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“I expect you to have read through page 157 by next class. Your report on animagi are due in a fortnight. Dismissed.”
Hermione Granger, third year Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, holds her composure until the last student leaves. Then she rifles through her drawers for a vial of pain reliever but comes up empty. She groans, realizing she’ll need to walk all the way up to the Hospital Wing to procure more unless she summons a house elf which she makes a point not to do.
As she reaches the door of her classroom, her stomach growls. She sighs. Earlier she’d been too nauseous to eat lunch and instead of forcing something down anyway she told herself she would snack later. She had then, of course, forgotten. What she does remember, however, is that a tray of Minerva’s sticky toffee pudding is in the staffroom.
Knowing her colleagues are gluttons, Hermione hurries from her classroom. She weaves around the students and cuts through a hidden passageway. As illogical as she knows it is, her menses addled mind is certain that the dessert is going to solve most of her problems far better than any potion could. Slightly out of breath, and cramping worse than ever, she reaches the staff room.
“No.” It comes out like a tortured groan.
“Something wrong, Granger?”
It would have been bad enough to enter the room and find the toffee gone, but to enter at just the right moment to catch Severus Snape licking the toffee from his fork is just cruel. His generally smug demeanor makes it feel like deliberate mockery.
“I wanted that.” Merlin, she sounds whiny.
“I’m certain the house elves could have one to you within the hour.”
“I don’t want one of theirs,” she says petulantly. “I wanted that one. Minerva’s.”
He arches a brow. “I cannot attest to her turn around time, I’m afraid. You are her prized cub, however so I imagine—”
“Oh piss off, would you,” she snaps, wincing slight as she resists the urge to hold her stomach.
He notices. Of course he notices. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine.”
Severus takes a step closer. “You are only ever this testy when you are in pain, what’s happened?”
“Nothing,” she growls. “Aside from the fact that you selfishly ate the last of the toffee.”
“I’m sorry was I meant to stand here for the next hour and offer it to anyone who walked through the door before I could finally claim it for myself?”
“Wouldn’t have killed you,” she grumbles under her breath.
Registering defeat, her mood swings from irritable to sad. To her absolute horror, her eyes begin to burn. She turns on heel, praying to leave with what remains of her dignity.
“Hermione.”
Her given name makes her turn back.
“What is wrong?”
“It is nothing to be concerned about,” she relents with a sigh. “It’s just my cycle.”
“That’s all? Merlin, you’re walking around as if you’ve been crucio’d.”
“Do not mock a pain you haven’t endured,” she snaps, bristling at once. “As someone who has been crucio’d as well, I can assure you that my current experience is actually quite similar to the aftereffects. Not only am I uncomfortable, but I am viscerally reminded of my teenage trauma. It really makes for a banner week, Snape.”
“I didn’t—”
“I am beyond caring what you did or did not mean,” she interrupts, reaching for the door. “Have the evening you deserve.”
_____________
At half past ten, Hermione is roused by a soft knock at the door. She stretches out slowly, brushes off an embarrassing amount of digestive crumbs, and picks up her fallen book. Catching sight of the clock, she frowns. It’s far too late for a social visit—perhaps a student was in need? She hurries to open the door only to step back instinctively at the sight of Severus Snape on her doorstep.
He frowns. “I apologize. I thought you kept later hours.”
“Only when I’m feeling well,” she says, perhaps a bit too pointedly.
Severus holds a vial out to her. “This should help.”
“I’ve already taken a pain potion.”
“It’s not a pain potion. Not just a pain potion, I should say. It also has a muscle relaxant and an antinausea, plus a mood stabilizer.”
She arches a brow. “I was under the impression several of those negate each other.”
“If you use the most common or traditional formulations, they do,” he explains. “I formulated my own.”
“That’s incredible—are you pursuing a patent?”
He clears his throat. “Perhaps eventually. If it is successful. You would be the first trial; I understand if you’d rather not—”
“Did you make this for me?”
“You inspired the product, yes. I do understand if you have reservation about—”
“If you believe it will work, that’s good enough for me,” she says, grabbing the vial from him. It’s warm in her grasp. “Can I take this now?”
Severus gives her an odd look but then he nods. She downs it in one gulp, smacking her lips together.
“Ooo, I love cinnamon,” she sighs happily. “Far better than the usual taste. How long until it takes effect?”
“Within fifteen minutes.”
“Would you like to come in? If you’ve accidentally poisoned me, it’s only fair that you bear witness to my demise.”
He rolls his eyes but enters the room.
“Tea?”
“Alright then.”
Hermione prepares the tea in her small kitchenette. When she turns back towards her sitting area, she can’t help but giggle. Severus turns his gaze on her and she feels her face warm. She clears her throat.
“You’ve never been in my rooms before,” she says lightly. “You, uh, you stand in sharp contrast to my color scheme.”
He looks around at her space then back to her with a smirk. “Is the scheme chaos or does something deeper bind the elements?”
“Has it been fifteen minutes yet,” she grumbles.
“Not yet.” His smirk deepens as he accepts the offered cup. “Are you still so cross I don’t get milk or sugar?”
“Already fixed it how you like.”
He takes a dubious sip and his mouth thins. She considers it victory, particularly when he changes the subject. “Are the symptoms lessening?”
“Most of them.” She sits her tea down and stands before him. “There’s a bit of tenderness here still,” she says, gesturing to the lower right of her navel. “But the sharpness is gone. In my lower back I feel… pressure, but no ache. I don’t feel nauseous at all anymore, or as bloated, and I don’t think my breasts are as tender.”
Her last comments sits for only a second before she remembers that she’s not just giving a recitation of symptoms to a random healer or Poppy. No, she’s just told Severus Snape about the tenderness—or lack thereof—in her breasts. She turns away from him, cheeks flaming red, and lifts her hair.
“My headache is still rather strong, though.” She presses a spot at the base of her skull. “I think it’s more related to my poor posture than my menses, however.”
“Without a thorough list of your symptoms, I was conservative with the dosage. I think that I can adjust the formula, but I’m not sure I can fully eliminate them without compromising another part of the potion.”
“That’s alright, I’m rather used to…Oh.”
Hermione’s train of thought derails entirely as Severus replaces her fingers with his own. She hadn’t even sensed him standing. He kneads her scalp gently and she’s certain her limbs have turned to jelly. She makes contact with his chest, stiffening instinctively, but when he presses harder, she melts against him. A huff of laughter ghosts along her ear.
“It originates from here?”
“Yes.”
Sweet circe, she sounds breathy. She wants to assure him that it’s not personal, that a massage from anyone reduces her to a mush pile that has to resist the urge to moan. The latter half is true, of course, but she’s unsure about the first half. After all, Severus Snape in her quarters rubbing her neck as if he does it all the time feels very personal.
“You hold too much tension,” he says reprovingly. “That’s likely why your symptoms are so severe. You need to take better care of yourself.”
She snorts. “You’re not the first to say so.”
“If you don’t, I’ll have to do it for you.”
His rhythm stutters for a split second. She could ignore what was evidently a verbal slip. But there’s a reason she’s a Gryffindor.
“Is that a threat or a promise,” she asks as she turns to face him.
Severus moves his hand to rest on the side of her neck, thumb brushing her jaw. She leans into his touch.
“Both,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to her lips. “Definitely both.”