The sound of a rough, boisterous coughing fit made its way into her study, interrupting her reading. With a sigh, she left the almost finished book on her wooden table and quickly made her way to the kitchen. Poirot and his clever deductions would have to wait for the time being.
She barely knew his house. The only rooms she had dared to enter since she'd started working for him were the study he reluctantly had set up for her a few weeks ago and his potions laboratory. She didn't even know how the toilet looked like; if she had the need to use it, she would Apparate into her cheap, tiny flat for a few minutes and she'd be back as if nature hadn't made its call. At all.
The nasty coughs accompanied her swiftly pace until she was standing up by the door, hand on the handle. Stubborn man. She warned him he was going to catch his death of cold. And what had he said? Oh, yes. "Mind your own fucking business, Miss Granger." Very eloquent of him.
Entering the kitchen, she rolled her eyes when a particular childlike whimper reached her ears. Right. Honey. She needed honey. Honey made everything better, didn't it? At least, that's what her mother used to say when she was a little girl.
Finding the sweet nectar at the back of one shabby cupboard after ten minutes of frustrating and almost fruitless search, she prepared the warmest and most delicious cup of tea she could manage. And lastly, she reached for the honey. One spoonful… Two spoonfuls… Another pitiful moan. Three spoonfuls it'll be, then.
She placed the big mug on a tattered tray and with an elegant wand movement she Accio'd her personal stash of scrumptious biscuits from her study. Her eyes set on two lemon Viennese whirls and, with a hum of approval, she put them on a small, chipped plate.
Carrying the tray full of enticing treats and good intentions, she hesitated by the door leading to the living room. Knowing Severus, he would hex her into the next week for her silly sympathy. However… However, after that brief moment in the garden a few days ago, after that delicious intimacy, that delectable connection they had shared for just one marvellous second, Hermione felt surer of her actions. She didn't know how this gesture was going to be received, but she did know one thing: she wanted, needed to take care of him. So taking a deep breath and making herself look taller by straightening her back, she wandlessly opened the door and entered the room.
Severus was lying on his worn couch, a ridiculously thin blanket barely covering his slim body. Approaching to his side very slowly, she left the tray on the side table and, gathering all her Gryffindor bravery (or foolishness, an extremely annoying voice reminded her), she sat on the edge of the sofa, next to him. If he was aware of her presence, he certainly did not show it.
Hermione allowed herself a few seconds to examine this amazing, astounding, complex man. His face was flushed, probably because of the fever. His elegant eyebrows were furrowed, discomfort written all over his features. His straight, silky black hair was sticking into his sweaty forehead, damped and messy. She could feel his shivers, his tremors. Despite knowing he was suffering because of his own stubbornness, she couldn't help feeling a pang of sadness deep inside her heart. If only he allowed her to help him. Just once. Just this once.
As if in a ridiculous dream, her right hand found itself involuntarily moving towards his face until her fingertips grazed his soft, clammy skin. Ever so gently, she brushed his hair to one side, lightly stroking the fine lines forever imprinted in his forehead. And, only then, he languidly opened his eyes.
Hermione panicked. She should remove her hand immediately. Why was she still caressing his face, for Merlin's sake? Eyes widely open, she stared into his obsidian eyes, fear and terror clouding her thoughts and better judgement. After an eternal, agonising silence he opened his mouth and she flinched, preparing herself for havoc. Stupid, stupid Hermione!
"Is that for me?" He pointed at the tray with a wince of pain, a rasped, low voice escaping his dry lips. His eyes were red, puffy, swollen. Dark. Hopeless. Sad. Miserably sad.
Never stopping her strokes, she nodded. "I also added a bit of honey," she confided, sheepishly. "Honey makes everything better, don't you think?"
A single tear made its way down his left temple; she gingerly caught it with her thumb, her mouth breaking into a tender, reassuring smile.
"Indeed," he choked, his voice barely a whisper.
Honeyed tea drunk, lemon biscuits eaten and deep emotions bared, Severus's coarse words were heard for the third and last time that day.
"Please. Please. Don't leave me alone tonight, Hermione. Too many memories. Too many ghosts."
Hermione hadn't needed to be asked twice.