Snape stared at the fire. The boy had been gone for about three quarters of an hour now but Snape felt no desire to follow him. The boy could go where he wanted, especially when he was hiding something in his left hand as he so blatantly was.

The door of his quarters opened and he glanced around, expecting to see Potter, but he was both shocked and surprised to see Madam Pomfry and Professor McGonagall stepping through the door. He stood up immediately, a genuine look of confusion on his face, which was quickly surpassed by a sneer.

"What has Potter done now?"

"Only landed himself in the hospital wing," said Professor McGonagall sharply. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Whatever he does in the castle -"

"He didn't do it in the castle," Madam Pomfry said, voice bordering on angry, "He did it where he was sleeping."

Snape gave them both an equal stare.

"What," he said evenly, "Are you talking about?"

"What do you think that is?" McGonagall stated crisply, pointing to the floor. Snape spied the trail of brown-red on the floor, and followed it from the door to the passageway. He pushed the door to Harry's room.

There was a large patch of dribbling red-brown on the wall. Snape rapped on the door. No noise was heard.

"He spelled the door," he called back, wondering what had possessed Potter to do such a thing. "He's not in a regular habit of smashing his fist into the wall, is he?" Snape questioned sarcastically.

"No," came Madam Pomfrey's voice, holding a hint of dangerous warning.

Snape retraced his steps to the main room, and raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Madam Pomfry.

"Albus wants to see you."

Snape exhaled, knowing he was going to be berated. He didn't know if he could handle the disappointment from Albus. He followed the pair out of his quarters.

llllllllll

Professor Dumbleore was sat by the sleeping boy's side, Harry's left hand heavily bandaged. Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfry stepped in.

McGonagall nodded to Dumbledore and left as Madam Pomfry stepped into her office.

"Pull up a chair, Severus."

Snape did as he was told.

"What could have possessed him to do such a thing?"

Snape was incredulous. "You're asking me this, Albus?"

"Severus... I have been very concerned with this boy's behaviour for the past few months. His friends report that he has no unusual dreams anymore, which surprises me..."

"Why?"

"The occasional nightmare would be normal for his kind of stress. This, I think, means that he is having nightmares almost every night, and he is charming himself to silence. That would also explain his initial reaction to my suggesting he move in with you."

Snape was silent for a moment.

"You always have been incredibly perceptive," he remarked. "But are you sure you're not looking too deeply into this?"

Albus smiled, and Snape didn't like it.

"I need to ask you a favour, Severus," he said gently. "I need you to stay with him tonight."

"By all the gods, Albus, why?" he exploded in a virulent whisper.

Dumbledore gave him a steady look.

"I'm asking you this, Severus. The boy may wake, and he may try to hurt himself again."

Snape closed his eyes, knowing that nothing he said would make Dumbledore change his mind.

"Thankyou," said Dumbledore quietly, blue eyes sad as he laid a thin hand on Snape's shoulder.

llllllllll

Harry dreamed again that night. He watched his usual dream about the graveyard, followed by exactly the same dream that had caused him to smash his fist into a wall; the knowledge that Voldemort considered him his child, his son, his heir

why don't you know that you are my child?>

This time he had time to reply before he succumbed to the pain.

I'm waiting.

llllllllll

Snape was sat by the boy's bed for an hour before he started to move. Harry moved restlessly on the bed, and Snape frowned slightly.

When the boy's movements became more pronounced, he considered calling for Madam Pomfrey, but stopped short when he heard what was issuing from the boy's mouth. "No... no, wait, Cedric... Dad, don't leave me, don't ... mum, stay, please, don't leave..." Harry was sweating slightly, and Snape was beginning to feel an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time. He had begun to feel panicky.

What on Earth was he supposed to do? Wake the boy up, or let the nightmare run its course?

Harry's voice rose slightly, and Snape recognised names all too well...

"I didn't mean to kill you, God, forgive me, please, nobody asked me if I wanted to kill anybody -"

Harry stopped abruptly and settled back calmly onto the bed, although his harsh breathing didn't slow.

Snape was just beginning to calm down.

"NO!"

Harry sat bolt upright, sweat pouring down his face. His breathing sounded like someone sawing through a log with a rusty blade. His eyes, trying desperately to see something through his faulty vision, searched around the room for something to focus on. His eyes fixed upon the candlelight from across the room, and he sight appeared to calm the boy down.

Harry slumped against the headboard of the bed and let his head tip backwards. His breathing slowed, but the silent tears didn't.

He raised his head slightly as his hand groped around for his glasses. Snape held them out silently. Harry took them, wiped his face mindlessly with the sleeve of his jumper and put them on.

He appeared to notice for the first time the presence of the hand.

All expression on the boy's face physically closed down. Snape could feel him radiating this-just-gets-better-and-better vibes, without needing ligilimency to tell him so. The defeat in the boy's stature was obvious to tell.

"How -"

"Three hours."

There was a short period of silence. Harry seemed to be transfixed by the candle flame. Snape's face was unreadable, as were his emotions. How the hell was he supposed to react? He'd just seen the Boy-Who-Lived-To- Torment-Him visibly breaking down.

"Why -"

"Albus asked me to."

Again, there was a length of silence. Snape supposed neither of them really knew how to act. Potter had just woken up from what appeared to be a particularly vicious nightmare to find his most hated teacher watching him have a nervous collapse.

Potter appeared to notice this.

"What is there to say?"

"I am going to have to inform Albus -"

"No you don't."

Snape narrowed his eyes as the boy's stubbornness infused with his own irritation for Potter, creating a precariously balanced mix of anger, panic and sheer irritation at having to psychoanalyse the Golden Boy.

"It's not your place to tell me what to do, Potter."

"Ditto."

Snape slowly stood up, obsidian eyes flashing dangerously, and opened his mouth to reply. Then, in a flash, he saw, for the first time, the scene before him.

Harry Potter was sat with his knees pressed into his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around his shins. His chin rested upon his kneecaps, and his eyes gazed blankly at some point in the middle distance. Snape only just realised the reason the boy's eyes were so glassy was because he was trying not to cry. The irony was like a slap to the face.

Harry Potter wanted a hug.

This shut Snape's mouth with a snap. It was quite clear to see, from this moment in time, that the adolescent in front of him, while being the walking hormone bomb waiting to happen, could also be mentally unstable. Had no-one considered the possibilities? You put a fully grown man through five life attempts by the most evil wizard the world had ever seen. Throw in a pinch of parents dying, a sprinkle of losing a friend and then an unhealthy dash of your father figure hopping the twig, as they say, and you were left with a nervous wreck.

Snape supposed the reason Potter had survived so long was that teenagers were particularly adept at hiding emotional crises, and with this backup he had managed to bottle it up and stamp it down until he hadn't turned into a nervous wreck, but a dangerously balanced boy, trapped in a shell of depression, six feet from the edge and thinking that maybe six feet down wasn't that far after all.

Snape realised he'd been silent for too long, but Potter hadn't noticed. He still had that still, vacant stare but Snape noticed with some unnerved uncertainty that he'd sunk his teeth into his lower lip.

He decided it wasn't worth saying anything after all. He turned on his heel and stalked out of he hospital wing.

He was a teacher, for crying out loud, not a shrink. If the Golden Boy wanted someone for moral support, he could
(do with a few resurrections to keep him sane)
buy a hamster.