It had been three years. Three lonely, guilt-ridden, awful years since he had left. No one had heard from him, no one had seen him, no one had talked to him.
Three years.
Three years is really a long time when you think about it. And she had—she thought about him every day. One thousand, ninety-two days.
Of course, it wasn't three years yet. It was three days, two hours, and five minutes short of three years.
One thousand ninety-two days had passed, and she still hadn't forgotten the faint smell of his aftershave—it seemed to linger in the house, on his pillow, everywhere. It drove her crazy, yet at the same time it comforted her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine he was there beside her, lying next to her. Almost.
Twenty-six thousand two-hundred and two hours had passed since she last saw him, and she couldn't forget his emerald eyes that seemed to appear everywhere—in the dark green sheets, in the light green tiles of the warm kitchen, in the bright green pillows that adorned the couches. They were everywhere, but especially in three little children—his three little children. When she looked at them, she could almost see him standing there, looking back at her through those brilliant green eyes. Almost.
One million, five hundred seventy-two thousand, three hundred and fifty five minutes had passed since she had heard his voice, and she wouldn't forget the times she had shared with him. Pictures with worn edges were scattered like leaves around the house, leaving little trails of memories for her to follow. Every photo held a different memory, a different second captured in time. She knew her children loved these pictures; they were some of the only things that connected the children to their father. Watching the pictures move she could almost believe that he was here, in their house, alive and well. Almost.
Many times she would wander the house, lost in her own thoughts. She would forget sometimes that he wasn't coming home and prepare dinner for five instead of four. Even three years later, she would still leave the light on for him, in case he had to work late like he usually did.
Tonight, however, her heart, which had been beaten and bruised over these years, broke. She collapsed onto their (--no, her--) bed and let the tears that had been held back finally flow free. It was getting harder and harder to convince herself that he would show up one night, and everything would be fine.
The children were at the 'aunt's' house, so she didn't bother to make dinner. She just lay on her bed, staring blankly into the darkness, the moisture never quite leaving her eyes. She could remember the last time she saw him like it was yesterday.
It was a cloudy day, which actually seemed rather fitting...
"Arg—I can't believe this horrible weather! Just bloody perfect, isn't it?" Ron asked, scowling at anyone who came into his view. "To think, we have to investigate that damn house on a day like this—it just seems to fit, doesn't it?"
"Ronald, watch your language," Ginny scolded, sounding so much like their mum that Ron's eyes widened slightly.
"Gin—I didn't know mum had possessed you," he teased, earning a snicker from Fred and George and a scowl from Ginny.
"I'm just letting you know that there are children present," she said.
"Aw, Gin, Fred and George don't mind," Ron said, grinning at her. Hermione couldn't help but grin at Fred and George, who were both staggering as if they'd been dealt a great blow.
"Oh, Ronnikens, you wound us so," Fred said dramatically, clutching at his heart. George just sunk to his knees and sighed.
"We shall never be whole again," he said, sighing again.
The actual children present giggled with glee as they watched their 'uncles' stagger around the room. Hermione walked over to where her precious children were, scooping up one in each arm. Angela and Annie both had their mother's chestnut brown hair, but their father's beautiful green eyes. The girls were two and a half years old, and a huge handful...
He had come into the room looking every bit as handsome as the day they had married. He'd woken up early to spend some time with their oldest daughter, who was quite upset that her father had to work again. She was fond of reading with him, and, if left alone, the two could spend hours reading together. It was quite ironic that he would be the one to read with her when her mother was the bookworm in school...
Hermione smiled as Harry entered the room with their eldest daughter Breanne in his arms. Bree was four and a half, almost ready to turn five. She'd been born around New Year's, and today was December 24th, about a week before Bree's birthday.
"Why are Fred and George on the floor moaning in agony?" he questioned, eyes sparkling with humor.
"Because they're prats," Ginny answered shortly.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Someone's cranky," he teased. "Must be the baby, huh?"
Ginny's expression softened at the mention of her baby. "Yeah, it's been kicking me all morning," she admitted.
Harry chuckled and went over to his wife, who had two precious girls sitting in her lap with her. They were trying to 'braid' each other's hair, but all he could see was a big mess. He bent down and kissed his wife on the lips softly, and then said, "You look overwhelmed today, Mione."
"I'm tired," she said, "of the holidays. Whoever said that it was the most wonderful time of the year was crazy! I have so much to do today—have you found the girls' p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s yet?" she spelled, for the twins went slightly crazy when they heard the word 'presents'.
"Mum, I know how to spell," her eldest daughter said, rolling her eyes at her mother.
Harry chuckled when Hermione just sighed. "You should be proud," he said. "She's obviously inherited your brains, not mine," he joked.
She smiled, but changed the subject. "When should I plan for dinner tonight?" she asked.
He looked at her guiltily. "Er, actually, probably not until tomorrow night," he said sadly. "We don't get Christmas Eve off—according to John Death Eaters don't sleep, eat, or celebrate Christmas, so neither do we. He put us in charge of investigating the old Riddle house, and we probably won't be back until sometime tomorrow."
Hermione's face fell. "Oh—I didn't realize you guys would have to work on Christmas. But you'll be home in time for supper?"
"You can count on it," he said, kissing her forehead...
And count on it she did. She counted minutes, hours, eventually days. The boys hadn't come back until three days later, all looking like they'd just seen their best friend die. Hermione was at Ginny's with the kids, waiting anxiously with Christina and Alicia for their husbands to return. The looks on the normally tough men's faces had told her what she had feared. Harry was gone...
They were all sitting in the great room, the fire roaring in the fireplace. The children were unnaturally quiet, as if they knew something was going on. Bree was especially quiet, refusing to read any books her mother gave to her to distract her mind.
There was a noise in the other room, and Ginny looked up, almost afraid of what she'd see. Ron stumbled in, and Christina immediately shot up and went over to her husband.
"Ron, are you ok? Oh, I was so worried about you!" she said, tears of relief streaming down her face. Behind him Fred and George walked in, looking no better for the wear than Ron. Alicia too leapt up to see if Fred was alright. Ginny walked over to George to walk him to the couch, and gave a sigh of relief when she saw Matthew, her husband, walk through the door.
Hermione waited for Harry to walk through the door as well, but seconds turned into minutes, and she wondered where he was. Looking over at Ron's face, she started to panic. Surely Ron would have come with Harry, right?
Ron looked over at her, and when her eyes met his she immediately knew something was wrong. He had no life in his eyes, and his whole demeanor looked defeated. There was moisture in his eyes, and they were red and puffy. He'd been crying, which was something she'd never seen.
"What?" she barely choked out. She cleared her throat. "What? Where...where is he?" she said, shakily. Ron closed his eyes, and tears finally escaped his eyes.
"He's...he's...he's gone," he finally said, and with those three words she sunk into the couch, tears forming in her eyes. She remembered hazily scooping up her eldest daughter, who was sobbing, and staring blankly at the fireplace, not believing that she'd never look on his face again.
The house had been the secret headquarters for the Death Eaters. To all outward appearances, even to wizards, the house had seemed abandoned. If they hadn't run a magic search, they would have left the crumbling house alone. Because there were traces of heavy, dark magic being used in the house however, they were ordered to check it out.
Harry had been the last one in, and had walked in to find several members of his team dead, and all the others stunned or badly injured. He heard a very familiar chuckle, and his blood boiled. Lucius Malfoy.
"Ah, so we meet again, Mr. Potter. Thought you could defeat the great Dark Lord, did you?" His eyes narrowed into slits, much like his former master's. After Harry's defeat of Voldemort five years ago, the Death Eaters had all regrouped at Malfoy's house. The war hadn't really ended because Lucius had stepped up and taken charge. True, he wasn't as brutal as Voldemort, nor as powerful, but he was perhaps more intelligent than Voldemort had been.
"As you can see, nothing great can truly be defeated," he said, smiling cruelly. "Just look around the room, and you'll see several of the best Aurors, dead or stunned at my Death Eaters' hands. You don't stand a chance, Potter."
Harry's eyes narrowed as he realized that his whole team had been defeated so easily. It was almost as if the Death Eaters had expected the team of Aurors to show up. With his wand already out, Harry took two slow steps away from Malfoy, considering his options. He was surrounded by at least thirty Death Eaters, all who had their wands out. His thoughts went out to his family right before Malfoy, with cool, calculating grin, sent a dark green light towards Harry.
Ron had awoken to find himself inside a muggle house that was on fire. He quickly looked around for the others, and enervated them. He saw about half the team lying around him, stunned. The other half were missing. Luckily, Fred, George and Matthew were all fine. He panicked when he realized he couldn't find Harry.
"Ron come on, we have to get out of this house—it's going to collapse!" Fred said, trying to drag Ron out of the house.
"I can't leave without Harry!" he said desperately, looking around wildly. "I can't find him!"
"Well, he's not in the house, Ron. We've searched. We have to go!"
Ron grudgingly ran out of the house with his brother, minutes before the house collapsed in flames...
Days had passed, turning into weeks, which turned into months and the whole wizarding world looked for Harry. Unfortunately, they hadn't the luxury to spend resources towards finding their savior, as they were in a middle of a long-going war, and eventually they labeled him MIA. Because no body had been found they couldn't officially label him dead.
Hermione was having the hardest time. With her husband gone, her family had fallen apart. She tried to pull herself together for her children, but she knew her eldest daughter saw right through her pitiful disguise. Bree, now almost eight, had refused to read since that fateful day. Hermione couldn't get her to go anywhere near a book, no matter how hard she tried.
Bree had grown to resent Christmas as well as her birthday, which lay just a week after. Her father had disappeared on Christmas.
The twins spent lots of time alone, though their mischievous natures hadn't changed. Both were now five and a half. They both had memories of their father, which were reinforced by all of the pictures lying around the house.
People were constantly at the house, helping out and keeping Hermione company. They said they were there to play with the kids, but she knew they were there to keep her from thinking about Harry—and she appreciated it. When she was alone, all of the memories came back to her—happy ones, of Bree's first Christmas; sad ones, of the loss of the first family pet, Roger (Roger was a rabbit that was shocked when he nibbled on the Christmas tree lights); even angry ones, when she and Harry had fought for a week about what his job was going to be. Three years had not made these memories any easier to deal with, and she was grateful that her friends kept her mind off of them...
It was Christmas Day, the forth Christmas with no Harry. It was a dismal day at the Potter household—no one sang carols, no one baked gingerbread, no one played in the snow. The twins sat quietly with their presents, and Bree hadn't even opened half of hers. She kept looking out the window; looking for what, Hermione didn't know. Two years ago on Christmas, Bree had seen a cloaked man out the window, and rushed outside calling, "Papa! Papa, you're back!" It had broken Hermione's heart seeing her rush out toward the man, only to come back sobbing when she found the man was not her father. Hermione had held her for hours before she had even stopped crying...
"Ron! I have a lead! One of our inside sources say that they spotted a prisoner that meets that very description. According to Red, the man's half dead." The man paused to listen to the other man speak, and the piped up again.
"No, they don't think it's him—only because they can't find reason why Malfoy would keep him alive—but he does match the description."
Yelling on the other end made the man hold the phone away from his ear. He could still make out, "—why...bloody hell...tell me you found him if—" He put the phone back to his ear, and tried to pacify his boss.
"Well, it doesn't matter anyway—the prisoner's gone from his cell. Red thinks they must have finally killed the poor bastard. You told us to report all signs, and this one sort of fit..."
If anything, this irated his boss even further, and leaving the phone beside the holder, he went to make himself a sandwich. Ever since Harry Potter had disappeared, his boss Ron Weasley had ordered his team to search for anything that could lead to the discovery of Harry (or his body). This lead had been the closest they'd had, but before they could check on it the prisoner had disappeared.
Hermione sat by the window with her eldest daughter, both staring out into the snow. It had just started blowing around a bit, and it looked like a scene from a snow globe that's just been shaken up. A man walked by with his dog, hurrying to get inside before the heavy stuff started to come down. A couple walked by much slower, just enjoying the snow and each other's company. This brought tears to Hermione's eyes—that was the kind of thing she and Harry used to do. He would wake her up early in the morning on the day of the first snow, just like a little kid. Somehow, he always convinced her to get dressed and join him for a walk around their neighborhood, just the two of them, hot chocolate in their hands.
Hermione held back a sob, and turned away from the window. She heard Bree gasp, and mutter, "Papa!"
Her heart broke further-'Not again' she thought. 'I can't take this anymore!'
"Bree, honey, it can't be. Remember what happened two years ago? You thought that man was--Breanne, where are you going?"
Bree, ignoring her mother's protests, rushed outside, not even bothering to grab her cloak. Hermione finally let a sob out, and sat in the window with helpless tears running down her face. She couldn't see her daughter from this window; she'd have to go downstairs to get her. Grabbing a cloak, she opened the door to see a man staggering up the steps with her daughter in his arms.
Hermione went pale—any color from the cold was immediately lost. Her daughter's words were lost; her head was ringing.
"Mama! Mama! Papa's back, Mama!" Bree cried, hugging the man as tight as she could. "Mama! It's Papa!"
Hermione let out a sob as she saw the man's face—it was battered and bruised, and the dark green eyes she'd fallen in love with were dead.
As she met his eyes, a tiny spark flared in the depths of those dark emeralds, and she knew that Harry had finally come home—just in time for Christmas.
AN: This kind of just hit me in bed one night, and wouldn't leave alone until I wrote it down. Hope you enjoy! Let me know about things you don't understand—I'll fix it.