The Thunder in My Heart

Trouble

Hermione sat on the Slytherin-green sofa in the dingy sitting room of No 12, Grimmauld Place, waiting. She clutched her small beaded handbag to her lap like a lifeline, the rough sharpness of the beads kept her grounded and kept the tears at bay, just. She still hadn't taken off her jacket or scarf, she couldn't bring herself to move that much. Really, she was too hot. The balmy July—no August, it was 1st August today, the day after Harry's eighteenth birthday—the balmy August weather was too warm for her to be wearing her coat over her jeans, boots, and long-sleeved tee. But they were what she'd pulled on in her distraught hurry in the early hours of that morning.

She wondered if she were to stand up whether her legs would give way. She decided she was lucky she hadn't splinched herself Apparating to Harry's house in the middle of the night in her current state of mind. Her knee started to jitter as she waited and she tried to calm it. My God, she hurt. The pain was so deep she felt ripped open. She dropped her head and her unbrushed hair tumbled about her face. She knew it didn't hide the fact that her eyes were bloodshot, her face blotchy, red, and puffy.

She clasped her bag with slightly shaky hands, trying to focus on the beaded textured surface under her fingers rather than the aching in her chest.

And still she waited, hoping Harry wouldn't be much longer.

Crookshanks watched her warily from the other side of the sitting room. He had been singularly unimpressed about Apparation but also looked unsettled by her current emotional state and didn't seem to want to wander too far from her. He'd been like this for the past few days, barely venturing outside at The Burrow which was quite unlike him. Almost as if he knew. He'd taken to staring at Ron, his ears flat in an expression of disapproval.

She glanced up when the Floo eventually roared into life. Her knee was doing that annoying little jig again as Harry stepped through the green flames into his sitting room. He didn't appear overly surprised to see her, despite her unexpected visit.

'A good night?' she threw out bravely, her voice barely hiding the crack that threatened to appear.

It amused her how much her bestfriend had changed over the three months since the war: he seemed taller, though in reality it was just how he held himself coupled with the fact that he'd lost weight and toned up considerably. She was still getting used to the fact that he'd started wearing contact lenses as she took in his tight distressed jeans, the black biker boots, the snug black t-shirt, Sirius's old worn bike jacket, the new facial hair, and the traces of black smudged eye-liner which didn't quite disguise the lack of sleep which was showing beneath his eyes. She knew Harry would never admit to the relief he felt at his newfound freedom, mostly because a conflict warred within him and it was in direct adversity with the post-war hollowness he felt. Sure, he no longer answered to anyone, to the Dursleys, to Dumbledore, his teachers, the Order, the Ministry, to Voldemort, but he still felt so responsible for the deaths, the losses, those who were injured. He also suffered from the responsibility of expectations: of being 'The Saviour', as he was now so often called, and the anticipation that he would become a great and prominent political figure for the Ministry. She knew, as much as he did, that he could never fulfil that role. So, Harry escaped into weekly therapy sessions and 'hid' in a lot of muggle nightclubs behind a new rebellious image. Though, Harry's hiding invariably included an Auror or two tagging along for the ride as protection. Amazingly, he was surprisingly accepting of his bodyguards.

'Merlin!' he exclaimed. 'I'm doing the walk of shame in my own house!' he grinned. 'But thanks, and yes, I've had a rather nice birthday treat, thank you very much, in the form of a very accommodating muggle I met at the club last night.' He ran a hand through his messy raven hair, brushing it back from his surprisingly tanned face. He wore it brushed back these days, exposing his scar, which in itself had astonished Hermione, she supposed it was him coming to terms with who he was and no longer caring what others thought. He seemed to have visually matured dramatically in the last few months and he appeared older than his eighteen years; there was something of his father combined with a heavy dose of Sirius that was almost visible in him.