6. In the still of the night
Hermione's flat was small, and very, very clean.
Severus stood in the middle of her living room, allowing the pain-relieving potion she had given him time to take effect. He felt big and a bit out of place among her dainty furniture.
He also felt rather lucky. Out of all the things he'd learned this night, one now stood out to him like a beacon:
She and Potter were definitely not together.
Actually, there were no signs of a male presence in her flat. It was sparsely decorated but with a distinctly feminine touch. She had charmed several bluebell flames upon their arrival, and they filled the room with a dimmed blueish light.
She had many books, stacked neatly in shelves. The only work-related object was a small desk near the living room window. There was nothing on it though, except a few papers and a rectangular flat object connected to an electrical cord. There was a small framed photograph on the mantle, picturing her with Potter and Ronald Weasley. It looked quite recent.
His eyes strayed to the gentle curve of Hermione's back as she prepared something to eat in the small, spick-and-span kitchen. Beneath her official cloak, she had been wearing pyjamas and slippers. It felt very intimate that she would allow him to see her sleepwear.
He straightened. Apparently, he needed to distract himself.
"Exactly when did Potter get this demanding?"
She expertly changed the filter of a coffee maker, which looked like it had flown directly out of 'Star Wars'. He felt a brief pang of loss for his old orange Moccamaster. Stains and everything.
"Harry thinks you're a great hero, Severus."
He snorted, shaking his head. "Well I think he has a hard time of showing it."
"It's true." Hermione turned. "I suppose the thing is," she said, frowning, "that in Harry's world, you can't retire from being a hero. He thought you'd be perfectly willing to help because of what you did in the war."
He leaned his shoulder on the kitchen doorframe as the promising aroma of coffee filled the air. "Does he think it's a chronic disease? Those were never acts of heroism, not in any way. For someone so powerful, he's a pitiable judge of character. Always was, the twit."
She smacked his arm with a rag. He smirked, catching it. She shook her head. "Shut it, you git. Now, go and sit down."
There was a perch in the kitchen, inhabited by a small tawny. It was watching him with round, yellow eyes.
"Wait. Hermione, may I borrow your owl?"
"Of course, Severus." She said distractedly, pouring the coffee. "Her name is Dizzy. Just let her out the window there."
Honestly. What was with this woman and terrible pet names? She'd had a cat at one point he recalled, in school, with another odd name. He couldn't quite remember, but it had something to do with being deformed. Poor beast.
He undid his dirty coat and draped it over a chair. Somehow, his reading glasses had miraculously survived the fire, safely tucked into the inside pocket. He swiftly penned a note with one of Hermione's ballpoints, and petted poor Dizzy's neck.
"Such a pretty little lady too."
She hooted softly, lightly nibbling his finger before taking flight.
When he looked back up, Hermione was watching him.
"Why haven't you healed your nose?"
He grimaced, not yet willing to tell her everything about his impaired magic. "Maybe I was hoping you would do it?"
Her hands went to her hips but he could tell that she was supressing a smile. "Oh, really?" She moved to the sofa. "That's presumptuous of you. But if you sit down, I might oblige."
He did as he was told, closing his eyes when her soft fingers reached out to feel his face.
"It's broken." She was incredibly close and he relished the feel of her warmth against his left thigh. "Just a moment." There was a quiet swish, and his nose straightened with a snap. He opened his eyes.
"There, all better." Her face was so close that he could count the small freckles on her nose, and for a moment, neither of them drew away. He inhaled her breath, his mind screaming touch her! But he had hesitated for too long, and when he blinked, she had pulled back to crouch on the floor.
"Now your foot."
As she set to work on the sacrificed toe, she lectured him on the benefits of incorporating muggle science and technology into the wizarding world. In her view, the wizarding world was backwards in its ways and beliefs, a conviction she underlined by waving his new compress around and through frequent usage of the phrases 'terribly inefficient' and 'dreadfully old-fashioned'.
Severus didn't know up from down anymore. A new world order seemed to be in the making, and he'd been oblivious to it. It was quite frightening. At this point, he couldn't see how it was going to work. Either, Hermione was incredibly naïve, or he was one big pessimist. However, as she laid out about the 'internet', and international trade, and globalisation, he could gradually understand that the merging with muggle society probably was inevitable.
The feeling was of being shanghaied. The world had changed. For good or for evil, he had no idea but here he was, just the same as before.
They drank coffee, and ate, and talked some more until she fell asleep in her chair.
She had curled up like a cat, her head on the armrest. How someone could sleep in that position was a complete mystery to him but he didn't want to wake her, so he left her be, draping a blanket around her shoulders.
He used her facilities, took a shower, and upturned the vial of draught of peace that he'd found in her bathroom cabinet.
His mind quieted and he laid down on the sofa.
He could recall Hermione's nimble fingers as she tended to his nose and his foot. He'd caught the scent of PG tips, and flowers from her bent head. Her hair was beautiful. Wild, like a lion's mane. But her ways and her touch were soft and gentle. She was lovely.
He fell asleep watching her, and his rest was carefree and sweet.