If you can't find your place in the world, make one. - Dr. Metzker

At half-past sunrise, Hermione moved at a brisk pace down Whitehall, hoping that the cool May morning would ease the sweat rolling between her shoulder blades under her long-sleeved business suit. The starched clothing itched her neck, and her entire body ached as if someone had thrown her off a bucking thestral. Around the bend from the Commonwealth offices, the familiar Square came into view, as if her feet had conveniently taken over. The overwhelming physical discomfort would be so much more bearable if she had gone to that dinner with Ron. At least then, she could write off her swimming vision as a simple hangover. Manageable. Explainable.

She'd spent half the night trying to remember any details of her missing time, and the early hours of the morning pushing off the horrific sensations that cropped up like unwanted shadows. Even now, rabid forms swarmed in her periphery. Images of starving leeches assaulted the spaces between her ragged breathing, their hands and mouths everywhere. In her mind, it didn't feel real.

Had it all been a dream?

As much as she wanted to believe that she had stumbled upon one of the nasty flu viruses circling through the Ministry this season, she could still hear the ripping fabric of her skirt and feel the way she had hit the ground, with the scrambling of limbs all over her.

And the fangs. She remembered the flash of white clarity - the only image that tied everything together. Her only clue pointed directly at vampires, but in the remaining hours of early morning, she'd ripped through all the texts in her flat that even cursorily mentioned the blood suckers. Every reference tome she owned staunchly declared that a turned vampire would literally burst into flames walking down the street at sunrise.

Hermione had not, in fact, caught on fire. Flame-resistant and sweating buckets, she put one aching foot in front of the other and headed off to work as if she hadn't missed a day of her life. Armed with a notebook full of cross-referenced volumes to verify once she got to her office, she was going to prove that the fever-dream of fanged assailants had not left her unconscious in that abandoned warehouse.

Ron, however, had not been a dream.

Her heart ached just as bad as the rest of her, thinking about how flippantly she had cast aside his concerns. As the words between them played over in her head, guilt set up residency in the tangle of unease inside her. Between the heavy concealer and brewing coffee, she'd worried how she would appear to him now, strung out and obviously symptomatic.

But she didn't have to act like she had everything under control, because unlike every other morning since she'd moved into her own place, he never showed.

Hermione turned off Whitehall, heels clicking down the Ladies' stairwell to the underground toilets. She dug in her purse and found the Ministry Entrance coin tucked under her tram card and the silent Muggle pager. Pushing through the swinging door, she caught her reflection in the Loo mirror and paused.

There she was, Hermione Granger. Hair done up in a professional knot, Pressed suit. Polished shoes. Heavy make-up, but no one would notice an extra layer of powder, would they? Slipping the coin in the stall slot, she opened the door to the old-fashioned wooden seat and the rusty pull chain. But that was the doxy in her plan. If she wanted the pipes to suck her through to the Ministry of Magic atrium, it required a special touch that she no longer possessed.

No magic. No Ron. But that's what she had wanted, right?

Hermione bit back her frustration and wracked her brain for a solution. She'd thought everything through, she must have come up with a plan for this too. She could take the visitor's lift on the street level if she absolutely had to. But here she was, frozen to the spot, afraid of what would happen to her confidence if she had to face one more failure.

She'd gotten what she'd asked for, and now she questioned why she'd fought so hard for it. Ron had been with her for so long that she'd forgotten what it was like to not have him beside her, giving her that quirky sideways look of "you've got this, I believe in you."

If he was here, he'd pull the chain for her and open the door to his world as naturally as breathing. And there it was, the reason she had worked to put distance between them. His world. The Wizarding World. Every time she looked at him, he reminded her of what she had lost.

It hurt more than she would admit to anyone. Her therapist had suggested Pepper-Up potions to get her through the emotional guilt of turning him away, declining his family's attempts to draw her in, to keep her a part of them. The monthly family dinners at the Burrow had been the only thing she'd still attended, simply because it was easier than getting hammered with a zillion 'why didn't you show?' owls. His large family had been an inseparable part of her life for so long that they had become her family too.

For six weeks she'd pushed him away, and now all she could think about was how much she missed him.

She shook herself out of her own head. No, she couldn't allow herself to think about that. Focus, Hermione. Maybe, just this once, it will work.

She reached out for the pull chain, wanting to believe that the magic spark would be there, zinging through her veins, ready to make some inexplicable miracle come to life, but what if it didn't work? What if she climbed into the toilet bowl and got nothing but soggy shoes?

A kindly old witch in maintenance robes shuffled up behind her. "What's the matter, dearie?" she asked.

Hermione stared at the chain, unable to will her hand to pull it. "There's something wrong with my wand." And her arm. And her magic. But if she had anything to do with it, the Wizarding World would never hear the whole sob story.

"Ah, that happens," the woman said. "Step in, and I'll give the chain a pull. Take the lift to the fourth floor. Magical Maladies should point you in the right direction, and they'll fix you up in no time."

No, they wouldn't, but Hermione forced a thankful smile in the witch's direction and nodded. "Yes, thank you."

The water's pull swept her through the plumbing. As she emerged from the fireplace into the expanse of the Atrium, a squadron of paper airplane memos zinged above her head. The smells from the omelet stand in front of the Ministry Munchies cafe reminded her of the breakfast her stomach had boycotted. Maintenance workers stood around with coffee cups, monitoring the self-sweeping machines that glided up and down the walkways. On the other side of the Atrium, by the fireplaces, Hermione shook out her robe, settled it over her suit, and then spotted an unmistakable mop of red hair in Auror robes pacing near the fountain.

Should she call out to him? Should she apologize?

Before Hermione could decide what to do, Ron stopped his pacing and looked at her. From his harrowed expression, she'd bet Galleons he hadn't slept either. All she could do was stare, torn between continuing her current course of independence or tossing it aside and running to him with a thousand apologies for how she'd treated him. He'd forgive her, because Ron always forgave her. Wasn't that the definition of 'unconditional'?

"There you are, dearie," the old witch said, coming out of the fireplace to Hermione. "Remember, it's on the fourth floor."

She turned her head to address the witch, plastering a grateful smile over her worries. "Yes, thank you again."

When Hermione looked back across the Atrium, Ron had that frown on his face that meant he'd seen the exchange and recognized that she'd found her way without him. Then without hesitation, he dropped his gaze and headed towards the Auror's department.

She watched him disappear through the far corridor without looking back. For the first time, Ron had kept his distance and respected her boundaries. Dr. Metzker would congratulate her on this small step towards independence and autonomy.

Hermione regretted everything.