The way Granger seems to be frightened of him confuses him: he peers at her with a bewildered frown, his gaze darting between her and the blasted cat scurrying over to her. And when she flounders around for an answer, he snaps, "What? Spit it out, for bloody Merlin's sake!"

And when she finally does... The fierceness in his expression eases slightly. A dream. A nightmare, in other words. She wouldn't have screamed like that if it wasn't a nightmare.

He draws in a deep breath and lets it out while sagging against the doorway. "A dream," he echoes.

Contrary to how irritable he sounds, he understands. He's familiar with nightmares. He's familiar with waking up with a scream welling in the back of his throat. Lifting his hand to his face, he scrubs it over his eyes and across his forehead, then drops his arm to his side.

Eyes back on Granger. "Well, you're not dreaming anymore," he continues gruffly, "so there's no need to keep looking at me like that."