Chapter Text
Rescribo: Latin verb - to rewrite something, redo.
"There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you'd better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you'll never understand what it's saying"
Sarah Dessen, Just Listen
Hermione stares with worry clear in her eyes at the book sitting open on the table. A heavy aura always surrounds it and she was quick to understand the book was full of dark spells. When she tried asking Harry where he found it, he just cast her a glance before muttering blandly, "Hogwarts." Hermione remembers quite well how she yelled at him, white with anger, but also with fear – fear of losing him too. "Hogwarts is under his heel, Harry, you can't go back there!," she kept telling him. But he didn't listen.
It's been a while since he stopped listening to her – listening to anything, really. He was some sort of automaton, constantly seeking a way to destroy him – the man who made his life hell. The man who took everything from him – his family, his friends.
Arms crossed against her stomach, she lets out a weary sigh. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is empty and silent. Only the creaking of doors and the cracking of the floor can be heard throughout the shady house – it's been a long time since even the portraits left their frames. It isn't her favourite place, but it's the only safe one from him. And if everything goes according to plan, Hermione and Harry won't be staying there much longer.
She slowly steps forward and sits down in front of the skinny man for whom she worries. She scrutinises him for a long while, eyes lingering on each crease and wrinkle that makes him look older than he really is. His brows are in a constant scowl, giving him an anxious air, and his lips are often twisted in an anguished wince. He doesn't smile anymore, and his once bright green eyes are now dull and empty. Hermione presses a too thin hand over his large one, already about to turn a new page of the book.
"Harry," she says softly, much like a mother would.
He doesn't look up but stops his movement, giving her all his attention. This is something he never refused her since… since. She sucks on her lips, her perpetually red-rimmed eyes searching deep in his for a light – a glimmer or anything, really, proving he was still here, with her.
"Harry," she says again, "you worked enough for today, you need to rest…"
Her voice wavers a bit and she's not sure he'll follow her request. When he sighs and pulls off his glasses to rub his eyes, she almost wants to burst into tears: this is his first real reaction of the day.
"I can't, Hermione, I need to be sure this spell will work, that there won't be any complication, that-"
"Harry, please."
She's exhausted, her shoulders stooping under the weight of the last painful years, making her seem even frailer than she actually is. Harry glances at her before looking away, and Hermione feels anger rise, followed by sorrow and then resignation. She whispers all the same, as usual, "It's not your fault."
And like always, she receives no answer.
They stay in the silence one moment longer before Harry starts to remove his hand, so she tightens her grip and intertwines her fingers with his.
"If you don't rest, you'll be useless. You'll need all your strength to make the spell work," she utters with no sympathy.
He goes stiff and eventually nods. He closes the book with his other hand and stands up in a loud cracking noise coming from his bones, getting a wince form Hermione. She almost feels bad when he stands there, arms dangling, not knowing what to do with himself. He lets her steer him to the living-room, pressing softly her fingers when she makes him lie on the dented couch. His eyes are wide open, staring at the dark ceiling. He always has trouble finding sleep, seeing in the ceiling's shadows the souls of the slain he couldn't save, slithering like snakes in the dark nooks.
Hermione is patient and keeps his hand tight in her, stroking his head with the other until his eyelids flutter shut. She hums wordless songs, head resting on his chest, waiting for his breath to calm down and counting his heartbeats. He's alive, she reassures herself, weak, but alive.
"We'll manage, Harry… We'll manage," she promises him.
He falls asleep, squeezing her hand in his callous fingers.
To be continued…