Hermione was usually a very punctual woman, never one to be hours early or minutes late. She gets up at exactly seven in the morning to have a cup of coffee, reading that day's paper, before she goes on to make breakfast for her husband at 8:15. At 9, she would go into their bedroom and gently shake her husband awake, calling his name a couple of times. At 9:10, she gets showered and dressed for work, always in her short pencil skirt-and-blazer combination (unless it was casual Fridays). At 10, she kisses her still groggy husband on the cheek and tells him she loves him. Depending on the day and his mood, there are times when he would return her words and affection before letting her go to work, and then there are times when he'd wrap his arm around her waist and simply lean his head against her, taking comfort in her warmth.
This was their routine and it always has been since they started living together at the respectful age of 25; both earning their own wages and more. But that was three years ago, and now, at 9:30 in the morning, Hermione Granger sits at the dining table with her mug of coffee, cold and forgotten cradled in her hands. She's waiting for the sound of a car's wheels crunching the gravel underneath it, for the sound of a door opening and closing and, hopefully, light, joyous footsteps that are excited and happy to be home again after being so long and far from it.
She glances once more at the clock. 9:32, it reads, the seconds ticking by loudly and mockingly - a steady beat of moments wasting away to more lost hope.
But, finally, at 9:36, she hears the tell-tale signs of a car stopping in front of their home, the brakes whining softly from a distance. Her heart beats faster than the tick-tock of the clock and she places the mug down on the table with shaky hands. She swallows thickly and stands slowly, the scrape of the chair's legs against the floor a cacophonic accompaniment to the sound of heavy and regretful steps making their way up to their porch.
She takes a wavering breath, making her way to the front door, holding back tears forming in her eyes. She doesn't know yet, perhaps there's still much hope to be had. Maybe he just wanted to surprise her, scare her a little. She wouldn't put it past him to do such things, despite the bruises and tears he would no doubt be covered with for putting her through that kind of heartache.
The doorbell rings - a loud and echoing chime of bells that rings through her head. She curls her fingers into her palm, letting the scrape of her blunt nails against her palm keep her grounded. Her other hand pulls the door open.
A strange sound cuts off her breathing for a few moments, fingers trembling against the doorknob, and her eyes glaze over. For a few short moments, she can imagine how he looks standing there with his silly lopsided grin and messy thatch of hair peeking out from under his beret; eyes even greener when the setting sun hits them just so.
Her vision clears when the tears roll down her cheeks, and instead of the clear faced brunette standing in front of her with his silly grin and heartfelt apologies, a freckled ginger stands there, holding an envelope with her name scrawled on the back. He stretches his hand out to her with a sombre expression, eyes not completely meeting her own and muscles just a bit too tense for it to be any good news.
She takes the letter from him and holds it tightly in her hand, biting down on her lip in an attempt to stop its wavering. She doesn't read it. She doesn't need to. What comfort could a few short words from men she did not know give her?
"I truly am... sorry. He was a good friend and soldier," the man murmurs in a low baritone that spoke volumes that could almost mirror her pain. She only nods in response to him and as soon as he turns his back to her, leaving to, no doubt, send more news of fallen loved ones, she closes the door and leans against it.
She takes a deep breath and on the exhale, instead of the firm breath she was expecting to come out, a sob breaks through, and then another. Tears continue to leave streaks of memories and what-could-have-been's along her cheeks. She clutches the envelope to her chest, hoping to quell that painful thud of her heart against her ribcage.
At 10, her heart refuses to beat a steady tick-tock of life into her blood stream. Instead, it's an off-rhythm 'come back Harry come back' that echoes inside of her, desperate to keep her alive.