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The healer asks him to stand and tests his range of motion and reflexes. A strange potion makes little pockets of light appear all over his body. Then she steps back and casts the diagnostic charm. It’s more complex than anything he’s used on himself before, but Severus thinks he’s got the gist of it.
“I take it that it is not residual curse damage.”
“No, not exactly. Not in any traditional sense.” She purses her lips. “Do you feel that you have… relaxed recently?”
He arches a brow. “Surely, you’re not suggesting these aberrations in my magic are stress related? If stress were a contributing factor, I’d have gone through this a long time ago.”
“It is the lack of stress, actually. The human body is quite a resilient thing, Severus, particularly those with strong magical cores. Yours, however, has been in some state of intense stress for the better part of two decades. The constant occlumency alone would have been considerable strain on your system but pairing that with the intermittent curse damage and even the more menial stress of teaching… it is incredible that your body has seen you through it all.”
“Until now,” he says bitterly.
“For now,” she amends. “Even if you are unaware of it, something in your life has shifted to allow you to relax. Finally given that permission, your body has collapsed. But, with continued proper rest, it will return to normal functioning.”
He considers this. The healer suddenly becomes very stern.
“I understand you are a potion’s master. While I understand that is your space, healing is mine. You cannot, under any circumstances, use a potion to mitigate these effects. You will be exceptionally susceptible to dependency and may create lasting deficiencies if you do not allow your body to do this naturally. No potions for pain. No potions for endurance. No potions for colds. Nothing.”
“I don’t get colds,” he sneers.
The healer looks at him with the sort of pity one reserves for stubborn fools. “Even so, no potions.”
_____________
Nearly twenty years working in a bloody school with sniveling children and he has never gotten so much as a tickle in his throat. He managed to avoid a round of the stomach bug and even the first set of colds, but then the flu came, and it came with a vengeance.
His nose was red, painful, and more bulbous than ever before.
His perpetually narrowed eyes burned with the temptation to shut them.
His head pounded mercilessly.
Shivers wracked his body. Always too hot. Always too cold.
His body ached.
His stomach rejected most foods.
It was an atrocious feeling, but the most harrowing discovery was that he, Severus Snape, is whiny.
Fate, possibly deciding it owed him something for this awful experience, had allowed him to learn this in the presence of a house elf he could swear to secrecy. Still he wished he could self-obliviate the look of sheer befuddlement on Mipsy’s face when he used that tone, the tone little firsties use when they miss their mums. The house-elf had immediately turned doting which Severus had lapped up like a starving animal until better sense had come to him.
He then took a vow of silence. He would speak to no one beyond lecturing. Ask for nothing beyond information needed to do his duties which he also refused to let Minerva reassign. It was not occlumency, it was sheer stubborn will which, for better or worse, he still had in spades.
It is his stubbornness which led to him slumped back in his office chair, damp hair clinging to his face despite the fact that he could never feel warm in his own rooms anymore. He is aware of the knocking on the office door but can not bring himself to get up. Nor does he have it in him to call out for them to go away. Hermione Granger, of course, does not care for social conventions such as permission to enter a room.
She walks in as if she has every right to do so and crosses to him at once. Her gaze is clinical, assessing. He would hate it if he wasn’t so out of sorts. As it is, he simply stares back with his own dazed appraisal, letting himself believe he is managing something of his usual scowl.
“You should have allowed me to take over your classes.”
“I managed.”
“Poppy said you aren’t take potions.”
He scoffs. “Doctor-Patient confidentiality my arse.”
“That’s a Muggle concept and she’s worried about you same as I am.”
“You act as though I’ve got one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel.”
“You look as if that’s true.” She softens slightly. The whiny part of him perks up. “Really, Severus, what is going on?”
“I am ill, Granger. It happens.”
“Not to you.”
“Yes, well, all things come to an end, don’t they? Perhaps I’m lucky and mine is soon.”
“Merlin, you’re dramatic,” she says, rolling her eyes. Then a look of determination steals across her face. “At any rate, this will not be your grave. Get up.”
“Don’t want to.”
“You can’t keep oozing onto their essays,” she protests.
Then with, surprising strength, she pulls him from his chair, tucking herself under his arm to support his weight. They sway perilously for a minute before she finds her balance. Then she half-carries, half-drags him to the floo. She calls out for her rooms. Before he can protest, she shoves him through and follows soon after.
“You think this a better place to die,” he grouses.
“There will be no dying on my watch,” she grunts as she lowers him onto her sofa. “And my rooms are far warmer than yours.”
She ignores his other grumblings as she rummages in a bin. Making a triumphant sound, she pulls out a Muggle thermometer and glowers at him until he opens his mouth. Her eyes widen with mild alarm once it registers his temperature.
“No Muggle medicine either?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Right then. You’re lucky I had a doting mum.”
“I didn’t ask for your help, Granger.”
“Doubly lucky then as I’m giving it anyway.”
Then she ignores him again as she sets about warming a blanket by the fire and wetting a cloth for his head. She pours broth into a saucepan to warm and sets a kettle beside it. Within fifteen minutes, he’s wrapped in warmth, a compress on his head, and being spoon-fed broth.
“Oh, that’s delicious,” he practically moans. “I haven’t been able to stomach anything properly for a week.”
“I’m sure,” she says neutrally, but he catches the twitch of her lips.
“S’not funny,” he pouts. “My head feels like it’s splitting.”
Hermione hesitates for a moment but then shifts him to place herself under his head pillow. She strokes the damp hair back from his face and then rubs light circles over his temples.
“That’s so nice,” he sighs. “You’re so nice.”
“Are you always like this when you’re sick,” she asks, now definitely amused.
His eyes narrow in delirious consternation. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault,” she repeats. “How on Earth is your illness my fault?”
“My magic is failing because youuuuu made me put my shields down.”
“Your magic is failing,” she repeats, a look of horror on her face. “Have you seen a healer? Have you—”
He puts a finger over her lips, pressing just a bit harder than he means to. “Shhh. Too loud. M'fine. Healer said it’s just a little hiccup.”
“Alright then,” she relents. Her brow pulls together. “When did I make you put your shields down?”
“That day by in lake,” he says petulantly. She tilts her head.
“What day?”
“When you coerced me into swimming.”
She arches a brow. “I simply asked.”
“As if I could refuse you anything.”
Hermione’s cheeks turn pink. “Because I’m so persistent?”
“Something like that,” he mutters.
“I still don’t understand the correlation.”
“You made me relax and it broke the tenuous hold my brain had on self-preservation.”
“So making you have fun really did almost kill you.”
“Indeed,” he says as imperiously as one can with a stuffed nose. “I still love you though.”
His eyes widen as the weight of his slip up lands. Exhaustion is creeping in on top of the sickness. That’s the only reason he can think of for those words to escape him. Hermione stares at him. Before he can reach for occlumency, her hand moves to his cheek.
“I love you, too.” Her eyes narrow in consternation. “And it is absolute bollocks for you to make such a pronouncement when it cannot be acknowledged with a kiss.”
“Chicken,” he grumbles even as he feels himself grinning stupidly.
“If I get sick there will be no one to care for your delirious arse.”
“But I’d die happy,” he counters.
She presses her lips to his forehead. “Sleep you silly man.”