In Somnis Veritas

11

Harry stood in the corner of the DADA classroom, watching Professor Quirrell sifting through a large pile of papers on his desk.

He didn't move, and even silently held his breath, hoping the professor wouldn't notice him.

"Where is it? Where is it?" Quirrell muttered, his paper-shuffling become more furious as he searched for something.

"We have no use for it, you imbecile," another voice hissed. "Use the boy to get to the–"

Harry audibly gasped as his scar began to sting, his hand flying to his forehead.

Unfortunately, the disturbance was enough to notify the professor of his arrival, and whomsoever the other voice belonged to, as the room fell silent.

Professor Quirrell looked up from his desk.

"P-Potter. Where is it?" he asked.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Where is it?!" Quirrell asked, his voice louder this time as he moved across the classroom towards Harry.

"Where's what, sir?" Harry asked, trying to back up but finding himself penned in by a stone wall.

"The essay, you fool! I TOLD YOU that I wanted a rewrite, on your real fear!" the professor cried.

"But sir, I did write about my real fear–"he began.

"Don't lie to me, you miserable brat!" Quirrell shrieked, his face twisting with fury. "You will write your assignment about the Dark Lord, just as planned!"

"Planned?" Harry frowned. "But he isn't what I'm most afraid of. I don't even rem–"

"That will soon be rectified..." the other voice hissed. "Seize him!"

Quirrell reached out a trembling hand towards him, long, dirty finger nails scraping against his neck.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, and began to scream.

OOOOOOOO

Severus Snape bottled another batch of Wolfsbane and glanced at the clock.

It was far too late to be brewing, but the headmaster's visit and subsequent cryptic words were enough to ensure he never slept again. Was Dumbledore really suggesting that he, Severus Snape, former Death Eater, be... what? Be there for the Potter boy? Be some kind of trusted adult?

He shook his head, placing the delicate glass bottle into the wooden crate alongside the others.

If this was the case, then the headmaster really had lost it, finally. He could not be someone for the child to rely on – any child, for that matter, but especially not that one.

No, the potions master decided, he needed to put some distance between himself and the boy moving forward.

A sudden, blood-curdling scream brought him from his thoughts, and he was swiftly reminded that said boy was still asleep on his sofa. Or at least, so he had thought.

Opening the door to his potions lab, Snape hurried back towards his living quarters, wondering what on earth he was going to find.

Sure enough, Potter was still on the sofa, and it quickly became evident to him that the boy was currently embroiled in some form of night terror.

Moving across to the sofa, Snape sat down, reaching out a hand to steady the small, thrashing body beside him.

Harry let out another, more muffled scream.