Hermione regained consciousness and dazedly found someone leaning over her, tilting her head back. The right side of her face and body were rigid. She couldn't move her fingers and her tongue hurt as though it had been bitten repeatedly.
She jerked away from the hands upon her and the person, a man, stopped touching her. He stepped back eying her carefully. She stared at him in confusion. He was pale and blond and his face, which had seemed expressive when she'd first opened her eyes, was carefully blank.
"You had a seizure," he said in a calm voice. "Apparently fertility potions and legilimency don't mix."
He glanced down at a wand in his hand. "Can you speak? You were screaming for several minutes."
Hermione fought to swallow. Her throat felt raw, as though several minutes were a gross understatement. She tried to open her mouth and found that the muscles in the right side of her jaw were so tight she could barely part her teeth.
She felt exhausted. She felt as though she'd been electrocuted; her muscles and tendons felt as though they'd been pulled taut until they'd been about to snap. When she tried to breathe there was a low, gasping sound that emerged from the back of her throat.
She tried to remember what had happened. She tried to sit up, but her body was uncooperative. She burst into tears.
"Who are you?" she slurred through her teeth when she finally stopped sobbing. She stared up at the man standing beside her.
A myriad of emotions suddenly flickered across his face. He opened his mouth, then shut it firmly and hesitated.
"I'm in charge of your care," he finally said, his expression blank once more. He pulled a small bottle seemingly out of nowhere. "You should take this. You'll probably be able to remember what happened when you wake next."
Hermione hesitated and then nodded in acquiescence. He slid a hand under her neck at the base of her skull and helped tilt her rigid body up so she could swallow it. As soon as she drank it, her exhaustion took hold of her fully, and she felt herself drifting off.
"Do I know you?" she asked as her eyes slid closed.
"I suppose you do."
When Hermione woke again, the right side of her body felt faintly sore and her tongue had the subtle sensation of a healing charm across the surface of it.
She cast her mind back, trying to remember what had happened.
She'd been talking to Malfoy about Voldemort, about horcruxes — she suddenly remembered the word. She'd finally asked her question; which had hardly been a question because she was almost certain she was right. Voldemort was dying.
Then everything in her head had felt like it had exploded, the room turned red, and she'd collapsed.
She'd had a seizure in front of Malfoy.
When she'd woke the first time she'd been practically immobile and hadn't even remembered who he was. He'd dosed her with Dreamless Sleep Draught.
She thought back on the exchange. 'In charge of her care' was a very generous way for him to describe himself. She snorted.
She shifted her shoulders and tried opening her mouth. Her jaw was sore but she could part her teeth fully. She sat up gingerly and examined herself.
She'd been treated.
Seizures were not her healing specialty, but Arthur Weasley had suffered from them mildly after he'd been cursed by Lucius Malfoy. She had researched it. The treatment was similar to treating someone for the cruciatus, a treatment that she was quite familiar with.
It was not exclusively wand healing but magi-physical therapy; using spells and then massaging the knots and tension away by hand. Someone had touched her. At minimum they'd massaged the entire right side of her body in order for the tension and rigidity to be so thoroughly relieved. Considering that she felt almost normal, she suspected that she'd been treated on both sides from her jaw down to her toes.
She shuddered slightly, but tried to reason with herself.
It was healing. Just healing. She'd healed hundreds and hundreds of people. Treated injuries on every part of the body. An injury was an injury. Healing was healing. It was quite removed from any sense of sensuality or sexuality. Clinical. Bodies rarely even registered as anything more than something to heal.
But still... The thought that someone had been handling her while she was unconscious in Malfoy's house made her feel ill.
She clutched her blankets against her chest protectively.
She glanced at the calendar on the wall and found that two days had passed since her conversation with Malfoy.
She shifted and hissed, glancing down. Her breasts were sore and — enlarged. She stared in abject horror for several seconds before remembering that it was a side-effect of the fertility potion Stroud had given her. She grimaced and climbed out of bed.
Malfoy had used cleaning charms on her after bringing her back from Voldemort's Hall, but she hadn't actually washed any of it off. She gathered up towels and clothing and went down the hall to the shower in the other bathroom.