Chapter 6
Hermione felt decidedly ill, even feverish. A quick fever scan with her wand showed her temperature to be just over 101 F. Her head felt very heavy, her chest congested and tight. She fought dizziness as she drug her aching body from the bed and wobbled shakily to her bathroom.
The sight she saw in the mirror was no more comforting than the complaints of her body. Her face was peaked, except for the high spots of color flushing her cheeks. Her pupils were dilated, and a fine sheen of sweat lay upon her brow.
Somehow, she managed to dress and perform a cursory toilette. Then, she took up her bag and trudged out the portrait hole and moved toward the Potions room dazedly.
As she stepped up to the double doors, she checked her watch, and let a small smile turn up the corners of her pale lips. "Five minutes early," she whispered in quiet triumph.
"Why do you stand outside those doors for the second morning in a row?" Snape said through the door in exasperation. "Who is lurking now?" Hermione could hear the poorly disguised laughter in his voice, and it made her smile all the more.
The doors swung open to reveal Hermione to Snape's almost playful gaze. But, as his eyes took in his assistant's sickly appearance, his expression abruptly changed to mild shock. "Miss Granger, are you quite well?" he asked, his voice low and almost concerned.
"I'm fine," she sighed, waving the question away with a languid hand.
But, the truth was the walk to the Potions room had done her no good at all. Her breathing was now labored and the dizziness was making her head spin. She shook as she stepped further into the room. But, suddenly the room seemed to be moving and heaving all about her. "Miss Granger!" Snape shouted, as he moved quickly to her side, placing his hand at her elbow and bringing his eyes level with hers.
"I'm fine," she slurred breathlessly. "Just a little warm …" Then the darkness began to close in around her. "Sir?" she cried, clutching at his arms fearfully. And, her eyes rolled back in her head. She felt herself spinning and falling. There was a roaring in her ears, and her lips went numb. Then, the darkness completely took her.
And she knew no more.
A brief and brutal consciousness, punctuated by the rush of cool air on her fevered face and the familiar and strangely comforting scent of bitter herbs and clean, warm wool, only served to confuse Hermione's already reeling mind. She could find no grappling point to anchor her, and it was terrifying. She heard a rasping cry, her own, then a soft voice hovering somewhere above her.
"It's all right, Miss Granger. Do not upset yourself. I will help you." The voice, more than the words comforted her, before she welcomed the all-encompassing darkness once again.
Oh, God … my chest! Can't breathe! Can't breathe! Hermione's mind was swimming in terrified panic. She thought in jagged punctuation marks. Her eyes opened to slits. God, the light! Too bright! It hurts! It hurts! Please!
Hermione did not know if she had spoken out loud, but the next moment, she felt a large firm hand at the back of her head pushing her up to half-reclining, and the cool, smooth rim of a goblet gently being pressed to her painfully dry lips. She scrabbled at the hand holding the intrusive object ineffectually.
No! Can't breathe! Stop! Her eyes opened wide, rolling with abject terror. A face swam into focus—a face framed in black, with a furrowed brow and glinting black eyes, and lips pursed in determination.
Snape?
"Come now, Miss Granger," he said patiently, gently. "Take your potion. It will make you feel better."
The voice. Yes. she thought, calming immediately. I can trust him. He's just trying to help. And she stopped fighting the ministering hand holding the goblet and swallowed the potion. Her last thought was, Wretched! Then, merciful sleep descended upon her once more.
Several times more, Hermione came to the surface, and there was the voice, the face, the hands, and the goblet of "wretched" potion. Each time she awoke was less difficult than the last. And, each time, Snape spoke to her soothingly, handling her with a gentle, but firm hand.
Then, all at once, she awoke and knew she had come back for good. There was no more pain, no more fever, and her mind was fully alert. Opening her eyes, she half expected to see Snape's face above her as before. She turned her head slowly and let her eyes focus. She was in the hospital wing, and she was alone.
"Was it all a dream?" she groaned.
"Was what all a dream, dear?" came the crisp, but friendly voice of Madam Pomfrey through Hermione's partition. Then, with a bustle of crinoline, the lady herself appeared beside her patient's bed, holding a small tray of potions vials. "I am glad you are finally with us again." She smiled kindly.
"Yes, thank you," Hermione answered, as she tried to pull herself up to sitting.
"Oh, no, no, no!" Madam Pomfrey clucked, as she put the tray on the table and descended on her to settle her back on the bed. "There'll be none of that just yet. You're still far too weak."
Hermione fell back gratefully. "How long have I been here, Madam Pomfrey?" she asked in barely a whisper, closing her eyes against the light-headed feeling trying to overwhelm her.
"Three days, Miss Granger," the good matron replied seriously. "And, it was a very near thing for a good bit of the time. You had a rather stubborn high fever. My treatments didn't seem to touch it at first."
"Gracious!" Hermione gasped, eyes wide in her still pale face. "What was wrong with me?"
"Pneumonia, dear," Madam Pomfrey replied as she opened the first of the vials and handed it to Hermione. "Made worse, if I do not miss my guess, by exhaustion and lack of proper care for yourself," she finished tersely, watching her patient out of the corner of her eyes.
Hermione felt the sudden urge to apologise, for she knew Madam Pomfrey was quite right. She'd been careless, not eating properly, not sleeping … "I know," Hermione said with a sigh, trying not to sound like a petulant child that had been caught being naughty. "It's just there's so much to do and …"
"Yes, I know, dear. I don't mean to scold. But, you'll have to be more careful in future. No pushing yourself like that again." She eyed Hermione severely, but Hermione saw the genuine concern in the medi-witch's eyes and it warmed her.
"Yes, ma'am," she replied obediently. "I'm only sorry that I was so much trouble. I'm sure I needed a great deal of attention and, with the wing being full, it must have been a hardship on you."
"Not on me," Madam Pomfrey smiled. "It's the wizard who brought you here you'll want to be apologising to, if you've a mind."
"Snape? He helped a bit with my care?" Hermione asked carefully, as she remembered what she had begun to think of as just a dream.
"I should say so! In fact, until last night, when your fever finally broke, he never really left. He only took his rest in fits and spurts over there in that bed." Madam Pomfrey gestured behind her, directing Hermione's eyes to the still rumpled cot several feet away from her own bed.
Hermione's eyes widened with shock. "Oh, my," she whispered.
"Stubborn man! It'll be a wonder if he manages to keep his own health," Madam Pomfrey continued, as she opened a second vial, an herbal decongestant, and handed it to her stunned patient. "As soon as he realised I would be too busy to constantly attend you myself, he insisted on staying."
The fretting matron stoppered the now empty vial Hermione had dutifully drained and reached for the third and last vial, a strengthening potion, and absently opened it and handed it over. "I told him that each of my assistants had volunteered to sit with you, but he wouldn't hear of it." Hermione watched as Madam Pomfrey replaced the vial on her tray and picked it up with a huff.
"You gave him quite a time, I must say—all flailing arms and fevered cries, but he was as patient with you as I'd ever hoped to see him." The matron turned to go, but stopped suddenly and turned again as she reached the partition, a thoughtful look on her softened face. "He must think something of you, Miss Granger. He's never done anything like that for anyone," her eyes sparkled slightly. "Not even one of his Slytherins."
Madam Pomfrey smiled knowingly at Hermione's gobsmacked expression. "I'll send Miss Weasley in to help you with a nice wash up before you sleep again," she said kindly. And she stepped away.
Hermione was left with her mouth hanging open, as she stared at the spot where Madam Pomfrey had been standing only seconds before. She did not know what to think of what she had just heard. But, if her tired mind even had the inclination to examine this strange conversation, she wasn't given much time to do so.
Ginny came bounding in, a bright smile on her smooth, if freckled face. "Madam Pomfrey said you were up. Are you ready for a bath?" she asked as she placed an enameled wash bowl on the bedside table.
Hermione nodded. "Hello, Ginny," she said absently. Ginny carefully placed an extra pillow behind Hermione's head, so that she wasn't lying flat. Then, she reached into the bowl for a flannel and wrung it out before handing it to her friend. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you," she said, folding her hands before her and regarding her dear friend with a satisfied expression.
Hermione gratefully passed the warm, damp flannel over her face, with a contented sigh. It felt good to get some of the grime of the last few days off. "Thank you, I feel better, too."
"Well, I should hope so," Ginny said, as she took the flannel from her to re-wet it. "You had the best care possible." Ginny pretended to be busy with the rag and bowl, but Hermione saw the sly expression on her face and the way she was watching her out of the corner of her eyes.
"All right, Ginny," Hermione sighed heavily, doing her best to appear put upon. "Say what you've got to say."
Ginny all but leapt at the bedside in sudden excitement, making Hermione jump. She seated herself on the visitor's chair, and leaned in toward her friend confidentially. "Oh, Hermione! He was brilliant!" she said excitedly, trying to keep her voice down for privacy's sake. "Snape, I mean … he hardly ever left your side, and he wouldn't allow anyone else to tend you! He administered all your potions to you, and from what I observed he was very—well, gentle about it."
Ginny's eyes were shining and her face glowed. "Do you remember anything? I mean, I know you were pretty well out of it, but can you remember him being here at all?"
Hermione was staring at her friend, trying to contain her reaction to Ginny's rhapsodising. "I remember," she said softly, "some of it."
Ginny clasped her hands in her lap delightedly, her smile widening. "I told you he cares about you! This just proves it! Why, even Madam Pomfrey said …"
"I know, she told me," Hermione interrupted, before Ginny could get going again. She let a shy smile creep up on her face at the memory.
Ginny reached over and patted her friend's hand. "What do you think of my "bad joke", now?" Hermione only rolled her eyes in response to Ginny's obvious reference to their conversation in the Great Hall a few days previously.
"Well," Ginny said gleefully, jumping up to charm the bath water warm again. "I think I am right, and the two of you are perfect for one another." Hermione stared at her friend, struggling to keep her expression neutral. "And, I think Snape would agree with me."
"Ginny!" Hermione exclaimed, her pale face reddening furiously.
Ginny only laughed and pushed the bath bowl across the bedside table and nearer to her patient. "Why don't you finish your bath, whilst I get your lunch tray. Then, I'll help you change into a fresh gown. All right?"
"All right," Hermione agreed, feeling thankful for the change of subject. The shy smile was back, and she did not meet Ginny's eyes.
Ginny sailed out of the room, and Hermione blew out a tension-filled breath with grateful relief.
Heavens! she thought, feeling all the more flustered, that girl is incorrigible!
She took up the flannel and, with slightly shaking hands finished her wash up. "I can't wait to have a proper bath," she murmured under her breath.
She was trying her best to be calm about the revelations of the last approximately fifteen harrowing minutes, but it wasn't working. It was obvious she had some thinking to do, if all that Madam Pomfrey and Ginny had related to her was true. As she had no reason to suppose otherwise, she let bits and snatches of the two conversations reel through her mind as if she were watching it all happen before her eyes once again. She could only come to one conclusion.
They could be right. She thought tentatively. It would seem Snape might be harboring some deeper feelings for me. She paused again, just letting the thought sink in. Now the question remains, 'What do I think about that?'
Hermione felt her heart leap to her throat, just as Ginny popped back in, bearing a small tray containing a mini teapot, cup, small bowl of soup, and a vial of what looked to be a sleeping draught of some kind. "I'm afraid it's not much," Ginny said regretfully.
"It's all right," Hermione smiled wanly. "I don't think I could manage more."
"Shall I help you change into your fresh gown before you eat?" Hermione nodded, though she felt so tired that such a simple chore seemed overwhelming.
But, somehow it was done, and Hermione found herself propped up, her lunch tray before her. She felt much fresher, and even a little hungry. She began on her soup without further ado, while Ginny puttered about the area straightening her covers and arranging her table. Finally, Hermione finished her meal, and Ginny collected the tray.
"Thanks, Ginny," she said in tired, but contented tones.
"You're quite welcome," Ginny smiled, as she turned to go, but then she stopped and turned to Hermione again. "Oh, when I went to your room to get your things, I remembered to get your journal from your bedside table." she eyed Hermione knowingly. "I thought you might want it."
"Thanks, Ginny," Hermione said again, her eyes speaking volumes.
Ginny winked at her. "Don't forget your potion." Hermione nodded, took up the vial from her table and uncorked it. "I'll see you later."
Hermione swallowed her potion and scooted down in bed until her head rested comfortably on her pillow. Finally, she was alone with her thoughts.
Snape woke with a start, his heart pounding with urgency. He all but scrambled up into a sitting position his head whipping back and forth, as though he was looking for something—or, someone. It took him a moment to realise he was in his own bed, in his own room, and not in the hospital wing—with her.
With a shake of his head, his memory of the last few days came flooding back to him, starting with last night when Madam Pomfrey had swished her wand over Hermione's perfectly inert form and smilingly assured him his assistant was out of danger. Such joy, such relief had flooded him! He felt it even now.
The fever that had persisted so dangerously was gone and the horrible strident breathing had eased. She would live, and he did not feel compelled to question why the knowledge made him so very happy and—what was the word—at ease, for the first time in days.
In fact, he felt no need at all to question his feelings, because he had not only admitted to himself that he had them, but had all ready succumbed to them.
Watching Hermione—yes, she was Hermione to him now, if only in his mind—struggle for every breath, knowing that her out-of-control fever could kill her, thus taking her from him forever, had forced him to acknowledge in his heretofore resistant mind what was most assuredly all ready crystal clear to his heart.
He closed his eyes, and felt again the terror he had struggled with in the last few days rise up in him again. He had never felt so fearful—so out of control. He had hardly been able to bear watching her suffer so terribly. But, whenever the thought had come to him that she might not make it …
In those horrifying hours at her bedside he had held her hand and just willed her to survive, repeating the thought over and over in his mind. He had sometimes even said it out loud, but only when he was alone with her, of course.
"You will live, Hermione," he had said in soft, but steely tones, his eyes on her pale face, his hands clutching at hers. "You cannot die. I simply won't allow it."
He had never felt that way about anyone. He had never loved anyone. But, now he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he loved Hermione Granger.
He knew she deserved better, that he really had no right to hope, but none of that changed the way he felt. Not even the knowledge that she probably didn't hold him in such high esteem could quash his fervor.
Of course, it pained him to think she might not have him. Oh, yes, it stabbed at his insides, causing a white hot ache in his heart, but it in no way lessoned his sentiment.
"It probably should," he muttered, running a hand over his face and grimacing. "If I had any sense at all, I'd run far and fast from such a losing battle." Hadn't he heard Hermione speak about someone she all ready might have an attraction for?
But, despite these depressing ruminations, Snape knew he could run to the ends of the earth and it wouldn't change his heart. He was like a bear with its paw caught in a steel trap. There was no getting away from the claw-like grip. And struggling only hurt all the more and did more damage. He would just have to await his fate. There was simply no other way.
He was by no means ready to speak to Hermione about this. But, she was a smart girl, and he had no doubt that, no matter how subtle he tried to be from this point on, she would most likely figure out some of what he was feeling based on the happenings of the last few days. He knew Madam Pomfrey certainly had. And, he had seen a knowing look on Ginny Weasley's face a time or two, as well.
Oh, yes! You've been well and truly found out, old man, he mentally chided himself.
But, none of that had really mattered to him while he was insisting on caring for her, or wrestling potions down her throat, or holding and stroking her hand, when she was quiet, and no one else was in the area. (God! How he had searched her face for any sign that her torment was nearing its end!) And, it didn't matter to him now, really. What did matter, above all else was that she had lived. He felt he could bear anything that happened from now on because of that one shining truth. Nothing, but nothing, mattered so much as that.
"She lives," he whispered, as his heavy eyes fell closed.
With that, contentment suffused him completely. He fell back onto his bed heavily and let sleep overtake him.
Hermione had slept for some hours, her dreams haunted by the gentle, deep voice, dark eyes, and agonised face of Snape, as she had seen them before, when she had been in the heat of her illness and fighting for consciousness. She felt heavy in mind and body. She could see Snape's lips moving, as he tried to speak to her. She strained to make sense of the sounds he was making, but they seemed to be only mindless babblings. She felt him pressing her hand with his own, only it was as if he was wearing a pair of thick woolen gloves. She very much wished to answer him, but her mouth would not open; her voice would not come forth. She could only look upon the dream Snape with wildly pleading eyes.
I hear you, sir! I hear you! But, I cannot speak!
Suddenly, jarringly, his voice amplified, and the words came clear. "Miss Granger, wake up! It's time for you dosage. Wake up!"
Hermione felt her consciousness slam to the surface. She could feel his hands, minus the gloves, squeezing her hand and shaking her arm gently. She could feel the mattress against her back. She swallowed … tried to speak, as she blinked her eyes slowly. Snape's real face materialised, as she oriented herself to her surroundings. She watched as the lines around his eyes and mouth smoothed out in visible relief.
"Good evening," he said softly, the slightest quaver disturbing the rich tones. Hermione only blinked at him for a moment, a slight shiver running through her.
"Good evening," she garbled, at last. "May I have a drink of water?" Snape nodded and his face moved out of Hermione's range of vision. She heard him pour the water from her bedside pitcher, as she let her eyes close again.
Then, Snape's arm slipped gently behind her neck and shoulders, and her eyes flew open. His face was very near hers, his eyes fixed on her. She saw genuine concern in those eyes, and it startled her. He face grew warm, and she knew she was blushing.
"Let me help you," he murmured. Then, he very slowly and carefully lifted Hermione to a seated position and put the goblet to her parched lips. She closed her eyes and drank deeply, not even stopping to breathe until the goblet was drained.
"So thirsty …" she panted, as Snape drew the cup away.
"Yes," he said, almost soothingly. "You were feverish for days. It will be necessary for you to replenish your fluids often for a while." She nodded.
He did not move to release her, but brought a vial to her lips. "Your anti-viral," he said by way of explanation, and tipped it carefully into her mouth. Like a trusting child she received it from his hand, her eyes owlish, as she watched him. He let his mouth quirk into a barely there smile.
When she had finished the entire dosage, she felt him shift her forward a bit more and place pillows behind her. When he was satisfied with their placement, he leaned her back comfortably upon them. "All right?" he asked. She nodded, and he pulled away.
"Yes, thank you," she said with an appreciative, if lopsided smile. She was so tired. She felt drugged and wondered if it was a residual effect of the sleeping draught she'd taken. "I think I will ask Madam Pomfrey for a milder sleeping potion next time," Hermione said thoughtfully, as she settled deeper into her pillows.
"I think that would be wise," he countered, as he pulled the visitor's chair up to her bedside and sat down. "You were very difficult to awaken." The two were quiet then, but it was not an uncomfortable silence.
The last of the days sun fell silently upon Hermione's bed, leaving her face in shadow. A small, somewhat ineffective candle stub burned on her bedside table. By its soft light, she could see Snape's face. He was watching her, his expression neutral.
"Thank you," she said softly. He continued to regard her impassively. "For staying with me, I mean. And, taking care of me."
"You are welcome," he said softly. "I was—happy to help." He leaned forward a bit as he said this, letting her see his eyes. The look in them made her breath hitch.
A soft, "Oh," escaped her.
He cares for me, she thought, a shock of electric realisation shooting through her. I cannot doubt it now. Her eyes widened for just a moment. She thought she saw his lips curve up slightly.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"A little," she answered absently. Her mind was whirling with the deeper revelation.
Snape turned to retrieve a small tray with yet another bowl of soup upon it. He levitated it to just the right height above her lap, so that she could eat comfortably. "More soup." Hermione grinned.
"Yes," Snape smirked. "Fluids, Miss Granger," he reminded her.
"Call me, 'Hermione'," she said suddenly, her eyes shooting up to capture his. He looked slightly startled—questioning. "You've seen me at some of my worst moments," she said firmly. "It seems silly to maintain such unfamiliarity."
He nodded slowly. "All right, Hermione," It amazed both of them how easily her name rolled off his tongue.
She gave him a pleased smile, and he felt amazed at that, too. "Well, I will leave you to your dinner." He stood to go.
"Will you come back tomorrow?" Hermione asked. She could hear the slight anxiousness in her voice. She wondered if he could hear it, too.
He walked to the partition before answering her, an amused smirk on his face. "I will come," he said simply.
She smiled again. "Good night, sir."
"Severus," he said softly. Then, he was gone.