Snape jumped up at once when he heard the first noise from Potter’s room. Death Eaters tend to share a number of characteristics, chief among them an ability, like a solider’s, to go from sleep to perfect wakefulness in the time it takes for the eyes to fly open. Woe to he who was late because he had been sleeping, a lesson they had all learned early and well.           

Forsaking his dressing gown, Snape flew down the hall as though the hounds of Hell were after him. His bare feet pounded the worn boards, his wand clutched in one sweaty fist. He realized suddenly that the wards had not pinged, not once.            

     He kept running. Potter had his faults, Merlin knew, but he did not cry wolf. If anything, he’dwait until the wolf had a firm grip on his calf before he raised the issue with anyone at all. Snape threw open the door, wand at the ready, adrenaline surging hotly in his veins.           

   The boy was writhing on his bed, clutching the pillow as though it would keep away whatever grim figment was assaulting his mind. His face was screwed into a tight mask, and his mouth opened once again to admit that horrible keen.           

   Snape didn’t hesitate. He grasped the boy’s shoulders in his hands and gave him a hard shake. “Potter! Potter, wake up! You’re not there, you’re here! Potter!” Potter’s eyes opened but they did not focus on him; instead, the boy shrank away and cried out “ I didn’t mean for it to happen, I tried to save you!”           

    Black.  Damn his eyes, the bastard was tormenting Snape from beyond the grave.  They boy was reliving his death, and the guilt that came with it. Snape made a choice. Conjuring a face cloth and a pitcher of cold water, he wet the flannel and rang it out  over Potter’s head.           

   Harry could see the Dementors circling like buzzards, dozens of them. Sirius curled in a ball on the ground, shrieking, trying to make himself invisible to them. The first one grabbed him by the hair, pulled up his head and—           

    A stream of icy water hit Harry square in the forehead. His eyes focused and he realized that Snape was standing beside him. In pajamas, no less. He looked less than pleased, and Harry, falling into the default that had been hammered into him, cried out “ I didn’t mean to wake you sir, I’m sorry!”           

   Snape fought an instinct to find Dursley and hex him. What little progress had been made over the past days had been lost in two seconds because of that oaf and the harridan he had married. Potter looked terrified and very young. Snape swallowed and spleen and said, as calmly as he could “Of course you didn’t, Harry.”           

  Had Snape just called him by his first name?  Harry’s fear of Snape became mild wonderment instead. Could he still be dreaming? Snape even looked less cross than usual, though, of course, Harry wore no glasses. It could be a trick of the shadows.           

    Snape was rubbish at this sort of thing. What was he supposed to do now that the boy was awake? Did he …hug him? Or say something comforting? Comfort wasn’t his forte. Perhaps put a hand on his shoulder, or something avuncular like that? That struck Snape as rather the right note, but before he could command his disbelieving hand ( which, thinking this was some neural misfire, refused to move) to sally forth, Potter solved the problem for him.           

    “Thank you, sir, but I’ll be fine.  Perhaps you should go back to bed; I’ll be alright.” Snape was absurdly moved by the child’s brave front.  ‘Stubborn little monster’, he thought with something that couldn’t be affection.  The boy looked like death warmed over, he was shaking like a boggart haunted chest, and his voice trembling so hard it took him a second to get it out. He gave Snape a ghastly rictus that might have passed for a smile in Hell. Then, with that same creepy air, he hid his face in his hands and burst into tears. Hard.           

    Comforting as it was to see the boy acting his age about these things, Snape was unprepared for the violence of his emotions.  Huge, gasping sobs ripped from his chest as he rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his face. He looked ready to collapse.           

   Harry had finally reached breaking point. The nightmare, the scare of the cliff and his near death, Snape’s anger at what had been an innocent if foolhardy exploit, his impending punishment for the same, it was too much. Harry flopped on the bed and buried his head in his arms. He didn’t care if Snape saw him acting like a baby. He wanted the whole world to go away.           

   Snape recognized emotional catharsis for what it was and let the boy go. He had thought the night in his office had taken care of most of it but he could see that the issue had merely been buried.  The boy looked so and sounded so miserable; he was shivering on top of everything else. The blankets had been kicked off, and Snape, helpless to comfort the boy, pulled them up and onto his ward’s body.            

    Harry felt Snape move. He’d be leaving, of course, disgusted by his ward’s lack of control. Stupid. Couldn’t even handle a nightmare without falling all to bits. A small weight engulfed him and he realized Snape had pulled the covers up for him. Snape covered him to the neck and his hand seemed to hover there for a moment. Dimly, Harry felt it rest between his shoulder blades and despite himself, he relaxed. This is Snape, he reminded himself, this is Snape.           

   Snape was as shocked as Harry. He hadn’t meant to touch the boy, and he definitely hadn’t meant to leave his hand there. But the child had undeniably responded to his touch. Snape wasn’t used to people feeling comforted by him. Unsure, he began to rub a little circle on the child’s heaving back, and was relieved ( and secretly gratified) that Potter’s hysterics began to ebb.           

    Harry was tired. Exhausted. His face was stiff and sore from crying, his voice was hoarse, and he felt as though his limbs weighed a thousand pounds. He was still weeping. He couldn’t stop. Snape was still rubbing his back. That was fine with Harry. Anything was fine with Harry, so long as Snape stayed there. Of all things, he could not bear to be alone.           

    The boy’s sobs finally quieted.  Snape could hear him forcing his breath back to normal. He slowly withdrew his hand. From the pillow came a muffled groan that sounded like “All my fault.”           

    “What was that? Roll over.” Potter obeyed, for once. “My fault. I was supposed to save him. Got there too late. All my fault, all my --”          

    Snape had heard quite enough, and he didn’t want the boy working himself up again. His hand darted out and grasped the boy’s chin.“It. Most Certainly. Was. NOT. Don’t ever. Say That. In Front Of Me. Again. Unless. You’d Like. A Whipping. You Will. Never. Never. Never. Forget. Understood?”           

    Potter shook his head. “You don’t understand. D-Dumbledore, he gave Hermione and me a Timer turner so we could save him. He told us to save him but I couldn’t make the Patronus come. Stupid, stupid! Can’t do anything right!”           

   Snape was filled with a terrible rage. Dumbledore allowed two school children to use a Time turner to make them responsible for saving Black’s life? He used the savior of the Wizarding world and an innocent girl, exposed them to the dangers of time travel and for what?  To save a man he could have saved himself?           

   “Hush, boy. Calm down. What do you mean?”

“There were too many of them. The sky was covered, and then it was in my head and I couldn’t make the Patronus and it was too late!”

“You mean the Dementors made you see something?” Potter looked ready to cry again.

“Mum! It was my Mum, and she was screaming, and then that bolt of light --” Then he did begin to weep again, but much more gently, a leaking of his pain that barely made noise.           

   Snape froze for a second and then gently pushed the boy against the pillows and tucked him in. Potter hadn’t been able to save Black because he had been listening to his mother die in his head. Poor Lily. Snape shook his head to clear it. Lily was dead and beyond suffering. Her son was not, and had heard—and in Black’s case, seen—two people he loved die almost at the same time. Poor Potter. Poor Harry.           

    Snape, wrapped up in the horror of the thing, hardly heard his own voice but Harry did, and always remembered it. He would call it forth again in times of great pain or trial, and the feeling it had evoked in him.           

“Shh, Harry. They can’t hurt you worse than they did, child. You’ve nowhere to go but up.”