A cluster of young men, likely university students, stumbled out of a busy pub. Though it wasn't even half past ten, each one of them was well on their way to being completely pissed. Hermione found their loud speech and inappropriate comments about the man who dared to throw them out of his establishment amusing. She found herself envious of them, of their complete ignorance and seeming lack of major responsibilities. What was that like? She had never been able to be completely free and relaxed. In the three years between Augustus foolishly deciding she would be happier with a wizard closer to her own age and when he finally got his head out of his arse, she'd had plenty of opportunities to give in to her baser desires. There had been nights filled with too much alcohol, illicit potions that would've gotten her a sentence in Azkaban if she hadn't possessed a Dark Mark, and more naked debauchery than most women experienced in at least three separate lifetimes. But, there had never been complete freedom. Always in the back of her mind existed the reminder that she could never be entirely at ease. She had to continuously worry about how her actions were perceived. As one of the few female Death Eaters, she could earn a great deal of respect the more depraved, the more licentious, more cruel she was, but a single shed tear or a cautious refusal could mark her as weak. She hated being considered weak above all else.