NOT HOWLERS

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.

A two-day period of stiff silence was succeeded by an explosion of sarcasm from Hermione's patient. She bit back a sharp retort and told herself he was getting his strength back. She hadn't admitted how much his uncharacteristic languor had worried her.

He finished his peroration on her incompetence and looked around for another thing to criticise. His eye fell on a bulging sack pushed up against the wall.

"Does my room double as a rubbish dump?" he snarled. "Why is that here?"

"It's the letters you've received so far," she said, plumping up his pillow as he leaned forward. "Owls have been arriving in droves ever since the news got out that you'd been found alive."

His eyes narrowed.

"You may have put a stasis spell on them but it's still a fire hazard. Why have you not disposed of them as they arrived, or are you hoping to burn me in my bed?"

She stared at him for several seconds before understanding his concern.

"They're not Howlers, Professor," she said quietly. "You're a war hero now. You saved their children. They awarded you an Order of Merlin posthumously, you know."

For the first time in days he looked at her. Spots of colour rose in his thin cheeks. She nodded at him, then busied herself with straightening his rumpled sheets and shaking out his blankets.

"An Order of Merlin?" he probed as she sat down beside him with his tray.

"Second class," she said quietly.

He shot her a frowning glance and studied the counterpane, not looking up till he heard the clink of the spoon in the bowl.

"Don't trouble. I can feed myself now."

"It's no trouble. That's my job."

The first sentence had straightened his shoulders but the second wiped all expression from his face.

"Thank you," he spat, "but I don't need your help."

She handed him the spoon and watched his fingers curl around it for the first time. By bending his head he could just manage to lift it to his mouth. Yes, he was definitely getting strength and dexterity back. Before she knew it he'd be well enough to leave. She wondered what he'd do and where he'd go. He'd grudgingly accepted the headmaster's offer of help in sorting out the legal tangle of his affairs but he'd refused to stay on as a burden where he'd previously been a support. Unless a suitable teaching position fell vacant before the next school year he'd leave as soon as he could walk. Her mouth tightened. She knew he'd be too proud to return.

"You must be very bored," she said. "Would you like someone to read them to you?"

His eyes darted sideways to hers.

"Yes, that would be acceptable."

She took his tray and stood up.

"I'm sure Varvara will be delighted. She's been wanting to see you."

"Oh, not yourself then." His voice was casual.

"It's the Alumni match this weekend," she explained. "A brainwave of Filius's, ever since he became headmaster. It's very popular. Quite a few of my friends will be here for it."

His face shuttered.

"I see." His long fingers clenched around the coverlet. "Varvara?" he asked. "A new teacher?"

"No, Varvara Skolnik. The one who bandaged you outside Honeydukes."

His lips curled.

"I suppose she's expecting fulsome gratitude."

"Not at all. She wants to thank you for saving her four years ago. In fact, I believe she's been elected as a representative of all the students you saved that day." Warm brown eyes crinkled in amusement. "You're a bit of a legend, Professor. They tell stories about you in the Common Rooms. Fifth years and up are the only ones old enough to have been in your class so don't be surprised if some of the younger ones hero-worship you."

"Ridiculous. I'll soon put an end to that."

Her mouth twitched.

"I'm sure you will."

They were both wrong. Varvara was polite but unabashed. When he railed at her, she merely bent her head and waited till he'd finished, then resumed opening his letters with unabated good humour.

"Look, Professor. There's a photo with the two dearest little babies!"

"Who?" Surely they couldn't possibly be trying to foist paternity onto him, though there had already been three marriage proposals. Any brats would have to be at least five for him to be accused of having fathered them and she'd called them babies.

"Andrew Severus and Amalie Severina."

"What?" Or could they?"I meant the parents, you insufferable little dunderhead!"

"Sally Ann and Jack Driscoll – oh, Sally Ann Perks, of course. 'Dear Professor, I can't tell you how happy I am you didn't die that day. Words can't express -' "

"Stop wasting my time reading me what she didn't say and tell me what she did say."

Wide-set eyes skimmed the letter, then a dimpled heart-shaped face lifted to his.

"Only that she's fully recovered from the attack and that she'll never forget you. And she's named her twins after you, they're about sixteen months -"

He scowled at the thought of facing a pair of namesakes across a classroom in nine years, then scowled even more at the thought of not doing so. He'd been teaching almost all his adult life.

"Enough! Can't you find one that isn't a farrago of nonsense?"

"Sorry, Professor, I am trying," she pulled out a scented pink missive and dropped it before he could explode, "but what else can you expect? You died to save us and that outweighs thousands of harsh comments in the classroom."

She picked up another handful of letters and riffled through them, adding wistfully, "Is it so bad to be popular?"

It's like walking on quicksand.