Wandering Hands

Wandering Hands

Four pm. Nearly twelve bloody hours of dealing with hysterical witches and (for her sins) a small family of effing nifflers.

Hermione was sincerely Not Amused.

She didn't blame the nifflers. She rather liked the little furballs, truth be told. She did, however, want to hex idiot witches who hadn't the wit to handle them and moronic night shift workers who couldn't find their arses with a map.

Hermione knew she had to get away from people before something nasty happened that landed her in Azkaban.

Oblivious to all, Hermione made a beeline from her front door to the bed.

Oh, life was much better now. A few hours' sleep was just the thing to realign her view of the universe. Even if she hadn't been able to find her usual nightshirt. A good dinner and all would be well with the world. Humming, Hermione went to rummage in her refrigerator.

She nearly tripped over her own feet to see Snape still upon her couch, stretched out in an apparently deep sleep. The poor man looked exhausted, she thought sympathetically. I'll let him sleep.

And then she noticed the grey bit of fabric tucked under his cheek as a pillow.

She had no words. She had absolutely no words. Snape was using her nightshirt for a pillow. There were simply no coherent thoughts that could express the… the… how she felt. Astonishment didn't even begin to cover it.

Then she sighed. What difference did it make? He'd probably just picked it up from wherever she'd left it; she'd no throw pillows after all. And she was hardly going to snatch it out from underneath him.

How could she wake a man who bore a black eye she'd given him and looked like death warmed over? It was just a shirt.

Warmth. Warmth and roses. The fading dream was a garden of brilliant roses; their scent lingered as he drifted into consciousness.

Severus's eyes snapped open. He'd only meant to doze for a few moments before returning home. Judging from the blanket weight over him, he'd slept far longer than he'd meant— and had been completely oblivious of the girl's return.

But why was the scent of roses still so strong? She could hardly be hovering over him just for the hell of it.

Severus's face turned a deep crimson when he recognized the cloth he'd unconsciously crumpled under his head.