Chapter Text
It only takes one week before the entire school realizes that the nightmares are affecting Harry Potter differently.
They start during the sixth year. Voldemort is stronger than ever and something, some bit of evil, some broadly-cast intention, penetrates the school’s wards in a way nobody ever thought possible.
In nightmares.
They seem to affect everyone at some point during that first week. Teachers and students alike. Well, not everyone. There’s a surprisingly large contingent of Slytherins that spend a few days confused about what everyone is going on about.
And then someone puts it together that their parents are known Death Eaters. Or suspected Death Eaters, at least. And then they all get with the program. “Oh yes, we, too, are subject to these horrendous nightmares. What a tragedy. Alas.”
They still look better rested than everyone else at the school.
In truth, the nightmares aren’t that bad. They don’t affect everyone, every night. They’re manageable.
Except for Harry Potter. No, Harry Potter wakes up screaming four nights in a row. Wakes up the whole tower. He’s so taken by the dream that Ron has to slap him to wake him. It’s an unpleasant experience for everyone.
At that point, the teachers put it together. The nightmares, across houses, across levels, are not a coincidence. Something is going on, they just don’t know what.
The fifth night Harry doesn’t sleep at all. Not worth it.
The sixth night, Harry finally falls asleep well after 2 am. He wakes up vomiting in his bed from the pain in his scar. From the memories he’d rather not relive.
The seventh night, Dobby appears in the tower as Harry, gray and exhausted, sits on his bed pondering how long a person can go without sleep.
“For you, Master Potter,” Dobby squeaks, presenting a small, stoppered bottle and a folded note.
Harry opens the note with a wrinkle on his brow.
Mr. Potter,
I have, at great inconvenience to myself and my students, spent the day brewing a Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Because a sixteen-year-old boy has nightmares.
I have measured the dose to your precise weight and apparent need for magical aid. Tonight, you will take the entire potion as instructed, and hopefully not wake all of Hogwarts.
I suggest you do so in your bed. It acts quickly.
-SS
“What an absolute knob,” Ron scoffs, reading over his shoulder, called from his own bed by the sound of Dobby apparating away. “As if it’s your fault that you-know-who’s magic latches onto you worse than everybody else?”
“At least I don’t have to doubt the note is from Snape,” Harry retorts with a roll of his eyes. “Nobody else could be so rude. Although even if it were poison, I’d take it just the same. Anything to avoid those... dreams.”
“Mate, I’m sure it’s not poison,” Ron says, although apprehension creeps into his voice.
“Well let’s see then, shall we?”
Before Ron can respond, Harry flicks the stopper out of the bottle and tips it into his mouth.
“Oh,” he gasps in surprise, blinking slowly and wobbling. The empty bottle falls from his hand and rolls across the bed.
“What, Harry? Alright?” Ron asks, alarmed.
“I didn’t expect… it…” Harry falls backwards like a rag “… to taste… good.”
And then he’s fast asleep, breath so deep and calm and peaceful that it puts Ron’s mind at ease. He pulls Harry up in his four-poster so his feet aren’t dangling to the ground and covers him with the blanket.
“G’nite, Harry,” he says, hoping for the best.
**
Harry sleeps well that night, and wakes dazed, but rested. No dreams to speak of.
As he walks into potions that day, he feels Snape’s eyes on him, as cold as the dungeons. He approaches his cauldron with trepidation.
“Aren’t you looking well, Mr. Potter,” he sneers. “Perhaps since you’re so well-rested today, you might be able to perform at the level of a second-year.” Snape ignores the snickers. “Or maybe even a Hufflepuff. We shall see.”
Harry sets his mouth and refuses to rise to the bait. Snape is so obvious in his disdain it almost feels deceptive. Like he’s covering something up. And Harry can’t imagine what that would be, but he doesn’t feel threatened when he catches Snape assessing him from across the room at the end of class. No, it’s something else.
Snape’s voice cuts off his thought process. “Finely chopped, Mr. Potter. If you continue to mangle my ingredients, I shall charge you for them!”
“Yes, professor,” Harry replies docilely enough to hint at sarcasm.
Despite Snape’s sniping, Harry feels bold enough to approach the potion master’s desk as the rest of the students shuffle out, exhausted by the withering comments of their professor.
“I wanted to thank you, Professor.”
“Whatever for, Potter?”
“For the dreamless sleep. I wasn't sure what would happen to me.”
“Yes. Well, you should hardly thank me when I was only acting under the direction of the Headmaster.”
“Oh.” Harry looks up into Snape's eyes, so dark they appear black. “Well, thank you anyway. It tasted much better than any other time I’ve had to take it.”
“I am the potions master for a reason, Potter. Anything else?” Snape says, looking bored.
“No,” Harry sighs. He turns back to the door, realizing that any friendly overtures he makes will be rebuffed.
“Potter.”
Harry pauses, looking over his shoulder.
“You should know that dreamless sleep is not a permanent solution. Use beyond a week is not recommended. There are some rather serious side effects, particularly in… adolescents.”
And yet he holds out another vial towards Harry. Shimmering indigo, like the night sky. He places it in Harry’s palm with two fingers. No contact.
“The headmaster is seeking another solution. As always, a very disproportionate amount of energy and effort will go into keeping the chosen one safe.”
Harry’s cheeks color with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. It’s not his fault. None of it. He stares down at the potion in his hand.
“I will begin titrating your dosing in two days. For now, sleep well, Potter.” Snape turns and exits the classroom by the rear door without another word.
“What a tosser,” Harry mutters, tucking the vial into his robes.
**
Harry has two more nights of utterly restful sleep. It’s like his brain turns off for eight hours, and then starts up again in the morning.
He has never slept so well.
On the third night, Dobby arrives with a crack at 10pm and delivers a potion that looks just the same. Dark and shimmering silver. And it tastes just the same. Delicious, like honey-sweetened milk.
Harry falls asleep, grateful and comforted. It’s a blessing to escape from himself for a bit.
But he wakes up in terror. Sweating. Writhing. He’d be screaming except there’s a snake wrapped around his throat and no air can pass.
At least he thinks that until a fall from the bed literally knocks all the air from his lungs. Something crunches as well, and he hopes it’s not his bones.
But there’s no time to investigate. Fighting off a wave of nausea, Harry throws his cloak over his shoulders, grabs his map and wand, and races to the dungeons.
The door to Snape’s quarters is unmarked. Plain. Harry’s not sure he’s in the right place but he bangs on the door until it falls open and he stumbles forward, straight into Severus Snape.
Running to Snape in the middle of the night was a bad idea, and Harry can’t understand what possessed him to do so. Snape berated and scorned him. Then cleaned all the glass out of his arm (for it was the potion vial he fell on), bandaged him, and dosed him with a single swallow of dreamless sleep.
Harry woke back in his bed and the whole encounter seemed like a dream. Only he doesn’t have dreams anymore that don't involve screaming. And there is a white bandage wrapped around his bicep. And he can remember surprisingly gentle fingers tucking in the ends.
Harry is summoned to Dumbledore’s office after lunch. He wonders if he’ll be scolded or sent home or asked to just stay awake for the next month.
“Come in, my boy,” Dumbledore motions him to an armchair. “Rough time of it lately, eh?”
Harry nods, but there’s a knock at the door before he can reply.
The door opens with a wave of the headmaster’s hand, and Professor Snape strides in—tall, dark, and as grumpy as ever.
“You summoned me?”
“Yes, Severus. Thank you for coming. As you both know, we’ve got a bit of a pickle on our hands with this dream situation.”
A pickle? Okay, fine. Harry nods.
“Yes, well. I’ve been wracking my brain for solutions. It’s quite a tricky issue—the way you-know-who’s magic latches on to you.”
“Headmaster,” Severus interrupts. “Why am I here? Wouldn’t the head of Gryffindor be more appropriate?”
“Actually, Severus, your presence is quite important. You see, I believe I have come up with a solution. And it involves you.”
“Me?” Severus scoffs. “I have already brewed the boy Dreamless Sleep. If there were another relevant potion, I would have suggested it.”
“Ah well, it’s not a potion that you can provide for Harry…” he lets the sentence rest.
“Then, please. Explain,” Severus requests, skeptically.
“Hmmm. How to begin,” Dumbledore muses. “I suppose it begins with the mark.”
Harry perks up with interest at this. Severus looks more irritable than ever.
“As you likely know, Severus, the mark confers certain status and benefits to those who bear it.”
“I do know that, indeed,” Snape grates. “What a blessing.”
“One of those benefits is a certain level of protection from you-know-who’s spells. In order to allow you to pass his wards, enter his presence, that sort of thing.”
“Go on,” Snape looks impatient.
“And I have heard,” Dumbledore looks at Snape with a tilt of his head, “that these benefits are also conferred to the family members of those who bear the mark. Their children and spouses share in this protection.”
“That is true,” Snape allows. “But Mr. Potter is not my child, so I don’t see how this is relevant.”
“I have heard,” Dumbledore continues as if Snape hasn’t spoken, “that this protection is conferred even upon the partners of marked Death Eaters.”
Snape’s expression grows flat. “Their partners,” he repeats.
Harry feels equally confused.
“Their sexual partners,” Dumbledore clarifies.
Then all hell breaks loose. Harry leaps to his feet only to find Snape has beaten him, moving so fast his chair falls over backwards. Their voices are a commotion of confusion and outrage.
Dumbledore holds his hands placatingly against their torrent of protests. “Please, both of you. Calm down.”
After a solid minute of coaxing, Harry falls back into his seat with a huff. He looks over at Snape, whose face is red as he settles back into his chair.
“I am merely suggesting,” Dumbledore says, “that we look at the mechanism of this protection and see if we can leverage it for Harry’s benefit.”
Snape crosses his arms. “The mechanism,” he says tightly, “is genetic.”
Dumbledore nods slowly. “So Harry would need to have your…”
“Genetic material,” Snape finishes in a snide voice. “Inside of him.”
“WHAT?”
**
The discussion is longer than anybody wants. More technical than Harry can follow. He curls up in his chair and tries to imagine he’s somewhere else as Dumbledore and Snape discuss the properties, magical and biological, of blood and semen and what happens to them when they enter other bodies.
Eventually a decision is made between the two of them. Harry picks up his head at the silence and finds they’re both looking at him. Dumbledore inquiringly. Snape with barely contained rage.
“Well, Harry. Are we all in agreement then?” Dumbledore asks.
Harry can feel his cheeks burning red and hot. “Fine,” he mumbles, turning away.
In the hallway, Snape grabs him by the shoulder and Harry squeaks as he spun back, tipping his head up to meet beetle-black eyes. “You shall never speak of this to anyone,” Snape says in a menacingly low voice. “No one at all. Ever.”
“N-no, sir,” Harry stutters. “Not in a thousand years.”
That evening, Harry retires to his bed and finds what looks like a thick syringe under his pillow along with a small vial labeled “Lubricant.”
The milky white fluid inside the syringe is not labeled, although there is a note that reads, “Use immediately.”
Harry creeps into the boy's washroom and into a stall with his awkward supplies in hand. The syringe feels warm and Harry startles at the thought that Snape must have just produced for him, minutes ago.
Snape wanked off. For Harry. In this same castle. Probably in his rooms where he’d have all the supplies to send this little care package to Harry.
Harry pushes down his pajama pants and his briefs to his thighs, shuddering as the waistband catches on the head of his cock. There’s absolutely no reason to be hard right now, he chides himself.
He’s supposed to use it immediately, so he pours some lubricant onto his fingers, coats the end of the syringe, and then, after a moment of deliberation, presses the slippery finger inside himself.
It’s tight. Harry hasn’t done this before and he bites his lip at the stretch—and the pleasure of the stretch. He slips the tip of his finger in and out a few times to coat himself in lube and has to bite back a moan. A drop of precum rolls over the head of his cock like a tear.
But he’s got a task to do. He grabs the syringe and slides the rounded tip against that small pucker until he finds the right place. And then gently presses it inside.
It’s about the same size as his finger, but harder and more strange feeling. He likes it though. The way his muscles try to force it out, but relax when he pushes it in further. Eventually, he gets it a few inches deep and depresses the plunger.
Snape’s cum, inside him.
It doesn’t feel like anything.
Harry waits for a minute, expecting something to happen. He’ll start glowing. His ass will burn. The hand of god will smite him. Something.
But nothing happens at all, except he feels a drop escape. And that makes him realize he oughta lay down in a hurry, because the whole point is to keep it inside of him, right?
So he scrambles back into bed, and drifts off to sleep feeling strangely comforted that someone has gone to so much trouble to keep him safe.
It’s only 2am when he wakes up the whole dormitory, screaming. It takes nearly ten minutes for Ron, and eventually Professor McGonagall, to wake him.
He’s still shaking ten minutes after that, when Dobby arrives on his bed with a startling crack and presents a swirling blue potion, bowing deeply.
Harry pours it down his throat immediately, falling back on the bed in relief, sweat still beading on his brow. The faces of his worried classmates fade away as he drifts off.
**
The next day there’s another meeting in Dumbledore’s office. More options are discussed. There are problems with all of them.
Voices are raised. Harry’s among them. He will not return to his uncle’s home.
Snape’s voice is the loudest of all, until Dumbledore asks Harry to recount his dreams for them. Then he goes quiet.
There’s a long conversation Harry has trouble following about the nuance of protective magic and the significance of ceremony.
He stops listening when Dumbledore says the words “organic application.”
There’s nothing to listen to anyway because Snape goes silent.
Harry focuses on the pop and crackle of the fire next to his armchair, trying to ignore the strain in Snape’s voice when he speaks again.
“Are you joking?”
He leaves Dumbledore’s office with an appointment. 9pm in the hospital wing.