Now I'm low
I'm looking out
I'm looking in
Way down, the lights are dimmer
Now I'm low
I'm looking out
I'm looking in
Way down, the lights are dimmer
Come on, come on
Put your hands into the fire
Come on, come on
Thirteen Senses: Into the Fire
"Harry!" Hermione's voice was shrill, frantic as she dashed towards him, a blur of bushy chestnut hair and escaping paperwork. Unfolding himself from the fireplace as the after-effects of flooing washed over him in a dizzy headache, he winced at the high-pitched shriek. Smiling warily, he pushed his hand through his hair nervously. The young woman flew at him, punching his arms and chest angrily, before sobbing, to fall into those same arms.
"Where were you? We've been looking for you for… well. Years!" She pulled away from him, her face a confusing expression somewhere halfway between glad and furious. Harry laughed nervously, again reaching up to tousle his wild nest of hair.
"I've been on a holiday? A… really… long one…" He trailed off, feeling the guilt creeping up to his face. Hermione was a sharp witch; she would figure him out in less than an hour. Less than a minute, even. Instead of screaming at him though, he watched her as her body sagged, falling into the chair beside her almost wearily.
"Harry…" Her voice was small, distant as she curled a strand of hair around her finger, causing it to bounce back into her hair as she released it. Looking up at him, it looked like she was searching for something, before she looked away once more.
The handle to the young Weasleys' kitchen door suddenly began to clatter slightly, and Hermione stood up wildly, her eyes wide and worried. Grabbing Harry by his sleeve, she pulled him hurriedly to their pantry, shoving him inside roughly, ignoring his noise of protest as she slammed the door shut behind her. He could hear her outside the door, leaning against it as his old best friend stepped into the room, ducking his head under the low beam.
Harry heard Ron sigh, throwing something heavy on the floor, before turning to Hermione and rushing towards her, embracing her in what Harry heard to be a somewhat bone-crushing embrace.
"Merlin, you wouldn't believe the day I've had! Damn Fliskett's been practically tearing the offices apart today, trying to find evidence for this stupid Lancaster case. I swear, the job I've had to keep him out of my filing cabinets was enough to make a sane man go cra- 'Mione, are you alright?" Harry repressed a snort inside the pantry; trust his best friend to still have the observation skills of a blind teaspoon.
"I'm fine Ronald! Honestly, such a worrier." Scraping noises sounded as Ron pulled up a chair, and, as Harry pictured through the solid oak door, folded his lanky self into it.
"Really?" Harry imagined a raised eyebrow, a skeptical smile that he remembered fondly from his younger days, "Then why did you just call me Ronald? Been years, Hermione." He chuckled as she grumbled under her breath, annoyed at the slip up. Sighing, she edged closer to the pantry door, and Harry could hear as she leaned against the wood, holding a steady hand on the door handle. Subtle.
"Ron, I need you to promise me you aren't going to get angry." Harry clenched his teeth, backing away into the pantry; he felt his back pressing against shelves piled high with food. Far more food than he'd ever seen in Draco's fridge.
He heard as Ron stood up suddenly, edging towards his wife, the air tangible with Ron's suspicion. Harry supposed, as an Auror, the suspiciousness was a default setting nowadays.
"Why would I get angry, 'Mione?" His voice was thick with worry, and a slow, silent anger that seemed to seethe through the panels of wood between him and the Auror.
"Just promise, please Ron!" Hermione's voice was desperate; a pleading concern that made Harry paused as he reached to take hold of his wand. Thinking better of it, he replaced the slender stick back in his back pocket, bracing himself for an argument.
The door opened.
Silence. Harry opened his eyes warily, eyeing his best friend in the flesh for the first time in years. Ron Weasley had grown another few inches, something that Harry didn't even think possible. The gangling teen had filled out into a more muscular, adult version of himself, with red hair medium in length and neat, robes clean and fitted. His expression, however, had not changed a bit.
Bemused, eyes wide, and mouth slack jawed, the second youngest Weasley stepped forward, stretching a hand to Harry's shoulder as if to check he wasn't an apparition. Harry grinned, shrugging his shoulders, before being knocked back into the shelves as a very large, very heavy fist slammed into his nose violently, blood spraying all over Harry's jumper as he felt his nose break (again).
"What the hell was that for?!" He angrily stepped forward, clutching at his bleeding nose as he groped for his wand. Muttering a healing spell thickly, he felt his broken bones knit back into place, the heat of the spell wholly unpleasant. Glaring at the taller man, the tension between them thick enough to feel almost solid, he sidestepped back into the kitchen to keep distance between himself and Ron.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Ron snarled at him. Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder, glaring up at him to calm down.
"It's a long story." Harry looked at the ground, wringing his hands as he groped around for an explanation that would satisfy the pair. As he lands on something half decent, he opens his mouth, only to be stifled by a sudden rush of bodies pressing themselves against him.
"You absolute twat!" Ron's voice is muffled against his shoulder as he clutches Harry close to him, joining hands with Hermione as she mirrors his movement. Struggling to breathe, Harry croaks back an apology, before being released suddenly to fall into a chair.
"So, you two suddenly got soppier." He grinned, and a ghost of a smile flashes across Hermione's face. As she took a seat opposite him, Ron moved to turn the kettle on, clattering three matching mugs on the worktop. Their kitchen is warm, with cheerful décor that reminds Harry of a somewhat tidier Burrow. A television stands in one corner, surrounded by puffy chairs and a stack of both magic and Muggle magazines. No doubt Hermione's charmed that to work with magic, Harry thinks, smiling at his friend's intelligence.
"Harry, where on earth have you been?" She looked at him, her expression almost daring him to lie. Sighing, he began to tell them everything, accepting the cup of Earl Grey from Ron gratefully as he started to speak.
Draco slammed the cupboard door furiously, watching as the whole unit shook under his vehement violence. Shooting one more glare at the cupboard, he turned away, gripping his coffee cup in one hand, and a bottle of Ogden's finest in the other. Staring at the kettle, he shook his head, deciding to bypass the coffee altogether. Pouring a somewhat unhealthy amount of Ogden's into the cracked mug, he gulped down the spicy liquid, before banishing away the disgusting mug with an angry jab of his wand.
Still shaking from head to toe, he grabbed a book from the side, intending to read it. Instead, he took one look at the awful cover, before banishing that also. Falling back against the settee, hands over his eyes, he felt the beginnings of a blackness creeping to his mind. His flat felt… empty. Devoid of a presence that he had become so used to, so reliant on.
"Fine, you want empty, Draco?" Talking to himself, he stood up from the settee, seizing his wand and slicing it towards the nearest armchair. Disappearing with a crack similar to that of apparating, he felt a flash of emotion run through him, electrifying him as he rounded on a coffee table, vanishing it with an equally loud 'crack!'.
The pattern continues until he is alone, staring blankly at the empty flat around him. Feeling calm at last, he slowly lowered himself down on to the only piece of furniture remaining; a small, ridiculous looking pouffe, and sighed.
"Fuck you Potter."
