Snape came back to find Potter looking at him. The boy’s face was swollen but his eyes bright. He tried to sit up and Snape lightly pushed him back down. He was uncertain of what should happen now. What did one say, one do, in these fiendishly complex and trying moments? Having insulated himself so well against other living creatures, Snape was aware of a disconnect within himself.

  Harry felt alert. He didn’t want to sleep, he’d been sleeping for some time. He wanted to take a night flight, or read a wizarding comic. Or else watch telly, but Snape didn’t have a telly. Not that the Dursleys had let him watch much, but Harry had snuck down often during the years, late at night, and developed quite a taste for old horror movies. Then again, maybe a horror movie would have been a bad idea even if one had been available, given the circumstances…

  Snape, having taken through stock of his inner resources, found them wanting when it came to the emotional health of Teenage- Brats- Who- Never- Listened- And- Made- His- Life- A- Misery. The things he might have wanted, or enjoyed, or accepted when he was this age were much different.

“I’ll never drop off, sir. Can I get up?”

   “No, Potter, I’ll not have you wandering about causing mischief. On the other hand, you’ve had too much Dreamless Sleep lately. You’re a risk for developing a dependency, and I won’t have people saying I turned the Golden Boy into a opium fiend. Among other reasons, because then half the staff would then be at me to ease the pain of teaching you lot of adolescent dunces.”

   Harry started to object but was caught by the image of the staff banging at Snape’s door at odd hours. He remembered a scene from an American film Aunt Petunia had been very fond of, and flashed on Flitwick gasping out “Give me something for the pain!” Harry let out a helpless chuckle and gave in, shoulders shaking.

   Was the boy crying again? Snape steeled himself for more histrionics. Except that the boy was shaking with…laughter? He never made people laugh. It couldn’t be; misplayed grief, that was all.

  The boy sobered and looked at Snape. “ Not the pain of having to work with certain other teach--oww, Snape!” Snape let the boy’s earlobe go and gave him a satisfied smirk. “Sorry, Potter, would you care to say it again?”

“What about a book? I have a book on Quidditch that I could look at.”

“What, and have you getting riled up? No, Potter, if you’re determined not to sleep, I shall choose.”

“That’s sure to put me to sleep.”

   Snape raised a dangerous eyebrow and told himself sternly that the brat was most emphatically not funny, especially when he ought to be contemplating his poor behavior from earlier. He fixed the boy with a fearsome glare.

“I will ignore that little remark, Mr. Potter, but I urge you to consider that we still have our discussion of today’s incident to undertake. React accordingly.”

Snape raised his wand. “Accio Illiad.”

   The worn book flew into his hand. He pulled the desk chair over to the bed and settled back, crossing his legs, preparing to open the book.

  “ You don’t have to stay, sir. I’ll be all right.” The last time Potter said that, he’d had a crying fit. Snape stared at him skeptically, but the boy seemed to mean it. He stretched out a hand for the book and after a moment’s consideration, Snape batted it gently away.

“I’ll be staying here, thank you. Since I’m up, I’ve decided to use this opportunity to torture you with meaningful literature and then an adult conversation after.”

“You don’t have to read it to me. I’m not a little kid.”

  Snape was amazed to detect stroppiness in the boy’s voice. Was it heartening or worrisome he’d bounced back so quickly?

“ I must insist, Mr. Potter. Homeric literature is meant to be experienced aurally.” When the boy looked confused, Snape clarified “ You’re meant to hear it aloud.”

  Harry huffed and lay back, resigned to some moldy old tome about the adventures of some boring person no one had ever heard off.

“Sing, Goddess, the rage of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought the Greeks incalculable pain, cast the souls of heroes into Hades’ depths and left their bodies as carrion upon the Trojan plains, feast for dog and bird…”

   Despite himself, Harry was drawn in. This Achilles was an interesting bloke, a little like Ron in some ways, like how touchy he was. The whole war seemed really stupid, actually.

  Snape read on in a smooth, even voice. The boy was still watching him, but Snape sensed he was getting sleepy. He read on, softer and softer, and heard the boy’s breath slow and deepen. Snape enjoyed Homer; it was like visiting an old friend.

  He stopped at the end of Book One. Potter--Harry?-- was asleep. “Never drop off, indeed” Snape smirked to himself. He turned the light out and quietly put the chair back at the desk.

  As he crept out, he became aware of a sound. He froze in time to hear Potter mumble to himself. “What a waste”, it sounded like.

  Agreeing silently, Snape went down the hall, climbed into his bed and shut his eyes. Surprising himself, he slept again, and his dreams were good.