Insomniacs

Since the late-night conversation when I complimented Potter we have a more or less casual rapport (marked with caustic remarks aimed every which way), and 'watching' him is not such a terrible experience. He spends most of the time he is within my sight – I let him do what he wants at least half a day so that we stave off cabin fever as long as possible – studying, changing partners between Draco (most often), Granger, and Ginevra. He remains secretive about what he is learning, but the wards detect no use of Dark Arts and, unless that happens, I feel no duty to report it to the Headmaster.

It is different to become a conspirator after such a long time of serving conspirators, but I find that I rather enjoy it. Potter is more proficient at the game than I would ever have guessed. He is also more intelligent than anyone estimates him to be, hiding behind Granger's so obvious brilliance. She receives credit for everything clever the Golden Trio comes up with, but I am quite sure now that the most cunning ideas were Potter's in origin and passed of as group effort (which everyone automatically understood was the two boys being bullied around by the know-it-all).

Nevertheless, it takes a week before I decide to 'betray' Draco's confidence. At the ungodly hour of four in the morning, there are three of us in the kitchen – William, who is on duty, Potter, who I realise now is quite insomniac due to rather abhorrent nightmares, and myself. I am doped up on caffeine, having spent last evening (the New Moon) brewing Lupin's enhanced Wolfsbane.

"I caught Draco performing a Dark Curse on himself," I announce into the silence. Neither of them startles, and only William gapes at me incredulously.

"When was this?" Potter asks calmly, as though he had expected something like that. Judging by how much he knows Draco (better than I know him), he probably has.

"Last Wednesday."

Potter nods.

"Thanks. We had talked about it, but he didn't inform me that he actually did it… although I was quite certain he did." His words carry a hint of menace.

"Have you forbidden it?"

It has taken a lot of auto-suggestion, but in the end I have convinced myself that Potter was a capable guardian for Draco, and have accepted his authority over the Malfoy heir. Theoretically, Potter is temporarily the Head of three influential families, but he exercises none of that vast political power. He is still in school, of course, but other people in his position would have already attended Wizengamot meetings and the such… it is a topic to discuss with him. I can quite well imagine that Dumbledore did not deign to inform him of his positions and Potter was not allowed to visit Gringotts to collect his inheritance.

"I haven't," he replies, pulling me out of my musing. "I actually… supported it. I had just hoped that he would inform me when he does do it." There is no anger in his voice, merely slight disappointment.

I think I understand now why Draco responds so well to his guidance – the expectations are reasonable, the punishments also, mistakes are explained, and Potter does not get angry at Draco. I think Draco might fear me, just as he once feared his father – respected him, but feared him. Potter, on the other hand, is patient. He encourages Draco and praises him for success, while not letting him become spoilt. There is no wonder the Slytherin looks up to him.

"You allowed him to practice Dark Arts?" William asks, alarmed yet – I note – not accusing.

Potter snorts. I have a distinct feeling that it would be hypocritical of him to forbid it.

"It was the Curse of Path Em, Bill."

I have never heard of it before, but William obviously has.

"Where have you learnt about that?!"

"We found a copy of Champollion's Hieroglyphs in the Black library the first night we were here."

William's jaw sinks.

"That's… that's worth…"

"More than the Burrow," Potter says sadly. "Yeah, Draco said so. Narcissa had raved about it when he first started taking Ancient Runes – she was quite mad that she couldn't access Grimmauld Place and recover it. As soon as Draco got here he made a beeline for it."

"He could read it?" William wonders. "It's French!"

"Draco is bilingual," I inform him. Potter nods, already aware of the fact. "He had a French governess as a child. By the time he was four he spoke fluently both languages."

"Nice," William acknowledges. "I started another language when I was thirteen, and learnt from books. It took me until twenty to be fluent." Well, naturally. Children learn faster, and by communicating. But we are getting off-topic.

"What is the 'Curse of Path M'?" I ask. William passes the question to Potter.

"It's one of Ptolemy's Charms, from the second Rosetta Stone."

"There is a second Rosetta Stone?"

"There are three, actually," Potter says, surprised that I am not aware of it. But this is not material taught in the History of Magic, and my post-Hogwarts education is rather limited to Potions and Dark Arts. "The second and third are, naturally, hidden from Muggles, since they are quite revealing about the nature of magic. That is what makes Champollion's book so valuable – the Rosetta Stones are in a private collection of the Bouchards, so no one can read them, and the knowledge written there is revolutionary."

I gape at the two, still not over the realisation that I am in the middle of an intellectual debate with a Potter. I was aware that he is smarter than I thought him to be, but it is still disconcerting to see it in real life.

"What is so revolutionary about it?"

"It explains the evolution of magic users and magical society," William says, pouring himself a cup of tea and offering to refill my cup. I decline; the brew tastes like old socks (well, how I imagine old socks must taste). He puts the pot on the oven and turns back. Potter, in the meantime, draws a silhouette of a human body with a pencil and makes coloured marks (with the same pencil – I have not seen magic used this way before) on its axis.

"In the times of the beginnings of writing, magic wasn't clearly split on Light and Dark. It was regarded as Malicious, Neutral and Helpful. The Curse of Path Em is misnamed – or, rather, the translation of its name is incorrect. It used to be classed as Neutral."

"It feels Dark, though," I interrupt William's speech. He shrugs.

"That is possible. But the Egyptian system was different. They classed the Killing Curse as Neutral."

"It actually makes sense when you think about it," Potter says before I can voice my outrage at such misconceptions. "Cruciatus and Imperius are Dark and Malicious, but Avada is not necessarily intentioned as harmful. The Ministry says it's the worst of the three, but I sort-of remember all three being cast on me, and Avada's not so bad. You just… black out. People die, but it doesn't hurt, and you don't watch yourself hurt other people."

It is true that in Death Eater circles, execution by the Killing Curse is considered merciful. It cannot be a bad death. Instantaneous.

Potter pushes the scheme he drew under my nose and sets to explain the colour-coded markings and how it relates to systemic vortices of energy, which the Sanskrit named Chakras.

x

At half past eight I am forced to endure the presence of the entire Potter clique including Draco, who troop down for breakfast. William has gone to catch up on his sleep, and Molly has kept glaring at the parchments strewn over the table until Potter put them together on a neat pile and stashed them on a bench.

The oaves seat themselves and delve into pancakes, with the notable exception of Potter, who declines the piled-up plate in the favour of a single dry toast and a mug of black coffee.

Ten headache-inducing minutes later, Granger's eyes bulge and she swallows heavily.

"You are married?!" she exclaims, cringes under my scowl, and adds: "Sir…" Which was not what that scowl was supposed to achieve.

Potter bursts in laugh. I rest my elbows on the table and hide my face in my palms to prevent the brats from seeing the traces of my somewhat hysterical amusement.

"You are married, Severus?" Molly Weasley just had to be the one to hear that, did she not.

"Have I said something wrong?" Granger wonders, frowning at Potter as if estimating his mental health. It is definitely deteriorating. I quash the laughter pulling on the corners of my mouth and face the girl.

"No, Miss Granger, I am not married. Neither am I engaged," I add before she gets ideas.

"But…" she gestures to my hand, where I wear the relatively new band. "You have a ring. You've never had a ring before." As if it was any of her business.

"That is true, Severus," Molly notes. "You never were one for jewellery."

"It's alright, Professor," Potter says, finally having calmed down. "According to the third Rosetta Stone-"

"Third Rosetta Stone?!" I knew it. I knew Granger does not know everything.

"-the availability of magic and the simple solutions it provides cause magic users to cease exercising their logical thinking. It is a natural by-product of the additional abilities wizards have that they can't reason their way out of a paper-bag." He glances over at Granger, who imitates Ronald's fish-expression to a tee. "I am loath to say it, but Hermione seems to have contracted it."

"I do hope it is not terribly contagious."

"You seem to have avoided it all these years… or perhaps you have been immunised… is there somewhere I could be vaccinated?"

Granger looks so affronted that it is funny and the purebloods, unfamiliar with vaccination, were unable to follow the line of thought. Most of them probably have not noticed they were insulted. Who knew there was so much of a Slytherin in young Potter?

x

Two more weeks pass. Draco refuses to speak to me unless he absolutely has to. The two youngest Weasleys steer clear from me and Granger tries to keep our interaction at absolute minimum, which I welcome. Other than a brief conversation over a goblet of Wolfsbane Potion I have not talked to Lupin at all – in that one instance I assured him that Potter is a brat, getting on my nerves, and we are both dealing with it. He did not pry further, as it matched exactly what he expected to hear.

In the span of twenty-six days, Draco has grown to… dare I say it… love Potter. It is incontestably obvious and, strangely, the entire clique has accepted it, with less or more reproaches (more in Ronald's case). They started including him in their activities – I suspect the joint influence of Potter and the Curse of Path Em. It would have worn off a long time ago, but not before giving the boy a unique insight and making him just that bit wiser.

It is a huge difference.

He spends an immense amount of time with Amos Diggory, though almost never in Potter's presence. Amos does not blame the brat for Cedric's death, but I suspect Potter fears having to face his own conscience in such a confrontation and feels ill-prepared for that.

It already seems as if we shall survive August without interference from the Dark Lord when, on Tuesday night, I awake to an ear-splitting screech. It comes from my hand.

"Euryale!" I bark at the ring and leap for the door, ignoring my state of undress. Half-naked I run through the halls, mostly empty until I nearly collide with staggering Draco Malfoy in front of Potter's and his door. His eyes are wide and breathing quickened – glaring signs of panic.

"Where is Potter? What happened?"

He shrinks away from me, huddles so close to the wall that it looks as though he was hugging it and shakes like a leaf.

"Draco!"

"H-he t-told me t-to run if he acted weird!" he cries. I curse and walk into the room. The sides are clearly distinguishable; Draco's dependence on house elves is apparent in the strewn clothes (borrowed Muggle clothes, though he seems to be comfortable wearing them). Potter has a closed trunk shoved under his bed, jeans and shirt he wore during the day slung over the back of the chair and a pair of trainers in pitiful condition at the foot of his bed. That is all his movable property.

Draco has, somewhere, several mansions full of things.

I hear shuffling from the doorway – the boy must have followed me – and ignore it. Potter lies on the bed, caught in the middle of a seizure; a trickle of blood that escaped the curse oozing down his jaw and staining the bed linen.

I lift my wand, just in case.

"Stheno," I say quietly, very unappreciative of Potter's warped sense of humour in setting the passwords, but glad that he thought to add one to release him. Otherwise I would have to spend twenty-eight minutes standing here, psychically readying myself for a possible attack.

Potter's back arches further. His mouth opens in a soundless scream. I do not have time to check for a Silencing Charm – I have to keep my wand trained of him, so that I will not be surprised by deadly hundred pounds of a homicidal psychopath-possessed teenager.

"Aguamenti," Draco yells and aims a stream of water around me. It hits Potter in the chest, spraying his face and a quarter of the room around him. He sags, though, and it seems as though he lost consciousness, except that he is breathing too rapidly. He opens his eyes.

"It's just a vision, Snape, not possession," he rasps. "'s alright."

"Potter!" I bellow. "I was awoken in the middle of the night by your damn ring blaring to high Heavens! I demand to know what is happening!" It comes across as anger, which I am glad for, because otherwise at least two of my students would have seen me worried about the Gryffindor Golden Boy, and I would never live that down.

With great effort, he pushes himself off the wall and rolls to his right sight, curling slightly to relax his backbone, which had been unnaturally stretched during the fit. He spits a bit of pink liquid and glares at Draco and myself.

"Well, yeah, it fucking hurts like a living Hell, you bastard!"

This is not real anger either and I let him get away with it, only this once, only because he is in pain and I am more concerned about his physical state than about his language.

"Be still, you heathen," I growl. It can alter the results of a medical scan if he moves.

Being completely motionless apparently aggravates the muscle trauma, so I hurry and have it done quickly. The Gorgon curse probably saved him from the worst of it, but it is still equal to one or two minutes of Cruciatus.

"You are such a pest, Potter," I grumble and Summon a vial of freshly brewed Muscle-relaxant. It is the best thing available (I deal myself a few choice words within my mind for the lack of foresight) in this blasted house. It would have been more potent if it had time to mature.

"'know," he says, weak after the adrenaline has drained. "'n freak. God knows 've been told 'ften 'nough."

"No self-pity," I admonish, catch the vial from the mid-air and put it to his lips. "Drink, then sleep."

He drinks, but does not obey the second part of the command.

"Dumbledore," he says, takes a few deep breaths, and clarifies: "Need to talk to him."

Draco mumbles an affirmative and runs off to find a fire-place with a Floo connection.

x

Dumbledore arrives twenty minutes later, dressed in a dark blue robe adorned with a myriad of tiny silver stars. He sits on the side of Potter's bed, pats the boy's hand in a grandfatherly fashion, and looks at Draco and myself over the half-moon spectacles. Draco ignores him completely, staring at Potter, who is paler than chalk, but at least has finally stopped shaking. He should not be sitting up yet, but the wall supports him and he downplays the effect the vision had on him.

I notice the expectation the Headmaster eyes me with, but I refuse to just up and leave now, after four weeks of 'watching' the Boy Who Lived.

"Harry, my boy…"

Potter quirks the corner of his mouth in a grimace easily mistaken for a half-smile.

"Hello, Headmaster," he says simply, calmly. Dumbledore attempts to shoo me out of the room again, but I refuse to budge, which irritates him, though not enough to outright ask me to leave, because he knows Draco (smart and well-versed in mind-games) would recognise the attempt on taking advantage of Potter's state. Reports of Draco's obvious devotion to Potter must have reached his ears.

"I have heard that you have had another vision, Harry."

"Yes, sir," Potter replies, maintaining the economy of words. His shortness confuses Dumbledore and I relish in the picture. The boy is sixteen, exhausted and aching, and yet keeps the upper hand in the conversation. What a wizard Potter could have been by this time under my tutelage… had I not despised him.

"I understood that you have something urgent to tell me, Harry, so if you could, please. It is a rather late hour, and my bones are not as young as they used to be."

Potter ignores the patronising admirably.

"Sir, Voldemort-" Draco and I both shiver, but neither flinches, which in itself is a success. "-has gathered a squadron of werewolves, and plans to release them on orphanages in London."

Dumbledore's expression darkens.

"Full moon is in two days-"

"The calendar states two days, Headmaster," I barge in. "Werewolves transform already tomorrow." He should have realised that, but my involvement in brewing Lupin's potion makes me more aware of the lunar cycle and its quirks.

"Do you know which night, Harry?" Dumbledore asks benignly, twinkling despite it being a very inappropriate moment for his geniality. Potter shakes his head.

"But I have a feeling it's going to be all three. And I don't know which orphanages either, but at least one stands to reason…"

"The place no longer exists, Harry," Dumbledore rebuffs the idea. "It was raided and burnt in the First War."

I have only an inkling of what they are speaking of, since I was never considered important enough to be enlightened as to the internal workings of my leaders' minds. I know what I have seen and the rumours I have heard. The Dark Lord – Tom Riddle – was practically born an orphan. The conclusion is obvious.

"Thank you for this information, Harry. Can you recall something else that could be of use? Anything?"

"They'll be lead by a bloke called 'Fenrir'. Tall, probably strong… and barefoot. He was barefoot."

I did not need to hear the description – the name was enough. Who else would be chosen to lead werewolves into a massacre?

"Greyback," Draco whispers, eyes wide. So he has met the monster. Dumbledore turns to the source of the faint sound, and Potter uses the distraction to give his protégé a silent order to fill him in later. Draco apparently understands, despite giving no outward sign of recognition.

"Thank you, Harry. That is valuable knowledge."

"I am sorry, Professor, I don't know anything more," Potter says, suppressing a yawn.

"That is quite alright, my boy," Dumbledore says and stands up. "Go to sleep – it seems to me that you do need it. Try to have a good night yet." He turns and twinkles at me. "Severus, do not be too hard on the children tomorrow."

I do not acknowledge that with an answer – the brats know well that I am not such a bastard that I would skin either of them for having suffered. Even though I may have done so in the past.

"Good night, Professor," Potter says quietly, receiving a beaming smile from the Headmaster.

"Good night, boys."

The door clicks shut behind the apparition of blue and silver, and the atmosphere noticeably relaxes. Potter lets his head fall back, as though his neck was too weak to carry it. Draco waits a few seconds, and when it is obvious that Dumbledore is well and truly gone, he crawls on the bed next to Potter and rests his head on a bony shoulder, like a confused little animal. Potter puts one arm around his torso and offers what meagre comfort he can.

I restrain myself from giving the closed door a plebeian rude gesture.

"Why does it hurt you so much?" Draco whispers. It is, in fact, a very good question – one that I should have asked immediately. Potter lets his hand play with Draco's hair while he formulates the answer.

"When Voldemort casts the Cruciatus Curse, the power comes from his hatred." Draco nods, even though Potter is pointing out the obvious so far. "But there is no one, not even Dumbledore, whom Tom hates as much as he hates me. When he casts that curse, at anyone, while the connection between our minds is active, he casts it also at me. I can't quite dodge…" Draco shudders and stifles a whine in Potter's shirt.

I am quite certain that I should not be here to witness this, but they do not seem to mind me, and, strangely, even though the scene is too emotional for my tastes, it is not repulsive to watch as the kiss was.

"Tell me about Fenrir Greyback," Potter requests from me, tightening his hold on Draco's ribcage when the Slytherin shudders again.

"Fenrir Greyback is a born werewolf. He is approximately sixty-year-old, and quite famous as the werewolf with the greatest number of victims on his list. Many Death Eaters kill for fun, but he is one of the few who like to do it… hands-on."

"I saw him…" Draco's whisper is cut off as he gags. Potter automatically rubs his back, and a few moments later the boy composes himself enough to speak again. "I saw him eat a Muggle child. Kill and eat. Raw."

That was one of the unfortunately unforgettable displays. I was present at the meeting, although at that time I did not know that Draco was as well. That was no show for children. It was not for adults, either, but at least most of us were there by our own decision, not our parents'. How fitting now seems Lucius's death…

But eating Muggle children, and killing for that matter, is not all that Greyback is renowned for. There is another stain on his black conscience, and another man in this house who has met the monster.

"Greyback is the werewolf who infected Lupin."

Potter's expression does not change. I have actually expected it to. I have not paid enough attention to him, perhaps, but in hindsight I realise that Potter has avoided Lupin in the past month just as he has avoided Diggory. Likely for the very same reason.

"Dumbledore isn't going to let either of us go," Potter remarks easily. He lowers Draco on his bed – the boy must have been exhausted to fall asleep in the middle of a debate – and awkwardly climbs over him. I catch his arm before he falls off the bed and steady him.

"Thanks," he says quietly, and with my aid stands on the carpet. I release my hold of his arm, grimly aware of how thin it is. He still does not eat.

"You need a nanny, idiotic Gryffindor."

The insult raises no response. Potter moves over to Draco's bed and sits down.

"A lot of people are going to get killed," he states darkly. It is weird to see a teenager think this way. He might be right, but even I would hesitate to predict the outcome of such a clash. A dozen werewolves against a crowd of mismatched wizards with variety of levels of skill and little children all around. It is going to be butchery.

"Such is war."

Potter nods, biting his lower lip. His eyes are glazed over dull green as he stares somewhere out of the confines of the bedroom. One of the candles on the shelf burns down and a thin wisp of smoke wafts toward us.

Potter sighs and lies down. He is tired beyond his years, and weighed by the knowledge that the wizarding world expects him to change the nature of the war. They could just as well ask him to bring Heaven to Earth or convince the goblins to give out all their gold.

I echo his sigh and lean back in the chair. I do not feel like going back to my room right now. Potter's dull eyes watch me, but he does not show any will to throw me out. He seems surprised that I would choose to stay, but does not question or contest my decision.

"I want to go there," he admits.

"Because you are stupid," I reply. He shrugs, burrowing further into the blankets.

"It's genetic." He says bitterly. "I told you about the violence. There's going to be violence, and they thrive on it. They thrive…" The green intensifies as his eyes pierce me. "…but so do I, now. They made me this way, and I'm going to bring them down for it."

"You are just going to get killed, Potter, and take more people with you." The jibe was supposed to make him see reason – ergo to make him give up the foolish notion of going into a battle against twelve werewolves. It most certainly was not supposed to make him laugh.

"But that is what I was born for, Snape." He chuckles again. "I was born to die and take people with me. But, with a lot of effort and luck, I might just take the correct ones."

I have hundred answers to that, but he does not want to hear them, and I refuse to waste my breath on someone so impossible and suicidal. He is going to hurt Draco, but Draco will recover if Potter dies, I am sure. And I do not care about him, beyond keeping him alive under the prying eye of Dumbledore.

So I let him sleep without telling him what a selfish moron he is.