A Man Cannot Control His Dreams

A/N I'm so sorry for the late update! This story is giving me wicked bad writers block. I have done some fanart in an effort to spurn myself into inspiration, so maybe i'll post some by way of apology.

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Despite Dumbledore’s known proficiency in Legillimency, it wasn’t hard for Severus to explain away his apparent absence from his rooms. After all, it was Severus’ lot to be always busy, and often elusive. Dumbledore didn’t dwell on the point either, to Severus’ minor relief, and talk soon turned to more pressing matters.

“He knows there is a spy, Albus. He is looking for the leak.” Dumbledore idly fingered a magical device of some sort as Severus spoke. There was a pause, as Snape looked at the old man’s idle hands, and finished, “For me.”

“And what have they found out?”

“As far as I’ve seen? Nothing of relevance. The last accused was Dolohov, for Merlin’s sake. Perhaps the least likely suspect out of them all.” That really didn’t mean anything, of course, but Severus thought it prudent to say. Dumbledore’s gaze was uncharacteristically steely, without the usual twinkle, as the old man listened to this report. But then, Severus personally believed that the sparkle in Albus’ eyes was, more often than not, contrived. It encouraged blind trust, that lighthearted gaze, and Severus liked to think he was now, after all the years, immune. Albus opened his mouth to speak, but Severus was quick to preempt the coming offers of extra protection, or, Merlin help him, time off.

“But it’s hardly a new development. The Dark Lord has never been trusting. He is ever-scouring the ranks for dissent and betrayal. There’s nothing to imply he’s been made aware of any real threat.” And that wasn’t entirely true either. The Dark Lord had never been so keen on wild-goose chases as he had been for the past weeks. Severus shifted impatiently as Albus spoke again.

“This is no matter to take lightly, Severus. I would highly suggest –“

“Of course not, Albus.” He stood resolutely. “I have taken, and will take, every precaution available. At the moment, however, I would appreciate your dismissal. I have work still to attend to.“

Dumbledore hesitated, as if to deny Severus’ request, but in the end, sighed and nodded. The Potions Master turned on his heel.

“Good evening, Headmaster.”

“And you, Severus.” But the door had already closed.

****

In the Gryffindor common room, the student body was loudly congregated, as they often were in the late evening. It was just long enough after dinner for any sleepy digestion to be taken care of, but still early enough for the younger students to be socializing instead of sleeping. In front of one fireplace, a bushy-haired girl and a redheaded boy were bent over a pair of scrolls. Ron had argued that they wait for Harry before going over their most recent potions essays, but as it got later, had relented to simply getting on with it. He could always fill Harry in later.

“Honestly, Ron, you’ve spelt “Wolfsbane” wrong over twenty times!”

****

Huddled in an armchair some way away, another young Gryffindor also appeared to be doing homework. He, however, was not actually reading the herbology text clutched in his hands. There really would be no reason to. Neville knew most of the book entirely by heart, and had for weeks. As he stared at the miniscule print, then, he was focused on an entirely different issue: mulling over his own absurd imagination. What he’d seen, thought he’d seen, had to have been in his mind. After all, the world was mostly a logical place, and what he had seen didn’t belong in the same universe as logic. He went over it again in his head, attempting futilely to conjure some sense out of an absolutely absurd memory.

He’d been attending to some winter bulbs in the greenhouses during dinner (which he’d skipped due to an embarrassing incident of forgotten password coupled with a cruel Slytherin prank, the aftermath of which he didn’t fancy suffering any time soon). Just as he had been transplanting a particularly large pair, he’d seen a shadowy figure approaching out of the corner of his eye. The light had been very limited, but a bit had glinted off the figure’s glasses. ‘Harry.’ Neville had thought. But had he seen that it was Harry? Had he seen the figure’s face? Neville couldn’t decide. And what had happened within moments of the figure sitting down on the grass was highly suggestive that the person had absolutely not been Harry.

Professor Snape, Neville had seen. There was little mistaking the Potions Master’s hook-nosed profile, even in silhouette.

Now, Neville was fairly certain that even if the first figure hadn’t been Harry, it had been a student. A student whom, as Neville watched, had been pushed up against the glass and… and… molested.

Neville shook his head absently. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. The student had, at least from Neville’s vantage point, pulled Professor Snape into a kiss (Neville’s mind balked at the very image). But, did it matter who instigated such behavior? Snape was a teacher, for Merlin’s sake. Wasn’t that against the law? Or, at the very least, the school’s code of conduct? It had to be. It was wrong, to take advantage of a place of power like that. So… what to do?

And that brought back his initial concern of the first figure’s identity. So… it couldn’t have been Harry, could it? That was just… silly. Maybe Neville had simply inhaled some psychoactive pollen and imagined the whole thing. That was possible, wasn’t it? At least as possible as Professor Snape and Harry illicitly snogging in the shadows of the castle. Right?

****

“Mr. Potter!” a shrill, unpleasantly loud voice sounded in Harry’s ear.

“M’up, Aunt Petunia,” he murmured sleepily.

“Mr. Potter I am not your Aunt!”

Harry tried to burrow his face into his pillow, only to find that his pillow was about as soft as a tabletop. He opened one heavy eye, and saw at once that his pillow was, in fact, just that. Jerking upright, he knocked soundly into the irate Madame Pince, who jumped back, dropping an armload of scrolls. She huffed indignantly.

“Sorry!” Harry exclaimed, and moved to help her pick up the scattered parchment, but she waved him off.

“It is fifteen minutes after curfew! I suggest you return to your dorm post-haste!” Harry glanced around the dark library for another moment, getting his bearings. “Post-haste,” the librarian said again, clutching her armload and whisking away. Harry stood gingerly, wary of the weakness in his muscles. He cast one longing look back at the armchair before setting off. He did not fancying traversing the flights of stairs between himself and his bed at the moment. But there was nothing for it. Something caught on his foot as he left, and he looked down to see it was his cloak. With a cursory glance to make sure Madame Pince was not still lurking nearby, he shrugged it on, grateful for the freedom of invisibility. After all, he hadn’t checked himself in the mirror yet… who knew what sorts of marks he may have been given.

And somehow, that had become a normal concern.

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TBC