Drowsing and Dilemmas

Snape woke, wrapped in sheets and smothered in an undefined dread. Observations prodded mercilessly at him, indicating a strange and as of yet forgotten event. The clues hinted at something truly distressing: still in his clothes; echoes of pain licking at his muscles and chest; the bedroom door still open when he religiously shut it every night; his shoes up against the skirting board instead of under the bed; the lingering taste of Dreamless Sleep on his tongue; and the faint, muddy footprints on his rug.

Sensibly, he knew he wouldn't have invited just anybody into these rooms...a spare room that he used from time to time...so whoever it was must be an ally of sorts. It wasn't Minerva...the footprints were too big. It wasn't Flitwick or Hagrid, for similar reasons, and it wasn't a student...he'd have suffered death before needing help from a pupil. It couldn't have been just any member of staff, either, because they would have called for Pomfrey, and he'd have woken in the Hospital Wing with the matron fussing over him. So who...?

Oh no!

He flung back the sheets and rose unsteadily to his feet. An unsettling thought was skittering up his spine: was Neville still here? He hoped the boy had had the good sense to leave, but knowing his luck, Neville would be lurking around. Another thought lumbered into view like an iceberg from the fog: Minerva was due here at eight. Glancing across at the wall clock, he saw the minute hand vibrate, slicing off another minute of his time. He had fifteen minutes: that would be enough time to evict someone from his rooms before a perspicacious woman and her open mind started jumping to conclusions, wouldn't it?

Casting charms as he went, he refreshed himself and the room before stalking into the parlour. His current relationship with luck had held: Neville was still there. He'd been relatively calm until spying Neville. While he watched his slumbering rescuer, black memories bubbled up through his tarry memories of last night. He knew he'd left to search the dungeons and lower levels for the Gryffindor, and he could recall the crisp air attacking his lungs when he'd trudged down to the lake. His heart gave a flutter at the recollection of the flash of silver in the water: he'd been so sure it was pale hair caught in a murderous current.

If he concentrated, he could feel the echo of each pain-filled step back to the main entrance and up the stairs. But his mind was shadowy about where and how he'd met Neville. The only logical conclusion was that he'd been lucid enough to guide the young man to the potion cupboard and then into the spare room: no one could break the wards...no one but Minerva, that is. If so, then had he managed to get into bed by himself, or had Neville tucked him in? He groaned: the muddy footprints by his bed. The fact that he'd been discovered was bad enough; the rest was just bitter icing. The only saving grace was the thought of Neville's expression when he woke up.

His eyes drifted to the low table and the potions kit laying open, displaying its secrets. Letting out another low moan...Neville must have seen it...he swallowed past his sudden nausea and closed his eyes. It was only a moment of respite; it was always there... on the edge, waiting for weakness, for pain. The Dreamless Sleep had only sedated it. The need for that honey-coloured potion was his constant companion.

Scowling, he straightened and Banished the kit back to its hiding place. He wished he could smash it against the wall, but he'd need the potion soon enough; he could only use sleep as an escape for so long. Even now, his body ached and his throat burnt. The familiar pain was creeping along his nerves from his left forearm, the anxiety seeping through his veins. The need for the potion was stretching. Soon, he'd have to succumb and satisfy its lust.

He'd been foolish to push so hard last night; first the argument with Neville over dinner had caused a rebellious urge to flare, which crushing had cost him dearly...now was not the time. And it was inexcusable to ignore the call to search for a missing student. He should have taken something before leaving the castle. A bitter laugh rumbled; how ironic that the products of his skill and profession were something he now avoided. He earthed his frustration by kicking Neville's shin, smirking at the sleepy, mumbled request for more time... a mantra shared by many after a busy evening. Eventually, Neville's face reflected that all the pieces had come together into a rather unpleasant picture.

Something had nudged his shin. Grumbling, he pushed at it and then turned over. It bothered him for a moment that the bed seemed smaller, firmer... and upright, but he shoved it aside. This was glorious.

"Five more minutes..." he mumbled, reaching for covers he knew should be there.

Grumbling again, he fumbled for the missing blanket, his frustration increasing as sleep slipped further away. He didn't want to wake. The blanket had obviously deserted him, and his bed was being awkward, but he hadn't slept this well in years, and he was loathe to let the waking world reclaim him just yet.

Sleep's delicious lethargy was creeping through his muscles again, usurping the real world's claim. Gravity no longer applied... thoughts and dreads no longer held dominion... the shocks that skin was heir to were earthed and nullified.

One aspect of the real world was less reluctant to have him escape so easily.

"Longbottom, get out... of my chair."

It wasn't loud, but the threat of something... unpleasant slithered around every syllable.

His eyes popped open, but his mind was still in the land of nod, trying to delay the inevitable. Slowly, he unfurled from his foetal snuggling and turned his head to the source of that spine-tingling voice. His eyes focused on the pale face looming over him. If he could think of a spell, he'd use it to sink through the chair back. As it was, he couldn't get his thoughts to coalesce into anything, so he merely gulped and tried to look innocuous while straining to dig his way through the chair with his shoulder blades.

"I'm in your chair?"

It was gratifying to see confusion and unease compete for control of Neville's face. Discomfort obviously liked company. The temptation to be cruel flicked a fin, but he batted it aside; the knowledge that he could have been swirled pleasantly in his belly. In fact, the more time he spent in Neville's company, the more like his old self he felt. The sense of power was undeniable and a soothing balm against a world that rendered him powerless and sought to break him. It would seem perverse, then, for him to feel a sudden and almost debilitating vulnerability: Neville gave him something he could lose.

"Yes, you are," he responded smoothly. "If you would... be so kind... as to sit here?"

He gracefully swept his hand towards the vacant chair opposite, and Neville nodded, sidling around the table to collapse in the cold leather. It was one of those moments where you relied solely upon the outside to provide clues on what to do: those moments where the brain was wrapped in either fluffy confusion or crippling fear. Although, some part of Neville was conscious enough to repeatedly kick him. He shouldn't have fallen asleep.

Snape slipped languidly into his chair. It was a skill he'd practised and perfected: the ability to look graceful and composed when close to panic or complete collapse. Snape used the scene to gather his thoughts and keep Neville on the back foot; he wouldn't tolerate being weak in his own territory. The tactic worked, and Neville practically squirmed in the chair. Obviously, he hadn't been in many social settings since graduating or...much to Snape's surprise...woken up in another's room enough times to develop an etiquette for hasty departures. Snape's mirth withered slightly; it reminded him of how similar they actually were. Of course, Snape had many years of being a bastard under his belt, and he would have just glared and stalked out.

"Ermmm... I apologise for..."

"No need," Snape interrupted firmly. "I can guess... what happened last night. I owe you thanks."

"I... you... well..." he floundered, trying to pluck the right words from the air to explain his involvement in 'last night'. He gave up. "You're welcome."

Snape smiled tightly. "Sometimes, the simplest response is the most appropriate."

"Look... I didn't mean to fall asleep," he added sheepishly, worried that Snape's temper was bubbling away beneath his pale and indifferent exterior.

"It seems to be... a developing habit."

Neville flushed and swallowed hard. "Hardly a habit!" he protested weakly.

Snape glanced away; he knew the only reason Neville fell asleep under such circumstances was down to him, either through choice or fate. He hoped Neville wouldn't come to the same realisation. What perplexed him the most was that he didn't really seem to mind; there was some comfort in the concept of waking up with someone, of having someone watching over him... not being alone. It suggested an intimacy of sorts. But it was ridiculous! Neville had secured his potions' knowledge, and he was using Neville as a means to cast off the pressure that had been crushing down. There was nothing else, no blossoming friendship, no connection: it was business.

"The fact is that... you did," Snape said softly, inhaling mid-way and grimacing. He usually didn't have to talk this much first thing in a morning, and it was a strain. A mischievous flicker made him cough in surprise: he usually didn't have someone in his room this early to talk to. "Go... into the bathroom and... freshen up."

"What?"

"Bathroom... freshen up. We may as well... have the mentor meeting now, considering that you're...here." Snape suddenly smirked. "Besides, Minerva... will be here in five minutes."

Neville's eyes darted from Snape to the door, then to the chair and finally down to his dishevelled clothes. He swallowed; he could picture her so clearly: the straightening of the spine, the pursed lips, the slight tilt of the head, and then her left eyebrow, arching. He'd never be able to look in her in the eye again.

Snape watched realisation dawn across his face, bringing a pink blush and blasting away the mental fog. The unspoken question was smeared across his pained face. Snape grinned, answering silently by pointing towards the bedroom door. Neville gave a grateful nod and sped from the chair as though the Grim were on his tail.

When Neville returned, his skin practically tingling from the cleansing charms, he saw Minerva and Snape seated by the fire. Minerva smiled and bade him a good morning, which he returned. Snape didn't raise his head, instead waving him towards the dining table and the pile of papers that had been arranged there. He snorted under his breath; how suave was Snape to trick Minerva? Playing along, he sat and pulled the file towards him to study the notes within. His eyes followed the lines while his ears strained to catch what they were discussing.

Minerva watched Neville take his place and leisurely peruse the pile of papers. For some reason, she felt a flicker of jealousy. Her once-a-month cup of tea with Severus had become a sought after highlight; the idea of sharing the Saturday morning was irritating. Snape had been apologetic, citing timing as the culprit, but she knew the man well enough to know that despite his regret at the interrupted meeting, he was secretly pleased about something.

Neville was still an unknown factor, so she wasn't completely at ease. His lingering presence around the hidden Pensieve had left its mark. Consequently, her gaze had frequently settled on Neville, and in so doing, she'd caught glimpses of his impact on Severus. It had lightened her heart to see Severus so... amused and self-assured. Severus drew strength from the young man.

Still, as strange as it seemed, there was some... sense in the idea. They'd both suffered and withdrawn from the world. They both battled something which existed within...Pomona had often shared her concerns and grief with her about Neville. Life had cut them in similar ways. Suddenly, she had the overwhelming urge to share a coffee with Pomona. No one knew Neville as well as she did. Besides, it had been far too long since her last coffee morning in the greenhouses.

"I shan't take up your time, Severus," she said smartly, putting her empty cup on the table. "I remember the strains of mentoring all too well."

Snape let out a dry laugh. "Only because I was your mentee," he replied smoothly.

"Is that what you were?" Minerva countered with a potent smirk. "As I recall, many of the staff referred to you as something else."

"But... they didn't really... know me."

The exchange soothed Minerva's ruffled feathers. His freedom of expression implied that Neville was no issue between them. If Neville had been, he wouldn't have teased her or allowed himself to be teased. She glanced across at the young man, sitting so stiffly at the table, and various possibilities buffeted her mind. She knew both of them were sharing some secret, and her thoughts drifted back to her chat with Severus in the staffroom about his plotting. Was this to do with the Ministry? Were they conspiring to thwart the Ministry's plans for Severus? The hope exploded in her chest, rushing down her limbs and lifting her spirits.

The two men stood when she did, and she caught the glance Neville flung Snape's way. Her lips twitched. She'd keep their secret, as Severus hadn't been this animated with life in a long time; the mischief was doing him good, and she knew both of them would be discreet...whatever they were up to. However, she had her own sense of humour and pride, and as Severus opened the door for her, she turned and flashed Neville a sly smile. Also, it wouldn't go amiss to remind them to be careful.

"Don't forget to clean your shoes too, Mr Longbottom. Argus won't be keen on mopping up Forbidden Forest mud."

The door clicked closed on his startled face, and Minerva hummed a merry tune back to her rooms. It was all well and good being generous, but you had to get something back for it at some point.

Author's Notes: Thanks to my wonderful beta, who I couldn't do without.