“beyond wandpoint” 081 by gingerbred
Mar. 22nd, 2019 06:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 11u Tuesday - Return to Chambers”
Hermione 7G (Prefect), Severus, Sunny, Crooks, Ernie Macmillan 7H (Head Boy), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode 7S (Reserve Beater), Alberta Runcorn 7S, Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater), Professor Filius Flitwick, Poppy Pomfrey, Kevin 'Kev' Peterson 5G, Newton Kurz 4H, Darius Inglebee 4R (Reserve Chaser), Stewart Ackerly 4R (Beater)
Mentioned briefly: Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser), Valerie Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser), Draco 7S (Prefect, Seeker, Team Captain), Daphne Greengrass 7S, Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Roísín Rosier 6S
Originally Published: 2018-07-17 on AO3
Chapter: 081
Alberta's Tempus chimes, and she turns to Millie and tells her, "We need to get going if we don't want to have to hurry to make it back before curfew. You still wanted to stop by the library." They've been visiting Vince in the Infirmary, but it's getting late, and they're some distance from the dungeons.
"Take me with you," the Slytherin Beater half begs, reaching for her arm to delay her departure. "There's no Pain Relief here anyway, and I swear Pomfrey's out for blood." He really does sound pretty wretched and kind of desperate.
"I'd love to," Alberta answers more than a little insincerely, but it takes a practised ear to hear it and Vince is too far gone just at the moment either way, "but I don't think you're fit enough to get back before curfew, even with our help. And we can't wait, Vince; we're on a Tempus here." She tugs her wrist free and collects her things.
"You could Mobilicorpus me?" It sounds hopeful, a tone only achievable as he's blissfully unaware of just how much he'd suffered at Harper's Levitation Charm. So hopeful, Millie crumbles a little.
Vince and Gregory had worked long and hard with her over the last summer and had helped her improve her Quidditch game enough that she had actually made the team this year, even if only in a reserve capacity. She was dead chuffed when she had.
Er, that is to say, she'd been quite pleased.
Yes. That.
For the most part, and with the obvious and very logical exception of Seeker, the Slytherins had long put their faith in a strategy that favoured physically larger and stronger selections for the team. Not coincidentally, they're currently the only team of the four Houses comprised entirely of sixth and seventh years. The belief was, presupposing at least a nominal competence and speed on a broom, with practice the players could come to learn what was necessary and dominate through strength alone. For years they'd been highly successful with this approach. By default, that also left the team almost entirely male. Professor Snape hadn't interfered with the team management, one way or another, leaving it to the Captains and the House, and as long as it was successful...
Well, Millie, Hestia and Valerie hadn't much fancied their chances of ever making the cut.
Draco had turned things around some once he was made Captain this year. Merlin knows, Marcus, Graham and Urien had never been inclined to give them a shot. And now they have a year to prove themselves - and validate Draco's strategy - before someone else is made Captain next year. Probably Harper, all things considered.
Well, that wouldn't affect Millie anymore, but still. If it matters for Hestia and Val, it matters for her. They're a team.
Millie is a Reserve Beater now. Not that that is such a radical departure or she is small of stature, per se. She isn't. Not by any means. She's not some waif like Pansy, bless her tiny heart and everything else. But Millie's a great deal smaller than the other Beaters and even some of the others who'd tried out for the position, and she'd still won out. And making the team had the added bonus of reducing the likelihood she'd be teased for her size anymore. It made her physique... useful. Everyone had to recognise that now, their individual aesthetics be damned.
Tossers.
Er, obnoxious little upstarts. Yes. That.
Not that any of the girls in her year would be inclined to tease her; they're not like that. Well, Alberta might have, but she's no lightweight herself. No, that had mostly been a problem last year, and those girls are all gone now. Thankfully. Of the sixth years, really only Roísín might be tempted to make fun of her. And Millie has no qualms about flattening the chit if need be, pure-blood or not. Witch.
Somewhat apologetically, as she packs her things together she answers Vince, "I'm afraid I don't know how to do that Spell..." She trails off with a glance towards Alberta who shakes her head. "But I'm sure it won't be so bad to spend the night here..."
"I tell you, Millie, I wouldn't put it past the old bag to try to kill me in my sleep..." his voice drops to a whisper, in an effort to ensure the 'old bag' doesn't hear him. As Madam Pomfrey has better things to do just now, he gets lucky. Probably for the last time in a long time.
Alberta can't help rolling her eyes, and wondering why she bothered to stop by. It's easy for her to be disparaging; her nose isn't swollen twice its original size and throbbing in time with her pulse. And that's to say nothing of its frankly disturbing colour, and not simply for the overtly Gryffindor overtones of that particular shade of crimson.
She reminds herself that her father had warned her to play nicely with the sons of the inner circle, and that - when Vince isn't whinging like an gigantic baby - generally he's the one she most agrees with politically in their House these days. He's more likely to speak his mind, particularly as far as those nasty, magic-thieving Mudbloods go, than so many of the others who seem intent on playing their silly little covert games. She considers such manoeuvres completely unnecessary as things stand.
It's safe to conclude she wasn't sorted into Slytherin for any innate diplomatic savvy; she has none. Alberta, much like Vince, is something of a blunt instrument. It's not to say they don't scheme, they very much do, or try to, but they don't tend to mince words as they go about it. And as Daphne would say, those two may be counting their Fwoopers before they've hatched.
If she says it often enough, it may even become a thing.
"Vince..." Millie really doesn't know how to put this... She casts about for the right words. "I'm not sure you'll even want to go back there tonight. Your... reception might be less than... warm." Merlin knows Theo had seemed uncomfortable enough with everyone's reactions at dinner, and he hadn't been directly implicated by the Serpents...
Alberta snorts. It's not that she disagrees, not at all; Millie's dead on for once. But she thinks that at least shouldn't pose a problem for Vince. They, both of them, really couldn't give a Flying Fig what any of the rest think, and he should be tough enough to cope. And if not, it only serves to separate the wheat from the chaff. He certainly wasn't such a Shrinking Violet like Nott.
And either way, it would only delay the inevitable.
They'd gone to visit Vince after dinner and had tried to help him with his homework for tomorrow. The state he was in, Alberta had practically done the Astronomy prep for him singlehandedly. Still, he'd managed to keep up with Professor Binn's assignment well enough. It certainly helped that it wasn't remotely demanding, which of course is easily half the reason they're all in the course. A highly dubious love of history, nevertheless oft professed, naturally being the other...
Millie had even skipped Frog Choir tonight to visit her teammate. Flitwick generally doesn't seem to notice if they're there or not - it would be more accurate to say he doesn't see the need to increase his N.E.W.T.s students' stress by making attendance mandatory, but some people have trouble recognising his generous nature for what it is - and Gregory obviously wasn't going to make it. Daphne, she thinks, had planned to study with Theo instead. Either way, that was her lookout and not Millie's concern.
The girls had sat there doing their Charms and Magical Theory work at first until Vince woke again. Alberta may have lost patience somewhere along the line and slyly applied a Rennervate, not that anyone's the wiser. After all, what's the point to visiting someone if the person isn't aware you've done so? Then they also won't know they owe you in turn.
It had been a... well it was more of an awkward visit, really, than anything else, and everyone was thankful they had the routine of homework to spare them the effort of making what was ultimately highly stilted conversation.
Yesterday it would have been a whole different story; there wouldn't have been any question that this was the proper thing to do. But today... After what the Serpents had suggested...
No, they hadn't suggested, they'd outright hissed the boys were responsible for the Head's bonding.
There was no wriggle room. The senders had been certain.
It leaves the witches... conflicted.
As it is, they can't help the occasional look Vince's way, varying from suspicious to appraising. But there are others in the Infirmary and there's an image to maintain, and for the less observant, outwardly they are quite successful in projecting a picture of sanguine serpentine concern.
That picture takes a bit of a hit and the general awkwardness increases when Flitwick himself unexpectedly makes an appearance in the Infirmary. Apparently Pomfrey had summoned him to assist with some Hexing or another. Millie pinks, awaiting his rebuke, but the little Charmsmaster merely inclines his head and greets her most politely.
Looking at Vince's prostrate form, he asks her, "I gather that's going around?" She's quick to agree - it's true enough - and he follows that up with a, "Well, speedy recovery then," to Vince that merely seems to illustrate how little awareness he must have of the cause. He passes them to go speak to Pomfrey about some of her other wards, and the Snakes resume whispering amongst themselves, their disdain for the part-goblin ratcheting up a notch.
Filius is not quite as oblivious as they might suppose.
He'd hardly neglected to notice his Slytherins had been missing tonight. Mr. Goyle, in particular, has a lovely voice; his absence had most assuredly been noted. Nor has Filius failed to observe over the years that the Snakes are far less likely to report cases of Hexing amongst themselves than the other Houses. Anyone with the most casual understanding of human nature would - correctly - be able to guess that that certainly isn't because they're less likely to hex one another. No, they simply prefer to solve their problems amongst themselves. They see little point in risking House points for something that - as they see it - they are eminently capable of managing on their own.
As it is, the Charms Professor rather assumes they've hexed the ever living stuffing out of one another this evening.
It happens. He's merely relieved he hasn't been called in to fix any of them. He has his hands quite full at the moment.
He takes Mr. Crabbe's malaise, not altogether incorrectly after all, for the result of a malicious Spell. As a dueller of some renown and a Charms Professor with decades of experience behind him, he knows a thing or two about that. Of course, if he understood what had led to this, he might well be a far sight less sympathetic. He alone amongst his colleagues hasn't forgotten his initial response to hearing Severus had been subjected to taking a Protection Vow. Admittedly, the fact none of Filius' charges were bonded has made that easier. But then his superior grasp of the ramifications of Geases and Vows may make a real difference, too.
Poppy greets the Charmsmaster enthusiastically and with more than a little relief. "I'm so sorry, Filius. I hate to bother you again..."
"Not at all, Poppy, not at all. Part and parcel of the service, my dear, and I'm happy to help. I'd have been here earlier, but we had Choir practice..."
"Of course, no need to apologise. It's just as well, really, that you've come later. Two of yours have since been admitted," she nods towards Misters Ackerly and Inglebee, "and we now have yet another case."
"Another one?" Filius' eyebrows shoot up almost comically, but she agrees with the sentiment.
She nods, "The third today. I haven't seen this particular Jinx in years, and now... this. I don't know quite what to make of it.
"First Mr. Boot this afternoon, and now Misters Peterson and Inglebee," she indicates two of the four lads on the beds before them.
"These things come and go in waves," he reassures her unnecessarily while taking a closer look at the first boy, "as you well know." Although it's ever so slightly worrisome that two of today's targets had been from his House.
"Well, if it's going to become more popular, you'll have to teach me the Countercharm. We can't have you needing to pop by to sort it every time the mood strikes one of the little blighters..." The last is murmured but still garners her a smirk from Filius and a look of surprise from the Gryffindor on the bed.
"Would that I could, Poppy, would that I could. I'd gladly do so, but I'm afraid I haven't got one. I'd simply undone the effects on Mr. Boot this afternoon, not the Spell itself. Frankly, I'm not sure precisely what it is." With a glance at Mr. Inglebee, he adds, "Or what it was supposed to be." Merlin, he'd thought Misters Boot and Peterson looked bad...
Well, time and tide. He's confident he'll fix that too.
It just might take a while.
He hops up on the first lad's bed and gets to work.
"It's like they have lamellae," he says, turning to the Matron and sounding a little impressed. "We're quite certain this was a Jinx and not the result of a Potion? An accident perhaps? Or one of Pomona's new specimens?" He takes pains to refer to any unknown Spell as a 'Jinx' and not a 'Hex'. It's a simple measure, but a crucial one that has a way of keeping things from escalating unnecessarily. Staff are very careful in this regard.
Well... By and large.
"I doubt it's Potion-related. Severus was the one who sent Mr. Boot in. I'm sure he would have said something were that the case," she clarifies her reasoning for her colleague. "Although I suppose Albus was instructing them today...
"Who did this to you, Mr. Peterson?" Poppy asks matter-of-factly as Filius takes the lad's chin in hand and tilts his head back and forth, examining him closely. That the little Charms Professor had first Imperviused his hands, twice, doesn't go unnoticed by the boys, two of whom begin shifting uneasily where they lie, while the others both sigh with relief.
Kev looks a little unsurely from one staff member to the other. He's no grass.
Flitwick waves his wand again and tries to assess some of the magical traces he finds; his tutting noises and running commentary to Pomfrey as he does so prove less than reassuring.
And suddenly Kev isn't quite as sure with regards to how he feels about grassing...
The way Weasley had left him, he might just want to grass him up after all. And, bloody Nora, does his face ever hurt.
Plus it's not like Dennis hadn't made sure McGonagall knew all about it...
"It's quite alright," Professor Flitwick attempts to encourage him. "This isn't about punishment, it's about putting you back to rights again." Personally, Poppy wouldn't be altogether opposed to some punishment - the more deterrent, the fewer Hexes, she likes to think... But Filius is correct: that hadn't been the point to her enquiry.
"You mean I could be stuck this way?" Comes the pitiful wail and now Mr. Inglebee begins to look nervous, too. He's fortunate enough not to realise just how much worse off he is, and his friend Mr. Ackerly has been good enough not to mention it. There's a reason there aren't any mirrors kept in the room. Poppy had learnt that lesson a very long time ago. And anyone who believes the witches are more sensitive to Spell damage to their looks than the wizards are has another think coming. The young men can be quite vain indeed.
And to be perfectly fair, these two do look something dreadful.
It's harder on the Muggle-born like Mr. Peterson, of course. They naturally have less experience with what the Mediwitches can do for them and tend to panic more quickly. Had she thought of it, she'd have given him a Calming Draught.
"No, my boy, no. Not at all. We will get you sorted. It's simply easier if we know what was used," the Charms Professor tries to explain.
"Ron," Kev mutters, not uncertain he'd exactly mind if that lands the ginger right in it. "Weasley," he adds more loudly, just to be sure. Frankly, he's begun to worry now. He'd thought a Potion, or maybe two, and he'd be good to go. But that hadn't been the case. Then he'd pinned his hopes on Flitwick arriving and doing his thing... And it looks like that isn't going to happen either. This seems... unduly complicated, and Ron's a right tosser. Prat. He must have known this wasn't easily remedied. And he'd hexed Kev with it anyway. Bastard.
"Hmm," is his only reply. Then Flitwick turns to Inglebee and asks, "And you, Mr. Inglebee? Who cast the Jinx on you?"
Jinx! Kev snorts. Pull the other one. He can't stop staring at Inglebee and hoping he looks nowhere near as bad as that. He couldn't possibly. Bloody hell. There's no way that's a Jinx, he keeps thinking, missing the finer points to the categorisation of Spells entirely. Stupid categorisation.
To be fair, they're obscure at best, and if one were to relate them strictly to the difficulty in undoing the Spell, well even Filius has to admit, this one is proving a bit... thorny. Mr. Peterson may not be all that wide of the mark.
"Creevey," Darius Inglebee answers far more readily than Peterson had, but Peterson looks impressed at that. The last Kev had seen Colin, the boy had some noteworthy antlers on his head, and hadn't seemed likely to be out and about hexing fourth years anytime soon after. That it's a fourth year in the bed next to him - three total currently on the ward, in point of fact, if one counts Kurz - should probably tell Kev it was more likely to have been Dennis than Colin, but he sees what he expects to see and underestimates his younger Housemate.
Obviously, Poppy's ability to so quickly set the younger Creevey to rights upon admission had kept his older Housemate from particularly noticing him, and Mr. Peterson was a mite preoccupied with his own situation. She's an old hand with the Jelly-Legs counter, it had been a light case, and Mr. Creevey had been off again almost as soon as he'd arrived, with Mr. Hutchinson agreeing to stay with him long enough to accompany him to the Gryffindor Tower. The sixth year Slytherin seems to take his Prefect duties quite seriously.
Stewart Ackerly, who had been on the receiving end of Harper's Stinging Hex and lowly whispered threats - those were definitely threats - to leave Hunter alone, might disagree. He's been sitting there, chasing thoughts of gaining revenge on the Quidditch pitch almost since he was brought in. The fact he envisions that revenge taking place on the pitch instead of in a dark corridor has less to do with his having learnt something from Granger, Snape, whatever about the unacceptability of ambushing fellow students that way, and more with how he fancies his chances against the sixth year Slytherin in a duel. Given Hutchinson's prowess on the pitch, realistically it makes Ackerly only slightly less of a fantasist, but should provide him with pleasant dream fodder for the night.
"Both Gryffindors then," comes Filius' contemplative response. "Any idea who cast on Mr. Boot?" Poppy just shakes her head.
"Well," Flitwick sighs, "it's not precisely a tricky Spell..." Kev can't help thinking if that were the case he'd be on his way back to the Tower by now, but the Charms Professor has begun waving his wand, and slowly but surely, his features are returning to normal. "And it's easy enough to undo the effects of," here again, Kev mentally begs to differ, but then compared to a tail, it probably is, "but I'm afraid I'm treating it symptomatically. I'll have to ask Severus tomorrow if he knows which Jinx was used; he's generally quite good about uncovering that." Which is only one of the many clear benefits of applying Legilimency after a duel. "Or perhaps Minerva can get her little Lions to admit what they used."
"I'll Floo her," Poppy volunteers and Filius nods his agreement.
"And I'll set about finding the Countercharm then."
"Thank you, Filius. I'd appreciate it. We may not see it again for another three years, but you never know. And three times in one day, in two different Houses... That's generally a bad sign. I'd expect more before the week is out."
"It's not so much where it manifests, that I'd worry about," he disagrees with a smirk. "It's which Houses are casting," he amends with a wink.
It's Poppy's turn to smirk back at him, "Oh, I couldn't agree more. But I didn't get the impression it was a Gryffindor that had used it this afternoon..."
"Ah. Well, then that would be worrisome," he chuckles.
There's one conspicuous absence since Filius' visit to the Infirmary after lunch, and he enquiries after the Head Boy, more than a little curious about some of the details. "Were you able to determine which Spell had been used on Mr. Macmillan? I notice he's no longer here..." Filius wasn't remotely clear on what he'd been hexed with, and would love to know. Purely from an academic standpoint, of course.
"No, I'm afraid not. As you say, I ended up treating him purely symptomatically. Some Tincture of Bluet in a blindfold, a compress applied regularly... A few all purpose Healing Charms..." Those sound perfect, and Kev would like them now, thanks. For whatever reason, the Matron doesn't oblige. Probably not quite as 'all purpose' as the name suggests then. Stupid nomenclature.
"But he was quite insistent he needed to be sorted sufficiently to be released, so I did what I could. It seems he had... an appointment with Argus this evening he was reluctant to miss."
Filius nods his understanding. Strange lad, Mr. Macmillan. So proper in some respects, but were he truly as proper as he likes to present himself, then surely he wouldn't have been duelling in the hallways to begin with. When Severus has a chat with Filius about precisely that duel, as part of his effort to see the Ravenclaws involved suitably punished, their Head will seriously revise those thoughts about Mr. Macmillan's propriety. Fortunately he's Pomona's problem.
"Pity," Flitwick answers instead, sounding sincerely sorry the boy had been healed and Kev gets nervous again. The teachers here can be truly strange. "If you ever discover what was used on him, kindly let me know." Pomfrey readily agrees, and Kev feels just that little bit more like a laboratory specimen.
Filius works on Mr. Peterson for some time, at least by his standards, and soon the boy seems mostly back to normal. There's obviously been some discomfort associated and Poppy has a topical cream she's applying for that, but the presence of the Slytherins is indeed hampering her ability to act. She probably deserves this for not coming up with a clever way to wrap up her claim that they had no Pain Relieving Potion in the Infirmary.
She turns to send the girls off to their House, figuring she can always Stupefy Mr. Crabbe, or perhaps apply the Somnolence Charm... But she's confident, once the witches have left, she can arrange for him not to be any sort of witness to her treatment of the other boys.
Vince begins a hurried negotiation with his Housemates - he'll teach them the Mobilicorpus if they'll at least try to take him back to their dormitories. Millie doesn't really need to go to the library? Surely that can wait until tomorrow? Please? It's unclear what he thinks they'll do if they try and fail en route.
Clearly it isn't an option.
Alberta might have stood firm, but she has no chance against Millie. Thinking it will be more likely to succeed if they both give it a try, Alberta consents to attempting to learn the Charm, and by the time Madam Pomfrey comes over to let them know they need to leave to make curfew, they've...
Well, they certainly haven't mastered it. But they are able to perform it sufficiently that Vince informs the Matron he'll be returning to his House for the night.
Poppy doesn't for a moment think this is a good idea - it really isn't - particularly not after witnessing Miss Bulstrode's unsteady Mobilicorpus, but she also isn't exactly eager to keep Mr. Crabbe in her Infirmary if she doesn't absolutely have to. She makes the appropriate noises, well aware they are almost guaranteed to assure these fools stick to their plan, but not minding, precisely, and with a shake of her head watches as the witches use the Spell to try to propel their Housemate back to their dormitories.
The thing about the Mobilicorpus, especially in the hands of a novice user, is that it is incredibly difficult to steer. With a little experimentation, the three Slytherins settle on having Vince recline, and the young women make an effort to tow him. That doesn't go anything like smoothly, and Millie asks the Mediwitch if she'd mind, terribly, casting some bandages on the boy that they might use to tow him.
Poppy wouldn't mind in the least. She's only too glad to, in fact. An over enthusiastic Ferula later sees the wizard wrapped in dressings, admittedly more than the situation strictly requires, and the girls take hold of two of the strips and begin to tow their Housemate behind them. Their books in one hand, the gauze wrapped around their other hands, their pace quick, conscious of the impending curfew, and the large Slytherin Beater trussed like a mummy and bobbing precariously behind them... They make a funny picture.
So much so, that the other patients begin to chuckle.
Kev, whose good sense can legitimately be questioned, and probably should be, doesn't leave it at chuckling. He starts laughing and can't stop. A clearer head might point out that it was precisely this reflex on his part that had led to his Jinxing and subsequent stay in the Infirmary, but that escapes him. All he can think of while watching the Slytherins trying to leave is a team of sled dogs, and the only thing he manages to get out between his fits of giggles are cries of, "Mush! Mush!"
He's lucky that it makes no sense whatsoever to the wizards and witches in the room. Not a one of them is Muggle-raised, let alone a Muggle-born like himself.
Had he left it at that, it might have been forgotten; the Snakes currently have their hands full after all. But Kev makes the mistake of taking up the cry whenever he sees them in the days to come, and eventually, one of the Muggle-raised Ravenclaws explains his meaning to the Slytherins. Just between Crabbe's and Bulstrode's responses, both very strong and sizeable Slytherin Beaters, that proves a phenomenally poor idea.
But for Kev, that's about par for the course.
As they go past, Poppy shudders at the quality of the Mobilicorpus, but she's not helping them. Further. Of course, whether or not the Ferula will have actually been much of a help remains to be seen. No later than when they have to cut him free should that become a non-trivial issue. She hopes one of their number is good with a Diffindo, or she imagines she'll be seeing him back there before long.
If Vince had any idea how this would play out, he'd have stuck to his Infirmary bed as though someone had applied a Permanent Sticking Charm to him. Merlin, he might have applied it himself. As ideas go, it wasn't one of his better ones, and he's hardly known for his mental acuity.
The girls do their best, but neither is phenomenally good at Charms, nor are they the fastest learners. They do solid work, no more, no less, and they've been forced to learn a new Spell, a challenging one, in an incredibly short amount of time. They haven't had a chance to practice, and it goes as it must. They effectively practice with him. By the time they drag him into the common room, he'll have taken more hits than Harper had ever dreamed of inflicting, and Vince will swear there wasn't a stair he hadn't struck along the way.
Of course, that's only when his problems begin.
Hermione closes the door behind her with a small sigh of relief. It feels good to leave this day behind her.
Or maybe that's just the wards.
The corridors had been far from bright, no question, but they had provided some light. Now that the door is closed the room seems positively Stygian. She leans against the solid wooden barricade to all the world might throw her way, knowing it's far less substantial a barrier than the wards that she's now fairly certain confirm the Professor's presence. And if she happens to like standing there where she can still feel them tickling over her skin while allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom, well that might be a coincidence.
Or not.
But it had seemed... right, considerate to not use a Lumos or light the sconces. She's not sure why. It's probably linked somehow to trying not to intrude...
Or some faint sound she hasn't fully registered.
She stands there for a moment, imagining that it were just that simple to shut out all her troubles and rather enjoying the sensation of the wards. She's sure of it now: they're better when he's here. Naturally, that also means she's sure he is, but she doesn't question it. Of course, with the state he was in earlier, she has good reason to doubt he left chambers. And she feels certain he wouldn't have been able to hide it from her had he done so. Or taken the Sober Up. Were he up and about, the bond would let her know.
Mindful of their agreement for her not to wear her uniform in chambers - once again, a convenient spot of misremembering - her 'Finite Incantatem' puts an end to the Transfiguration on her clothing and she's soon back in jeans, trainers and her lovely new green blouse. The Baron was right, this does look better. Not that she thinks... anyone will see it, but a promise is a promise.
Or something like that.
She pockets her tie, and then removes her robes as well, draping them over the arm holding her books. A mite selfconsciously, she slips her phial necklace out from under her top, immediately following that by thinking she now misses the feel of it against her skin.
There's a niggling thought that might be purely psychological, which of course it is.
The fire, apparently lit in her absence, seems to have died back to embers, banked in the hearth. Her vision has adjusted enough now that she feels comfortable moving forward, which she does somewhat reluctantly, but then she can hardly stay hovering in the wards by the door all night.
That confidence lasts all of three steps until Crooks winds between her legs and nearly sends her sprawling.
She half stumbles forward and then catches herself on the first of the dining table chairs, managing to stay upright, if somewhat inelegantly. Although she imagines pitching face first onto the floor would have been intrinsically less elegant... More importantly, however, she manages not to drop a single book in the process. In as much as they are library books - and she probably has quite enough problems with Madam Pince as is, thank you very much - and worse yet, checked out by the Professor... Well, it really is the far more crucial detail, she is positive.
She voices a reproving and indignant, "Crooks!"
Her stern tone holds about as long as it takes him to let out a pathetic little 'mrowr' - there's a career for the feline in theatre should he ever wish to pursue it - and she instantly feels guilty about leaving him alone for all this time and not feeding him supper and not playing with him and... By and large completely forgetting that he hadn't been alone and that Sunny almost definitely would meet his needs if no one else did. Obviously she has no way of knowing Crooks had also managed to bully Severus into amusing him as well.
It hadn't even taken him long.
She can be excused for not anticipating that from the Professor, but she really should know her half-Kneazle better by now.
She bends to pet her cat, apologising to him, presumably for her neglect and - more improbably - her clumsiness, but she doesn't get far before she's interrupted by something that sounds like a groan. Her eyes dart up, but she trusts sufficiently in the wards that it doesn't even occur to her to reach for her wand, she merely peers into the darkness.
She thought she'd imagined it before, but there's a faint glow coming from the couch. As it makes precious little sense (really? glowing?), she'd dismissed it as a reflection of the remains of the fire on the leather. It is not.
She approaches, softly, fairly certain the Professor must have fallen asleep there, and eager not to disturb him further. Not that that would in any way explain the luminescence, but... As she gets closer, she can see that he is in fact glowing. She has no explanation for it and doubtlessly would be wondering about that greatly, having no way of knowing it was caused by the first of the Potions she'd fed him a few hours ago, were she not so thoroughly distracted by her next observation.
Somehow he's lying there, uncovered, in nothing but pyjama bottoms.
She stands there staring for a moment, probably more from disbelief than to get an eyeful, although it's a not unwelcome side effect.
There is a half naked, glowing man on the couch in front of her. She has no idea which of those aspects she finds more incredible.
No. No, that's not quite right.
Her husband is lying half naked and glowing in front of her.
Yes, that does rather make a difference. Clearly it takes the prize.
This is... very different to seeing him similarly... unclad in the Infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey's bustling presence served as a... well, a sort of buffer. A safety net. Her constant comings and goings... It was rather like having a duenna.
Hermione is very conscious that it's just the two of them here.
As though reading her thoughts, Crooks brushes against her leg, startling a soft gasp and a jump from her. Fine, not quite just the two of them, but she supposes Crooks doesn't make for much of a chaperone. Still, the shock of the touch sets her to moving again.
She proceeds carefully, quietly, eager, very eager, not to wake him. The school robes have slipped a little over her arm, and she's trying not to stumble again. She has a bit of luck and doesn't, although undoubtably she'd be less in danger of that were she to watch where she's going instead of staring at the Professor.
Still, she's probably justified.
A weird sort of feeling comes over her; it dawns on her that she doesn't know if this is a commonplace thing for him, which she instantly begins to picture. Involuntarily, of course. Perhaps he often kips on the couch or lies about in his pyjamas of an evening... That's followed by near instantaneous flashes of hope and panic that might be the case. It makes her feel like her being here, seeing him like that, is just another invasion of his privacy.
Which it probably is.
She sighs.
He turns, and the movement is accompanied by another low groan. He doesn't seem... peaceful. His brow is furrowed, and there's a tightness about his eyes again.
Her first thought is to take the throw from the couch and cover him. She finds blankets a source of comfort. She could probably even do it magically. There's no impropriety in that... It's presumably the least one should expect from one's bondmate.
Her next thought was probably that covering him borders on a crime, but it was so fleeting it hardly counts. Much.
No, the next countable thought is of Madam Pomfrey's wonderful gift of that magnificent blanket. That seems just the thing. And having thought of it, there's almost no doubt left in her mind that it needs fetching and he needs covering. At the latest once he groans again, she takes it for something like confirmation.
Nearly resolved, close enough anyway, she makes her way to her room with more speed now, pleased that she doesn't bump into the end table as she does or trip once again. Crooks darts past her, and with a leap makes himself comfortable on her bed where he curls into a large orange ball, apparently every bit as appreciative of the duvet's self-warming properties as she was.
Yes, that blanket had been a lovely gesture of the Professor's, and it's only fitting she return the favour. He deserves that.
She deposits her books on the desk and then leans the door to, so as not to disturb the Professor unduly, before drawing her wand and lighting the sconce by the bed. And if trying to make sure she doesn't wake him prolongs his stay on the couch and increases her chances of tucking him in, so be it. She's considerate that way.
She's just Banished her robes to her wardrobe when Crooks' 'mrowr' draws her attention to the bed again.
Which is when she spots the chocolate frog on her pillow.
She stares at it for a few moments before deciding the Professor has apparently chosen to enact some version of the 'bonbon points' system after all... Or more likely, this is his way of apologising for his... very memorable demonstration earlier. She's right, it was a bit of both.
Any remaining doubts she had about covering him with their new blanket disappear. It's practically an imperative.
Filius has moved on to Mr. Inglebee, but he hasn't begun casting Charms on him yet. That's probably a bad sign. Poppy sighs. No, Filius is making soft 'tsking' sounds, and experience shows, that isn't likely to be crowned with success. At least not any time soon.
But she has every faith he'll figure this out eventually.
Poppy silently Summons several phials of Pain Relief and administers them directly to all four boys now left in her care. They can't reveal they've been given any if they don't know. Her secret is probably safe.
And she really needs to address that tomorrow. Perhaps she'll demonstratively brew something. Merlin knows, there are enough witnesses present.
She's just finished with the Potions when Filius turns around and has to admit that Mr. Inglebee's case is proving more difficult. He's hesitant to try anything just yet as he doesn't wish to inadvertently complicate the Spellwork. She likes that about the man very much. Where fools rush in... He's so sensible.
Once Filius knows which direction he needs to head, it's often as simple as unravelling a jumper by pulling on a loose bit of yarn. No more than that. But as it stands now, it's more of a hopeless tangle.
Poppy's inclined to agree. The others had been bad, but this...
And really, Mr. Peterson has been suitably mended and will still need to spend the night. There's really little point to rushing in effort to help Mr. Inglebee; he won't be leaving the Infirmary either way. They agree to leave it for tomorrow and consult with their colleagues in the morning.
"Well, Mr. Ackerly," Filius starts as he hops down from Mr. Inglebee's bed, "will we be seeing you back on the pitch soon, or will you be stuck here for longer?"
"Oh, no, Sir, I'll be back on the pitch in no time, I promise." With a dark look Peterson's way, as though the poor fifth year had anything to do with it, he adds, "Assuming the Snakes and Lions leave us any practice time that is."
It's the fourth year Ravenclaw's very first year on the team, and he's quite proud of that achievement. He's a Beater, and his significantly smaller size than the Slytherins, even compared only to their reserve Beater, speaks in part to the Ravenclaws' markedly different approach to the sport. Truthfully, it also reflects the significance most of his Housemates place on scholastics and particularly their test scores, which means, many in their fifth and seventh years aren't willing to burden themselves with an additional commitment.
Certainly not for athletic pursuits of all things.
This year, not a single fifth year is on the team. They're just too busy preparing for their O.W.L.s. Admittedly, this attitude thins the competition and takes away from Stewart's achievement a little. Still, he had been thrilled to land the position.
There is some irony - that escapes most - that their Head of House conducts both the Hogwarts' Orchestra and Frog Choir, non-academic diversions if ever there were any. But at least it's culturally relevant.
"Good to hear it, Mr. Ackerly, good to hear it," Filius answers, ignoring the dig at the Gryffindor. "Well, I'll be on my way. Good night to you all, and I hope you feel better in the morning. I'll be in to see you tomorrow, Mr. Inglebee," he assures the boy. "Don't worry."
Darius Inglebee, one of the Ravenclaws' Reserve Chasers and also new to the team, just lies there hoping the reason Professor Flitwick hadn't said anything about his return to pitch has more to do with his reserve status than the unlikelihood he'll be back on his broom any time soon. Oddly, it doesn't keep him from fretting.
Poppy has been thinking. Mr. Kurz, in contrast to the other three boys, might just be better off spending the night in his own bed. His Knee-reversal Hex has been remedied, and with the Pain Relief, he should now be good to go, if perhaps a mite unsteady on his feet. He really just needs to get his legs under him again. And she suspects leaving him here for the night with two of the boys who had hexed him is only asking for trouble.
"Filius," she begins a little regretfully, but he's begun smiling in anticipation. Her eyes shoot to the little Hufflepuff. "I hate to impose again..."
"Of course not, Poppy, of course not. You have to stay here with the others boys after all. It's not a problem. Well, what do you say, Mr. Kurz? Shall I accompany you back to your House?"
Charms is quite Newton's favourite course, so very much so, not that he'd ever let any of his House hear him say that, Merlin, but he's just not a Plantsman. He's not exactly a Potionsman either, of course, that had been the whole source of the bit of bother he'd landed in tonight after all, stupid Eagles... Well, except Professor Flitwick, goodness! The man was practically a genius! Except as a Hufflepuff, really, it's not like they expect him to excel at Potions, but there is some pressure, more than a little, honestly, to know his Fanged Geraniums from... his Shrinking Violets, he supposes.
Well, he knows that one.
Naturally, the fangs are a bit of a giveaway.
Newton's smile is ready and wide, his agreement immediate, and with a slightly precarious hop from the bed - his knees still feel wobbly - he and his ever so highly esteemed Professor set off towards the basements.
"Professor, a friend of mine was having a spot of trouble with his swish, don't you know, and I was wondering, if you wouldn't mind, that is..." Their heads are close together, Newton's only slightly higher than the Charms Professor's, and they're already quite happily lost in their discussion of swishes as the Infirmary's doors close behind them.
Inglebee and Ackerly may have grumbled, but Filius as usual doesn't take note.
Ernie Macmillan has just finished another gruelling session with Mr. Filch - say what you will, the Squib is creative - and is making his way to the Hufflepuff basement to change before doing his rounds. Somehow a Cleaning Charm doesn't seem sufficient for his clothes. He's had a little time to reflect, as is his wont, and he has to admit - if only to himself - that if someone had said the sort of things about him or his hypothetical bondmate - not that that's likely, but still - that he'd said about Professor Snape and Hermione Granger, Snape, whatever... Well, he'd have done far worse than taking twenty points and assigning an evening with Hogwarts' caretaker.
No, it hadn't been right of him to say those things. Certainly far from kind, and all in all, Professor Snape had been quite decent about it. Not that Ernie had ever meant for the man to hear those things. Merlin! Of course not! Although he's still not quite sure how he had...
The Potions Master may have been Disillusioned there for longer than they thought...
It doesn't matter. Ernie had been out of line, and he's wizard enough to admit it. And possibly not just to himself. He's been trying to decide if an apology to Hermione would be more self-serving than helpful.
There's little point in apologising if it only serves to make her feel worse... It probably depends on if the Professor had repeated the things he'd said or not. A gentleman probably wouldn't. Which only makes the fact he'd said them all the worse... He'll need to give that a think.
Lost in these thoughts, he comes to a thoroughly baffled halt as the most curious sight appears racing around a corner.
Bulstrode and Runcorn are running through the corridors, and he's initially of half a mind to call them to a stop. He is the Head Boy after all. He tells himself his reaction isn't even the result of a grudge against Professor Snape for his earlier punishment, and it truly isn't, although his latent dislike of the House as a whole definitely plays a role.
Except as he pauses, he's able to take in the whole scene.
Merlin.
There the witches are, trotting along, towing an outstretched Crabbe behind them wrapped top to tail in bandages - he'd love to hear the story behind that - and he seems to be... Frankly, it looks like they've used a Wingardium Leviosa on him, except it doesn't work that way at all, and as they jog past, Crabbe thwacks into the floor, cracks into a corner, smacks into a statue...
Stunningly, going by the Beater's groans, the man must be conscious for all of this and, judging by the absence of complaints, presumably a willing participant for reasons that completely escape Ernie - and where do you even meet people like that. Although if this keeps up, he can't imagine Crabbe remains that way for long... Conscious, that is. Merlin's fuzzy Knutsack.
Well this was unexpected.
Ernie doesn't particularly like Crabbe. No one particularly likes Crabbe, and he holds off on calling for them to stop long enough for him to consider... If he says nothing, this is likely to continue. He weighs the pros and cons - not long, of course, but he does weigh them - and with a shake of his head decides to let them pass unhindered. No, this is too good to put an end to.
He mentally wishes them 'godspeed', especially after another burst of speed sends the supine Slytherin slamming into a suit of armour that objects to the abuse by prodding the bound wizard's blazingly carmine nose with his lance... Passive aggressive things, those suits. And that draws the only objection Ernie's heard from the wizard. Somehow, Crabbe seems to have asked for this.
Well, more than usual, anyway.
No. Ernie just stands there watching and wishing, wishing, he had Creevey's camera.
Hermione, by nurture, is no more likely to eat the chocolate frog on her pillow than she had been the Headmaster's sherbets. Less even, given the source. No, instead of eating it, she places it at the base of the vase holding her wedding bouquet on top of Crooks' carrier, which currently serves as her bedside table, creating something by way of a still life that thankfully no one's ever likely to see. There's a shy but highly pleased smile on her lips as she does so she wouldn't care to have to explain, but fortunately needn't, and it's hardly surprising that her free hand is once again absently fingering the phial about her neck.
She shakes the reverie off and opens her beaded bag, rooting about in it for the blanket the Matron had gifted them... her... she's not entirely certain really. But she suspects Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have given it to her were her bondmate anyone other than the Professor. Yes, Hermione feels reasonably sure about that. Well, she takes that as yet another sign that she's doing the right thing.
The blanket draped over her arm - she's practically mastered the art of that after not tripping over her robes - and her hand on the knob, she douses the sconce and opens the door.
The light from the embers is enough to see her back to the Professor's side, although she's still pleasantly surprised not to have knocked into any furniture. Undoubtedly the fact he is glowing had helped her to navigate her way back. She really can't get over it. It seems... surreal. She'll have to ask about that later. If she finds the courage.
She comes to a standstill beside her sleeping... husband.
It's a heady thought, one that really does have her struggling to fill her lungs, and her exhale is sharp. Almost as sharp as the angles of his face, or the lines of the very defined muscles on his abdomen, which have her looking - glancing, really; well, it's not like she's staring - at the line of dark hair that leads the eye - quite automatically, she is sure - to where it just begins to widen where it disappears beneath the waistband... 'Is it still called that when it's slung so low about his hips?' some part of her brain that hasn't quite absorbed what it's looking at feels the need to ask.
Or maybe it's a coping mechanism.
And then he moans again, turns fitfully, and tries to bury his face in his arm.
He's lying there on his back with his right arm thrown over his head, which only pushes his chest into sharper relief. Merlin, his poor chest. His wounds look so... raw. She has at least a little experience of her own with that. There's no way that doesn't hurt. Her scar pulls as she thinks about it. And then there's a sharp pang of something in her chest, and it's... it's like she feels his pain.
Sometimes sympathy can feel so... real. So... tangible.
That's not the bond. It just... hurts to look at him. Really look at him.
His brow is even more creased than it had been before, which most assuredly has at least something to do with the fact her Draught of Peace has worn off, but after the events at the Manor from the past handful of days, his dreams aren't... pleasant. A fact that's fairly apparent just from watching him.
She goes inwards, trying to listen to the bond, and he really... he can't be doing well. She can thank the Calming Draught he took for the fact that it isn't any worse.
She feels guilty for standing there... perving... And then questions if she was... Well, 'perving' may have been unjustly harsh... It probably wasn't that. But the fact remains he's neither in good shape (a small voice disagrees: he's in great shape, and another sadly replies: that he is, but he's still not in good shape) nor is he in a good place, and she's standing there like some dim witted, smitten bump on a log instead of covering him with the blanket she is quite sure will help.
Naturally, instead of doing so immediately now - sometimes she can't begin to explain herself; the answer is: she's complicated, and she can claim whatever she likes, she likes the view - she pauses to Transfigure it blue to match the other decorative items in the lounge. Unexpectedly, for her anyway, he seemed to have given some care to his furnishings... Although why shouldn't he? It's just... It was foolish. She hadn't really known what to expect, she supposes... But it seems... right... to take just a moment, a brief moment - how long could it take? - to show she recognised that, acknowledges it, and to see to it the blanket matches as well. It's hardly any effort.
And possibly helps justify her standing there a little longer.
Strangely, she seems to be having just a bit of trouble matching the right shade of blue - it's probably due to the dim lighting; it couldn't be her intent - and as she does with most things, she feels the need to do that properly as well... It's as she casts the Spell - so atypically - for the fourth time that she notices the small container of Scar Scarcefying Salve on the end table next to her chair.
It's there where she left it. The plate with Hagrid's Rock Cakes seems to have been Banished. Nothing that odd really...
But the thing is, the Salve seems to be glowing, too.
Faintly, there's no question, but it's like the little pot is another source of light in the room's darkness. Which makes even less sense than the Professor's glow. She knows as she thinks it that it's simply her mind playing tricks on her. It's the only explanation.
This is some kind of strange... projection on her part, and...
It would unquestionably help if she understood house elf magic. If she grasped that when an elf casts a Lumos, as they don't make use of wands, the Charm automatically must have a different focus, then perhaps this would seem less puzzling. Far less puzzling. Of course, then she'd have to ask why Sunny feels the need to cast a weak Lumos on the Salve, instead of just applying it himself, say, but she's blissfully unaware of his culpability in this as in other things.
She stands there, blanket in hand (now the proper shade of deepest blue, thank you very much), turning back and forth from the Salve to the bare chest before her she is quite certain hasn't been treated as the Matron instructed... And it's really an easy leap from there.
Or so she thinks.
She takes the pot of Salve in hand and kneels on the floor next to the Professor. That seems... wise. Steadying, at any rate. The blanket beside her, momentarily forgotten, she unscrews the lid, and discovers her mouth has gone dry. She dips the fingers of her left hand, three of them, into the Salve. It's cold to the touch, and she applies a Warming Charm; anything else would be rude. And more likely to wake him abruptly.
She shouldn't like to imagine what he'd do then.
And then she immediately does.
She wasn't expecting it, she certainly wasn't braced for it, and it's completely overwhelming as it rushes over her. The question, unasked, 'What would he do?' certainly didn't require explicit answering. And the most probable answers, the most realistic were far from... explicit.
He'd yell, rightly so for her taking such liberties, and send her packing, hopefully to her room, possibly to the Gryffindor tower.
But unbidden, there's a flood of thoughts, disjointed, vestigial images from those recent Potion induced fantasies, washing over her, leaving her reeling as surely as were she pulled under, tumbled and buffeted by unrelenting ocean waves.
fucking.sucking.growling.howling.begging.pegging.
biting.licking.pulling.pushing.scratching.tasting.teasing.
lusting.thrusting.gasping.grasping.groaning.moaning.
It probably doesn't help in the least that he's doing plenty of those last two as is, or that she can smell him (and likes the scent of the man), or that there's so much of him exposed, or that she's seriously contemplating laying hands on him, uninvited, no matter how ostensibly noble the cause... And isn't the question of consent a seriously sticky wicket?
And all of her thoughts are unreasonable, completely improbable, more like impossible, like all of her answers are wrong, and she's failing her N.E.W.T. in... what? Life? Intimacy? Definitely that, she's so failing that.
But all of those wrong answers were also so thoroughly... oof, almost combustible, really, and she swears she's having some kind of flashback to Friday night on that fucking potion and every last erotic thought... Well, yes, it sort of was a Fucking Potion, now wasn't it, and it's too soon, and that wasn't funny - well it sort of was, but still - and she's pretty sure that's... this...
This isn't how any of that works.
She struggles to breathe again.
And wonders if this is some kind of panic attack.
She supposes it is.
Her pulse is racing and she just...
He moans and becomes more agitated, his head tossing miserably back and forth, and it shakes her out of her downwards spiral.
Quite naturally, that means she resumes thinking.
Slowly she begins to realise some things. She's been kidding herself. Pretending she's fine. This doesn't seem fine. This isn't fine. Fine is something else altogether, but definitely not... this. She's beginning to suspect she lost something Friday, that something was taken from her, and she doesn't quite understand how because nothing happened.
She can't say it often enough.
But it's like no one who matters is listening...
The fact she keeps saying it silently should tell her everything she needs to know about that. But then: she isn't listening. That was rather the problem.
Instead she's practically shouting inside her head. Insisting.
Nothing happened.
So why is she struggling to breathe?
This seems like some weird sort of puzzle that she should be able to figure out. She's bright. If she applies her mind...
She stares at the Professor and it isn't helping that lump in her throat any, both his chest and the damage to it would probably be cause enough on their own. Taken together and with everything else... She doesn't have a prayer.
She's very conscious of the fact she's alone with a half naked man. This isn't some boy. No. Everything about the body beside her screams 'man'. And not just any man. He's simultaneously the safest and most dangerous man on the planet as far as she's concerned.
The danger is clear. The latent... threat. She categorises it precisely as that, and that too would be revealing were she paying attention. She understands - perfectly - intellectually - that if she is going to... Were she to... Oh, for heaven's sake. If she is going to have... sex with anyone it will be with him, and it seems right at the moment that's a terrifying thought. And aren't the implications of that just as terrifying?
Just how fucked up is she?
It's nothing personal, which sounds wrong but isn't. It really isn't. In fact, she'll allow that she might even have a bit of a crush after that rescue Friday. Why wouldn't she? It's not even embarrassing... Well, maybe just a little, but not because of him, no, that's all her and her mortifying little schoolgirl mindset. But goodness knows, it had been rather crushworthy. Just like the vast majority of those fantasies of him Friday, which is equal parts relief and terror inducing. Because it's easier to nurture that. To pretend she's still capable of that. That's far simpler than the alternative, admitting she might be too...
Damaged.
It's easier, too, because she's also utterly serious that he's the safest man she knows. There are two truths, one fairly excruciating - she's quite certain he doesn't fancy her in the least, which is sort of decimating, particularly in light of him being her only possible partner. And the other, the other truth goes a long way towards fuelling her crush. This man would never force himself on her. She knows - firsthand - the lengths he is willing to go to ensure he would never, could never do such a thing.
There is no one she trusts more.
Which makes the fact she's having a panic attack at the thought of touching him even scarier. If not him, then whom? Who could possibly make her feel safer?
And she very much doesn't want to be that... broken.
She isn't crying. Yet. There are no tears. But if she'd like to keep it that way, and she very much would, she has a hunch she really should take a Calming Draught tonight. Calming should be enough. Not Peace.
But she can always take a second. If she really needs it...
In fact, that's such a good idea, she Summons one now and then can't figure out how to open it with one hand sort of occupied... She settles for uncorking it with her teeth and throws it back a little desperately. Telling herself, assuring herself, she's not some kind of junkie...
And so there she kneels, suitably warmed Salve now cooling on her fingers, hovering there, mere inches - less! - from their goal, the physical representation of her uncertainty, wavering over the very visible, angry red lines across his chest. And she's an arse, because he clearly needs her help, and why the hell isn't she? Helping?
There's a little, largely futile, wetting of her lips, followed inexorably by some even more futile attempts to swallow. It feels like she's trying to get one of Hagrid's biscuits down again. Possibly worse.
Right there, so close she only needs to move another inch to touch it, right there is the spot her head had rested Friday as he'd carried her to safety. While bleeding, profusely, from these many cuts all too clearly still in evidence. And she sits here like some ninny... Well, kneels...
Still.
It's medicinal. It's helpful. It's perfectly logical. It's only humane, for goodness' sake. It's what the Matron prescribed, and she can't begin to explain why he wouldn't have done it himself. Well, she sort of can. He'd probably been too... whiffled. Or maybe this goes back to what Madam Pomfrey had been so upset about, that he doesn't take proper care of himself. Or allow her to.
And Hermione is in the perfect position to do something about it.
Literally.
She can fix this. Him and her both. If she can do this, she isn't irreparably broken. If she can do this, she can help him. And she should help him. That's practically second nature for her. No, the
What's strange is her hesitation.
And so, however hesitantly, and there is a visible tremble to her hand, she reaches out to put the Salve on his chest.
What could go wrong?