He is drifting.  He has forgotten how tiring it is after a good cry, considering that he hasn’t had one in a great long while.  Vernon doesn’t approve of snivelling. Neither does Petunia, but at least she doesn’t wallop him for it.

He is asleep, but he is aware of his surroundings - sort of.  He is pillowed on something firm, but warm, and distantly, his brain surmises that his head must be in someone’s lap.  

There is a warm hand, a familiar warmth that would have made waking Harry gasp with disbelief.  There is no way in hell that Snape is petting him, letting him sleep on his couch, keeping him safe after his awareness has faded so drastically.

Conversations fade in and out around him.  

“ . . . Amelia wonders when exactly you were planning on sharing this information with her,” Is McGonagall’s voice.

He wonders who Amelia is, and what kind of information it is.  

“ . . . tell her that I was always going to share it with her, but I was waiting for the best opportunity . . .” Snape’s voice makes his pillow vibrate.

Guess that answers that.