Can A Phoenix Love A Lion? (Hermione Granger x Male Reader)

47. Away From Prying Eyes

Y/N woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. Through the window the sun, climbing toward midmorning, stretched the furniture's shadow across his room. A quiet honk came from outside, and the sound of a car driving followed. Inside, clothes, newspapers and wizarding stuff lay on the floor, drawing paths where he had walked yesterday.

Wrapping himself back into the covers was tempting, but he had already done as much twice today. Sweaty sheets were uncomfortable; hunger twisted his stomach. He knew that fatigue would not help him to sleep any longer. As soon as he would shift just a little too much in his sleep, his neck would send a bolt throughout his body, and he would jerk awake. Two weeks since it happened almost every day as he woke in his bed here; two weeks since the beginning of the holidays. And two more since he stepped into that maze . . . two more since Lord Voldemort had risen again.

Throwing the covers aside, he stood up and started for the door. He went down the stairs and across the living room to the kitchen. Funny how one truly realises something only when it comes missing. He had never realised his house had been a warm, comforting place, but now that it was not as much, he did. The buzzing of playing and funny movies had filled the house before. Now there was a stillness everywhere that dimly unnerved him. His father was not grinning as some presenter made a joke on the television; he did not see his mother gardening; William had not told across the house that he was going to see some of his friends; Poppy was not here to play a game of chess or draughts.

Instead, everyone was in the kitchen except for William, who likely lay in this morning. The radio babbled—the final score of a football match, a scandal with a politician, a gas explosion that had blown up a block of flats.

"You think it is . . . ?" Poppy said as Y/N took a seat at the table.

"A coincidence," he said, and though he mainly wanted not to worry her, he did hope it was only a coincidence. If Voldemort could already do so much, the Ministry would never be able to stop him—not that anyone there dared take action.

"Toast, Y/N?" his mother asked.

He nodded, and she served him a plateful of toasts and another of eggs.

"I'm not that hungry," he said.

"You should eat," she insisted.

She always served him too much; he knew why she did that. He saw the exact features she observed on his face every time the mirror showed him his reflection in the bathroom. The shadows under his eyes set them deep and dark, and his face was sallow, but it was because he lacked sleep, not food. If she kept feeding him so stubbornly, he would grow so much Hagrid would not tower him anymore.

When he finished stuffing his stomach, he went back upstairs to his room, where he lay down right on the floor, using a stack of dirty clothes as a pillow. The carpet was less hot than the mattress; that was the excuse he had come up with when his mother had woken him up in the same position a week ago. He had nothing to do and did not want to do anything. Sleeping anywhere seemed a good option.

He remained awake, though, waiting. An owl would soon be coming through the window with the Daily Prophet in its talons, and maybe Hermione and Ron had sent a letter—Harry would not have, but he could not really anyway, with his uncle and his aunt.

Sure enough, an owl finally came—the newspaper one. Lazily Y/N got on his feet, fumbled in his pocket and gave the owl the five Knuts it wanted. As it fluttered away, it knocked down the cauldron that was on the desk, but he did not care. Unwrapping the Daily Prophet, he read:

DUMBLEDORE DEMOTED FROM CHIEF WARLOCK IN THE WIZENGAMOT

Y/N knew he should have been shocked—while they were at it, they might as well fire Dumbledore—but these days, apathy seemed to have taken control of his body. His eyes scanned the article, catching bits and pieces: "It is a well-known fact now that Albus Dumbledore always supported eccentric opinions . . ." ". . . it seems craziness is overtaking bespectacled people—be careful! . . ." ". . . Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, declares his intention of ending with the 'nonsense of some lunatics who only want to draw attention on themselves and think they are some great tragic heroes.'"