It's the first night for weeks that Harry isn't made sleepy by a potion or the sheer exhaustion of a few events, so that night when Harry lies down in the Slytherin dormitory, the curtains drawn all around his bed, he tosses and he turns, unable to get peaceful enough to sleep. All he can think about is Snape demanding answers from Quirrell, demanding the way to the Stone.

Was it Snape that broke into Gringotts back in September, and tried to steal the grubby little package the Stone had come in? How could Hagrid have taken a dragon egg from him, and never realized who it was? Was Snape harbouring Voldemort, the cloaked spectre that made Harry's scar hurt so badly?

It doesn't make any sense, Harry thinks as he exhaustedly lies on his belly, face pressed hard into the thick, downy pillows of his bed. Snape is nasty, ill-tempered and occasionally even cruel, but why would he do this? Would he really have done this? Harry can't sleep, can't just settle down and think of nothing. He crawls to the edge of the bed, slipping out and pulling on the snake-emblazoned dressing gown, slipping his feet into his boots and tying them up. He puts on his glasses and puts his wand in the pocket of his pyjamas before he stands.

Draco is fast asleep, sprawled out atop his bedcovers with his normally combed-down hair a silver mess, his mouth slightly open, his body splayed out as if in his sleep he's trying to reach all four corners of the bed. Harry hovers a little as he looks down at the other boy, amused at the sight of his upright, aristocratic classmate so deeply asleep, and then he turns, quietly making his way down the corridor and into the common room.

A glance at the clock over the mantel tells him it's nearing 3 o'clock in the morning, and the common room is utterly devoid of anyone, so Harry isn't stopped as he exits. The coolness of the dungeons doesn't bite at his skin as it sometimes does. In fact, compared to the warmth of his dorm and the common room, the chilliness is welcoming, refreshing, and Harry walks through the dark corridors of the dungeons.

Torches line the stone walls, but in the night-time they're dimmed right down, offering only the barest hint of light as he walks down the dismal halls. He doesn't really have a destination in mind: he just wants to walk, walk until he stops thinking. He doesn't want to think about anything at all.

He knows that even if you can't sleep, you're not supposed to leave the common room, but he doesn't want to sit still, and in the middle of the night, it's far too late to explore the rooms in the Slytherin quarters. He doesn't even really want to explore. Harry just wants to be moving.

He's barely aware of where his feet take him as his footsteps whisper over the stone floors, making quiet clicks that echo the tiniest bit. On the groundfloor and up, a lot of the corridors are lined with rugs, but here in the dungeons they become inexplicably damp, no matter how many charms are cast on them. Afifa had confided that she expected this was an intentional design choice on the part of Salazar Slytherin, and Harry had found the idea funny at the time.

Now, with the satisfying feeling of his boots on the floor, the only noise to be heard in the whole of the Hogwarts dungeons, Harry understands it. He feels like he's the only person in the castle, the only person in the world, with no portraits or decorations lining the dungeon walls, they feel empty and endless, and for some reason that's not scary at all. If anything, it's comforting: it's like the comforting darkness of his cupboard back at the Dursleys, almost, full of spiders and dust, but not actually unpleasant.

He stops when he reaches the door to Snape's office, adjoining the Potions classroom, and he reaches for the door, turning the handle and pushing the door open without crossing the threshold. The candles in here aren't as dim as the torches are out in the common room, and on the desk bubbles a quiet cauldron. Harry had pushed the door open on a whim, wanting to see if it was locked or not, but now he steps cautiously inside, leaning towards Snape's desk.

The cauldron isn't pewter, like the ones they use for classes: it's silver, and standard size 3, according to the little plate on one of its legs. Harry breathes in, but the potion only smells a bit spicy to him - some of the seventh years can guess some potions ingredients just from their smell, but Harry doesn't recognize the smell at all. The liquid is a soft blue and so clear Harry can see the bottom of the cauldron in its entirety, and it bubbles lowly over its heat, letting off a steam the colour of lilacs.

"Out of bed again, Potter?" Harry stumbles back in surprise, looking up at Snape. He hadn't heard the door behind the desk open and shut, and now Snape stands there, staring down at Harry with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"Sorry," Harry whispers, too suddenly terrified to say anything else, and Snape frowns at him, his brow furrowing. "I'll go-"

"Sit down, Potter," Snape orders, and Harry freezes, mid-step towards the door. He teeters, unsure whether to sit down or just try to run back to the common room, but even though Harry knows the dungeons quite well, he knows it would be stupid to try and run from a teacher, even if said teacher is trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Harry sits. The singular chair in front of Snape's desk is made of wood, and there's no cushioning or arms on it. It's not there for someone to be comfortable in.

Harry sits in silence, and he watches as Snape takes a glass stirring rod, carefully moving it clockwise through the potion in a slow, rhythmic fashion. Slowly, the lilac steam begins to darken, turning indigo, and then to such a dark purple it's almost black. Harry watches in silence as Snape carefully extinguishes the heat beneath the cauldron, and then begins to bottle the liquid within: it's now almost entirely clear.

"Do you know what this potion is, Potter?" Snape asks, and Harry desperately thinks of his textbooks, of the potions section in An Introduction To The Wizarding World, of the stupid trivia game Theodore Nott had tricked them all into playing last month. Would Snape kill him, Harry wonders? If he's truly on Voldemort's side, and is trying to get the Stone for him, would he kill Harry? But if that was the case, why wouldn't he have just let Harry die back at the Quidditch game in the autumn?

It could always just be a coincidence, and both Voldemort and Snape are after the Stone, but the idea strikes him as unlikely.

"Veritaserum, sir?" Harry asks. Snape arches an eyebrow, seeming what might pass as impressed on someone else's face.

"No, Potter, but they're not dissimilar in their appearance. Veritaserum is odourless: this potion is not."

"Oh," Harry says. "What is it, then?" Despite himself, he wants to know - what sort of potion could Snape be brewing at three in the morning, in the dark, on his own?

"It's a form of Auxilian Elixir," Snape says. "For abdominal pains."

"Pain relief," Harry says, peering at it. "Is it for girls on their periods?" Snape stares down at him, and Harry wonders for a second if he's said something wrong, and amends, "Uh, girls who are menstruating?" Snape looks, for the barest hint of a second, like he's about to laugh, but the look is gone as soon as it appears.

"Very astute of you, Potter," Snape says dryly. "It is indeed." He pours the contents of the cauldron into four more little vials, and there are five small bottles lined up on his desk by the time he flicks his wand at the cauldron and sends it across the room to settle itself in the sink. "Why are you out of bed, Potter?"

"Couldn't sleep," Harry admits. "Why are you?"

"Because I am an adult, and am permitted to go wherever I choose. You, Potter, are supposedly restricted to the Slytherin quarters after nine PM, and yet you seem to believe the Hogwarts halls are your domain to be explored at leisure. Is there no end to your arrogance?"

"I didn't want to wake anyone up," Harry says.

"Of course you didn't," Snape says, not sounding at all like he believes him. "Your insomnia has returned, then?"

"No," Harry says quickly, "I don't think I need more of that potion or anything." Snape stares down at him, and Harry thinks that his eyes are endless - not in the comforting way the dungeon corridors are, but in a way that scares him, terrifies him, on a primal level. "Are you- I mean, like- are-"

"What are you babbling about, Potter?"

"I saw you. And Quirrell. In that classroom on the third floor." Snape stares down at him, silent. "You're going to steal it, aren't you?" To Harry's complete surprise, Snape laughs. The sound is short, harsh and completely surprising - it doesn't sound anything like a normal person's laugh, as if Snape doesn't laugh very often at all, and Harry feels like he doesn't.

"Steal what, Potter?" Snape prompts.

"The Philosopher's Stone."

"And where is the Philosopher's Stone?" Snape asks, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Here. In Hogwarts. You tried to steal it from Gringotts, but Hagrid had withdrawn it first, from Vault 713, and now you- you're going to steal it. And become immortal." Snape's lips are twisted into an unpleasant parody of a smile, and he leans back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. Snape's numerously buttoned outer robe is open, Harry realizes now, leaving the white under robe entirely on show. It's strange, seeing Snape wear white somewhere other than slightly below his neck.

"How long have you known about the Philosopher's Stone, Potter?" Snape asks. Harry stares up at him, but now he's revealed this much, and he knows he can't run, he can't say nothing.

"Since January." Snape laughs again, showing off his uneven, slightly yellowed teeth, and Harry wonders if he's a smoker. The Dursleys had always despised smoking: Uncle Vernon decreed it a sign of weakness, and Aunt Petunia had said once, wrinkling up her nose, that it stained things. Snape never smells of cigarette smoke, but it would be hard to tell, given that he always seems to smell of different potions.

"No, Potter," Snape says finally. "I am not going to steal, pilfer, or otherwise remove the Philosopher's Stone from its current whereabouts."

"But you were yelling at Quirrell."

"I was."

"You were asking about his protections on the Stone."

"I was." Snape answers casually, as if it's not suspicious at all, and Harry is left dumbstruck, mouth slightly open, mind blank. What is he supposed to say? How can Snape tell him he's not after the Stone after what Harry saw?

"You don't want the Stone?" he asks.

"Mr Potter, do you truly believe I wish for eternal life, or insurmountable riches?" Harry stares at him, then glances at the meagre accoutrements of Snape's office. Flitwick's office has little photographs on the walls, and all sorts of charmed figurines and toys and brightly bound books; McGonagall's is less bright, but has a Gryffindor scarf hung proudly on its wall, and a few ornaments here and there. Snape's office, by comparison, isn't dissimilar to an especially large potions store cupboard with a desk in it.

"No," Harry admits, a bit meekly.

"Then for what purpose, I wonder, do you believe I would wish for the Philosopher's Stone to enter my possession?" Snape is watching him intently, scanning every flicker of Harry's face.

"Voldemort isn't dead, is he?" Harry asks quietly, and Snape's expression doesn't change at all. "If he could get the Philosopher's Stone, he'd be able to come back. Be more than what he is now. Have a body again, be a real threat again. He'd try to kill me, wouldn't he?" There's a very long pause. The only sound in the room is Harry's breaths entering and exiting his lungs - Snape's breathing seems to be almost silent.

"You should return to bed, Potter," Snape says finally. Harry doesn't feel all that surprised that Snape didn't say anything about Voldemort, but a disappointment settles in his chest. "You need to sleep." Harry stares at his own feet, and at Snape's shoes. "I will accompany you to the Slytherin common room."

"You're really not going to try to steal it?" Harry asks again as he follows Snape towards the door of his office, stepping out into the corridor. As they move, the torches brighten up slightly for Snape, lighting their way.

"Are you?" Harry stares up at him, his gait quicker than usual in order to keep up with his Head of House's long strides.

"What?"

"It's a simple question, Potter. You are aware of the Philosopher's Stone, its location. Do you plan to steal it?"

"No!" Harry says, affronted. "Of course not!"

"Nor am I," Snape says. Harry is so irritated he doesn't even know what to say. Is he supposed to believe Snape? He hadn't given any reason for quizzing Quirrell, but Harry had believed him when he'd said he didn't want it. They walk in silence, and Snape murmurs the password for the common room entrance, ushering Harry inside. Harry glances back to him as the door slips shut, and Harry creeps back into his room, dropping hard onto his mattress with his boots and his dressing gown still on.

He's asleep as soon as he pulls the pillow under his head.

---

Harry doesn't mention his conversation with Snape to Hermione the next day or even how he'd seen Snape and Quirrell arguing when they walk together down to Hagrid's. It's not that he doesn't think she'll believe him, or that he doesn't trust her with it: he just knows she'll ask a lot of questions, and Harry has so many questions running around his own head at the moment he doesn't want to add Hermione's to the swirl as well.

They don't stay with Hagrid for all too long. Hagrid had had a letter from Charlie about Norbert, and he showed it to the both of them, letting them read through Charlie's gushing account of the dragon's growth. His handwriting's like his mother's, Harry thinks, but he supposes it was Mrs Weasley that taught her children to read and write.

The next few weeks go on in a blur - they revise for their coming exams, and then the exams are suddenly starting, and Harry's days are warm, hazy afternoons hunched over his desk in the Great Hall, writing essay after essay on what seems like a thousand things he can't possibly have learned in a single year.

But then the exams are over, and they all step out into the sun. "We have to do this next year, you know," Blaise says, and the relieved smile drops from Harry's face.

"Why did you have to say that?" he asks, wounded, and Blaise shrugs his shoulders, looking amused. Harry shakes his head, and he looks out across the grounds - there are students dotted all over the green grass, up the hill, and it seems like almost everyone is outside, enjoying the summer sunshine. There are only a few more exams for the older students to do, and those are NEWTs.

Harry makes his way leisurely inside, walking down to the Potions classroom to ask Snape who he should talk to about going somewhere other than the Dursleys' for the summer, but Snape's nowhere to be seen, and not in his office either. Frowning, Harry heads up to the third floor through the secret passage in the dungeons, and he glances into the DADA office, just to check.

Quirrell isn't in his office, either, and neither of them are invigilating exams or anywhere in the Entrance Hall or out on the grounds. They should be in their offices, or in their classrooms, packing up.

"Harry!" Hermione calls from a staircase below as Harry comes out into the Hall of Staircases, and she and Draco stand together.

"He's gone for the Stone!" Harry calls down, and Hermione's expression goes from curious and friendly to alarmed.

"What stone?" Draco asks, and Hermione ignores him, running with Harry as he comes bulleting down the stairs and down towards the Entrance Hall, Draco in hot pursuit on their heels.

"Professor McGonagall," Harry asks sharply, "Where's Dumbledore?" She stares down at him, nostrils flaring in fury at Harry's demanding tone and rude interruption, but for the time being Harry can't really care about what she thinks of him.

"Professor Dumbledore, Mr Potter, is away on business at the Ministry." Hermione and Harry share a look, and then they run off in the other direction, ignoring McGonagall yelling at them as they go. Harry doesn't even realize Draco is following them until he reaches the third floor and unlocks the door to the west corridor.

"Harry? What are you doing? What-"

"Draco, go downstairs," Harry says, and he and Hermione run into the door. In the corner, there's a harp playing soft folk music, and Fluffy is fast asleep, each of his three heads settled on the floor. They pull up the trap door, and Harry and Hermione stare down into the darkness.

"He told me- he told me he didn't want it," Harry whispers.

"What?" Hermione demands, and Harry just shakes his head. He can't do anything else - he jumps.