It was just a little virus.
The mediwitch at St. Mungos had assured him that it was just the latest virus that would clear up easily with the potion they prescribed, but Bill was still worried. He knew it was silly to fret like this over a tummy bug, of all things, but the illness had been unexpected and it messed up their routine. He had settled into that routine over the past months and having it thrown out of balance was a surprise.
Hermione didn’t get sick. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never heard of her getting sick. True, he didn’t have an exact history of every single moment of every single year, but he had always thought of her as being strong and healthy. She’d even managed to walk about in the slush and snow with just a red nose and flushed cheeks as evidence of the cold, nary a sniffle nor cough being heard from her.
It was disconcerting to see her so pale and feverish when she was normally so alive and vibrant. Yes, vibrant was the word for her, he decided. He didn’t care what St. Mungos said because anything simple wouldn’t knock her on her arse like this illness had done. True, they’d said it was some strain of wizarding virus with symptoms of some sort of Muggle floo, which made no sense to him, and that it would be fine with the potion, but they weren’t the ones watching her sleep and seeing how sick she looked.
Bill felt restless. He’d felt restless since he’d arrived for Tuesday dinner after a successful trip to Cork, Ireland, to find Hermione lying in bed looking half-dead with tissues all around her and the rubbish bin close by for her upset stomach. She’d told him she had a cold but there was no cold he knew that made one so utterly sick and exhausted. She’d refused to go to the hospital on Tuesday. Even as she’d lain there coughing and scaring him half to death, she’d stubbornly shook her head and said hospitals bothered her.
Of course, he understood why. She’d been stuck in the hospital for nearly three weeks after the last battle of the war when she‘d been caught in a maelstrom of curses that had left Harry and Ron and most of his family frightened. He’d not really noticed, he was ashamed to admit now, as he’d been sleepwalking through his life by that point and hadn’t given much else any thought. He had always been a bit of a selfish bastard, or so Charlie liked to say, and he guessed that was further proof of Charlie’s blunt honesty.
There had been no moment of thoughtful analysis or even a slight hint of indecision on Tuesday night when he’d owled Gringott’s and told them he was taking a few days off for personal time. If Hermione was sick, she needed him to look after her, especially if the stubborn woman wouldn’t see a mediwitch. When she’d attempted to convince him she was fine, a statement that had been unsupported by her having to throw up in the middle of her reassurances, he’d proven to her that he could be just as, if not more, stubborn than her. He was older, after all, so he had a decade longer to perfect that talent.
When she’d fallen asleep that night, he’d gone home, packed a few things, and owled his mum to explain where he was as she had this annoying tendency to pop her head through the floo at random times during the last six months since he’d moved back to London. He knew she was checking up on him, probably making sure he wasn’t drinking himself into a stupor, as she still seemed to believe he was some sort of alcoholic despite the fact he never got drunk, or hadn’t left to go back to Egypt or elsewhere without letting her know. It was endearing, in a way, but somewhat annoying in another. Regardless, he’d let his mum know and gone back to Hermione’s flat. Within an hour, Bill had settled in Hermione’s study slash library slash guest room. To be perfectly honest, he’d had hardly left her side since.
There was something incredibly scary about seeing her so ill. He’d sat in the chair by her bed watching her sleep for hours over the last few days, needing to see her chest rising and falling to know she was still alive, and wanting to be there when she opened her eyes so she’d know he hadn’t left her alone. If he wasn’t in the chair that he’d taken to considering ‘his’ chair, he was on the bed beside her running a cool flannel over her face or holding her hair as she threw up or helping her to the loo, where he paced around outside the closed door until she opened it to confirm she was okay.
At night, when he couldn’t avoid sleep any longer, he crawled up into bed beside her. He told himself that his body heat might help her heal, but it was mostly because he could wrap his arm around her lightly and feel her breathing as he slept. He needed to know, even in sleep, that she hadn’t left him and that she was still alive. He knew she’d not mind him sharing her bed, as they had fallen asleep together a few times over the last months, though she might not be too thrilled about him just wearing his shorts. However, it was late summer and hot so she was lucky that he’d not been sleeping nude as he usually did, not that he’d do so in this situation. He had made sure he was awake and dressed before she woke during his time there to avoid embarrassing her.
It was disgraceful, really, for his body to react to her presence. She was sick, so sick that he’d finally ignored her objections and taken her to St. Mungos on Friday, and he was waking with a hard-on like some bloody teenager. It was true, though, that wanking in the morning shower was a pleasant enough way to escape his concern that she wouldn’t get better.
He chose to ignore the fact that it was a curvaceous brunette with full lips and an intelligent gaze that came to mind as he stroked himself instead of the slender blonde that had been in his mind for years. It was just close proximity that had him thinking about Hermione like that, that had had him thinking of her in that way for months if he was completely and totally honest, and the fact she was a very pretty girl with a body made for things he shouldn’t even be thinking about with his best friend certainly didn‘t help not think about her.
Ignorance was bliss in this situation, he had decided after the first time her face had come to mind during that particular activity, so not thinking about it meant it didn’t mean anything. He was a man, after all, and had needs and desires that he’d simply been satisfying with his hand for a bit too long. She was an attractive, very shaggable woman that he found sexually appealing so it was logical that he’d think of her while satisfying those needs. That’s what he told himself and it let him get through the days without feeling awkward or intrigued enough to give it too much thought.
The she got sick and everything got confusing and fucked up.
Bill made sure she was sleeping soundly before he got up and went to the kitchen. They’d gotten home from St. Mungos early in the morning, a few hours before dawn, and she’d fallen asleep instantly. He’d tried but sleep had been elusive. It didn’t matter, really, as he was used to not sleeping well. In fact, he’d slept better during the past four days than he had in a long time. There hadn’t been any nightmares despite the full moon not being far away, which was very nice.
He reached up and idly dragged his fingertips over the ragged scars on his face and neck. He was fortunate they’d not done more damage than they had but the mood swings and the urges he felt during that phase of the moon were bad enough. For the most part, he’d adjusted to the moodiness and people tended to just avoid him when he was like that. The urges were controllable and weren’t very important any more as he didn’t have a lover, a mate as some in his situation might consider it, so he just got a little more rough with himself and it was fine.
Even if he considered possibly letting someone else in, taking the risk to his heart by loving again, he wasn’t sure he’d ever want someone he loved to deal with him during those few days. Fleur had had difficulty when he got like that and he honestly wondered, feeling guilty as he did, how long she’d have ended up staying with him before it got to be too much for her. No, he was far better off with friends instead of an intimate relationship. He needed to remember that when his mind wandered and he felt a longing for someone to be beside him every morning when he woke up, to share his life with in all ways, to love and be loved again.
He shook his head slightly and finished getting breakfast ready. The potion they had given Hermione at the hospital would help her stomach, he had been told, but he was going to risk making her more sick. He needed her to get better. His life was in a state of turmoil without their routines and he needed the security of her being okay. It would be dry toast and a small amount of oatmeal for her this morning with a glass of apple juice, as the orange juice seemed to upset her stomach.
There was a tray that he used to carry her breakfast to her. He put the morning edition of her two newspapers on the side, knowing he’d read to her as he had done every morning for the last few days, and smiled as he transfigured a napkin into a pretty tulip for her tray. Tulips took a little more time and thought than a simple rose, but she preferred them to any other flower so it was worth it. Once he had added his own plate, performing a charm on the kitchen and his sausage so the smell would be covered and not possibly make her feel nauseous, he walked back into her room.
She was still asleep so he cast a warming charm on their food and put the tray down to wait until she woke. Instead of sitting in his chair, he sat beside her on the bed and brushed his fingers against her forehead. She felt cooler than she had yesterday but there was still fever. Bill stared at her openly, not having to worry about being caught when she was asleep, and smiled gently as he noticed she’d drooled in her sleep. A quick delicate wipe of the flannel took care of that and he let his fingers linger by her mouth for a bit longer than was appropriate.
The potion would help her and soon she’d be healthy again. There wasn’t a risk of her not waking up, of her dying, so it was foolish to worry about that. It just reminded him of Fleur, of seeing her so pale and damp from sweat, of watching her struggle to breathe as the blood was everywhere and watching her die while he stood there unable to do anything to save her. It had all happened so fast, losing the woman he loved and their unborn child, and finding Hermione so sick on Tuesday had brought back those memories.
Bill’s eyes widened and he felt like someone kicked him in the gut as he pulled his hand away from Hermione’s face. He stared at her with a different look now, one that was scared and shocked and possibly a little hopeful. His fingers ran through his hair, needing something to do as he reeled from his sudden realization. He felt jarred, like he’d just been woken from a deep sleep to find himself standing in the sitting room instead of lying in bed, and his analytical mind wanted to figure out how and when and why it had happened but all he could do was sit there and stare.
It wasn’t just the change in their routine that left him feeling so worried and restless. While that did upset the balance of his life, he couldn’t deny the truth any longer. He didn’t want to lose Hermione, couldn’t lose the woman he loved for a second time, and couldn’t completely relax until she was better and smiling again. The woman he loved. That kept echoing in his mind as he watched her sleeping. She began to stir and he blinked, drawn from the slight daze that the recognition of his feelings had caused.
He’d think about all of this later, he decided as he quickly looked away before she caught him staring with such a shocked and confused expression on his face. After breakfast, when she was sleeping again, he’d try to figure out how the bloody hell this had happened and what he was going to do about it. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the knowledge that he had somehow fallen in love with Hermione that had him so surprised. No, it was the fact that he’d not even noticed and wasn’t entirely sure what to do now that left him flustered and puzzled.
Hermione coughed and blinked at him, bleary eyed and sleepy as she woke up. He waited, ready to hold her hair back if she needed to throw up, and was relieved when she didn’t make any movement towards doing so. Her face was flushed and pale but her fever seemed to have broken and she wasn’t nauseous so maybe the potion actually was working. She looked better than she had the previous mornings, which was promising, and seemed to be more alert and awake than she had been since getting sick.
Bill picked up the tray and watched her smile when she saw the tulip, that smile worth the time and energy it had taken to transfigure, before she coughed again along with a bout of sneezing that had her cursing like his youngest brother in a way that made him smile. She sheepishly admitted she needed to use the loo before even thinking about trying to eat so he helped her out of bed and to the loo. When the door shut, he sighed and knew there was no point in no denying it or trying to convince himself otherwise. He ran both of his hands over his face and through his long hair as he accepted the accuracy of his suspicions: he was in love with Hermione Granger.
The End