TWENTY

Hermione leaned back and let herself float in the overlarge tub. She'd filled it with near-scalding water and the vanilla suds she liked best. Her legs and back had finally begun to loosen up after the cramping that had crept up on her while she'd visited with her family. The bath was too hot. It was too hot, she hurt everywhere, and it was a battle to get her hair clean. Whenever she moved too quickly, the room spun. (She'd opted to take a bath rather than a shower for just that reason; she didn't want to fall over, and the tubs were spelled to keep her from drowning.) When she finally finished, she sat on the edge of the pool-tub and dripped while she watched the water drain away, working up the muster to get a towel and dry off.

The door opened, and she made a grab for her wand, but it was just Severus.

"This is the Prefect's bath, you know," she said, hearing the exhaustion in her own voice. "Somebody is going to notice. Aren't there wards that tell the headmaster or somebody if a teacher goes into a student bathroom?"

"Head of House privilege," he said, but the words came out in a grunt.

"You look like shit. You look worse that I look," she said, hissing a bit as she stood up. Severus picked up a towel and held it out for her.

"Thanks."

"Are you hurt?"

"I will live."

"That's not what I asked."

"How long were you sitting there?" he asked, toweling her off. She didn't fight him for the task; her arms felt too heavy for it.

"A couple minutes. Not long."

"You're cold. The water on you is cold."

"I'm not cold," she said, chuffing a laugh. "That water was scalding hot. I can still feel it in my hair."

Severus reached up with the towel, rubbing at the water in her hair and then smoothing tangles with his fingers.

"The water is cold, Hermione."

"So what does that mean?" She'd just remembered that he'd told Professor McGonagall she had a concerning sensitivity to heat earlier.

"I'm not sure yet."

"Fine, then. Why don't you tell me what's wrong with you instead." He raised an eyebrow, so she raised an eyebrow back. "You still haven't answered my initial question."

"There will be aftershocks," he said at last. She frowned.

"How soon?"

"I don't know."

"And you were just going to stand here and, what, dry my hair? You should be in bed. You should be in the hospital wing."

"None of that will help."

"Well you can't fall over if you're already in bed," she said, and she would've jabbed her finger into his chest if her arms weren't so tired. If all over her wasn't so tired. And slow. Her body was reacting very slowly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and she blinked. He had his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

"I'm fine. It's the Numbing Solution wearing off. I'm groggy. It will pass."

He frowned at her but didn't argue. Instead, he started handing her pieces of clothing, helping her dress when she needed it. It would've been embarrassing if she wasn't so tired, if her eyes weren't so heavy, if it wasn't Severus gently helping her with the tie on her flannel pajama pants.

"You should be in bed," she repeated.

"Fine. Let's go to bed."

The halls were empty and dark. She hadn't realized it was so late.

His quarters were overly warm, which was disconcerting because the fire had died down to glowing embers in the grate. A moment's unease stung at the back of her mind, but she was quickly distracted when Severus collapsed to one knee and then the floor.

The first aftershock passed quickly. Or maybe it wasn't quick; she really had no reference for how long it lasted. She put her hands around one of his, clenched into a tight fist, and held on through it. She remembered, at least, not to try magic to help him.

"You didn't do anything," she said when he began to unclench as the aftershock passed. "Why would they torture you?"

"The Dark Lord did not like that he received word of your leaving school via owl from Draco Malfoy when I had the information sooner, not to mention quicker means of communication."

"That's horrid."

He laughed. It was a dry, humorless noise.

"Narcissa believes I let Draco share the news because I know he needs to gain favor," he said, getting to his feet and heading for his bedroom. "The Dark Lord believes I truly did not deem you interesting or important enough to pay attention to, though he has impressed upon me the wrongness of that opinion."

Hermione kissed his cheek because she didn't know what to say. It almost looked like he blushed, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the bedroom.

They were quiet while he dressed for bed. She expected him to send her away, but instead he hung her dressing gown on the same hook as his and drew her into bed.

"We're not going to—" she began, but he shook his head.

"There are more aftershocks to come, and you are recovering from your own injuries," he said. "And I doubt you are in the mood any more than I am."

"Right."

He shifted them around until she was lying half on his chest, her head tucked against his neck. He had situated them perfectly so that they were nestled together without his arms around her. If—when—his muscles began seizing up again, he wouldn't hurt her.

"Sleep, Hermione," he said quietly, stroking her hair once before he put his hand safely on the mattress next to her hip again.

According to his pocket watch (long ago spelled so that he could see the time whenever he looked at it, even in the dark), it was just past three in the morning when he woke. Since it had been after midnight when the aftershocks had finally subsided and he'd fallen asleep, it took him a moment to realize why he'd woken at all.

She wasn't moving. She was barely breathing.

"Hermione," he said, shaking her. "Wake up."

He tried to revive her with spells, then started casting diagnostics. As far as he could tell, there was nothing physically wrong with her; she was just asleep. Dreaming.

The last day's worth of signs flew to mind. Her sensitivity to heat. Her grogginess, sluggishness. She'd lost bits of time, he was sure of it—she'd lapsed into quiet so many times with her grandparents that it couldn't have been emotion, it had to have been trauma.

"Poppy," he said, mostly to himself, then ran for the Floo in the sitting room. "Poppy!"

"Severus?" The mediwitch asked, appearing in front of the grate in her nightgown.

"Come through. Bring your kit," he said, withdrawing. Less than a minute later, Poppy was in his sitting room, dressing gown loose on her shoulders, Healer's kit in her hands.

"What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"She won't wake up."

"Who?" Poppy froze when they reached his bedroom and saw who was in his bed. "A student. Severus why is there a student in your bed?"

"There's something wrong," he said, shaking Hermione again. "I can't tell what's wrong. I can't find anything wrong. But she won't wake up."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. We went to sleep, and I woke up because she wasn't moving."

"How long has this been going on, Severus?" Poppy asked, spinning to pin him with a look after she'd cast a few of her own diagnostics, confirming what he'd seen before—there was nothing wrong with her.

"She was fine when we fell asleep," he said, deliberately misinterpreting the question.

Poppy spun around and slapped him across the face. In the space of a breath, he had her wand in his hand with the tip pressed to the soft flesh on the underside of her jaw.

"You are despicable," she said, jaw clenched. She didn't look afraid, which was interesting. She did look mad, though. Furious.