Absently, he rubbed his arm. The night was fairly advanced, about three or four hours before dawn.

The students were finally asleep. At least, those who were able to. Professor McGonagall had had difficulties to convince Weasley and Granger to stay in their dormitory, but she had finally managed to make them understand that they couldn’t do anything for their friend at the moment.

Tomorrow, or rather in few hours, their world was going to change completely. Fudge would probably be a problem, the Diggorys would have to learn to live without their son. Strangely, no one had heard anything from Skeeter.

He had done his part, contacted all his old ‘friends’, like Albus wanted. Now, the only thing he could do was wait.

He was calm. He would feel better if his arm stopped hurting. He had almost forgotten how much it hurt. Almost.

But he never would forget how the gatherings were. He could easily imagine what had happened today. What the boy had seen, suffered, felt.

Not that he felt sorrow or pity for him. He didn’t care about this boy. But even so, he never had wished this on him. On Black, though…

A particularly strong sting made him flinch. At the same time he heard a moan. Potter.

Why he was waiting in the Hospital Wing, he didn’t know.

Potter moved in his sleep, murmuring something.

Snape turned to look through the window. There was still light at Hagrid’s hut. For a brief moment, he wondered if Molly had gone home, or if she was still here, somewhere in the castle.

It had been difficult to convince her to go. No one could do more now, but she had wanted to stay.

In case the potion was not strong enough, or if Harry had a nightmare…

They had told her that he’d sleep until the morning. And if the Dreamless Sleep potion would wear off, well, he sincerely didn’t see how Molly could help the boy.

The pain, again. Potter felt it too, he whimpered and writhed in his sleep. What did Albus say?

“…when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly murderous…”

Because of his movements, the boy’s blanket dropped.

Mme. Pomfrey certainly wouldn’t be happy if he was sick as well. With a sigh, he reluctantly neared Potter’s bed, took the blanket, and covered the child with it. Not that he cared about him, certainly not, but he wasn’t foolish enough to provoke the nurse’s anger.

He thought about getting back near the window when he heard the boy moan in pain again. Yet, he didn’t felt the Mark. Just nightmares, then.

Potter moved, whimpered, shouted even, seeming to try to escape something, without being able to do so.

So what?

Even if he did admit that what the boy had just lived through was rather horrible, he wasn’t the only one. Other children and adults also had atrocious memories caused by the Death-Eaters. And by me.

They had to cope with them as well, without help from anybody. Why should it be different for Potter?

The blanket was on the floor, again. Grumbling, he tucked it tightly around the boy. To not let it happen anew, of course. He had better things to do than prevent the boy from catching a cold.

He put it nearly up the boy’s chin, to still his movements when he continued to struggle. That was when he saw the tears, mingled with sweat, the boy’s hair stuck on his forehead, hiding the famous scar.

He wanted to see the scar, see if it looked different when it hurt. So the boy cried. It didn’t matter to him. But when he moved the hair from Potter’s forehead, he also touched his cheeks, brushed away the tears there, just to…he didn’t know why. But it seemed to somewhat calm the child.

The older man stayed there, bent over the boy, rubbing away the tears until he grew uncomfortable, until the boy stopped crying.

Tired, he sat on the bed. He took back his hand from the boy’s face, thinking he had done enough, even if Potter was still moving and whimpering.

A strong burst of pain was echoed by a cry from the boy. He rubbed his arm, and saw the boy pressing his hands on his scar. Before he could even think to react, the crisis was over. Not that he would have done something anyway.

Doing what? What could I do? Why should I do something?

Harry lowered his hands onto the bed, one of them hit the older man’s leg. Incensed, Snape caught the hand and kept it between his own. So he wouldn’t be bothered by it again.

Absently, he rubbed his thumbs over the smaller hand, listening, watching the boy become more and more still, quiet. The nightmare was apparently over.

It hadn’t even been a long one. You see, Mrs. Weasley, he didn’t need anyone, your poor little child.

Yet he stayed there, small hand clinging to him, lost in thoughts until the sky begin to clear. Finally he stood up, grumbling about Gryffindors who made him waste his time, and released the hand.

Nearing the door, he looked around. Potter was still sleeping peacefully, and fortunately no one was in the corridors. He didn’t need useless questions, or witnesses. Not that he had to explain himself. He had every right to be here, unlike the students (unlike Potter!). He could be near the Hospital Wing as well as he could be in the Library.

The Dark Lord was back, he had the right to be worried. For himself. And the right to be awake and prowl the corridors. If he was here, it was because he…he…thought that Granger and Weasley would try to come see their friend. That was why. Absolutely not something else, he only did his duty.

He didn’t care about the Precious Harry Potter anyway.