VII.

“A little more.”

“Like that?”

“No, slightly to the right.”

A satisfied sigh fell from her lips.

She turned to the other occupant of the room and noted his pinched expression.

“What do you think?” She asked hopefully, eyeing the painting apprehensively.

“It looks like a cat threw up on it,” he said, deadpanned.

The nurse beside her squeaked fearfully and made a hasty exit.

Shaking her head, Hermione ignored the taciturn man and settled by his bed to begin their weekly reading session.

It was only when she was safely ensconced within the privacy of her home, that Hermione realised she hadn’t once inquired after his health’s progress in the past few months.

Surely, after spending her free time developing a nerve restorative potion, she would be more inclined to monitor his wellbeing.

Instead, she almost felt a certain apathy for it.

An unhealthy disregard.

Increasingly perturbed by the alien feelings invading her mind, she settled down for the night.

A night filled with disturbing dreams.