The sound of a quill scratching sharply against a piece of parchment filled the living room as Harry wrote a hurried reply. "Just a second," he told the moody looking eagle owl that sat perched in the window. With a quick signature to the bottom of the parchment, he laid his quill down next to the open ink pot on his roll top desk before casting a quick drying charm on the letter. Reaching into the right pocket of his jeans, he fished out a small silver keyring that held a worn skeleton key. Laying it in the center of the parchment, he folded it up neatly before popping it inside a thick envelope that was already stuffed with American Muggle currency.
Tapping his wand to the manila envelope, the sparkle of a magical seal wrapped around the package like twine, securing the contents. Only the intended recipient would be able to open the it. He had never used the charm before, but seeing as they were dealing with a considerable amount of money and a long journey for this owl, he understood why the precautions were needed. Tucking his wand into his back pocket, Harry picked up the now magically-sealed envelope, and he tied it securely around the owl's leg, earning himself an irritated nip to the back of his hand in the process. "Ouch, you little shit," he cursed at the owl, lifting his hand to inspect for any damage. Finding no significant injury, he shifted his eyes to glare at the oversized muppet of a bird on his window sill, but it was already gone.
Grumpy little thing. Harry knew he had a trans-Atlantic flight but seriously, the bird could at least be grateful for the owl treats he provided while responding to the letter. Reaching out, he pulled the window closed before drawing the curtains. He would have to send word later requesting they use a less vicious owl for future package deliveries, although he hoped this would be the last he needed to send. It had taken the better part of a week for arrangements to be made, and tonight was the last puzzle piece that needed to fall into place. As long as she showed, that is.
Harry surveyed the furniture around the room, making sure everything was in order. He'd asked Toppey, his house elf, to make sure the rooms were cleaned and everything was in its proper place before she was released from her duties for the evening. He needed everything to be perfect. He needed this to work.
Walking across the room, Harry moved to the small loveseat that sat in front of the fireplace, and he began to fluff the throw pillows for what felt like the tenth time in the last twenty minutes, trying to find an outlet for his nervous energy. Just as he ruffled the last pillow, creating the proper amount of fluff, the sound of the floo activating in the study caught his attention. She was here… Shit! She was here! Harry darted from the living room, his long stride carrying him across the hallway in record time, and he walked into the study just as she stepped through the emerald green flames.
Hermione stumbled, her flats catching on the hearth as she crossed over the threshold into Grimmauld Place. "Bollocks!" she cursed as she tumbled forward and landed on her hands and knees on a gold and burgundy Persian rug. The slow burn of a blush began at the apple of her cheeks, working its way down her neck. She lifted her eyes to find Harry standing at the archway leading into the room, his eyes wide and his mouth in the shape of an 'O.' Great. First time in ages since she had a moment with him and she was already making a fool of herself.
It took a moment for him to react; the image of her tumbling out of his fireplace played in his mind in slow motion. The step had troubled visitors since the remodel. He'd been meaning to fix it but just hadn't gotten around to it; he hadn't been home enough for it to matter. He barely had guests, and generally he never allowed them access to his Floo, so he'd neglected to get it fix. Of course, now he felt like the biggest arsehole in the room. Which really wasn't hard, considering there were only two of them and she was on her hands and knees due to his lack of follow up on home repairs. "Shite, Hermione. I'm so sorry!" he breathed his apology as he rushed to help scoop her up from the ground. "Are you okay?"
Just as Harry reached for her, Hermione held up her hand towards him to prevent him from touching her. Her palm was bright red from the carpet burn, but it appeared that she was okay other than that small injury. "I'm fine." Pushing up off the floor and onto her knees, she straightened her skirt before standing, as gracefully as one was able considering the situation. She dropped her eyes to assess the rest of her outfit, hands tugging her blouse into some semblance of order before she looked up at Harry. Her mind swirled, watching him stare at her, assessing her. Judging her. She was not immune to anyone's judgement, not even her own. "I'm not drunk—just so you know. I tripped." She knew he was thinking it. They all were. Sloppy Hermione Granger. Drunk Hermione Granger. The Girl Fallen from Grace. She was the talk of the town and not in the best way possible. Normally, she tried not to let it bother her. She tried to ignore what the papers said, but knowing that Harry might be thinking what so many other people did was almost too much to bear. She wasn't worth it. She was worthless. She was not worthy of his friendship. Not anymore.
Harry opened his mouth and closed it several times, like a fish out of water, unsure of what to say to her comment. 'Okay'? 'I wouldn't blame you if you were'? 'I'm sorry'? They all crossed his mind, but nothing felt right. "I didn't think you were," was what he finally settled on. His hand rose, nervous fingers pushing through his untidy black locks out of habit as he flashed her a sympathetic smile. "How are you?"
How was she? The question felt so foreign. Like he might as well be speaking a different language. Her brow knit as her mind came to a screeching halt, interrupting her anxious spiral. How was she? What a fucking question. Harry didn't seem to realise the weight of what that simple question might hold. How was she? She was fucking awful. She had 35 Galleons to her name and a fridge with a block of cheese, expired bottle of milk, and three eggs inside. She had literally just come from paying off a small sliver her debt to Charlie-Fucking-Weasley with the only type of currency he would accept from her any more. She could still feel the way his hands slid across her skin as he took her over his desk; she could still feel the painful bite of the splintered wood in her hips. She was fucking miserable. She was pathetic. She was worthless. The only time she felt remotely happy was when she found the bottom of a fire whiskey bottle—she'd settle for wine if need be. The only time she was finally able to forget the crushing anxiety that had built over the past ten years was when she took those little blue pills. Dragon's Breath. Her savior. Her freedom. So how was she doing? She was not fucking great.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the rising need to confess just how shitty her life had become down into the pit of her stomach, and a forced smile spread across her lips. Pretend. Smile pretty, Granger. Pretend. "I'm okay. Just taking it one day at a time," she lied. "How are you? You look well."
"Good. Busy. Kingsley keeps sending me on these overseas assignments that are really just me sitting in a room while he negotiates trade deals. He thinks my presence makes all the difference, but I'm beginning to think he's daft because no one in those meetings gives me a second glance," Harry answered, watching her eyes travel past him as he spoke, surveying the room with a curious expression, barely even paying attention to his words. This wasn't supposed to be about him. It was about her. They were supposed to be catching up over dinner and some drinks. Casual. Just a friendly get together. He wanted to see how she was doing. He missed her. None of those were lies but rather convenient truths that would aid him in helping her. Based on the magazine he purchased from Flourish and Blotts earlier this week, it didn't seem like convincing her to indulge in an after dinner drink would be a hard feat. He hadn't spent time with her in years, but he held no doubt in his mind she would fight him on this. She was in too deep. Even now he could see a tightness to her eyes, the tremble in her fingers, the defensive walls she built around herself to protect her from gods only knew what.
After his row with Ron, Harry had spent the next two days looking into treatment facilities that would be able to help him, but without her consent, none of them were willing to take her. Even if it was at The-Boy-Who-Lived's request. That was why he then set his sights on talent management companies. He knew Hermione's agent only kept her on the books as a requirement from the Ministry. She barely worked. He even couldn't remember the last time she had an actual event booked. Going through his contact, Harry reached out to every single firm he knew of. The only response he actually received was from a company he called on a whim. He'd doubted they would have taken his request, but he had to try, right? Hermione wasn't just anyone. She was supposed to be his best friend, even though he had been missing from her life for the past several years. To him, she was worth it. Several emails and a phone call later, the contract was secured, and Harry had cleared his schedule for the next couple of weeks under the pretense of a vacation.
The talent management company told him to get her to the detox location by any means necessary; he knew they had meant force, but he would never be able to bring himself to do that. No, he needed to approach this carefully. Like bowing before a Hippogriff, he needed to appease her before moving in close. "Supper's in the oven. I hope you still like Toad in a Hole. It's not quite as good as Hogwarts', but it's close."
Hermione's attention moved back to Harry, the hint of a smile tugging at the far corners of her mouth. Toad in a Hole?! She hadn't had that…. well, since before what should have been their seventh year. It had been a special treat growing up, her grandmum's recipe that her dad would make when she got good grades or on a rainy summer day. At Hogwarts, it appeared in heavy rotation, and she allowed herself to indulge in what had become one of her favorite meals more often than her mother would care for. Her empty stomach gave an audible grumble in response, and her hand lifted to rest against the concave of her belly. "That sounds great. I don't think I've had it since we were there," she admitted.
Harry's smile widened, watching a hint of light flash in his friends eyes for the briefest of seconds, and for a moment, he thought that maybe she wasn't so far gone. But just as quickly as it came, the light vanished. The brief image of the girl he once knew disappeared behind the walls once more. "It's got about ten minutes left. We can sit in the living room while we wait."
Hermione nodded, and when Harry held out his hand towards her as if to guide her through his home, she simply edged around it, silently declining the offer. It wasn't like this house was foreign. She'd spent many nights at Grimmauld Place in her youth, but it was obvious that there had been some remodeling done. Everything looked modern, for starters. And when she used the Floo there had been no shouting from Walburga. She walked in silence beside Harry, her attention anywhere else but him, noting the changes. It was… so different. What else had changed? Was the tapestry room empty? Someone had removed the old Victorian fixtures and replaced them with modern equivalents. Alabaster painted walls replaced the filigree wallpaper, and instead of hand painted portraits of old ancestors, modern art, and photographs littered the walls. Pictures of Harry with foreign dignitaries, pictures of Harry on vacation in exotic places, and the occasional picture of Harry with Ron. But as she moved down the hall she couldn't help but notice not one picture of their youth was here. Nothing of his past adorned the walls, and absolutely nothing with her in it. Her heart sank as the slow realization of just how far apart they'd grown filled her soul. He was barely the same Harry she once knew. Hell, in more than half of the photos he wasn't even wearing glasses anymore!
"You okay?" Harry questioned when Hermione's pace slowed to a crawl as she looked around the hallway, her eyes wandering from picture to picture.
"Yeah. It's just… so different." She didn't know if she was referring to their friendship, or Grimmauld Place. In truth, it could have been both. Everything was so different. The world had changed, and it seemed like Hermione was still glued to the same spot she was ten years ago. She was alone. She'd be alone forever. She didn't have Harry or Ron. She didn't have anyone. She was alone. A shiver of fear ran down her spine as the slow creep of emptiness began to fill her. She needed to stay calm. She needed to not freak out. She told herself that the drinks she had earlier were it. They were supposed to last her until she got home, but the thirst to kill the demons inside her was growing stronger by the minute.
Harry looked around the hallway, emerald eyes dancing from picture to picture. He didn't even notice the change anymore. It had been so long since the remodel. Yet another thing Aurora had insisted upon. A good photo opportunity. Employing wizard-owned businesses after the war. Boosting the economy. Updating Grimmauld Place since he refused live in the Ministry-assigned flat. When he walked in once they were done, it barely felt like home. Little remained of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Nothing remained of Sirius. Every trace of his adolescence gone, painted over by crisp white walls and modern architecture. "I uh… I guess it is a bit different. It's been a while since I've had you over."
"Nine years." Hermione's voice didn't break or falter. There was no pain, no sorrow, nothing. It was like she was reading from a book. A simple fact. She had not stepped foot in Grimmauld Place in nine years. She'd seen the photos, but it looked so different she couldn't let herself believe he would willingly sign off on the gutting of his Godfather's home. Although, she also knew it was likely not he who was signing the work orders.
"Nine…. no. It hasn't been that long." Harry's forehead wrinkled in thought. That number seemed far too large! He'd had her over more recently than that, hadn't he? She was here for Teddy's first birthday! And he was…. Oh shit—you're a fucking wanker, Potter. Teddy was ten. He had just celebrated his tenth birthday back in April. One year left until he would get his Hogwarts letter. Harry had made a big deal about being there to celebrate with his godson. Canceled his schedule for the entire weekend just so he could hang out with him. Fuck, it had been nine bloody years. Dropping his eyes to his hands, Harry picked at the hemline of his navy jumper, buffed nails pulling at the thread. "Hermione, I'm sorry. Nine years? Merlin, I have no excuse. I don't even know how I let this happen."
Hermione glanced over, her teeth pulling the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth to chew on as she watched an all too familiar shame wash over Harry's features. Shame. He was alone, too. He wasn't worthless, but he was alone. She should feel sorry for him; she should tell him she understood, but the demon inside her reared its ugly head in a laugh, delighting in the small ounce of pain he felt. "It's fine," she lied, forcing a small smile out before she turned to move further down the hallway toward what she hoped was still the living room.
Harry's heart sunk as he watched her walk ahead of him, his feet glued to the floor. It wasn't fine. It was far from bloody fine. The woman who he would still instinctively call his best friend had not set foot in his house in nine bloody years. Worse, he didn't even know where she lived. How could this be fine? But this wasn't about him or his feelings, was it? This was about her. He needed to get her help. And in that process, he might be able to fix whatever had broken between them.
With a deep breath, Harry steeled his resolve and jogged after her into his living room until he stood beside her. His hand instinctively went to the small of her back to guide her towards the love seat, but as soon as his fingers brushed across her skin, a spark sent a shockwave racing up the length of his arm towards his heart. The both jumped at the reaction and pulled away, but neither said a word. Static electricity, that's all it was. That's all it could be. "Here, take a seat," Harry said before motioning to the love seat. "I'll get us a drink. Red or white wine?"
Hermione's tongue ran along the inside of her teeth in contemplation. She told herself she wouldn't. She'd swore it, but the idea of just one drink was welcoming. Her heart was racing; her palms were sweaty. It would calm her. It would make this visit more comfortable, wouldn't it? "Whatever you're having," She replied as she sunk into the loveseat, carefully crossing her legs at the knee. One drink wouldn't hurt. She could stop at one. One drink would make her feel better. It would make her calm. It would make being alone okay.
They took dinner in the living room, and just as Harry had hoped, the wine did manage to loosen Hermione up. They didn't speak of life post-war but instead reminisced about their time together in school. The times they broke curfew, Harry playing Quidditch, Hermione outsmarting even the most talented of professors, and how much they missed being inside those stone walls at Hogwarts. For Harry, Hogwarts was the first place he felt accepted, the first place he found out what love was. Not the romantic kind but something better: the love between friends. Unwavering. Undying. The love he felt for Hermione even still.
He watched as she ate through two heaping servings of Toad in a Hole, practically licking her bowl eat time. The color in her cheeks slowly returned from the warmth of the fire and food in her belly. Although she was still frail, he could see glimpses of the old Hermione coming closer to the surface. Her eyes sparkled in the flickering light of the flame, accenting what Harry knew to be her best feature. The depths of her eyes consumed him, even back in their youth. So expressive. So much emotion. In one single look, she could bring him to his knees, and he knew without a doubt that she still possessed that power.
As the night wore on, the bottle of red wine turned quickly into two, and before Harry could even recommend a night cap, Hermione had begun pouring herself tumblers of whiskey from his dry bar. By the time the clock struck eleven, Hermione could barely stand straight, let alone keep her speech coherent.
"Chooooo Chang," Hermione slurred as she snickered over the rim of her tumbler. She was sitting with her back against the arm of the loveseat, her feet tucked under Harry's thigh like old times. Glassy brown eyes shimmered with amusement. "Oh Harry, you looooved her. Remember?"
Harry blushed, his right hand swirling the amber liquid around his own tumbler of whiskey. She had him beat by about four glasses already, but he was not going to let her drink alone. It was bad enough that he was plying her with alcohol, but he would be damned if he let her make a fool of herself alone. "I never loved her," Harry scoffed before taking a large gulp.
"Oh yes you did!" Hermione sputtered, her tongue darting to collect the droplets of liquor from her bottom lip before she leaned forward to playfully push against his arm. "You did! You pined after her for ages. What ever happened to Choooo Chang?"
Harry chuckled, giving her a small shake of his head before he leaned out to set his glass down on the coffee table in front of him. "Ginny happened," he reminded Hermione with a small smirk, the heat from the liquor coloring his cheeks red.
Hermione was draining her glass, but she gave a small noise in acknowledgement. Right! Ginny. Of course, Ginny happened. Dropping her empty glass to the coffee table with a loud clatter, she leaned back on the couch, folding her hands over her stomach. "Back then, yes. But so much as changed. I've changed… You've changed… Ginny's changed. Did you know she married Oliver Wood? Oliver fucking Wood." Hermione's eyes went round as she gave a low whistle, her brows rising to her hairline. "I used to have a crush on him. Huge. Massive. It was that damn broomstick and Scottish accent."
"You had a crush on Oliver Wood?!" Harry asked, astounded. Hermione was human, so obviously she had crushes on people, even as a school girl, but the idea seemed outrageous! Back then she had been so serious. Every time they were together, she'd had her nose buried in a book. To be honest, he wondered if she even looked up at their classmates the entire first year he knew her.
"Uh, yes. Wasn't it obvious!?"
"Hermione, you always had a book in front of your face. You were such a swot back then. I was fairly certain the only reason you knew my name was because you liked to correct me so often, so no. It was not obvious." Harry laughed. When she reached out to give him a light smack on his arm, he reached out and caught her hand mid-swing. The spark returned, running from his fingertips and down to his toes, every ounce of his body felt like it was shocked. His heart skipped a beat, and his eyes widened ever so slightly.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat at his touch, and the shockwave rolled over her body like a tsunami. Consuming, suffocating. This wasn't normal. This wasn't right. She shouldn't be here, not anymore. She hated herself enough, but she would hate herself even more if she stayed to figure out whatever the fuck that spark was. She had already fucked up so much in her life, she couldn't ruin this tiny ounce of friendship she still had with Harry. Yanking her hand from his, she quickly pulled her feet from under his frame and she stood up. "I—I should go. It's late." Her body swayed as she tried to find enough balance to find her shoes and flee.
The moment her hand left his, the current of electricity died like someone had yanked the cord from the wall. He felt cold despite the fire still roaring beside them. He felt almost… empty. He watched her stumble from behind the coffee table, her hands clutching the arm of the loveseat as her glassy eyes looked around the room. "You can't leave," he mumbled before pushing off the couch and moving towards her. "Hermione, you can't leave. You drank too much."
Drank too much? This was just the beginning! She hadn't drank anywhere near enough. Shaking her head at his words, her heavy curls bounced in protest. "I'm fine, Harry. I just—I need my shoes. I'm fine."
"Absolutely not. I cannot let you apparate home like this," Harry insisted, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone in his attempt to stop her.
"I was going to use the floo, you dunderhead." Hermione laughed, moving around the room slowly, her eyes to the floor in search of those damn flats. Where had she taken them off anyways?
"Hermione... Hermione." Harry tried his best to get her attention, but to no avail; she refused to meet his eyes. Moving across the room, his hand curled around her bicep, and he pulled her to a stop, forcing her eyes to find his. "'Mione. You're not leaving."
'Mione…. Gods, she hated that nickname, but now it sounded like home. It did something to that crushing darkness inside her, making hints of light burst around the edges of her consciousness. He remembered her nickname. She'd nearly forgotten it herself, it had been so bloody long since she'd heard it. Nine years… nine bloody years. "O—okay."
Harry's hand moved up from her arm, his fingertips brushing across her cheek as he pushed her fallen curls behind her ear. "Good. Now take a bloody seat on the couch. I'll get you a new drink," he encouraged.
Hermione gulped, her fingers flexing as the trembling began to pick up. Her heart beat wildly within her chest, and as much as she wanted to listen, she knew she needed to get away before she made another mistake. She needed to get away before she did something that would ruin this night, that would ruin their friendship. She was worthless. She was alone. She didn't deserve someone like him in her life. She was worthless.
"I-I should sleep," she stammered, backing away from his touch despite wanting nothing more than to press further into his caress.
He let her go, his fingertips ghosting across her cheek as she took several steps back from his embrace. He longed to chase her, to feel that electricity running between them, but he stayed put. Respecting her obvious need to get away, he gave a nod. "I'll show you to one of the guest rooms," he whispered, glancing over his shoulder to the dry bar before back to her. "I'm getting one more… would you like one to take with you?" he questioned as he began to back up.
One more. One more to take with her. One more wouldn't hurt. It would help. It would get her away from him, get away from this feeling. It would help mask the pain. Watching Harry maneuver around the furniture in his living room with a confident swagger, she gave him a small nod. Her trembling fingers smoothed out her skin against her thighs. "S-sure. One more—for bed."
Spinning on his heel, Harry let out a slow breath in relief. If she hadn't accepted, it would have made this exceedingly more difficult. Moving to the bar, Harry summoned their tumblers from the coffee table before pouring three fingers full of whiskey in each glass. Positioning his body to block the tabletop, Harry discreetly pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small vial from it. Dreamless Sleep. Combined with the amount of alcohol she had consumed, it could be deadly, but the talent management agent assured him that her tolerance was much higher than a normal witch or wizard by this point. Uncapping the vial, he emptied the liquid into her liquor before giving it a slow swirl to mix the two together, hoping she wouldn't taste the addition.
Harry crossed the room with a drink in each hand and a smile on his face. Holding out her tumbler, he took a small sip from his own. "I'm glad you came, Hermione," he confessed as she took the drink. "It's been too long."
Her right hand wrapped around the cool glass, the etched side digging into her palm as she tightened her hold. She gave a small nod and smile in response before lifting her drink, taking a large sip. It no longer burned the way it used to when she started drinking whiskey years ago. Instead, all she could taste was the smoke from the barrels it was aged in as it slid across her taste buds and settled in her stomach.
Sensing her hesitation, Harry motioned for her to follow as he left the living room and moved up to the second floor of Grimmauld Place. His sock-clad feet padded lightly against the floor as he moved down the hall, stopping in front of a gray painted door and pushing it open. "Here you are."
Harry turned to face Hermione, his free hand gesturing into the darkened guestroom he had done up for her, and as he spun around, he realised just how close she had been following him. They now stood practically nose to nose. Only their hands clutching their whiskey separated their bodies from touching. Emerald eyes flickered across her face, watching her lips part on a shaky breath, and her eyes dilated from the proximity of their bodies. Before he could talk himself out of it, before he could tell himself it was a bad idea and it was the whiskey making him act, his hand was on her cheek, and he pulled her towards him in a searing kiss.
Hermione heard the tumbler Harry had been holding smash against the floor, the whiskey and shards of broken glass hitting her feet as she stood paralyzed under his kiss. His fingers wound into her hair, his lips like shock therapy. It make her world shatter into a thousand tiny pieces, every flaw, every anxiety-ridden thought vanishing and suddenly all she could think of was him. He made her feel less alone. He made her feel wanted. It was temporary, but dammit if this kiss wasn't better than any whiskey she'd drank or pill she'd taken. Leaning into his body, her hand resting against his chest curling into his jumper, her nails scratching lightly as she pulled him further down toward her. She needed this. She needed this freedom. She needed to forget what being alone felt like. She needed to pretend like she wasn't broken.
With his a hand on her hip and the other tangled in her hair, Harry guided Hermione back as his mouth slanted over hers. His tongue was merciless as it dove between her lips, claiming every last part of her. His touch felt charged, his kiss sinking electricity into her bloodstream until all she could do was bend to his whim, her feet leading her back towards the bedroom. She wasn't supposed to want this. She shouldn't want this, but her brain seemed to be firing on the most primal of levels. There was no room to think of how bad of an idea this was or how this would only make the pain of Harry's eventually abandonment worse. He would never want someone like her. She was broken. She was worthless. She was alone.
His toes hit the threshold into the bedroom, the floor turning from hardwood into a soft carpet, and the transition was enough to send a jolt of reality coursing through his veins. As right as this felt, he knew it wasn't. One of her hands still clutched her tumbler of liquor. Her tongue tasted of firewhisky and wine. Her hipbone bit into his palm. She was sick. She was ill, and he was taking advantage of her. Gently pulling away, Harry worked to untangle her hand from his jumper as he took several staggering breaths. Shit. Shit. Shit! What the fuck was he doing? "I—We–We can't do this, Hermione."
No, no, no! He can't stop. He can't fucking stop! As the cold reality of what he was saying washed over her, Hermione's fingers curled tighter into his jumper, pulling him back down towards her, and their lips touched a second time, sending hot thrills of energy running through her body until he reluctantly pulled away again, his hand prying hers from his chest.
"I'm sorry. W-We can't… We can talk in the morning… we can talk—but… but we can't do this," he stammered, his heart shattering as he watched her body deflate. The light that had returned to her eyes dimmed until he saw nothing but ominous blackness consume her. How could he be so fucking stupid? How could he do this to her? This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to fix her! Not make it bloody worse.
She was worthless. She was nothing. She was alone. She was going to be alone forever. How could she delude herself into thinking he would want her, if only for one night. She was disgusting. The entire Wizarding World knew what kind of woman she was. Her demons were public knowledge by this point. Harry knew. He had to know. He would never want someone as filthy as her. She was worthless. She was nothing. She was alone. She was going to be alone forever.
Hermione's eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders curling inward and shrinking her already petite size, and she nodded, her tongue darting out to run along her lower lip and collecting the last taste of his kiss before she turned away. She didn't utter a single word. What could she say that would right what had just happened? He didn't want her. She was worthless. She was nothing. She was alone.
Harry winced as the bedroom door slammed, the force shaking the pictures that hung on either side. Harry placed his hand on the door, using it to brace himself as he leaned in until his forehead pressed against the cold wood. "I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing that she would be unable to hear his words. He was sorry for more than just the kiss. He was sorry for falling out of touch. He was sorry for letting his schedule get too busy to see her. He was sorry for nine fucking years. He was sorry for her parents. He was sorry for not telling Ron what a gigantic ass he was. He was just bloody sorry. He wanted to rush in after her, wrap her in his arms. and kiss away her pain. He wanted to fix her. He wanted his old Hermione back. He wanted that bushy-haired, smart-mouthed girl. He wanted to see that fire in her eyes.
Harry stood silently apologizing for all the wrongs in her life in the past ten years, waiting until he heard the heavy thunk of the tumbler she had been clutching hit the carpeted floor. Either the potion or the alcohol had finally lulled her to sleep. He couldn't be certain which did the trick, but either way it meant that he would have no rest for the next several hours. Pushing off the door, Harry stepped over the broken glass and made his way to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he pulled out a Pepper Up potion and yanked the cork cap free with his teeth before tipping back the contents in the vial. His eyes watered as the thick peppery liquid slid down his throat to settle like a lead balloon in his gut. He could feel steam shoot out of his ears as the potion eviscerated the numbing effects of the firewhisky.
Harry set the vial on the sink before leaning down on the countertop with both hands curled around the side, his head hung low as he waited for the steam to subside. As the world came back into focus, he felt the beginnings of a headache gnaw at the back of his head, but he would have to wait until later to take care of it. His pain potions were all packed up in the boot of his rental car. He needed to get Hermione outside and in the back seat before he could search for them. He had a long drive ahead of him, and he needed to make good time if he planned on getting to the cabin before day break.
He knew she'd hate him in the morning, once the reality of what was happening came crashing down around her, but he had to do something drastic. He needed to fix her. He needed his friend back.
Author's Note:
Reviews are much appreciated.