“beyond wandpoint” 077a by gingerbred

[beyondwandpoint]

“11 11q Tuesday - Self-Medicating 2” Part 1

Hermione and Severus, Crooks

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Originally Published: 2018-06-08 on AO3
Chapter: 077 part 1

The original version of this chapter exceeded livejournal’s maximum post length. It’s been split in two parts.

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Hermione's in a much better frame of mind. It really is that simple with her. The Professor seems a little grumpy and confused again, and she feels somewhat responsible, naturally, because he'd been in a much better mood before she kept peppering him with questions. Belatedly she thinks she should have quit while they were ahead. Feeling she owes him somehow, she casts about for something... appeasing.

"I wasn't trying to antagonise you..." There's no sign of any recognition about him, so she further prompts, "With my uniform..." Her hand goes to her throat, miming the fixing of her tie.

He looks even more confused now, but less grumpy. She takes that as a win. Hermione really doesn't need all that much encouragement to run with something.

"I can make it a point not to wear my tie in quarters?" She offers her olive branch with a friendly smile. He tests the bond for other aspects and... nothing. It's... uncomplicated. And truly is... friendly. Hopeful. Sincere. It draws a huff of laughter from him as he accepts it.

"I can assure you, your tie is hardly the problem." She's biting her lip again. There are two options, he suspects, that she could be concerned about - herself and her House, and he'd only just reassured her as to the first. He fervently hopes that was sufficient; he doesn't think he's capable of more. "Nor is your House," he states firmly, and there. She stops masticating her poor lip. It's stunning how easy that is. Which again has him continuing, "It's the uniform as such that's objectionable, and the requirement for it. I believe I've made my feelings about being bonded to a student clear. The reminder of your status doesn't... help."

She practically leaps up - the feline lets out a startled 'Mrowr' of indignation as it's knocked from her lap, that seems to be becoming a thing - and she disappears into her room leaving the door open wide behind her.

He and the cat exchange bewildered glances, he's half wondering if he insulted her, which he may well have done, but she doesn't feel... He has no idea what that is. But it doesn't feel... unpleasant. It feels... energised. Purposeful. Determined...

Strange...

Miss Granger's voice soon comes floating out from her room. "I won't be next year," she unnecessarily assures him. The chances she won't pass her N.E.W.T.s, always assuming they're even offered, are non-existent. Of course, he doesn't particularly fancy his own chances of surviving long enough to see it. He sighs.

"That makes all the difference, I'm sure," he replies with just a hint of sarcasm. It's a stupid reply, as it certainly makes a substantial difference to him, but he can't resist the bit of snark.

"You should have said something," she tells him. Severus is quite sure he's said everything imaginable, half of it twice, he is certain, but doesn't ask 'about what'.

The cat shakes off its disruption and stalks over to him. "Don't even think about it," he tells it quietly. Fickle creature. He wants no part of it. That doesn't seem to faze the animal in the least, and soon it makes itself comfortable next to his leg again. He makes a few disparaging comments (tatty, mangey, pansy faced, faithless feline, although that last seems redundant, effectively a tautology), the creature ignores him, it's probably for the best, and it's not long before he's back to petting the beast. Grudgingly.

"We can make quarters a uniform free zone," she suggests next.

And suddenly his attention is drawn to Miss Granger's room when he notices clothing sailing back and forth in front of the door. She's apparently withdrawn to her bathroom to change and saw no need to interrupt their... conversation. He finds that highly perturbing, but can't quite articulate why. She's not visible, and yet... The fact they're conversing is strange enough. Doing so while she changes... surpasses bizarre.

He sits there staring at her doorway. Perplexed.


So much so, he's startled when she continues, "Are the wards stronger when you're here?" She's wondering, sort of hoping, that's why they feel... better now.

He somehow takes offence at that. Naturally. "No, because the point is to have you protected whether I'm here or not." Obviously, it's also to secure his... their chambers, wards had been in effect before she'd... arrived, he's not a lackwit, but he doubts that was her concern. Merlin, he'd even reinforced the wards before he left for the Manor just to be absolutely sure she'd be adequately protected.

"Particularly when I'm not." There's an edge to his voice and the bond feels... off. He assumes she's worried about herself, which irks him given what had happened to him yesterday. Then he decides she's questioning his abilities and promptly becomes even more offended. Because clearly valuing his skills is more important than concern, or a lack thereof, for his well being... His priorities, much like hers, could probably stand for a little adjusting.

Hermione's just worried she's responding to something about... him in the wards and feels embarrassed. Terribly so. Obviously she has no intention of ever telling him what they feel like to her. Fortunately for her, that should be the end of it. It's not like the wizard can read anyone's memories, were he to try...

A mite gruffly, he asserts, "You were quite safe last night." If one ignores her trip outside the gates, that is, but that's a topic for another day.

No reply comes from her room. She goes unusually quiet. Even the clothing stops rustling. The feelings across the bond seem to soften in focus and vibrate, becoming a thick stream of ill-defined static that he'd describe as simultaneously anxious to fly off in a dozen different directions and none at all. He decides she's trying to squelch whatever the bond might relay, successfully enough in as much as he can't interpret it at all, and wonders in passing how his Occlumency manifests to her. He misses that a large part of it is her uncertainty how she should respond or even feel about the past night. She's figuratively torn. But she'd felt very safe indeed, except that hadn't been behind his wards, but at his side. And then there had been the matter of the half-shared bed...

Remembering the hair on his pillow in the Infirmary this morning, which accounts for her location for at least some of the time, with a sinking feeling and far less certainly he asks, "You weren't here at all last night, were you?"

A soft, "No," answers that. She can feel his embarrassment. They're now evenly matched.

Very, very briefly he considers taking her to task for not returning to the safety of the wards after she delivered him to Poppy. There's a Protection Vow to consider, he has no real idea yet how that will manifest, and shouldn't like to begin to imagine what it would have done to him in the condition he was in last night... That almost certainly would have killed him had there been any threat to her. And then, rather wisely, he decides to keep all of that to himself for now. Once in a blue moon, he proves able to kerb his often all too rampant self-destructive idiocy.

"Thank you," he replies instead, not much louder than she'd been. "That wasn't necessary." He swears he can hear her shrug.

"That's why I didn't take the Draught of Peace, by the way. I didn't have it with me." It sounds apologetic. "And I'm sorry about that." Apparently it is. "I realise you'll have been affected by that as well. Madam Pomfrey had given me a Calming Draught, and by the time I discovered it wasn't going to be sufficient..."

"You couldn't take the Draught of Peace in addition to it," he concludes, feeling a little guilty that he'd thought badly of her for not taking it when the reason had been she'd apparently kept him... company.

Of course, he's not sure how he feels about that.

On the one hand, it satisfies some of his preconceptions about how bondmates should behave. It would seem he has more of those than he thought. On the other, he's not at all sure how he should feel about having Miss Granger bivouacked at his bedside. An occurrence that's become far too regular, to his way of thinking. But either way, he can't fault her for not taking the Potion.

"Consider that my lesson learnt," she assures him.

Somewhat rigidly he tells her, "If you remember to take it in the future, you may find some of the problems with your friends... managed." There's a mixed spike of indignation and embarrassment, she can't seem to settle on one or the other, and he clarifies, "You can't control them, but you can take yourself, your responses out of the equation."

She relaxes again (he realises he prefers that feeling), laughs (strangely that feels even more pleasant than it sounds, and it is a pleasant sound) and answers, "And here I thought that was what Imperiuses were for."

"I stand corrected," he agrees. He may have smirked. Then he lets out a muffled snort as it occurs to him Barty had actually taught them something... Well he was definitely more useful than Dolores. If it weren't for his dark humour, Severus would probably have none at all. He sighs, cupping his head in his hand, propping his elbow back on his still bent right knee. His gaze, however, remains fixed on her door.

Hermione had cast Cleaning Charms on her robe, uniform and blouse and Banished the first to her bed, the rest to her wardrobe. Ron's 'Bride of Slytherin' comments may still have been bouncing around in her head as she selected something to wear. She's also hoping to make up for what she supposes is the offending red and gold of her tie and jumper's trim, and without further thought, she had Summoned the green top to go with her jeans and trainers. Catering to the Professor, she imagined, and then she made the additional effort to cast the Charm Madam Pomfrey had noted down for her on her hair.

It's...

Well, honestly it needs work, but it was better than before. Although that may not be saying much... She will probably need to ask the Mediwitch about that Charm, too. Her hair is still far too bushy, but there's the soft break above her right eye. She thinks it's flattering; Severus would agree. Under the usual conditions that one were somehow able to slip him some Veritaserum, it should go without saying.

When she emerges from her room in the deep green number from Sunday, his gawping response is enough to have her think about Transfiguring her entire wardrobe green, mistaking the reaction as being entirely due to the colour.

He likes the gesture, no question. And it's most becoming on her, beyond any doubt. But then so is the cut. Merlin. Without some blanket draped over her... The cut is very becoming indeed. And the fact any of that was recognisable on his face is yet another reason he normally doesn't drink to excess.

She certainly doesn't look like a student anymore. Naturally he finds her form-fitting clothes even more objectionable than her uniform, for entirely different reasons, but he wouldn't dream of saying as much. He's more uncomfortable now than anything else and sits there blinking stupidly for a while.

"There," she says, settling back on the floor next to him. He could swear she's closer now. "That's an improvement, isn't it?" But she seems to be becoming increasingly less sure about that the longer he doesn't speak, the bond isn't helping things any, her smile fades, and she's soon back to worrying her lip.

Eventually he feels he owes her a nod. He can manage that. And does. Perhaps a little stiffly. She rewards it with a smile so sincere, so quickly, he feels a bit of a heel for not having done so sooner.

So he glares at the cat, instead, the cat is safe, daring the feline to desert him again. The Kneazle mix is unruffled, but as he makes no move to leave, Severus continues to pet him.

Hermione stifles her grin.


A little unsure how to resume their conversation, somehow things seem to have become... awkward between them, she Summons the plate of Hagrid's Rock Cakes from the table and holds it out to him. He shifts his silent blinking to the proffered... biscuits. That's an exceedingly liberal application of the term, he is sure. "Rock Cakes," she feels the need to explain. "From Hagrid."

"I wasn't in any doubt. They're unmistakeable." It's only unusual to see them arranged like that on his stoneware.

"He's sorry about yesterday," she obfuscates. She isn't quite willing to explore the concept of wedding presents with him.

"So he mentioned." One hand rubs his ribs again at the reminder. They don't really hurt all that much now. A bit tender yet, perhaps, but he's had worse. Far worse. As recently as yesterday evening, in fact. It's difficult to stay angry about the ribs for long, although he would have appreciated more support from his colleagues. Not that he expected it, no. He's not some numbskull. Frankly he'd have been shocked had things gone otherwise. Still, it would have been... nice.

But then, when is it ever?

"Would you like one?" She offers the plate again.

His first thought is she's trying to poison him. He manages not to express it.

She starts nibbling on one of the biscuits herself, possibly trying to demonstrate their edibility. If that was her purpose, she fails miserably. The complete absence of any discernible progress that she makes on the thing hardly recommends them, assuming he were unfamiliar with the objects, which sadly he is not. No, he has no intention whatsoever of subjecting himself to those cakes ever again if at all possible. They're probably best utilised as projectile weaponry or maybe building materials, should they ever care to add another tower to the castle, say.

He smirks slightly, "Thank you, no. I'd much rather just watch you."

She blushes, which he thinks is a little unwarranted as she battles to finish the Rock Cake. It's hardly an ignoble defeat to have to admit one's stomach, or teeth for that matter, aren't quite up to the task. Hagrid's culinary skills are questionable at best. But she valiantly soldiers on, pinking further the longer he watches her - that in itself incentive enough to do so, his smirk steadily growing all the while - and finally succeeds in consuming a single biscuit. He's a little impressed with her... intestinal fortitude, if not with her common sense.

He believes she's about to stop, she's languishing, badly, when he decides he deserves a spot of fun. Apparently reconsidering, he reaches for a cake after all and a bit provocatively takes a bite, immediately Vanishing the mouthful as he sits there pretending to chew. It won't get him completely around the taste, which is hardly good, but it's far from the worst aspect of Hagrid's biscuits and on balance more palatable than, for example, his school trunk had been. Or many of his own potions, for that matter.

Something about her eyes looks a little desperate, but having suggested the Rock Cakes - really, they could have Vanished them and Hagrid would never have been the wiser - she can't seem to leave Severus to it on his own. She takes a second and does her utmost to match him bite for bite. It proves an even greater struggle than the first, the pace probably hadn't helped things any.

It doesn't come as much of a surprise when, coughing and trying unsuccessfully to clear her throat, she resigns and puts the plate on the nearest end table.

"Had enough then?" He taunts, but it's completely without venom. She's unable to answer, and merely continues to cough.

He silently Summons and Scourgifies the whisky glass he'd abandoned, fills it with an Aguamenti and wordlessly hands it to her, his smirk still firmly in place. She swallows gratefully and then sets the glass on the floor between them.

Her ability to speak returned, she thanks him and then Summons some grapes to replace the Rock Cakes and resumes her nibbling, again offering him some which he also declines. "Have you had anything else to eat today?" She asks a little too innocently. Luna may be rubbing off on her. The Ravenclaw certainly makes an impression. Sometimes she also makes excellent sense.

Miss Granger is as subtle as Dragon Pox. He shakes his head. "Would it be alright to ask Sunny for some bread?" She prods.

"I've said it was." But he saves her the bother and does it himself. A moment later some appears between them on a plate from the Hogwarts Kitchens. It's freshly baked, smells delicious, and still a bit warm to the touch. There's no other sign of the elf. "For efficiency's sake, if nothing else, you'll need to begin taking me at my word."

She doesn't clarify that the point of her question had been more to see if he'd object to her efforts to get some food into his system. It seems counterproductive. But on consideration, she can see how offering him Hagrid's Cakes might have proven confusing, obscuring her intent. The biscuits probably don't qualify as nutritive, are undoubtedly... difficult to stomach, not to mention chew, and are almost equally unlikely to help sober him up...

She places the grapes next to the bread on the plate, tears apart the small loaf and offers him a chunk. This he finally accepts, which wins him a smile. She does have a nice smile, he supposes. It's certainly a ready one, quick to appear.

They eat in silence for a few moments, Miss Granger and her grapes, Severus and his bread. He appreciates she hadn't tried to encourage him to have anything more to go with it. Given the amount of Ogden's he'd consumed, it mightn't have been wise, but it was... considerate that she hadn't forced him to explicitly acknowledge that.

The bond feels more comfortable now and makes her a little bold. She is a Gryffindor, after all. Hagrid's biscuits had called something to mind and she somewhat teasingly asks him, "To whom shall I send the cake?" He raises a brow in query, she smiles more broadly and proceeds, "We agreed if anyone landed you in the Infirmary I'd bake them a cake." She nods resolutely at the thought.

The eyebrow quirks, he's a little appalled she'd joke about that, but the bond doesn't feel... hostile, there's nothing... combative about her in the least.

"Shall I send it to You-Know-Who?" She prompts, somewhat less secure now, but still trying to reel him in. Belatedly it occurs to her that this isn't her strength, and, Crikey, even the Bloody Baron was more amusing than she is... She's begun wishing she hadn't said anything when the wizard beside her responds.

"You can assure me it would be worse than Hagrid's baking?" There's still a cautiousness about him as he begins to play along. It's all well and good when he... hectors. Goading others is half his reason for being, if one discounts all the depressing, war-related ones that is. It's more difficult to be on the receiving end.

"Absolutely," she solemnly swears.

In response, he flicks one of his long fingers at the plate of cakes on the end table; the gesture draws Hermione's gaze. She only stops staring at his hand when she catches one of the cakes rising a few inches in the air in her peripheral vision and turns to watch. Another movement of his hand, and he lets the biscuit clatter back to the plate with a sound highly suspicious for something that's ostensibly a comestible, intoning, "That would be an achievement."

"I'm an over-achiever," she explains, still so very seriously, turning back to face him.

That earns her a snort of agreement.

"Bellatrix," he offers. She's momentarily lost the thread, his hands and wandless magic both having proven distracting, and he expands on it, "She should be the lucky recipient. Kindly do your very worst," he encourages.

Her brow furrows, she naturally has no understanding of the Death Eaters' inner workings. She's not sure she should ask, considers a few things and rejects them, and then finally goes with, "You-Know-Who didn't object?" She's thinking Voldemort would dispense the punishments, or at least determine them. He had, obviously, instructed Bellatrix to Crucio Severus, but Hermione isn't aware of the particulars, and is thrown by the Professor's very definite placing of the blame at Bellatrix' wand. His logic is simple, he'd gotten less from the Dark Lord than expected, and Bellatrix had made that far worse than need be. She typically does.

Miss Granger's question has Severus thinking along different lines, having the dubious benefit of having been present when the news was received last night as he does, a natural side effect of delivering it in person, of course. He thinks she means 'You-Know-Who' hadn't objected to the bonding. He chuckles, but it sounds... tight. He may be amused, but he isn't happy. But as he's seldom the first and almost never the second these days... it's not unwelcome.

"No, by his standards, he really didn't object. I was... fortunate." That gets him raised eyebrows as she takes his meaning, some mortification, and... sympathy. Unexpectedly, very much so, that last doesn't bother him. On the other hand, any other response would have annoyed him, so it's only sensible he's unbothered. For once. Maybe he's learning; maybe it just feels... right. "It seems he felt the appropriate punishment for bonding was being bonded. Paradoxically. The sentences for transgressions aren't always blessed with... sense."

Honestly, it frightens Hermione. But she started this line of conversation, and it seems very wrong to shut it down now. On the contrary, she's... pleased if he's willing to speak of it. Well, maybe not pleased. But... She wonders if it might do him some good? She rejects that thought almost immediately, she can't imagine speaking to her would be of any help, but still... She does like that he's speaking to her about serious things. Usually people try to keep her in the dark. She mulls it over, and resolves to at least try to treat it as matter of factly as he does. She won't succeed, but she won't flinch either. She's determined.

So she thinks about what he said. She tries to handle it like any other conversation. It's slower going. More difficult. And a little terrifying. But she finally succeeds and then amuses him when she assails his logic, "That's not a paradox. It's more like finding you guilty and then letting you off for time served. Or like losing a law suit but the Wisengamot only awards the plaintiff a Galleon."

He rather likes that.

Albus doesn't enjoy talking about the things Severus experiences. For one, they're simply not enjoyable. And then they make Albus uncomfortable. That naturally annoys Severus. Greatly. He has to experience them after all, he'd hate to think talking about them causes Albus any discomfort...

They rarely speak of more than the absolutely necessary. There's something... appealing in a bit of frivolity. Applicable frivolity. Relevant frivolity. That may be a contradiction in terms, but Severus frankly hasn't much patience for the inanities most in the castle tend towards. Or the Order, for that matter. This... suits him.

So he lifts an eyebrow at her and drawls, "Just what a man seeks in a wife, a woman who doesn't know the value of a Galleon."

"Seventeen Sickles or four hundred and ninety-three Knuts. Or four pounds and ninety-seven p, as of last Friday. I haven't checked the exchange rate since." She looks a bit smug. He smirks back. There's little point, he decides, in making notes to oneself to encourage her imprecision if he doesn't remember to act upon them later. He deserved that answer.

And then he wonders that she hadn't flinched at the 'wife'. Speaking of exchange rates, he'd rather been banking on it...

"Should you say such things?" She asks. He half assumes she means calling her his wife after all, before she makes her meaning clear. "About You-Know-Who? And Bellatrix?"

"'What if', Miss Granger. 'What if'. I may be drunk, but I assure you I am still in possession of my faculties." She can't help wondering how 'full' that possession is.

He continues, "We have two possibilities. What are they and my motivations for each case?" When she takes it for rhetorical and doesn't reply, he prompts, "Come now. Chop-chop. Expound upon them, please, if you'd be so kind."

That's met with a grin, and she fingers her pendant as she answers. "You're a frightfully heroic member of the Order," her smile is a little impish, and if he had to describe her, he'd say she feels... mischievous, but her eyes are very warm. Almost too much so, somehow, "and that's how you truly feel. Or you're not, you're a dastardly villain," definitely mischievous, "playing with my affections," he has no idea how her affections came into the equation, half of the answer is she's still feeling punchy, "and trying to make me think you aren't. A villain, that is. Either way you'd say the same thing." He's not sure about some of the details, but the gist was right. He nods and she looks satisfied.

"Splendid. You're getting the hang of this marvellously."


They've been getting along for a few minutes now, it might be a record, she thinks flippantly. Channeling her inner Slytherin, a nascent entity to be sure, she decides she's demonstrated her good will with the uniform and food (well, maybe not Hagrid's biscuits...), and she's hoping he might be willing to respond in kind. A bit tentatively, she brings up the potions again.

"It will get me out of your hair faster..." She tries coaxing. "If you'd just take them?"

"The problem, I think you'll find, Miss Granger, is that absolutely nothing will ever get you out of my hair again. Shy of death. Yours or mine. Probably doesn't matter which."

She hasn't magically gained the ability to deal with thoughts of her own mortality in the last few days, and responds, arguably sub-optimally, to that. "Well, I certainly have my preferences." The look she gives him is piercing.

He's slowed, no question, and it takes him a moment to get offended. When he finally does, it flares across the bond. By then she feels rather guilty about what her answer implied, because the last thing she'd wish him is any kind of harm. Anything but that. She's collected herself somewhat, or not, reconsidered tacks, not necessarily well, and before his anger can gather steam, she compounds the questionable judgment by waving her wand and... applying the Refreshing Charm to him. The one that Madam Pomfrey had only just taught her. The one which sends his hair fluffing up like a Pygmy Puff around his face. That one.

Flick.

Poof.

Fluff.

He is so startled by that, most likely never having been conscious when it was applied, and certainly not by an erstwhile student, let alone his... wife, that he completely forgets to be angry, skipping straight to gobsmacked. He just sits there blinking. Repeatedly.

He's been doing rather a lot of that.

"There. Everything imaginable is out of your hair." She's smirking, but then shifts to a smile. "I'm sorry, Sir, but you asked for that one." Her smile softens, becoming positively gentle. It's mostly in the eyes he thinks. "Shall we both simply agree to try not dying any time soon? As solutions go, dying seems rather radical.

"And in the interest of putting off your possible demise, what do you say, would you please take the potions?" He's still staring at her. He's completely unaccustomed to harmless teasing. All the more so with either a physical or magical component, and this had both.

What neither realises is that she is ridiculously lucky the bond lets him know there's absolutely no malice in her actions, or he'd be likely to answer in kind. Except when he turns his wand on someone, it tends to be decidedly less... kind. She doesn't begin to suspect how the bond helps her, because the level of Occlusion he is constantly able to maintain, even in his current inebriated state, that's how deeply ingrained it is, provides her with only a slight hint of what the bond can reveal. And he doesn't grasp this, because he isn't able to reflect sufficiently on his actions at the moment. Right now, he's mostly just reacting.

"Sir? Please? What harm would it do?"

He's still too busy being bewildered by her actions, and somehow this seems to echo thoughts of his own about her taking the damnable Draught of Don't Give a Shite, and in the end instead of answering he just surrenders. He stretches out a hand for the potions. His acquiescence comes so unexpectedly, that she initially isn't sure what to make of the gesture. He wiggles his fingers to prompt her to act, and her wishful thinking that he could be doing just that helps her overcome her doubts and interpret the gesture correctly, however inadvertently. Goodness knows she hadn't made any sense of the things via their bond.

One by one, she Summons the phials, five initially, from her room and hands them to him. He then sniffs each in turn, a mite theatrically, wrinkling his nose almost comically, but she bites her lip and swallows her smile - not that it makes much difference, but he appreciates the attempt - before he quaffs the lot. He didn't argue about a single one, something she wouldn't have bet on. She was relatively sure the Calming Draught would be an issue for contention. Madam Pomfrey almost hadn't bothered to give it to her, thinking he'd refuse to take it.

Again, the bond betrays her amusement. And once again, he's trying to understand it. She's definitely not laughing at him. If he had to choose a preposition, he'd use 'with' as opposed to 'at', and it's abundantly clear why that would be preferable. What's less clear is how someone can laugh with you when you're not laughing. He feels like he isn't quite keeping up. He's missed the joke, but she isn't laughing at him for that either, rather she's patiently waiting for him to catch up. It's all very strange. Highly disconcerting.

As she hands him the sixth and final Potion, the routine changes. He seems to Vanish it, and now she'd like to know why. It was the Antispasmodic, and she is quite sure he still needs it, a fact that concerns her. Her certainty he'd be willing to take that - if he took any potions at all - had been part of her motive for saving it for last, assuming if she tried his patience with the sheer number of potions and he balked, common sense would still have him cooperating there. The after effects of the Cruciatus are still in evidence, although not as extreme as over the weekend, she notes. It's either that, or the DTs, she quips to herself, and that latter seems unlikely given his intoxication. So she asks.

"I administered the Potion directly," he explains. "It doesn't mix well with Calming, so I sent it straight to the bloodstream."

Her eyes go wide at the thought. "Is that... wise?" She's chewing her lip again, but finds the courage to continue, "In your current... state?"

He lets out a bark of a laugh and replies, "If not, I deserve the consequences." His hand waves, his fingers spread emphasising the statement, and she's following their movement again. They're almost as evocative as his eyes.

There's one final item Madam Pomfrey had given her, a small pot of Scar Scarcefying Salve. She Summons it, looks at him and blushes a little as she thinks about how she'd helped the Matron apply it to him. Hermione holds it out to him so he can see for himself what it is, and then deposits it without comment next to Hagrid's Rock Cakes on the end table. She doesn't quite trust herself to say anything about it, and really, he should certainly know what to do with it. He'll probably want to deal with that himself, she expects. In privacy. Hmm.


He thinks about a number of things as he watches her. He didn't hesitate to take the potions she gave him, the sniffing all for show; he never doubted her intentions. That's not because he trusts the Loyalty Vow; he hasn't even thought of it in this context. Fundamentally, somehow, he trusts her. At least this far. Which makes it all the more startling when it occurs to him that that was the second time someone has gotten the drop on him in over twenty years. And both times it had been her. Admittedly the last time she'd had the dimwitted duo with her and he'd been far more concerned with the two (or three, as it transpired) Marauders before him...

Not that it mattered; he's unharmed. Perhaps a bit... fluffier. For fuck's sake. He has a moment of relief that no one else saw that. Merlin. He may be overlooking a certain elf and half-Kneazle in that... But his assessment of her was that she would not harm him and he was, essentially, correct.

He hadn't thought twice when she pulled her wand out. She could have been lighting a sconce, the fire, Summoning whatever it is that she likes. Books. Probably books. Grapes. Vanishing more fur. She uses her wand for practically everything. It never occurred to him she could turn it on him.

He wonders if this means he shouldn't drink, or if this means he hasn't quite got the witch figured out. Possibly both.

Finally he speaks again, providing her with a peek at the things troubling him. Had she thought about it, it should have been obvious, but she was too preoccupied with his current physical state to think about the big picture. "Unfortunately it will most likely take a good deal more than potions to stave off my... possible demise."

"Sir?" She has a brief moment of panic wondering if he is worse off than Madam Pomfrey had led her to believe.

"Due to our recent... entanglement, what was previously a dangerous job has just become immeasurably more so." Guilt now mixes with her panic. His words have done nothing to dispel it, only shifted the cause for it. "This will undoubtedly be the death of me. Sooner rather than later." He means every word. It hits her then, she was right earlier about the fear. He really is frightened. Not witless, not the way she gives in to fear, but this... situation of theirs has him shaken, and he is absolutely sure it will mean his death.

She resolves then and there to do everything in her power to see to it that it doesn't. Whatever else, she will not permit this bond to harm him. Purely pragmatically speaking, she doesn't think she could live with the guilt. There doesn't need to be any further reason, and she doesn't pursue the faint whispers in the back of her mind that it would also be a great loss.