Chapters 41-50

To Hold You Through the Night

What with one thing and another, Hermione hadn’t managed to gather her courage to ask her master for assistance concerning potions to help her deal with the long-term effects of the Cruciatus curse. A neglect she was deeply regretting at the moment.

The first night of December 1999 was the coldest night of the autumn so far, heralding the advent of winter with first flurries of snowflakes. Dancing above the towers of the castle they turned into icy droplets of rain further down and the day before hoarfrost had glittered all over the gardens for the first time.

A big blaze was roaring in the fireplace of Hermione’s room, she lay huddled under a heap of blankets with Crookshanks at her feet, a hot-water bottle clutched to her stomach, but to no avail. She didn’t seem to be able to chase the chill out of her bones. Instead, the aching stiffness was slowly sliding into the realm of pain, with a hint of agony flashing through her whenever she breathed too deeply.

This is not happening, she thought. Instinctively she curled up into a ball, but the movement ripped through her body as if she were being struck by red hot pokers. Or freezing pokers?

But it was happening. She knew the signs by now and dreaded them.

First there were days of stiffness and aching joints. Of being cold and never getting warm. Then the sensations of cold and heat became mixed up, until they faded, faded into fiery pain. The next stage had her muscles seizing up. Agony.

I’m not weak. I’m not weak. I’m…what did Healer Mugwort say about it? ‘You are merely having a harder time with the after-effects of a horrible curse than other witches might have.’ Right. Not weak.

A first cramp. She buried her face in the pillow and muffled her moan.

Not too bad yet. Just like ten times the feeling of the worst menstrual cramp imaginable.

She swallowed carefully.

I’m not throwing up. Not yet.

Her legs were on fire, they were twitching and she couldn’t stop, and every movement felt like knives slashing through her flesh. Crookshanks leapt from the bed, to avoid her helpless kicks.

Not weak.
Just having a harder time.

The muscles along her spine seized up, bending her head backwards.

Not weak. And the real thing was much worse.
Much.

Worse.

Then she remembered Bellatrix’ eyes again, filled with madness and hate, and she heard Bellatrix’ harsh voice again, as the Death Eater shouted at her: ‘…Tell the truth, tell the truth!’

And then Hermione screamed.

oooOooo

From somewhere far away she heard a voice, a voice that sounded a little hoarse, but surprisingly soft, ‘You foolish, foolish girl, why didn’t you tell me? I don’t have any of the potions that might help you now on stock.’

Gentle fingers brushed her curls away from her face. Of course. He must have heard her.

Somehow she managed to open her eyes.

Snape was sitting next to her on her bed, still dressed in his teacher’s robes. Although it must be close to midnight he hadn’t retired for the night yet. He had probably come back from his rounds just in time to hear her.

‘Didn’t get round to it,’ she breathed, then clenched her teeth as another wave of pain made her shudder.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Hermione pressed on. ‘I think…I think the worst is…’ She balled her hands, ignoring the agony shooting up her arms in a feeble attempt to keep control of her body. ‘…over,’ she wheezed.

‘Oh, really?’ A black eyebrow rose in a sarcastic quirk. ‘Do you mind if we…test that admirably Gryffindor sentiment?’

She just stared at him, trying to get her breath back.

Impatiently he shook his head, but when he reached for her, his hands were careful, his movements as precise as ever. He gripped her under the arms to pull her body up against him, just as she had done with him not even two weeks ago. Not much of a movement, but it was enough to make her muscles cramp again.

She wanted to pull away from him, but her body wasn’t cooperating. Her arms and legs were shaking, as she writhed. Hermione ended up with her face buried in her master’s robes. Strong hands clasped her arms and held her tightly.

‘It is best if you move as little as possible,’ he murmured. ‘Try to keep still. Try to relax. This will pass.’

She tried to obey his command, to relax in his embrace. A shallow breath brought his scent to her nose. Vetyver wood. Bergamot. Rosemary. Cypress. Nutmeg.

Distantly she realised that under different circumstances she would have loved to be held in his embrace like that. For such a slender man he was surprisingly strong. And even through the haze of pain, his arms felt good around her.

When the next cramp seized her, she turned fully towards him, her fingers involuntarily clutching at him.

oooOooo

She had finally fallen asleep in the wee hours of morning, utterly spent from fighting down the echo of a Cruciatus curse that would have killed or driven mad any lesser witch.

Her face was pressed against his chest, her cheeks flushed from the exertion. In spite of his constant admonishments to relax, she had chosen to fight each convulsion in typical, hare-brained Gryffindor fashion. Absentmindedly he smoothed a sweat-damp curl away from her painfully creased forehead. Her hands were still clinging to his robes, as if he were her only hope to last through the night. She felt fragile in his arms. Too thin. And oh, Merlin, too stubborn for her own good.

Snape allowed himself a minute sigh.

She must have heard him even in her sleep. She stirred slightly, snuggling closer to his body.

‘…not weak,’ she mumbled. ‘Not weak…’

‘No,’ he whispered, ‘you’re not weak. Not weak at all. You foolish, foolish girl.’