Chapter 3
Snape's chambers were exactly as Harry had imagined—dark, austere, and meticulously organized. A single bed stood against one wall, with a small fireplace casting a faint glow over the room. A second bed had been conjured against the opposite wall, its sheets neatly folded and waiting.
"You will sleep here," Snape said, motioning to the conjured bed. "If you experience any disturbances, you are to alert me immediately. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," Harry replied, his voice tense.
Snape studied him for a moment, as if weighing some unspoken thought. "This is not a punishment, Potter," Snape said finally, his tone softer than usual. "It is a precaution. You are vulnerable, and it is my responsibility to ensure that you remain safe."
Harry nodded again, feeling a lump forming in his throat. His returning anxiety had almost tamped out the embers of his un-characteristic irritation as the reality of his situation was beginning to sink in.
"Try to get some rest," Snape said, turning away to extinguish the lights. "I will be here."
Harry climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin as he lay in the unfamiliar room. The quiet was unnerving, and he found himself straining to hear any sound, any sign that Snape was still nearby, watching him with those judgmental eyes.
For what felt like hours, Harry tossed and turned, unable to quiet the thoughts racing through his mind. The nightmare replayed itself over and over in his head, the images more vivid and terrifying with each repetition.
Finally, exhaustion took its toll, and Harry drifted into a fitful sleep. But it wasn't easy to banish the remnants of his nightmare, and it wasn't long before the darkness crept in again, pulling at his tired, unguarded mind. Voldemort's cold voice whispered in his ear, taunting him, and Harry could feel the pain of his scar burning into his skull.
He felt his body sink, gasping, clawing for breath, his heart a war hammer in his chest. Voldemort's power seemed to close in around him, suffocating him with its weight.
"Potter, wake up," Snape's voice was calm, almost soothing, as he gently shook Harry awake. "You are safe."
Harry's eyes flew open, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was.
"It's just a dream," Snape murmured, his tone unusually soft. "It cannot harm you."
Harry's breath hitched in his throat, and before he could stop himself, he let out a small, choked sob.
Snape gawked for a moment, taken back by the young man he had once thought to be so arrogant, as he now grieved almost to the point of breaking. The professor's eyes softened, and with a rare display of tenderness, he reached out to gently pet Harry's head, his fingers brushing through his messy hair.
"It's all right," Snape said quietly. "You're safe."
Harry's vision blurred with tears as he clung to the comforting presence of the man who had once been his enemy. He was angry, so angry. He hated feeling this overwhelming exhaustion, hated the memory of Cedric’s death play on repeat in his mind, hated having the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders, and absolutely hated that he had any connection with Voldemort.
Snape's touch was the only thing tethering Harry to reality, his hand never leaving Harry's head as he murmured quiet reassurances.
The steady rhythm of Snape's voice, combined with the gentle caress of his hand, gradually quelled the rage that had torn through Harry’s heart, and brought him back to a manageable state.
"Rest now, Potter" Snape whispered, and Harry obliged. Too tired to be embarrassed as the suggestion put him to sleep instantaneously, as if by magic.
Snape took the sleeve of his robe and used it to dry the angry tears from Harry’s cheeks, the wetness making his black robe even darker where they had touched.
Snape sighed inwardly and laid down on the floor beside Harry's bed, his cloak pulled tightly around him as he rested his head against the hard surface. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but Severus Snape was used to discomfort.
Harry’s fear still lingered in the room, like a dark cloud that refused to fully dissipate. But there was something else there too—something fragile and unspoken, a connection that had been forged in the crucible of their shared pain.
As much as Snape had once loathed Harry, seeing only the shadow of James Potter in him, it had become impossible to ignore the truth. Harry was not his father. He was Lily's son, yes, but he was also his own person—someone who had suffered more than any being should, who had been burdened with a fate that no one deserved.
And Snape, despite his harsh exterior and biting words, could no longer deny that he felt a deep, unyielding need to protect the young man whom he knew was slowly becoming more than a student to him.
And perhaps, Snape thought, he was also becomingterrifyingly more like someone else.
It was a problem he would help the young man to face, and soon if Harry could manage it.
The boy had faced more horrors in his young life than most wizards ever would, and yet, he had endured. There was a strength in Harry that Snape had once overlooked, blinded as he had been by his own bitterness.
But now, as he lay on the cold floor, the weight of his responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders, Snape knew that he could no longer afford to make that mistake. Harry needed him, and for the first time, Snape accepted that need with something close to humility.
As dawn began to break, casting a faint light through a single small, barred window, Harry stirred. Snape watched as the boy blinked awake, his eyes groggy but clear of the terror that had haunted him before.
"Professor?" Harry's voice was hesitant, uncertain.
"I'm here," Snape replied from somewhere below, his tone gentler than he had remembered hearing from the man before.
Harry sat up slowly, looking around the room as if trying to remember where he was. When his gaze finally landed on Snape, still lying on the floor beside him, his eyes widened in surprise.
"You were in no condition to be left alone," he said simply, sitting upright, as if all of this was the most natural thing in the world.
Harry felt unsure about this new development at first, but decided he was ultimately pleased by it.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Snape looked away, unfamiliar with expressions of gratitude from others. "There is no need for thanks," he said gruffly. "You are my responsibility, Potter. I am merely doing what must be done."
But Harry knew there was more to it than that. He could see it in the way Snape's gaze lingered on him, in the way the man's voice had softened, if only slightly. For the first time, Harry felt a strange sense of safety in Snape's presence—something he had never expected to feel.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them, a mutual acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between them in the darkness of the night.
Finally, Snape stood, brushing signs of the floor from his cloak and stretching his stiff limbs. "You should prepare for the day," he said, his voice returning to its usual brisk tone. "We have much to discuss later."