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Harry steps out of the fireplace only to trip on Hermione's shoes. The air in Grimmauld Place crackles with wrongness, and his stomach curdles with both acid and fear.
Long-honed instincts tell him to keep quiet. He fixes the shoes with a wave of his wand. Then he slowly creeps about. Auror training has taught him to pick up breadcrumbs of information from a glance. Being Hermione's best friend means his radar for wrong is even more sensitive than his usual. Her coat is on the rack but on the wrong hook. There's a lonely sock by the cabinets. The other pair is a foot deeper into the room. And there. Her favourite necklace is on the dining table, the pendant off its chain, the chain broken in two. Two pictures in the locket: Wendell and Monica Wilkins.
Well that definitely solves the problem with the air. Harry sighs. He removes his glasses, rubs his forehead hoping to head off the headache. He moves the coat to the right hook and places the socks in the hamper. The sand clings to his hand even after he sets them down.
Second question: where is Hermione now?
Her bag isn't on the hook. The pans are untouched. The house is quiet like a grave. The grandfather clock chimes eight o-clock. It's Sunday night, so Hermione must have spent all of Sunday morning with the Wilkins - Australian time. Suppose lunch ends at noon there, Hermione probably arrived back home around midnight here.
Harry groans. The answer is too easy: working herself to death.
As quickly as he can, he prepares half a dozen of her favourite sandwiches. He sets a pot to boil for chocolate because knowing her she's only had tea in the last twenty hours. If the sweets make her grimace, he thinks bitterly to himself, then it would serve her right, making him worry like this.
He should have known those Quidditch tickets came with trouble attached. They have been almost joined at the hip for the better part of two years. Of course there was something fishy about that three-day Quidditch exhibition. And doubly so given how hard she insisted that he go without her. How daft could he be to miss all those warning signs? Harry growls. He will never let her convince him to take a long weekend ever again - at least not without making sure he drags her with him too.
When the sandwiches finally finished and the chocolate looked done, he charms the food to follow him. He stops only long enough to fix and grab her necklace before he's stomping up the stairs to where her study should be.
He hears the orchestra of rustling papers from the landing. Nearer still, and he can hear Crookshanks yowl. Good cat. Bug her until she looks up from whatever law she’s trying to pass. Oh how the mighty have fallen, Harry thinks. Hermione Granger - war hero, Order of Merlin, First Class - only a cat away from death by overwork and starvation.
The plate knocks into him as he skids to a stop. "Hermione!" He calls. "I know you're in there! Open up!"
The sounds inside completely stop. There's a heartbeat. Then two. Then three. He's about to bang again when at long last, the door opens just the tiniest bit. It’s Hermione, looking almost as bad as that week right after Voldemort died, and all the anger drains out of him right there and then.
Between the bird’s nest of a hair and the far-away gaze of bloodshot eyes, Harry wants to crawl out of his skin. Anger and fear blaze within him, and it takes all of his control not to succumb to the need to shout at her for being so reckless and stupid. His heart is pounding in his chest. What in hell would she have done if he did not come home today?
"You were supposed to get back tomorrow," she says, voice hoarse. "Is everything alright?"
And boy does he want to shake her just a little until she regains some sense. He makes himself shrug. Much too casual for what he's feeling, but Hermione looks like a light breeze would knock her over. "Nothing except your shoes trying to murder me."
"My shoes?" she echoes, looking bewildered.
"Yes," he bites out. Then he gentles his voice again. What would Hermione do, he asks himself? She would be gentle. If it was him, she would be kind. He could be kind. He can tamp down anger and fear long enough to be kind. "I made you sandwiches. And chocolate."
"Chocolate?"
"Yeah chocolate." Her eyes glaze all the more, and already, he is regretting his little vengeful act. Her parents were dentists - they hated chocolate. But they used to buy it for her anyway because she loved it so much. And now her parents are gone. Damn him. "I can make tea though if that's better?"
She's pulling at her hair, and he itches to still her hand. She did it because it was sharp and it hurt, she told him once. The pain made her mind clearer, and it’s something he shares with her enough that he more than understands. Personally, he prefers flying so fast and hard, it feels like he left his soul (and sorrow) somewhere near the ground. Merlin, what he would not give to just fly her out to some place where she wouldn’t hurt anymore.
But running is not what Hermione would do. And even if she was, he knows for a fact that such safe places do not exist for people like them.
"Hermione?" he asks. Even more gentle now. He follows the tone she uses when she's trying to talk him down. And the gentleness comes springing out from the hollows of his bones. Gentle is what she needs right now. Not anger. His anger can come later when she feels safe enough to come back into herself. "Can I come in? I just used Molly’s recipe. She probably sensed it and will probably finish what Voldemort started."
He wins a twitch of her lips. “No, she isn’t, and of course she won’t. You’re her favourite, and everyone in Britain knows it,” she says, her affection clear even through the hoarseness of her voice.
She opens the door fully, and he sends the goods hurtling in first, before catching her hand and making sure she’s right behind him. He spots Crookshanks loafed up on the desk and a plate of cat food - spots an entire shelf just filled with such. No human food though. He notes that the next room is empty and wonders how bad of an idea it would be to add another kitchen here. With a special door too just for Hermione.
A bit bad maybe, but probably no worse than it already is right now, he thinks. The bones of her wrist feel too fine in his hand, and a part of him fears that a simple twitch would break them. God, he misses Ron. He had always been magic at getting Hermione to eat.
The platter and pot land on her coffee table with a clang. He guides her in, has her sit on the sofa, and then arranges himself behind her. It only takes a moment before Hermione melts into his arms, and the relief he feels is so strong, the world blurs around him as he gets lightheaded. She isn’t too far gone just yet.
“You worry too much you know, Harry?” she whispers. “And those tickets were expensive too. Not to mention ditching Ron and Ginny.”
Harry snorts. “They’ll understand.” He shifts them a little before summoning a sandwich and then proceeds to wait until she’s nibbling on the bread. “Worried too if we’re honest.”
“Once you tell them you mean?” It’s a testament to how bad she’s feeling that she doesn’t even bother to deny it. “Still pretty rude of you, you know?”
Harry shrugs. Rudeness had been the last thing on his mind when his gut told him to run straight home and check. And he is right, they will understand. The Weasleys have seen Hermione at her worst too. “They fuss even worse than I do. You should count yourself lucky I left them at the stadium.”
He settles her more comfortably against him. The ridges of her spine dig deep into his chest, their shapes clear even through his sweater. How she managed to lose five whole pounds in a weekend, he’ll never know, but it wouldn’t be the first time and he doubts it will be the last. The urge to spirit her to St. Mungo’s overwhelms him for a moment. Only the risk of her apparating away on principle (and splinching herself) has him staying put, and even then, it is a deadly close thing.
“Harry, I’m -“
“Don’t say you’re fine,” he says, his tone more biting than he was aiming for. “Or that you’re sorry. They aren’t true.”
She stills in his arms. Anger is a sickly, corrosive thing, and his is worse than most. Harry curses himself with all the terrible words he knows. And he can apologise, sure, but he doesn’t trust his own voice anymore. Instead, he presses her closer to him, hoping to hell she understands the apology in his embrace. Her heartbeat reverberates against his torso, and he relishes the sensation - the proof of life.
He feels her sigh, practically hearing her internal debate in that little gust of air. “I don’t know what to tell you then.”
“That’s alright,” he whispers, and this time his voice is as soft as those marshmallow pillows she loves so much. Thank god.
She snorts. “Really now? And when did you learn to be so patient, Harry Potter?”
“Sometime within the last two years I suppose.” Sometime after the first time her boss called him because she collapsed from exhaustion and there was no one else to call - no family left, Harry remembers him say. Sometime after he found her sat by the window, eyes glazed and unseeing and there was nothing he could do but keep her warm and safe. Sometime after all the nightmares he couldn’t wake her from.
Sometime after he discovered that Hermione never talks about pain, that she’s scary good about hiding hurt, and she’s perfectly fine working herself to death. That she’s much better at taking care of others than she is about caring for herself.
Things she loves to scold him for, he snorts. They are more alike than either of them would like to admit.
“Do you want me to braid your hair?” It’s soothing, she said. He’s good at it too - certainly much better at fixing her hair than at finding the right words to say.
He summons a comb at her nod, starts from the very bottom of her mane just like she taught him. The feel of her hair is soothing now. His hands have memorised the rhythm years ago when braiding was all he could offer her. He feels her sigh with relief, and warmth spreads from deep within his chest to the very tips of his fingers. That was a happy sigh.
A safe sigh.
And something cracks within him - relief blooming from within his chest, softening all the anger and fear. She finishes the sandwich, the hot chocolate disappears, and by the time he finishes her hair, Hermione is fast asleep. He stays still, listening to her bell-like snoring, and it takes a moment before he becomes reasonably sure that shifting now won’t wake her.
He reclines himself until they are both lying down, his head on the pillow, Hermione’s head pillowed on his chest. Now that he is sure she is safe, the anger and worry fade and in its place bubbles stinging hurt. Why didn’t she tell him she was going to meet her parents? Why go through all that trouble to keep him in the dark? Why choose to be alone in the first place?
As he slips out from under her, Harry tucks her in a blanket and leaves the locket on her desk. He cleans up, shuts off the lights before kissing her forehead and whispering good night. As he shuts the door, he wonders at the knot in his chest and wonders which of the anger, worry, and hurt that is eating at his insides.
Maybe all of them, he thinks, as he steals one more glance at the sleeping Hermione. He will get his answers when tomorrow comes. He will make sure of it.
For now, he lets her sleep, the memory of her heartbeat carrying him through the night.