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Usually, Hermione is bothered by the ironic nature of hospitals. They are places in which rest is paramount and yet are so uncomfortable. The lights are those awful fluorescent type that produces a migraine on sight. Her chair is unforgivingly hard. Even the smell of the place stings her nose.
Tonight however, as she perches on that horrid chair and rests her chin on her knees drawn tightly to her chest, she is grateful for the discomfort. It is her job to stand vigil over his bedside, and she will not fall asleep. It is the least that she owes him. The door of the room opens slowly. A healer enters slowly, eyes on Hermione’s drawn wand.
“Healer Abernathy. I’m just here for diagnostics.”
Hermione gestures with her wand towards the bed. “Out loud if you please.”
“Only Mr. Potter is—”
She arches her brow. “Out. Loud.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The healer casts the diagnostic spell. “All of his tissues have successfully knit back together. His blood has been adequately replenished.”
“So, he’s going to be alright?”
“He’s not out of the woods yet, Miss Granger. There is still venom circulating throughout his body. He has also been having seizures as a side effect of overexposure to the cruciatus. He was not in the best of health prior to his attack. It is possible that he is too weak to go on.”
“Not him,” Hermione says. “He’s one of the most resilient men I know.”
The healer pauses, her face somewhere between anger and pity. Hermione braces for the impending speech, but then her mouth closes and she excuses herself from the room. Hermione unfurls slowly, wincing at the ache in her body. Her own experience with the cruciatus is catching up with her. Adrenaline and determination can only take one so far after all. The Healers have offered to look at her, Molly practically begged her to be seen, but she’s refused.
Blame several years of the system failing them if you must, but the Golden Trio has come to have a general distrust of the powers that be. If they put her in a bed, who’s to say they’ll let her out again? They’ve got Harry on bedrest for depletion of his magical core. Ron is needed at the Burrow. Despite Kingsley’s claims and the Order’s offers, Hermione entrusts no one else to stand between Severus Snape and the rest of the world.
She limps over to Severus’ water pitcher and fills herself a glass, allowing it to soothe her parched throat. Hermione rolls her shoulders and walks the length of the room a few times. She slaps her cheeks and eyes the clock. Three hours until Professor McGonagall arrives and she can close her eyes.
Thanking Merlin for the practice OWLs gave her operating on little sleep, she pulls her chair close to Severus’ bedside. Then she grabs the potions journal from his side table and begins to read the articles aloud. As she reads, she makes her own notes for further research and offers verbal commentary. She’s not sure if magical comas function the same as their Muggle counterparts but reckons it wouldn’t hurt to try.
When her eyes grow too tired to read, she places the book back down and takes to studying the man on the bed. It’s been five days since the final battle. There’s more color in his sallow cheeks and his bandages are no longer soaking through with blood, but little else has changed. Without the diagnostic, she might have assumed he was no better at all.
She pulls his covers up higher on his chest as she fights off her own chill. That’s the other thing about hospitals. They’re always freezing. She stands, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Another tremor rocks through her as she paces. When she turns towards the wall, warm air surrounds her. Thinking Professor McGonagall has come early, or perhaps Ron with a well-earned ‘are you a witch or not’, but there’s no one.
She frowns. Her wand is in her hand and the revealing charm cast without conscious thought. Truly alone. She glances at the bed. His obsidian eyes bore into hers.
“You’re awake,” she gasps. Hermione rushes to his bedside, stopping herself just before grabbing his hand. “Voldemort is dead. Harry’s alive. You’re at Mungo’s, recovering from poison damage and the cruciatus.”
“Why are you?” His voice is hoarse, as if he’d been screaming for hours.
Hermione bites her lip. “News of your survival has been met with mixed emotions.”
“I can relate,” he says blandly. “I suppose I am indebted to you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then who—”
“I did not save you with expectation of payment or reward,” she clarifies. “In fact, I half-expected you to hate me afterwards.”
“Then why did you?”
“Harry, mostly,” she answers honestly. “I… I had always wondered about you. When he told me he didn’t have time to explain, but that I needed to go back and try to help you… well, I took that as confirmation that I was right.”
“And has he since explained?”
“Er, well, he sort of taunted Voldemort with your betrayal, said you loved his Mum.”
“Potter taunted the Dark Lord.” His expression is unreadable.
“Are you surprised?”
“That he’s managed to survive yet another bout of stupidity? Only mildly.”
She huffs a laugh. Severus’ eyes roam over her. “You haven’t been sleeping.”
“Too many murder attempts have slipped through. McGonagall is coming later today, though. I’ll sleep then.”
“I’m awake now, Granger.”
“Are you saying you don’t need my protection?”
“I’ve not needed another’s protection for some time.”
“Then perhaps you’d accept the care of a friend.”
“Are you suggesting we’re friends?”
“I’d like to be.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Is that a no?”
Silence.
“Do you want me gone?”
A pause.
“I’m saying you can return home.”
“Obviously” she says in imitation of him before conjuring a recliner. “Now if you’re so confident you can handle any would be assassins, I’ll start my nap now then.”
She leans back and closes her eyes. A soft blanket materializes over her, smelling distinctly of the potion master’s chambers. Hermione rolls to her side and looks at him. He’s pointedly looking away. Wordless, wandless summoning magic at this distance? What an incredible man.
“Don’t waste magic on me. Save it for the battle,” she chides, closing her eyes again.
He scoffs. “Battle? I’ve taught every dolt that’s come through that door in the last two days. I’m more likely to die from their healing efforts than an actual attempt on my life.”
“Right,” she says, fighting back a smile. “Do dispose of them quietly then, I’m quite tired.”
Silence descends between the two. Hermione is slightly self-conscious about truly sleeping in his presence, but the only way she’s leaving his side if he demands it. Possibly if Harry or Ron arrived. Eventually exhaustion wins out. Just as she is about to succumb to deeper sleep, Severus shifts on the bed. Then his calloused hand touches hers lightly.
“Thank you… Hermione.”