He felt oddly comfortable. Oddly, because he had a vague idea that maybe he should be afraid, but he wasn’t sure why or of what. He breathed in a familiar earthy scent and felt a heart beating next to his cheek. He smiled, nestling farther into the warmth. He felt safe.

Was he dreaming? Occasionally he dreamed about the day he’d gone to school for the first time. It had been drilled into him by then that adults didn’t like him to touch them with his grubby hands, but Mrs. Thompson on the very first day of class gave him two hugs. He had held himself as stiff as a board, not knowing what to do, but by the end of the first week, he had learned that if he leaned into the hugs, she would hold on for a few seconds longer. He loved those moments. Not every teacher hugged him, but Mrs. Thompson always did, even when he moved on to a different grade. He’d been convinced after that year that hugs were infused with magical powers.

Until, that is, he’d learned about the existence of real magic.

But hugs could still be magical, couldn’t they? Maybe they were a holdover from some ancient time when Muggles and wizards lived together in harmony. Maybe when wizards started living in secret, Muggles kept some magical things for themselves. He wondered when Muggles started forgetting that hugs held magic.

His arms twitched, and then his legs, as if they wanted to move but had just realized that he was awake and that they couldn’t move without his telling them to. He had a hazy notion that his arms and legs were planning to revolt. He tried to flex his hands, but they only half listened to him and gave a sort of spasm. He would have been more bothered, but his head was full of a cloudy, comfortable feeling, and he didn’t much want to move anyway.

He became aware of a sound, something that had been there all along but that he was only now noticing. Humming.

Mrs. Thompson didn’t hum. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did sometimes, but their voices had a grating quality to them. And he didn’t like to hear them hum anyway because it meant they were happy, and if they were happy, it was usually over something that was about to make Harry miserable.

This voice didn’t grate on his nerves like theirs did. It relaxed him. It alternated between humming and speaking. He didn’t understand the soft words, but he liked them. He could tell they were meant for him, because he picked out the name “Harry,” and he thought it was trying to tell him something, or to wake him up, maybe.

He opened his eyes, then slammed them shut against a light. Did he sleep past breakfast? Was he late for class? He squinted, leaned his head back, and met a pair of startled black eyes.

The arms holding him fell away and Professor Snape quickly extracted himself from where he’d been sitting on Harry’s bed. The man looked blurry now that he wasn’t right next to him, but Harry’s brain was kind of blurry too, so that was okay. He could see the professor well enough to watch with fascination as his cheeks tinged with pink. “You were thrashing,” said the voice. Snape. Oh. The voice was Snape. But hadn’t Snape said he wouldn’t sing to him?

He blinked owlishly at the unfamiliar room. It was half dark, half lit up by a lamp on the bedside table. He missed the hug, but something kept him from asking for it back. He still felt its magical effects, still felt safe and warm, so he could probably manage without it for a while.

“Potter?” He snapped his gaze back to Snape. The professor was looking at him with a question in his eyes, but Harry didn’t know the question. Had he missed a question in Potions class again? No, he wasn’t in Potions class, he was in bed. Oh. That’s what he was late for - Potions!

Snape was going to kill him.

He sat up and started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but his body was still in revolt, and he started to pitch forward. Strong arms caught him and eased him back. It occurred to him to latch onto the arms for another hug, but that would make him later than he already was, so he let them let go, and then he tried to sit up again.

“Do you need to use the facilities?” Snape asked, and Harry frowned, sounding out the long word but unable to work out what it meant.

“Sorry ‘m late, jus’ oversl’pt,” he mumbled and swatted the hands away. “Don’ wanna lose points.”

“Points?” Snape frowned. “We’re not at school, Potter. You aren’t going to lose points.”

“’M late for class!” he insisted.

“You are not late,” Snape enunciated slowly. “We are not at Hogwarts.”

Harry stilled long enough to allow Snape to tuck him back under the covers. “W’re not?” Why did his tongue feel heavy? He reached up to feel his tongue, but it didn’t seem any different than usual. Snape gently grasped his hand and moved his arm back to his side.

“’M late for Potions,” he tried once more, but his attempt was feeble. If Snape was going to let him skive off Potions, who was he to complain?

Snape laid a hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish,” he murmured. “Are you still cold?”

Cold? Why would he be cold? Oh, like snow? He looked for a window but there wasn’t one. “Is’t snowing?” he asked, and his tongue was starting to feel a little bit better, not quite as heavy. He tried to feel it again but Snape snagged his hand before he could and laid it back on the bed. “I like snow,” he added. He did. It made the world so pretty. He didn’t always like it, like when the Dursleys made him do outside chores in the middle of winter, but that wasn’t the snow’s fault. “Do you like snow?”

Snape had a weird look on his face, like he didn’t know whether to frown or to smile. Harry brought a clumsy hand over to pat Snape’s where it hovered over the bed next to him. “It’s okay. Not ever’body likes snow.” If it was snowing, it would be getting cold soon. He burrowed under the covers. It felt really nice. Soft, like his bed at Hogwarts. Maybe even softer. Definitely nicer than at the Dursleys’. He was lucky if he even got more than a threadbare castoff of a blanket there. He wanted to ask if he could keep it, but that seemed rude. Of course he couldn’t keep it. It was Snape’s. “Sorry ‘bout the bed,” he felt the need to say.

“The bed?” Snape frowned.

Harry reached out a hand toward Snape’s face. Maybe if he could smooth out the frown line, the man would smile instead. But he couldn’t quite reach, and Snape guided his hand back down anyway.

“Yeah,” he said instead. “I wouldn’t’a made you sleep on a lumpy mattress if I had another.”

Snape’s frown deepened. “Are you speaking of our time at your relatives’ home?”

Obviously. But he thought that saying duh to Snape was a bad idea, so he nodded. But that made the room spin, so he stopped. Oh, maybe Snape was unhappy because he wanted this bed too. It was loads more comfortable than the other one. He sat up, but Snape gently pushed him back before he could even kick off the covers.

“Don’t you want it?” he asked, confused.

“Want what?” Snape seemed just as confused.

“The bed,” he said impatiently. Geez, Snape was slow today. The man sighed, and Harry bit his bottom lip. Maybe he was unhappy with him. What had he done this time?

“No, Potter,” Snape said heavily. “I don’t want your bed. You keep it.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. I am sure.” Snape looked at him uncomfortably for a moment and then cleared his throat. “It is I who should apologize,” he began hesitantly. “You are the child; I am the adult. I should not have driven you out of your own bed and compelled you to sleep on the floor.”

Harry grinned. If Snape was saying sorry, maybe he wasn’t angry after all. “S’okay. Floor’s not so bad.”

“Still.” Snape’s face settled into another frown and he asked, “How do you feel?”

Harry frowned back, thinking. Feel? Like emotions? Snape didn’t seem the type to want to talk about emotions. Or maybe he meant what he felt like doing? Or eating. He felt like…“toast.”

Snape stared at him, and it was kind of nice that he looked fuzzy, because it made his features softer, his frowns a little less…frowny. If Harry turned his head and squinted his eyes, he could almost pretend the man was grinning.

“What are you doing?”

“Turning your frown…upside down.” He burst into giggles, which intensified when Snape merely stood there, staring at him. But by the time he was over the worst of his giggles, Snape had sat down in a chair next to his bed and the frown was gone, and Harry could swear he was almost smiling. “It worked,” he said with a final giggle, then asked, “Why aren’t you in class?” It was nice of him to let Harry skive off class, but it wasn’t like Snape to skive off himself. The man was always so, so…responsible.

“There is no class today,” Snape answered calmly. He seemed more relaxed. Good. Harry liked it when Snape relaxed. He was nicer then, and sometimes he even said things that Harry found funny. “Are you thirsty?” the professor asked, and Harry considered the question, but he couldn’t find anything funny about it. He started to shake his head, then changed his mind and nodded. It came out as sort of a weird head turn-bob thing, but Snape seemed to understand. He conjured a glass with a wave of his hand and helped Harry sit up long enough to take a few sips. It tasted good, nice and cool.

“Can we go see the snow?” he asked as soon as he had settled back down.

“It isn’t-” Snape cut himself off and said instead, “Not right now. You need to rest.”

“Feel fine,” he mumbled, though if his legs were still in revolt, maybe it would be all right to wait until later to…do… What did he want to do again? He lost that thought but had a sudden overwhelming desire to know, “Do you like to fly?”

“Fly?” repeated Snape with raised eyebrows, but he answered, “I suppose I never thought to enjoy it. It is merely a mode of travel.” Harry stared at him, scandalized. And as he watched, the man’s lips actually quirked up into a smile. Snape didn’t seem to understand how tragic it was to not even think to enjoy flying. “Not all of wizardkind plays Quidditch or enjoys sitting upon a splintery stick fifty feet above solid ground, Potter.”

“But…flying!” It was an ironclad argument. But Snape was stubborn, he knew, so he added, “Hedwig likes it.”

“Hedwig is an owl.”

“So?”

“She has wings.”

Harry wasn’t sure why wings were important, but he added, “bats have wings,” because that did seem important.

Snape blinked. “I am not an owl or a bat, so I fail to see the relevance of either point.”

He grinned. Snape was funny. Maybe he liked jokes? Ron had told him a funny one last year. Something about… “What…er, what’s a bat’s favorite dessert?”

Snape didn’t answer.

“I-scream!” He giggled, and he was pretty sure Snape liked the joke too, because he snorted, and not in his usual mocking way. He wished he knew more jokes to make Snape laugh. He’d have to learn some. In the meantime, he offered, “I’ll go flying with you if you want. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”

Snape shook his head but said softly, “I shall keep the offer in mind.” He pulled out his wand to dim the light. “You should sleep. Your mind and body are still adjusting to the aftereffects of the potion. You will recuperate more quickly with adequate rest.”

Potion? What potion? Oh, Dreamless Sleep? He had a fair bit of it stored up in his trunk. He’d been trying not to use it too much. “Am I a potions addict now?” he asked gravely. He was feeling more and more tired the longer he lay here. His eyes were even feeling heavy. Was that what happened to potions addicts? They fell asleep and never wanted to wake up again?

“A potions addict?” Snape drew his brows together. “No, of course not. You will be fine. Rest now. I will explain later, when you are more lucid.”

“Loosed what?”

“Lucid,” Snape repeated. “Coherent. Rational. Clear-headed,” he listed as he settled into his chair.

“Hmm. ‘Kay,” he murmured, not sure what Snape was going on about, but surely it could wait until after a nap. He was glad to not be a potions addict, even if it meant he couldn’t have wings. Or toast. Or do…what was it that he wanted to do, again? Oh, yeah. Go to class. But that nice floaty feeling was urging him to close his eyes and it felt so nice to give in to it. So he did.

He didn’t know how long he slept, but he suddenly remembered why he should be afraid. “Snape!” he gasped. His eyes shot open. Voldemort had him and he was dying and they were trapped and Snape was dead and they needed to get away before he stayed dead and trapped and and and-

He didn’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears, but Snape’s face entered his vision. His lips were saying something, but Harry couldn’t hear. All he could think was that Snape was dead, but Snape was here, but he couldn’t be here because he was dead…and the darkness was coming for them both, he could see it in the corners of his eyes, closing in…coming for them and not letting go-

A hand pounded on his chest, and it hurt, but it didn’t hurt, and he sucked in a breath. He hadn’t been breathing. Why hadn’t he been breathing? He took another rattling breath. The darkness retreated. He was shaking. He didn’t dare blink, afraid of losing sight of his teacher. He was here. If he was here, he couldn’t be dead…could he?

He was going to cry. But that was something little kids did, wasn’t it? And he wasn’t a little kid. Or was he? He’d like to be, sometimes, like when he had nightmares and he wished he was little enough to crawl into a parent’s bed and feel safe... But he wasn’t a little kid, and he didn’t want anybody to think he was, so he shouldn’t cry. But he couldn’t help himself, because Snape was here and that meant that maybe he wasn’t dead.

He did the only thing he could think of to hide his tears. He pulled himself up and latched onto Snape, holding on for dear life. It was horribly awkward, but he didn’t dare let go of the man’s clothing to properly wrap his arms around him, because the man wasn’t doing the hug right either, and he might push him away if given the chance. Mrs. Thompson would have already pulled him close and held on as long as Harry wanted her to, but Snape didn’t have as much practice as Mrs. Thompson did. But Harry had learned how to hug when he didn’t know how, so Snape could learn too. It just might take him a little longer because he was older and had gone a lot longer without anybody to practice on.

Maybe it was the sob Harry couldn’t hold back, but Snape didn’t push him away. He wrapped his arms around Harry enough to support him and pat him on the back a few times. He held him, even if it was a bit stiff…and it was just what Harry needed, and it felt so good that he let himself readjust and hold on tighter as he cried.

He didn’t realize he was talking through his tears until he heard Snape answer him, “I’m not dead. I’m alive. I’m here.”

“You were dead,” he gasped once more.

“I was,” Snape answered more soothingly than Harry thought he’d ever heard the man sound, “but I am alive now.”

Harry hiccupped and tightened his hold. He was out of words, and he was out of tears too, but it didn’t matter. Snape let him stay until his head began to droop, and darkness came for him again, but it was of a different sort. It was a safe darkness, one that promised to comfort rather than to harm. He tried to hold on to Snape, but the darkness was calling softly to him and his teacher was guiding him back down to the soft pillow and tucking a soft blanket around him and his eyes were closing…

He grasped at Snape’s hand as it moved away, and he squinted up at the man’s blurry face. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t leave,” Snape promised and proved it by sitting next to the bed. Harry watched him watch him for several seconds through heavy-lidded eyes before he allowed them to close completely. The warm hand didn’t leave his grasp, and he thought that maybe Snape was getting better at being Mrs. Thompson after all.

His dreams were a roller coaster. He was eating breakfast in the Great Hall with Ron, but in the next minute, Ron was Hedwig and he had a letter. It was from Sirius, and that made Harry sad, but it turned into a mirror that was soft on the edges so he could hold it and remember Sirius, and that made him happier. He couldn’t see himself in the mirror though, and he figured out that he was because he was a ghost and ghosts didn’t have reflections. Or was that vampires? Or werewolves? Remus had a reflection. Remus smelled of evil though, someone had said, and even thestrals didn’t like the smell of evil. And he needed to ride the thestrals if he wanted to save Remus from the mirror. No, Sirius. He had to save Sirius from the mirror.

“Black is dead, Harry,” he heard in a quiet voice, and he hated hearing it, because he knew it was true.

But maybe there was a way to bring him back..? He was awake, but he was dreaming, and he didn’t know where the dream stopped and the awake world started. But he managed to open his eyes and look up at Snape, so he must be at least partway into the awake world, right? Maybe his professor would know. “Can a Time-Turner take me there?” he asked. “To the Ministry? To save Sirius?”

Snape’s eyes widened, and Harry wondered if the man hadn’t expected him to be half awake. But he shook his head and said “no” with a wince, and Harry knew that was the truth too. It was strange how he wasn’t certain if he was really here or if Snape was really here, but he was certain that Sirius was gone forever.

His chest ached but he was out of tears. “He said I could live with him,” he confessed to get his mind off his lack of tears. “I never got to. Would’ve been nice to leave the Dursleys, even if he really wanted my dad.”

Something squeezed his hand, and he looked down to see that he had a grip on Snape’s fingers. That was odd. But it made him feel more real, so he didn’t pull away. “Black would have done right by you if he could have,” Snape said, and Harry’s eyes were drawn back to his black ones. They held his gaze unflinchingly, still telling the truth, even though a grimace betrayed that it was nearly killing him to speak well of Sirius Black. “He allowed the dead to reign over his life for so long that he needed time to acclimate to residing amongst the living. He cared about you. He would have respected your differences in time, seen you as more than your father’s son.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t mean to sound plaintive, but he was mostly dreaming anyway, so he could easily convince himself he’d spoken in his head.

“Yes.” Snape leaned forward, not breaking eye contact. “He would not have been able to help himself.”

“Tha’s good,” Harry breathed. And it was. He felt better, like maybe he didn’t have to dream of Sirius now. But he could feel the next dream forcing its way into his mind, and he had to chase after it or else the Hippogriffs would start a stampede and he’d be left to walk to Hogsmeade by himself. And…snow? There was something about snow.

He felt the blanket tucked closer around him as he tried to remember where the Hippogriffs kept all the snow…

The next time he woke, it was to Vernon’s snoring. Sometimes he heard his uncle’s snores through the walls, and he hated it - not because of the snoring itself, but because it reminded him how thin the walls could be sometimes. He didn’t like knowing his relatives might hear him talk in his sleep. They’d gotten better at ignoring him, but Dudley still teased him sometimes.

These snores were soft though. They weren’t loud, like Vernon’s sometimes were, and when he caught sight of a dark head on the edge of the bed, he realized the snores weren’t coming from Vernon after all. They weren’t even coming from another room.

Snape was sitting in a chair near Harry, but he was slumped over the bed, one hand propping up his head, the other loose in Harry’s grasp. As he watched, the man’s arm twitched in his sleep, and he grimaced as if in pain. Harry wondered if he was having a nightmare. He could relate. He had plenty of nightmares.

He extracted his hand from his professor’s and poked at his arm. When Snape only grimaced again, he poked again and added a “professor?”

Snape jerked awake, a frown on his face as he came to. Harry was fascinated by how quickly his professor’s eyes changed from tired to alert.

“Want some Dreamless Sleep?” Harry offered.

Snape cleared the sleep from his throat and raised an eyebrow. “You have Dreamless Sleep potion on you, do you?”

Harry thought for a minute. “No.”

Snape shook his head and then felt Harry’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

Harry leaned into the hand. It was pleasant and cool.

“You’re warm.” Snape frowned. He pulled out his wand and waved it over Harry.

“You could conjure some,” Harry suggested.

“Conjure what?” asked Snape distractedly as he reached for something on the bedside table.

“Dreamless Sleep.”

Snape gave an exasperated shake of his head and muttered, “Sixth year and you don’t even grasp the basic principles and limitations involved in combining charms with potions. Here, sit up.” He hooked an arm behind Harry’s shoulders and helped him sit up far enough to swallow a potion. It tasted familiar, like a potion he’d had before when he was sick.

“Am I sick?” he asked as the professor helped him lie back down.

“No. Not sick.” Snape paused and added, “just…out of sorts. Your body is detoxing from a particularly potent potion.”

Harry grinned. “Particularly potent potion,” he repeated and laughed.

Snape smiled a wry smile. “Your mind is detoxing as well. Hence why you are experiencing varying levels of lucidity.” He laid something cool and soft on Harry’s forehead, and Harry closed his eyes and sighed happily. Oh, that felt nice.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured. “You know, you’re not a bad teacher. Well, I mean, you are, but you aren’t.”

“How complimentary,” Snape drawled.

He cracked open an eye. “You’re pants at teaching Potions, but I learned loads about Occ…occulmen…you know…” Snape crossed his arms over his chest, but he didn’t look angry. At least, Harry didn’t think he looked angry. He suddenly knew what he was missing - his glasses. He thought to look for them, but the world was kind of nice, all soft like that, so he sank into his pillow and promptly forgot about his glasses.

“Perhaps,” Snape said snidely, “if you paid attention in class or gave your full attention to your assignments-”

Harry’s eyes shot open. “Am I late for class?”

Snape sighed. “No.”

“Are you gonna take points?”

“We’re not at Hogwarts, Potter,” he clipped. “And I am no longer your professor, so you needn’t worry yourself over it.”

“Oh.” That made Harry feel sad but he wasn’t sure why. “You’re not so bad, really. You just take too many points, and yell a lot, and you’re really unfair with anybody ‘cept Slytherins, and you make kids nervous, and you’re mean sometimes, way meaner than you have to be, and-”

“I get the picture.”

“But other than being a bad teacher, you’re still a really good teacher sometimes.”

Snape sighed again. “Are you tired? Your body could use all the sleep it can get.”

“Not tired,” Harry lied and yawned. “C’n I ask you something?” Snape seemed to think about it and then nodded. “Did the Sorting Hat try to put you in Ravenclaw?”

Snape snorted. “This foray into the depths of your mind is enlightening, Potter.”

Harry frowned, trying to parcel the words together, but his brain was feeling floaty again and it was hard.

“The Sorting Hat saw in me the potential for multiple houses,” Snape relented, “but it chose to place me into Slytherin House. I did not attempt to sway it.”

Harry nodded sagely. “You’re very Slytherin.”

“Yes. I am,” Snape said with a proud gleam in his eye.

“If you’d had kids, would you’ve been okay if they were put in Gryffindor?”

Snape gave him an odd look. “I have never and will never have children. It is a moot point.”

“Think my mum would’ve been okay with if I’d been a Slytherin?”

Snape was quiet a long time, but that was okay. It was getting harder and harder for Harry to think, so maybe it was for Snape too. When he did speak, it was to say softly, “I think that she would have been proud of you regardless. She had more regard for character than for such things as house identities.”

Harry thought for a second. “Does that mean yes?”

Snape let out a huff, but he was half smiling. “Yes, Potter. That means yes.”

“You can call me Harry if you want to,” he murmured as his eyes fluttered closed. “I don’t mind it when you do.”

He felt a tingling in the air and the cloth on his forehead became nice and cool again. He sighed contentedly.

“We’ll see,” he heard as the world slowly faded away.

“Who is the Minister for Magic?” he was quizzed after he’d had time for no more than a glass of water upon awakening. At least, he thought he was awake.

“Uh…” He had a sudden craving for chocolate, and he couldn’t remember the question.

“What are the five main properties of Acromantula venom?”

Harry squinted up at Snape. “They’re scary.”

“That is not a property.”

Harry blinked. “Are you gonna take points?”

Snape crossed his arms and said exasperatedly, “No. We are not at Hogwarts.”

They weren’t? Wait. That made him think of something… Snow? Snow. “Is it snowing?”

“No. No, Potter, it is not snowing.” Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You aren’t going to remember most of this, are you?”

“I didn’t study for the test.” Harry shrugged apologetically. “Can I have some chocolate?”

Snape sighed and brushed his loose hair from his eyes. He didn’t answer, which Harry thought was rather rude. “Don’t you like chocolate?”

Snape smirked. “I prefer caramel.”

“Oh.” Harry thought for a minute. “Chocolate is nice. Like when there’s homework or Dementors.”

“It figures that you would compare the two,” Snape said dryly.

“Two Dementors?” Harry looked around worriedly.

“No, Potter.” Snape absently patted Harry’s arm reassuringly. “There are no Dementors here.”

“Then why are you giving me chocolate?”

“I am not giving you chocolate.”

“Why not?” He thought he might be pouting, but Snape was being mean, keeping it all for himself.

Snape huffed and leaned his head back in the chair. After a few seconds, he straightened and eyed Harry. “Exactly how forthcoming are you feeling at the moment?”

Harry frowned. “Huh?”

“Good enough.” Snape leaned forward. “You once told Lupin that you hear your mother when Dementors are near. What did you mean by that?”

He felt cold, like maybe there was a Dementor present after all, and he looked around to make sure they were alone. Snape followed his gaze, but seeing nothing, stared at him expectantly. Harry didn’t like to think about his mum’s last moments, and he wondered why Snape wanted to know. Did he hear bad things when Dementors came near too? Snape’s mum and dad were dead too. Maybe he heard his own mum, like Harry heard his.

“Can you see thestrals?” he asked before he knew he was going to ask it.

Snape took a long breath and let it out. “Many times over.” They were quiet for a few minutes before Snape again prodded, “Why do you hear your mother, Harry?”

“She died,” he sniffed. He felt a tightness in his chest, but he didn’t think he was going to cry. He was out of tears. Wasn’t he? He didn’t know why he thought that, but he hoped it was true, because he didn’t want to cry.

“Yes, I know,” answered Snape, and he looked like he understood Harry’s pain.

Maybe that’s why he answered. “He killed her in front of me,” he heard himself say. “I didn’t remember ‘til the Dementor. That’s what I hear. Her dying.” He added in a whisper, “She was screaming.”

Snape closed his eyes, and Harry again got the feeling that Snape understood, and that maybe he felt the pain alongside him. He liked that feeling. It was like…not being alone anymore. It was always nice not to be alone. “Wish I could remember other things,” he admitted, because Snape seemed like he wouldn’t mind if he talked about his mum just then. “I bet she was a good mum.”

Snape cleared his throat. He didn’t speak for several seconds, then said, “She was. I never saw her with you, but it would have been impossible for her to be a bad mother.”

Harry smiled, and a nice warmth washed over him, chasing away the cold. “Could you tell me more about her?” he murmured with a yawn.

“Perhaps. Sometime,” Snape said noncommittally, and Harry wondered if he meant it. It was Snape, after all. He wasn’t the heart to heart chat type. “Sleep more. Your mind seems to be clearing a bit. More rest will speed up the process.”

Harry nodded sleepily. “What time s’it?”

“Middle of the night,” Snape answered. “Don’t worry about the time. You’ll have as long as you need to recuperate.”

“I’ll be late for class,” he worried.

“I’ll wake you up in time,” assured Snape, and that made Harry feel better. Snape was the most punctual person he knew. There was no way he’d let Harry be late.

Harry closed his eyes, and his head filled with nice fluffy clouds. They were like snow. And he liked snow. He wondered if Snape liked snow… “Pr’fessor?” he opened his eyes to ask.

“Hmm?”

But instead of whatever he’d been about to say, he found himself asking instead, “D’you still hate me?”

Snape didn’t have to think about it before he said, “no,” and that made Harry grin.

“Don’t hate you either,” he murmured back. And this time when he fell asleep, his dreams were filled with nice things, like flying on his broom and drinking butterbeers with his friends. Sometimes he dreamed about hugs and humming and Muggle healing magic too. And even though the fear was there in the back of his mind, and it wouldn’t go away altogether, the Muggle magic kept it away for now. He was safe, and not hated, and everything was going to be all right.