Growing up, Harry knew there was a great difference in the way he had been treated compared to Dudley. Every time he was beaten, locked away, and starved, there was Dudley, pampered, loved, and spoiled, and Harry had realized very early on that the Dursley’s would never care about him. It would have been easy to distrust everyone after years of abuse, but Harry, in his eternal innocence and faith, had clung to the idea of someone, he wasn’t sure who or where, but someone would care about him one day, and that thought had kept him sane, and through countless beatings he had recited those words to himself as the belt came slicing through the air towards him: It won’t always be like this.
Harry steadied himself against the cool stone wall as he lost his footing for the umpteenth time since pulling open the heavy door in the hall and slipping into the darkness, and he mentally scolded himself for losing himself in thoughts of his past.
He hadn’t allowed himself the opportunity to think about what he was about to do. He focused on navigating his way down beneath the bowels of the manor instead, refusing to let his mind focus on the absurdity of his mission, because if he let himself think, he might just turn back, and deliverance lay within the mysterious laboratory, the tiny vial of pink potion that he needed so badly.
The air was cool, almost icy, and heavy with the scent of herbs as a light breeze gusted up from the depths, and a sharp shard of stone sliced into Harry’s palm, and he gasped, pulling his hand to his chest, bracing himself with the other and he sat down carefully on the tiny platform of rock. He could barely make out the dark patch in the gloom, spreading across his pale skin, and he pushed his hand against his knee, hissing in pain, sending a ghostly cloud out into the quiet blackness as the wound pressed closed against the cloth.
Cringing, he leaned forward and rested his head on the back of his injured hand.
“So stupid,” he breathed, trying to control the guilt that was welling up inside him. He had lied to Della, and he had come to care about the good natured little elf as she doted on him and yipped quietly whenever he gave her a smile or a word of thanks, but it was the thought of disobeying Snape that made his stomach clench. Ever since he had arrived at the manor, the Professor had startled him with a kindness Harry had thought was impossible for the man to possess, but beneath the callused exterior lay a powerful gentleness of spirit, a spirit which had sworn to keep Harry safe, protected.
He had promised.
Harry raised his head and looked back up the dark stairwell. He pulled himself to his feet, gazing into the darkness, wondering if Della had realized he was gone yet, wondering if he still had time to get back to his room.
He sighed. He had only relied on the Dreamless Sleep for a few days, but already he was craving it, yearning for the shelter and protection it afforded him against his nightmares. He hated to go back to not sleeping. It felt so good to wake up rested, without the residue of his uncle’s beatings fresh in his mind, and even if Snape had promised to stay with him, the nightmares would still come.
Damn! There he was, thinking about it again, and Harry shook his head quickly and took in a deep breath, forcing the air out into the shadows, and with it, any thoughts of turning back.
It was a remarkably long descent, the stairwell almost impossibly narrow in many areas, and any attempt at swiftness was hindered by the thin, marred, stone steps that jutted out not nearly enough for Harry’s small feet to gain adequate hold, and he wondered how on earth the Professor managed to make each trip unharmed, though he likely used some sort of spell to arrive at the bottom safely.
It took several minutes before Harry appeared, brow gleaming from his struggle with the dangerous stairway as he emerged into the dimly lit room.
He stood in awe of the sight before him. The room was huge, at least twice the size of his large bedroom upstairs. Clustered in the corner stood twelve large, black cauldrons, so vast in size that each came up at least to his waist, all filled with bubbling liquids of different colours and textures, each simmering atop a small blazing fire. Several of them contained long spoons, magically stirring at different speeds and directions, and Harry watched wide eyed as one of the spoons slowly pulled from a thick, blue potion, shaking slightly to allow the excess fluid to drip back into the cauldron before floating across the room and coming to rest on a small wooden table in the corner.
Shelves lined the back wall, home to what seemed like hundreds of vials, a veritable rainbow of different coloured potions splayed against the gloomy stone, the light from the fires creating a kaleidoscope of gently shimmering tints across the floor. Harry stood dumbfounded, amazed that such a dark, bleak place could create such beauty, and he found his thoughts drifting to the Professor. He had thought the man was like this dungeon, cheerless, without heart, and Snape had shown Harry his true colours, and they were nothing like Harry had thought.
Somewhere in the manor, likely livid with rage, was perhaps the only person in the world who had really made him feel safe, and Harry couldn’t help but bow his head in shame as he stood amid the gently flickering firelight, awash in the splendor of magentas, indigos, and fresh greens, and his eyes fell on a row of potions, a series of pink filled vials alone on a low shelf.
Dreamless Sleep.
Carefully stepping around the cauldrons, he scanned the rest of the shelves, seeing nothing that resembled the vivid rose colour of the familiar potion. He carefully picked up a tiny phial and with trembling fingers, pulled the little cork stopper from the glass mouth. Maybe he would just take a tiny sip, just enough to tone down his nightmares, perhaps make them less dreadful, then he’d quickly make his way back to his room, and Snape would never be the wiser.
Harry shuddered. As guilty as he felt about his rule breaking, he felt just as frantic at the thought of reliving the nightmares. Mind awhirl with indecision, he lifted the vial to his mouth, then, before the glass touched his lips, he quickly re-corked it, staring at the fragile container hopelessly as he hastily thrust it back onto the shelf. He took several steps back, making it almost to the bottom of the stairs before hurrying back and grabbing the potion, pulling the stopper and lifting the vial to his lips in one swift movement.
Suddenly there was a dull scrape of stone against stone, and Harry froze, his eyes moving to the dark stairwell, and moments later, the sound of heavy footsteps slowly made their way closer. Harry jerkily took a few steps towards the cauldrons; then, fear overtaking him, he dashed down a thin hallway and through the first door he saw, finding himself in a tiny storage room lined with wide shelves, stocked with boxes of all sizes. Pushing the wooden door closed gently, Harry stood quiet and still, a single magic candle hovering aglow near the ceiling.
“Mister Potter, if you have any idea what’s good for you, you’ll present yourself immediately!” Snape called in a sharp and very dangerous voice.
A breath caught in Harry’s throat, and he cringed, pressing his lips together. After a moment of silence, he slowly opened his eyes, forcing himself to let the captured breath free as he stared at the door. Oh crap, he was back to Mister Potter now. Snape was going to kill him, and not in the dramatic, figure of speech kind of a way, but in the head-on-a-spike and body-in-a-ditch kind of way. Maybe he should just show himself, try to explain, and maybe the Professor would understand. He reached out towards the door, his fingers brushing against the icy handle.
“Very well, Potter, you have been warned.”
Oh God, he was too late now. Snape would never let him explain. They never let him explain! His breathing accelerated, the tiny vial almost burning his fingers as he gripped it tightly, his hands trembling. His heart thundered in his ears, and Harry slowly removed one hand from the vial and pressed it against his chest as if he could muffle the sound which he was almost certain Snape would be able to hear from the next room.
The sound of boxes scraping against the stone floor cause another instinctive wince as Snape continued his search, methodically moving each crate of ingredients or box of heirlooms, hunting the boy like a python slinking after a tiny rabbit, leisurely stalking it’s prey, waiting for the right time to strike and sink sharp fangs into warm flesh. A bead of sweat trickled down Harry’s forehead and into his eye, though he dared not move to wipe it away, and he closed his eyes tightly, dropping his head to his chest.
A dull thud echoed from the next room, along with the clattering sound of several items hitting the stone floor. A hushed string of obscenities caught Harry’s ear as Snape began noisily tossing the fallen items back into the box, and Harry seized the opportunity, crouching down and shuffling backwards as quietly and as carefully as he could, his hair brushing against the top of the shelf above him as he buried himself amid the boxes at the back of the storage room. It wasn’t until he felt the cold stone wall against the small of his back that he stopped, feeling claustrophobic in the tiny space as memories of the cupboard under the stairs flooded back to him. He took a deep breath and held it, listening to the Professor moving around out in the laboratory, and he let the breath out slowly, willing himself to stay calm.
Minutes felt like hours as the sounds of jostling boxes resonated through the laboratory. Harry barely dared to breathe, though the entire situation was utterly ridiculous really. Snape would find him. It was just a matter of time. Eventually he’d search the storeroom and find Harry hiding in the corner, and then the yelling would start, and the punishment would come, and Harry shuddered again, remembering the man’s stern words the day he had paused outside the door and uttered his deadly warning.
“If I ever catch you past this door without my express permission, I will not be held responsible for my actions towards you.”
Harry was worriedly imagining exactly what actions the Professor would take, when he was pulled from his thoughts by a sudden stabbing pain in his arm. Jerking his head up, he yelped as his head slammed into the heavy wooden shelf above him, and his eyes focused on the source of the pain, which to his horror, were Snape’s pale fingers wrapped around his forearm, digging into the tendons in the soft underside of his wrist. He felt himself being pulled out from the dark and roughly jerked to his feet, Snape’s hand latching onto Harry’s chin and forcing his head up to meet the Professor’s livid glare while the other hand clutched a handful of the boy’s shirt. A terrified groan caught in Harry’s throat, his hand frantically pushing against Snape’s unyielding hold, and he abandoned the vial, hearing the crash of glass as it smashed onto the cement floor as he used both hands now in an attempt to pry the man’s fingers from his jaw.
“Stop this at once!” Snape roared, only inches from the frightened boy’s face.
Almost instantly Harry’s frantic flailing ceased, his hands falling limply to his sides, body trembling in fear, eyes tightly closed in anticipation of a hand driven across his cheek in anger. He could feel the hot breath on his skin, and it felt like hours passed before the warm puffs of air evened out as Snape’s fury dissipated. Harry felt his shirt slacken against his stomach as the Professor released the handful of material, his hand withdrawing from Harry’s jaw leaving a series of wide, red marks on his flesh. Harry opened his eyes slowly, backing up against a stack of boxes behind him, eyeing his teacher guardedly as the man stared back at him with eyes dark with fury, nostrils flaring as he breathed through the urge to throttle the boy where he stood. Willing the desire to pass, Severus slowly crouched down and studied the small pool of pink liquid.
“Had you consumed this,” he said, his voice disturbingly composed as he looked up to meet Harry’s tense gaze. “you would have died within seconds.” Harry’s eyes widened slightly, his eyes moving to the spilled potion, then back to the Professor.
“What was it?” he whispered hoarsely, barely able to keep from stammering. Adrenaline was coursing through him, and a hand flinched spasmodically before he stuffed it into his pocket.
“Acromantula venom,” Snape replied, his voice crisp with anger. “A poison so potent that your nervous system would have begun shutting down the moment the first drop touched your tongue.”
He watched as the colour drained from Harry’s face as the boy realized how close he had come to accidentally killing himself. His eyes shifted to the ball of fist in Harry’s pocket, the tremor evident through the thick fabric. He watched as the trembling slowly spread throughout the boy’s rigid frame until the child stood quivering, his breaths choppy as he stared unblinking at the deadly spill at his feet.
Severus took in a deep breath and slowly reached out a hand, brushing it against Harry’s, eliciting a rather violent flinch as the boy instinctively recoiled from the touch.
“Honestly, Potter.”
“I’m –“
“Stop,” Snape interjected in a severe tone. “It is too late for apologies. You willfully disobeyed my explicit instructions.” He stood slowly, the rage still burning under the surface, bristling against his skin, and it was all he could do to refrain from launching into a stern lecture complete with humiliating insults and scathing remarks about Harry’s intelligence, and he pressed his lips together, knowing that the cruelty he so readily distributed at school would do little here.
He noticed Harry’s stance, rigid, nervous, his hands trembling in obvious anticipation of an attack, and he forced his features to soften, bringing his hand down against the slender shoulder, attempting to convey his passive intentions to the boy through his touch. As furious as he had been moments earlier, he had some realization of the desperate determination that had caused such a willful deception on Harry’s part.
Harry opened his mouth, no doubt to whisper another distressed apology, and Snape gave the shoulder a stern squeeze.
“Do not apologize,” Severus said quickly, the frustration still evident in his voice. “You’d apologize for breathing if you thought it offended me. Your life of contrition leads me to wonder if you even know what an authentic apology is,” he snapped, moving his hand to Harry’s back and pressing it hard against the boy’s shirt, which he noticed was damp with sweat, before guiding him forcefully towards the stairway. Harry allowed the direction, head down, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He felt absolutely pathetic, so conquered by the fear of his dreams that he ignored the Professor’s strict rule, which was deadly enough in itself, then in a display of sheer stupidity, stole an anonymous potion which would have killed him stone dead in seconds. He sniffled, feeling like a child being led to his room for a spanking by an angry Father, and his chest took on the all too familiar tightness, crushing his chest, his breaths rapid and shallow as Snape gave him a light shove towards the stairs.
“Return to your room. Immediately. I am not finished with you.”
Harry nodded, the bile creeping up his throat, and he swallowed firmly, feeling not so much afraid, but more remorseful at disappointing the man who’d been the only source of real comfort to him since as far back as he could remember.
Slowly, as if his legs were lead weights, Harry began up the long slope of stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, his mind racing at the thoughts of a punishment that would surely be doled out, and he rubbed at the sweat that had beaded on his brow, sick with anticipation, his stomach lurching painfully.
Oh God, not this again, he groaned inwardly, moving a hand to his stomach and rubbing firmly under his shirt, the clammy flesh cool against his fingers as he leaned forward, his other hand outstretched to lean on a higher step as he took a ravenous gulp of air, his eyes crushed shut as waves of nausea slammed against him. He heard Snape’s voice calling to him, saying something, it may have been Harry’s name, but he couldn’t hear for the rushing, thundering noise in his ears and he shook his head carefully, quickly, trying to shake the horrific feeling and failing. Taking another deep breath, he forced his eyes open and took the next step, a hand on each side of the stairwell now, the deep cold of the stone wall almost painful against his skin as he made his way up the stairs.
Severus watched him go, his eyes focused on Harry’s hand, trembling and stark against the dim rock wall, his shoulders rigid with the anxiety Snape knew was mercilessly attacking him. The Professor took out his wand and began a decontamination charm to remove all traces of the spilled venom, allowing himself a few moments of reflection before dealing with the boy.
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Harry sat quietly on the edge of his bed fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, twisting the material into a rumpled ball before pulling it flat and coiling it up again. He was trying desperately not to cry, and his eyes burned, a steady, dull pain rippling across his brow, and he rubbed at it fiercely, not hearing the Professor’s soft steps in the hall, nor the sigh he released at seeing Harry’s agitation and obvious pain as he walked across the room.
With a slow realization, Harry lifted his head, wincing as the throbbing ache cascaded around his skull, reverberating, beating against the bone, and his eyes met with the Professor’s, the man’s lips set in a grim, brooding line as he stared at Harry in silence.
Harry took a breath, opening his mouth to say the automatic sorry that never worked with Uncle Vernon. He closed his mouth suddenly, knowing Snape had forbidden an apology, and wondering why he ever tried to apologize to his uncle. No matter how many times he said the word, screamed it, begged it, it never made a difference. The beating always came, as harsh and as seemingly impossible to endure as each one before it. So he stayed silent, desperately wanting to tear his eyes from the Professor’s heated gaze.
It was Snape that broke the eye contact, sitting down in the chair next to Harry’s bed, resting his brow against steepled fingers and sighing.
“It seems,” Snape began, speaking slowly as if he was picking his words delicately, and with much forethought, “that anger is not an option here.” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes once more. “What were you thinking?” he asked incredulously, his mind still drenched in disbelief at the boy’s behaviour. He still felt slightly sick at how close Harry had come to death.
“I just wanted the potion,” Harry blurted, not caring that tears were running down his cheeks now. He had to make Snape see. He had to make him understand that he didn’t mean to disobey him; he didn’t mean to disappoint him. “I know you said I’m not to have it, and…and I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want the night –” He paused, bringing his hand to his brow, swiping at the pain drilling inside his head, rubbing fervently against the damp skin as Snape looked at him with a deep frown. “I couldn’t help it, and I know you don’t believe me but I am sorry, and not because I was bad, but because I ruined it all, and you…and I didn’t….” Harry looked at Snape desperately, knowing he made little sense, but hoping the man understood him anyway as he met the Professor’s disconcerted stare.
Snape closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head slightly, as if he were trying to make sense of Harry’s emotional ramblings before holding the boy’s gaze once more, and Harry ducked his head, staring down into his lap as he awaited what would surely be a verbal thrashing.
“Harry, when I explained to you earlier why it was being withheld, I –” he reached out and gently lifted the boy’s chin to meet the tear filled eyes. “I was not exaggerating. There are reasons, critical reasons, why I must disallow it.” Snape paused before releasing Harry’s chin, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “And even after an explanation from myself, you still chose to disregard my warning,” he finished, unable to hold back a menacing glower any longer.
He watched as Harry bowed his head, pressing the heel of each palm against his eyes and releasing a shuddering breath before rubbing at his pinched brow with his fingertips.
“I just didn’t want them,” he said in a quivering voice, head up now, facing the Professor.
“The nightmares,” Snape stated softly, and Harry flushed, visibly embarrassed at what he surely perceived as a weakness on his part, and he nodded, shamefully lowering his eyes, focusing on the trail of dark buttons on the man’s waistcoat as the uncomfortable silence hung in the air.
“You realize,” Snape said carefully, wanting to avoid upsetting Harry further with his words. “that I have seen them.”
A nod. It was all Harry was capable of at the moment, and his fingers wrestled in agitation in his lap before he brought them to his eyes where they rubbed at the escaping tears.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Snape continued, “with regards to staying with you during the night. It is not my intention to allow you to remain alone. Therefore, I believe it is in both our best interests to disregard your…lapse in judgment. Now,” he said gently, unfolding his arms and slipping his hands to his knees, indicating that the reprimand was over, “I will return in a few minutes. I expect you changed and in bed by that time, understood?”
Harry managed a silent nod before the Professor rose and strode down the hall. Harry watched him leave, still feeling the pangs of anxiety in his gut, his throat tight and dry. He found himself yawning against the back of his hand, and he slipped off the bed and padded into the bathroom where he changed, brushed his teeth, and splashed some cold water against his reddened face, washing away the tears that he’d shed at the Professor’s scolding.
He clambered up onto the bed and slid beneath the covers, sitting upright against his pillow which he propped up against the headboard. He felt drained, empty, and incredibly ashamed, but even after all he’d done the Professor was still going to stay with him. He yawned again and stared down the long, dim hallway, waiting for Snape to return, watching the flickering of the candles that lined the hall, the light bouncing off the walls, sparkling, dancing, blurring into the grey stone as Harry’s eyes closed, gradually inching shut, and then there was nothingness, quiet, warm, sleepy nothingness.
Severus returned fifteen minutes later, a small vial of pain relieving potion in one hand, a novel in the other, and discovered Harry slumped against his pillow, tilted awkwardly in a half sitting position. He found it surprising that the boy had fallen asleep at all, especially after the emotion of the evening and his significant reluctance to face his nightmares. He sighed and set the vial and book down on the bedside table, and then gently eased Harry down the bed until he was lying flat, though almost instantly the boy rolled to his side, curling in on himself, hands clenching the soft pillow; face slightly pinched in unease, even in sleep. Severus stood a moment, watching the steady cadence of breaths before retiring to the hard chair and opening the thick, leather bound tome.
He was barely through the second chapter when Harry emitting a terrified, panicked cry, throwing his arms out, gripping handfuls of sheet, knuckles white and quivering from the forceful grip, and his eyes flew open, wide, searching, settling on the familiar face of the Professor, narrowing slightly in confusion before welling with tears once again as the realization hit him.
He was safe here.
Snape was here.
Harry pushed himself into a sitting position and took in a deep, shuddering breath, glancing over at Snape, who was sitting still as stone, his eyes narrowed as he studied the boy solemnly.
“Tell me,” Snape said softly, and Harry shook his head slightly, before the Professor repeated his request.
“Harry, I wish for you to tell me. By sharing it with me, you share the burden, and I –” Snape paused before leaning forward and placing a hand on Harry’s knee, “I would like to assist you in ridding yourself of this fear.”
Harry regarded Snape for what seemed forever, mind awhirl with fragmented nightmare, fighting the uncertain decision to trust, then finally, in a shaky voice, recounted the events of the dream, knowing the man had witnessed much of what he described already. Severus sat quietly, listening to the trembling tones of the boy as he gave account of the nightmare, nodding soberly, his hand still resting comfortingly on the cocked leg, and he gave a gentle squeeze of reassurance as Harry stumbled over a particularly cruel memory, the boy’s voice trailing off, unable to finish the description of the beating he had endured.
“I promised you, Harry. I promise you will be safe here.”
Harry looked up at the Professor, whose eyes were fraught with determined, unyielding confidence, and Harry mustered every once of trust, unfathomable as it felt to allow the vulnerability as he stared at Snape’s hand.
“I…I never really had anyone hug me before,” he said softly, as if he didn’t really want the Professor to hear him. “Not like that.”
“Not like what?” Snape asked, his eyes narrowing incredulously at the idea of Harry never having felt the security and comfort of being held with genuine affection.
“Like before, when I…when I….told,” Harry replied, his voice a near whisper, “and no one’s ever….I mean, they never held…”
He took a quick breath, rubbing at his eyes fiercely before continuing. “It felt safe, like you weren’t going to hurt me. I was never allowed….I didn’t know that’s what it felt like.” The last few words were barely audible, and Harry pulled his arms around himself even tighter, closing his eyes out of sheer habit, waiting for the rejection that always came from his family, not that he would ever accuse them of something as abnormal as caring about him, and he felt Snape withdraw his hand.
Harry let out a breath before forcing himself to look up at the Professor, who was staring at him with an expression of angry disbelief, which quickly changed to a gentler look of understanding as he locked eyes with the boy, realizing that Harry was telling him, in his fearful twelve year old manner, that Snape no longer scared him, that Harry trusted him.
“Harry,” he started carefully, seeing the wild emotion in the boy’s eyes. “It may not always have been so, but please believe me when I say I do care about you, and not out of pity or duty,” he added, wanting the child to believe without a shadow of doubt that he was worth caring about even if he had not been horribly abused, “but out of genuine affection.. You are worthy of kindness and compassion. I would not say it if it were not true. Also,” he continued, his voice laced with a calm seriousness that caused Harry to raise his eyebrows in sudden alarm. “you have not ruined anything.” he finished, giving the boy an incisive look.
Harry’s face relaxed into a look of relief, and he paused thoughtfully for a moment before opening his mouth to speak, but closing it almost as quickly, looking repentant as he pulled the blanket back up over his legs.
“What is it?” Snape asked, knowing the reluctance with which Harry asked for anything, after years of punishment for any request, no matter how small. He would teach the boy to allow himself to feel worthy of the fulfillment of any basic need if it killed him.
“Nothing,” Harry replied, voice wavering in a failed attempt to sound nonchalant.
“Harry, whatever it is, you may tell me,” Snape said, catching the quick clasping of the boy’s hands that were testament to Harry’s sudden anxiety.
What Harry wanted to say was, in his mind, utterly preposterous. What he wanted to say, was the feeling that wrapped around him like a warm blanket when Snape had held him, had been nice, so nice, in fact that his heart begged for it now. Harry scowled at the floor. How stupid to feel so needy. How silly it was to crave touch all of a sudden after being so intensely afraid of it for so many years. But there it was, deep in his chest, the aching, yearning feeling spreading slowly across his middle, scurrying across his skin, every inch of him shivering as the need for contact engulfed him. Finally someone had cared for him, finally he had felt honest compassion. It was as if he’d been trapped under water his entire life and for a brief moment had been gifted with a gulp of air and was now thrashing just below the surface, desperate to break through the water and finally breathe. He rubbed a hand briskly across the opposite forearm as if to calm the sensation, as if it were possible to sweep the feeling from his skin, and he glanced up at Snape, who was eyeing him very curiously now, a frown tugging at his brow.
“If there is something you require, there is no reason you may not ask for it,” Snape said gently.
He could see the turmoil within the boy effortlessly. He was fidgeting, hands tousled together, one hand breaking away to rub awkwardly at his arm before retreating to his lap. While most thought of the eyes as being the window to one’s soul, for Harry it seemed to be his hands that gave witness to the emotions buried within, and the Professor reached out slowly, pressing his palm against the boy’s hands, ceasing their clamoring as Harry looked at him with glistening eyes. There was obviously something Harry wanted to say, something he needed to say, but the boy’s fear was flagrant, the anxiety flooding off him almost tangible, as if Severus could reach out and take a handful of fear and squeeze it between his fingers.
“Harry, you –”
“I can’t,” Harry whispered, his eyes falling to Snape’s hand, still resting in his lap, warm and firm against his own. “I can’t.” He pulled his hands out from under Snape’s palm, wrapping them around his middle, clinging to himself, and in that act of self-soothing, Severus understood exactly what the boy needed, and his heart clenched at the thought of Harry being so afraid to ask for something as simple as comfort.
Suddenly Harry felt the mattress dip down beside him, and he lifted his eyes to see the Professor sitting beside him, looking down at him with those onyx eyes, eyes that seemed so cruel and sinister to Harry only a few days before, but now they held compassion and concern. He ducked his head, feeling the man lean in and drape an arm around him, and he jumped a little, anxious and relieved and beside himself with fear all at once, and his body stiffened for a moment before he felt Snape start to pull away, obviously thinking the boy wasn’t ready for the contact. Harry gasped unconsciously, causing the man to halt his retreat, the Professor’s brow knitting briefly in puzzlement before relaxing into his usual impassiveness as he pulled Harry gently against his chest, his arms around the boy’s trembling frame.
And the Professor held him, silently, without judgment, offering what Severus never thought he could offer, and Harry thinking he could never be worthy enough to receive, and in the darkness, comforted by the first person ever to be allowed such trust; Harry fell into a deep slumber, liberated, naturally free from nightmares for the first time.