yellow eyes peeked occasionally out from the shadows, like they were inviting her in to follow them.

"Oh?"

Though she hadn't had much time to read through the documents Gemma handed her before her St. Mungo's appointment, Hermione had gotten the gist of it. "The Department of Mysteries is restarting an old project that was put on pause during the war. It involves interviewing prisoners in Azkaban."

"What, like collecting evidence?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, nothing in the interviews is meant to return to the court. As far as I can tell, anyway. It seems to be for…research purposes. Or archival purposes. I'm not too sure yet."

"So what, you'll be going along to take notes at these interviews?"

"Well yes, but I'll be going alone. I suppose my supervisor finally reckons I can do more than scratch at parchment behind a desk. My first assignment is Lucius Malfoy."

Ginny turned to face her. Her usually rosy cheeks had turned pale. "Malfoy. Death Eater and convicted felon Lucius Malfoy is your first assignment? Bloody hell, Hermione. No wonder you're in a state! Does Harry know? He's posted on guard duty at Azkaban twice a week, nowadays. He can give a head's up on Malfoy's state of mind. Or lack thereof."

"I haven't told anyone yet. I haven't even read the full assignment report. Just got it today."

Ginny's lips were pressed into a firm line. "I want to be happy for you. I know how bored you are behind that desk, but…you need to be careful, okay? Even in a cell, Malfoy is dangerous."

"I know, Gin. I will be." She gave her friend's shoulder a squeeze. Ginny was staring back at the wall, seemingly still processing. "I should probably get back to Ron. I might as well tell him the truth too." When Ginny didn't respond, Hermione frowned. "Gin?"

"Have you seen this before?"

"What?"

Ginny pointed at the painting in front of her. It was one of the smallest on the wall, bordered just in wood and nestled between two massive landscapes. In it, a woman sat facing the front, brown curls framing her face and what looked like the plumes of a pink 18th century skirt draped over her lower half. Beside her stood an empty chair. The room could have been any stone-walled room in Hogwarts, Hermione reckoned. The woman's eyes were off towards the left, a secretive smile on her lips. As if she was waiting for someone to return to that empty chair, someone who stood just out of frame.

"Why, she looks just like you!" Ginny exclaimed.

Hermione squinted at the portrait. She supposed there was some resemblance. Though she'd never be caught dead in such an audacious color of pink, let alone a skirt of that size. "I suppose so. If someone tossed me into an 18th century fairytale."

"You know, one of the wedding gowns I tried on looked just like that monstrosity…"

Ron snored beside her. He'd taken her new assignment at work quite well, considering he, like Harry, frequented Azkaban and its prisoners on a weekly basis. And better yet, he'd taken it at face value. No further questions about what was wrong with her. Not yet, anyway.

After shucking off their party clothes and crawling into bed at 12 Grimmauld Place, Ron had fallen promptly, predictably, asleep. One arm was slung over her waist, clutching her to his chest. Breath washed against her neck, tickling her skin.

It was warm, and safe, and suffocating.

Three years had passed since the war. Life wasn't better. But it wasn't worse, either. It just wasn't quite life anymore. At least during the battles and the fleeing, the hunting and the fighting, she had a purpose. But after all that adrenaline had drained from her veins, and the grief settled in and turned to stone, there was nowhere for that pain to go. It just sat, trapped inside her body.

Hermione was floating. Drifting. Waiting. And when she laid in her boyfriend''s arms and felt nothing at all, life felt like dying.

At least now, she knew she was dying. Her very own soul was trying to kill her.