Author's Note: The following story is a mature story written for adults. It will discuss some very heavy topics including depression, suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, PTSD, destructive behaviors, toxic relationships, and general dark, moody behavior. It is a personal preference of mine to not include content warnings at the beginning of chapters in order to protect any potential surprises or twists in the story. This is not an exhaustive list of what you might find inside the story, but I don't anticipate anything 'darker'. Obviously, this is going to be a tiny bit AU… just pretend the Epilogue didn't happen. (Like pretty much all of my stories)

Those of you who are looking for perfect characters, especially Hermione, will be disappointed in this story. I would recommend finding something else to read. There will be no All-Powerful, All-Knowing, Master of Impossible Wandless Magic, Goddess Being of Purity and Light with Perfect Hair and Sex Appeal Hermione in this story. There will be a more grown-up version of neurotic, annoying, completely imperfect, desperate to prove she's worthy to be a witch Book-Hermione who has lived through the trauma of a deadly war. You may not always like her, but I will try to make her as realistic an imperfect person as possible.

Chapter One

wintercearig - Old English (adj.) lit. "winter-sorrowful"; the feeling of a deep sadness comparable to the cold of winter

No one alive knew everything about dementors. Not even close. Despite once being the guardians of Azkaban Prison on that wretched island in the North Sea, most witches and wizards knew only what they had read in sensational articles about the prison. Some of them remembered what it was like to have them patrol the outer grounds at Hogwarts or the village of Hogsmeade during the terrifying year everyone believed escaped prisoner Sirius Black was a danger. For the most part, however, they were little more than creatures of dark stories meant to frighten the more amenable from pursuing a life of crime that would end up with them in prison. After they were proven to be untrustworthy and unwilling to surrender their full loyalty to the Ministry of Magic, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt had the entire colony of Azkaban dementors expelled and exiled. No one knew where they went. No one really cared. As long as they weren't terrorizing the mainland, the average citizen was able to put their very existence out of their mind.

Deep within the walls of the Ministry of Magic, down on Level Nine in the Department of Mysteries, a young Unspeakable with a reckless streak of bravery and a desire to rid the world of the most insidious evil hatched a plan in secret. Given nearly free rein to research and experiment to his heart's desire, he vowed he would spend the rest of his life, if necessary, working to eradicate the dementor from their world. No one, he believed, should ever have to live in fear that one day one of those disgusting creatures would try to attack them for no other reason than they desired to feast on their soul. Very few human beings ever saw what was under the Dementor's hood and lived to tell the tale.

Harry Potter knew evil. It marked him when he was a small boy with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. A daily reminder when he looked in the mirror that there were still beings out there that preyed on the most vulnerable and weak, he drew strength from the visual. Voldemort was dead, but dementors still lived, still bred, still sucked the joy and hope from innocent beings. He would kill them all, kill every single last one of them or die in the attempt.

The pile of documents to review on the corner of Hermione Granger's desk never seemed to get any shorter. Not even when she spent hours, days taking one off the top, reviewing its contents, making notes, filling out the pertinent information requested, and banishing them to the 'Out' tray on her assistant's desk just outside the tiny broom cupboard she shared with the other legal analyst in the Wizengamot Administration Services office. When she was offered the position to work directly with the Wizengamot five years earlier, she'd been ecstatic, overjoyed, and absolutely certain that that would be where she would be able to make the biggest impact on antiquated laws still on the books negatively affecting their society.

Enthusiasm and idealism could only take a person so far. That was a lesson she learned the hard way more than once. As much as she tried not to let it bother her, Hermione was frustrated that nothing she did ever seemed to make much of an impact to anyone else. Wasn't she supposed to be changing the world? How could she do that when all she did was look over legal briefs written by others and rarely leave her desk? Her position was an improvement over the one she had in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures' Office for House-Elf Relocation, but only just. At least she was rarely in any danger of being attacked by a stray beast that wandered out of the offices of her colleagues on Level Two.

"Did you see this morning's Daily Prophet? Your mate's tracked them to Kaffeklubben Island at the very top of Greenland. It said in the article that they're actually starving. Can you believe that?"

Hermione didn't bother to hide her look of annoyance from Blaise Zabini. Used to her sour attitude, especially when it came to being reminded that her best friend was off exploring the world and doing something while she was just shuffling parchment, he only laughed. How they managed to make it nearly three years without erupting into a fierce wizarding duel to the death was some days something of a miracle. The Slytherin annoyed her and he enjoyed it.

"Of course I read the Daily Prophet this morning. I read it every morning. Some of us aren't so hungover that we have to save the news for after lunch."

"That's where you're wrong, love, I wasn't hungover this morning. I was a good boy last night. Only had one drink and was promptly in bed by nine o'clock. But, if you must know, I don't think either of us actually fell asleep until sometime after one or two."

"You're disgusting. And stop calling me 'love'. You know I hate it."

"That's why I do it."

For the most part, Blaise was mostly harmless. On a rare occasion when he caught her in a particularly receptive mood, he could even be worth a laugh or two. School rivalries were largely forgotten. Though they would sometimes insult the other's House, they were mostly past those. Nearly thirty years old, they weren't children any longer. It was time to forget how mean they'd been to each other when they were young. The world was different.

"Do you wish you were with Potter on his grand adventure? There was a time he couldn't tie his own shoes without you there to tell him how."

Hermione wasn't sure whether to actually engage the frustrating wizard in conversation or just roll her eyes and try to ignore him. If she was honest, she was still trying to process whether or not she wished she was with Harry herself. On the one hand it was marvelous that he was finding himself an identity apart from being the 'Chosen One' that never seemed to fully go away. It had been a major surprise when Harry chose to turn down Kingsley's offer to enter auror training straight after the war. Explaining that he had his fill of chasing and fighting dark wizards to last a lifetime, all he wanted was the opportunity to have one fairly normal school year like everyone else. Little did Hermione know that he was engaged in near daily correspondence with Unspeakable Saul Croaker his last year. He had so many ideas, so many mysteries about the magical world that he wanted to uncover. One week after leaving Hogwarts, he was formally offered the position of Junior Unspeakable. Though she naturally didn't know the details due to the confidential nature of his job, he was an immediate success. Few even mentioned Harry's past as the 'Chosen One'. Once the big announcement was made he would be working on the newly formed joint commission with the Being Division and the Department for Magical Law Enforcement to track down the dementors, he was usually known as 'Harry Potter, Dementor Destroyer'. Privately, he admitted that he preferred the new title much better than the old. At least he made the choice himself to kill the dementors.

But as proud of Harry as she was, and she really was, she couldn't deny that there was a large amount of jealousy within her heart. No matter what she did, she knew that he would always be the more famous one due to his past. It was, of course, a past she couldn't envy. Her parents might have never forgiven her for lying to them about the danger she was in, stripping them of their memories, and forcing them to uproot their lives to Australia, but at least they were still alive. The cold, impersonal Christmas and birthday cards she received were more than Harry would ever get from his parents. She didn't begrudge him his fame. She begrudged him his success.

She was supposed to be the one to make the big splash at the Ministry of Magic after Hogwarts. Why else would she work so hard to make the highest NEWT scores in over a century? It was supposed to be her face gracing the cover of the Ministry's newsletter when they compiled their yearly list of the young officials to watch. Why was she working so hard and sacrificing every bit of her personal life to constantly and consistently be ignored? The only time she ever got any attention at all it was merely as an extension of Harry. She was famous only because of him and if he wasn't around to share the spotlight and glory with her, there was none. Not even Rita Skeeter cared to write articles about the Dementor Destroyer's school friend. Though she knew she was selfish and self-centered, she couldn't seem to help it. Her bitterness only multiplied. No matter how hard she worked, no one cared.

"No, I don't wish I was with Harry. Honestly, it sounds absolutely awful what he's doing. Do you have any idea how cold it is that far north? And then to add in having to actually track down dementors? I'd rather stay home in front of my fireplace with hot tea and a warm blanket."

"Were you born eighty years old, love, or is this just a recent development?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, a childish gesture that at least should dispel any idea she was an old woman. Engaging Blaise in yet another discussion about how pathetic and empty her life was hardly sounded like a good use of time. Hadn't they already beaten that particular subject to death? She knew she worked too much and she was painfully aware that she didn't have much of a social life. Any wizard who showed her any interest seemed to regret it almost immediately. Everyone's expectations of her always seemed to fall painfully short. Blaise was the only person who dared to bring up the truth, a fact that made her despise him just a little bit more.

"Would you like to be with Harry right now, Blaise?"

"No, I wouldn't, but that's where we Slytherins and Gryffindors differ. I'm perfectly content to stay home and not die in the pursuit of worthless glory."

"You don't think it's a noble cause to kill all of the dementors?"

"I never said it wasn't noble. I just think it's unnecessary. If the dementors aren't bothering us, why bother them?"

It was an argument she had already had several times before with Harry. Maybe she wouldn't come right out and admit it, but she tended to be with Blaise on that one. Harry's obsession with the dementors was nothing less than fanatical and concerning. With Voldemort dead and gone for good, he gave in to a different sort of mission. Never forgetting the night he'd almost suffered his own Dementor's Kiss, her best friend wouldn't rest until they were no longer a concern. Hermione thought his passion was better served elsewhere in a less dangerous and impossible cause. They would never see eye to eye on it. In fact, right before he left for his months-long expedition, they had the worst row of their entire friendship. Both of them expressed thoughts they shouldn't have. She hadn't received a single letter from him during his travels nor had she bothered to send one herself. What could she say that wouldn't just further infuriate and alienate the man? She would wait until he gave up on his foolish mission to return home before she attempted to repair the friendship. At least then he would be more likely to be receptive. Until he could see with his own eyes he was wrong, he would be too prideful to offer an apology.

"But I will say that I am a little jealous of the attention he's getting. When he comes back the conquering hero, none of the witches will even want to look in my direction. I might have to take a page out of your sad book and actually spend a few nights alone."

"How tragic. I hope you don't die from the strain."

Blaise laughed, the sound filling up the too-small office. It had been a long three years of them working together. When it was first announced she would have help, she'd been overjoyed. There simply was too much work for one person to do alone no matter how many hours she worked each night. Seeing Blaise Zabini walk in with his handsome, yet infuriating smile, she wanted to curse him right in the face. It was a feeling she experienced at least once a day ever since.

"Can you give me some advice? How does one go months, years at a time without someone in their bed?"

"You're disgusting, Blaise. This is hardly an appropriate conversation to be having at the office."

"I know there are things that you can do to satisfy yourself if necessary, but do you eventually forget what goes where?"

Pulling another file off the top of her stack, Hermione refused to dignify the horrible wizard with an answer. There was enough work to keep them both occupied without the need for personal, deplorable conversation. Recognizing that he was being dismissed, Blaise only laughed again. He could be disgusting and obnoxious. She didn't like to encourage the behavior. Besides, her private life was just that. Private. It was absolutely none of his business who was or was not in her bed.

As she worked, Hermione's mind kept drifting back to the article she'd read that morning over her breakfast. Harry was closing in on his final goal. No one knew how to kill the dementors beyond starving them of all human emotions before he started his extensive research. He learned their weaknesses. Unspeakables couldn't disclose much about their jobs but she got the impression that somewhere deep in the Ministry down of Level Nine in the Department of Mysteries was a locked room with a soul-sucking creature he studied and practiced on. Once when they met for lunch in the Ministry canteen, he'd shown up drenched in sweat and as pale as cream. He wouldn't answer any of her questions. Just shook them off and tried to change the subject. When they both reached for the salt cellar, she felt the coolness of his skin. She didn't press him to speak about what he couldn't, but she knew.

Somehow he figured out how dementors could be killed. He never gave details. Maybe he wasn't allowed. Hermione thought it was insane to make a plan to go out and actively hunt the evil creatures. It sounded too dangerous, too fantastical to be possible. None of that stopped Harry. She had no doubt that he wouldn't return until all of the dementors in the world were dead or he was dead in their place. No one wanted to imagine the very real possibility that the exciting details they read each morning in the Daily Prophet could lead to the Chosen One being killed. They simply clamored for more details, more pictures, more promises. How easy it was to keep the populace happy.

"Do you still have that ambition to become the youngest Minister for Magic before you're forty?"

Blaise couldn't even last ten minutes before he had to be obnoxious again. She wasn't in the mood. Every time mention was made about her future plans, he only laughed and made fun of her. It was exhausting, demoralizing. One night early on in their days working together he invited her out for drinks after work. Though she would've rather stabbed herself in the eye with her wand, she conceded that maybe they would be able to get along better in the office if they knew each other better. It seemed harmless and maybe it would've been if she had limited the number of drinks to one or two. She made the mistake of confiding in him her dearest ambitions and dreams. He didn't laugh at the time. No, he chose instead to wait until she was sober to tease her at random times.

"What do you want, Blaise? I'm trying to work."

"I don't understand the appeal of the top job. Why does everyone want it? Seems like a lot of unnecessary bother. Too much work, not nearly enough money, and can you even imagine the stress that must come with it?"

"I thought all Slytherins desired power and were cunningly ambitious."

"Oh, I have cunning and I'm certainly ambitious, but the power I desire isn't to be the Minister for Magic."

Rarely did he ever discuss his private desires beyond the depraved acts he wanted to commit in the bedroom she had no interest in hearing. One heated snog under the enchanted mistletoe two years earlier after the Ministry Christmas party taught Hermione all she really wanted to know about Blaise's base desires. Sometimes she regretted not taking him up on his offer for one no-strings, obscene night of debauchery. Maybe his reputation was well-earned. She doubted it, but she'd been surprised before.

"What then? Are you considering recruiting a bunch of your own mindless minions, branding their arms, and picking up where Voldemort left off?"

Blaise scoffed.

"Hardly. That sounds like entirely too much work and I really don't have enough hours in the day as it is. World domination and genocide isn't as easy as it looks. There's a great deal of planning that goes into it. Hands must be greased, egos must be petted. I don't know why anyone wants that."

"Then what do you want?"

"Oh, love, I didn't think you cared."

The urge to hex him right in his smiling, perfect mouth was strong. She turned her attention back to the brief she was reviewing. Like he said, there weren't enough hours in the day and she could already feel herself tiring.

"Well, it doesn't matter what I desire, but I do know I wouldn't want to be the Minister. Have you seen Minister Shacklebolt lately?"

"Of course I have. What is that supposed to mean?"

"He looks exhausted and I know it's not because he has some fit, young witch in his bed keeping him up late at night."

Hermione dropped her quill. What right did the odious wizard have to speculate on the love lives of people he hardly knew? Wasn't it bad enough that Witch Weekly had a special section in their magazine describing the Minister's activities that week? Kingsley was one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, but it wasn't for the right reasons. The women who threw themselves at him only wanted to be near him for the power. If he was still just an auror, he wouldn't get half the attention no matter how attractive he was.

"I'm sure the Minister's personal life isn't your concern. Maybe you should worry about your own. I've heard that you never have the same witch in your bed twice. Is it because they discover quickly that there are better places to be?"

Her question only made him laugh. She hated when he dragged her down to his level. It didn't happen often, but when it did, she resented him for days.

"No, I assure you the witches who leave my bed all want a return trip. You had the opportunity to discover that once yourself. Maybe if you're nicer to me, I'll offer it again."

"I'd rather die alone and my body be eaten by cats."

"From what I can see, you're headed in that direction. Just a matter of time."

Wishing to get the topic of conversation off her her private life, she knew she would have to actually engage him further. His remarks didn't exactly hurt her feelings. She didn't respect him enough to value his opinion that much. But, she couldn't deny that sometimes when they took shots at each other, his hit a little too close for comfort. There was a valid reason she tried to keep her head down in her work whenever possible.

"So you wouldn't want to be the Minister because you think the duties of the position would interfere with your robust sex life? That sounds very selfish."

"It's more than that, but yes. I work to live, Hermione. I don't live to work. Personally, if you ask me…"

"No one did."

"…the only reason you have any desire at all to be the Minister for Magic is simply to prove that you can. When are you going to stop trying so hard to prove you deserve to be a witch? Seems to me you did that a long time ago."

Only his perceptive moments of insight could be more frustrating than his sex talk. Sometimes he hit on the truth and the truth could be painful. She didn't want to let her mind travel down those depressing and discouraging paths.

"Or maybe I would like to…"

Whatever false, snappy comeback she had on the tip of her tongue was lost in the sudden loud cheering and yelling from outside their office. Both of them jumped up to see what the commotion was all about. Up and down the Level as the news travelled, they could see smiles and joyful punches to the air. Someone started clapping. Soon they all were, even though Hermione still wasn't sure what was happening.

She saw an ecstatic Kingsley several meters away speaking to both the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the Head Auror. All three wore matching smiles. Kingsley looked up at the perfect moment to meet her gaze. Politely excusing himself, he started in her direction. When he was close enough, he put his large hands around her slim waist and practically tossed her into the ceiling. It wasn't like him to act so unprofessionally at the Ministry, but she couldn't deny that it made her smile too.

"He did it, Hermione. He did it! Harry really is the Dementor Destroyer."

Months of tracking had come down to one moment. A single mistake could unravel all that he and the others on his team worked for. It was imperative that no one even breathe incorrectly. A dementor was dangerous enough all on its own, but to corner the last one knowing that it and its entire species was in danger of extinction? They had to be ready to fight for the death. The dementor wouldn't just give up easily.

"Steady, boys. We know what to do. This is just like all of the others."

Harry's whisper of encouragement buoyed the spirits of his companions. Though he was the one who discovered the method to eradicate the foul beings, he couldn't do it alone. None of the executions were perfect. Some of them were quite dangerous. Grim almost died three weeks earlier in a particularly nasty fight. He'd been with them from the beginning, but no one blamed him for calling it quits. There was a family waiting for him back in England. The others continued on, never once forgetting for a moment they held their own lives in their hand.

"When I say the word, we go."

The three wizards surrounding Harry nodded. After a deep breath, Harry gave the command that could be their end. Moving swiftly, yet surely, the battle began. It was a tough fight. Definitely one that was worthy of the history books. If there were any dementors left to record their own history, they could say without reservation that the last of their kind didn't go quietly without a fight. In the end, the wizards emerged triumphant. The dementors were gone.

In a dark corner of a neglected ward deep in the basement of St. Mungo's, a patient opened his eyes for the first time in over a decade. Barty Crouch Jr. was awake.