Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the immeasurable genius of JK Rowling; I just like to borrow them and play with them. I'll put them back when I'm done… though not necessarily in the same condition I took them in…
Chapter 13
The following day was Saturday, and the first since Hermione had begun her duties with Snape that she didn't go down to his laboratory on her designated day off.
Despite their original arrangement, she'd found herself frequenting his workroom more often than they'd agreed, staying past curfew on numerous occasions, and using the peace and quiet of the lab and the resources of his extensive library to do her own work, as well as assist Snape with his.
Much to her delight, the Potions master didn't seem to mind her appearing at unscheduled times, merely raising an eyebrow and continuing with his own work, or, on one occasion, snidely commenting that if she couldn't go a day without his company, she really did need to get out of the lab more.
She rolled her eyes at him before turning away, feigning interest in the third shelf of the ingredients cupboard, to hide the blush that rose in her cheeks. His comment, though not intended so, hadn't been that far from the truth.
After his strange and confusing reaction on Friday night, however, Hermione felt no inclination to venture into his private domain until absolutely necessary. As much as she wanted to be a part of his work, in her Gryffindor stubbornness, she wouldn't give Snape the satisfaction of knowing her thirst for knowledge would bring her back, no matter how he treated her.
She was more frustrated than anything else. They had been getting along so well in the past month; she'd truly enjoyed the time spent with him, even when they were both absorbed in their own work, brewing in silence. It was a reprieve from the noisy Gryffindor common room, and Hermione got the distinct impression Snape, too, enjoyed the quiet company in preference to his solitude.
After lunch on Saturday, she found herself in the Headmaster's office, venting her frustration to the elderly wizard who, sensing something was amiss, had invited her for a cup of tea and an – untouched – plate of cakes.
"He's just so infuriating," she said, shaking her head. "We were getting along so well, and now he's just... turned. I don't understand it. One minute he's trading insults with me, in good humour I might add, and the next, he's ignoring me, or worse."
The Headmaster looked grave. "You must remember, Miss Granger, he is under a great deal of pressure at the moment, perhaps more than ever before."
"I do realise that," she said. "I just don't see why that gives him just cause to be so abrupt. I am trying to help him, even if it wasn't his idea."
"You seemed to be getting along quite well, as you said," Dumbledore commented. "Did anything happen to change that? What was the last thing you were discussing?"
Hermione had to think for a moment before she remembered. She described to the Headmaster their brief conversation about Care of Magical Creatures, and how Snape, while acknowledging his skill with the moonfilly, didn't think that success would transpose to other creatures.
"Oh," she said suddenly, realisation dawning on her features. "He said other creatures wouldn't work with him because they don't like Dark magic."
She hadn't given much thought to his comment the previous night, and only now recalled the bitterness of his tone when he'd referred to the Dark Mark on his arm.
"It seems to me," the Headmaster said thoughtfully, "that the direction of your conversation reminded him of what he was, and perhaps he felt you were getting too close."
"To close?" Hermione was confused. "I'd hardly call our relationship close. Amicable, maybe, but nothing more."
"Amicable is a lot more than Severus is used to, Miss Granger," the Headmaster reminded her. "You have to see the situation from his point of view. He has allowed – grudgingly, at first – a student access not only to his private laboratory, but also his quarters. He has allowed you to become involved in his research and his own work and spend extra time in the lab outside scheduled hours. He's taken you with him to visit a creature I cannot even get him to speak of, let alone show me where it dwells. And after all this, he's suddenly become distant and cold again."
"Perhaps," the Headmaster continued, "in the pleasure of having someone who appreciates knowledge as much as himself, he has allowed himself to forget why he distances himself from everyone."
Hermione thought back to the images she had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve. It seemed so long ago now that she'd watched in horror as Voldemort commanded the young Snape to demonstrate his loyalty once and for all, sacrificing those closest to him to prove it.
"He's pushing me away because he thinks I'll get hurt?" she whispered.
The Headmaster nodded sadly.
"Despite outward appearances, Miss Granger," Dumbledore went on, "I believe Severus thinks more of you than he is willing to let on. The reality of the situation, as harsh as it sounds, is that this is a war. Life is a precious thing, but sacrificing one life for the continuation of our cause has been necessary in the past, and will become so again. I believe Severus distances himself so greatly from everyone because he never wants to be put in that situation again."
It made so much sense, given his strange attitude, Hermione didn't know why it hadn't occurred to her before.
"That's silly, really," she commented. "My association with him has put me in no more danger than I am already in. I'm one of Harry's best friends, and a Muggle-born, too. I couldn't be more of a prime target, really."
"I'm afraid I have to agree with that deduction for the most part, Miss Granger," the elderly wizard said heavily. "However, it is evident Severus does not, especially given a certain incident several weeks ago involving yourself and one of his young Slytherins."
"He told you about that?" she gaped.
The Headmaster nodded. "He was concerned it may happen again. It was I who suggested he give you the alternative way into his laboratory."
"Oh," she said.
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling suspiciously. "Do not be troubled by Severus' manner, Miss Granger. Rest assured, whatever he does, he has your best interests at heart, even though that may be hard to see at times."
Hermione left the Headmaster's office feeling relieved, and much happier with the situation than she had previously been. She still wouldn't go to the laboratory today, but she would have no apprehension in returning tomorrow, as per her schedule.
Later that day, Hermione was at dinner, enjoying a sumptuous roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, when Harry, sitting next to her, suddenly dropped his fork and clutched his forehead with both hands.
The clatter of the fork barely drew a glance from anyone except she and Ron, thankfully, and Hermione put down her own cutlery quickly and turned to her friend.
"Harry, what's wrong?"
He shook his head, grimacing in pain, his hands pressed hard to his scar. "He's really angry about something," he gasped out quietly.
Hermione met Ron's eyes across the table.
"We better get him out of here," the redhead said. Hermione nodded and stood up, trying to look inconspicuous while grasping Harry's arm to pull him away from the table with her.
The trio headed for the doors of the Great Hall, and Hermione glanced back at the Head Table momentarily. Dumbledore was watching them leave, frowning, and a further glance down the table showed the Potions master was not at dinner.
She turned away, filing that piece of information in her mind to worry about later, and escorted her friend from the Hall.
"Hospital Wing," said Hermione, and Ron, grasping Harry's other arm, nodded and steered them in the direction of the stairs.
Being the dinner hour, there was no one else about, which they were all eternally thankful for when, halfway to the second floor Infirmary, Harry cried out and fell to his knees. He would have keeled over completely were it not for the support of his friends.
"Ron, go and fetch Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said urgently, kneeling beside Harry, unsure of how to help him.
Harry gasped for breath, scrabbling at his scar with one hand until Hermione could see nail marks in his forehead. She gently prised his hand away, allowing him instead to dig his fingers into her own palm.
"Harry, you have to Occlude," she implored. "Try to block him out."
"I can't," he choked out. "It's not working."
The pain seemed to subside after a few moments, and Hermione helped Harry to sit back against the stone wall of the corridor.
"He's livid about something," Harry said breathlessly. "Someone has failed to do as he asked, and he's getting impatient for it to happen."
Hermione shivered. She hated the way Harry spoke when he tapped into Voldemort's emotions. It was frightening, the strength of the link between the two enemies.
"Come on," she said eventually. "Do you think you can stand? Madam Pomfrey will be here in a moment, and you don't want her to see you like that on the floor. You'll be in the Hospital Wing for a week."
She helped him climb gingerly to his feet and they continued along the corridor, meeting Ron and the Mediwitch around the corner.
"Now, Mr Potter," she scolded. "What have you done to yourself this time?"
"It's my scar," he said, wincing again and reaching up to rub the angry, red mark.
The Mediwitch regarded him for a moment.
"Miss Granger, she said at length. "Kindly fetch the Headmaster. Mr Weasley, if you will assist me in getting Mr Potter to the Hospital Wing?"
Hermione reluctantly left her friends and made her way quickly up another flight of stairs to the stone gargoyles outside the Headmaster's office. She was about to give the password when she thought, You fool, Granger, he's probably still at dinner.
She turned to hurry back downstairs and saw the Headmaster coming towards her.
"Miss Granger," he greeted. "Is something amiss?"
"It's Harry, sir. His scar. He's in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey asked me to find you."
Dumbledore beckoned for her to follow him and turned, striding quickly back to the stairs and down to the Infirmary.
"Sir," Hermione said, somewhat out of breath. The elderly wizard could move fast when need called. "I thought Harry had succeeded in blocking Voldemort out, but tonight, he knew what he was feeling."
"Harry has progressed wonderfully in the art of Occlumency," Dumbledore said, stopping as they reached the door to the Hospital Wing. "However, his link to Voldemort is both unique and strong, and even as an accomplished Occlumens, he will still be perceptive to strong bursts of emotion from Tom Riddle."
The Headmaster pushed open the doors and the last sound Hermione expected to hear met her ears.
Laughter.
Hysterical laughter.
And it was coming from Harry.
Following the Headmaster quickly across the room, Hermione gazed from the frightened look on Ron's face to her other friend on the bed. Tears of laughter were streaming from Harry's eyes, but his pupils were dilated and he looked terrified. It was obvious the emotions he was displaying were not his own.
The Headmaster moved forward quickly, grasping both of Harry's hands in his own and saying, "It will pass, Harry. Not long now. It will pass."
It did pass after several agonizing minutes, and Harry finally relaxed enough for Madam Pomfrey to put a phial of Calming Draught to his lips. It took effect almost immediately and Harry slumped back onto the pillows, exhausted.
"He's happy now," the dark-haired young man murmured sleepily. "He got what he wanted. Everything is going to plan." Then his eyes closed and he drifted off into a restless sleep.
"Come on, all of you out," the Mediwitch ordered. "Mr Potter needs his rest."
Hermione, Ron, and even the Headmaster, allowed them to be ushered from the bedside, and Madam Pomfrey drew the curtains around the bed.
"That was bloody scary," Ron said lowly as they walked out of the Hospital Wing. "What do you reckon You-Know-Who got that has him so excited?"
Hermione met the Headmaster's eyes but said nothing. She had an uncomfortable feeling she knew exactly what had made Voldemort so happy, and who had delivered it.
"I do not know, Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore, giving Hermione a meaningful look, "however we will use all our resources to find out what has happened. In the meantime, Harry is in capable hands. I suggest the two of you try not to worry, and get some rest."
The Headmaster left in the direction of his office, and Ron made towards the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.
"You coming, 'Mione?" he said when she didn't immediately follow him. "You heard Dumbledore, Harry will be okay."
"I know," she said absently, then added, "no, you go ahead, I think I'll just go for a walk to clear my head."
She waited until Ron disappeared upstairs, and then, ignoring her earlier decision to wait until tomorrow, headed straight for the east corridor on the first floor.
"Professor?" she called as she emerged from the passage into Snape's sitting room. The room was silent and cold, as was the laboratory when she checked the other room. Looking closely at the cupboard containing his potions samples, she noticed a couple of phials of the fake Cruciatus potion were gone.
She bit her lip.
Should she stay here and wait until he returned? Would he have the answers to why Harry's scar was hurting so badly, why he felt such anger, followed by elation? Was any of Voldemort's anger directed at Snape?
She decided to stay, concern for both Harry and the Potions master winning out over common sense and the need for sleep. She could at least get some work done while she waited, so she set about brewing some more potions for the Infirmary. Calming Draughts, like the Mediwtich had given Harry earlier, sleeping draughts and bruise salves. All were relatively simple brews, but required her concentration and served to take her mind off other worrying issues.
It seemed hours later when the sound of someone Flooing in through the sitting room fireplace reached her ears, and she glanced through the partially open door just in time to see the Potions master disappearing through a door on the other side of the room, the one Hermione had deduced led to his bedroom. It slammed closed behind him.
Hermione frowned, stirring her cauldron thoughtfully. Something was slightly off about his fleeting appearance, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Usually, upon returning from a meeting with Voldemort, he would come straight to the lab, pale and silent, and begin brewing whatever had been requested of him that night.
After a few minutes and no further sound from the other room, her worry increased and, casting a stasis spell on her cauldron, she made her way through to the sitting room.
The first thing she noticed was Snape's heavy, velvet Death Eater robes discarded haphazardly on the floor near the fireplace. Her frown increased; it was unlike Snape to leave anything out of place. She picked them up, starting slightly when a black mask fell out from amongst the folds.
She draped the robes carefully over the back of one of the armchairs, but couldn't bring herself to move the mask from where it lay on the hearth.
She knew it was only an object, and it was silly to be fearful of it, but it held such terrible connotations, especially for someone such as herself, a Muggle-born. It was the last thing many people like herself saw before their lives suddenly, brutally ended.
Her morbid thoughts were interrupted by a muffled sound from the direction of the bedroom. Crossing the room, she stood quietly before the closed door, listening. Louder now, she recognised the sound as a cough, a horrible hacking cough.
She stared at the closed door. What would Snape do if she ventured into his bedroom, uninvited? From the sounds coming from within, he didn't seem to be in any condition to berate her, and so, her worry outweighing her fear, she grasped the handle and pushed the door open.
"Sir?" she called.
Hearing no response, she stepped into the dim room, lit only by the glow of a solitary candle on the dresser. That light was enough to see the room was empty, and her attention turned to the only other door leading from the room, as another bout of coughing ensued from beyond it.
Before she could lose her nerve, she crossed the room, pushed the bathroom door fully open, and gasped at the sight before her.
Snape was on his knees, retching helplessly into the porcelain toilet bowl in front of which he knelt.
Seeing him now, she realised what had been odd when she'd glimpsed him as he'd returned. He must have foregone his usual layers under his Death Eater robes, for now he was clad only in black pants and a white linen shirt, so soaked with sweat that Hermione could see the pallor of his skin through the fine material.
As the door squeaked on its hinges, he turned towards the sound, still holding the toilet bowl with a white-knuckled grip.
His face was a mask of pain, paler than ever, and shining with perspiration.
"What are-" he managed, before turning away from her as another wave of hacking coughs wracked his body. His hair fell forward, obscuring his tortured features from her view, as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
Initially stunned into silence, Hermione shook herself into action. She hadn't taken those Medicinal Magic classes for nothing. A quick flick of her wand conjured a cool, damp washcloth, and she approached the Potions master.
Pallid strands of sweat-soaked hair were clinging to his cheeks, and she hesitated only momentarily before stepping up beside him and drawing his hair back from his face, holding it gently bunched at the back of his neck to prevent it falling forwards again.
She realised, as her hand brushed the back of his neck, that his whole body was shaking.
Cruciatus? she thought. What could he possibly have done to anger Voldemort enough to leave him in such a state?
Unless this was normal...
He hadn't returned like this the last few times he'd been summoned... but Voldemort had been reasonably pleased with his progress in creating the potion. Is this how Snape returned whenever he displeased his master? Her heart still clenched painfully in her chest at the thought of the Potions master having to recover from this, alone, time and again.
The coughing stopped and Snape sat back on his haunches, gasping for air, his eyes watering from the effort of retching for so long.
Hermione released her hold on his hair and pressed the washcloth into his free hand. The other was still clutching the toilet bowl to steady himself. He took the cloth without comment and wiped his face in the cool material as Hermione conjured a glass of water.
She didn't trust her voice, so she exchanged the washcloth in his hand for the glass of water in silence, regretting the action a moment later as the glass slipped through his trembling fingers.
It bounced, and she was glad she'd instinctively conjured an unbreakable glass. She conjured another, saying softly, "Let me help you."
He met her steady gaze and nodded slightly, his eyes not moving from her own as she brought the glass to his mouth, tipping it slowly to allow the cool water to pass his lips. He swallowed a few mouthfuls with some difficulty before pulling away.
She stepped back from him then, clearing the water on the floor from the first glass and turning away to place both glasses on the bench near the hand basin. She kept her back turned for as long as possible, feigning interest in the bare stone wall of the room, to give her professor the opportunity to compose himself somewhat.
It must be humiliating for him to be seen by anyone in such a state, even someone he evidently trusted more than he was willing to acknowledge aloud... by Dumbledore's account, anyway.
At least he hadn't told her to leave yet, although whether that was because he wanted her to stay, or was in no condition to argue, was another matter.
She turned back to face him when she heard movement, and watched as he rose shakily to his feet and crossed the space between them. He still looked paler than normal, and she had to resist the urge to reach out to steady him.
"Thank you," he rasped, his voice dry and scratchy, completely devoid of its usual velvet tones. It was only when she met his eyes she understood the gravity of those two words, and somewhere, through her concern and fear, she felt a strange sense of elation burst within her. Her hands were wanting to reach out to him, to help him, to comfort him and soothe his pain; but her mind was singing, He's letting me help him! He's not pushing me away!.
She realised she was still staring into his eyes, and she looked away, discomfited by their closeness in the small room. He moved past her to the hand basin and turned on the cold water with a murmured word, cupping the water in his hands and splashing his face.
She stepped out of the bathroom quietly to give him some privacy, but hesitated in going any further, her curiousity for what had happened and genuine concern for Snape stopping her from leaving entirely.
She sat carefully on the edge of a dark blue, velvet chair and took a moment to study her surroundings as well as she could in the low light.
The room certainly wasn't what she expected. Although, to be fair, she hadn't spent a great deal of time musing on the décor of the Potion master's bedroom.
If she ever managed to tell Harry and Ron about the room without them flying down to the dungeons to kill Snape, she would take great pleasure in announcing there was neither a coffin, nor a hook where the 'great, greasy bat' slept hanging from the ceiling.
The room was actually quite nice, she mused. Dark, to be sure, but not the cold and unfeeling room she might have expected. She noted, with a trace of amusement, the only Slytherin colours in sight were on a striped scarf hanging from a hook on the back of the door.
The room was graced with the same enormous windows as the sitting room, although these ones were hidden at present by heavy drapes, which seemed to match the upholstery of the armchair she was sitting on. There was a large wardrobe along one wall, similar to the one Professor Lupin had trapped the Boggart in for class during her third year. There was also a tall chest of drawers, and two smaller ones either side of the bed.
The bed itself looked... comfortable. Hermione couldn't think of a better word to describe it, really; it was the kind of bed one would look forward to sinking into after a long, hard day. The bed linen was in rich tones of ochre, contrasting beautifully with the blue drapes and chairs, and giving the room a warmth and cosiness.
The squeaky hinges of the bathroom door alerted her to Snape's presence in the room, and she stood up, her movement alerting him the fact that she hadn't left.
"You shouldn't be here," he said tiredly, barely making it across the room before sinking heavily onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight and he closed his eyes, raising a still-shaking hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"I wouldn't dream of leaving you like this, sir," she replied, matter-of-factly. "What happened?"
He exhaled a breath. "I delivered the finished Cruciatus Potion to the Dark Lord."
"I don't understand," she said slowly. "How... if you gave him what he wanted..."
"Why did he do this?" He gestured to himself and sighed. "As you know, I've been taking him a variety of potion samples over the last few weeks to demonstrate my progress. Although I delivered the proper potion tonight, I still took some other samples with me, less he wonder why I was so sure this one would work."
Hermione nodded, straining to hear his voice, which was still nothing more than a soft rasp.
"I saved the real potion for last, and tested the other two on," his voice faltered momentarily, and he turned his gaze to the floor, "...on some Muggles the Death Eaters had captured."
Hermione swallowed, feeling sickened.
"The Dark Lord became angry when the samples killed the victims instantly, painlessly. He ordered me to test the contents of the last phial myself," Snape finished quietly.
"What?" She stood abruptly, moving to stand in front of him. He raised his head, and she noticed the sweat still beading across his forehead.
"It works, then," she whispered, a dull sense of dread filling her as the Potions master chuckled bitterly, then coughed again.
"I'd say so," he muttered, clearing his throat with pained effort. "Better than I would have ever imagined, if you'll forgive the choice of words."
She nodded in agreement. 'Better' certainly didn't cut it. Snape was silent for a moment, and Hermione watched him, seeing, even in the low light, the tremors still running through his body.
"What was it like?" she whispered.
"It was..." he paused, searching for the right words, "...I don't know how to describe it. The power of the Cruciatus spell, as you probably know, is dependant on the wizard casting it. It cannot be sustained for any length of time, and although it can be recast, there is always time to recover, to take a breath. This was different; there was no relief. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think... I know I was screaming, until my voice gave out... and after a while I must have blacked out, because when I came to my senses, I was alone."
His voice broke, and somehow, in the course of his narrative, Hermione found herself kneeling on the floor next to the bed, clasping one of his hands in her own. He didn't pull away, but merely stared at something above and behind her, waiting for her to make a move.
For her part, Hermione was speechless. She was horrified, both at what he'd been through, and the detachment with which he talked about it. His unresponsiveness to the familiarity of her taking his hand had unnerved her, and she wondered if he was in some sort of shock.
She daren't suggest any potions, lest they react with the one undoubtedly still in his system from earlier that night.
Potions,she thought. How could I have forgotten?
"The antidote," she exclaimed aloud, standing up, but hesitated when he shook his head.
"It won't be ready until tomorrow," he said, grimacing. "It needs to simmer for thirty-six hours after the dropping have been added."
"You should get some rest, then," she offered.
"No," he said, standing up, too. "There's much to be done. The Dark Lord wants a full batch of the potion by next Saturday."
The Potions master strode across the room towards the sitting room door. He made it halfway before faltering and grasping the back of the armchair for support. He leant there a moment, breathing heavily, and Hermione came up next to him.
"Sir, please," she implored. "You can't do anything like this. You need to rest until the effects of the potion have worn off."
"We don't know how long that might be," he protested without a trace of his usual persuasion. "I cannot afford to waste time."
"You'll be no good to anyone if you blow up your cauldron through exhaustion, and you're in no condition to accurately prepare ingredients when you're shaking like this."
She grasped his shoulder, firmly enough to feel the involuntary tremors still coursing through him. It was only then she realised his shirt was still damp with sweat, and cold.
"You'll catch a chill, too" she said quietly, giving his sleeve a gentle tug and guiding him back to sit on the edge of his bed again. "You should change into something dry."
He nodded numbly, and reached for the top button of his shirt. It was a mark of how out of it he was that he would do so in front of her, but it didn't matter, because his fingers were trembling so badly he couldn't undo it. He sighed and dropped his hand back to his lap.
"Do you want me to help you?" she asked carefully.
He exhaled a breath, colour rising ever so slightly in his pale cheeks.
"Want? No," he said. "Need? It would appear so."
She stepped forward again, breathing evenly through her nose and trying to stop her own fingers trembling as she reached for the first button under his chin.
He tilted his head back, allowing her easier access, and closed his eyes, remaining that way as she worked each button loose, When she reached the point where the shirt disappeared into the top of his trousers, she hesitated, and looked up to find him watching her contemplatively. She felt a blush rise in her own cheeks, and she stepped back, hoping the low light in the room was masking her discomfort.
"I'll just, er, go out there for a moment," she murmured, gesturing to the sitting room.
"That won't be necessary," he said, and she looked up, startled. Did he mean...
"You may return to your own quarters, Miss Granger," he continued.
Oh.
"Will you be all right, sir?" she asked.
"I'm sure I'll be fine," he replied, a trace of a sneer, albeit a half-hearted one, creeping onto his face. "However, if you should like to return in the morning when the antidote is complete, you may observe the final stage of the brewing process."
She nodded, biting her lip, and after a moment turned to the door.
"Miss Granger," he called softly after her.
She paused and turned back. He had risen from the edge of the bed, again, though he was still grasping the corner of the four-poster for support.
"I-" he began, then paused a moment before simply saying, "Your assistance is appreciated."
He looked so unlike the feared Potions master, standing there, in the dim light, a strip of pale chest visible down the open front of his shirt, his limp hair wet and dishevelled.
She nodded, allowing herself a small smile before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.
He really was just a man, she realised, after all was said and done. Without the robes, without the sneer, without people judging him by the brand on his arm, he was just a soldier fighting in a war; someone who had contributed so much yet received so little in return.
She understood, after seeing him tonight, why Dumbledore had put the two of them together. If someone had told her months ago she'd be standing in the Potion master's bedroom with him half-dressed, she'd have been handing them Floo powder and directions to St Mungo's in an instant. Now, though, she was glad the Headmaster had pushed their reluctant association, glad that she could be there to assist Snape in his time of need, and that he had allowed her to help.
She knew, when he was in his right mind again, he would probably try to push her away, hurt her with his harsh words or his silence, but she wouldn't be deterred. She was in this now for the duration. True, he was still as sarcastic, stoic and stubborn as ever, but he was no longer cruel. All pretences aside, the Potions master was just human, and capable of hurting just like anyone else.
She stared at the closed bedroom door. She knew he'd told her to leave, but she couldn't bring herself to go back to her own rooms. The effects of the potion seemed to be wearing off, but they were really dealing with an unknown. There was no telling whether the symptoms would flare up again through the night, and she intended to be there, just in case the worse happened.
And, she could admit it to herself, even if she'd never tell another soul, she wanted to stay because she genuinely cared for the man in the next room, as a teacher, as a mentor, of sorts, and as a friend.
She glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was just after midnight. The antidote would be ready in eleven hours..
She took off her outer robe and, frowning in momentary concentration, configured the garment into a soft rug. Then she curled up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, tucking the rug tightly around her.
Several times during the night, she got up to stand with her ear pressed to the bedroom door, listening for sounds of discomfort from within. More than once, she had to consciously restrain herself from actually opening the door.
Each time, she returned to her chair and stared into the dying embers of the fire, flashes of the night's events playing over in her mind. Sleep was a long time coming.
To be continued...
A/N: This chapter took a little longer write than usual... but it's longer than usual, so I hope that makes up for the delay!
Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! Your comments are always appreciated. As always, the next chapter is already posted at the On-line Wizarding Library. See my author page or LJ (snarkyroxy) for the link!
