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AN: All characters belong to J.K Rowling

Worth the Wound

'Good afternoon, Professor Snape,' said a voice from over his shoulder.

Severus looked up. 'Professor Granger,' he greeted and, under the table, used his foot to nudge out a chair.

She dumped a huge pile of parchment onto the table and sat down.

'I have your tea here.' Severus pushed her mug across to her and took up his quill again.

Hermione took the mug and sipped from it straightaway. 'Mm, you always make the best brew.'

Severus didn't look up from the essay he was marking, but nevertheless, smiled to himself.

This was how they spent most Wednesday afternoons—stationed together in the staff room, making use of a free lesson to get marking done. She always claimed to find spending too much time alone in her study distasteful. He could very well understand how stifling she might find peace and quiet, but he, on the other hand, had no such difficulty existing with his own company.

And yet, here he was. Every Wednesday afternoon. Even after a headache-inducing first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin class.

These days there was little need to dwell on the cause of this change in his routine. Or to dwell on his new-found preference for company (specific company, that is). It had taken him some time, but he had come to terms with his new predicament. He understood the reasons for it and he had long since given up trying to resist them.

Indeed, he was quite sure his situation was painfully obvious to everyone, bar the lady who's influence his existence was now beholden to.

There could really only be one reason why he should volunteer to accompany her on Hogsmeade weekends, when, as Deputy Headmaster, he could have avoided it. Similarly, what other reason could there be as to why, when he had planned the evening duty rota, he had ensured they would be on duty together?

He was sure even the children must be noticing. Why else would he bypass umpteen empty seats at the High Table to plonk himself down next to her? Why else would he let himself be seen outside, at weekends, taking a turn about the grounds with her? Why else would he open himself to such public scrutiny were it not for the fact that he desired something more?

It was all so cursedly obvious, and yet, she was oblivious. Never blinking, never questioning, never apprehensive in the face of his machinations. Taking it all in her stride, as if he, Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater, was known for his attentive, gentlemanly character. As if it was normal for him to befriend insufferable know-it-alls. As if he tempered himself for just anyone.

She accepted it all as if it were a given, and the worst part was, it was all so un-Granger-like. The one time she seemed at pains to be dense—to be a dunderhead.

The irony of it routinely gripped his stomach.

The sharp sound of the nib of his quill suddenly splintering pulled Severus back from his doom-laden thoughts. There was a large red splodge of ink on the parchment where the quill had been pressed too hard into the parchment.

'That bad, is it?' Hermione nodded towards the essay he was attempting to mark.

'Abominable,' he muttered, unenthusiastically.

He had just repaired his quill when they were interrupted.

'Ah Severus, Minerva said you would be in here.' Rolanda Hooch came over to stand by the table. 'Hello, Hermione.'

Severus looked up. 'What can I do for you?'

'We're short of a beater for the exhibition Quidditch match on Saturday, McManus has dropped out with an injury. I know you said no, initially, but we will be hard pressed to find anyone else at short notice now.'

'What will be in it for me?'

'It is for charity, Severus, so the pleasure of doing a good deed.'

Severus grimaced. 'Very well, if I must.'

'What?' laughed Hermione, in surprise. 'You were on the Slytherin Quidditch team?'

Severus was sure he did not like the doubt in her tone. 'For a time, yes.'

'Really?'

'Yes.' He glanced briefly at Hooch, who appeared to be biting the inside of her cheek. 'Really.'

'Oh,' said Hermione, ponderously.

'Is there some reason why this is a surprise to you?' he demanded.

'Look,' interrupted Hooch briskly. 'I'll leave you to it. Severus, we have practice tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock.'

'Well?' he prompted, after the flying instructor had departed.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. 'I just… I never thought about it, I suppose.'

Severus grit his teeth and turned back to his marking, unable to feel anything other than aggrieved. To his chagrin, she didn't drop the matter, either.

'Is it… I mean, is it a good idea for you to play now, though?'

His head shot up. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Well, it must be an age since you last played, isn't it?'

'And?'

'Well, are you not a little out of practice? You will be playing against the current best players at Hogwarts…'

He glared at her violently.

She began to stutter. 'Aren't the players on the ex-Hogwarts teams also a bit… younger—'

There was a screech as he shot his chair back and leapt to his feet. 'Merlin, is that how you see me,' he hissed, 'as a decrepit, unathletic, old ghoul? I'm not even middle-aged by wizarding standards!'

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but he stormed away before she could speak. 'Wait!' she called out as he disappeared through the door into the hallway.

He most certainly was not going to wait. How could she? He possibly had never been more offended in his life. Severus stormed back down to the dungeons before she could have a chance to follow him. In the comfort of his office, he breathed deeply, placing his head in his hands.

What the fuck had he just agreed to?

And how disappointing that his favourite person saw him as a dungeon-dwelling old bore. He sighed; he knew was being uncharitable, but it didn't dampen his frustration.

He rather wished he hadn't used the word unathletic, though. Even he knew that to describe himself as athletic was a woeful delusion of the first order.

~

That evening, Hermione accosted him in the staff room. He had managed to avoid her at dinner by arriving late and leaving early. Now, he sat in an armchair, ostensibly listening to the Headmistress witter on about budgets, but actually wondering how long it would take for the Arithmancy mistress to track him down.

It wasn't long before he sensed her presence coming to a stop behind his chair.

Minerva trailed off and offered a greeting. 'Good evening, Hermione, have you come to join us?'

'Actually, Minerva, I just need a moment of Severus's time, if you don't mind? Severus?'

He gave her a look. 'Minerva was just about to reach the interesting part of her conversation… Weren't you?'

Minerva pursed her lips warningly at him.

'Very well,' he muttered, raising his eyebrows at Hermione as if to say 'go ahead.'

'In private, please.' Hermione jerked her head towards the door.

Severus jumped to his feet. 'Did you know, Minerva, that Professor Granger thinks I am too old to play Quidditch?'

Hermione scowled at him.

'Hermione!' Minerva scolded. 'I'd be out there in a heartbeat were it not for that damned injury of mine!'

'I did not say he was too old!' Hermione hissed, spinning on her heel and marching towards the door.

'Must you squabble all of the time?' Minerva shook her head tiredly.

Severus hid a smirk and moved to follow his colleague. He found her standing mutinously in the hallway and, when he appeared, she took hold of his arm and nudged him out into the courtyard opposite.

'Look,' she said briskly, 'I never called you a decrepit, unathletic, old ghoul!'

Severus almost laughed at hearing her say those words. 'It was implied.'

'No, if you had let me explain, I could have told you that I hate Quidditch—passionately! I find it vaguely absurd and absolutely boring.'

She paused for a moment, her hands on her hips, and Severus began to feel his heart sink a little.

'But more than that,' she continued, 'it is so dangerous! I used to spend most Quidditch matches worrying to death! I will now have to add you to my list for Saturday alongside Harry and Ron. I do not want to see you hurt, that is all. I wasn't being ageist.'

He stared at her. Trust her to be so bloody pious, he thought fondly. He shook his head. 'It is Quidditch, Hermione; we're not going toe-to-toe with Hungarian Horntails.'

'Might as well be,' she mumbled grumpily. 'Well then, am I forgiven?'

He raised an eyebrow as if giving it thought. 'Maybe,' he answered with a slight smirk.

She rolled her eyes and turned to head back towards the staff room.

Of course, she was forgiven, he thought sadly, he loved her so completely he was sure he could forgive her anything. Not that she needed forgiving, mind; he had only been winding her up. It was his most favourite pastime and one he had made a special study of.

He considered her words again. He had only agreed to play in the match as a long shot to impress her, and now it turns out she detests Quidditch and he has achieved the exact opposite. Typical. Would he not get any brownie points for partaking in a charity event? That didn't seem to impress her, either.

He scuffed his shoe angrily against the flagstones, before setting off back inside.

What he was supposed to do about his feelings was proving an insurmountable conundrum. He had considered telling her, of course, but the odds were not necessarily stacked in his favour. He would need some sort of assurance first. There were times when he thought she must feel the same, but other times when he thought he must be wrong. He knew one could not read into her actions the same conclusions as one might his. She was nice to everyone, mostly. It was never unusual to see her smile or laugh in the company of others.

The humiliation could kill him if he made a declaration that ended up being rejected. He just wished she would bloody say something if she did feel for him in that way. What held her back? It would hardly be a humiliation for her if he turned her down. Most would consider it a lucky escape. She could blame it on a moment of madness. But if she turned him down, well, he would have to leave Hogwarts, and possibly the country, to escape the embarrassment. Without anything else to go on, he could only continue to try and goad it out of her, but it wasn't really getting him anywhere.

As he approached the staff room again, he paused suddenly and groaned loudly, as he did every time he remembered that in a few days time he was to be playing Quidditch on the same team as Potter and Weasley.

Desperate did not cover it.

~

'So, how did Quidditch practice go?'

It was Thursday evening, when they were both on duty for lights out patrol. Severus scowled darkly to himself—she hadn't even shown any interest to come and watch the practice session, as some had chosen to.

'Very well, thank you,' he answered evenly.

There was no way he was mentioning to her that his right arm felt like it was dead. Or that his back was killing him. It was nothing a few elixirs would not fix later.

'So, why a beater, then?' she asked.

He came to a stop and gave her a look. Was it not obvious why he should have desired to smash bludgers about? He could still remember the delicious sound of James Potter being hit square between the shoulder blades.

'I see,' Hermione murmured, tutting disapprovingly to herself.

'I only played for a couple of years—the novelty quickly wore off…'

It occurred to him then how, more than just hitting bludgers at Gryffindors, he had hoped to impress someone else at the time. That, patently, had not worked, and now he was repeating his failure. Fuck, he was tragic. Would he ever learn?

'Something wrong?' she questioned, when he had failed to continue walking on.

'No.'

After a moment, she spoke again. 'Do you not think you will be a target out there?'

He groaned loudly. 'A target for vengeful pupils? Of course! Do not worry, I will give as good as I get.'

'That's what I am worried about.'

'It's fine for me to get shoved off my broom, but I am not allowed to do the same?'

Now she stopped to glare at him. 'This is for charity, there should be no barrelling or barging or shoving whatsoever.'

'How else am I to get my kicks?'

She sighed and set off again. 'Just remember you are on a team, please, and Harry and Ron are not your targets either.'

'You are full of compliments, lately,' Severus grumbled, 'not only am I decrepit, but I am also not a team player.'

'Oh, you are a team player, all right, it's just no one ever knows which team you are actually playing for.'

He felt his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. 'You are developing a cutting sense of humour, Professor; I must say it is most unbecoming.'

Hermione scoffed loudly. 'It is simply how I have learned to guard myself.'

'Guard yourself—from me? I am always nice to you.'

'Define always?'

Severus said nothing, before muttering, 'Fine, I am always invariably nice.'

He busied himself with peering into the Transfiguration classroom. He would like to be invariably nice to her in other ways too, if she would only allow it.

She carried on up the corridor, shining her wand into an alcove behind a suit of armour.

'I hope you will be giving the dynamic duo the same talking to,' he said, closing the door to the classroom.

'Oh yes,' she answered, 'I am only sorry I wasn't there to see their faces when they heard you were playing.'

She turned back and sent him an amused smile, and, even if he had wanted to, he could not have prevented his own, in answer. He was sure she did not appreciate how his facial muscles protested against such a rarity as a smile that reached his eyes.

Hermione resumed her progress along the hallway, but Severus did not rush to match her pace, instead feeling the all too common sense of helplessness descend upon him. It made the back of his eyes sting sometimes, to think he might be destined to suffer in silence, again. That one day, he might be forced to watch from the sidelines as someone more deserving, someone more attractive, swooped in and took her.

The thought that this could happen to him again should have spurred him into action. It should have spurred him to declare himself and the consequences be damned. But it only ever reminded him that she did, actually, deserve someone better—someone more attractive. Someone less damaged.

He was riddled with self-doubt, and he could not overcome it. In this, he did not have the tools to succeed.

In his futility, he had considered Veritaserum—to be used on her, of course, not him, but… It would be no use if she admitted her feelings and then reported him to the Headmistress for violating her privacy. He had considered some very mild Legilimency, but… She was either practised enough at Occlumency to keep her thoughts shielded around him, or she simply felt nothing for him. And to use more overt Legilimency, well, he would have to be a dunderhead to think she would take to that kindly.

He had also considered trying to arouse jealousy, but… The idea had never gained traction once he realised she was one of only a few people who liked him enough to spend their free time with. So to make up an imaginary suitor was too pathetic even for him to consider.

What was he left with? A poxy exhibition Quidditch match where he might be able to demonstrate his exemplary flying skills, but to a woman who detested flying and Quidditch. He closed his eyes in pain as he thought of the robes—the Quidditch robes! They were hideous—a putrid shade of gold. He had been fitted with them earlier and his only conclusion was that he looked like a first-class prick.

The ignominy of it. Knowing his luck, they would lose dramatically and he would get injured, proving her right.

She was always right.

~

The morning of the match, Severus entered the Great Hall for breakfast at his usual time. As he approached the High Table, he immediately noted there was no sign of any bushy hair present. Maybe she was running late. He took a seat and tried to quash the sense of unease he was feeling.

'She has gone to join Potter and Weasley for breakfast in Hogsmeade,' said a studiously benign voice.

His head shot up to meet the appraising look of the Headmistress. Severus ignored her, turning to glare viciously at his plate, even though his appetite had now entirely vanished. Professor McGongall stood to leave and, as she passed behind him, he felt the pat of a hand on his shoulder.

'Mind how you go, Severus,' she whispered cryptically.

He grimaced, quite sure she was loving this whole debacle. Never once had she offered to assist. Never once had she offered to do some fishing for him—to eke out that one little useful tidbit of information that might give him the impetus he needed. Women talked, didn't they? It would have been a simple task.

But he was damned if he would ask for help.

As soon as the Headmistress was beyond the hall, he dropped his spoon down with a clatter and steepled his fingers together. Of course, it was to be expected that he would be second to Potter and Weasley. Story of his life. He pushed away from the table and retreated back to the dungeons. There were still a few hours until the match, time enough for her to come and find him to wish him luck. In his mind, he knew he was being unreasonable, but it didn't stop him hiding from her all morning, so that he could feel justified wallowing in the melodrama of his own making.

And so it was that, at eleven o'clock, Severus found himself sitting on a bench in the changing room underneath the stands. The sounds of crowds filling the stadium could be heard and he, for the umpteenth time, asked himself what had possessed him. He grimly contemplated the protective gloves that extended into shields around his forearms, whilst twisting the bat around in his fingers.

Naturally, he was transported back decades to the times he had sat in the same spot, practically foaming at the mouth as he anticipated an opportunity to annihilate James Potter. With just a bare squint, he could look at Potter junior and imagine his nemesis was back there with him. Maybe he wished it were so, and maybe they could both do things a little bit differently a second time around.

It was uncomfortable feeling a sense of the past suddenly closing in on him in a way it had not done for a long time, and Severus rose to his feet quickly, as if to forcefully dislodge his thoughts.

He picked up his broom and gripped it tightly; now was not the time for melancholy.

Oliver Wood was the captain and prevailed upon them to gather round. Severus had to acknowledge to himself that Hermione had been right again, of course. Out of his team-mates he was the oldest there. And to make it even worse, he realised he had taught every single one of them over the years.

Distracted, he barely heard the team-talk, and he nearly flinched when they all suddenly started shouting and jeering, fist-pumping and chest-beating, around him. Potter even had the temerity to shoulder-bump him.

'Try to keep in mind we're playing on the same side, eh, Snape?'

It was a mark of how disorientated he felt that he could only glare in response. Thankfully, Weasley was giving him a wide berth.

They started piling out and Severus trudged out last, feeling a sense of impending doom. He was right to feel apprehensive, for he immediately spotted the object of his fascination was outside waiting. He supposed he could not have outrun her entirely. She was hugging Potter and Weasley in turn as they headed under the stands to prepare to enter the stadium.

Her wide smile faltered only marginally when she clapped eyes on him. She rushed forward, looking him up and down in a way that made him entirely uncomfortable.

'Wow,' Hermione remarked, biting her lip.

'A bit garish,' he acknowledged, looking down at himself.

'But distinguished,' she offered, smiling.

Immediately, all of his previous irritation dissipated in one puff of pleasure. He nodded at her with a self-conscious twitch of his lips.

'Well, good luck, then, and be careful, please.'

She made no accompanying movement and his sudden disappointment was so acute he could not censor himself. 'Ah, do I not qualify for—?'

He broke off at the little lift of her eyebrows. He knew he was being awkward—when had he ever invited any form of physical embrace from her before? Or any physical contact for that matter. Nevertheless, she took his ridiculousness in her stride, as usual, and with little hesitation, placed her arms about his shoulders, squeezing him to her briefly. Frustratingly, his own arms had to remain uselessly at his side. He wished to relinquish the broom and the bat so that he might trap her in place. Preferably forever.

In a moment, she released him and scarpered off into the stands. Still, it worked. He followed his team-mates feeling far more adrenalised than he ordinarily would have done. If nothing else, he was looking forward to expelling some pent-up emotion.

His was the last name to be announced and Severus flew out into the stadium to a mix of cheers and jeers. He laughed to himself as he took up his position in the air. He glanced over to the teachers' stand and could just about make out the familiar bushy mop of hair. He hoped she had her binoculars with her, but she'd have to be quick to keep up with him today. There could be no doubt of that.

Hooch blew the whistle and Severus immediately swooped off in search of his first hit.

And in spite of his trepidation, once he was unleashed, he could only say that it was delicious.

It almost felt like he was everywhere all at once. High, low, upside down, he chased after those bludgers and hit them like his life depended on it. There was nothing indiscriminate about it, he took aim where he could, often sending the chasers scattering. He caught his opposite number dithering and sent him into a perilous dive to avoid a precise hit. He had even thwarted an early attempt on the Snitch, by sending the opposing Seeker crashing into one of the goal posts in an effort to dodge a bludger of his.

Of course, he had to watch his back. The opposing beaters quickly started to prefer to aim for him directly, rather than try and disrupt the scoring. He had a few near misses, ducking and diving in exhilaration as the bludger zipped by. And the times when he got right into melee, getting in amongst the chasers, there was a lot more physicality. There were a few pushes and shoves, but one particularly brazen seventh year Hufflepuff barrelled straight into him, sending him into a sideways roll. He lost the grip on his bat as a result, but using the momentum of the hit, Severus let his body twist to the side of the broom and, with one hand still holding on, reached with the other to snatch the bat from its descent. He heaved himself upright, back onto the broom.

He would be aching like fuck tonight, he thought wryly.

There had been a loud gasp echoing through the crowd as he had tumbled, and Severus wondered how many had hoped to see him career towards the ground.

Hooch blew the whistle and awarded his team a free throw for his trouble.

As the free throw was set, Severus used the moment to catch his breath. His eyes were drawn unbidden to the bushy mop and in his head he heard the gasp of the crowd again. Had she gasped? he wondered. Had she felt her heart jump at the sight of him being thumped sideways?

But… that was it, he realised suddenly. The one thing he had yet to try was to frighten her feelings out of her.

The crowd erupted as the free throw resulted in points and the game was brought back to the middle to begin again. Severus floated in a daze, seeing in slow-motion his bloodied face being taken in her hands; her face pale and lips trembling, as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. Surely, if she harboured any romantic notion it would be writ large in the face of his brush with danger? She might even cry.

And if she didn't, well, he would know once and for all that any advance from him would be unwelcome.

He could suffer a small injury. It would be more than worth it.

The whistle erupted and he zoomed off once more in search of his prey. A bludger was careering towards Weasley, who had his eyes fixed on the approaching Quaffle. He did hesitate, but Severus knew there were bigger stakes at play, and he lowered himself to the broom to create speed. Just in time, he swooped in front of the goal and, leaning to the side of his broom, he swung his bat and sent the bludger soaring back into the middle of the pitch, straight at the oncoming chasers.

Weasley could thank him later.

A few moments later, the whistle blew for another foul, and Severus pulled up his broom in relief to take a breath.

Could he take a bludger to the shoulder? It wouldn't be the first time, after all. It might do it, he thought; it would look painful enough and he would have to be taken off injured. He could milk it a little and even lose the grip of his broom for a bit. Perhaps he could even lose his broom and use his own flying skills to float back down to earth?

The crowd gasped as the other team's seeker zoomed off into a dive.

'POTTER!' he shouted warningly. Who had ever heard of a Seeker with spectacles? It still confused him how he could have been any good.

Severus set off for the nearest bludger, giving the other chasing beater a brief shove as they bore down on it together. Two-handed, he swung his bat and sent the bludger careering across the path of the seeker, sending them off course and crashing into the oncoming Potter.

The snitch disappeared out of sight.

Severus chuckled softly, pulling his broom up. And then that's when he heard it—the faint whirring sound coming towards him. It was the other bludger.

Do it now, do it now, a voice hissed in his mind.

It had meant to be a blunt hit to the shoulder. It was coming at him fast and he made to spin as if to avoid it, injecting enough hesitation to ensure he could not get fully away in time.

However, what he didn't account for was, a chaser flying overhead and their trailing foot clipping the bludger. Its speed was checked as it spun wildly, but rather than hit his shoulder, its trajectory diverted to hit Severus side-on in the face instead.

To say he saw stars would have been an understatement.

There was a blinding warmth in his head that transferred throughout the length of his body, and then darkness started to close in. His hands slipped away from his broom and Severus felt his body start to sink weightlessly downwards. His last thought was that he hoped someone would remember to stay his fall before he hit the ground.

~

As consciousness returned, Severus began to be aware of several things. That he was lying on his back in the Hospital Wing was almost certain. That his head was throbbing angrily was another certainty. He could vaguely hear voices fussing around him, but disappointingly, none of them sounded like hers.

He cracked an eye surreptitiously and nearly groaned in frustration. She wasn't there! She was supposed to be there, pale with worry!

He swallowed a whimper of pain. He really had hit rock bottom now.

In his dejection, he must have drifted back off again, because he felt some time had passed before his mind started whirring into life again. When he surfaced this time, all was quiet about him. A bubble of dread began to form, but he soon realised there was someone close by, because there was a warm hand resting on top of his.

Was it hers? Please let it be hers!

If it was Minerva's he might cry out in despair.

He felt a thumb brush over the back of his hand and, involuntarily, his hand twitched.

'Severus?' The concerned voice was a familiar one.

His eyes popped open immediately. It was her; a huge wave of relief coursed through him. Hermione clutched his hand tighter and leaned forwards in her chair, so that her face fit into his line of sight.

It must have been the bludger, or maybe something that he had been given in the aftermath of it, but whatever it was, when he caught sight of her warm, brown eyes, his faculties deserted him entirely.

'Hermione,' he heard himself croak pitifully, 'I love you...'

Those brown eyes suddenly widened, comically. 'What?' she gasped in surprise.

Severus felt all his breath painfully leave his lungs at once. His mouth opened and closed but no words would issue. What have you done? he screamed to himself silently

She was staring at him agog.

'I…' he stammered. 'I…'

Suddenly, Madam Pomfrey bustled into view. 'Oh, you are back in the land of the living, finally! Stand aside, Hermione, please—I need to examine him.'

So saying, she nudged the dumbfounded Hermione away from the bed, and then drew the curtain around it.

Severus simply lay there as the matron performed her ministrations. His embarrassment was so potent he couldn't even feel the pain in his head anymore. He could be trampled by a herd of Hippogriff and he probably wouldn't feel it above the sense of despair he was enveloped in.

'Merlin, Severus, your heart is racing ten to the dozen! We shall have to keep an eye on that.' Poppy tutted to herself as she fussed with her wand over him.

He couldn't do or say anything. All he could think was why had he blurted that out? Why? It was supposed to have been her to lay it all on the line. What had possessed him? He had let himself be hit in the face by a bludger, only to make an even worse show of himself. How could it have gone so wrong?

After a few moments, Poppy left him be.

'Leave the curtain,' he murmured, closing his eyes and hoping to never, ever, awaken again.

Soon, he heard a faint rustle as someone approached the bed again. He did not dare open his eyes.

'Severus?' Hermione whispered quietly. 'Did you… Did you mean what you said?'

He sighed irritably, eyes still tightly closed. 'I have been hit in the face with a bludger, how can I be held accountable for anything at the moment?'

'Will you please be serious, for once?' she interrupted tiredly.

Something in her tone gave him pause. He flicked his eyes open and turned his head to look at her. He presumed his defeated expression would be confirmation enough for her.

He was right, but to his eternal shock and pleasure, she suddenly beamed. Then, she leant across to kiss him—not on the cheek or on the forehead, but on the lips. Her hand touched his uninjured cheek gently and, when it seemed she would pull away, he started to lift his head up to prolong the contact. A sudden pulse of pain, however, caused him to whimper and drop back to the pillow.

'Ow,' he grimaced, closing his eyes again.

'Sorry,' she whispered.

'Do not be sorry,' he admonished faintly, trying to slow his breaths lest Madame Pomfrey ship him off to St Mungos. It was difficult though, he had just been kissed and all he could do was lie there and feel like the room was spinning out of control.

No less than what he deserved, probably, he considered ruefully.

He ventured to open his eyes again and she scooted her chair closer to the bed.

'Have I died and gone to heaven for there appears to be three of you?'

Hermione gave a reluctant laugh. 'No, that is the bludger, I am afraid.'

He moved his fingers expectantly and she immediately took them in hers. 'I told you not to play,' she admonished, 'you could have died.'

'I didn't die, though. I will be fine, providing I haven't permanently disfigured my good looks, of course.'

She gave him a despairing look.

'Look what it has wrought.' He weakly lifted up their joined hands. 'Isn't it worth it for this?'

'No!' she burst out violently. 'Nothing is worth seeing you smashed in the face and then falling to your death!'

There it was, he realised, the reaction he had hoped for. Yet, rather than feel pleased, he felt a bit frightened. She looked so upset he vowed to himself that she must never, ever, find out how he had purposefully engineered this. She might never forgive him, he realised.

'You know I wouldn't have fallen to my death,' he muttered, weakly squeezing her fingers.

Did she run out onto the pitch? he wondered. Maybe he would leave that question until he was fully recovered.

As if to scold his conceit, the throb on the side of his head started up in earnest again. He felt his eyes flutter closed and his mind drifted to focus only on the warm hand he held. He had made a declaration and had emerged triumphant… But, it occurred to him now that she had not actually said anything in return. Perhaps she had kissed him out of pity and was holding his hand because that's simply what you do at someone's sick bed?

His eyes flew open and he started to feel his palms go clammy, as if he were about to have a panic attack. Suddenly, he felt his hand being lifted and she pressed a kiss to the back of it. He looked at her sharply and a knowing smile spread across her face.

'It may interest you to know that I love you too.'

Severus felt his throat clench with relief. 'Thank Merlin,' he muttered, when he was able.

Hermione leaned over and, using her free hand, smoothed hair from his forehead. The light brush of her fingertips brought a delicious tingle that sliced cleanly through his pain.

'You have no idea how long I have waited for a sign that you felt the same,' she whispered gently.

'What?' he blurted out.

She blinked at him. 'I never thought any advance from me would be welcome—'

It must have been his incredulous expression that caused her to trail off. His head pulsed angrily at the ridiculousness of it all.

'I danced with you at Minerva's Yule Ball,' Severus ground out, grimacing. 'My dear Hermione, I have never, ever, danced!'

Her mouth dropped open defensively. 'Well, how was I supposed to know that?'

'The only reason I award points to Gryffindor is because of you!' Severus closed his eyes again with an impatient huff.

There was a brief silence and then:

'I just thought you had turned over a new leaf.'

He smiled to himself. 'How can you still be that naive?'

She breathed a small chuckle. 'You are just as bad—do you honestly think I offered to assist you to gut a barrel of horned slugs for the benefit of my mental health?'

'You said it was therapeutic!'

'Then you are entirely gullible!'

Well, he'd take gullibility any day over his total lack of confidence and non-existent self-belief.

Severus cracked an eye open again. 'See now why we must be grateful for bludgers? The merry dance would have never ended, otherwise.'

He was considering hauling himself up against the pillows, to face her better. However, when he saw the sudden narrowing of her eyes, the thoughtful turn to her expression, and heard her quietly murmur, 'Hmm,' he decided he might be better off feigning sleep.

At least till he had all his wits back.

~

The next morning Severus insisted to Poppy that he was fit to leave. She was reluctant, but eventually agreed under the proviso he was escorted back to his rooms. Before Severus could say anything, she stated unabashedly:

'I will arrange for Professor Granger to come and collect you.'

In another life he might have barked irritably that he required no assistance, and even less the assistance of one Hermione Granger. But what was the point in all that posturing now?

Poppy suddenly looked at him, smirking in an entirely un-matronly way. 'It's a pity you were unable to witness our Hermione barrelling her way out onto the pitch when you fell yesterday.'

Severus kept his expression impassive.

'It was very touching,' continued Poppy, putting her hand inside her robes and bringing out a tiny vial that held a single silver wisp. Giving it a small taunting wiggle at him, she immediately returned it safely to her pocket. 'It is a shame you didn't witness it, indeed.'

Severus held her eyes for a few seconds, in a battle of wills, before gritting his teeth hard. 'What do you want for it?'

'Thirty galleons and two bottles of your mead.'

'Done.'

She grinned and he allowed himself a rueful smile only when her back was turned.

An hour later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, awaiting the arrival of his escort. The bruise paste had gone some way to limiting the tenderness and swelling in his face, but there were still some vivid colours marring his skin.

As ever, his stomach roiled with uncertainty as he wondered if a certain someone may have regretted her indiscretion from the day before—the proverbial moment of madness. Or had the concussion been that bad that he had imagined it all?

The sound of approaching footsteps brought Severus out of his contemplation, and he lifted his head to see Hermione come towards him.

'Good morning,' she called brightly.

When she came up to him, she gave a surreptitious glance to their surroundings, before tugging the curtain behind her slightly. There was a wide smile on her face.

Merlin, he thought, there was definitely no regret there.

She stepped right into him, taking his jaw in her hands. She examined him for a moment and he seemed to have to force his lungs to operate correctly, especially when her thumb flicked under his bottom lip. 'Is it still hurting?' she asked.

Severus shook his head vehemently, uncaring either way if it did.

She gave him a proper kiss this time, deep and warm. He allowed himself the liberty of curling his arms about her, enjoying how his hands could feel the curve of her body. Something he had often felt unscrupulous for imagining, but in real time, there was no space for self-recrimination. He was glad.

When she lifted her head away from him, he wondered if he might not be fully recovered after all, for he was sure the room was tilting a little.

'I am here to escort you back to your rooms,' she whispered, 'but it is Sunday and we have the whole day at our disposal.'

'You have something in mind?'

She nodded, her eyes a little searching and eminently honest in a way that left him feeling entirely humble. 'We have a lot to catch up on, don't you think?' she observed.

'I see,' he managed to eke out and, deciding that he would be better served to focus on actions rather than his racing thoughts, he took her hand and stood up. 'Your rooms are much closer, I think.'

Hermione nodded, eyes flashing mischievously, and she tugged on his hand for him to follow her lead. Severus did so with much gratitude and no little sense of anticipation. As they hurried through the hallways, though, there were a few mental notes he needed to make, before allowing himself to get too carried away. One was to check how many bottles of his special mead he had left, another was to ask Minerva to borrow the pensieve, and the other was to ask Rolanda if he could have the bludger that had hit him.

He might like to put that on display somewhere.

FIN

AN: Thanks for reading : )

Any Holmes fans may recognise the inspiration behind the title and, to a certain extent, the story.