In which an empty house stir loneliness in Hermione's heart.

Age thirty-nine, the Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole.

The stairs at the Burrow always creaked. The house, so ancient and haphazard, had no sense of...sense, and in the years Hermione had lived there, she hadn't found one step that didn't have its own unique creak. Every floorboard had one, every corner, every dip in the centre of a room; if she listened carefully enough, concentrating, she could identify where someone was in the house just by the squeaks of their tread. It was a place meant to be noisy, built to be filled with family, creaking their way all through and about, the echoes muffled by bustle and activity and conversation.

It made the silence now more painful.

Hermione sat on the top step of the staircase between the main floor and the second, on the landing there. She clutched a cooling mug of cocoa. It had long since ceased to steam. Her eyes stared into space, looking at nothing, wide and glazed, as she listened to the acute sound of emptiness.

It was September second.

Both of her children were gone away at Hogwarts, for the first time, as of yesterday at eleven. Hermione heard a wind blow by outside. The wooden bones of the Burrow stretched and sighed, groaning. Ron had been called in to work. Some perp had been brought in, and Ron needed to file the paperwork on him before the twenty-four hour holding time was up. He didn't usually work on weekends, but it happened. She knew he'd been putting off some of that filing, too. "I'll get around to it," he'd said. Well.

Now she was alone in the house on a windy, grey Saturday afternoon, with nothing but the creaking in her ears to keep her company. And the ghoul in the attic, she supposed. But it mostly slept these days; it was getting on in years, old thing.

There was nothing left here with her, now. There were no more barriers. It had been thirteen years since she'd had the Burrow to herself for any significant length of time. Always a crisis to coolly solve, a meal to prepare, a child to soothe or scold or hug or teach or play with, a husband to deal with, to talk to. Things to distract her. She'd spent all the rest of yesterday and all of today until now cleaning the Burrow from attic to cellar. Toys were organized, put away for three seasons. Merlin, what was she going to do for the next ten months? Where would she find herself without Rosie and Hugo when Ron was at work?

Maybe she would go back to full time at St. Mungo's. Hermione made a mental note to talk to Ellen, the ward manager, on Monday. Something would have to fill her days. It hadn't even been two days they'd been gone yet and look at her. Sitting on the stairs alone, refusing to go into either child's room behind her.

Hermione could handle fighting with Ron. She dealt with his sheepish obedience to his mother. She could weather Rose's adolescent tantrums, Hugo's pranks, hosting Weasley gatherings because she lived in the only place big enough to accommodate the clan, Ron's late nights. She enjoyed the challenge of her job, didn't mind being on call because she knew she was saving lives every time she went in, and was the only Healer on her floor who could handle Ellen, their immediate superior. She had fought with a cool head in a war before her eighteenth birthday. She had raised her children well.

Hermione could not deal with the aching emptiness of her home, with the absence of two children and a husband. And there was one more thing. But that was kept in a locked corner of her heart, and she had thrown away the key the day her daughter had been born.

Tap tap tap.

Hermione lifted her head.

Tap tap.

There was an owl at the kitchen window.

Hermione slowly got to her feet, wincing at the ache in her bones to match the creak of the stairs, and went down to the kitchen, putting the mug on the counter as she crossed to the window above the sink. A big, beautiful dark brown horned owl gazed soberly in at her, a rolled-up note tied to its claw. Hermione felt a smile warm her face as she twisted the latch and lifted the window to let the owl in. "Hello, Romulus," she said, and received a regal fluffing of feathers that could be taken for a nod, or a bow. She smiled more widely. The horned owl extended the claw to Hermione, who untied the note attached. Romulus began to preen as she read.

Hermione –

I'm going mad without the kids here. Ginny's out with her friends. Meet for coffee or a Butterbeer? I know a little place.

– Harry

It was in that moment, reading that letter, that Hermione felt, even as the smile grew deeper, some part of her start searching for the key to that melting box in a hidden corner of her heart. The place inside of her where secret truths left unspoken lay. Where she retreated when life was too overwhelming to deal with by herself. On her own. There was, still, even now, a part of her that knew and acknowledged that she had married the wrong man. That part of her was kept under lock and key, and she had thrown the key away. Had tried to. Had thought she had. What did you do? What could she, ever, do?

Nothing, was the answer the rest of her heart had always given. Because she valued his friendship too much, valued her family too much. Loved them too. She could lean on him when she needed to, as evidenced. He was unfailingly there for her when Ron was being unfathomably dense. He was cool water to scorched skin. Shade from too-hot sun. She was only ever fully at ease with him, could let her worries and cares and stresses and burdens be set aside for a while when she'd sit and talk with him for a while. He could be that for her, be her balm. Everyone had someone they could relax around. For many it was their spouses; for Hermione, it was Harry Potter. Unobtrusive, unassuming, boy hero, best friend. No more, and certainly no less. When he held her hand she closed her eyes. Certainly never less. It was manageable, though. She could handle loving him. She had.

Harry –

Read my mind. Pick me up.

– Hermione

PS—Thank you.