TITLE:
American Without TearsAUTHOR:
AviatrixPAIRING:
Harry/Snape (pre-existing relationship).RATING:
PG-13SUMMARY:
Harry's hiding from Voldemort in California, post-Hogwarts. Not a Mary-Sue.A/N:
There are books and courses called "French Without Tears", or Italian, or whichever language is being taught. The "American" variation was presumably thought of first by Elvis Costello, in his song "American Without Tears". This has nothing to do with that, I just liked the idea. Mmmkay? Mmmkay. Oh, and I'm aware that the plot doesn't make sense.x
California does not sit well with Harry.
The air tastes like salt water and the sun burns his skin, and the town, the whole damn state, rushes over him like a tidal wave. He's not used to things moving this quickly.
He's been in hiding for exactly one year, today. It's a milestone, and he celebrates/mourns with black coffee and a dry blueberry muffin. It sticks in his throat, but it's the cheapest present he's ever bought, and money saved is always good for something. A new pair of prescription sunglasses, some plastic wrap, a haircut. An air-conditioner.
x
The day he left, Snape had given him a small jar of blackberry jam. Well, he pursed his lips and tossed it in Harry's general direction, and that was close enough.
"What is this...jam? Oh, that's so sweet of you."
Snape gave him a look that, on anyone else, Harry would've sworn was a blush.
"I don't do sweet, Harry. I merely thought that you'd want something familiar and... (here he moved his lips around the word like it was in some strange foreign language) ...tasty. The food is atrocious over there."
x
He was downright startled when, a month or so later, he found that the jam had grown moldy.
Things rarely go bad in the wizarding world. Maybe they have special preservatives, or maybe magic is like a refrigerator, but everything is good for ages. No best-by dates, no expiration.
x
Sometimes his stomach gives a sickening lurch, like there's something going wrong inside him. It's a million times worse underneath this goddamned sun, and the heat presses down on him, and he never knew he could sweat there without actually doing anything.
So he sits, very still, on his bed, wiping his sweaty palms on the mattress. He thinks about the dark cool air in the dungeons and Severus' ice-cold voice, can almost hear him whispering in his ear:
Perhaps you're not so like your father, after all.
and some nights, he can almost convince himself that it's not his own hand bringing him to orgasm.
x
He knew their language was different, but he doesn't know if he can't understand it because they're American or because they're Muggles. Probably a mixture of both, he thinks, and either way the British/American slang dictionary he bought isn't helping him at all.
They've got dozens of words for sex and popularity , but nothing to give a name to the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
x
California does not sit well with Harry, but apparently he's doing his duty by not doing his duty, and he remembers what Dumbledore told him and he makes no move to go back home.
He's learned how to survive here, and though he doesn't enjoy it, he gets by. He's got a memory of cold hands that he brings up when the heat gets unbearable, and he's got Potions books that Severus gave him, whose words are incomprehensible in a familiar way. He wears sunglasses to ward off the blinding California sun, and swallows Tums by the handful.
x
In his back pocket is a list of things he misses:
the freedom to use magic freely
Ron and Hermione
Remus
Hagrid
snow
Things like that.
And he's almost too Gryffindor to write it, but at the bottom, smeared and scrawled in his illegible hand, it's there:
Severus
and sometimes just the sight of his name makes his throat close up, and he folds that part of the paper over.
He's fine, really. It's just…
He gets by.