Author's Note: Hello, all, great news! One, 'The Unofficial Sherlock Cookbook' is on Amazon! Yay! I'm so thrilled! My friend and I worked so hard on it (author last name Luttmer, if you know someone who likes good food AND Sherlock!) Two, my grandmother is home from the hospital after her stroke and doing alright. Three, MERRY CHRISTMAS! Because you're all awesome and I love each and every one of you for reading/reviewing/favoriting/following!
Chapter 27: Feelings or Lack Thereof
Feeling rather guilty about not looking for her parents as she should have, Hermione unlatched her front door, listening. Water ran in the kitchen and a quick glance confirmed that it was Tipsy, washing what appeared to be the breakfast dishes as something bubbled away on the stove. She grimaced; no matter what the elf said, slavery was slavery. If Severus didn't need the assistance when neither she or Draco weren't here, she would have refused the elf's service. The Prophet crinkled under her fingers as she snagged it from the couch.
Shoes left on the rack in the entry way, the stairs' carpet was soft under her feet. Really, she should check on her Professor, see if he wanted any of the books she'd unearthed last night from the shrunken boxes in her closet as a way to broach the subject of possibly-his-mother being in St. Mungo's.
The tracking spells she'd started in her parents' bedroom were still going, swirls of magic over the maps and arithmantic equations . Negative. No results. Biting her lip to hold back tears, Hermione trailed her fingers over her the numbers. She shouldn't have left this so long. She should have put a trace on them or something before leaving. She shouldn't have waited to look for them – what if she never found them?
Hermione shook her head. No. She couldn't afford to think like that! Setting her jaw, she prodded the spell with Severus's wand. A little more power should help the spells narrow it down to at least a region of Australia – right now the spell was spiraling as if it was lost. Please don't be dead.
She'd meant to pop into her bedroom for books, but the growl and muttered phrase about jumping out of a cake piqued her interest. Before she could help it, she'd blurted out: "That'd be interesting. I bet Tipsy could assist with that."
Mortified, the smile froze on her face as he glared at her. "Do you ever knock?"
"I did," she lied, looking at the mess of parchment. He must be trying to write to Mr. Malfoy. "You didn't hear me. Can I get you anything?"
"No." His voice was curt, but he hadn't snapped at her. She decided to push her luck.
"How about taking a message somewhere?"
"No message has been written that would require delivery," he replied stiffly. Hermione pulled the chair closer to his bed, dropping the Prophet on the bedspread.
"Not even to someone in the Janus Thickey ward?" she pressed. He wasn't moving – oh, please don't let him be mad... "Sir? It'd be no trouble."
He was quiet, and she waited, toying with her hair and trying not to explode with questions. Finally, he spoke. "Have you seen her?"
Thrilled, Hermione grinned. "So it is your mother? Ron overheard her talking. She seemed upset."
"Weasley?" He groaned. Inside, she was dancing with the urge to ask why she was there, what had happened. "Yes, my mother is in St. Mungo's, under her maiden name. I usually write to reassure her."
Something in his voice told her that asking would be more than rude, and she inhaled carefully before speaking.
"Would you like me to arrange a letter to her? You can pre-date it, if you'd like. No one would know that you'd recently written it." Hermione reached out and laid a warm hand on his shoulder, hoping to encourage him. If his mother was as distraught as Ron had intimated, it would likely help. "Would you like lunch? I can scrounge something up."
"If you would." Hermione nodded, patting his shoulder once more. He didn't tense at her touch and she felt oddly warmed by that. It was odd, learning to treat him as not her professor but as a man, but entirely worth it.
"Alrighty. Back in a few." Severus didn't answer, but that was alright.
Tipsy startled her, popping into the kitchen with a reproachful look just as she entered and she stifled a shriek. "Miss! Tipsy can be getting lunch."
"It's okay. I can do it," Hermione replied, attempting to step around the elf. "Really, it's no problem... it's just lunch."
Tipsy brandished a wooden spoon at her. "Tipsy is perfectly capable of making lunch."
"I never said you weren't...I just – Oh, bugger. Fine. Yes, please, may I have lunch for two? I'd like to take it up myself." It was easier to cave and watch the beaming elf set about filling two bowls with stew and adding a plate of thick bread.
...It smelled divine. I really need to learn to cook, she thought, adding a mental note to her internal checklist to pick up some basic cookbooks. Her mother had always cooked from her head, and being away at school most of the year, Hermione had never bothered to keep up. Studying had been far more interesting than the kitchen, but apparently she'd need to seeing as her skills were less than stellar in that area.
Thanking the elf, she cautiously balanced the overloaded tray, not wanting to spill the full mugs of tea. Passing her room, she shifted the tray just enough to reach the wand in her back pocket and Levitate several books to follow her.
She knocked her foot against the bottom of the door frame. "Knock, knock."
He snorted – she took it as a sign of good humor. "Come in; you're going to anyway."
"True," Hermione replied blandly. "I brought some books you might enjoy. I wasn't sure what you like to read, so there's a bit of a selection."
"Invariably, whatever material you have to offer would be infinitely preferable to the drivel that the Prophet attempts to pass off as news." Severus scratched irritably around his bandages and she gave him a meaningful look to stop, earning herself a dark glare. "You're not my bloody nurse, Granger."
"Her-my-oh-knee," she admonished, handing him the tray rather unceremoniously before dumping the books on the foot of the bed and plopping into the bedside chair. She took a bowl of stew from the tray for herself. "How's the letter-writing going?"
He scowled – clearly he'd made no progress – and took a vicious bite of bread rather than reply. Hermione didn't push it: she'd been on the receiving end of his ire often enough that she didn't want to ruin the odd little friendship she was forming with the man in the bed.
Severus swallowed a spoonful of stew, an almost blissful expression on his face. I really need to learn to cook if food can put that expression on even his face! "What books did you bring me, Hermione?"
"They'll all Muggle books, but then, who can read dry research tomes all the time?" The corners of his mouth curved slightly. "A little fantasy, you know, the 'save the world' type story. There's also some science fiction, a few mystery books my mum's into, that sort of thing."
"I have always enjoyed science fiction." The information made her beam.
"There's plenty of it. My dad buys pretty much every book in the genre, and I devour them every holiday." Hermione shook her head, dipping the end of her bread into the stew. "I never understood why he'd drop several hundred quid at the bookshop but steal mints from restaurants and pens from hotels."
Severus actually laughed at that, a surprising sound that made her stare. Laughter completely changed his face, making him more than a little handsome, and she wanted to see it again. Something told her that such a look was rare for him, and she treasured being the one to make him do it. "When you're on your own with a job and funds are limited, you'll understand perfectly well why."
"Maybe." She smiled at him again, curious to discover the other sides to her Potions professor. It would take her mind off the inability of her spells to locate her parents. After all, once the week was up and he went through with his plan he would likely leave her home for good.
And then she would be all alone.
Ginny sat on the lumpy couch, staring off into space as her fingers followed the crotcheted lumps on the afghan tossed over the arm. It had been Mum's first attempt at crafting, she knew, and loved every little mistake and every patch.
Something was wrong with her, she knew. Not wrong-wrong, just...broken. She didn't know if she loved Harry. And she'd always loved Harry, even when she'd dated other boys. And she should be sad about Fred and Tonks and Remus... but she wasn't.
Empty. That's what she was. Empty and broken. How Ron could be smiling and cheerful, or how Mum and Dad could break into tears at any given moment was beyond her reach. She felt...closed off. It was like falling into the diary again. She couldn't reach out to anyone, and really, why did it matter?
Fred was gone. So many had died. Harry was alive. Her family was at least functioning if not whole... except for her. Percy had already gone off to work. George was grieving, in his way. Ron hadn't left his ex-girlfriend's bedside longer than it took to sleep or pass through briefly like he had a few minutes ago, and her parents were keeping themselves busy. Even Luna, well-meaning as she was, couldn't quite reach her, and they'd been friends long enough that that shouldn't have been an issue.
Disconnected from her life, from her feelings, she felt numb. It was like falling into the Black Lake without the Giant Squid to set you back in the boats. She should feel pain. And joy. And love. And maybe a healthy dose of hate for the people responsible for Fred being gone. She should feel something. Anything.
I'm broken, Ginny thought again, tracing another lump. But I don't know how to fix myself. Why her? What was wrong? She'd been fine at the battle, she knew. She remembered what feelings felt like, but now... they were out of reach. A distant memory, like remembering what she'd done under the diary's power. After the battle, she'd slept, and when she woke up, she was fine.
But this had nothing to do with the diary or horcruxes or Voldemort. Something was wrong, deeply wrong, and she just didn't have the words to say so. Whatever had broken in her and done so so quietly, so slowly, that she couldn't even pinpoint when it had started. Quidditch was no longer seemed fun. Meals no longer satisfied her – she wasn't hungry, eating mechanically for no reason other than not to worry Mum. Kissing Harry or sitting close to him, things which had once made her heart pound and her skin tingle with anticipation, felt no different than sitting next to Bill or Charlie.
She traced the lumpy afghan again. Broken. Damaged, like my family. Why am I broken? Why can't I fix it?
It was like screaming into the dark, but no one heard and no one had a light. An insidious monster living in her mind without a name, slowly stealing her away. She wanted to cry, but no tears would come. She was empty, alone, and no one could help her.
But then... what did it matter anyway?
Ron surveyed his handiwork with a grimace. Well, he'd tried. It wasn't like the bloody stuff came with instructions, after all. Most of the lacquer was even on her nails. And the color was better. 'Mione was right, and it did make her look a bit more like Lav.
Sort of. He'd even picked up a stupid fluffy bunny from the lobby's small gift shoppe on a whim. It'd cost him seventeen sickles, but when her arm had tightened around it in her sleep, he felt like he was at least doing something positive.
The Healer who'd poked a head in earlier to check on her and hand him the daily phial of whatever-it-was that let him function had shaken her head at his efforts and commented on how 'sweet' he was. Ron had resisted the urge to gag, wondering if when she woke up for good if Lav would kick him out. After all, they hadn't broken up on the best of terms... But it was Lav and he missed her, missed the way she'd made him feel special and important.
He wondered if he should paint her toes, too.
Harry rolled his wand between his hands, pondering. He'd actually enjoyed lunch with Malfoy. Despite the other boy's strange abhorrence of sandwiches, it had gone alright once they'd gotten over the awkwardness of it all.
And he'd returned Hermione's wand, of all things. It was clean and polished in a velvet-lined box. Compulsively, Harry checked it again to reassure himself it wasn't an elaborate illusion. Nope. The familiar wand he'd wielded for weeks was still there. Even the little scratches he'd noticed over time, the smooth groove where her thumb usually rested... it was all there. Malfoy'd really found and returned her wand.
Would wonders never cease?
He should write to her, he thought. Maybe he could borrow Pig from Ginny, let Hermione know, maybe actually see her for longer than a few minutes. Sure, she was looking for her parents, but it was like she never had time for him anymore. It was weird, not seeing Hermione and Ron every day, but mostly not seeing Hermione.
They'd become as close as he'd seen the Weasley siblings, him and her. He was used to seeing her, drawn and pale and concerned, every morning. He was used to having Hermione there to prod him into action or patience. He was used to looking after her, too. Ginny didn't need him the way Hermione did. Hermione was strong, yes, but she ran herself ragged trying to keep them all sane and on track. Gin was strong and cheerful; far more resilient than anyone had given her credit for. Sure, she'd been a bit distant lately, but her brother had just died. It was only normal for her to be sad and distant. She'd perk up, they'd reconnect, and everything would be alright.
Smiling, Harry pulled the cap down lower over his mussed hair and headed back to towards the Apparition point.
I know, I know... I haven't replied to reviews from last chapter yet. I'm sorry. I'll get to them, and I greatly appreciate them all! I haven't even read them yet. I'm so sorry. Bad me. I'll reply after the holidays. Thank you, you wonderful, valued readers. I hope each of you have a wonderful holiday season!
