"Potter, you may as well speak up." Snape said, his manner brusque. "After all, if you don't, you may get a condition."

Identical expressions of shock were on all three of the students' faces. Even thinking of Snape as someone interested in a student enough to listen - let alone ask for an explanation.

Snape didn't let them brew too long, he finished, "For this brief moment of time, you speak for the entirety of Wizarding Britain, to the Great Goblin Nation that lies beneath Gringotts." Snape loomed, somehow, over everyone in the room, including Albus Dumbledore. "It would be the height of irresponsibility to allow you to do so in such a state."

Leave it to Snape to express caring as a duty, Hermione thought.

There could be no other reason Snape was asking for my life's story, Harry thought, slightly perplexed and frustrated - both emotions were soundly drenched by the grief he was feeling.

Damned Slytherins, Harry thought, and wanted desperately to punch something. Leaving me alone with my thoughts, with the invitation of a listening ear... Harry held his silence until he thought he was going to explode, and then he abruptly did. "It's Ron! Ron'll never forgive me for this!"

Draco sagged back in his chair, perhaps thinking about the melodramatic fool of a Gryffindor.

Hermione leaned forward, putting her hand on Harry's knee, and said softly, "You knew this would happen, he won't accept you being friends with the both of us."

Draco Malfoy leaned back, hands behind his head, elbows out, "Especially me." The tone sounded smug, but a quick glance at Malfoy's face showed a dullness that bespoke more understanding than Harry had ever thought he'd find.

Snape nodded, as he stretched to full length along the back wall's curvature. "Meditation will have to do, I suppose, we haven't that much time. Otherwise I'd point the way to the Quiddich pitch and save myself the effort."

Dumbledore smiled at that. He probably thought Snape was helping when he said things like that. He wasn't. Harry didn't know what he could say to Dumbledore to convince him otherwise, though.

At least Hermione and Malfoy didn't stare at him like he was some sort of odd duck. When Snape described sitting on the floor, with their legs crossed, they imitated Snape. (Of course, Snape had to be different by sitting on a drum-like stool, cross-legged, with his knobby knees sticking out. Harry tried not to notice just how pale, thin and pallid Snape's legs were. It was easier to hate him if Harry didn't recognize him. If Snape could be some sort of all-powerful devil - even the sort with a heart of gold buried deep beneath the scales).

Snape's melodic voice purred against their ears, and Harry let himself fly, crescendoing around a grassy meadow, swooping up and down. It was relaxing, truthfully. And, when Harry had to deal with the inevitables, it was just the thing he needed.

Because it was emotions that were the problem, for bloody once. It wasn't someone trying to kill him, or Ginny, or Hermione, or even bloody rocks-for-brains Ron Weasley.

By the time Harry opened his eyes, he was centered again, and he almost swore he saw the ghost of a smile (long dead, of course) in the crinkle at the corners of Snape's eyes.

[a/n: Hm. Snape likes to teach, when children are good at learning, and apply themselves. I'm not quite sure whose voice the above is written in - did you catch that. I think it kind of fluctuated, hitting Harry about midway through.

Reviews, as always, mean I write more.]