Blaise checked his watch for what felt like the thousandth time since Hermione had left the night before. Where the fuck was she? What the fuck was going on? Those two questions circled around his head in a never ending loop as he paced back and forth in front of the living room fireplace. He had been seconds behind Hermione as she ran out of their flat, but she was surprisingly fast and he’d barely reached the front door when he heard the unmistakable sound of her disapparating. He’d trudged back inside, grumbling at the ungodly hour, at the tiny, bossy witch and her stupid instructions, before (predictably) doing everything Hermione had ordered him to. He’d spent the rest of the day cleaning the flat from top to bottom, a nervous habit he’d picked up during the war to manage his anxiety. He’d then taken an uncomfortable nap on the bare couch before starting his vigil by the fireplace as soon as the sun went down. He had no idea what to expect, or when, and he was loathe to move away from the fireplace, even for a moment, in case something happened in his absence.