Harry felt his jumper pull tight against his torso as he was caught from the back, preventing him from stumbling face-first onto the carpet as he fell out of the fireplace.

It had been nearly four months since his first experience with the floo, and Harry was still complete rubbish when it came to landing properly. The room spun at a nauseating speed for several seconds before the common room came into focus.

Empty.

Harry’s stomach tingled pleasantly with relief. His stomach…

Glancing down, the boy frowned at the snug wool. Snape was still clutching a handful of his uniform. Harry looked over his shoulder as he plucked at his jumper.

“You can let go now…” he advised, examining his professor’s face in his peripheral vision.

“And if I had my way, you would refrain from opening your mouth during the next quarter of an hour, Potter,” Snape retorted quietly with knitted brows. “Now, move.” He gave Harry a light shove forward, eventually releasing him as they neared the steps.

As Harry pressed his palm against the cool stone that encased the staircase to steady himself while he climbed, he suddenly glanced up in horror as he heard the distinct snap of a closing trunk followed by hasty shuffling of feet.

He tried to lower his heel down onto flat ground but immediately felt the pressure of a broad hand against his back, preventing him from doing so.

“No way,” Harry whispered, shaking his head emphatically as he reached around behind him, trying to pry away the rigid fingers, only to have his wrist encircled and tossed down to his side.

Harry began to sweat underneath his collar. There was absolutely no sodding way anyone was going to witness him being put to bed!

Dean would probably be understanding enough to pretend like he hadn’t seen them. But Ron would never let him live it down. And Seamus… Harry shuddered.

“Get your scrawny backside up these stairs, Mr. Potter,” Snape rasped, increasing the pressure against the child’s arched back. “Go!”

“I’m not scrawny!” Harry protested as he twisted around, indignant. However, the dangerous gleam in Snape’s narrowed eyes caused Harry’s stomach to flutter. And instantly, he widened his own pinched stare as his right hand grappled blindly for the banister. “All right… I’m going…” Harry began taking the steps two at a time, clenching his teeth against the rhythmic throbbing in his temples.

He halted just in time before smacking right into a winded, wild-eyed Neville. The boy’s pudgy cheeks were splotchy with exertion. He was clutching a wilted, wrinkled piece of parchment in his fist. The smears and splotches of ink among the paragraphs indicated a hurried and presumable disaster of an essay.

The tight heat crested and receded in Harry’s chest as he experienced a strange, simultaneous feeling of panic and relief.

Neville Longbottom.

The only one of his mates that would never tease him. Standing there, petrified and grimacing as if he were either going to start weeping or have an accident, the husky boy ogled at Snape, his lips twitching.

At any other occasion, Harry might have laughed at the sight of him. But not now…

“Get to class, Longbottom,” Snape said stiffly, absently, as he continued to close the gap between Harry and him.

Pausing only a second before snapping to comply, Neville’s eyes flickered over Harry as he pulled in his tummy and wiggled carefully around the potions master, clambering flat-footed through the common room.

Harry gazed after his friend almost pitifully as he listened to Neville’s floppy soles slap the thin rug.

“All right, Potter,” Snape prompted softly with a nod, his voice deep and scratchy, “Bed.”

“How come you’re so mean to Neville?” Harry inquired crossly, allowing the muttered question to hang in the air as he finished climbing the stairs to his dormitory.

“Worry about yourself…”

Biting back a remark, Harry let the issue drop as he stepped into his empty dormitory. The remaining traces of anxiety melted away as the boy spotted his unmade bed—the thick comforter folded back and inviting. His tense stomach began to warm over at the thought of an extra day without classes. Harry just hoped that he’d be able to fall asleep.

Lately his churning thoughts had been clashing with his desire to sleep until the early hours of the morning.

Moving toward the edge of his bed, Harry watched for a moment as Snape smoothed a hand over his forehead and through his black hair. The man sighed almost inaudibly as his eyes raked over the crumpled sheets and crooked pillows. Harry waited for Snape to comment on the despicable state of his dormitory. But he didn’t.

The apathy of weariness sat heavily in the near-silence of the dormitory.

“Change into your pajamas, Potter,” Snape instructed quietly without shifting his eyes from the linens.

Nodding to himself, Harry began searching the floor for his dark-blue pajama bottoms. Spotting a rumpled, flannel cuff peeking out from underneath the bed, Harry snatched up his wadded pajamas and held them in the crook of his arm while he kicked off his shoes.

While Snape shook out the comforter, Harry undressed quickly, immensely grateful that Mrs. Weasley has taken a handful of his galleons this summer to buy him some new underwear and socks in Diagon Alley. He and Hagrid had forgotten such trivialities during his first year…

Slipping up the soft bottoms and shrugging out of his jumper, shirt, and tie, Harry climbed up onto the edge his bed and began floundering towards his pillow.

Snape turned from the window. His expression immediately sagged into mild vexation.

“Potter…”

Harry looked up, sinking back onto his heels. “What?”

“Put your pajama top on,” Snape directed, abruptly springing out of his stupor. He snapped his fingers towards Harry. “This instant.” Snape circled the bed, ducking his head and scavenging around the floor for the matching top.

Scowling, Harry released a foot from underneath his bottom and dangled it off the edge of his bed, staring at his belly-button. Why did it matter?

“It chokes me.”

Snape straightened up, flipping his dark hair out of his face. “It does nothing of the sort. Now, enough of this foolishness, Potter.” Throwing open the heavy lid of Harry’s trunk, Snape began rummaging through its contents, grumbling.

Rolling his eyes, Harry ignored him and crawled under his covers instead. The sheets felt cool and comforting against his warm skin now that the sweating and shivers had stopped.

Too bad I left all my pajama tops at the Dursleys… Harry smiled impishly into his pillow as he listened to the muffled sounds of searching.

But as his body began to settle into the mattress, Harry’s smile faded slowly. His head began to eddy with fatigue. Maybe he would fall asleep after all.

Harry barely even flinched when something soft and white sailed across the bed and landed in a heap over his face. Breathing in the sweet smell of clean cotton, Harry reached up and dragged the wrinkled t-shirt to his chest as he sat up, contorting his back into a stretch.

“Put it on,” Snape said simply, nudging the lid closed as he stood.

“Yes, sir,” Harry slurred sleepily. He peeled the hems apart and maneuvered his hands into the armholes, too tired to even ponder over how easily the compliant words had slipped from his lips.

During the brief moment Harry’s head had hit the pillow, it was as if he’d gone into a trance.

Disregarding the perpendicular creases down the front of his shirt, Harry scooted backwards towards his pillows, poking his fingers underneath his glasses to rub at the dryness and grit that had gathered at the corners of his eyes.

“What, Potter, no argument?” Snape commented as he sauntered forward and stood next to the drowsy child.

Harry shrugged. “I guess not,” he replied in a throaty and non-committal voice.

Snape inspected the boy for a short while before speaking. “Professor McGonagall and I found you in a cold sweat. Therefore climbing into bed without pajamas is a foolish way to encourage a second break-out. You realize that, don’t you Mr. Potter?”

Leaning backwards and clunking his head lightly against the headboard, Harry shook his head, absolutely uninterested.

His eyes were beginning to fix tiredly on random objects, and Harry was having a difficult time jerking them away.

“Any idiot would understand this…”

Who cares? Harry thought, closing his eyes. I guess that makes me an idiot.

Harry heard a huffed sigh and felt the pressure of knuckles against his left knee, sliding both of his legs over a good foot, the blankets tightening around Harry’s thighs as he felt the mattress dip with the weight of another body.

Prying open his lids, Harry stared in hazy astonishment at the potions master now perched awkwardly in the middle of the bed. Both palms rested flat on his knees as Snape’s face retained its neutral glare.

Harry tucked one of his hands underneath the snug blanket, sensing it was his turn to speak. He watched as Snape busied his hands in the pocket of his robes, retrieving and fingering a small vial filled with a milky turquoise potion.

“What is that, Professor?”

It was the only thing Harry could think to say in such a situation, not that he was uncomfortable with Snape sitting on the edge of his bed. Honestly, Harry had been in much more undignified positions—namely sprawled across Snape’s lap with his bum in the air and his face smashed in between the sofa cushions.

But this was different. He’d never had an adult this close to his bed before. The Dursleys never even came within ten feet of his bedroom if they could avoid it. And this summer, Mrs. Weasley had kissed them all goodnight before they had gone upstairs.

However, sitting like this with the mattress slanted and his legs trapped wasn’t embarrassing, just…unfamiliar.

Snape glanced over at the boy, still holding the tiny glass container between his thumb and forefinger. He recited with clinical accuracy: “This vial contains a small dose of the Draught of Peace. It will curb your anxiety and help you sleep…”

Anxiety?

“I’m not anxious,” Harry said, knowing very well that his argument was weak. “I mean,” he tugged at his pajama bottoms that were partially trapped underneath his professor, “I think I can go to sleep now that I’m in here by myself.”

“Mmmm,” Snape grunted, clearly skeptical. The man puckered an amused eyebrow, the gesture lost on Harry.

“It’s just…Neville snores…”

“And yet this morning at breakfast, all of your dormitory mates were bright-eyed and annoying as ever,” Snape countered automatically.

“Hey, so am I!” Harry insisted, grimacing and giving his pajamas a mighty tug, finally freeing them. “Well, not annoying, I mean…”

“Perhaps not,” Snape replied smoothly, giving the corked vial a shake. “However, I believe your insolent cheek as of late—not to mention your brash behavior—have accounted for the unspoken. And I believe your distress has not stemmed from Mr. Longbottom’s breathing problems…”

Accounted for…what? Harry wrinkled his nose confusion. “You think I’m acting this way because I’m tired?”

Passing the small potion-filled bottle to his other hand, Snape ignored the question for a moment; instead he nodded toward Harry’s pillow.

Wordlessly, Harry wiggled down, keeping his eyes on the man as he flattened on his back. As Harry did so, Snape stood up to slacken the stretched blankets. He shook them out with one hand, the brisk movement inviting the cool air to seep in, pricking Harry’s arms and legs with gooseflesh.

Holding up his elbows slightly, Harry allowed Snape to lay the straightened blankets over his chest before Harry flapped his arms down, trapping the folded sheets firmly underneath his armpits. This time, Harry moved his legs over on his own accord, but Snape simply moved forward, set the vial on Harry’s bedside table and crouched down.

He studied the boy solemnly.

Harry stared back, wondering where Snape was going with all of this. He didn’t want a lecture on disrespect. He didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart conversation about his emotions and anxiety. Harry just wanted answers. He wanted everything to go away. He wanted Ginny to smile again. He wanted to play Quidditch and think about his second Christmas at Hogwarts…and pudding. He hated being confused, and he hated keeping things from Ron and Hermione.

Harry’s whole head was now pulsing with pain. It felt as if his pillow were vibrating.

“What’s happening, Professor? Why can’t you just tell me?” Harry asked weakly, defeated. His fingers found a short thread on his comforter and began twisting it in earnest.

Snape swallowed so slowly that Harry swore he could hear it. “I don’t know everything, Potter,” Snape answered resolutely, shaking his head slightly.

“I feel like I don’t know anything,” Harry mumbled through feeble lips. “I hate feeling like that…” Harry’s fingertip had become purple from the twisted thread. As he slowly freed the smothered appendage, Harry had a new thought: “Do you think Dumbledore knows stuff but isn’t telling us?”

A short pause.

“Remove your glasses,” Snape instructed. His was voice quiet and commanding.

Inwardly huffing, Harry plucked the frames off of his face and handed them to his professor without folding them. The stiff wires stuck up crookedly like broken bones.

A yawn was working its way out of the boy’s lungs, and he tried to fight it. But inevitably, it sneaked up, causing Harry to inhale suddenly and briskly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Placing the small glasses on the nearby table, Snape watched, saying nothing.

“Who do you think Tom is?” Harry asked blearily once he’d recovered from his yawn. He turned onto his side, arranging his ankles comfortably. His body felt light, as if it were floating. Snape’s black hair and pale features were uniformly smeared without the clarity of his glasses.

“Enough questions. Close your eyes.”

The warmth and coziness of Harry’s blankets was overwhelming. And after a moment, his lids slipped closed without his consent. His cheeks felt heavy, sagging with invisible weight. He could ask his questions later.

Harry breathed in time to the pulse in his temple. The pain had marginally receded.

Several moments of quiet passed before Harry felt a thumb dragging along his eyebrows, fisted knuckles resting against his fringe. The soothing monotony of the movement glued his eyes closed permanently.

But even through the mist of his weariness, Harry was aware of the source of the comfort.

He didn’t understand it. He would never understand it. But he knew.

Snape’s droning voice mingled with the sound of even breathing and meshed among the whirlwind of broken, dream-like thoughts swimming around in the child’s mind:

“You’ve done well, Harry.”

Breathing deeply, he felt the warm pad of skin brush across the thin, knobby scar near his hairline before the last traces of his consciousness extinguished.

The Draught of Peace remained on the night table, corked and untouched.