There was a consuming coldness that had yet to leave her since Draco's abrupt departure two days ago. It lingered within the center of her chest, ebbing its way into her soul as it invaded her bones. Consuming. Overwhelming. Like a bruise in the middle of her body that ached worse with each coming day. She couldn't explain why his disappearance was so devastating. Was it her history with people leaving? Or perhaps something more? Either way, she couldn't bother to try to figure out the root cause of this pain. Not when she needed to force a smile on her face for the benefit of her companion.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Harry's voice carried from the closet and into the bedroom where she sat in the middle of his king size bed. "I can tell Aurora I'm ill or something."

Hermione's arms wrapped tighter around her thighs, her fingers curling around her painted toes. "No, it's okay. You should go," she replied, chewing on her bottom lip. They had just arrived at Grimmauld Place that morning. There was no need for them to stay at the cottage anymore, and while the idea of returning to London should have been welcoming, it frightened her. Harry had suggested she stay with him—at least temporarily—although he'd given no timeframe in which she should leave. He had said he didn't want her to be alone.

It was obvious, even if he didn't dare utter the words. She wasn't ready to be alone. He didn't trust her. Truth be told, she didn't trust herself. Which is partially why the idea of spending her first evening in Grimmauld Place alone was utterly terrifying. But she needed to try, right? Harry had already disappeared for nearly three months from the Wizarding World. She couldn't expect him to dedicate much more of his life solely to her recovery.

Kingsley had requested he show up to a cabinet meeting with the Wiltshire Coven, as the meeting topic was far from friendly, but according to Kingsley, Harry "had a way of bringing levity into a difficult discussion." Aurora was more than keen to get Harry back to work and insisted he go to the meeting via their phone call earlier in the morning. To his credit, Harry had asked—more than once—if it was okay he attend. He offered to cancel, but she couldn't ask that of him. Not when he'd given up so much already.

Walking out of the closet, his fingers fumbled with the collar to his crisp grey oxford, attempting to straighten it into submission. "I don't feel right leaving though. It's your first night here. I should be here." Emerald eyes swam with hesitation as he peered across the room at her.

Uncurling her arms from around her legs, Hermione kneed her way to the edge of the bed before gesturing for Harry to come closer. The soft cotton shorts she wore hung low on her hips, the material brushing softly against her thighs as she moved. "I'll be fine. Besides, it's not like you'll be gone all night, right?" she questioned.

Harry's hands found her waist as he moved to the edge of the bed, his fingers slipping underneath her shirt to brush across the skin on her hips and lower back. "Just a couple hours," he confirmed. "But—"

Hermione adjusted his collar before smoothing her hands across his chest, letting the warmth radiating from his skin provide temporary relief to the freezing cold of her pain. "But nothing," she interrupted. "I'll be okay."

His fingers swept across her skin and up her spine before his palm splayed between her shoulder blades. "Okay," he whispered, resigning himself to trust her. He pulled her close until her breasts pressed against his chest, their faces centimetres apart. "I'm so proud of you."

"For what?" Brown eyes locked on his emerald as guilt sunk like a rock in the pit of her stomach. He was… proud. Proud of what? She had done nothing to earn his praise. She was sober, but only because of Draco's efforts. And truth be told, if presented any form of her vice right now, she would indulged in their sweet release without hesitation. Her world felt shattered, a million tiny pieces, and she was hanging onto the shards no matter how deeply they cut into her skin.

"Your sobriety… Hermione, you have come a long way in such a short amount of time. I… I'm just proud," he explained, not allowing her a chance to respond before he leaned in to brush his lips across hers.

The magic inside her ignited as she felt his magic caress hers, stirring the emotions inside her into a flurry of confusion. What she had with Harry felt so right. His kiss, his touch. He could make her body sing with just the brush of his fingertips, but the moment he pulled away, the weight that had built up over the past couple days compressed her chest, pressing until it felt like she couldn't breathe. How was she supposed to function when she would shift from this endless bliss of his comfort to a consuming emptiness? Because try as she might to quiet it, the repetitive mantra that had developed over the past couple years whispered in the back of her mind, tormenting her. She was broken. She was filthy. She was worthless. It was only a matter of time before he left her, and she was going to be alone once more. Alone forever.

Her hands slid across his chest and over his shoulders to the base of his neck. She carded her fingers through his hair as their kiss deepened, ruining any semblance of order he'd tamed it into post-shower. When his tongue slide across the seam in her lips, asking for permission to delve inside her mouth, a shiver ran down her spine, making all of the tiny hairs on her arms stand. She needed this. She wanted this. His touch. His kiss. His love.

Harry pressed her body into his until all she could feel was the warmth radiating from his body into hers. He wound his arms tighter around her petite frame, compressing her lungs in the most delicious way possible. Her knees brushed against the quilt, her body easily plucked off the mattress, and she found the urge to wrap her legs around his waist and tell him to forget the meeting, that she needed him here instead. Soothing her wounds with his face buried between her thighs.

"Harry," Hermione whispered against his lips, her hands sliding through his untidy locks. "You're going to be late," she sighed against his mouth.

Harry hummed in agreement but obviously didn't care, as his hand on her spine snaked down the back of her cotton shorts and he palmed her arse, kneading the soft flesh.

Breaking their kiss, Hermione's head tipped to the side, a soft whimper in approval escaping her lips as she brushed them across the shell of his ear. She could feel his cock stir to life against her belly, rapidly hardening beneath his crisp navy trousers. "Harry… we can't."

"We… can." He murmured against the skin on her neck between open-mouthed kisses.

Her hands moved from his hair back to his chest, where she pressed gently on him until he relented with a heavy sigh and stepped back. Her body hummed with magic, a mixture of his own and her own, weaving together inside her, causing her skin to erupt in a soft pink blush. "Go… before I change my mind."

The corner of his lips pulled in that lopsided smile that made her thighs press together, a mischievous glint in his eye that at one point in time would signal trouble at school but now made her heart beat wildly. "But what if I want—"

"Harry!"

"Okay, okay!" he relented, laughing as he took two steps back from the bed, his hands raised in surrender. "I'm going." Turning around, he picked up his cufflinks from a small glass dish atop the dresser, threading them through his sleeves before he pulled his business robes from the hook on the back of his bedroom door and shrugged into the garment.

Hermione sunk down to the mattress, resting on her haunches as she watched him adjust the clasp at the centre of his chest with ease, as if he'd doned this outfit several times before. Which was likely the case, but she found it almost funny thinking back to the first time he wore dress robes. How awkward and uncomfortable both he and Ron looked and now? Well, now he looked handsome. Striking. His dark features were a sharp contrast to the grey oxford, and the navy trousers and business robes seemed to highlight the green in his eyes in a way that some might deem sinful. He'd grown from the gangly boy she had known and loved during her childhood into a man. Strong. Powerful despite no longer having to fight for his life, it was obvious he took care of himself—although likely it was part of the contract requirements. Physically fit men tended to sell more issues of Witch Weekly than those who didn't pay attention to their physical health.

"I won't be long," he promised, adjusting his robes as he studied himself in the free-standing easel mirror that stood beside his bedroom door. Looking over his shoulder towards her, his lips lifted in the smallest hint of a smile before he crossed the room towards her once more. His hand cupped over her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly as he pressed a kiss on the top of her head. "The house is yours too, Hermione. You don't have to hide in here. Explore. Redecorate if you want; I don't care. Make it home," he encouraged before tipping her chin up. His lips brushed over hers, ghosting promises of what was to come once he came home across the supple pink flesh.

She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into his touch. "Hurry back," she whispered, fingers curling against the plush comforter. With a soft chuckle, Harry pulled away from her, ending with a chaste kiss against her cheek and a promise of his hasty return before he left.

The door was left open, inviting her to explore the remodeled ancestral Black home, begging her to gather her courage and crawl off the springy mattress in Harry's room, but as the sound of the Floo rushing closed downstairs echoed up the stairwell, the creeping cold insecurities immediately extinguished the burning embers that Harry's touch had just ignited.

She was alone. She was empty. She was broken.


It took her nearly two hours, but she made it out of the room. The quiet of the house provided an unnerving soundtrack, making every step echo loudly down the stark white halls. Grimmauld Place had been far from inviting during her previous stay. The dark tones that formerly draped the house made it feel broody and hostile. But this modern facelift was worse. There was not an ounce of the old décor left on the walls. No tapestries. Not even a hint that Kreacher used to reside within these walls. Instead everything felt almost clinical. Clean. Sterile.

She had foraged for food in the basement kitchen, opting for an apple, a couple slices of cheese and some crisps. They had barely arrived at Grimmauld Place before Harry had to get ready for his meeting, which left no time for grocery shopping. Coupled with the fact that she had zero money to her name, meant her options were limited.

After washing and drying her plate, Hermione moved back to the first floor and began her exploration. She decided to start in his study, but mainly because it was the closest door to where she stood in the hall. Opening the door, she walked around his office, picking up the occasional knickknack or picture to inspect it as she moved around the room.

Though his hallway held no evidence of their friendship, in his office she'd found an old photo tucked into a tattered picture frame. It was from the summer before their fourth year. Before the Triwizard Tournament. Before Ron's insecurity. Before Voldemort's return. Before Cedric's murder. She stood sandwiched between her friends. Their smiling faces beamed up at the camera in front of the Burrow. The night before they would leave for the Quidditch Cup. They looked happy. Whole. Youthful.

Her fingertips brushed across the glass covering the aged photo, across their smiling faces. What she would do to return to a time like that. When life was simple. Easy. When she didn't feel overwhelmed by the idea of just existing. A time when Harry and Ron didn't leave her. A time when life felt decidedly less—less empty. Less painful. Just less. Returning the frame to its spot, Hermione left the snapshot of a better time behind and exited the room, closing the door behind her with a soft snap in her retreat.

She moved from room to room, examining the cold décor, surveying the place that she would call home for an unknown length of time until Harry decided she wasn't worth saving. She made sure to leave each room undisturbed, careful to leave no trace of her examination.

By the time she'd made her way to the third floor, it had been nearly two hours since Harry had left. She half expected the sound of the Floo to rush up the stairwell to her at any moment. She figured she ought to stop and wait for Harry in the sitting room, but she also thought she might as well complete her exploration with one final door.

Pushing open the painted door, she was surprised to find a room brimming with clutter. Reminiscent of the Room of Requirement, it appeared that during the remodel of Grimmauld Place, it had come to house the artifacts from long ago. Like stepping back in time, she walked into the cluttered room, weaving through the piles of antiques. The room smelt exactly how she remembered Grimmauld Place to: mothballs and the faintest hint of bergamot. It was like being transported back in time as she looked at the long-forgotten relics that had obviously been tucked away without a second thought.

In the far corner of the room she could see the Black family tapestry pinned to the wall haphazardly. And sitting just in front of the woven family tree sat a battered brown trunk with the initials S.O.B carved into the surface surrounded by Falmouth Falcon's stickers.

Her lips pulled up in a small grin as she crossed the room, bypassing the rest of the clutter for the worn trunk. Her fingers spread across the dusty surface, pressing against the carved initials. Sirius. Gods, how could Harry tuck this up here and forget about it? Sirius had meant so much to Harry, even in the short amount of time they had gotten to know his godfather. She personally hadn't given much thought to the last Black heir over the last ten years, but seeing the trunk reminded her of how devastating his death had been for Harry.

Unfastening the leather strap holding the truck together, Hermione lifted the lid, hoping to find something inside she could bring downstairs for Harry. A memento to set in his office—a reminder of his life before the fame and Ministry-required meetings. Perhaps an old jacket, scarf, or even photograph that might have been stuffed inside the trunk when his room was emptied.

Lifting the heavy lid, she was greeted by the sight to swaths of fabric swirled together. Old shirts, and jackets. Garments thrown in without a care. They all smelled distinctly of Sirius despite their years in the trunk: tobacco smoke, aged leather, and cinnamon. Digging through the fabric, her hand disappeared into the trunk, and as she search for something she could bring down, her fingers brushed across something cold, smooth and round.

Her heart stuttered, and she froze. It… it couldn't be. Harry went through the house before he left, making sure there was not a single bottle left—but… had he forgotten to check up here? Her fingers curled around the object, and as she withdrew it from the depths of the trunk, her heart raced. In her grasp, she held an aged bottle of firewhisky. Ogden's Finest. The amber liquid swirled around the nearly-full bottle as she trembled. The sound of the liquor sloshing was like a siren's call that only the darkest parts of her soul responded too.

She shouldn't. She should put it back and walk away. She should tell Harry once he came home. She wanted to be sober. She wanted to be better for Harry. But as she stared at the bottle, her eyes wide and her mouth running dry, she realised that as much as she wanted to fight it, she needed it. She needed the release. The warmth the liquor provided. The way it would numb her until the world make sense. She needed to hide from the pain.

Before she could provide herself any reason to stop, Hermione uncorked the bottle and brought it to her lips. The burn of the whisky pulled tears to the corner of her eyes as she gulped down the first mouthful. It scorched her throat as it cascaded down to her belly, pooling in the pit of her stomach. Almost instantly, the cold began to subside, and in its place a heat blossomed—unfurling until her entire body ignited with warmth.

It wasn't the same heat she got under Harry's touch, but it was enough to remind her how sweet the promise of detachment felt. It was enough to beckon the bottle back to her lips for a second time and allow her a temporary reprieve from the world around her.


Four hours. Four bloody hours of his night had been spent sitting beside Kingsley in a meeting that he really had no business at. He didn't give two fucks about the Wiltshire Coven, nor their grievances with the Ministry. He didn't care about the Ministry's desire to have the Coven's allegiance, and he certainly didn't care about their negotiations. The entire four hours his thoughts were on the petite witch who he'd left on his bed. His best friend. The same witch who made his heart thump wildly and his stomach clench in anticipation of returning to her.

Part of him knew he should take it slow. Despite their interwoven past, it had been quite some time since they were permanent fixtures in each other's lives, but something about her made him want to throw caution to the wind and just follow the thrumming magic that pulled at his heart every time he thought of her. Besides, if he focused on her, he might be able to forget about the thrill he felt when his mind drifted to thoughts of Draco. Because despite being absolutely furious at him for leaving—and his newfound love for Hermione, a small part of him wanted to figure out what this magic was that flowed between him and the blond wizard.

Pushing thoughts of Draco into the far reaches of his mind and heart, Harry kept his focus on Hermione. She needed him. And it was clear Draco held no intentions of returning. He'd already gone through this before—Draco leaving abruptly with no contact. He wasn't going to fall victim to the confusing feelings that followed a second time. Not when he had a beautiful witch waiting for him. Loving him. Wanting to be his.

Harry's smile widened at the thought as he made his way through the empty Ministry halls past the reception desk. He bid the night guard goodnight and moved to the Floo bank with a subtle eagerness to his gait. Reaching into the ceramic dish that sat atop the closest mantel, he took a fistful of the emerald green powder and tossed it into the flames crackling inside the hearth. With a whoosh of magic, red turned to green and Harry stepped into the cooled fire. The magicked flames lapped against his pant legs, tickling his skin as he called out his address. "Grimmauld Place."

He didn't know if it was the rush of the Floo travel or anticipation of seeing Hermione again, but when he stepped out of the flames and onto the hearth of his living room, his stomach fluttered like he'd swallowed a mouthful of butterflies.

HIs eyes adjusted to the change in light, unblurring from the travel, as he brushed some soot from his business robes. "'Mione?" he called out, excitement evident in his tone but as he looked up and around the room the delicious coil in his lower belly snapped and was replaced by a heavy lead stone.

The room was in shambles. The coffee table was on its side, the glass insert shattered. The lamps were smashed on the floor, and the few paintings that were still hung on the wall were crooked, while the rest appeared as if they had been blown to bits where they fell. A lump formed in his throat, silencing him entirely as he looked around the room. His feet felt like they were encased in cement blocks and his palms were slick with sweat.

In the middle of the wreckage, Hermione sat on the couch. Her wand rested against her stomach, loosely clasped in her hand, while the other dangled over the edge of the couch, her fingertips brushing against the floor. White stuffing spilled from the arm of the couch, tangling with her curls. Her lips parted with heavy breaths as an obvious substance-induced sleep held her captive.

Harry moved towards her, his feet crunching through broken glass and splintered wood as he crossed the room, lying to himself that this wasn't exactly what it seemed. Maybe she had a redecorating accident. Maybe she got scared and lashed out. Both completely illogical justifications for the mess, but he needed something other than the obvious needed to explain what had happened.

And just as he convinced himself the state of his house was nothing to be alarmed about, his loafer-clad foot clipped the side of something hard, and the sound of an empty bottling rolling made his mouth run dry. His eyes dropped to the floor, watching the worn bottle work its way across the floor, the hollow sound ringing his ears.

His mind screeched to a halt. The gears that had been spinning suddenly atrophied as he watched the bottle roll against her hand in front of the couch, the faded Ogden's Finest label mocking him. He'd been careful. He'd combed the house and made sure to Evanesco the liquor and wine he'd had in his cabinets. He'd even dumped out the mouthwash even though he was nearly positive Wizard's Whitest Teeth didn't contain any alcohol. He didn't want to risk it. He wanted to make this transition as easy as possible. He wanted her to succeed more than he'd ever wanted anything else. He wanted her to be happy, healthy and whole.

And as suddenly as the dread settled into his heart, the guilt followed. He shouldn't have left her. It was their bloody first night back! What the fuck was he thinking. He should have told Kingsley he was busy. This was his fault. He was far from an expert on recovery, but it didn't take being a healer or alchemist to figure out that he shouldn't have left her alone. Especially not in a house where obviously, despite his best efforts, bottles of fucking alcohol had been left.

His hand rose, carding through his thick black locks, fingers pulling and twisting the fringe as he tried to gather his own wayward emotions. It would do no good to fall to pieces now. Not when she needed him the most.

Cursing himself, he swiped his hand across his face to gather his wits, and just as his lungs filled to the brim with oxygen, the burn of over-inflation throbbing in the centre of his chest, Hermione lurched up from the couch in a coughing fit.

As if the world moved in slow motion, he watched as vomit poured from her lips, her body hunched over the edge of his couch, spilling onto the floor as she coughed through the violent upheaval. Her hand went to her mouth, trying to prevent it from happening, but all she succeeded in doing was spilling her sick down her arm and spraying the couch in the process.

"Shite!" Harry pulled his wand from his pocket in a flash and pointed it across the room. "Accio vase!" he said as he moved the short distance to Hermione, stepping right through her sick so he could lean over her body and rub her back gently. Catching the floating vase, he dumped the magicked life-long flowers to the floor before thrusting it beneath her hanging head. "It's okay, 'Mione. I've got you."

He held the rim of the vase as she heaved, her vomit spilling across his hand until it seemed her body could give no more. Her gasping turned to tears as she fell back on the couch once more.

"I—I'm so-rry," she managed, brown eyes shut tight as tears ran down her flushed cheeks and splashed over the tattered couch.

Setting the vase at his feet, Harry pointed his wand towards his hand and whispered, "Scorgify." As the light blue light erupted from the tip of his wand, he felt the tingle of magic nip at his skin and vanish the mess. "It's okay… it's okay," he whispered, laying his wand in his lap as he reached over to smooth her curls that stuck to her sweat damp forehead.

Merlin, what had he done? Had he ruined what had just barely begun? Had he risked three months of her sobriety just to go to a fucking Ministry function he was barely needed at? Biting his bottom lip, he felt tears prick his eyes as he watched her slender fingers wrap around his wrist, preventing him from pulling back from where he stroked at her cheek.

"I'll b-e better….I-I'll–I'm… sorry," Hermione's voice sank to a whisper, eyes cracking open just before she floated out of consciousness, the liquor calling her back to a slumber that she was incapable of fighting.

Her hold on his wrist loosened until her hand fell lifeless against her chest. Her lips glistened with salvia, and a dribble of vomit still lay on her chin. And as she lay there, like some macabre sleeping beauty, Harry felt his heart shatter in two.

She wasn't better. She was far from better. No matter how bloody badly he wanted her to be well, she wasn't. And he'd risked everything tonight. He wasn't capable of helping her. Not when he didn't understand what she was going through. Not when he didn't realise how desperate she had become.

Wiping away the stray tears that slipped down his cheek, Harry picked up his wand and rose from the couch before slicing it through the air. "Expecto Patronum." A weak burst of light blossomed from his wand, and a stag sauntered through the wisps of silvery magic, languidly moving across the room. Keeping his wand trained on the spirit animal, Harry beckoned the beast to him with his mind.

"Draco… it's Hermione. I— She needs you. Please hurry."

The message was desperate, but he didn't know where else to go. Everyone had turned him down before, and surely their answer would be no different now. Draco was her only hope, and he would do everything in his power to get him back into their lives.

The stag listened to the message, its head lowering in recognition before Harry cast it off out the open window. He watched the silvery magic streak through the room, the iridescent twinkle fading to black as it fell to the floor. Lowering his wand, Harry let out an uneven breath, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip as he felt more unbidden tears splash against the lapels of his business robes.

He moved back to the couch, lowering himself to kneel beside Hermione, and he lifted his free hand to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking softly across the red in her cheeks. "I'm sorry… I'm so bloody sorry, Hermione," he whispered despite knowing she wouldn't remember any of this come morning. "I'll fix this… I'll make this better. I promise."


Author's Note:

Beta - Ravenslight
Alpha - Disenchantedglow

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