Hermione yawned. The testimonies had gone on much longer than necessary, and her back ached from the uncomfortable seats. They finally brought Adrian Pucey into the courtroom, looking somewhat worse for wear after a few weeks in a holding cell with a Dementor for a roommate. Attempting to pay attention to Pucey's testimony in case any reporters asked her to comment on it later, she found her mind wandering, strangely stuck on Draco's eyes when she'd scoffed at him: shards of ice that cut into her skin.

Before she knew it, Pucey was being led out of the courtroom; she had missed his entire testimony, which had likely included questioning on Death Eater activities during the war — something that almost always triggered a panic attack. At least her distraction had been good for something, she supposed. Pushing his grey eyes out of her mind, she returned to the office and shed the uncomfortable Auror dress robes as quickly as she could.

Still wearing his own formal robes, Harry approached her, looking serious. She pre-empted him, hoping to distract him from whatever he wanted to talk about. "Well, I'd say that went well, all things considered. I don't see the Wizengamot letting him off easy." She smiled innocently.

But Harry didn't smile. "Hermione, about today…"

"I know Harry." She sat forward at her desk, exhaling loudly. "My behaviour was unprofessional. I wasn't in my right state of mind and should have excused myself earlier. I was fine until that posh git showed up."

"Hermione…" Harry started again, a warning in his tone.

Not wanting to talk about this further, she tried to shift the conversation. "Did you know he was back in Europe? Last I heard, he was gallivanting across America… hiding if you ask me."

"Hermione." His tone was firm this time. Apparently, she wasn't getting out of this conversation. Reluctantly, she gave him her full attention, and he continued, sounding concerned. "You're my best friend and you know I love you, but I worry that you're letting your personal feelings impact your work, and maybe you aren't giving people the chance they deserve. It sounds like Malfoy has really spent some time trying to fix things and is actually helping other purebloods realise that blood purity is a toxic myth and utter rubbish."

"Come on Harry, you can't seriously believe that," she said, unable to contain her exasperation. "Malfoy has always been a snake. You remember how he was with our professors — don't tell me you fell for that act too. Dumbledore offered him a chance, and he didn't take it. It's too late. People like that don't just change."

Pulling off his glasses, Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly, as if he'd known this was how the conversation would go. "The war changed us all, Hermione. Is it so outside the realm of possibility to think that maybe Draco had to face hard truths too? Is it really so hard to think that things might be different now?"

The hard stare she gave him in return clearly conveyed her feelings about the matter. She very much did not think things were different now.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not saying we'd ever be pals, or that I'd invite him for a drink, but I think you might be judging someone without taking time to consider all the facts of the situation."

"Harry James Potter, are you seriously telling me I haven't thought through this?" she asked incredulously. Her jaw dropped as her annoyance shifted to shock and anger. "I remember everything. That's the bloody problem, isn't it? I can't forget about the things that I've seen, the things he did to me — to you! Trust me, I'm 'considering' the facts."

Recognising that he'd pushed her too close to the edge, he raised his arms in a calming gesture. "Alright Hermione. I just want you to know that of the many trials I'm required to attend, this isn't the first Malfoy has been at. I didn't know he'd be here today or I would have warned you, I'm sorry. But I actually have called him in a few times on consults for cases related to the Dark Arts. He's been willing to help, and it's clear that he's trying… he even offered to work with the department pro bono on any additional cases after the first time I called him."

"Oh, so we're using information from Draco Malfoy to build cases now?" she spat back. "Why wasn't I made aware of this? It seems like critical bloody information that your Lead Auror should know about!"

He had intentionally kept her in the dark about this. Harry might be the Head of the DMLE, but he was her friend first. Her distrust of Malfoy was well known, and this felt a bit like betrayal.

His cheeks pinked, embarrassed, before he rushed on, "Everyone in our generation had their childhoods taken from them — people on our side weren't the only ones who suffered, Hermione. I didn't see it back when we were in school, but the things blood purists did to their pureblood children was nothing short of abuse. You should really read some of the recent case transcripts where Malfoy has talked about this a bit. He's actually done quite a bit of study on various trauma recovery techniques that I think you'd be interested in seeing—"

"I'll think about it, Harry. Thank you," she snapped. Hearing about his "studies" was about as interesting to her as sitting in a waiting room all day where they served lukewarm coffee and stale biscuits and where the only literature was The World According to Rita: A Compilation of My Life's Work by Rita Skeeter. She rolled her eyes at Harry's naivety. Through it all, he'd never stopped seeing the best in people, a rare trait to be sure. But, he was dead wrong about Draco Malfoy.

A few hours later, book in hand, Hermione curled in her favourite chair with Crookshanks nestled in her lap. After re-starting the same paragraph five times, she knew it was useless. Frustrated, she snapped Flesh-Eating Trees of the World closed. It was a morbidly fascinating tome recommended by a friend, but tonight she couldn't focus; Crookshanks gave her a questioning meow, sensing her agitation.

"I know Crooks, it'll pass. It always does."

It happened sometimes: the distractedness and inability to focus. Of course, everyone dealt with such feelings from time to time, but it was worse for her since the war, starting at the same time as her anxiety. Sometimes it stayed for days at a time, leaving her head foggy. Usually, she was able to hide it at work, but when she came home, she was barely able to function. This felt different from her usual brain fog.

Removing Crookshanks from her lap, she headed to the kitchen to make a cup of sage and mint tea; it always tasted better the Muggle way. There were several articles on the topic that she'd seen in several research periodicals. From what she could extrapolate, the root of the problem was that using magic to heat water worked similarly to a Muggle microwave and, as a result, the heating was often inconsistent. It had made a strange sort of sense once Hermione had noted the similarities. Waiting for her water to boil, she fed Crooks an early dinner and leaned back against the counter, closing her eyes as she breathed deeply and attempted to clear her mind of the mental clutter.

Her second year at Hogwarts, grey eyes flashing as he turned to her, "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."

His cool gaze as he met her eyes in the courtroom.

The end of their fourth year on the train, sneering at Hermione and Ron. "They'll be the first to go, now that the Dark Lord's back."

Earlier that same year, before Voldemort's return. His eyes fiery enough to burn, glued to her, while he spun Pansy Parkinson along the dance floor.

The same burning gaze felt on her skin as she avoided his eyes while he passed her this afternoon.

Unfortunately, the mental exercise did nothing to calm her; flashes of memory spun through her head until the sound of the teakettle whistling brought her back to the present. Sighing heavily, she made up her tea, thinking about what Harry had said. She'd never known Draco Malfoy to be one to let go of grudges. He hated her, and it didn't seem that much had changed between them in the years since Hogwarts. It bothered to admit that she cared what he thought — that it still affected her — after all this time.

But, for whatever reason, Harry seemed to believe that Malfoy was changing. That might be possible, but it was equally likely that Harry had fallen for an act. Begrudgingly, she acknowledged that regardless of motive, anything he was doing to help change the minds of blood purists was helpful in the long term. How someone like Draco Malfoy (whose name was nearly synonymous with blood purity) could do it, however, was beyond her.

She scratched Crookshanks behind the ear, and resolved to treat Malfoy with as much neutrality as she did any witness on a case. Since it seemed she may be seeing him at future trials, she was also determined to avoid antagonising him.

Still feeling anxious and shaken, she gave up on her tea and went to go to bed early. After cleaning the kitchen quickly (she'd skipped dinner again, so it didn't take long), she made her way to her bed, dropping her clothes on the floor in a pile. She pulled a loose fitting jumper with a Hollyhead Harpies logo (which had belonged to Ginny) over her head. They rarely saw one another these days, and wearing the jumper made her feel a little less alone. It was days like these that she missed her solid presence the most.

Ginny was drafted by the Harpies five years ago and had moved out of their shared flat shortly after. They'd moved in together after the war, supporting each other through the nightmares and panic attacks without needing an explanation or asking questions. By the time she had moved out, they were both much more stable, and quidditch had given Ginny something to latch on to. Hermione had more good days than bad days now, but getting through the bad days was decidedly more difficult now that she lived on her own.

Climbing into bed, she tried to sleep, feeling physically and mentally exhausted. Absently, she traced the scar on her forearm beneath the glamour she always wore, thinking about the conversation she'd had with Harry. Mustering forgiveness wasn't possible after everything that had happened; he didn't deserve it. As she closed her eyes, anticipating sleep, she was assaulted with another memory.

Their seventh year. His face soot-stained and wet from unbidden tears, eyes filled with pain. Hardly able to speak through the smoke choking both their lungs. "C-Crabbe..."

She sat bolt upright in bed, exhaustion replaced by adrenaline, imagining she could still smell the smoke of the Fiendfyre. There was no way she'd be able to sleep after that. Getting out of bed, she opened her potion cupboard where she removed the components for a Dreamless Sleep Potion. It was an advanced potion, but quick to make. There was a time shortly after the war when she'd kept it stocked at all times; that was before she'd realised how quickly something that started as "a little something to help her sleep" had turned into something more. Luckily, Ginny had been there to help her. Now, she never kept it premade (which was enough of a deterrent to ensure that she only used it when absolutely necessary) and told Ginny each time she used it — a system they had put in place together that had proved effective in preventing a relapse.

In the post-war era, she wasn't the only one who had turned to potions to self-medicate and there had been a significant increase in potion-related medical emergencies at St. Mungo's as a result. In the eight years that followed, they had tapered off, but remained much higher than pre-war rates had been. It wasn't uncommon for Hermione to pass someone on the street with the glassy-eyed look of someone overly reliant on Calming Draught.

With many "standard" potions being addictive, she had developed a different potion which she took daily for anxiety — she had named it a Levelling Draught. She'd always loved potions, and this was something she had developed in the hazy years after the war based on Muggle benzodiazepines. It hadn't been enough today.

After stirring the ingredients anti-clockwise with a birch rod, she let the cauldron simmer for a few minutes, watching as the contents changed from a muddy brown to radiant purple; she quickly collected the potion, texted Ginny, and returned to her bed.

Turning off the lights, she drained the glass of Dreamless Sleep potion and laid down as the potion took effect, leaving her feeling slightly floaty and warm. Crookshanks curled up on her chest as she drifted off to sleep, chased into the dark by cold grey eyes.