𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 | 𝐡. 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝟏𝟎𝟕 - 𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐲

𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙩, 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝙋𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙝, 𝘾𝙝𝙤𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙜𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙡.

Her fingers fumbled across a soft cotton fabric until she found skin. She found a hand; it picked up hers and put its fingers through her own, pressing the skin of her knuckles to a pair of warm lips -- "'Phee..." -- the lips whispered against her skin, and she felt tears building behind her eyes again.

It wasn't a dream.

She was here, she was here -- all of her senses began to return to her at once, she could smell the rich smell of wood burning in the fireplace and the sausages and eggs being fried, freshly toasted bread with butter, honey and jam, beans and bacon -- the smell of her dad's faded cologne, coffee and old books being pressed into her cheek, as she realised it was her father's jumper it was soft but slightly scratchy from the various places it had been patched over -- she could hear hushed voices and the light clattering of plates and cutlery, the light padding off feet on a stone floor onto carpet -- when she cracked open her eyes, she saw the light of morning peeking through the curtains and the side of Harry's face illuminated in the Dewey glow, she smiled warmly at him, her bottom lip crumpling as she buried her face back into his shirt.

It was all real. She was here.

She felt a pair of arms wrap around her, being careful to avoid her back, settling on the back of her head and her waist -- the whispers hushed up at once as Harry began to talk into her ear --

"You're okay. You're home now... it's morning, Phee." he told her as he stroked her cheek, "You're alright, the potion has taken effect... you're looking well now. You're back."

She nodded but couldn't bring words to come to her lips.

She felt another pair of hands on her, helping her sit upright; Harry held up the jumper to cover her modesty before helping her put it on over the top of her head; she poked her head out from the hole and saw his face beaming back at her, along with Sirius and Gwen, a pair of hands were gently brushing her hair from behind, she turned and saw her father.

"Welcome back, darling." Said Remus, his cheeks swollen and pink from many hours of crying, the mixed sense of paternal grief of not preventing each and every mark that he could see but the relief of finally being able to see her again; he could wait to find out the details, now his attention was divided wholly on her,
"Are you hungry?"

"Starving." With a little laugh, she glanced around the room, craning her neck to find Cedric, "Where is Cedric?"

"He's upstairs with Fred and George," said Harry, "Finding something to get changed into since they're closer to his height."

She nodded; she reached to scratch her nose when she felt a piece of dried cloth packed tightly into her skin; she saw the concern etched into their faces, so she brought her hand back down, using it instead to push herself off of the table — her bare feet touched the carpet below, she smiled a little to herself, she forgot what carpet felt like.

Standing to her full height, everyone else stood up properly in turn, each of them hanging on her every moment, waiting to dive to her side at any instant of her faltering, but Madam Pomfrey's expert diligence proved to be beyond phenomenal — the colour had returned to her cheeks, she had the fullness in her skin once again, it no longer felt taught on her bones — she had weight and purpose to her steps now.

Yet everyone was staring at her, her arms folded across her chest as she avoided plenty of their gazes -- jumping from one extreme to the next would take some getting used to, and while she did appreciate their vast concern for her wellbeing, it was a stark contrast to what she had grown accustomed to -- she felt like her progress was under a magnifying glass.