Author's Note: I'm not a Dumbledore/Snape shipper; this was written as part of a challenge. No offence to shippers of aforementioned couple…but it's really a struggle to write. Probably because I follow the student set more. Also, all errors are solely mine. I have not sent this to a beta…yet, anyway.

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   He was quiet. He was always quiet.

   It was instinct now. Second nature, really. The stalking that he did for the students, with hard soles slapping the stone floor; that was effort – that was his carefully cultivated act. No one was to know that Severus Snape was anything less than imposing, terrifying, intimidating, and deadly.

   No one was to know that he snuck. Sneaking was for infants tiptoeing out of bed to get a glass of water, not for formerly-Death-Eating Potions Masters.

   But he knew. He always knew.

   Worse, he snuck, too.

   "Severus," he called.

   The voice would always be recognizable to Severus. No voice could be so solemn, terrifying, and annoyingly mischievous at once.

   Still, he reacted before he could recognize the voice; that was how quick his instincts were. The owner of aforementioned voice found a wand pointed at his throat. Severus' arm shook. Then it lowered.

   His eyes burned. He hated been seen like this. Vulnerable. Slytherins wouldn't jump to face their opponents, shaking with fear. Slytherins didn't sneak, and no one snuck up on a Slytherin.

   Well, maybe Slytherins would sneak. Not like this – but for a real purpose. Not because they couldn't sleep, for fear of the nightmares.

   For fear of waking to the searing pain on their forearms.

   Severus scowled, tucking the wand back into his robes.

   He – the voice's owner still, he would face the danger of Severus' wand and live to tell of it – smiled slightly. Sympathetically.

   Damn him. He always knew.

   "Severus," he said again.

   Severus. A name like poetry. A name that rolled off the tongue; specifically, his tongue.

   Severus, for his part, scowled deeper in disgust. A name, he noted, that sounded perfect for a romance novel.

   "Albus," he replied. The name was awkward to speak, like a stutter. And plain. Plain in its own demented way.

   Much like the old coot himself, Severus decided, a calmness returning to his scathing gaze.

   He regarded Severus over half-moon glasses. Severus stared back, unfazed. Words were hardly needed.

   Words between them, like shoe soles smacking angrily against stone floors, were nothing more than an elaborate charade, something they performed only in the presence of others.

   "I couldn't sleep," Severus finally said.

   Albus didn't bother to reply. He'd known.

   He always knew.

   "Follow me," he replied, but Severus had known. He had known long before the words, and long before the strong, sure hand clutched his fleeting, spindly fingers in its reassuring grip.

   They snuck. Severus no longer felt like a tiptoeing child, fleeing to escape a nightmare, less than a Slytherin.

   He was no longer a child, and not even a Slytherin could escape the nightmare. But he was no longer tiptoeing alone. He was no longer tiptoeing. Together, they were past that route of escape. There were other ways.

   And they were quiet. They were always quiet.