Measure for Measure
"An inevitable spiral of self-destruction," Severus summed up, his voice too cool, too impassive. "This incident proves that you cannot control or contain your magic anymore. Worse, whenever I take the surplus magic from you, your energy returns quicker and stronger."
"Wow." A sound. A gasp – not a word. A painful cough to clear her throat.
"Wow," Hermione repeated hoarsely.
Then silence spread, wrapped the room into its invisible cocoon. The only sound came from the cat, as Crookshanks noisily revved up his purring. Hermione's fingers trailed the bandages around her right hand. Then she raised her left to inspect the scratches that covered it. Those wounds had been quite deep, caused by sharp splinters embedded in her flesh. Now some were scabbed over, others nothing but pink marks. Faint and thin, they looked like well-healed claw-marks of a playful kitten, nothing more. Certainly not like scars left by a nearly fatal explosion.
"Is there a way we can measure the process?" Hermione asked. "Not just how quickly my magic is returning, but how strong?"
Severus stared at her, black eyes glittering. He sat unnaturally still. Only that tiny muscle that kept twitching at the corner of his mouth betrayed his agitation. When he replied, he spoke slowly and carefully, as if he was trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I … don't think anyone … has ever tried to … measure magic. That … is a very … Muggle concept."
Hermione smirked – the very notion that Muggles could come up with something useful! Even Severus was not free from those old-fashioned prejudices. "Still, it might come in handy right now."
He raised a finger, trailing his thin lips. The muscle in his cheek quieted. He must have been afraid how she'd react to the news, Hermione realised, scared of more screaming, more hysterics.
"Yes," he agreed softly, "it would be extremely useful in your case. And not only there … But this is magic, Hermione, not Muggle science. The most important magical law is still that magic defies such strictures."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I know that! I think it's still worth a try." She fell silent, pondering the problem, objectively, dispassionately – as if it was a question in an exam, not a question of her life … and, eventually, her death.
Light, maybe, she thought. The Lumos spell. Muggles measured light all the time. Its intensity, its frequency, its polarisation.
But she couldn't cast the spell – and if she could, they wouldn't have to measure her magic in the first place! Damn it! Her throat constricted, tears burnt in her eyes. Pain seared through her, as she involuntarily tried to ball her hands into fists. "Damn it!" she exclaimed and dashed at her good eye with a shaking hand. "I'm better, Severus, I'm really, really better. I've done everything the healers told me to do! I've never skipped a therapy session, and God knows that I'm not the type who enjoys that endless navel-gazing! I should be better now! I should have been able to pick up a wand! I wanted to! So much!"
Severus' eyes glittered darkly as he watched her, but his face betrayed no emotion. "You may have wanted to pick up a wand, Hermione," he said softly, "and I wouldn't blame you if it was just to hex Ferguson and his cronies into tomorrow. But obviously that wasn't enough. Magic is more than its tools and toys – wands, spells, and charms. It's not as simple as getting on the broo… as getting on a horse again after you've been thrown off. Your magic must become a part of you again."
"I know!" shouted Hermione. "I know that! Why do you think I've been doing all that therapy? Because I enjoy it so much to talk about the time when I thought I'd killed you and Harry?" She pressed her lips together. She refused to start wailing like a hysterical child.
Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. The muscle at his mouth was jumping again nervously, betraying just how tense her husband was. "Muggle therapy may not be enough," he said at last. "I dare say it has helped you with the … the mundane, psychological trauma. Your attacks of agoraphobia and claustrophobia have diminished. Your nightmares are not as severe as they were. We have always known that magic is affected by emotions, so it did make sense to assume that as you healed emotionally, you would also heal magically. However, that is clearly not happening. Consequently there are two alternatives: either we are dealing with a specific after-effect of the leeching curse, or what you need is some kind of magical therapy."
"Only of course there is nothing like that," Hermione said bitterly. "As the residents of the Janus Thickey Ward can attest. It's like measuring magic – one of those weird Muggle things. Unless we can fix something with some foolish wand waving, we're more helpless than Muggles if something goes wrong."
Again silence. Caustic, constraining, an invisible, inescapable web.
"I'm not giving up," Hermione insisted suddenly. "Not yet."
Aghast, Severus jumped up. "Do you think I'm giving up on you? Hermione –"
"No! No! Of course not!" Hermione was instantly on her feet, something she regretted instantly as the room pulsed in grey and white and black around her. She swayed, and if Severus hadn't caught her, she would have fallen.
When she was safely back in her bed, Severus sat down at her side, gently cradling her hands. "I'll never give up on you, Hermione," he whispered. "Never."
"I know," she replied, squeezing his fingers lightly with her left hand. "I know." The intensity of his declaration almost scared her. What if they were forced to give up in the end? What would that do to him? She shuddered.
"Look at it this way," she said at last, her smile a little forced and rather lop-sided, "we'll pioneer in applied magical metaphysics. What an opportunity for academics like us!"
oooOooo
A/N: "Measure for measure" is, of course, an allusion to the play and the original Biblical quote.
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