A/N: This is my first creation for the HP fandom. While I appreciate all the faves and follows, reading reviews is what really recharges a writer's battery. Please consider leaving one if you enjoy this ficlet :).

Chapter Three: Bedtime

Hermione's cottage was a cozy, two story hideaway at the end of a long, tree-crowded drive. She'd moved in three years ago, eager for a fresh start after she and Ron had ended their relationship. The cottage sat at the edge of Barnton, a wizarding community nestled within Cheshire right on the coast. The town was small and quiet, exactly how Hermione liked it, and Harry often visited to escape the notoriety of being the Boy Who Lived. Or that was his excuse anyway.

Tonight, the confines of her home seemed suffocating, and Harry removed his own jacket and scarf before divesting Hermione of hers.

She kept her feet with only a slight sway when he'd murmured 'hold on', staring blankly at a far wall as he freed her from the still-mystifying sleeves and folded the bulky garment over his arm.

"Should I hang these up, or…?" He glanced at the end of the couch where he often threw his own unwanted layers.

Unfocused eyes turned at the sound of his voice, and Harry's swallow caught.

She'd been dosed with more than just Confusing Draught.

Dumping their coats in a forgotten pile, he grabbed her wrists. "Hey," the word hitched in a tremble he tried to hold back. "Let's get you to bed."

"Whatever you want," Hermione mumbled.

Harry rubbed his thumbs against her skin. "How do you feel right now? Are the bees still there? Have they moved at all?"

He didn't want to think about what would've happened if she hadn't found him at the party before whoever spiked her drink returned for the results of their handiwork. This wasn't something from a fan meant to make her look foolish.

This was a concoction meant for assault.

She tilted her head to the side, a caricature of her usual thinking face. "I feel… numb," she offered. "Blank," she pursed her lips. "And I have this overwhelming urge… to… talk."

"No problem," Harry pulled gently. "We can talk. I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll stay the night?"

"Yeah," he gestured to the couch's cushions. "This lumpy abomination and I go way back."

Hermione giggled in a snort. "You always forget to take off your glasses before you fall asleep."

Harry registered mild surprise through his worry. The nights a single movie turned into a marathon, wizard's chess went too late, or firewhiskey got involved were innumerable. His sleepovers were always impromptu, but he rarely woke with his signature frames still sitting on his face. Had she always removed them before nodding off herself? The image of a drowsy Hermione leaning down to gingerly slide his wire rims free made his stomach lurch in a near-painful flop.

Get it together, he scolded silently. This isn't the time.

Like his own flat, Hermione's was furnished with a mix of muggle and magical things – an ode to their unique upbringings – where music speakers sat next to potion ingredients, docile succulents and sleeping mandrakes shared a sill, and crammed bookshelves were equally stocked by Flourish and Blotts and Waterstone's. Maneuvering her past the television, Harry toed aside a discarded set of shoes in their path, not wanting her to trip.

Hermione noticed and bent to pick them up. "Ginny insisted I wear heels," she said, teetering as she groped blindly for the flats. "But all they did was make my feet hurt."

Harry swooped down and rescued the discarded pair. "What were they supposed to do?" He asked. "Shield you from room temperature appetizers and dull conversation?"

"No," she replied, trying to sound prim, but coming off petulant. "That was your job."

He moved for the stairs, tucking the shoes under an arm and ducking his head. "Sorry."

The nod didn't appease this time. Hermione huffed and flounced from his hold, making to grab for the railing. Her coordination was more than off – she couldn't judge distance or depth at all – and swiped uselessly into the empty air.

Her next exhale brimmed with frustration. "I can't do anything right now," she grumbled, glaring at the straps around her ankles.

"Let's get your feet free and that'll help," Harry offered, already reaching for the thin band of black snaking around from the top of her heels. He brushed bare skin and she gasped, leaping away like he'd burned her.

"Do both pairs live upstairs?" He asked, pretending not to notice. Whatever potion she'd been given seemed more nefarious by the second.

Hermione nodded stiffly as he struggled with each clasp, freeing her taxed arches one at a time.

"There," he said, slipping them off and hooking his fingers into their hard backs as he straightened. "Better?"

She gave her toes an experimental wiggle, eying the redness around them critically. The flare of scrutiny softened almost at once, and Hermione managed a one-armed shrug, murmuring 'Mm-hmm'.

Harry gestured with the dangling heels. "Lead the way then."

His best friend stared up at the stairs, blanching at their vastness. "Far," she mumbled, glancing back at the couch.

He shook his head hard enough to send his combed black hair spiking out in a shadow of its usual unruliness.

That would be a bad idea.

"Nope," was all he said aloud. "Get going."

Hermione made a face, but started for the first step.