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    Summary

    “Listen witch.” She freezes and he feels the warning bells ringing as a part of him that he has tried very hard not to let her see, let her know, buzzes beneath his skin. His voice deepens, hands flexing at his sides, and he barely resists striding across the office and hauling her from her chair and towards the floo.

    “You are going to go home. You are going to pull out one of the meals Molly leaves in your deep freeze and heat it and then you are going to fucking eat.” He scrubs his hand across his jaw, feeling a day's worth of dark stubble, keeping his green eyes glued to her gold. “Then, you are taking a bath, a long soak, with the lilac bubbles that Luna gave you last Christmas, and then bed, where you will stay until at least seven a.m.” High spots of color are forming in her cheeks, her mouth hanging slightly open as she waits, undoubtedly unsure if he is quite done.

    “Is that clear, Mi?” He leaves no room for her to argue and the part of him that begs and keens and demands that he take care of her, settles.

    Or the one where Harry is sick of Hermione not taking care of herself and finally acts on his hidden romantic feelings for her, by telling her exactly what she needs to do.

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