“beyond wandpoint” 085 by gingerbred

[beyondwandpoint]

“11 11y Tuesday - Must Be Dreaming”

Hermione 7G, Severus, Crooks

Mentioned: Sunny (the Snapes' house elf)

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Originally Published: 2018-08-21 on AO3
Chapter: 085

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For all Hermione's worry about the Professor last night - and in retrospect, parts of it had been terrifying - in some regards, it was easier than tonight is shaping up to be. Last night she'd had something to focus on. Tonight she's alone with her thoughts.

And it turns out she doesn't like them.

Brilliant.

She'd fruitlessly tried to interest herself in a few more books, to no avail, and had finally decided to call it an early night and gotten ready for bed. She hasn't had much sleep lately, and could probably do with the extra rest.

Sound, in principle, less so in practice.


She lies there in bed wrestling with all kinds of things, her inability to make the Loyalty Vow work properly and the fact the Headmaster had somehow managed to... convince her to take yet another one of those bloody Oaths. Sure enough, just as she'd expected, she's incredibly disappointed in herself for falling for that. Again. Then there's also her disappointment with her friends. And then there's her frustration about the library and... Holy Cricket! The library! She's not sure she'll ever be able to return...

Onerous Oaths.
Vexing Vows.
Bothersome books, only just out of reach...
Even more bothersome librarians rendering them such.
Still more bothersome friends.
And the Headmaster...

She can't seem to find the right words for him. She isn't quite willing to go there. Not yet. And when she is, she has a suspicion she'll need to expand her vocabulary for the occasion.

Struggling to be fair, mostly because she's currently not comfortable casting the Headmaster in such a negative light, she tries to decide what difference the latest Oath might make, and has a feeling it won't change much. In terms of things she'd want to do, but now won't be able to, it probably only really affects her ability to speak with Harry and Ron about what had happened under the Whomping Willow that night all those years ago. And it's not like they were listening to her anyway. Gits. She quickly runs into trouble as she attempts to run the permutations through her mind, because she can't, obviously, without thinking about the boys, and she has to acknowledge she'd rather not.


One thing is for certain, the Calming Draught is nothing like the Draught of Peace. She wonders why she had thought it would be adequate for her needs. (The simple truth that she doesn't intend to voice is she'd felt safer, more secure - despite what was probably a panic attack - at the Professor's side. He'll appreciate that, greatly, she is sure. And she most assuredly doesn't consider how to maximise the time she spends there. Well, not for more than a moment or two.) Then, too, the Professor had suggested she try to work through her... issues without Draughts (if possible) in the safety of chambers. She assumes he has a little experience with that, as an Occlumens. Working through things.

That's not as true as she might think. Occlumency relies primarily on suppression. Compartmentalisation and suppression. Confronting one's troubles can be helpful, but it's certainly not a priority. When attempts to do so become detrimental to Severus' ability to Occlude, mental health takes a back seat. He's right, obviously. There's precious little point to sorting his problems if it only means his death the next time he's summoned to face the Dark Lord. Severus suppresses quite a bit. When he's not outright repressing it, that is.

Hermione spends a lot of time tossing and turning as if that would help her to escape her thoughts, or shake off the unpleasant ideas. All it does is give Crooks reason to give her a disgruntled 'mrowrrr'. He'd tried to curl up against her, but there's no point if she keeps changing position like that. He withdraws a little to take refuge in the comparative safety of the side of the bed closest to the wall, cleverly deciding to wait for her to quiet to resume his position.

He knows his witch well. And he's no fool.


Tonight's shaping up a lot like Sunday night had been, only worse. Far worse. In addition to everything else (and that had been quite enough, really), she now has a much clearer idea of the threats the Professor faces (frankly, that by itself seems enough to guarantee she never sleeps again), the threat she may represent to him (the guilt alone...), an idea of how the school is going to react to their bonding in the weeks to come (so kindly), and - worse - how her friends are apparently planning on dealing with it. Which clearly wasn't well.

She really doesn't want to think about Harry and Ron.

So naturally she does.

There are some moments of embarrassment that she could ever have found anything... appealing about Ron. She's not even sure why she needs to think about it, but apparently she does. (And then has to wonder why on earth she suddenly juxtaposes that with thoughts of the Professor sleeping in only his pyjama bottoms on their couch, all apropos of nothing... There's some embarrassment there, too, but it's of a more... heated kind, leaving her cheeks quite flushed. An impressive response given the Calming Draught, for it's far from useless.) She spends a fair amount of time listing Ron's deficiencies; that list is lengthy, reflecting her hurt and anger (and it's also telling how much of both there is despite the Draught). For some reason, she also feels a need to berate herself for that former attraction. Self-recriminations seem to be an underlying theme for this night, though.

Her recriminations aren't limited to herself, however. She's furious at both Harry and Ron, and despite all her self-reproaches, manages, conveniently, to overlook the things she may have done to contribute to their current conflict. Not that it's her responsibility to make sure they're getting along, but neither is it entirely fair to expect them to read her mind. On the other hand, Neville and Luna hadn't any more facts than Harry and Ron had - fewer, even - and somehow they had responded... better. More compassionately.

Although there's a strong possibility their distance lent them an objectivity that had helped...


But on that note, she reminds herself that Luna had been absolutely lovely, and Neville, he'd been frightfully sweet, really, if a little obvious (and the thought makes her smile), trying to get her away from Harry and Ron after Herbology - well, mostly Ron - and giving her a tour of his project in the greenhouses. She's not sure why she keeps focusing on the boys and her disappointment instead of on those truly heartwarming displays of friendship. She suspects that's human nature, that she feels a loss more keenly, but it doesn't seem healthy...

Somewhat unhealthily, she decides not to think about that any more for the moment. But there's something to be said for parcelling a job out in manageable bits. Only that was a... bit too much to chew on if she's hoping to get any sleep.

Similarly, other absolutely impossible topics include the reality of the threat beyond the castle's walls, what that meant for the Professor, what that in turn might mean for her, the potential threats within the castle, and anything more concrete about that with respect to Friday night, not that anything happened...

She has a sense that if she persists in seeing the Professor as someone who saved her from something terrible, and she very much does, that it seems at odds with her insistence that nothing had happened, which it hadn't... She can't emphasise that enough. A little mental gymnastics, and she's able to put forward the excuse that nothing had happened, discounting her fear and trauma entirely, but he'd saved her from anything that might have come. And then she shuts that train of thought down immediately. Firmly. 'Too soon', a soft voice allows in the back of her mind, and that might have been the first concession that it was a thing she'll need to deal with.

Some day.

Not now.

No, not now.


She wonders about her reaction just a bit ago, when she was... kneeling beside the Professor and trying to work up the... courage? The temerity? The unmitigated gall? Probably that on consideration. The gall to put the Salve on him. She doesn't know much about panic attacks.

Her mum would know.

Would have known.

Hermione spends a moment trying hard not to miss her mum. Or feel guilty about what she'd done to her. Or wonder how many of her memories are left... Her mum had retained more general medical knowledge than her father had. Before the Obliviations anyway.

Of course it may have helped that her mum's days as a student weren't quite as long gone as her father's.

Yes, her mum would have known. But then, that wouldn't have done Hermione any good, as she wouldn't have told her mum what happened to her (not that anything did), just as she hadn't told her about all the other things. There'd been so very many things, really. She's made rather a habit of keeping her own counsel. That may be putting too positive a spin on it. Of keeping things from them. That naturally had been half of the problem when the time came to send her parents into hiding; they had no real understanding of the situation. That lack of understanding had all but guaranteed they wouldn't simply go off on their own, forcing her hand... More or less.

Hermione never draws the parallel between that and the situation with Ron and Harry at the moment. Even the people who know her best require some explanations. Some points of reference. At least if she hopes for them to ever understand... Anything else is just blind faith. And that's possible, of course, there's no question about it - Luna and Neville were certainly proof - but it's not exactly blessed with comprehension. Hermione prefers to be understood.

So oddly, it doesn't happen all that often.

Instead she lies there wondering if there's anything on panic attacks in the library, but sort of doubts it. The wizarding world isn't exactly good about mental health. (She thinks of the Janus Thickey Ward with a shudder. And then of Neville and his parents with some sadness.) Still, she resolves to check the library tomorrow. (Assuming she can still get through the door. Holy Cricket.) Anything else strikes her as too pessimistic. That also seems proactive, and she's pleased with the decision. The fact she's thinking about it, planning for it, just proves how undamaged she is from Friday.


Doesn't it?


In fact, she's so unaffected by Friday (and eager not to think; probably mostly that) that she reaches for her wand, lights the sconce by her bed, gets up and resumes Sunday night's game of Transfiguring her sleepwear. Tonight it's all the deepest green, however. Because she isn't really thinking 'bridal'. Not beyond Ron's 'Bride of Slytherin' comments, anyway. The colour choice may have everything to do with them, and those remarks may have bothered her more than she'd care to admit. (But then that's true of a great many things lately.)

Well, Ron can get stuffed.

It suits her, she's sure.

Although possibly it also has a little to do with the way the Professor looks at her whenever she wears her new green blouse. Not that she's eager to admit that, either, to herself or anyone else. Except as long as she's thinking about it (just a bit), actually, it's less the way he looks at her than what she can feel from him through their bond when he does. Which makes it a good deal more delicious, because it's sort of a secret.

Sort of their secret.

There's something nice about that. About a shared secret. Those have a way of drawing people together...

She doesn't ask why that might be a good thing, wanting them to be drawn closer, finding the sentiment embarrassing. Given they're bonded, for life, it's actually perfectly sensible, and it's a damn good thing at least one of them is slightly inclined to act along those lines. But considering she isn't thinking about that, it does rather her call her motives into question. Sadly, she also doesn't consider that as it isn't a secret freely shared but stolen from him, ripped from within, it's very unlikely to unite them. As is, it rather leaves him feeling betrayed by their bond. Often. And Occluding. And suppressing...

And then she's trying (so hard) not to think about the fact they very much share the secret of what happened (or didn't) on Friday, because those are... Those aren't restful thoughts.

So she Transfigures some more. Practice makes perfect, after all. And she's a bit of a perfectionist, isn't she? (And if she keeps this up, she'll tire, won't she, and maybe get a good night's rest...)

She still has no success with changing the cloth's texture, which annoys her. On the other hand, it's not like she'd done anything to change that, now had she? She should probably speak to Professor McGonagall about that. Or ask Madam Pomfrey. She'd meant to. Except she hadn't. Asked. She doesn't think about how her fear for the Professor last night had completely eclipsed that desire. (Not more than briefly, anyhow.) That's not restful either.

(So many things aren't.)

Fortunately, her top is incredibly soft - it's a terribly old shirt, she'd stolen it from her father (and she promptly doesn't think of him, either) after he'd declared it too old for use, a veteran of so many washings it borders on magic it's held together this long - any changes to the texture would most likely be for the worse. But she does like the feel of it against her skin.

Very much.

The hemlines start high; it's more of a bodice, really. She recalls the Professor's reaction to her outfit yesterday morning with a broad smile (Transfigured knickers!), remembers how embarrassed he'd been and can't suppress a far too girlish (but thoroughly justified) giggle, and then lengthens her nightgown (enough that it might even be a nightgown, anyway). She has nothing to prove here after all. And even if it is more modest, she's hardly afraid of being too risqué. Of course, that's easier said when there's no danger of anyone seeing it. And modesty may be in the eye of the beholder; when she's done, frankly the thing barley covers her arse.

Crooks honestly doesn't care one way or another.

It occupies her for a while, forcing her to concentrate on something else, and it's calming in a way she understands more instinctively than any of Professor Taylor's relaxation techniques, which helps explain why she chose it. It burns off some of her nervousness that she's loath to put a name to. But she can't keep it up all night. Finally she's satisfied with what she can do with the shapes. The limits probably lie with her understanding of material and how clothing is constructed or draped, and not with her Transfiguration skills.

She's quite happy to have that be the issue. It slots nicely into her self image.

Crooks has watched the fashion show with his usual aplomb, which is to say he slept through most of it. She gives a twirl to show him the final result, pleated, plunging V-shaped neckline, short capped sleeves, empire waist and the ability to flare as she turns which feels oddly... right. Somehow... pretty. Crookshanks merely lifts a single eyelid to observe. She decides to take that as a sign of approval (not that he could have known what she'd settled on before he opened that eye), more because she wants approval, possibly craves it, and less because there is anything at all in his demeanour as he sleepily lies there to suggest it.

No, Crooks rather wishes she'd end this silliness and come to rest. Fatalistically, he's accepted that's not bleeding likely. He hardly stirs as she Noxes the sconce and hops back into the bed with him other than to nudge his head under her hand. It garners him a thorough ear-scratching and her a protracted purr, satisfying both. It's nice how that works. Symbiotically.


Unfortunately, it's not long before her thoughts begin spinning again. It's difficult to think of nothing. Well, maybe not for Ron... Although she supposes even Ron thinks about food. Or Quidditch. (Except she doesn't really want to think about Ron... And can't seem to stop her thoughts from going places that make her less happy. Certainly less sleepy.)

She'd prefer to think about something safe. And then she quickly tries to rephrase that, because she isn't a fearful person (well, not overly), and why should she be worried about the safety of thoughts? That's rubbish. Just...

Rubbish.

So she casts about and realises that she'd naturally prefer to think about something useful instead. That seems more like... her. Absolutely. That's her to a 'T'. (But if it manages to be both, useful and safe, obviously that's preferable, the little voice adds again.)


Which brings her to her malfunctioning Loyalty Vow. Because that seems the most crucial thing she should probably address in the near future. Not that she's sure she can do anything to fix it, but it's quite clear it needs fixing. Today had certainly given her a good idea why it might be necessary.

And the Professor's little experiment had definitely done the rest.

So what's wrong with her Vow?

Almost everything, it would seem.

The only positive thing she can find in it now is the proof that the Professor had been correct, that the Vow wouldn't serve to curtail her usual behaviour. It definitely hadn't done that. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to curtail much of anything else, either. Except telling the Headmaster about the Professor's sweet tooth, or his willingness to share afters.

Somehow, that doesn't seem all that... effective.

No, that will scarcely have been the point of the thing.

Why, just today, she'd dragged Professor McGonagall to his bedside, in clear opposition to his... request that she share nothing about him with others. And he'd been thrilled to hear how she had exchanged information about him with Malfoy. (Actually, the Professor took that better than she would have expected, all considered. When he thought it through, it had almost seemed to soften his anger, and she finds herself sort of wondering why.)

And she shouldn't have been able to update Luna on how he was doing. Or tell the Ravenclaws he'd been in the Infirmary, or, come to think of it, she'd said as much to Ron, too, when they... spoke, and by extension Harry, who'd been listening to them argue, and the Professor's instructions had been very clear, reveal nothing to anyone. Oh, and really, she'd informed Lavender and Parvati, too, hadn't she? In fact, now that she thinks about it, she'd even told the Baron about his condition... Which leaves her lying there now trying to think of anyone in the castle she hadn't spoken to about it.

Possibly Madam Pince.

But then they aren't exactly on chatting terms.

Bloody hell.


And now that she's had a chance to mull things over, and she's most definitely mulling up a storm here, shouldn't the Vow have kept him safe from... Well, she'd basically pawed him, hadn't she, rather thoroughly (she tends to be thorough; she prides herself on it), and she is absolutely convinced he wouldn't appreciate that in the least. He'd never have stood for it. (Of course, were he standing, it wouldn't have been an issue, now would it?) She stares at her glowing index finger as she contemplates it, rubbing it gently with her thumb.

A sort of uncomfortable feeling overcomes her as she realises she may well have had the right of it earlier, that the difference was her doubt or lack of it. She had been uncertain Sunday when she spoke, or failed to, to the Headmaster about the shared torte, and not at all today. No, she'd been quite sure of herself today. She hadn't seen any of her actions as disloyal as she did them, and the Vow hadn't been any sort of hindrance. Not in the least. And yet the value, or potential danger of the information revealed was coincidentally (she's sure it's that) in inverse proportion both to her doubt and the reaction of the Vow. That doesn't seem... good.

It's certainly not safe.

And it definitely calls into question the value of a system that relies on her judgment. That can't be wise. Especially as she knows so little about what's taking place.

She understands now, and begins to feel ill, why the Professor was trying to make her comprehend Sunday that she had to mistrust him. Why he'd suggested that perfectly horrible model based on constant distrust. He felt that was required in order to keep her permanently in a state where she'd be unable to do what she'd just done. And she'd assured him it shouldn't be necessary. Or pleasant. Well, the second was probably the only thing she could say with any certainty.

And the Headmaster had been very clear about the need for that Vow. She may be picking and choosing what to believe from him these days, but she'd believed that. Except he'd also claimed the Professor could use... needed her support. Well, support, not necessarily hers. But hers is the only support potentially on offer here (or at least that she's personally capable of arranging). If that's true, if he needs her to provide it and it's not just wishful thinking, hoping to somehow be of use, she doesn't see how she can support and doubt him simultaneously. They seem to preclude one another. They're mutually exclusive.

Well, she doesn't doubt him. She really doesn't see how she could with their bond. (Which isn't to say she doesn't call his judgment into question. Merlin knows, he's given her reason to. But then people in glass houses... No, they're in excellent company.) So the least she can do if that lack of doubt is going to completely bugger her Loyalty Vow would presumably be to see to it she supports him as best she can. So, um, not so much like when she argued with him and stormed from the room... That might have been suboptimal. Probably less of that, and something more constructive in turn...

She hasn't the foggiest notion what that's supposed to be.


She lies there for a while trying to come up with something, and mostly failing, and when she doesn't concentrate, when she isn't keeping herself focused on that problem, all kinds of scary thoughts come creeping back in to plague her. What the Death Eaters had done to the Professor last night. That they'd probably done even worse to him Friday, judging by his wounds. That that seems to be a regular thing... Or what happened to the Professor under the Whomping Willow as a boy, and how it must have felt knowing exactly what was waiting for him and still facing it when he came to rescue them from Sirius and Remus third year...

She tries to focus more on how brave he must be than on the dangers he faces, even though they're simply opposite sides of the same coin. But it may be easier to sleep if she can avoid thinking about those constant threats. She's not having much luck with it.

She's pretty sure she isn't going to get any rest at this rate. She turns fitfully and plumps her pillow, trying to fluff it up some. Truthfully, it's the fluffiest pillow she's ever... she's not even sure she can say she owns it. The fluffiest pillow she's ever had, then. She doubts any amount of plumping is going to help.


Through her open door, she can hear him growing more agitated. It's probably not surprising in light of how restive, how... anxious she is. It makes perfect sense, she supposes, that she can affect his sleep negatively. She'd been able to affect it positively before, hadn't she? That may still need to be tested more thoroughly to be more than just an assertion, but she's pretty sure it's true. And goes a ways to explaining his condition at the moment.

Whatever else, this currently isn't working. For either of them. It calls for radical measures, she is sure.

---

His dreams have been a mess for days, which is funny (in a very non-amusing fashion), because he's serious when he thinks that, but the truth is they've been a mess for years. He's simply adjusted to them. He's coping. And if anything, they are less of a mess now.

That naturally strikes him as odd.

He's had nightmares for much of the evening, which isn't surprising given his recent experiences. But right now he's having another one of those weird dreams, those strange goldilocks dreams, the sort of dreams he rarely has, at least in recent years. It's been long enough now that he barely thinks of what came before. For the most part, dreaming seems to serve to clear his mind of the things Occlumency suppresses, which means he tends towards nightmares. It's only logical. It's frightfully efficient, he is sure. It's just not particularly pleasant. But recently he's had a few actual dreams, something other than nightmares, and he can't begin to explain it.

Which isn't to say he can't appreciate it. He rather does. It's... nice to have a break.

And so he finds himself in the midst of yet another dream that seems to serve no purpose he can discern. How frivolous. He's back in that impossible wildflower field, gathering ingredients for potions. The planting makes no sense, not herbologically. The various plants want completely different conditions and wouldn't grow grouped as he's dreamt them. He may have thought a little too long about that for it to be strictly restful, but as he enjoys a puzzle - immensely (particularly those of a non-threatening nature, so few and far between), it hasn't done him any harm either. It's given him something to tick over in the back of his mind. He has a vague hope distractions will help him clear his mind enough to find the solution to his other problems, the Invincibility Potion first and foremost amongst them.

The leaves from lavender...

A bract of bee balm...

For starters, the flowers in this field can't be combined to make any known potion. That would have been too obvious. And it would make no sense to seek to blend them for something experimental. Their applications and preparation methods are too disparate. This isn't his subconscious trying to suggest a new Potions solution.

Nor do they seem to represent any floriographical message, Victorian, Gaelic, Turkish, Hebraic, Japanese or otherwise. Equally, he can think of no associated customs. Their colours, the spacing between their locations, the preferred planting conditions... None of it lends itself to a code, and that would be far too Muggle a way of thinking anyway in a world where magic sorts the need for cyphers quite nicely.

He's begun to suspect the flowers serve no purpose beyond the decorative, or more precisely, given their appearances, none beyond their scent, their... bouquet. He really should have thought of that earlier. He really should have. And people say he's all nose...

He's decided to simply savour the fragrances and his dream as it's altogether... agreeable.

Naturally, it will annoy him - greatly - once he realises it's the combined result of Miss Granger's scent and the blanket she's dragged home. But that's a problem for later.

So he stands there in the midst of the field gathering his plants. Everything comes easily. His back doesn't hurt, no matter how long he works, his trousers never become dirty or damp when he kneels on the ground, even his hands and nails remain improbably clean. Although obviously there were potions and Charms to sort any and all of that, the point was they weren't required. Any tool he wants is there to hand, the storage of his harvest proves no problem... In short, he's simply divertingly occupied. He's at peace. He finds it all very... comforting. It's strange.

But he plans on enjoying every moment of it.


That enjoyment seems under threat when Miss Granger puts in an appearance. While he rather wishes she wouldn't haunt his dreams as she's done of late (although it's presumably unavoidable given their bonding - or their damnable bond), even her company proves... unobjectionable in this dream. It probably helps that she's suitably attired. Her help certainly increases his productivity. (As does her kit.) And rather providentially, this time it appears it's her turn not to speak.

He's more than happy not to do so either, or perhaps at a loss for what to say, and for a while they gather the ingredients in oddly companionable silence.

At some point, he couldn't explain why, he begins to tell her about the lesser known aspects of some of the plants, unusual qualities or means of preparation, he details long forgotten and newly discovered applications. Not once does she open her mouth to - ludicrously - try to prove how much more she knows than he does. (That in itself was proof enough it's a dream had her previous silence not been, he scoffs.) Instead she rewards his impromptu lecture with one of those beaming smiles she reserves for her feline, often for the simple act of breathing, which leaves Severus feeling slightly insulted, until he decides he sort of likes the smile when he's on the receiving end.

And really, his recital had deserved it.

There's a brief moment when he fears his efforts will be punished by added inches on future assignments before he recalls with some relief that she's no longer in his class, and then he remembers why and that relief dissipates immediately. For a moment he almost feels sorry for Pomona for the inches Miss Granger will no doubt add to her Herbology homework on the subject of any of these plants before he reminds himself it was all only a dream. And then wonders why he'd have gone to the bother of explaining things in view of that. He follows that by wondering why he'd have considered the effort more worthwhile were it not a dream. That thought proves disturbing and he abandons it quickly.

Still, by and large it's a relaxing exercise. It may have done him some good. He probably wouldn't mind repeating it.

When the dream comes to its inevitable end and he begins to shift to the next, he's sorry to see it go. He'd appreciated the chance to recharge his batteries, as it were, and liked the bucolic idyll. And the next must surely be worse, or at least that's what the law of averages dictates. His dreams are rarely this good.

As a result, he's all the more surprised by his next one.


He wakes slowly, very slowly, which despite the dream's clarity is his first indication it's simply not real. He always wakes quickly, completely, generally instantly aware of his surroundings, unless very much drugged. It's served him well when forced to kip in some corner, surrounded by Death Eaters. That's been an all too frequent occurrence over the years. (As has being thoroughly drugged, come to think of it... Poppy. Bless.) He'd developed that habit as a very young boy, however, trying to... forced to better navigate his father's drunken... moods. It had been... safer to sleep lightly and wake... aware. But as it's a habit that's continued well on into adulthood, that detail by and of itself makes it highly probable that this is a dream.

He notes he's safe in his chambers, sleeping on his couch; that much, once he gathers his thoughts, makes sense. He still has no idea why he's sleeping there, but he remembers the Patronuses disturbing his sleep earlier. His face seems stuck to the dragon hide couch. He lifts his head slightly to pull his cheek clear, eliciting a sound much like fruit leather makes when peeled from a waxed paper backing, and contemplates worming his way back to the nearby throw pillow he's deserted, but he's just too tired.

And too comfortable where he lies.

He wriggles, ever so slightly, and discovers that his left arm appears a little stuck as well. Bother. He may have actually sighed. But he really can't be arsed to turn over. That says a lot for his exhaustion. Inexplicably, his side doesn't seem to be adhering to the couch at all; he wriggles again a little more pronouncedly to confirm that. No, it makes no sense, behaving as though Imperviused when his arm is clearly not, and he adds that to the list of proofs that this is a dream, the characteristics of skin are (naturally) simply not that variable under the same given conditions. What tosh. Fleetingly he's disappointed in his subconsciousness' grasp of the physical world. Fortunately no one need ever learn of his shame.

There's the softest imaginable blanket covering him, especially perceptible over his bare upper body, and he's wondering again what he's doing without a top in winter (aside from better appreciating that blanket's softness; Merlin, it's good), not that he's cold, but it's the principle of the thing. He may not have explanations for that - well, firewhisky, ta muchly, it explains so much - but he recollects those details from earlier as well.

Chambers? Check. Couch? Check. Sans top? Should be checked, but yes, check. Blanket? Well that certainly ticks all the boxes.

The blanket smells fucking lovely, frankly, and he's just beginning to realise it isn't only the scent of the blanket without making any noteworthy progress towards a resolution of that little mystery... His brain doesn't seem to quite want to identify it, though. In fact, it seems incredibly eager not to identify the scent, which annoys him. As it would annoy him more to have actually identified it, his brain decides he can simply thank him for that kindness later, accepting even as it thinks it that it will never come to pass.

Bizarrely, he's content. He's never content. He can't remember ever being content...

He's still trying to sort that thought, not with much success, when he discerns a further proof of a dream state in his position: he's apparently been sleeping on his left side, which is unusual, although he imagines it would have been difficult for the side of his arm to be stuck to the leather as it is otherwise. Yet more proof he's waking too slowly for this to be real (or that he's suddenly been rendered unconscionably slow witted, which isn't how Confunding works, or much of anything else). Still, as sleeping positions go, he prefers sleeping on his back. Doubtless it will serve a narrative purpose. As no one is currently being tortured in his presence, he's quite happy to wait for that purpose to reveal itself, particularly as this dream is proving more of a doddle than the last, and when does that happen?

He doesn't have to wait long.

Something moves underneath his right hand where he's allowed it to rest, hanging slightly off the couch. He doesn't flinch, he has too much experience (none of it desirable, but all the more applicable) and self control for that, he waits to see what it is and assess the threat it represents.

Once he recognises it however, he's at an utter loss how to make that threat assessment. He draws a total blank.


For reasons even less explicable than his own - topless - presence in the lounge (although possibly it's not altogether unrelated to it), Miss Granger seems to have made herself at home on the floor in front of his... their couch, and his hand is currently resting upon her upper arm.

Her bare upper arm.

He takes a few moments to process that.

They don't help.

Not in the least. The absurdity of that (and it's unclear if he finds her location or the physical contact more improbable; neither was likely) further convinces him this is a dream, although he's beginning to wonder...

Not having any desire to be forced to confront her - even if only in a dream state (most likely especially then, his psyche is a horror) - for any of this, he really can't imagine what his subconscious is trying to get at, he freezes, breathing as shallowly as he can, desperate to avoid disturbing her.

It works, which isn't at all the way he defines his luck.

That fact begins to weigh against the dream scenario, because his subconscious very definitely has a grasp on that.

He lies there blinking the sleep from his eyes, slowly becoming increasingly sure he is now indeed awake, assessing the situation, and finally acknowledges he's still very pleasurably squiffy. Probably much more than just squiffy, were he being honest. And he does very definitely have a warm witch in hand. A soft witch in hand. His fingers flex slightly to test this - she's both warm and soft, possibly more so than the blanket covering him, which he'd have thought unlikely - and she may just have sighed at the touch. He goes rigidly still once more.

Cautiously he peers over the edge of the couch to see that she seems to have made herself a nest of her duvet and pillow and is snuggled against the furniture.

He tries to find an explanation for it.

He fails.

It really doesn't make any sense to him. But as he's accepted this is real, equally he must accept that there's a reason for it. Even if it currently escapes him.


It escapes him a while longer.

He adds that to the reasons to imbibe less, but secretly assumes if sober he'd be even more stumped. He's presently willing to entertain explanations he most certainly wouldn't were he less drunk. So he tries some more, racking his brains while holding incredibly still, and finally decides she felt she needed to keep an eye on him in his... inebriated state.

He nearly snorts at that, because he's an arse. Had she been worried he might have had so much to drink as to sick up in the night, the woman has picked the single worst spot to bed down, that much is clear. He assumes she hasn't much practical experience with these things, lucky her, and is operating based on some vague notion of the theoretical risks involved.


Feeling comfortable with that explanation for their current sleeping arrangements, he now (somewhat unwisely) begins to examine his response to it. Typically (and he really should do something about that, but he never seems to find the time), once he realises he was feeling rather comfortable not just with the explanation but with the situation itself, he promptly begins to feel far less comfortable. But that's all too common for his own special brand of idiocy. Nit.

He suspects he'd used his right hand to... he's not quite sure what he's doing, and really doesn't wish to describe it as 'holding her'. 'Touching her' strikes him as immeasurably worse - he is not touching her, except that technically he is... (Vexatious verbs!) - and he soon flounders for words. They all prove unsatisfactory, which has far less to do with his vocabulary than his inhibitions. For a, how had Miss Granger phrased it? For a 'fearsome Death Eater', he has surprisingly many.

For which the Order should be boundlessly grateful...

He imagines he'd have wished to keep the Dark Mark well away from her, which is why his left arm is under him, safely tucked back from his Muggle-born bondmate, and it's his right hand presently... lying - innocuously, most innocently, in point of fact - on her arm. In a grasping fashion that probably can't be described as 'lying' unless he insists on lying to himself.

And that he does, ta.

It was probably also easier to... hold her this way, with his right hand, not that he can begin to explain why he should have wished to do so in the first place. Sound asleep and not responsible for his actions and firewhisky come immediately to mind. Fine, but that doesn't explain why he hasn't moved away now.

He's reluctant to wake her is why.

Well, he's certainly reluctant.

Honestly, he's still too drunk to want to get up and move to his bedroom, drunk enough not to care overmuch, well, not too much, and obviously the little witch chose to lie there of her own accord. That's hardly his fault. This situation was not of his making.

Probably.

Mostly.

Beyond being drunk and apparently passing out half clothed in the lounge. Bygones. He sees no need to dwell on that. Well, not tonight. (Tomorrow will undoubtably be a different matter.) Having absolved himself of most of the blame, he settles in again, relaxing deeper into the couch.


That lasts for a few minutes, he's just about to nod off once more, when he's startled to feel her left hand reach up to grab his right, intertwining their fingers and holding his hand, clasping it more tightly to her arm. (It transpires he's less shy about using the word 'holding' when it doesn't apply to his actions.) He lies there - not sleeping - for a while longer, thinking about that as she tries to cuddle in closer to the couch beneath him, contemplating the warm creature lying there in his grasp.

Truthfully, her touch is... pleasant.

It feels like acceptance, in a way he hadn't even realised he wanted. Maybe even needed. It's... comfort.

Something he hasn't had a great deal of.

It's rather like those moments from Friday evening, not all the ones he'd rather forget (desperately wishes to forget, but can't quite see his way clear to exposing himself to the inevitable ridicule by asking Albus for an Obliviate), but when she'd curled into his chest, trying to express her relief and gratitude, clearly displaying her trust in him, even after what those boys had done to her. That had meant a great deal to him. She hadn't shied from his touch, she'd sought it, seen in him a source of comfort. Safety.

It goes without saying that he isn't often cast in that light.

And there was no embarrassment there.


He is all too aware that she finds him humiliating. Merlin knows, their insufferable bond has been... good enough to let him know that she's experienced such a surfeit of mortification since their bonding as to rob him of any illusions he may ever have had. Not that there had been many, but that rejection had been rather... brutal. Were he a better man, he'd put an end to this now - she'll only regret it when she wakes - but he has to admit he kind of fancies it.

So much so, that there's a moment where he half wants to expand the couch and pull her to him - just to hold, of course; he'd really prefer to get back to sleep - and this feels like the first good rest he's had outside the Infirmary where he was doubtlessly drugged to the hilt... Well, he's probably still proper gattered. But it doesn't matter how much he's had to drink, he wouldn't dream of pulling her up beside him. Never. It's a liberty too far. Particularly given her recent experiences. But she must have come there of her own volition, and he decides he probably doesn't need to have much problem leaving her there.

He gently untangles their fingers and wandlessly casts a silent Cushioning Charm on the floor. He follows it with a Warming Charm, just to be sure. It shouldn't be necessary, between the self-heating properties he'd Charmed into her duvet when he'd made it and the semi-permanent Warming Charms on the floor, but better safe than sorry. And he naturally has no way of knowing Hermione cast both Charms when she decided to spend the night there beside him. He spreads half of his blanket over the little witch before returning his hand to her shoulder and is more than a little gratified (and drunk enough not to mind) when she greedily grabs for his fingers, and gives his arm a tug, trying to pull it snugly around her.

He nearly chuckles. Merlin knows, his arms are long, but with the way she's trying to lever it around her body, she's more likely to pull him from the couch than anything else. That would most decidedly be a rude awakening for them both. He definitely has no desire to test that assertion.

Apparently unwilling to relinquish his hold on the witch again, he now pulls his left hand free of the dragon hide and, succumbing to the sort of drunken logic he'll bitterly regret in the morning, with a twitch of his fingers unleashes a Sectumsempra on the couch, neatly severing all six legs and with a further flick flinging the stumps to the side. A masterful Wingardium Leviosa (a Firstie's Charm he's still rather bitter about flubbing last Friday), brings the couch down smoothly to the ground, with only a small detour, swinging slightly back and then bumping gently forwards to give the witch and her blanket a nudge to make sure he hasn't trapped her beneath the furniture in the process. He really shouldn't like to have to explain that otherwise.

Hermione, now better able to reach him even if not particularly awake, takes full advantage of their new relative positions to wrap his arm tightly around her own (and herself while she's at it) and pull his hand under her head where she holds him fast, cupping her cheek. She smiles into his palm and falls more deeply asleep. This is restful. There is nowhere she feels safer, which is slightly ironic as he might well have crushed her with the couch with the way their combined luck has been going lately.

There's a moment as he's drifting off where he thinks uncomfortably about how he'll explain this, the now suddenly legless couch - roughly as legless as he was, as the expression goes - should she wake before him. He resolves to get up earlier, which might do some good were he less drunk. As it is...


His thoughts finally alight on a solution. Should he need to justify this, he can simply claim Sunny must have lowered the couch, which is funny in as much as Sunny most definitely didn't do that, he wouldn't have dared (from a human perspective, his compunctions are more than passing strange), but he had moved Severus to the couch in the first place and divested him of his pyjama top in the process.

Not that Severus will ever learn of these facts, but that doesn't make them any less so.