The Path Chosen

Mid-October, 1996.

Another very habitual morning found Severus seated at the staff table in the Great Hall. Breakfast. Another typical day. He was leaning back in his chair and disinterestedly sipping on a cup of tea, his eyes raking over the four long tables of chattering students. 

Particularly the two tables on opposite ends of the Hall interested him. 

His gaze, again, managed to seek out Draco Malfoy. Nothing noteworthy appeared about him, except for his slight pallor… His face was guarded. It always appeared to be. Severus had tried to peer into his mind several times but hadn’t been very successful. It had always felt as if there was some kind of blockade — and that, admittedly, concerned the man, giving him much for consideration.

In any case, the boy was engrossed in conversation with his peers: Miss Parkinson and Mr. Zabini. The trio was sitting huddled together at the far end of the table. It almost gave off the appearance of a group of vultures. Crabbe and Goyle, as it appeared, were excluded from said conversation… 

Severus kept his gaze inconspicuous as he studied the three Snakes. He’d surmised that they weren’t arguing, but both Zabini and Parkinson wore perplexed expressions. Draco was explaining something, gesticulating with his hands.

Severus internally sighed. Nothing had changed from the way things had been since the start of term. The boy was still avoiding him, up to Merlin-knew-what, and to say it was frustrating would be an understatement.

His eyes then strayed over to the Gryffindor table — it was routine by now. 

And there sat Potter with his friends, rather predictably. Severus paused on him… But for some strange reason, his attention was drawn to the boy’s plate. Either he had already had his fill, or the single piece of toast and apple were the only foods on his otherwise clean plate from the start… 

When he shifted his gaze, Severus couldn’t help noting the prominent dark circles decorating the boy’s under-eyes, his face having become shallower. He also appeared slightly thinner…

What was going on with the boy? He looked malnourished. Or did he simply have no appetite? But from what?

Could he be suffering from insomnia? 

But that wasn’t possible — not with the Celarium Umbras potion Severus had given him… 

The chatter in the hall was quickly abating now, and students were beginning to leave for their first class of the day. Severus gladly followed suit. He didn’t have any first-period classes today, but he didn’t wish to stick around here any longer than necessary. Downing the rest of his tea, he slipped out through the back entrance of the Great Hall.

He was crossing a corridor when he heard voices from just around the bend.

“... don’t believe it! Nearly half of my Dreamless Sleep stock gone within one— no, two weeks! Not many students have come asking for it, and you know I would never prescribe a use of more than is allowed…”

“Students? Stealing Dreamless Sleep?” Severus heard Horace Slughorn’s bewildered voice. Curious now, he slowed in his stride to listen. 

“Well, it’s the only plausible explanation,” went on Poppy, exasperated.

“Merlin’s beard… Ooh-oh, well, you know how easily it is to get carried away with it. Yes. Especially if it’s a youngster — a First- or Second-Year…. It’s like that, you know: one shot of Rosmerta’s Golden, and before you know it — the whole bottle’s gone, and you end up on an island in Greece!…”

The man paused a moment, seemingly to recompose himself.

“Very well, very well. I’ll have brewed more Dreamless Sleep by Friday, Poppy,” Horace promised. “And we’ll see about that culprit, too. I shall have a word with Severus — it is his shift tonight, after all. Though if he does manage to catch the student, I rue to think… Well, I don’t think any sleeping potion will help them…”

The witch and wizard parted ways, but Severus remained hidden until he could hear no more footsteps. A hunch had settled itself within his stomach, one that churned uncomfortably. 

He was mentally toying with the puzzle pieces he’d gathered so far…

But surely not…?

No. It was a far stretch of things. Potter wouldn’t do something as utterly foolish as…

But the longer he ruminated on it, the more the possibility made sense. Severus mentally recited the boy’s — the idiot boy’s — symptoms. He chronically looked fatigued, lacked appetite, and the shadows under his eyes that were actually dark circles—

How had Severus been this blind?

Blast that Invisibility Cloak of his!

Severus pivoted on his heel and stalked off. Deep rage had settled within him, simmering and boiling at the thought of the audacious brat strutting the castle halls, stealing potions from the Infirmary in the dead of night— 

This burning sensation in his stomach, acid-like, followed him through the Entrance Hall and down the narrow, descending staircase.

Halfway down, Severus recognized a hefty portion of said anger was concern for the idiot, clenching and unclenching his gut.

But it wasn’t until he reached his office, now sitting at his desk, that he realized those were not the dominant emotions storming through his body and mind.

It was disappointment.

All driven by one thought. Just one. 

And it tasted like a bitter potion.

The boy didn’t trust him. He’d rather resort to thievery than consult Severus.

Perhaps some part of Severus had been expecting the boy to approach him with such a problem, given all that had transpired this past summer. Perhaps he’d been hoping for a sliver of trust from the boy… 

Then again, what reason would Potter have to approach him?

Severus sighed, his gaze unfixed on his shelves. Maybe it was to have been expected. After all, he and Potter hadn’t contacted each other since their meeting in his lab back in September, and in class Severus was just as hostile towards him as ever.

Feeling sentimental, Severus? 

A classic sneer overcame him. 

Perhaps it was for the better this way.

But Severus had sworn to protect him…

If there was anything Severus knew about the Gryffindor, it was that the boy would never admit his problems to anyone unless he were on death’s doorstep. He would, no doubt, pass it off as ‘I’m fine’. 

An image of Potter’s mental breakdown this summer played out in his mind. Next, the boy’s bloodied hands…

Severus hadn’t even realized how hard he’d clenched his fists until they started to turn numb and cold. 

He had to come to a decision about how to approach this… predicament? 

If it really was Potter nicking the Dreamless Sleep, he was clearly desperate. Had he used up the Celarium Umbras potion, or was it just not helping him sleep? 

It is possible that prolonged use has made the boy develop immunity to it…

Severus leaned forward on his desk and massaged his temples. How was he to approach this? This delicate matter? He thought back to what Horace had said on ‘catching the culprit’. Indeed, it was Severus’ turn to patrol the castle tonight. The chances were, of course, slim, but… 

But he very well could catch this anonymous student red-handed.

~***~

The Fat Lady stirred slightly with a snore, but fortunately continued with her slumber shortly after her portrait had swung open and closed again. Standing in the deserted darkness, Harry breathed a shaky sigh of relief and unfurled the Marauder’s Map again.

It was Snape’s shift tonight.

The fact did little to please Harry, but it really didn’t matter, as he seemed to be preoccupied with stalking near the library. And Harry was out of Dreamless Sleep. Again. He’d stored away his fourth empty flask (each serving about three doses) just last night. 

He shouldn’t do it. Harry knew this. Hundreds of heavy anchors felt chained to his conscience. He hated doing this… But what other options were there? For the last two weeks, he’d actually been sleeping, and to boot, his magic had improved. And he needed sleep. This potion was the only thing that let him shut off for at least a few hours each night, the only thing keeping everything in his mind at bay… The only major downside was that he felt more tired throughout the day, and everything he did felt slower, sluggish…

But there was always a price to pay. For everything. A trade. It all simply came down to choosing the lesser of the two evils.

Swinging the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders in one precise move, Harry tucked away the Map, lit a low Lumos charm, and started down the dark, stone corridor.

The trek was the usual, and his feet were moving practically of their own accord while his thoughts were preoccupied by his inner battle with his conscience — his heavy, heavy conscience. 

A particular chill was wafting through the castle tonight, or maybe it was this inexplicable unease, this disquiet in his chest…

It seemed no time at all had passed before he found himself standing, yet again, before the large oak doors of the Infirmary. As usual, he pushed one door open, peeked in, and only then fully entered. Inside were only a few students slumbering in the beds (one, with whom Harry sympathized, had been a victim of one of Peeves' recent ‘pranks’)... 

The cabinet… The rows of vials and flasks… The flasks labeled ‘Dreamless Sleep’... Harry took one this time, in the process the hood of the Cloak slipping off to his shoulders. It weighed the same as ten. He pocketed it into his pullover, closed the cabinet doors, and a moment later — the large oak ones.

All was silent and deserted as ever. He breathed a sigh of relief.

His hand was just leaving the door handle when long, cold fingers latched around his wrist, causing him to cry out in surprise.

“Thievery, Mr. Potter? I may vomit.”

Harry felt all blood draining from his face and body. Snape’s voice could have cut steel; his gaze even more so. He looked livid. The Gryffindor couldn’t reply; his mouth had gone dry. Snape briefly tightened his grip on Harry’s wrist, then let go.

“Don your Cloak. Follow me,” he said tautly. 

Harry didn’t know where he was being led; he felt numb. His heart was threatening to drum itself out of his ribcage... They were descending, deeper and deeper into the castle, past the floor of the Defense Classroom, where Harry had assumed he was being taken. Now, however, the distinct chill of the dungeons was beginning to seep through his thin pajamas. 

When the pair stopped, it was at that same old painting of Salazar Slytherin. Moments later, it swung open, and Snape gestured with his head for Harry to follow through, who was now shaking and trembling, though not from the cold alone.

The boy, letting his Cloak slip off his shoulders and into his hands, looked around the dimly-lit sitting room. Confusion stole over him.

Why had Snape brought him here, of all places?

Harry started when Snape’s dark figure strode past him. The man sat down in an armchair and, with a hard gaze, wordlessly indicated for him to sit on the couch. Barely feeling his legs, Harry sat on the edge of the couch, posture as stiff and straight as though he were a plank. And he waited.

Snape was going to murder him. At this moment, Harry wished for nothing more or less than for the floor to swallow him whole, burying him along with his shame and mortification at this turn of events — nay, everything. He would rather McGonagall had caught him, or even Filch with his stupid cat — Merlin, anyone would have been better than Snape.

And the professor was studying him carefully, all the worse. The way he always did. Harry could practically feel Snape’s eyes boring holes into him. 

This further unnerved Harry. 

Why wasn’t he saying anything? Where was the usual barrage of reprimands, comments about his swine of a father or his spiel about what a presumptuous prince Harry was? Where were the insults, the snide remarks, the satisfaction, the tone of vindication—?

In reality, the silence stretched for only a dozen or so seconds, whereas to Harry, it felt like minutes had passed. But just when Harry thought he could take no more, Snape spoke, his voice quiet but indubitably outraged.

“What were you thinking?” 

It was a rhetorical question.

“Do you have any idea how serious this is? Stealing from the Infirmary stores? Not to mention the bullheadedness of that quest alone, it is an entirely separate matter of what you have been stealing — Yes, Potter, have been… I should report you to your Head of House or the Headmaster, and believe me, were the circumstances different, you would be packing your bags as early as the morning.”

Harry’s muscles went rigid; it felt as if he’d been plunged into frigid water. Heart thumping loudly in his ears, he privately cringed at Snape’s words, although continuing to stare at his cold, clasped hands.

“Are you going to, then, sir? Report me, I mean,” asked Harry quietly.

Dead silence. 

Then, a scoff.

“While tempting, expelling the ‘Chosen One’ from school is hardly in the Headmaster’s interests, or mine. There are—”

Again, that bloody title. Harry was privileged because of his title.

“ —Right,” Harry gritted out. “So what will it be, then? Detention? Lines? Scrubbing cauldrons?”

“There are,” Snape continued strongly, “more paramount matters at hand, Mr. Potter. This is about more than merely breaking school rules. It is about the danger you’d put yourself into. A mere detention will not rectify your dependence on Dreamless Sleep. You must realize this,” he hissed.

Harry finally looked up, gaping at Snape in horror. 

“How— How did you…?”

Snape pinned Harry with his gaze. Sharp, pointed… But then, an underlying emotion appeared that Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something almost seemed to have… softened.

“I know you haven’t been sleeping, Harry.”

The low, composed tone threw Harry completely off-guard. 

“You don’t know anything,” he deflected automatically.

“Oh, but I do,” Snape asserted grimly. “I know that to have resorted to such measures as stealing from the Infirmary stores, you ought to have been desperate.” He leaned in closer. “My only question, Mr. Potter, is why you refused to seek help and knowingly developed a dependence on Dreamless Sleep.”

“I don’t have a dependence,” refuted Harry angrily, clenching his fists tightly. “I can stop. If I want.”

“Will you?”

“…”

“And yes, you have a dependence. Your visual appearance speaks volumes, you foolish boy. You are extremely fortunate that said dependence is only in its beginning stages. A while longer and your classmates just might have found you in a coma one morning.”

Harry found himself momentarily dumbstruck.

“I just… I didn’t have any other option,” he argued, though he knew it was weak. 

In all truth, he felt defeated. And tired — beyond expression. He was tired of everything.

It didn’t even feel like Harry was living anymore. No — he was surviving. Living off of that Dreamless Sleep. Like some rat scrounging the streets for sustenance.

What did it matter if the sustenance was a bit dirty? Or stale? Or having been walked on? What did it matter if the potion was a bit addictive? If it had certain side effects?

The silence was broken by Snape’s baritone voice.

“There is always another option, Potter. The worst choices, however, are always taken through acts of desperation.” Snape had said this with a note of reflection, softly. 

Potter mumbled something under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Severus.

“I said: what’s anything matter? Nothing else works. That potion you gave me? I ran out. It was working worse and worse until it stopped doing anything at all. Dreamless Sleep worked fine. Sure, I was tired all day…” And my head’s been hurting like shit… “But at least… Well, it was better then, with Dreamless Sleep… Now, it’s like I don’t even have that,” Harry confessed despondently. He shamefully hung his head. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

Severus refused to let his gaze soften, despite it internally thawing a bit. “I would have expected you to come to me upon any such problems arising — with the potion or anything of the like. I could have helped you, offered you some alternative or another... I am assuming you had started overdosing on the Celarium potion, too? It is no wonder your body no longer reacts to it — it is used to it.”

“What do you want me to do, then?”

The defeat was blatant in the boy’s voice, and surprising was his giving in. Severus was still looking at the hunched-over figure with a heaviness in his chest that he couldn’t quite decipher. He quietly sighed. The vulnerability in Lily’s eyes — Harry’s eyes —... It made it difficult to meet them.

“Quite obviously, desist stealing potions from the Infirmary and poisoning yourself. Pertaining to your nightmares…”

“They always come,” the boy croaked out, addressing his interlocked fingers. “At night. If I don’t take Dreamless Sleep. It’s always either Cedric, or Sirius, or… or…” 

He worried his bottom lip. 

“Professor, what if they never go away?” he asked genuinely, fearfully, and this time he raised his pained, emerald-green eyes to meet Severus’ dark ones. Severus swallowed.

“It is as I had told you, Potter; nightmares are projections of our fixations, that include fears and unpleasant memories. So long as you have them, no potion will ever help you to your content… Have you been practicing the Occlumency exercises I had shown you?”

The boy visibly hesitated.

“I try to do those,” he sighed, “but it’s not—” The boy let his hands drop to his lap as he bent over his knees. “It’s not working. Nothing is. It’s all the same. I can’t just shut off my feelings or emotions on a whim like you.” The boy’s eyes were glossier than Severus recalled. “I— I don’t know how you do it, but I can’t.”

“It is alright to feel, Potter; it is not alright to let it consume you…” Severus watched him closely for a beat. “..You are still grieving,” he observed softly.

At this, the boy tried to snort softly. Something sharp jolted Severus’ chest when it came out a bit choked, and the boy turned his head away. 

“Thought you said you weren’t a therapist, sir.”

Those words, admittedly, struck Severus’ chest. Hard. Though he wasn’t sure why.

“I am not. I am merely explaining the rudimentary to you… Unless you’d prefer I didn’t?” Severus inquired with a raised brow, privately despising himself for his lack of tact. 

Potter paused, opening and closing his mouth a few times.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as he cleared his throat. “I just… You said that I should’ve come to you. But why would you help me with this? Maybe you have your reasons for trying to remove that fragment out of me. Fine. But what’s it to you if I have bad dreams? Why burden yourself with this? Why would you…?”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Potter, not this again—” He heaved a sigh. Hadn’t they discussed this ad nauseam? “I would have assumed it was blatantly clear. Your well-being determines everything, that being the outcome of this war. But this reason does not even begin to justify why I would provide you with my help. I am not inhumane. This is not a burden. And neither are you a burden. You are a complication, yes… but not a burden… Not to me.”

On the last words, both lapsed into silence. They seemed to hang in the air. In that moment, neither could come up with anything to say… 

But to Harry… Those words meant more than even he, in that moment, could comprehend. It felt like an invaluable artifact to hold. He strangely wanted to hear them again.

That’s when the grandfather clock decided to chime in the background. Harry didn’t need to look to know that it was an ungodly hour of the night — nay, early morning. 

“We shall continue this discussion tomorrow,” said Snape in a closing manner, rising from his armchair. He held out his hand, palm out. “I believe you have something I should like returned?”

Harry needed no explanation. Flushing, he fished around in his pullover for the flask of midnight-blue liquid and surrendered it, hesitating only a bit.

Snape observed the potion in his hand for a moment. 

“Wait here.” 

Severus suddenly pivoted on his heel. He strode into his lab and, setting down the flask of Dreamless Sleep on one of the counters, began rifling through his cabinets, gathering the ingredients running through his mind.

Dried nettle, baneberries, essence of asphodel… In deft and precise movements, Severus lit a fire under a small, bronze cauldron and filled it with the Dreamless Sleep potion. While that was left to softly simmer, he set to mincing and cutting up his assortment of ingredients. He was at the task for a good fifteen minutes before he was able to pour the final product into a clean flask.

He’d succeeded in muting the strength of the most detrimental concentrates of the potion, but it was a very makeshift solution. Still, he felt he could not leave the boy with nothing. Notwithstanding everything, it would be cruel of him to let the boy off to continue to deal with his nightly demons. 

Also because, though he didn’t wish to outwardly admit it, he wanted to earn the boy’s trust, if only marginally.

But when Severus re-entered his sitting room and rounded the couch, he found himself stopping dead at the sight that met him: 

The boy was now slumped sideways against the back cushions, his mouth slightly ajar and eyes closed. The rhythm of his chest rising and falling was even, and his face looked more at ease than Severus had seen it in a while.

It was… a tranquil sight to behold.

Severus stood there, looking down at the slumbering figure in somewhat of a befuddled state, unknowing what the surging warmth in his chest was and still clutching the flask… 

Something in the Slytherin just couldn’t bring him to wake the boy. Not now. Not tonight. Even if some part of him was trying to reason with him that he should send the boy back to his Tower.

But, well, it was some time past two in the morning. It wouldn’t do to send the boy back up to his dormitory, a many several stories above here.

Let him stay…

Exerting a breath, Severus summoned a spare blanket and let it drape over the boy, then removed his round glasses. He was, again, met with just a shallow face that had never resembled his childhood nemesis less than it did in that moment… But that’s when something caught his eye.

It was a roll of parchment sticking out of the pocket of the boy’s pullover. Severus carefully pulled it out and unfurled it, only to find it blank. Confusion filled him — why would he need this?

But something about it was ringing bells in his head. The circumstances were… too familiar.

Then, he was suddenly plunged into that one night three years ago, when he’d caught thirteen-year-old Harry Potter with the same blank parchment. A ‘Zonko’s product’, as Lupin had passed it off…

This was either a coincidence, or it was far from a mere ‘Zonko’s product’ or a harmless piece of parchment.

Severus contemplated what to do with it but ultimately set it down on the coffee table. He would ask Potter about it later. For now, let him sleep.

Sleep… Such a wistful thought now, for the both of them, it seemed. He glanced down at the sleeping figure one last time, feeling his brows crinkling together as he watched the even rhythm of his chest. There was something strangely calming about it… 

Alive.

For now…

His insides grew cold at that thought; a shiver travelled down his spine. 

Over my dead body.

With the resolute vow, Severus dimmed the light and retreated to bed.

~***~

Harry awoke to an unexpected sight. 

With dawning consciousness, he slowly turned over onto this side and that before propping himself up on his elbows and rubbing the sleep out of his bleary eyes. When he opened them, he was expecting to find himself in the Gryffindor dormitory. But, instead, was greeted with the surroundings of Snape’s sitting room. Memories flowed back to his head of the previous night.

Merlin…

Harry tiredly rubbed his face with his hand. When he made to swing his legs over the edge, he discovered a soft, brown blanket covering him, half of it pooled on the floor. He blinked at it for a moment, running his hand over it and thinking.

He must have fallen asleep… But why hadn’t Snape woken him? He’d let Harry stay? Even after what had happened?

It heavily reminded Harry of that time he’d fallen asleep on the couch in Spinner’s End… Snape had also covered him with a blanket then… 

His mind automatically jumped to Aunt Petunia doting over Duddykins, a most tender expression on her face. Harry could still acutely remember jealousy’s ugly head rearing itself into sight back then… 

Harry’s line of thought was unexpectedly interrupted by a sweet smell of herbal tea. It was wafting through what he assumed was the kitchen alcove, on the other side of the room. Too bad he couldn’t see a clock anywhere, for he had no idea what hour it was.

To Harry’s relief, he found his round frames, wand, and Invisibility Cloak all resting neatly on the coffee table. He tucked his wand and Cloak away in his pullover, donned his glasses, and quickly glanced down at himself. He was still wearing his striped pajamas, with only his pullover over his shirt. He was fairly certain it went without saying that he looked a right mess.

Following his intuition, Harry slowly made his way over to where some sounds were coming from. They led him to the small kitchen alcove. There, at a small dining table, sat Snape, dressed in his usual black suit and cradling a steaming mug while perusing a paper. The scene looked uncannily familiar to all those mornings spent at Spinner’s End…

On Harry’s entering, he looked up, raising an eyebrow, and his scowl diminished into a frown.

“Uh, morning, sir,” said Harry awkwardly. “Erm, sorry I fell asleep. Didn’t mean to…”

“Well, that much is obvious,” drawled Snape, though his tone hardly brooked any bite. Harry was left there to stand for a few lasting seconds until Snape gestured for him to take a seat. Harry did. Almost immediately, a small assortment of breakfast foods appeared, as well as a clean plate and goblet.

“Eat, Harry.”

Harry. Harry liked it when the man called him by his first name, seldom as it came. He reached for a piece of toast and began buttering it.

“Sir, what time is it?” he asked after a moment. All he knew was that it was Saturday (thank Merlin).

“A quarter past eight. That said, you should not linger here. Your friends will be wondering about your absence, and, technically, it is not permitted for students to be let into teacher quarters. You will have to come up with an alibi.”

Harry thought on this issue while he chewed another bite. “I’ll make something up,” he said easily. Then he cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Um, sir. About last night…”

A silencing hand stopped him. “This one time, and one time only, Potter, I will show leniency and let you off the hook. I daresay last night has left quite an impression on you... I trust you’ve taken away something from the, ah, experience?”

“Not to go stealing potions in the middle of the night,” recited Harry, hands clasped between his knees and eyes glued to the porcelain teapot. 

Reality, it seemed, had sunken in only then. He suddenly found himself dumbstruck at the implications this posed. It was back to the sleepless nights, ridden with nightmares and insomnia galore… 

But he had no one to blame but himself for having gotten caught. He should have known that temporary bliss wouldn’t last. And now, to make matters worse, he had no alternative. No way out. He’d hit a dead end, and he would be heading back empty-handed and embarrassed.

He realized only now how tense his body was. A subconscious deed. In his periphery, Snape, too, had completely stilled, and his dark gaze was trained directly on him. There were these several beats of silence that hung in the air between them. Again. Harry didn’t know what he’d said wrong.

“To consult responsible adults instead of resorting to such desperate and inadequate ventures,” Snape intoned. “This speaks of your non-existent sense of self-preservation. I could not think of a more foolish and senseless thing than to wander the castle in the dead of night, breaking and entering, and committing theft. And believe me, should I find you doing such inane things as stealing potions to then drug yourself into a potential coma, you will be very sorry indeed.”

“It wasn’t senseless. I didn’t exactly have many options. Sir,” Harry gritted out.

“So you’d already said. That still does not justify the poor option you’d acted on.”

Harry wanted to argue — he really did. But he felt too tired at this point… A moment passed, and there was a low sigh, then a mug being set down.

“That being said, you are not leaving empty-handed,” the man continued, though his voice was now a degree calmer. “I am giving you a potion. Reversing your dependence on Dreamless Sleep will be twice as time-consuming  — for your body to get unused from the daily dosage of drugs, that is.” 

Harry’s face fell a bit. Admittedly, he’d been expecting… something else. But Snape must have been reading along similar lines of thought, for he added:

“As for your nightmares, we shall discuss it later. For the time being, however, the surplus of Dreamless Sleep still in your system should have lasting effects on you for a few days.”

“Oh…”

Snape then held out a flask of murky, olive-colored liquid, which Harry took. “The antidote. A draught after every meal should suffice. It is designed to counteract the effects of Dreamless Sleep’s concentration with a different one, but overdosage may lead to organ burning…”

Harry did a double-take at this last bit. “What?”

Snape smirked. “So you are making use of those ears. And should you be diligent enough, it should not be the case with you… Now, eat. And take the first dose.”

The rest of breakfast passed in silence, with Harry managing another slice of toast with jam and washing it down with tea. The potion Snape’d given him tasted like grass, he discovered, but at least it was tolerable.

The whole time, he couldn’t stop thinking how out-of-place he felt here, yet at the same time how similar the current setting was to their meals at Spinner’s End. In all honesty, Harry found this a nice change from the usual loud chatter and clatter of the Dining Hall. And the present company wasn’t too bad, either.

Eventually, Harry was making his way up to Gryffindor Tower, concealed under his Invisibility Cloak per Snape’s request. The portrait of the Fat Lady regarded him with suspicion when he muttered the password to her, but let him pass without complaint. 

But no sooner had the portrait hole swung open than—

“ —he possibly be?”

“Relax, Mione. I’m sure he’s alive.”

“Oh, you think it’s funny, do you, Ron? No one’s seen him since last night, and Neville said Harry’s bed was empty when he woke up. And now, he wasn’t at breakfast.”

Ron and Hermione were just ascending the moving staircase behind Harry, both dressed comfortably in jumpers and jeans. It took both of them a double take to realize their ‘missing’ friend was standing right there, clad in his striped pajama pants and pullover with his cloak draped over one arm.

“Harry James Potter, where have you been!” demanded Hermione, storming towards him. “You sneaked out, didn’t you? You know it’s not safe… Oh, no… Did something happen?”

“No! Nothing happened. I just… Uhh, you guys maybe wanna go somewhere less… obvious?” Harry asked. But he did not wait, already climbing through the portrait hole. The Common Room. Thankfully, it appeared empty.

“So?” asked Ron.

“So: I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d clear my head a bit, but I ended up dozing off near the library,” Harry explained. He’d rehearsed this alibi on his way up from the dungeons. 

Hermione pursed her lips in visible concern. Ron didn’t look too pleased either.

“Mate, remember what we talked ab—?”

“I didn’t have any nightmares, Ron. Was just restless.”

“You’ve been having nightmares?” repeated Hermione. “Harry, they—” She lowered her voice a notch. “They aren’t visions… are they?”

“No. Of course not. Forget it. Honestly, it’s not that big a deal, guys.”

Hermione heaved a great sigh. “Do you know how much trouble you could have gotten into, Harry?” she said exasperatedly. “Security’s been tightened for a reason, you know.”

“Relax, Hermione. I had my wand, Cloak, and Map on me.”

“That doesn’t justify your breaking at least three school rules!” she bristled.

“What, going to report me to Snape or McGonagall, are you now?”

“Weeeeell,” drawled Ron wryly, “we are Prefects…”

“Oi, piss off,” Harry laughed, punching his arm. 

He took off up to the boys’ dormitory to change and put away his things, with potential plans of a shower in mind. He neatly folded his Invisibility Cloak, temporarily tucked away his green potion, and—

A sudden realization washed over him in an ice-cold chill. A sudden, horrible, horrible realization.

He’d forgotten the Marauder’s Map.