A Most Advantageous Match
Chapter 8: Convalescence
Harry quickly understood that his wife would not recover any time soon. When she finally woke, she was groggy and disoriented, and during the night, she lapsed into fever. She was delirious by the time Harry went to visit her the next morning.
Tripsy took diligent care of her. Harry could do little more than sit beside her and apply a cool cloth to her forehead while she slept fitfully. Hermione's parents were in and out to visit, and at one point, Mr. Granger suggested calling a doctor of their acquaintance, but Harry refused. Wizards knew very well that non-magical methods of healing generally consisted of doctors issuing orders to the healthy to make them feel less useless. Harry and Tripsy were already doing everything possible; there was no point bringing in another unneeded person.
He had contacted the Healer at Hogwarts in hopes that some magical means could help his wife, but Tripsy had already been giving Hermione all the restorative draughts recommended. Harry resigned himself to the fact that he could only wait and hope for her recovery, but that did not make him any less worried.
As each hour of Hermione's feverish mutterings continued, Harry became more aware of the alarming possibility that he could lose her. If she did not recover soon…if she did not return to lucidity…if she could not make it through, he might have to live without her. The thought of being in this house without her, of being all alone there, scared him. Nor was remarrying an option; he had to have Hermione. It must be her face across the breakfast table, her voice in the drawing room, her smile, her laugh…her presence. No one else would do.
He must find a way to save her, Harry decided, looking to her flushed face, eyes lingering on the delicate eyelashes that brushed her cheeks. Hermione would know what to do. That was the key. He must think like Hermione.
Harry took a deep breath and forced his mind into some semblance of calm. He must identify the problem and find a way to rectify it. What was currently ailing his wife? What was the greatest threat to her health?
"The fever," he muttered aloud. "Something more must be done about the fever."
In his next breath, he called out for Tripsy, who appeared immediately.
"Please prepare a cold bath for Mrs. Potter," he said.
The elf went to her task unquestioningly. Although he admired his wife's sense of fairness, he would not, at that moment, have freed his elves for that one admirable quality. They did not question their masters, nor would they ever offer any reproof for what he was about to do.
"The bath is ready, sir," Tripsy said, her words beginning before she fully materialized beside the bed.
"Thank you," Harry said. "That will be all."
The elf left obediently, and Harry set about his own task.
First he stood and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then he picked Hermione up and carried her into her dressing room, where the bath waited. She curled toward him like a child, and he was filled with protective tenderness for her, so much so that the sweat dampening her nightgown was painful to him. He would do anything to make her well again.
Harry set her down on the stool before the vanity in her dressing room and began to ponder the logistics of getting her nightgown off. Perhaps he should just leave it on. But he'd still have to change it afterward.
As he was struggling with these thoughts, he realized Hermione's eyes were open and she was looking blearily at him.
"Harry?"
"Yes, it's me," he said, brushing the damp hair back from her forehead.
"What's happening?" she asked, swaying a little dangerously.
"You have a very bad fever," Harry told her. "It must be reduced. I'm going to put you in a cold bath, all right?"
Hermione nodded, but Harry sensed her drifting back into her fever-induced fog.
"Hermione," he called, trying to hold her attention. "Can you stand up for me?"
She mumbled something and stood, wobbling a little. Harry was able to pull her nightdress up to her hips before she lost her strength and he was obliged to catch her against his chest. He had gained enough ground to remove her nightgown the rest of the way, holding her with one arm and tugging on the fabric with the other. It was a blessing and a curse that he was forced to hold her against him, for he could not see her naked form, but he could feel it, firm and soft and supple against his body and under his fingertips.
Harry despised himself for lusting after his wife when she was in so vulnerable and helpless a state, completely unawares and unable to give him a good, strong slap, were she so inclined.
Nevertheless, this had to be done, and so he endeavored to ignore her womanliness as he picked her up and carefully deposited her in the bath.
Hermione whimpered at the cold, but otherwise remained still. Having very little to do now but wait for the cold water to take its effect, Harry turned his eyes away, trying not to look at the fair skin and full curves that had already imprinted themselves on his memory. He dare not take another look, lest he lose the fragile control he maintained over his emotions - and over his lust.
Oblivious to his thoughts, Hermione murmured a sound of discontent and turned toward him. He met her eyes, which were watching him blearily.
"It's c-cold," she said quietly, shivering.
"I know," Harry said. He reached out to stroke her forehead, a gesture that was both a caress and a judgment of the level of her fever.
"How much longer?" she asked, and she looked so frail, so delicate in that moment that Harry completely lost any preoccupation he'd had with physical attributes. He wanted only to protect her, to keep her safe and well for the rest of his days.
"Until you're not so hot," Harry said. "The fever must be broken."
Hermione rolled her head back and closed her eyes, and Harry sat watching her face until the unnatural flush seemed to leave it. He then lifted her from the water and sat her again on the vanity stool to dry her - and in so doing, could not avoid seeing her more intimate areas, which left him uncomfortably and guiltily aroused.
After she was dried, Harry helped her into a fresh nightgown, and she was lucid enough to navigate her own arms into the sleeves. That accomplished, Harry carried his wife back to her bed and saw her settled comfortably under the covers. He stood watching a moment, watching her shiver, before he made the decision to remove his boots and climb under the covers, where he held her quivering body to his in a vain attempt to soothe her.
~
Hermione woke very sweaty and uncomfortable, with a hand grasping hers tightly.
"Harry?"
"No, it's me, dear," said her mother's voice, a little ways above her ear. Hermione lifted her head to look around her, finding only her mother and her maid in the room.
"What happened?" Hermione asked, sitting up shakily.
Her mother frowned, and Hermione could see the familiar lines of worry in her brow. "I was rather hoping you could tell us that. You went for a walk four days ago, and Harry found you in a dead faint in the woods in the rain - which, no doubt, was the cause of the illness you've been suffering the days after."
Hermione scoured her memory for that day. "I lost my footing on a bit of wet ground, when it started to rain," Hermione said, recalling the events as she spoke, "and I fell down a hill…and that's all I remember."
"Well, you've given us quite a fright," her mother said fondly, with an undertone of relief that enforced the gravity of the situation for Hermione. She supposed she must have been very ill, to remember as little as she did of the past few days.
"Has Harry been here?" she asked, not worrying about informality, so curious was she to know her husband's reaction to her illness.
Her mother smiled knowingly. "Oh, he's hardly left your side since he brought you back, and until he was assured that the danger had passed, he took personal charge of your care."
Hermione's heart swelled forcefully, and then shrank back, like a wave crashing on the shore. Harry's actions were a sign of his love, to be sure - but that love could be quite platonic. That was the love she'd always had.
But perhaps there was something to be said for a love that would keep him by her bedside when she was ill. Perhaps devotion from the man she'd come to love could be just as satisfying as passion.
Perhaps.
"Where is he now?" Hermione asked, oblivious to the amused quirk of her mother's brow.
"Cleaning himself up a bit, I think," she replied. "He only consented to leave when I came in a little while ago, and he seemed to have every intention of returning promptly. Ah, speak of the devil!"
Indeed, the door adjoining Harry's chambers to hers had just opened, and Harry entered with a good deal more urgency than she'd ever seen in him before.
"You're awake!" he said, his words heavy with relief, and he came to sit on the edge of her bed. "How are you feeling?"
"I would say I felt better, but I have little recollection of feeling ill. As of now, I feel well enough, I suppose."
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Or thirsty? You must have something, to begin to recover your strength. Tripsy, could you - ?"
"Yes, Master!" the elf replied, evidently reading his mind, for she did not allow him to finish speaking.
At that point, Mrs. Granger stood to leave. "I must go tell your father the happy news. He's been awful these past few days - you know how sullen he becomes when he's anxious."
Hermione smiled and nodded her agreement with the statement, while she avoided looking too closely at her husband, lest his eager care inflate her hopes too much.
"You've given me the fright of my life," Harry said as soon as they were alone.
"Yes, I seem to have scared the entire household halfway to death," Hermione joked. "Perhaps next time I shall be more successful."
Harry shook his head, clearly not amused. "You would not laugh if you had seen what I saw. When I found you in the woods, you were so…so still and cold. I thought, for a brief moment, that I had lost you. And then, you took so severely ill…I have been in constant dread and terror for days."
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, taking in fully now the countenance of her husband - the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the more-than-usual unkemptness of his hair, the lines of worry about his mouth and in his forehead, the paleness of one who has not slept or eaten properly in days. She longed to reach out and caress away all the weariness and anxiety she saw, but she refrained, letting her heart ache for him in silence.
Yes, she decided, perhaps this sort of love was enough.
~
A/N: Please don't kill me until I finish the story. :P