Jaded (Rewritten)

Chapter Four: Happily Never After

Hermione slammed the empty bottle of firewhiskey onto the table as she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. The room tilted violently, walls lurching as though they meant to throw her back down again. She shuffled toward the kitchen, bare feet dragging against the cold floor, and cursed sharply when her hip collided with the counter.

"Bloody—" she hissed, fingers scrambling to grip the edge as the world spun relentlessly around her.

She stood there with her eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, breathing through the nausea until the dizziness dulled to a miserable, manageable sway. When she dared open her eyes again, she pushed herself upright and yanked open the fridge. Cold air spilled out in a rush, brushing against her flushed face as she rummaged blindly through the shelves, knocking jars aside with clumsy hands.

She paused. Straightened. Then leaned in again, more deliberately this time, and grabbed a bottle of sparkling lemon water.

The cap twisted open with a sharp crack that echoed too loudly in the quiet flat. She lifted it to her lips and drank deeply—once, twice—grimacing as the bitterness of the firewhiskey finally began to fade, replaced by sharp citrus and cold. She capped the bottle and slammed the fridge shut harder than necessary, the sound ringing with pent-up frustration.

Dragging a high chair out from the counter, Hermione climbed onto it clumsily and set the bottle down in front of her. The chair scraped loudly against the floor before settling. She braced her elbows against the counter and cradled her heavy head in her hands, fingers digging into her hair as though anchoring herself in place.

"Crookshanks," she slurred softly. "Where are you?"

A flash of orange leapt onto the floor, landing with surprising grace despite its bulk.

Hermione squinted at him, her vision swimming, and smiled lazily. "There you are," she murmured. "Come here, kitty cat."

Crookshanks padded toward her, belly nearly grazing the floor. He reached her foot and clawed gently at her leg, meowing insistently until she noticed him.

She wagged a finger at him, giggling faintly. "You're so fat you can't even climb up anymore, hm?" she teased, the words thick and careless. Then she sighed and bent forward, scooping him up with clumsy tenderness and setting him on the counter beside her.

Crookshanks sat and stared at her with unnervingly perceptive amber eyes, unblinking, as though weighing every fragile piece of her.

Hermione reached up and scratched behind his ear, her movements slow and careful. "You're the only one who really loves me," she said quietly, the humour draining from her voice. "You won't ever lie to me, will you?"

Crookshanks leaned into her hand and closed his eyes, purring softly.

Her lips trembled into a sad, uneven smile. "I love you too, kitty cat," she whispered.

The cat flopped onto his back, paws curled, silently demanding affection.

Hermione let out a shaky chuckle and rubbed his belly, her fingers sinking into warm fur as his purr grew louder, filling the empty space around them. She swallowed hard, staring at nothing, her thoughts drifting somewhere dark and heavy.

"Was I too hard on him, Crook?" she asked, the question raw now, stripped bare of anger and pride.

Crookshanks only purred in response.

Hermione sighed—a long, broken sound—and rested her forehead against the counter, the weight of the night finally settling in, pressing down on her until she could no longer pretend she was fine.

༘⋆

"Is Hermione going to be okay?"

Harry stepped out of the Floo with a soft cough, green flames dying down behind him as ash and soot clung stubbornly to his coat. He brushed at his sleeves absently, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders, before removing his coat and crossing the room. Without a word, he slipped his arms around his wife's slim waist from behind, drawing comfort from the familiar warmth of her presence.