Snape watched Harry as he lay, submerged in the very depths of dreamless sleep. The sheets wrapped about him as if to form a fabric chrysalis, cocooning him through the bitter throes of winter, waiting to burst free in the release of spring. The were shoulders limp now, that had been drawn tight as a bow under unthinkable weight; the line of tension between the brows was now brushed away by the soft oblivion of sleep, the bruise-dark circles under the eyes were faded, but still distinct. The weight of the burden the boy had carried was only evident now that it had been lifted.

The boy seemed so vulnerable now, the defiant line gone from his mouth, the iron of his spine softened. He felt a stab of protective instinct jar through him, felt compelled to protect this fragile sleeper. He fought the urge to brush the comma of dark hair from the pale forehead, the tender gesture of a parent. No, he told himself. No, there is a line that cannot be crossed. Soon the Dark Lord will call you to him. He will ask of this, and you will have to lie, you will have to hide this memory away and swear your fealty to him. You will not be able to hide this; it will be burned into your skin, memory, heart. He forced himself to walk from him.

He sat at his desk at the front of the dungeon, upon which rested a stack of essays on the properties and uses of hippogriff talon in potionmaking, but he made no move to begin grading them. In the dim light of the dungeon, the jars of potions ingredients, the eyes of pufferfish and newt mutely regarding him from the briny confines of their jars, were his only witnesses. A lesser man might have buried his head in his hands, but Snape sat as if frozen.

You must control yourself, he told himself.

A thread of hope had quietly wound itself into his heart, and it tore through him with every beat. The bitter voice of experience whispered to give up, give in, surrender that last hope. The anguish he faced now was unlike anything he had ever known. The choice to become a spy had been an act of simplicity, by contrast. He had been fueled by the rage and loss that had hummed through his veins, hollowed out by grief like the rush of acid through the engine of a machine. He had nothing then to lose but his life, and he had not cared for that, either. But this hope gave him so very much to lose. The irony of the situation did not escape Snape. Harry and he were more alike than either had ever dared think, let alone admit. Come to peace, Dumbledore had said. How he longed for that peace... He was offered a salvation that he had never thought possible, by an incomprehensible twist of fate. But at what cost did redemption come? What a pair we make, Potter, champion of the light, and I—spy, traitor to the light, the dark, and myself. It was a peace that placed the lives of both the champion and the spy in further danger. No. He could not risk the boy's life for the sake of his own tender feelings. I cannot, will not, be ruled by my emotion. He thought of the still, fragile boy in the next room.Snape walked a thin line, and all that lay below him was air. A voice whispered to him, You can save him only by leaving him.

***

Harry woke gently this time, slowly surfacing to break into consciousness. He drifted, becoming aware of the dryness of his mouth, the press of the pillow against his cheek, the muted light of the room that seeped through his eyelids. The room, when he opened his eyes, was a blur of light and shadow. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes, one long shadow resolved itself into the black robes and pallid face of the Potions Master. The dark man approached slowly, studying Harry. When the boy managed to raise himself from the bed, he placed a glass on the table before him. Harry eyed it with drowsy suspicion.

"It is only water, Mr. Potter. You have slept for two days; I made the rash assumption that you would feel thirst. I assure you that I am not attempting to…further harm you." There was a note in Snape's voice that Harry did not recognize. Harry opened his mouth to reply, only to find that his voice had dried to a feather-thin rasp. Two days. What had they told the students? I wonder if Hermione and Ron know the truth. His stomach twisted as he thought of Hermione and Ron. The knowledge that he had harmed Hermione, that he could have seriously injured her, even accidentally, was a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. The image of her wax-pale face in the potions classroom flashed in his mind; the memory of the explosion replayed itself in his mind. He forced himself back to the present.

Harry took the glass carefully, finding his hands steadier than they had been in weeks. Why doesn't he say anything? Where was the mockery, the rapier of sharp wit? Harry thought. His mind began to work as he studied the professor's face while he drank, remaining guarded. There was no anger, no cruelty in those dark eyes, Harry realized, to his relief. There was, unbelievably, almost a gentleness in his voice. He had to say something to Snape. He had so many questions. With that thought, a spasm of pain shot through Harry's forehead as Snape's hand pressed hard to his forearm. Was Voldemort summoning his followers?, Harry wondered. He felt that he must speak now.

"Professor, the things that I said to you in the tower--" Harry began tentatively, and the expression on the potions master's face changed.

"Potter, I'm afraid that now is not the time to discuss that. Dobby will escort you to the hospital wing." The man started to his feet and swept from the room.

As the house-elf led him through the concealed passageways of the hallway, he couldn't help but to feel oddly bereft, to feel as though Snape had rejected him. You're being stupid, he told himself. You have a nervous breakdown in front of a man who has loathed you for years and then you're sad when he doesn't pat you on the head and tell you that it'll all be okay. Was it some effect of his first sleep-deprived, then drug-addled mind that he now felt this way? In the tower, for just a moment, even as he fell to pieces, he had felt safe in a way that he could not remember ever in his life: not at Privet Drive, not at Hogwarts, not even at the Burrow. I can only imagine what Sirius, or worse, my father would think. He felt another wave of guilt at that. But if he doesn't care, a small voice protested, why did he come to the tower? He turned the problem over and over again in his mind, as if it were a puzzle-box that he was trying to open, but by the time he reached the hospital wing, he was still left without answers.

***

Thank you for your reviews! They really do encourage me to write more, and to write faster. Sorry that this is more of a filler chapter; the next one should be better!