Let the Truth Sting, Chapter Four
I'm aware that I've timed putting out this story rather badly, because with the Snarry Olympics raging and an abundance of completely brillant fics coming out, mine pales in comparison, but - I've made my bed, so now I'm going to have to lie in it, I guess. Oh well, here is the next chapter. :) *hides*
Title: Let The Truth Sting - Chapter Four
Author: captain_tulip, me.
Pairing: Snape/Harry, mentions of Snape/Remus.
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe) overall.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, HBP compliant. Snape is in Azkaban and when Remus, who was his only visitor, must leave the country, Harry grudgingly takes his place, with (un)expected consequences.
Wordcount: About 8,200 for this chapter.
Warnings: Slash, wanking, cliches, and my style of writing.
A/N: All recognisable characters/places/events etc are JK Rowling's (et al). Lyrics throughout are by David Gray. Thanks go to smarmypenguin for "inklings", (even if it was an age ago) and a big thanks to rexluscus, who did a wonderful beta, even in the midst of the frantic Olympics. :) All comments and criticism are greatly appreciated.
Previous parts:
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Me, like a million others before
trying to make sense of the rain
Were these twenty years a dream,
was it ever as it seemed?
Get to wonder if it really existed
'Cause the thief who stole my life
has taken, too, my faith
I can see now how the world gets twisted
Let it go now
Let it all slip away
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sometimes in motels, the walls are thick. The air is humid and everything feels like it's pressing in on Harry, like he's stuck inside a giant apple pie and his insides are moistening and his outsides are crispening and there's a soft smell of contenment wafting through the air. Harry isn't sure if he likes those times very much. They're something he enjoys retrospectively, not while they're happening. And then there's the other times, like now, when the walls are almost paper thin, and every whisper, every intake of breath that a person in another unit makes can be heard perfectly. The ground shakes as they turn over, the whole room vibrates when the specks of dust in the air cause them to cough slightly. Most people hate this, but Harry doesn't.
Well, that's not true. Sometimes he hates it. Sometimes he just wants a night's peace, and he can't get it because the idiots in the next room have "lost the postcards, where the hell did you put them?" at one o'clock in the morning. Who the hell, Harry usually thinks angrily while punching his pillow, wants postcards in the middle of the night? Do we all just mindlessly follow our whims in the darkness? Harry sometimes considers avocados when he can't get to sleep, but that doesn't mean an invisible hand leads him to the supermarket, where he stands peering at the "closed" sign for hours in barely disguised shock. People should learn more self control.
But when he's not furiously plotting human obedience lessons, sometimes he likes to listen to everything that's going on. He likes hearing the conversations, the unpacking and the packing and the discussions and the arguments, and he likes picturing the people in his head and leaving the next morning, trying to glimpse to see if his guesses were correct. He likes having a little insight into people's lives, because they're never what you'd expect. They're always so surprisingly different, so mundane yet so uniquely mundane, that Harry can't help but listen, his mouth lying open on the soft pillow covers.
And it's not like it's perverted, or eaves-dropping, because if people didn't want to be heard, then they wouldn't talk so damn loudly. They're dying for someone to be listening. He didn't used to think that, he used to just blush crazily if he happened to hear someone's conversation, and think about apologising to them for the rest of the day. He used to feel guilty for catching snippets of secrets and tidbits of tales, until one day he started to realise that no matter how hard he tried to block out the world in all politeness, the world was extremely intent on busting back in.
He sighs, and turns over in his bed, the metal grinding and the posts clanging. There is a couple next door who aren't as fascinating as they first presented. They are, as far as Harry can tell, Indian, and while it was amusing for a while to listen to their unintelligible arguing, Harry has become tired. The fact that he's completely pissed isn't helping, because the world is spinning around faster than his stomach is, which is saying something, and he's getting tired of the jabbering circling around and around his head. If you're going to argue, at least let me know what you're arguing about, he thinks. He thinks about casting a translation spell, which would at least allow him some fun, but he supposes that crosses a moral line somewhere.
When Harry wakes up in the morning, a tremour of fear passes through his heart as a thick stench of vomit attacks his nostrils. I'm in Azkaban! he thinks, terrified, until he opens his eyes, and he's suddenly assaulted by a flowery pattern. He blinks, confused, and sits up. He's not in Azkaban, he notes with a sigh of relief, he's just in the same motel as he was the night before, tacky wallpaper and all. He leans over the side of the bed and wrinkles his nose. He had forgotten about the vomit. He's not sure how, now, because the smell is almost overpowering. He focuses intently on the drying spew and casts a wordless spell with a wave of his hand. The mess disappears, and Harry spends a while staring at the clean spot of carpet before he rouses himself up out of bed.
He stumbles into the bathroom and gazes at himself in the mirror, his reflection gazing back. He frowns as he notices the large circles under his eyes. When he was younger and he'd been having a hard time, he used to hate it when his face was fresh and his eyes wide because it didn't show anything about what was inside. Now he wishes he could look like he did then. He prods his face softly, staring at his red and puffy cheeks, his hollow eyes, and his gritty hair. He smiles garishly, and looks disappointedly at the yellowness of his teeth. He sighs, and then pokes his tongue out at his reflection, which promptly does the same.
"Insolent," he murmurs to it, and it grins.
He clambers into the shower, and curses once again as he remembers he's forgotten to buy shampoo. He makes a mental note to pop into a Muggle store (because ever since his hair shone "brighter than the sun, guaranteed!" he hasn't really trusted magical hair care products), and slowly tries to dissociate as he wraps a shaky hand around his rapidly-hardening cock. His legs, like his hands, are shaky, and so are his lips when they mutter past blush-stained cheeks, "F-fuck, S-snape..."
When he has come, and he's watched the remnants of his one-sided pleasure swirl down the drain, he feels a little empty. It becomes so easy to slip into the familiar suit of emptiness, he's starting to realise, because it fits him perfectly, squeezing snug around his fingertips and close about his heart. The emptiness fills up (Harry thinks, with a wry smile) every corner of his being, settling in his gut and in his lungs and at the corners of his mouth. It wraps around him, and strokes his back and tells him it'll never leave him, that he'll always be empty and that no one can change that, it sounds so similar to the whispered words of a lover in the darkness of the night that sometimes, Harry wonders if it is so terrible being empty. Empty of thought and emotion and pain.
But then another part of his brain protests and tells him that being empty is what makes him cry at night and makes him lonely during the day, what makes him both hate the people he meets, and be fascinated by them. What makes him feel angry and hollow and distraught, what makes him create fantasies in his mind.
And then he doesn't know what to believe, and he gets so sick of arguing with himself, because no side ever wins because they're so evenly matched and he hates thinking of having sides, of not being a whole person, like the war has split him up and messed him round and he has to try and stitch himself back together again.
He packs his suitcase slowly, placing every item in delicately as if they all had a designated space inside the velvet chaos of the interior, and leaves the motel promptly at a quarter to ten. He didn't notice when he was inside, but as soon as he steps out into the world, he realises it's raining.
He doesn't know how he didn't notice, but he curses (as it were) as the little droplets form a team of millions pelting down from the sky to soak his clothing. He stops, when he reaches the street, and slowly sets down his suitcase. The empty feeling that had been sitting inside his stomach all morning has mutated, like it does sometimes when Harry isn't watching it closely. Now it's anger, and frustration, and sadness, and as he watches a man hastily putting an umbrella up and pulling in a woman close around him, sheltering her from the rain, he feels lonely too. He feels like he's a gaping hole, and as his heart pumps steadily to keep his body warm, he feels like it's slowly travelling up his throat. Like it's in his mouth, and it's prickling his eyes, and he's feels like there's a big empty space in his chest. He's forgotten how he felt in the morning, or the day before, and he thinks he may have started off the day in a good mood, but he can't remember. He can't remember where he thought he was going either, for a moment, as he stands there feeling lost in the rain. He's getting wet, but he doesn't see how it is all that preferable to being dry. He might get sick, but that doesn't seem as terrible as the world makes it out to be. He bites his lip and tries desperately not to feel pathetic, and as a bus passes and all the people in it gaze out at him with curious and pitying looks on his faces, he quickly picks up his suitcase, desperate not to look pathetic either. Because he isn't pathetic, you know. And he wants to turn around and scream to the people in the bus, "YOU'RE MORE PATHETIC THAN ME!" He wants to throw his suitcase down and smash all the windows and demand, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?" He knows it wouldn't be anything like he'd done. He'd saved the world, was what he did, and as much as he hated the hype and attention, and as much as he had to acknowledge he was part of an enormous team, working to support him in every way, sometimes he wants to walk around with a sign saying "I saved your life, so what have you done with it?"
But he knows there's no point trying to make people thankful for their lives. Because then they have a shitty day, and they hate it, and on top of that they have the guilt of not feeling thankful for their shitty day, and wondering why they don't feel thankful, wondering why they're worse than everyone else, feeling ostracized for being ungrateful and evil. Harry gets annoyed, sometimes, but he didn't save the innocent from evil to make them feel evil themselves.
So he trudges along in the rain, feeling maudlin and confused and resentful, not quite sure where or who his feelings are directed at. When he gets to the supermarket, he leaves a trail of water behind him as he tromps up and down the aisles. The girl at the counter looks at him dubiously as his shoes squidge up, and she runs a critical eye over his hair when he presents the shampoo, and two packets of ready made pasta.
"Anything else?" she asks, boredly, and Harry stares at her.
"Oh, yeah, a whole trolley of stuff for a holiday I'm going on. I just left it behind me," he deadpans, and the girl cranes her neck to look behind him. She frowns when she sees nothing but the pyramid display of deodorant, and Harry raises an eyebrow at her. He feels quite proud of himself for keeping his fists clenched at his sides, rather than wrapped around her stringy neck.
She snaps her gum, and rolls her eyes. "Just asking, mister."
I SAVED YOUR FUCKING LIFE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH! he wants to scream, but instead he smiles pleasantly, does the transaction efficiently, and leaves with the plastic bag grasped firmly in his hand and strong homicidal tendencies.
He used to think, some of those nights in the war when he smelled like blood and felt like shit, that once the war was over he'd never hate anyone again. That he'd be so worn out with the killing and the bloodshed and the anger and the prejudice and all of those other lovely human qualities that he'd just curl up with a book and a cup of tea indefinitely. He thinks back on the young man, rocking back and forth as the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils, and imagines trying to explain to him why he feels such a great resentment of the human race, such sadistic tendencies, sometimes. He imagines Young Harry feeling sick, comparing his future self to Lucius Malfoy, who Harry knows used to bring himself off over the corpses of dead Muggles.
Harry sighs, and runs a wet hand through his soaking hand, and tells himself firmly it's just because he is old and tired. He doesn't have tendencies towards necrophilia, he isn't bloodthirsty, and he hasn't been irreversibly fucked up by the war. He's just tired of everything that he has to put up with in life, and sometimes that comes out as frustration.
Harry smiles, because he likes that explanation much better.
He stops at the corner of the street, and takes a deep breath as he tries to decide where to go. People in cars go zooming past, faces pressing up against the glass as they peer out at the strange man standing in the rain. Harry tries not to watch them back, and he looks down at his shoes, standing in a puddle. He splashes it, and hundreds of droplets go cascading through the air, landing painfully on the muddy ground.
He considers treating himself. He doesn't really deserve anything, he knows, because he's indulged in far too much self-pity today, but he's cold and he's a little hungry and he tries to think of somewhere that won't have the potential for thousands of people to stare at him in barely disguised awe.
His mind suddenly clicks to the movie theatre, and he smiles slightly as he remembers the trashy love story he'd seen advertised. "That'll do," he murmurs to himself starts off in the direction of the cinema.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When there's nothing left
on this plate you're handed
you find yourself running the gauntlet
of all of these double standards
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Get a fucking hold of yourself," Harry hisses through clenched teeth. There is no one left in the toilets, now. He's alone in a cubicle, the strong scents of disinfectant and urine filling up his nose, as he rocks back and forth with tears in his eyes. He's furious at himself for allowing himself to get so distraught over a fucking movie! He had thought that he would be fine. He even enjoyed it, in the beginning, with the sneaked looks and the sexual tension, and he'd enjoyed being able to run his eyes over the physique of fit men without disapproving looks from those around. He'd been enjoying the movie more and more and more, until suddenly he realised that he was hating every second of it, and ran out of the cinema, barging past a baffled cinema worker to lock himself in the bathroom.
He knows he shouldn't, and he knows he isn't even legally allowed to, but he grits his teeth and Apparates away, right into the rain on the docks. Let the damn workers search the building for any possible escape route, wondering how a distraught man entered the toilets and didn't come out, ever. Let them prod at the walls and examine the ceiling and scratch their heads and drive themselves barmy for the rest of their mad lives. At least it would give them a sense of purpose.
I'd like a sense of purpose, Harry thinks bitterly. Goose bumps break out on his skin and he wraps his arms around himself. The sea is raging and frothing, and Harry glares at it resentfully. He's heard many stories and poems and long ranting raves about the sea from people. About how they love it because it's so big and beautiful and tumbling, and any problems that you have seem like trivialities compared to its glorious vastness, but Harry hates the sea. Look at it, so oblivious and indifferent. It may keep rolling when he's crying and when his world is falling down around him, showing him that things go on and there's a light at the end of the tunnel, but it keeps rolling when everything is good, too. It doesn't care when he's smiling and when he's happy. It makes his triumphs seem trivial, it makes the times when he feel glorious and on top of the world seem insignificant. It's just a big, freezing cold, roiling thing of nothingness, and Harry hates it because it's what he feels like sometimes. And sometimes he even wishes he could be like the sea, powerful and indifferent.
He strides to an old seat, wooden and wearing away, and sits down, the rain battering his head. The wood of the seat digs into his backside, and he relishes feeling alive. Not that he doesn't resent his life, and not that he doesn't sometimes plan elaborate ways to end it in his spare time, but with his chattering teeth and his aching arse and his numbed fingers and his jittery bones and his swiftly beating heart, he feels more alive than he has in a while. Focusing on every little sensation, blocking out everything that matters by bombarding his senses with minute details...he sucks in a deep breath.
He looks down at his watch. It says, simply, "Late." He stares at it, for a moment, wondering what it thinks it's telling him until he realises that it's late afternoon, and far too early to be considered an appropriate time for lunch.
"Shit," he mutters, and Apparates away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
And there's daylight in my fingers
but it's snowing in my bones
Been sucking on the echo
of a thousand telephones
And when we meet again,
we will be strangers
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"You're late!"
It is hissed. Harry feels guilty, then feels annoyed at feeling guilty. He's doing this as a favour, and Snape needs him, so Harry doesn't think he has any right to be so snarky.
"I hadn't realised there was a specified time," Harry says calmly, closing the cell door behind him. "I had some things to do."
Snape's face is etched with lines of fury. His teeth grind in between his speaking, and he looks at Harry with an expression of absolute disgust. "Spoken like a true selfish bastard-"
"I lost track of the time!" Harry protests. Which is true. His fault, he knows, and he'd apologise if it was anyone else. But it's Snape, and Harry has never apologised to Snape when he wasn't forced to. Snape's never seemed particularly deserving of an apology.
"Once." Snape arms shake a little, as if his body cannot contain his anger, and Harry notices that his cheeks are a little flushed, a look he has never seen on his former Professor. "That is how often I get fed a day, Potter. I get fed, like an animal, and I have to wait till fucking Saint Potter pulls his finger out of his arse long enough to-"
"I resent that!" Harry interrupts, blushing furiously at the figure of speech. God, what that makes him think of...he hastily scrapes the thought out of his mind, and spits, "My life doesn't revolve around you, Snape-"
"Oh?" Snape asks, like it does, and Harry resents that, too. "Well, who does it revolve around, Potter? Yourself? Your cock?"
Harry's stomach squirms a little, and his heart skips excitedly at hearing Snape utter such a filthy word. He wishes he could pull his heart right out of his chest and throw it at Snape, for all the attention it seems to be giving Snape lately, bloody unfaithful thing that it is. He silently scolds it for its lack of loyalty. Snape is intimating that Harry is selfish, utter bastard. "I devoted," Harry begins, trying not to allow his voice to shake, "my whole childhood to-"
"Not this again!" Snape snaps. His face is pale, and his eyelids flicker, and his voice is grating. His body looks weaker than usual, but Harry can't concentrate on his malnutrition. "We've heard this story time and time again, Potter, and always in the same tone, like you've decided you're the only one who's ever sacrificed anything for the war effort, and-"
Harry growls. "I didn't have any fucking choice! Do you think I chose to walk around with Voldemort's mark on me?" Harry scoffs, "I certainly know people who did-"
"Don't you dare," Snape hisses, and then sways slightly, his eyes falling closed. His tongue flicks out to lick his lips, still cracked and splitting, before his eyes spring open again with renewed determination, "speak to me about things you don't understand."
Doesn't understand. Snape thinks he doesn't understand...who does Snape think he is? Who does Snape thinks Harry is? "What, that you were bullied a few times by some kids who were cooler than you?" Harry says, particularly nastily. "So you turned to murder and rape and-"
"YOU-" Snape's voice is almost completely hoarse, and his eyes are wide with fury greater than Harry has ever seen.
"-KNOW!" Harry retorts, loudly. He does know. "I know what it's like to be bullied, but I didn't run off to join a mass-murder cult, did I?"
Snape goes to snap back, but all that comes out of his mouth is a hissing whine. He snaps his mouth shut, furious, and glares at Harry, who sighs angrily and pulls the bottle of water out of his bag and settles down in front of Snape. The older man opens his mouth, dutifully, his eyes still flashing. Harry notes with particular satisfaction that it grates on Snape's nerves having to rely on Harry's help to Harry in the middle of a particularly heated argument. One point to me, for free, Harry thinks, and quickly pulls off the seal and squirts the water into Snape's mouth. Snape drinks it down greedily, his eyes staring into Harry's with flickers of innuendo, and Harry's mouth goes dry, and his pants suddenly feel tighter than they did this morning. Snape is trying to even the score, and Harry stares at Snape, pulling back, his mouth open a little, his breath clearly audible.
"You haven't ever made a mistake, Potter?" Snape says, softly and darkly, continuing on the conversation as if the interlude had never happened. "Would you like to be held accountable for things you did in your youth thirty years on?" His eyes are narrowed slightly, and he flexes his long fingers.
Harry shakes his head softly, and he would have been amazed at Snape if he didn't know him so well by now. "You were old enough to know what you were doing," he mutters, looking up somewhere above Snape's head.
"At seventeen?" Snape murmurs back. "You had a group of some of the most talented witches and wizards in Britain helping you when you were seventeen, and you still managed to royally fuck up-"
"I killed him, didn't I?" Harry snaps, he eyes returning to Snape's. Then he sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks a little to his fingers, but he hardly registers this. "That's all that matters." He says it a little to himself as well, and he grimaces as he realises Snape notices this.
"So you clearly keep telling yourself," the older man says, running a critical eye over Harry. "What do you live for, Potter?" Snape asks, and it seems so out of the blue that Harry laughs, uncomfortable.
"I don't really see what that has to do with anything..." Besides the fact that it's none of Snape's damn business, and that Harry has no idea himself. "Aren't you hungry, or something?" he asks, trying to change the subject. One of his legs twinges, and he shifts slightly.
"Baiting you is...for the moment, more enjoyable." Snape smirks a little, and Harry only has a moment to allow his mouth to fall open most inelegantly before Snape continues, "Are you a virgin, Mr Potter?"
"What?" Harry starts. "I don't see," he says, feeling his face heat up, "what that has to do with-"
"It's merely conversation. I thought we'd explore a...mutual interest." Snape is almost smiling, and Harry stares at him with shock.
Snape is toying with him. Snape is toying with me. "You're toying with me."
Snape shrugs, as if innocent and only mildly interested, and Harry hates that he's so bloody good at this. "You're not interested in sex?" Snape asks, casually, and hearing Snape say sex in that voice sends shivers down Harry's spine, and he hates it. He wishes he could act more like an adult, too, but all he seems to be able to do at the moment is blush and stammer.
"W-what...I don't think that-"
"You're gay, are you not?" Snape interrupts, and Harry freezes. "So you're familiar with sex between two males?"
"I don't want to discuss this with you!" Harry snaps, sweating in odd places. For a moment, he wonders why his first reaction wasn't "I'm not gay!", but Harry has no time to think, because Snape is continuing, as if Harry hasn't said a word.
"You're reasonably experienced, I would presume, because you're by no means unattractive-"
"I-" Harry begins, and then he blinks. ...by no means unattractive..."What?" he says dumbly, and his heart starts to beat inside his mouth.
"Unless," Snape says, scrutinising Harry closely, "the demons" (he says, dryly) "of your past have prevented you from getting too close to anyone..."
Harry's hands twitch, and he has to forcefully concentrate on stopping them from clapping to his head. He knows Snape isn't in there, and he isn't sure now if that's a good thing, because it means he's so bloody transparent that even a half-starved, half-crazed criminal can see right through him.
"Either that," Snape continues, almost boredly, "or you're not ready to accept the sexual truths about yourself."
Harry feels like a balloon slowly being filled up with more and more air, seconds from popping. "Can we - just - stop?" he says through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Snape's smug expression. "I don't know what you want from me-"
Snape smirks. "Oh yes, let's go down that path. What do I want from Potter-"
"Look," Harry begins, feeling like he's blushing so much that his face is on fire, "what - are you doing? Are you - are you flirting? With me?" The idea is so ridiculous Harry regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. "I don't - I don't understand. So - so. I'm just...just going to...I don't understand you," Harry repeats, frustratedly. "Is - is that what you're trying to do? To confuse me?"
Snape rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm starving, Potter, and this method has, thus far, proved fruitful."
Harry opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. Snape's face is completely unreadable, as is his posture, unable to change to reflect emotion. Harry feels completely like he's a one-way road, with Snape's traffic flooding into him, whereas he's completely cut off from the other man. Harry has no idea what Snape is thinking or feeling or doing, but with just a few words Snape has wriggled his way into Harry's subconscious, his mind and his...he doesn't want to think about where else Snape has wriggled, and he most certainly doesn't want to think about where he's wished that Snape has wriggled in the man's presence. The thought makes him hot, and he immediately scolds himself. No! Just a phase. It's just a phase. Something his brain has come up with to torture him. It'll get sick of it, eventually, and move onto something else. Harry thinks that the nightmares may even be preferable to this.
Harry gives a long sigh, suddenly tired. "If you were hungry, you could have just said," he says.
"I thought it was rather clearly implied," Snape replies, and Harry feels stupid.
"Right." Harry sits down slowly in front of the other man. "This is confusing," he mutters under his breath. He knows he should be keeping his turmoil inside, but every time he comes near Snape, all of his thoughts in his head get all jumbled up with each other, and he doesn't know his left from his right from his wrong.
"This?" Snape repeats, and the corner of Harry's mouth quirks, despite himself.
"You," he affirms, and Snape cocks his head slightly.
"Me." It's as if Snape is trying it on his lips, to see how it feels. "You seem to be reading quite a bit into me, Potter. I could be less complicated than you think."
Harry nods slowly. "You could be," he says, then he shakes his head. "But that's too much for me to think about at the moment." He's thought about it a lot.
"But surely, you're going to return to your home and torment yourself over it?"
Harry nods again, smiling a little. "Yeah, probably." Harry is aware that they might be sharing a joke, and he doesn't know what he thinks about it. He's a little worried, because Snape isn't snarling and frothing and screaming, and he's stopped messing with Harry (he hopes), and Harry feels like he doesn't really know this person who is chained up opposite him for the moment.
"I brought pasta today," he says, pulling it out of the plastic bag. "Cheap packet stuff, but it's good." He's had it a few times before.
Snape frowns. "Packet stuff?" he sneers. "Didn't you at least learn rudimentary cooking skills as a student of mine for five years?"
Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble... Harry tries not to smile.
"Yeah, but I was running late. And this stuff is good. It's got little bits of prosciuitto in it...oh." A thought suddenly occurs to Harry. "You're not a vegetarian, are you?"
Snape stares at Harry, like he can't decide whether to be furious or amused. "Do I look the type?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching and his eyes shooting daggers.
"Well, you might have - since the..." Harry suddenly feels silly. What a completely idiotic thing to have said. He'd seen Snape eat meat a million times in the Great Hall. "That was a stupid thing to ask," he murmurs.
Snape smirks. "I have him insulting himself now," he says dryly, and Harry is just about to laugh and say "Shut up," before he remembers who he's talking to. He looks up at Snape, and runs his eyes quickly over the other man's face, before he continues to unpack the two little packets of pasta, kept warm by heating charms. The two stay silent while Harry slowly prepares their mediocre lunch, and Snape's breathing is loud and harsh, which causes an...odd feeling in Harry's stomach. It wouldn't, usually, but Snape's breathing at the present time is a little too much like Harry's breathing after he's just had a really good orgasm, and hearing Snape imitating this in such close proximity is...
Harry shakes he head. He can't allow himself to admit that being in Snape's presence sexually arouses him. It's absolutely ridiculous. And untrue, a little voice in Harry's head murmurs, and Harry is worried because it sounds like a liar.
Harry swallows thickly, and feels a little queasy. He certainly doesn't want to think about what feeding Snape does to him. Watching his slick tongue wrap around every morsel of food, watching his throat work it down, watching his dark eyes glimmering in satisfaction...
"STOP!" Harry calls aloud, and Snape raises an eyebrow, and asks,
"Why? Is it poisoned?" He asks it like it's not an unrealistic question. "That's not about to stop me..." he says, and continues eating calmly.
"No, no, I just..." Harry sighs, and stares miserably at Snape's thin lips. "I have to go. I'm late." He can't stand tormenting himself in Snape's presence. And anyway, if he stays any longer, Snape might be able to see exactly in which way he torments Harry, and Harry doesn't want that. He knows that Snape has some idea of what Harry thinks of him, after having been right in the midst of it all in Harry's head, but he doesn't think Snape needs further physical proof of Harry's current...disability.
Snape makes a soft noise, and looks up at Harry. "That," he says thickly, before swallowing his food, "seems to be becoming something of a habit with you."
Harry nods frantically. "Yes, well, I - I still am. Late. So...so eat up. Quick."
Snape raises an eyebrow. "Eat up, or stop?"
Harry blushes. "Eat. Er, please." He's asking Snape to eat. How ridiculous the other man must think he is.
Snape seems a little amused by this display too, and he says dryly, "If you insist."
Harry shovels the rest of the food into Snape's mouth, and after letting Snape drink once more, and after wiping his lips (his eyes focusing firmly on the wall behind Snape's head) Harry leaves, once again quickly and quietly, his mind in complete disorder and his heart rocking around like an angry, trapped child. His wonders vaguely, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, why the meal is always the climax of the visit, and if maybe they got that done at the beginning it might change things. His other thoughts float away as he ponders this, and decides maybe he might try it tomorrow.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You don't know your good
from your bad, from your black
from your blood, from your wrong
from your right
so you camouflage your heart
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Harry stays in a wizard establishment on the outskirts of the city that night. It's nice to be able to perform spells and to have charmed objects about the house, but he has less than ten minutes to hold his head in his hands and gasp before the fireplace roars and Remus's voice asks,
"Harry? Are you there?"
Harry springs up and hastily wipes his damp eyes, startled. "What the hell, Remus, how did you find me?" How could Remus have known where he was staying? He stumbles over to the fireplace, where Remus's smiling face is blinking out amidst the flames.
"Were you hiding?" he asks, sounding amused, and Harry drops to his knees in front of the fire and shakes his head.
"No, not necessarily," he murmurs, and hopes that Remus can't tell that he's upset. He runs a hand through his hair and wipes away a small trail of mucus on his face, and Remus frowns.
"Are you all right, Harry?" he asks with a concerned look on his face, and Harry frowns as he wishes that Remus wasn't so damn perceptive all of the time.
"I'm fine," he says, plainly.
"Better than last night?" the older man asks wryly, and Harry laughs, embarrassed.
"Yeah, better."
"That's good." Remus says this like he isn't going to mention anything they talked about the previous night. Harry supposes it's a sensitive matter, and he's glad. He was going to apologise, but it looks like Remus isn't interested in pursuing the matter. "Well, I really just flooed to check up on things, to make sure you're not rolling around in your own spew..."
Harry laughs. "No, no, I got that cleaned up."
Remus smiles. "That's good, then."
Harry nods. "How are things with you?" He wishes he could see Remus's face better.
Remus looks surprised at the question, like it's completely unexpected, then answers stiltedly, "Er - fine."
Harry peers at Remus, a little curious. "Everything going okay?" he asks.
"Well - I mean, yes. Yes, everything's fine. Look," Remus quickly changes the topic, and Harry most definitely isn't fooled, "I'd like to ask you for a favour. To do something for me, really."
"Sure," Harry says, despite his suspicion, "what is it?" He still feels a little bad for the previous night.
"Ha," Remus says weakly, "you're quick to agree. Perhaps you mightn't be so keen when I ask."
Harry frowns. "What do you mean?"
"I want you to - that is to say, it's necessary to - I'd like you to...this pertains to Snape, by the way," Remus says, watching Harry closely, and Harry's shoulders sag as his heart speeds up.
"What," he says guardedly.
"I...I'd like you to give him a bath."
Harry blinks a few times, and lets the phrase run around in his head for a bit, to make sure that he's made correct sense of it. "Excuse me?" he says finally, when he's sure he must have heard it wrongly.
"Well, living in such conditions -"
Harry laughs incredulously, his eyes wide. "You're kidding, right?"
Remus looks a little perplexed. "Well...no."
Harry shakes his head. He wonders if maybe Remus has had one too many to drink, or if maybe he has, and just can't remember it. Maybe he's dreaming. "I can just use a cleaning charm if you think he's getting too smelly-"
"You know those don't work well on humans," Remus interrupts. "They're bad for the skin-"
"Remus, this is Snape," Harry says exasperatedly, trying not to imagine how that would sound coming out of anyone else's mouth.
"I'd like it if you didn't refer to Snape as if he is a lesser being, Harry."
There is a pause, and Harry shifts. "Well, he is, isn't he? He's a criminal-"
"Look," Remus interrupts, tersely, "all I'm asking is for you to just give him a quick wipe down-"
"No!" Harry protests, scandalised, his face starting to heat up. "How bloody weird would that be?" He's trying not to think of stripping Snape down, lathering up a sponge..."No!" he repeats.
"It's not as if I'm asking you to...to..." Remus blushes, and Harry gets the implication immediately, and splutters,
"Well, I should bloody well...Remus, this is Snape."
"I'm aware of that," Remus sighs.
Harry frowns and shifts again uncomfortably. "What if...what if he got...like, an...erection, or something? How bloody uncomfortable would I feel then?" Oh God. What if Snape got an erection? With Harry there. Naked and hard and tied up...Harry gasps, and shakes his head. So disgusting.
Remus looks at Harry as if the thought never occurred to him. "Oh," he says softly, as it ticks over in his mind. "Yes, I could imagine that would be..." he trails off, scrutinising Harry carefully.
"No." Harry is definite. He couldn't imagine having to cope with that situation and keep anything resembling his sanity. He imagines proposing this to Snape, and snorts. "Snape wouldn't let me, anyway."
"He might. It's not a nice feeling being filthy, Harry-"
"No," Harry repeats, "I won't. I can't. I refuse." He feels a little guilty, but... "Sorry, Remus, but...not even for you. You can do it when you get back, if you want. He'd probably prefer that, anyway." Harry feels a little confused when a fleeting feeling of something akin to jealousy goes through him, and he shakes his head.
Remus looks a little uncomfortable, and ignores Harry's last remark. "I might not be back for longer than I thought."
Harry frowns. "Why's that? I thought it was all set out."
Remus sighs, and little flickers of embers come shooting out his mouth. "There have been some - unforseen circumstances." He's not telling Harry something again, and Harry sighs angrily.
"Like what?" he presses.
Remus swallows flames. "Oh, just - a few hiccups. With - organisation."
Harry looks at Remus carefully. It's hard to make out his face amidst the flames and the wood and the ash and the embers, but Harry can swear that Remus is lying, although that doesn't really make any sense. What would Remus be lying about? Why is probably a better question, but the way Remus is clearing his throat makes Harry hesitate to pose the question.
"Well, I should be off," Remus says suddenly, and Harry is even more suspicious, "I'll contact you again some time."
Harry shakes his head. "How will you be able to find me?" he asks, carefully.
Remus chuckles. "The floo operator, Harry. How long have you been a wizard for?"
Harry is too busy trying to figure Remus out to feel silly. "Oh, right," he says distractedly.
"Goodbye, Harry," Remus says, and his face disappears from the fire, not giving Harry a moment more. Harry sits there for a while, his mind turning over.
"Bye," he murmurs belatedly to the remaining flickers of light, and leans back, thinking.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Everything I seen, everything that I've heard
it ain't even the tip of the ice berg
Fire down memory lane
so pass me my rose tinted glasses again
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Harry has always liked to think that he has a firm grip on reality, with enough open-mindedness to take into account the unknown and fantasy. Rather like he's in a little row boat, with one hand gripping tightly to the stable and definite form of the oar, and the other hand trailing in the misty mysterious waters of the sea. He likes to think that he is versatile, flexible.
He shakes his head, and takes a large gulp out of the bottle of amber liquid, wincing as it burns its way down his throat. Now he feels like the rough waters of the make-believe have upturned his little boat of life, and the oar has gone sailing off into the distance. He's trying to keep afloat in the waters, but he doesn't know what they are or what they hold, and suddenly the freezing water feels more real than the oar in his fist ever did. But the whole point of him existing in his boat was to keep out of the water, and now that he's in it, he feels lost.
But then, he thinks as he lolls his head off one side of the chair, it's not really as if he's in anything. He's not really a part of anything, really. He's not involved in anyone's life, really, save as a fill-in. A fill-in food-bearer for Snape, who couldn't care less if he lived or died, and a fill-in friend for Remus, who spends his time lying to Harry. He doesn't have a home, he doesn't really have any friends, he doesn't have commitments, he hardly even has a job. He can't even remember the last time he went.
Mostly, he just spends his time lying around feeling sorry for himself. "Poor Harry," he murmurs in a silly voice, then feels equally depressed and amused. He stands up quickly, and feels the world lurch to the side and his stomach do a few somersaults to entertain itself. He knows he'll probably end up throwing up again. He supposes that he's almost bulimic, really, and that the rate at which he's losing weight is probably due to how many times he throws up everything he's consumed. He's heard about a shifty business that sells a potion to prevent your body from throwing up when you're drunk, but reports of people dying because of alcohol poisoning have been high, especially for wizards. Muggles do the same thing with drugs, he's heard, and he wonders why with all the possibilities at the wizarding world's fingertips, they still manage to throw everything away like every muggle Tom, Dick and...
"Harry," he murmurs, and isn't sure if it's funny or not.
He isn't throwing everything away.
He could, though, he muses. He could. Some people might be sad, but then, Harry wouldn't care, would he? If he was just floating in the river. He could do it, it wouldn't be that hard, really. It might be nice, peace and quiet and calm for eternity. Maybe some people would smirk and say, "I told you so." Harry can think of at least one, a man sitting in an old cell in the wizarding world's most famous prison, who would do that. Snape would drawl on at length about Harry's weakness of character, about his lack of determination, about how "Potter always thought he was better than everybody else. Oh no, Saint Potter isn't going to suffer what we all suffer day in and day out..."
Harry growls. He'll show him. He'll show them all. The bottle slips from Harry's hand, and shatters on the ground. He stares at it in shock, and gingerly steps back from the shards of broken glass.
But then, he supposes, he'd be living for Snape. He'd be continuing on his life because of Snape. He wouldn't be dead due to Snape, which would be like the other man saving his life, without even lifting a finger. Harry doesn't want to be living because of Snape, he doesn't want to owe something to Snape, and he doesn't want his purpose to be Snape. Then it would be like...Harry doesn't even know what it would be like. He's only ever lived because he had to live. When he was younger, he wasn't allowed to die. He was forbidden to die. He imagines his past self strapped to a chair, a big sign above his head, "No Running. No Smoking. No Magic in The Corridors. And Absolutely No Dying."
He laughs, until he realises he's allowed to die now, if he wants to. He supposes that now he's just like everyone else, all with divine permission. "I have permission," he murmurs to the empty room, and it's like the room whispers back, "But what else do you have, Harry?"
Harry shakes his head back and forth, and slumps into his chair. "Nothing."
He thinks of the barman. "What will it be today?" It's never, "Nothing." There's always something that Harry wants when he goes in, and there's always something that he gets, and there's always something that he has. Why does life have to be a stage? Why does life have to be a box of chocolates? Why can't it be an enormous bar?
Harry snorts. "My life doesn't make sense," he murmurs, and it's true.
It doesn't.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Taste the broken hearts in the vacant lots
See the fruit that rots on the trees
Try to turn my head,
leave it all for dead
but it's in my mind always
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Title: Let The Truth Sting - Chapter Four
Author: captain_tulip, me.
Pairing: Snape/Harry, mentions of Snape/Remus.
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe) overall.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, HBP compliant. Snape is in Azkaban and when Remus, who was his only visitor, must leave the country, Harry grudgingly takes his place, with (un)expected consequences.
Wordcount: About 8,200 for this chapter.
Warnings: Slash, wanking, cliches, and my style of writing.
A/N: All recognisable characters/places/events etc are JK Rowling's (et al). Lyrics throughout are by David Gray. Thanks go to smarmypenguin for "inklings", (even if it was an age ago) and a big thanks to rexluscus, who did a wonderful beta, even in the midst of the frantic Olympics. :) All comments and criticism are greatly appreciated.
Previous parts:
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Me, like a million others before
trying to make sense of the rain
Were these twenty years a dream,
was it ever as it seemed?
Get to wonder if it really existed
'Cause the thief who stole my life
has taken, too, my faith
I can see now how the world gets twisted
Let it go now
Let it all slip away
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sometimes in motels, the walls are thick. The air is humid and everything feels like it's pressing in on Harry, like he's stuck inside a giant apple pie and his insides are moistening and his outsides are crispening and there's a soft smell of contenment wafting through the air. Harry isn't sure if he likes those times very much. They're something he enjoys retrospectively, not while they're happening. And then there's the other times, like now, when the walls are almost paper thin, and every whisper, every intake of breath that a person in another unit makes can be heard perfectly. The ground shakes as they turn over, the whole room vibrates when the specks of dust in the air cause them to cough slightly. Most people hate this, but Harry doesn't.
Well, that's not true. Sometimes he hates it. Sometimes he just wants a night's peace, and he can't get it because the idiots in the next room have "lost the postcards, where the hell did you put them?" at one o'clock in the morning. Who the hell, Harry usually thinks angrily while punching his pillow, wants postcards in the middle of the night? Do we all just mindlessly follow our whims in the darkness? Harry sometimes considers avocados when he can't get to sleep, but that doesn't mean an invisible hand leads him to the supermarket, where he stands peering at the "closed" sign for hours in barely disguised shock. People should learn more self control.
But when he's not furiously plotting human obedience lessons, sometimes he likes to listen to everything that's going on. He likes hearing the conversations, the unpacking and the packing and the discussions and the arguments, and he likes picturing the people in his head and leaving the next morning, trying to glimpse to see if his guesses were correct. He likes having a little insight into people's lives, because they're never what you'd expect. They're always so surprisingly different, so mundane yet so uniquely mundane, that Harry can't help but listen, his mouth lying open on the soft pillow covers.
And it's not like it's perverted, or eaves-dropping, because if people didn't want to be heard, then they wouldn't talk so damn loudly. They're dying for someone to be listening. He didn't used to think that, he used to just blush crazily if he happened to hear someone's conversation, and think about apologising to them for the rest of the day. He used to feel guilty for catching snippets of secrets and tidbits of tales, until one day he started to realise that no matter how hard he tried to block out the world in all politeness, the world was extremely intent on busting back in.
He sighs, and turns over in his bed, the metal grinding and the posts clanging. There is a couple next door who aren't as fascinating as they first presented. They are, as far as Harry can tell, Indian, and while it was amusing for a while to listen to their unintelligible arguing, Harry has become tired. The fact that he's completely pissed isn't helping, because the world is spinning around faster than his stomach is, which is saying something, and he's getting tired of the jabbering circling around and around his head. If you're going to argue, at least let me know what you're arguing about, he thinks. He thinks about casting a translation spell, which would at least allow him some fun, but he supposes that crosses a moral line somewhere.
When Harry wakes up in the morning, a tremour of fear passes through his heart as a thick stench of vomit attacks his nostrils. I'm in Azkaban! he thinks, terrified, until he opens his eyes, and he's suddenly assaulted by a flowery pattern. He blinks, confused, and sits up. He's not in Azkaban, he notes with a sigh of relief, he's just in the same motel as he was the night before, tacky wallpaper and all. He leans over the side of the bed and wrinkles his nose. He had forgotten about the vomit. He's not sure how, now, because the smell is almost overpowering. He focuses intently on the drying spew and casts a wordless spell with a wave of his hand. The mess disappears, and Harry spends a while staring at the clean spot of carpet before he rouses himself up out of bed.
He stumbles into the bathroom and gazes at himself in the mirror, his reflection gazing back. He frowns as he notices the large circles under his eyes. When he was younger and he'd been having a hard time, he used to hate it when his face was fresh and his eyes wide because it didn't show anything about what was inside. Now he wishes he could look like he did then. He prods his face softly, staring at his red and puffy cheeks, his hollow eyes, and his gritty hair. He smiles garishly, and looks disappointedly at the yellowness of his teeth. He sighs, and then pokes his tongue out at his reflection, which promptly does the same.
"Insolent," he murmurs to it, and it grins.
He clambers into the shower, and curses once again as he remembers he's forgotten to buy shampoo. He makes a mental note to pop into a Muggle store (because ever since his hair shone "brighter than the sun, guaranteed!" he hasn't really trusted magical hair care products), and slowly tries to dissociate as he wraps a shaky hand around his rapidly-hardening cock. His legs, like his hands, are shaky, and so are his lips when they mutter past blush-stained cheeks, "F-fuck, S-snape..."
When he has come, and he's watched the remnants of his one-sided pleasure swirl down the drain, he feels a little empty. It becomes so easy to slip into the familiar suit of emptiness, he's starting to realise, because it fits him perfectly, squeezing snug around his fingertips and close about his heart. The emptiness fills up (Harry thinks, with a wry smile) every corner of his being, settling in his gut and in his lungs and at the corners of his mouth. It wraps around him, and strokes his back and tells him it'll never leave him, that he'll always be empty and that no one can change that, it sounds so similar to the whispered words of a lover in the darkness of the night that sometimes, Harry wonders if it is so terrible being empty. Empty of thought and emotion and pain.
But then another part of his brain protests and tells him that being empty is what makes him cry at night and makes him lonely during the day, what makes him both hate the people he meets, and be fascinated by them. What makes him feel angry and hollow and distraught, what makes him create fantasies in his mind.
And then he doesn't know what to believe, and he gets so sick of arguing with himself, because no side ever wins because they're so evenly matched and he hates thinking of having sides, of not being a whole person, like the war has split him up and messed him round and he has to try and stitch himself back together again.
He packs his suitcase slowly, placing every item in delicately as if they all had a designated space inside the velvet chaos of the interior, and leaves the motel promptly at a quarter to ten. He didn't notice when he was inside, but as soon as he steps out into the world, he realises it's raining.
He doesn't know how he didn't notice, but he curses (as it were) as the little droplets form a team of millions pelting down from the sky to soak his clothing. He stops, when he reaches the street, and slowly sets down his suitcase. The empty feeling that had been sitting inside his stomach all morning has mutated, like it does sometimes when Harry isn't watching it closely. Now it's anger, and frustration, and sadness, and as he watches a man hastily putting an umbrella up and pulling in a woman close around him, sheltering her from the rain, he feels lonely too. He feels like he's a gaping hole, and as his heart pumps steadily to keep his body warm, he feels like it's slowly travelling up his throat. Like it's in his mouth, and it's prickling his eyes, and he's feels like there's a big empty space in his chest. He's forgotten how he felt in the morning, or the day before, and he thinks he may have started off the day in a good mood, but he can't remember. He can't remember where he thought he was going either, for a moment, as he stands there feeling lost in the rain. He's getting wet, but he doesn't see how it is all that preferable to being dry. He might get sick, but that doesn't seem as terrible as the world makes it out to be. He bites his lip and tries desperately not to feel pathetic, and as a bus passes and all the people in it gaze out at him with curious and pitying looks on his faces, he quickly picks up his suitcase, desperate not to look pathetic either. Because he isn't pathetic, you know. And he wants to turn around and scream to the people in the bus, "YOU'RE MORE PATHETIC THAN ME!" He wants to throw his suitcase down and smash all the windows and demand, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?" He knows it wouldn't be anything like he'd done. He'd saved the world, was what he did, and as much as he hated the hype and attention, and as much as he had to acknowledge he was part of an enormous team, working to support him in every way, sometimes he wants to walk around with a sign saying "I saved your life, so what have you done with it?"
But he knows there's no point trying to make people thankful for their lives. Because then they have a shitty day, and they hate it, and on top of that they have the guilt of not feeling thankful for their shitty day, and wondering why they don't feel thankful, wondering why they're worse than everyone else, feeling ostracized for being ungrateful and evil. Harry gets annoyed, sometimes, but he didn't save the innocent from evil to make them feel evil themselves.
So he trudges along in the rain, feeling maudlin and confused and resentful, not quite sure where or who his feelings are directed at. When he gets to the supermarket, he leaves a trail of water behind him as he tromps up and down the aisles. The girl at the counter looks at him dubiously as his shoes squidge up, and she runs a critical eye over his hair when he presents the shampoo, and two packets of ready made pasta.
"Anything else?" she asks, boredly, and Harry stares at her.
"Oh, yeah, a whole trolley of stuff for a holiday I'm going on. I just left it behind me," he deadpans, and the girl cranes her neck to look behind him. She frowns when she sees nothing but the pyramid display of deodorant, and Harry raises an eyebrow at her. He feels quite proud of himself for keeping his fists clenched at his sides, rather than wrapped around her stringy neck.
She snaps her gum, and rolls her eyes. "Just asking, mister."
I SAVED YOUR FUCKING LIFE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH! he wants to scream, but instead he smiles pleasantly, does the transaction efficiently, and leaves with the plastic bag grasped firmly in his hand and strong homicidal tendencies.
He used to think, some of those nights in the war when he smelled like blood and felt like shit, that once the war was over he'd never hate anyone again. That he'd be so worn out with the killing and the bloodshed and the anger and the prejudice and all of those other lovely human qualities that he'd just curl up with a book and a cup of tea indefinitely. He thinks back on the young man, rocking back and forth as the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils, and imagines trying to explain to him why he feels such a great resentment of the human race, such sadistic tendencies, sometimes. He imagines Young Harry feeling sick, comparing his future self to Lucius Malfoy, who Harry knows used to bring himself off over the corpses of dead Muggles.
Harry sighs, and runs a wet hand through his soaking hand, and tells himself firmly it's just because he is old and tired. He doesn't have tendencies towards necrophilia, he isn't bloodthirsty, and he hasn't been irreversibly fucked up by the war. He's just tired of everything that he has to put up with in life, and sometimes that comes out as frustration.
Harry smiles, because he likes that explanation much better.
He stops at the corner of the street, and takes a deep breath as he tries to decide where to go. People in cars go zooming past, faces pressing up against the glass as they peer out at the strange man standing in the rain. Harry tries not to watch them back, and he looks down at his shoes, standing in a puddle. He splashes it, and hundreds of droplets go cascading through the air, landing painfully on the muddy ground.
He considers treating himself. He doesn't really deserve anything, he knows, because he's indulged in far too much self-pity today, but he's cold and he's a little hungry and he tries to think of somewhere that won't have the potential for thousands of people to stare at him in barely disguised awe.
His mind suddenly clicks to the movie theatre, and he smiles slightly as he remembers the trashy love story he'd seen advertised. "That'll do," he murmurs to himself starts off in the direction of the cinema.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When there's nothing left
on this plate you're handed
you find yourself running the gauntlet
of all of these double standards
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Get a fucking hold of yourself," Harry hisses through clenched teeth. There is no one left in the toilets, now. He's alone in a cubicle, the strong scents of disinfectant and urine filling up his nose, as he rocks back and forth with tears in his eyes. He's furious at himself for allowing himself to get so distraught over a fucking movie! He had thought that he would be fine. He even enjoyed it, in the beginning, with the sneaked looks and the sexual tension, and he'd enjoyed being able to run his eyes over the physique of fit men without disapproving looks from those around. He'd been enjoying the movie more and more and more, until suddenly he realised that he was hating every second of it, and ran out of the cinema, barging past a baffled cinema worker to lock himself in the bathroom.
He knows he shouldn't, and he knows he isn't even legally allowed to, but he grits his teeth and Apparates away, right into the rain on the docks. Let the damn workers search the building for any possible escape route, wondering how a distraught man entered the toilets and didn't come out, ever. Let them prod at the walls and examine the ceiling and scratch their heads and drive themselves barmy for the rest of their mad lives. At least it would give them a sense of purpose.
I'd like a sense of purpose, Harry thinks bitterly. Goose bumps break out on his skin and he wraps his arms around himself. The sea is raging and frothing, and Harry glares at it resentfully. He's heard many stories and poems and long ranting raves about the sea from people. About how they love it because it's so big and beautiful and tumbling, and any problems that you have seem like trivialities compared to its glorious vastness, but Harry hates the sea. Look at it, so oblivious and indifferent. It may keep rolling when he's crying and when his world is falling down around him, showing him that things go on and there's a light at the end of the tunnel, but it keeps rolling when everything is good, too. It doesn't care when he's smiling and when he's happy. It makes his triumphs seem trivial, it makes the times when he feel glorious and on top of the world seem insignificant. It's just a big, freezing cold, roiling thing of nothingness, and Harry hates it because it's what he feels like sometimes. And sometimes he even wishes he could be like the sea, powerful and indifferent.
He strides to an old seat, wooden and wearing away, and sits down, the rain battering his head. The wood of the seat digs into his backside, and he relishes feeling alive. Not that he doesn't resent his life, and not that he doesn't sometimes plan elaborate ways to end it in his spare time, but with his chattering teeth and his aching arse and his numbed fingers and his jittery bones and his swiftly beating heart, he feels more alive than he has in a while. Focusing on every little sensation, blocking out everything that matters by bombarding his senses with minute details...he sucks in a deep breath.
He looks down at his watch. It says, simply, "Late." He stares at it, for a moment, wondering what it thinks it's telling him until he realises that it's late afternoon, and far too early to be considered an appropriate time for lunch.
"Shit," he mutters, and Apparates away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
And there's daylight in my fingers
but it's snowing in my bones
Been sucking on the echo
of a thousand telephones
And when we meet again,
we will be strangers
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"You're late!"
It is hissed. Harry feels guilty, then feels annoyed at feeling guilty. He's doing this as a favour, and Snape needs him, so Harry doesn't think he has any right to be so snarky.
"I hadn't realised there was a specified time," Harry says calmly, closing the cell door behind him. "I had some things to do."
Snape's face is etched with lines of fury. His teeth grind in between his speaking, and he looks at Harry with an expression of absolute disgust. "Spoken like a true selfish bastard-"
"I lost track of the time!" Harry protests. Which is true. His fault, he knows, and he'd apologise if it was anyone else. But it's Snape, and Harry has never apologised to Snape when he wasn't forced to. Snape's never seemed particularly deserving of an apology.
"Once." Snape arms shake a little, as if his body cannot contain his anger, and Harry notices that his cheeks are a little flushed, a look he has never seen on his former Professor. "That is how often I get fed a day, Potter. I get fed, like an animal, and I have to wait till fucking Saint Potter pulls his finger out of his arse long enough to-"
"I resent that!" Harry interrupts, blushing furiously at the figure of speech. God, what that makes him think of...he hastily scrapes the thought out of his mind, and spits, "My life doesn't revolve around you, Snape-"
"Oh?" Snape asks, like it does, and Harry resents that, too. "Well, who does it revolve around, Potter? Yourself? Your cock?"
Harry's stomach squirms a little, and his heart skips excitedly at hearing Snape utter such a filthy word. He wishes he could pull his heart right out of his chest and throw it at Snape, for all the attention it seems to be giving Snape lately, bloody unfaithful thing that it is. He silently scolds it for its lack of loyalty. Snape is intimating that Harry is selfish, utter bastard. "I devoted," Harry begins, trying not to allow his voice to shake, "my whole childhood to-"
"Not this again!" Snape snaps. His face is pale, and his eyelids flicker, and his voice is grating. His body looks weaker than usual, but Harry can't concentrate on his malnutrition. "We've heard this story time and time again, Potter, and always in the same tone, like you've decided you're the only one who's ever sacrificed anything for the war effort, and-"
Harry growls. "I didn't have any fucking choice! Do you think I chose to walk around with Voldemort's mark on me?" Harry scoffs, "I certainly know people who did-"
"Don't you dare," Snape hisses, and then sways slightly, his eyes falling closed. His tongue flicks out to lick his lips, still cracked and splitting, before his eyes spring open again with renewed determination, "speak to me about things you don't understand."
Doesn't understand. Snape thinks he doesn't understand...who does Snape think he is? Who does Snape thinks Harry is? "What, that you were bullied a few times by some kids who were cooler than you?" Harry says, particularly nastily. "So you turned to murder and rape and-"
"YOU-" Snape's voice is almost completely hoarse, and his eyes are wide with fury greater than Harry has ever seen.
"-KNOW!" Harry retorts, loudly. He does know. "I know what it's like to be bullied, but I didn't run off to join a mass-murder cult, did I?"
Snape goes to snap back, but all that comes out of his mouth is a hissing whine. He snaps his mouth shut, furious, and glares at Harry, who sighs angrily and pulls the bottle of water out of his bag and settles down in front of Snape. The older man opens his mouth, dutifully, his eyes still flashing. Harry notes with particular satisfaction that it grates on Snape's nerves having to rely on Harry's help to Harry in the middle of a particularly heated argument. One point to me, for free, Harry thinks, and quickly pulls off the seal and squirts the water into Snape's mouth. Snape drinks it down greedily, his eyes staring into Harry's with flickers of innuendo, and Harry's mouth goes dry, and his pants suddenly feel tighter than they did this morning. Snape is trying to even the score, and Harry stares at Snape, pulling back, his mouth open a little, his breath clearly audible.
"You haven't ever made a mistake, Potter?" Snape says, softly and darkly, continuing on the conversation as if the interlude had never happened. "Would you like to be held accountable for things you did in your youth thirty years on?" His eyes are narrowed slightly, and he flexes his long fingers.
Harry shakes his head softly, and he would have been amazed at Snape if he didn't know him so well by now. "You were old enough to know what you were doing," he mutters, looking up somewhere above Snape's head.
"At seventeen?" Snape murmurs back. "You had a group of some of the most talented witches and wizards in Britain helping you when you were seventeen, and you still managed to royally fuck up-"
"I killed him, didn't I?" Harry snaps, he eyes returning to Snape's. Then he sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks a little to his fingers, but he hardly registers this. "That's all that matters." He says it a little to himself as well, and he grimaces as he realises Snape notices this.
"So you clearly keep telling yourself," the older man says, running a critical eye over Harry. "What do you live for, Potter?" Snape asks, and it seems so out of the blue that Harry laughs, uncomfortable.
"I don't really see what that has to do with anything..." Besides the fact that it's none of Snape's damn business, and that Harry has no idea himself. "Aren't you hungry, or something?" he asks, trying to change the subject. One of his legs twinges, and he shifts slightly.
"Baiting you is...for the moment, more enjoyable." Snape smirks a little, and Harry only has a moment to allow his mouth to fall open most inelegantly before Snape continues, "Are you a virgin, Mr Potter?"
"What?" Harry starts. "I don't see," he says, feeling his face heat up, "what that has to do with-"
"It's merely conversation. I thought we'd explore a...mutual interest." Snape is almost smiling, and Harry stares at him with shock.
Snape is toying with him. Snape is toying with me. "You're toying with me."
Snape shrugs, as if innocent and only mildly interested, and Harry hates that he's so bloody good at this. "You're not interested in sex?" Snape asks, casually, and hearing Snape say sex in that voice sends shivers down Harry's spine, and he hates it. He wishes he could act more like an adult, too, but all he seems to be able to do at the moment is blush and stammer.
"W-what...I don't think that-"
"You're gay, are you not?" Snape interrupts, and Harry freezes. "So you're familiar with sex between two males?"
"I don't want to discuss this with you!" Harry snaps, sweating in odd places. For a moment, he wonders why his first reaction wasn't "I'm not gay!", but Harry has no time to think, because Snape is continuing, as if Harry hasn't said a word.
"You're reasonably experienced, I would presume, because you're by no means unattractive-"
"I-" Harry begins, and then he blinks. ...by no means unattractive..."What?" he says dumbly, and his heart starts to beat inside his mouth.
"Unless," Snape says, scrutinising Harry closely, "the demons" (he says, dryly) "of your past have prevented you from getting too close to anyone..."
Harry's hands twitch, and he has to forcefully concentrate on stopping them from clapping to his head. He knows Snape isn't in there, and he isn't sure now if that's a good thing, because it means he's so bloody transparent that even a half-starved, half-crazed criminal can see right through him.
"Either that," Snape continues, almost boredly, "or you're not ready to accept the sexual truths about yourself."
Harry feels like a balloon slowly being filled up with more and more air, seconds from popping. "Can we - just - stop?" he says through gritted teeth, trying to ignore Snape's smug expression. "I don't know what you want from me-"
Snape smirks. "Oh yes, let's go down that path. What do I want from Potter-"
"Look," Harry begins, feeling like he's blushing so much that his face is on fire, "what - are you doing? Are you - are you flirting? With me?" The idea is so ridiculous Harry regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. "I don't - I don't understand. So - so. I'm just...just going to...I don't understand you," Harry repeats, frustratedly. "Is - is that what you're trying to do? To confuse me?"
Snape rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm starving, Potter, and this method has, thus far, proved fruitful."
Harry opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. Snape's face is completely unreadable, as is his posture, unable to change to reflect emotion. Harry feels completely like he's a one-way road, with Snape's traffic flooding into him, whereas he's completely cut off from the other man. Harry has no idea what Snape is thinking or feeling or doing, but with just a few words Snape has wriggled his way into Harry's subconscious, his mind and his...he doesn't want to think about where else Snape has wriggled, and he most certainly doesn't want to think about where he's wished that Snape has wriggled in the man's presence. The thought makes him hot, and he immediately scolds himself. No! Just a phase. It's just a phase. Something his brain has come up with to torture him. It'll get sick of it, eventually, and move onto something else. Harry thinks that the nightmares may even be preferable to this.
Harry gives a long sigh, suddenly tired. "If you were hungry, you could have just said," he says.
"I thought it was rather clearly implied," Snape replies, and Harry feels stupid.
"Right." Harry sits down slowly in front of the other man. "This is confusing," he mutters under his breath. He knows he should be keeping his turmoil inside, but every time he comes near Snape, all of his thoughts in his head get all jumbled up with each other, and he doesn't know his left from his right from his wrong.
"This?" Snape repeats, and the corner of Harry's mouth quirks, despite himself.
"You," he affirms, and Snape cocks his head slightly.
"Me." It's as if Snape is trying it on his lips, to see how it feels. "You seem to be reading quite a bit into me, Potter. I could be less complicated than you think."
Harry nods slowly. "You could be," he says, then he shakes his head. "But that's too much for me to think about at the moment." He's thought about it a lot.
"But surely, you're going to return to your home and torment yourself over it?"
Harry nods again, smiling a little. "Yeah, probably." Harry is aware that they might be sharing a joke, and he doesn't know what he thinks about it. He's a little worried, because Snape isn't snarling and frothing and screaming, and he's stopped messing with Harry (he hopes), and Harry feels like he doesn't really know this person who is chained up opposite him for the moment.
"I brought pasta today," he says, pulling it out of the plastic bag. "Cheap packet stuff, but it's good." He's had it a few times before.
Snape frowns. "Packet stuff?" he sneers. "Didn't you at least learn rudimentary cooking skills as a student of mine for five years?"
Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble... Harry tries not to smile.
"Yeah, but I was running late. And this stuff is good. It's got little bits of prosciuitto in it...oh." A thought suddenly occurs to Harry. "You're not a vegetarian, are you?"
Snape stares at Harry, like he can't decide whether to be furious or amused. "Do I look the type?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching and his eyes shooting daggers.
"Well, you might have - since the..." Harry suddenly feels silly. What a completely idiotic thing to have said. He'd seen Snape eat meat a million times in the Great Hall. "That was a stupid thing to ask," he murmurs.
Snape smirks. "I have him insulting himself now," he says dryly, and Harry is just about to laugh and say "Shut up," before he remembers who he's talking to. He looks up at Snape, and runs his eyes quickly over the other man's face, before he continues to unpack the two little packets of pasta, kept warm by heating charms. The two stay silent while Harry slowly prepares their mediocre lunch, and Snape's breathing is loud and harsh, which causes an...odd feeling in Harry's stomach. It wouldn't, usually, but Snape's breathing at the present time is a little too much like Harry's breathing after he's just had a really good orgasm, and hearing Snape imitating this in such close proximity is...
Harry shakes he head. He can't allow himself to admit that being in Snape's presence sexually arouses him. It's absolutely ridiculous. And untrue, a little voice in Harry's head murmurs, and Harry is worried because it sounds like a liar.
Harry swallows thickly, and feels a little queasy. He certainly doesn't want to think about what feeding Snape does to him. Watching his slick tongue wrap around every morsel of food, watching his throat work it down, watching his dark eyes glimmering in satisfaction...
"STOP!" Harry calls aloud, and Snape raises an eyebrow, and asks,
"Why? Is it poisoned?" He asks it like it's not an unrealistic question. "That's not about to stop me..." he says, and continues eating calmly.
"No, no, I just..." Harry sighs, and stares miserably at Snape's thin lips. "I have to go. I'm late." He can't stand tormenting himself in Snape's presence. And anyway, if he stays any longer, Snape might be able to see exactly in which way he torments Harry, and Harry doesn't want that. He knows that Snape has some idea of what Harry thinks of him, after having been right in the midst of it all in Harry's head, but he doesn't think Snape needs further physical proof of Harry's current...disability.
Snape makes a soft noise, and looks up at Harry. "That," he says thickly, before swallowing his food, "seems to be becoming something of a habit with you."
Harry nods frantically. "Yes, well, I - I still am. Late. So...so eat up. Quick."
Snape raises an eyebrow. "Eat up, or stop?"
Harry blushes. "Eat. Er, please." He's asking Snape to eat. How ridiculous the other man must think he is.
Snape seems a little amused by this display too, and he says dryly, "If you insist."
Harry shovels the rest of the food into Snape's mouth, and after letting Snape drink once more, and after wiping his lips (his eyes focusing firmly on the wall behind Snape's head) Harry leaves, once again quickly and quietly, his mind in complete disorder and his heart rocking around like an angry, trapped child. His wonders vaguely, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, why the meal is always the climax of the visit, and if maybe they got that done at the beginning it might change things. His other thoughts float away as he ponders this, and decides maybe he might try it tomorrow.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You don't know your good
from your bad, from your black
from your blood, from your wrong
from your right
so you camouflage your heart
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Harry stays in a wizard establishment on the outskirts of the city that night. It's nice to be able to perform spells and to have charmed objects about the house, but he has less than ten minutes to hold his head in his hands and gasp before the fireplace roars and Remus's voice asks,
"Harry? Are you there?"
Harry springs up and hastily wipes his damp eyes, startled. "What the hell, Remus, how did you find me?" How could Remus have known where he was staying? He stumbles over to the fireplace, where Remus's smiling face is blinking out amidst the flames.
"Were you hiding?" he asks, sounding amused, and Harry drops to his knees in front of the fire and shakes his head.
"No, not necessarily," he murmurs, and hopes that Remus can't tell that he's upset. He runs a hand through his hair and wipes away a small trail of mucus on his face, and Remus frowns.
"Are you all right, Harry?" he asks with a concerned look on his face, and Harry frowns as he wishes that Remus wasn't so damn perceptive all of the time.
"I'm fine," he says, plainly.
"Better than last night?" the older man asks wryly, and Harry laughs, embarrassed.
"Yeah, better."
"That's good." Remus says this like he isn't going to mention anything they talked about the previous night. Harry supposes it's a sensitive matter, and he's glad. He was going to apologise, but it looks like Remus isn't interested in pursuing the matter. "Well, I really just flooed to check up on things, to make sure you're not rolling around in your own spew..."
Harry laughs. "No, no, I got that cleaned up."
Remus smiles. "That's good, then."
Harry nods. "How are things with you?" He wishes he could see Remus's face better.
Remus looks surprised at the question, like it's completely unexpected, then answers stiltedly, "Er - fine."
Harry peers at Remus, a little curious. "Everything going okay?" he asks.
"Well - I mean, yes. Yes, everything's fine. Look," Remus quickly changes the topic, and Harry most definitely isn't fooled, "I'd like to ask you for a favour. To do something for me, really."
"Sure," Harry says, despite his suspicion, "what is it?" He still feels a little bad for the previous night.
"Ha," Remus says weakly, "you're quick to agree. Perhaps you mightn't be so keen when I ask."
Harry frowns. "What do you mean?"
"I want you to - that is to say, it's necessary to - I'd like you to...this pertains to Snape, by the way," Remus says, watching Harry closely, and Harry's shoulders sag as his heart speeds up.
"What," he says guardedly.
"I...I'd like you to give him a bath."
Harry blinks a few times, and lets the phrase run around in his head for a bit, to make sure that he's made correct sense of it. "Excuse me?" he says finally, when he's sure he must have heard it wrongly.
"Well, living in such conditions -"
Harry laughs incredulously, his eyes wide. "You're kidding, right?"
Remus looks a little perplexed. "Well...no."
Harry shakes his head. He wonders if maybe Remus has had one too many to drink, or if maybe he has, and just can't remember it. Maybe he's dreaming. "I can just use a cleaning charm if you think he's getting too smelly-"
"You know those don't work well on humans," Remus interrupts. "They're bad for the skin-"
"Remus, this is Snape," Harry says exasperatedly, trying not to imagine how that would sound coming out of anyone else's mouth.
"I'd like it if you didn't refer to Snape as if he is a lesser being, Harry."
There is a pause, and Harry shifts. "Well, he is, isn't he? He's a criminal-"
"Look," Remus interrupts, tersely, "all I'm asking is for you to just give him a quick wipe down-"
"No!" Harry protests, scandalised, his face starting to heat up. "How bloody weird would that be?" He's trying not to think of stripping Snape down, lathering up a sponge..."No!" he repeats.
"It's not as if I'm asking you to...to..." Remus blushes, and Harry gets the implication immediately, and splutters,
"Well, I should bloody well...Remus, this is Snape."
"I'm aware of that," Remus sighs.
Harry frowns and shifts again uncomfortably. "What if...what if he got...like, an...erection, or something? How bloody uncomfortable would I feel then?" Oh God. What if Snape got an erection? With Harry there. Naked and hard and tied up...Harry gasps, and shakes his head. So disgusting.
Remus looks at Harry as if the thought never occurred to him. "Oh," he says softly, as it ticks over in his mind. "Yes, I could imagine that would be..." he trails off, scrutinising Harry carefully.
"No." Harry is definite. He couldn't imagine having to cope with that situation and keep anything resembling his sanity. He imagines proposing this to Snape, and snorts. "Snape wouldn't let me, anyway."
"He might. It's not a nice feeling being filthy, Harry-"
"No," Harry repeats, "I won't. I can't. I refuse." He feels a little guilty, but... "Sorry, Remus, but...not even for you. You can do it when you get back, if you want. He'd probably prefer that, anyway." Harry feels a little confused when a fleeting feeling of something akin to jealousy goes through him, and he shakes his head.
Remus looks a little uncomfortable, and ignores Harry's last remark. "I might not be back for longer than I thought."
Harry frowns. "Why's that? I thought it was all set out."
Remus sighs, and little flickers of embers come shooting out his mouth. "There have been some - unforseen circumstances." He's not telling Harry something again, and Harry sighs angrily.
"Like what?" he presses.
Remus swallows flames. "Oh, just - a few hiccups. With - organisation."
Harry looks at Remus carefully. It's hard to make out his face amidst the flames and the wood and the ash and the embers, but Harry can swear that Remus is lying, although that doesn't really make any sense. What would Remus be lying about? Why is probably a better question, but the way Remus is clearing his throat makes Harry hesitate to pose the question.
"Well, I should be off," Remus says suddenly, and Harry is even more suspicious, "I'll contact you again some time."
Harry shakes his head. "How will you be able to find me?" he asks, carefully.
Remus chuckles. "The floo operator, Harry. How long have you been a wizard for?"
Harry is too busy trying to figure Remus out to feel silly. "Oh, right," he says distractedly.
"Goodbye, Harry," Remus says, and his face disappears from the fire, not giving Harry a moment more. Harry sits there for a while, his mind turning over.
"Bye," he murmurs belatedly to the remaining flickers of light, and leans back, thinking.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Everything I seen, everything that I've heard
it ain't even the tip of the ice berg
Fire down memory lane
so pass me my rose tinted glasses again
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Harry has always liked to think that he has a firm grip on reality, with enough open-mindedness to take into account the unknown and fantasy. Rather like he's in a little row boat, with one hand gripping tightly to the stable and definite form of the oar, and the other hand trailing in the misty mysterious waters of the sea. He likes to think that he is versatile, flexible.
He shakes his head, and takes a large gulp out of the bottle of amber liquid, wincing as it burns its way down his throat. Now he feels like the rough waters of the make-believe have upturned his little boat of life, and the oar has gone sailing off into the distance. He's trying to keep afloat in the waters, but he doesn't know what they are or what they hold, and suddenly the freezing water feels more real than the oar in his fist ever did. But the whole point of him existing in his boat was to keep out of the water, and now that he's in it, he feels lost.
But then, he thinks as he lolls his head off one side of the chair, it's not really as if he's in anything. He's not really a part of anything, really. He's not involved in anyone's life, really, save as a fill-in. A fill-in food-bearer for Snape, who couldn't care less if he lived or died, and a fill-in friend for Remus, who spends his time lying to Harry. He doesn't have a home, he doesn't really have any friends, he doesn't have commitments, he hardly even has a job. He can't even remember the last time he went.
Mostly, he just spends his time lying around feeling sorry for himself. "Poor Harry," he murmurs in a silly voice, then feels equally depressed and amused. He stands up quickly, and feels the world lurch to the side and his stomach do a few somersaults to entertain itself. He knows he'll probably end up throwing up again. He supposes that he's almost bulimic, really, and that the rate at which he's losing weight is probably due to how many times he throws up everything he's consumed. He's heard about a shifty business that sells a potion to prevent your body from throwing up when you're drunk, but reports of people dying because of alcohol poisoning have been high, especially for wizards. Muggles do the same thing with drugs, he's heard, and he wonders why with all the possibilities at the wizarding world's fingertips, they still manage to throw everything away like every muggle Tom, Dick and...
"Harry," he murmurs, and isn't sure if it's funny or not.
He isn't throwing everything away.
He could, though, he muses. He could. Some people might be sad, but then, Harry wouldn't care, would he? If he was just floating in the river. He could do it, it wouldn't be that hard, really. It might be nice, peace and quiet and calm for eternity. Maybe some people would smirk and say, "I told you so." Harry can think of at least one, a man sitting in an old cell in the wizarding world's most famous prison, who would do that. Snape would drawl on at length about Harry's weakness of character, about his lack of determination, about how "Potter always thought he was better than everybody else. Oh no, Saint Potter isn't going to suffer what we all suffer day in and day out..."
Harry growls. He'll show him. He'll show them all. The bottle slips from Harry's hand, and shatters on the ground. He stares at it in shock, and gingerly steps back from the shards of broken glass.
But then, he supposes, he'd be living for Snape. He'd be continuing on his life because of Snape. He wouldn't be dead due to Snape, which would be like the other man saving his life, without even lifting a finger. Harry doesn't want to be living because of Snape, he doesn't want to owe something to Snape, and he doesn't want his purpose to be Snape. Then it would be like...Harry doesn't even know what it would be like. He's only ever lived because he had to live. When he was younger, he wasn't allowed to die. He was forbidden to die. He imagines his past self strapped to a chair, a big sign above his head, "No Running. No Smoking. No Magic in The Corridors. And Absolutely No Dying."
He laughs, until he realises he's allowed to die now, if he wants to. He supposes that now he's just like everyone else, all with divine permission. "I have permission," he murmurs to the empty room, and it's like the room whispers back, "But what else do you have, Harry?"
Harry shakes his head back and forth, and slumps into his chair. "Nothing."
He thinks of the barman. "What will it be today?" It's never, "Nothing." There's always something that Harry wants when he goes in, and there's always something that he gets, and there's always something that he has. Why does life have to be a stage? Why does life have to be a box of chocolates? Why can't it be an enormous bar?
Harry snorts. "My life doesn't make sense," he murmurs, and it's true.
It doesn't.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Taste the broken hearts in the vacant lots
See the fruit that rots on the trees
Try to turn my head,
leave it all for dead
but it's in my mind always
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*