NEITHER DREAMING NOR DELIRIOUS

This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.

A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers.

Hermione Granger bent over her unexpected patient. He should be waking any moment now. With her knowledge of his secret attachment it felt wrong to have him under her care but the headmaster had insisted that he be looked after at the school if that would not interfere with his full recovery.

"Severus received his injury whilst taking care of Hogwarts students. It's only fitting that Hogwarts takes care of him."

Unmentioned but unforgotten lay the knowledge that their former colleague had been declared dead by the Ministry and his assets and possessions presumably disposed of. His teaching position had been filled too and that would be another knotty tangle to be sorted out when - if he recovered.

The specialists from St Mungo's had been and gone, declaring that there seemed to be no pressing reason to take him to hospital. She wondered if that was out of respect for his war-hero status – unquestionably he'd be more comfortable in the place that had been his home for most of his life – or because they didn't want to deal with such a notoriously sarcastic sourpuss more than they needed. He hadn't woken up under their examination.

They'd seen no overt signs of damage from the prolonged transfiguration nor, as yet, any indication of latent curses but that would be clearer after he'd regained consciousness and mental clarity. Her care and skills should suffice, they'd decided, with St Mungo's Healers on call if required.

Hermione had forced a smile and grimly agreed. There was nothing she could have said without disturbing his confidentiality and he wouldn't thank her for exposing him. It would have been easier if he'd been too sick to remain but she couldn't wish him ill just to save herself some discomfort.

Black eyes opened blank and dim, blinking repeatedly in the dim light. As she watched they slowly cleared and focused on hers. The corners of his grim mouth curved slightly.

"Hermione," he whispered, his hand reaching weakly towards her.

She couldn't help an involuntary flinch. His hand dropped and his eyes closed. When he opened them again after long silent seconds they stared, narrow with calculation, into hers. His lips thinned almost to invisibility.

His eyes flickered over her form then back up to her face. She could see him realising that he was neither dreaming nor delirious. Probably, she supposed dully, in his dreams she was more receptive. Her teeth closed tightly on her lower lip.

His face was still grey with exhaustion, the harsh lines etched deeply into it. He'd always looked far older than his years. She remembered being surprised in third year to discover he was a contemporary of Harry's parents not his grandparents.

The silence was dreadful. She opened her mouth to speak too late.

"Why are you not in class, Miss Granger?" he rasped, his once-silky voice ragged as if he'd screamed it hoarse. 'Where is Madam Pomfrey?"

They'd wondered if he would have any memories of his transfigured state. Apparently he did not. It would be her task to tell him of that plus a lot more unpleasant news as soon as he was well enough to hear it. She cursed the chance that had put her in charge of caring for this unlovable man who'd lost everything except his bitter tongue and proud distance.

"You've been – away – for a long time," she told him. "Around four and a half years. Voldemort -"

"Don't say that name!"

Amazing how much ferocity he could contain in a barely audible whisper.

"- has been dead for four years. Really dead this time. There hasn't been any Death Eater activity for almost as long."

Unfortunately that didn't mean that no Death Eaters had gone free. They'd had their suspicions that some had managed to avoid fighting by faking illness and might still be at large ready to cause trouble if the opportunity ever arose.

He stared unblinkingly at her.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

She swallowed hard. It seemed cruel to tell him but he obviously had all his faculties. He'd have seen though a lie. He'd had too much practice.

"Dead."

The heavy lines deepened in his face.

"Professor McGonagall?"

She gulped again.

"Dead."

Filius Flitwick was Headmaster now and Pomona Sprout the Assistant Head. There were many new faces on the staff but all that could wait.

"Potter?" he whispered, his face contorted with the effort of keeping his eyes open.

"Playing Quidditch for England. He struck the fatal blow like the Prophecy said but then he'd had enough of living for everyone else. The only thing he saves now is the Snitch."

After the first few words he'd closed his eyes and subsided into the pillows. When she finished he turned his head away. The effort seemed to exhaust him.

"Lucius?" His voice was fading.

"Azkaban," she muttered, hoping he wouldn't ask for details. The once-regal blond looked worse than Mad-Eye now.

He said nothing. Only his Adam's apple gave a convulsive bob as if he was finding it hard to swallow. With a pang she remembered how indestructible he'd always seemed. For a moment she watched him gasp and cough before recollecting her duty to ease him. Yet when she put her hand to his forehead it was his turn to flinch. He took a long rattling breath, then another.

"Your concern - is as unwelcome - as it's - insincere," he breathed.

She murmured the spell and watched his eyes close in sleep. She hoped he'd sleep long and peacefully before she had to face him again. Not that it was at all likely to improve his temper.