Snape's eyes snapped open seconds before he heard the scream. It was almost as if something in his subconscious knew what was going on before his conscious self did. Pushing the heavy, faded blue blanket aside, he swung his legs off the side of the bed and rose to his feet in one smooth movement. The rough wooden floorboards were hard and slightly curved from much use as his feet moved silently over them. He had no need to bother with a light, knowing every crevice of the house by heart.

Opening his door, he crossed the narrow hall in a single stride and entered the room from which the scream had emerged. Two more steps and he stood over the bed, one hand each on a thin, pajama-clad shoulder.

"Harry!" He had meant for his tone to be firm, yet not overly loud, but it came out cracking and painful from several hours of disuse. "Harry, wake up! It's only a dream."

Harry shuddered against the hands on his shoulders, whimpering in protest of the demons haunting his dreams. He wanted to be free of them, but he just couldn't escape. Jerking his head to one side, he sucked in a breath. A familiar odor caused him to still, his mind struggling to identify it.

"Harry," the voice called again.

Snape. It was Snape.

The boy opened his eyes, a momentary rushing sound filling his ears as his heart hammered against his ribcage. He wanted to cry.

Snape sighed in both relief and frustration. Harry's nightmares had woken them every night for the past month. He wasn't getting the proper amount of uninterrupted rest and it was doubtful Harry was truly resting at all. They could not keep this up.

"Move over." The words left the man's mouth without his permission, but once said, could not be taken back. Harry shot him a confused look, but obeyed nonetheless, his small limbs shaky and clumsy, his feet becoming tangled in the bedclothes. Snape lifted the covers, allowing the boy to scoot over unhindered before laying back on the closer half of the bed. He then pulled the blanket up until it draped across his own chest and the boy's shoulder. Curious green eyes rested upon him, causing him to wonder how much his ward could see without his glasses in the dark.

The Potions Master felt as though he should say something; something comforting and soothing, but the words wouldn't come. It was as though the piece of his brain that despite all his objections had forced him into this position had decided to abandon him. He lay there stiffly for several moments, uncertain as to what he should do, then, at the beckoning of another strange compulsion, he hesitantly reached out and pulled the child to his side.

Harry had tensed at first, still unaccustomed to a benign touch, before laying his head against the place where Snape's arm met his chest. He breathed in deeply, unsurprised that even the man's nightclothes carried the smell of stale potions that seemed to define him.

Of its own accord, Snape's hand began to softly run through the mop of hair resting on his shoulder. The man could tell that the boy hadn't fallen back to sleep, despite how quiet and still he had become. Eventually, he heard a sniffle then, just before an arm tightened around his middle, a sob. Somewhere in Snape's mind, he didn't think this was quite right. He had gotten into this bed in order to comfort the boy, not cause hysterics. Granted, this child didn't seem to do anything as he should. Most twelve-year-olds would have run from an Acromantula, not sought it out. (Oh, yes. Snape had learned of that little adventure.) Most would have allowed their teachers to rescue a classmate trapped with a Basilisk beneath the school. Most would have gone to an adult for help.

But then, when had this child been given the chance to learn that adults would do anything but fail or mistreat him?

"Calm down, child," Snape murmured.

Harry made an effort to comply, his fingers twining themselves in the fabric of Snape's nightshirt. Pressing his face into the professor's chest, he breathed deeply of the scent which he was coming to identify more and more with a sense of security. "A-aunt P'tunia put my h-hand on the st-stove," he mumbled, tone hitching. "She t-told Uncle V-Vernon that I cried, so he b-beat me when he got home."

Snape protectively drew the boy closer, even as his mind promised violent retribution upon Petunia and her husband should they ever have the misfortune of crossing his path. How dare they. How dare they harm Lily's child!

"That's what I d-dreamed about last night," the boy told him quietly. "Some of the others, too."

Harry hadn't spoken about his nightmares, except for one in which he'd been chased by his aunt's (or rather, his cousin's aunt's) dog. Now, not only had the boy confided one of his other nightmares, but it sounded as though it wasn't even the same one which had woken them.

"That is not what you dreamt about tonight?" Snape asked to be certain. He felt Harry shake his head. "Might I ask what you did dream about?"

"They took me away from you," Harry admitted, his voice a strained whisper. "I didn't want to go... They were going to send me back."

"That will never happen," Snape asserted. "I would never allow you to return to your relatives."

The boy took this in silently, then gave a tiny nod. "... Professor Dumbledore said the Minister didn't want me to stay with you," he ventured. "He thought I'd be better off with someone else."

"The headmaster ought to keep such things to himself," the professor muttered, then added darkly, "and the Minister can go crucio himself."

Harry levered himself up to stare at him, his expression equal parts surprise and questioning.

"It's a curse," the man felt compelled to explain. "A very painful one."

"Oh," said Harry. He laid his head back on Snape's shoulder, but the professor thought he saw a small smile grace the boy's lips as he did so.

The room had fallen quiet again, when Harry once more broke the stillness, his voice far too young for a child of twelve.

"Please don't send me away."

Where had that come from? "I am quite certain I just finished telling you that I will not see you go to your relatives."

"Or anyone else?"

The plaintive tone wrenched at the heart many accused Snape of not having. "Harry," he spoke firmly, "I will not leave you, nor will I ever send you away so long as it is your desire to remain with the Greasy Git of the Dungeons."

Harry started to lift his head again, no doubt to goggle at him in shock that he knew what students called him behind his back, but Snape pressed it back down on his shoulder.

"To sleep, Mr. Potter," he said, his own tone not nearly as sharp as the words implied, "unless you wish to scrub cauldrons for me tomorrow."

The boy giggled and Snape decided that it was a sound that he wished for his ward to make more often. Children should be... happy. Moreover, Harry deserved to be.

"Good night, professor," Harry murmured softly.

"Good night, Harry," Snape returned, and before he'd had a chance to think about it, he had placed a kiss atop the boy's head. No matter, he sighed internally as Harry snuggled against him. His reputation was already spoiled with Potter, anyway. Might as well go all paternal while he was at it.