She glances back up at the doorframe, expecting him to have already left the room and gone back to sleep, and was pleasantly surprised when she found that Snape was still standing there, looking at her with a rather neutral expression on his face. Then he moved toward the bed and she shifted to allow him room, just as Crookshank hisses and abandons her to her fate, keeping watch from atop the dresser like her very own guardian furball.

Hermione fiddles with the end of the large shirt she slept in, her head bowed so that her hair is a curtain between them. Now that she's admitted one nightmare, it doesn't seem too horrible to admit more - she'd tried to tell herself again and again that what she had been through was a war and that no one could begrudge her for a few bad dreams. Considering how badly others had been left, however, she felt immeasurably guilty admitting any sort of lasting effects.

The fact of the matter remained that the war had changed her as much as it changed him, whether she would admit it or not.

"Yes. A few times a week," she murmurs, almost so quietly that it can't be heard. "Sometimes I'm back at Malfoy Manor, with Bellatrix. Other times, the battle of Hogwarts. Sometimes it's things that never happened, but could have."

More often, however, it was Bellatrix, leaning over her arm and slicing deep into skin, and Fenrir Greyback, foul breath in her face as she was pressed into the hard wood floor of the Malfoy's home. Almost protectively, she tucks one of her arms underneath the tangled sheet that had managed to survive her nightmare. She didn't use her glamours when she slept, no need, which meant every scar was on sick display.

"I haven't had any since ...," since we started sleeping in the same bed, since I came to this house, since I had something to occupy my time, she fumbled for words. "Since I began staying with you," Hermione settled on, avoiding his gaze.