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It was the stack of newspapers shoved against the front door. It was the stove, cold and forgotten. It was the creaks of the old house. It was the unused Floo powder, sitting in jars on the mantle. It was the Owls that took off every day and never returned with replies.
One week without him, and you were ruined.
Two weeks without him, and you were little more than a ghost.
Three weeks without him, and you stopped believing that he'd come home.
He'd left for you. And now he was never coming back.
You didn't know what day it was when the door finally burst open. You leapt out of bed, bleary eyed from hours and days and weeks of restless sleep, of dwindling hope, of longing to be in his arms.
He made it to you before you even got to the stairs.
He stopped right in front of you and stared. You stared right back.
He smelled like blood, and you breathed it in, because he was alive. He was covered in dirt and cuts, and you couldn't even begin to comprehend where he'd been. What they'd forced him to do.
He raised a muddy hand and slowly, softly cupped your jaw. "Darling," he said, voice sounding like it hadn't been used in years. "I've missed you."
"Is it done?" you asked, reaching a hand out to touch his chest. To feel his heartbeat.
"It's done."
You pulled him against you, embracing him with all that you had. His arms were strong, holding you to his chest, and you felt a tear trail its way down your cheek.
And then, it was hot water. It was streaks of soap against a lover. It was you're safe now, it was they won't come for you anymore. It was smooth sheets against scarred skin. It was comfort. It was safety.
He was home.