Lost Boy
Prequel to False Prophets
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
For the longest time, Harry thought he was the only one who could see the dead.
His Aunt and Uncle had thought him mad. The dead whispered secrets to him and, sometimes, Harry could convince them to manipulate the world around them. Windows would shatter, plates would spray from cupboards, spiders would swarm and - when Vernon beat him - the belt would suddenly fly from his hand. Harry trusted the dead more than he did his own family.
At age thirteen, when Harry was finally sick of his relatives, he ran away to the streets.
Autumn, 1993
Age Thirteen
It was the beginning of the school day and - as the Dursleys didn't live too far from school - Harry and Dudley were forced to walk. Or, rather, Harry raced and Dudley chased.
As Harry ran, he could barely feel the dull throb in his cheek where his dear cousin, Dudley Dursley, had cuffed him earlier. His protruding ribs burned from Gordon James' sharp jabs, and Harry would be quite astonished if he didn't blossom with bruises in the next hour. His narrow wrists were ringed red where Piers Polkiss had held his arms back, laughing mockingly as the younger boy was beaten bloody. Dudley's gang hadn't much appreciated it when Harry fought back, but Piers' shrill falsetto as he was kneed in the crotch was well worth it.
Whilst the other boys gaped in shock as Piers fell, moaning, onto the pavement, Harry raced into the school grounds, thin-soled shoes slapping against the rough pavement. The wind whistled in his ears, carrying jeers and shouts of 'No use runnin', Fairy Harry!' or 'You'll pay for that!'
From his peripheral vision, the boy could see his classmates turning to watch the chase, although no one bothered to actually help. Gritting his teeth, Harry caught the reflection of his pursuers in a classroom window and swore vividly. While he was several paces ahead of his cousin's gang, he was slowed down by the pain in his torso and the faint ringing in his ears.
Tripping into a narrow alleyway between two school wings, Harry ducked behind a large metal dumpster. Sensing his cousin's approach, Harry pressed against the coarse brick wall and held his bag tight to his chest. "Where'd he go, Big D?" Piers asked, voice tight. "I'm gonna murder the skinny freak."
There was the sound of shuffling feet. "Dunno. The freak runs fast." Despite the circumstances, Harry found himself a bit smug.
"Well, he can't be far," Gordon muttered, sounding impatient. "Look over there."
Urgently, Harry's hands flew across the ground, searching for a weapon. He came across a small rock and a broken rubber band. Nimble fingers didn't hesitate to knot the band, stretching it into a wide oval, before linking it between his index and middle fingers. Harry smirked slightly at the obscene gesture it made before expertly scoring the pebble. With bated breath, Harry aimed.
Vibrating against his fingers, the band snapped and the pebble successfully sliced past Dudley's ear. A split second later, it hit the open cover of an adjacent trash bin and the top slammed down.
Dudley reared back in surprise, chins wobbling. "What the -" His syntax was cut off by a ringing bell. "Bugger it," the boy hissed, stumbling out of the alley. "I've gotta go. Sister Rachel said I can't have any more tardies, or she'll paddle me."
Piers grimaced in sympathy. "You and me both. We'll just have to get the freak later. He can't hide forever. "
Harry leaned back, momentarily relieved. The gang shoved each other out of the alley, Dudley teasing Piers on 'getting beat up by a nancy boy'. Briefly, Harry wished that he'd aimed the rock at his cousin's eye.
"Good hit," came a low voice behind him. Harry tried fiercely to ignore the ghost of the homeless man. The specter lounged on top of the dumpster, his dark eyes lifeless and eerie."But you'd best get to class."
Rubbing the side of his jaw, Harry pulled himself into a standing position as the warning bell called. He slipped into the nearly-empty front hall behind the rest of the stragglers, keeping his eyes down.
When Harry finally reached the classroom, he halted abruptly at the sharp look Sister Rachel sent him. All the nuns at St. Catherine Secondary wore the same drab cotton scapular and cowl, covering their hair and casting their features into dark shadow. Sister Rachel was rather young compared to the others, but this didn't make her any less stern.
"Mister Potter," Sister Rachel said in a grave voice. "You do realise you are ten minutes late? That's the third time this month." Harry winced, nodding. "I daresay I'll be calling your guardians. As for now, that'll be ten strikes with the ruler, I'd think. If you'll come up to the front podium?" Harry clenched the door frame painfully for a moment before acquiescing.
Dudley and Piers were snickering in their chairs, an action largely ignored by the teacher. The classroom was small and grey, filled with rows of desks, upon which the other Year Three students were scribbling idly in their maths books. In front was a black board and the teacher's desk, which Harry warily approached. Hands trembling in phantom pain from his last disciplining, Harry rolled up his sweater sleeves. If Sister Rachel could see the red, finger-shaped bruises on his wrist, she didn't say a thing.
"One," the nun said blandly, the splintered ruler coming down swiftly. Harry flinched back, breathing heavily as the rim struck his knuckles. "Count the rest," Sister Rachel commanded. Harry did as told through clenched teeth, determinedly watching each blow. When the tenth strike came, Harry yanked away, holding the stinging appendage to his chest. "I won't be so lenient next time," the teacher warned, jerking her head toward his desk. "Sit. Go to page forty-three and begin your fractions."
Harry slid hurriedly into his seat, back tensing as Gordon leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
"Learn your lesson?" he said mockingly, prodding Harry in the spine. "We're gonna get you later - just you wait." A shudder went through his small body. Harry, taking a steadying breath, put his chewed pencil down and began to work. He had bigger things to fear than Dudley's gang.
After receiving the damning call from St. Catherine, Uncle Vernon had been livid.
Harry could hear muffled shouts from the kitchen, and he hunched in on himself as Dudley came to whisper at his door. "Da's gonna whip you good, freak," the boy snickered. "Hope you bleed out." For once, Dudley was nearly right about something.
Thin arms came up over his tousled head as the cupboard's lock clicked open. A shadow descended over him, and Harry glanced up in terror.
"Shirt off, freak," Vernon was looming above him, face contorted with fury. Harry hurried to obey. "We never asked for you," the man said softly, mustache quivering. Harry cried out as he was pulled by his hair and thrown onto the rough carpet. "We let you go to school, we provide you clothes and supplies - and you repay us by skipping class?"
Though this wasn't true, Harry wasn't about to correct his uncle.
The moonlight streaming from the window caused his otherwise pale skin to glow white and his eyes to reflect the rays luminously, glistening with unshed tears. He instinctively went to first position, on his knees with his head bowed in submission, arms locked behind his back. His Uncle didn't touch him, but he knew the man was hovering close. It was easy to tell when Uncle Vernon was working up into a rage – deathly silence would reign, his cheeks would flush a burning red and his fists would clench and recede. Harry knew, then, to start ducking.
"We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, knowing the whole while that you would end up just the same." The sound of metal clinking made Harry shut his eyes. "Just as worthless, ungrateful and freakish as your whore of a mother. You freak of nature!"
A strip of leather slipped to the floor, and Harry refused to cry, not for him.
"You deserve everything that's coming to you." Vernon hissed, using his foot to shove Harry down. The belt came down with a slice of air, whistling in Harry's ear seconds before impact.
Harry was forced to count the lashes. By the time Petunia called from upstairs for her husband to come to bed, Harry was flat against the ground, his cheek pressed into the floor. He breathed shallowly, a dribble of blood slipping past his lips where he had embedded his front teeth.
Vernon wiped his face, splaying sweat onto Harry's already blood-soaked figure. Turning his nose up at the stained belt, he tossed it aside with annoyance. The slip of a boy was lying listlessly on the ground, bare back splayed and battered. Sweaty black hair was splayed like a halo, the boy's eyes peeking up through limp fringe. His vibrant green stare becoming glazed with diminishing lucidity, Harry fought a wince as the man shoved him carelessly back into the cupboard. "You'll clean this tomorrow," Vernon said firmly, gesturing vaguely to the front hall. "I want it completely tidy by the time I return from work. Understood?" At Harry's weak nod, Vernon shut the door, leaving a bloody handprint on the bronze knob.
"You need to leave," the homeless man told him when he returned to school. Harry was tired and pale, looking more like a corpse than the ghost did.
The spector had a dark complexion and a thick Russian accent, dressed in a dirty fur coat. The man had died of some virus nearly a decade ago, his aura giving off a sickly residue.
"But where would I go?" Harry asked, breathing shallowly, as it was still difficult to breath. He walked with a limp and could hardly sit without his back stinging something fierce.
" . . . I managed on the streets for most of my life," Poliakoff said quietly. "There's a shelter called Durmstrang that'll take you for a while, no questions asked. They'll teach you how to survive by yourself. You'll gain street skills - important things - that you'd never learn here." He sneered at the school. "Tell the owner, Igor, that Poliakoff sent you. Igor didn't like me much, as I had a tendency to steal from his liquor stash, but he never turns away a child. Just . . . when you get there, tell Viktor Krum that I am sorry." Harry tipped his head curiously. The ghost elaborated, if only slightly. "He was my brother, not by blood, rather my partner in crime. I was not very good to him. We competed over stupid things, and when he needed me most, I wasn't there. I am ashamed. This is why I have not passed on. Do this, and I will be happy."
Harry took in a shuttering breath, and nodded.
That weekend, he was sent to the garden and given a list of household chores to complete less he - well. Harry could easily imagine the consequences.
Sundays were his only reprieve. Petunia would have her bridge club in the evening and Vernon would take Dudley out for a father-son excursion. Once his chores were done, Harry was left to fend for himself. "Make yourself scarce," was all his aunt said, surreptitiously palming him a crisp dollar pound. Finally, Harry saved up enough money for a bus ticket.
Fleeing Privet Drive with nothing but the clothes in his back, Harry finally bolstered his courage and took the trolley to London. The bus rattled beneath his bum, the seat spelling distinctly like cigarette smoke. Harry sat stiffly next to a dozing elderly woman, her white hair tucked into a floral headscarf. Noticing her handbag sitting unattended on the seat, Harry bit his lip, debating. If he was truly doing this - if he was truly running away - he'd need some money to last the season.
His hand crept toward the bag's clasp.
Five minute later, pockets full of cash, Harry disappeared into the streets of London.
Two Years Later
Age Fifteen
Streams of rainwater travelled, cold and wet down the contours of Harry's face. Mud streaked through his hair, the hopelessly curly strands trampled by the unexpected shower, plastering his long fringe to his forehead. A shiver traveled down his spine; in response, Harry twisted his torso, rolling closer to the narrow brick pillars of the viaduct. The cotton blanket he'd been wearing had fallen away in the night, sitting uselessly in a puddle of water. Cold to the bone, he pulled his knobby knees to his chest and slipped them beneath his thin grey tunic.
Thunder rolled with a deafening shudder.
Harry was startled from his addled rest, green eyes snapping open. A tell-tale tightness in his lungs told Harry an infection was coming on. Rubbing his eyes wearily, Harry tugged his pack closer and dug through it for the small plastic bag of white capsules; over-the-counter medication, which he'd bartered a pair of nice, wool socks for. Now, as the chills wracked his body, he almost wished for those socks.
Placing the pills beneath his teeth, he reached out, rain water pooling in his cupped palms. Swallowing, he coaxed the pills into his throat. A fit of coughs broke past, and a bitter residue bathed his tongue.
Harry cooled the burning in his throat with another sip of fresh rainwater, the frigid liquid casting a jolt through his system. Wincing as the water hit his hollow stomach, Harry emptied the contents of his pack. His food had spoiled in the night, barring a package of stale crackers and a half-empty jar of sauce. Ridding himself of the sticky remains, Harry forced down the last cracker.
Dread filling him, he placed his head between his knees, breath coming hard.
Morning came slowly, and the dark clouds eventually disappeared. Harry wrung out his clothing and crawled out from beneath the viaduct.
He attacked the city with a half-hearted vigor.
The autumn and winter seasons were always the worst, when his thin figure was weighed down by fatigue, cold and illness. It was then that - eventually, desperately - he would return to the throngs of London. Harry could always gain good coin in the back alleys, but he dreaded returning to those dark walls.
He forced himself to stare into those gold-toothed smiles, the leering eyes and bald heads. He endured the lingering hands on his lower back and the deep voices asking if he was looking for a place to stay the night. Mentally calculating their potential wealth, Harry would plaster on a coy smirk, lower his eyes and curl his lips just so before taking their outstretched hand.
Feet dragging, Harry slunk into the city, his no-doubt sickly pallor standing out in the clouded sunlight. Hood down to conceal his eyes, Harry felt incredibly small. Cigarettes and anal beads were scattered across the stones beneath him, a smoky musk in the air. Stepping behind a wall, Harry coughed into his arm.
"You alright, darlin'?" came a low, plying voice.
Lips pressing in a false smile, turned to face a tall, ginger-haired man with a cigarette between his lips. "Well, you're a pretty one," he said, flicking out the fag. He pressed his front to the boy's back. "Care to join me for a treat?"
"He's a killer," came a whispy voice, belonging to a young girl with curly blonde hair. Her dress was torn and bloody, phantom pain shooting between Harry's thighs. "And a rapist." Good. Harry never minded stealing from true criminals.
He was led to an inn, the man attacking his neck with yellow teeth. Tossed roughly onto the bed, Harry grimaced, fighting the urge to bat away the man's wandering hands. Lending his energy to the wayward spirit, Harry's eyes fixated on a floating Bible, taken from the bedside drawer. Harry caught the man's wrists as they sought to lift his tunic. "Rufus," he breathed, giving a coy smile. "That's your name, isn't it? Well, do you remember a girl named Lavender?" The man's eyes widened, a chill creeping down his back. Harry pressed a kiss to his ear. "She says 'hello'."
With a resounding crack, the man was knocked unconscious, his head slumping forward onto Harry's chest. With disgust, Harry pushed the man off him. Harry quickly removed Rufus' clothing and found a wad of notes bound with a rubber band. It was enough for now.
"He was my boss," Lavender sniffled, glaring angrily at Rufus. "We went to a pub for a company celebration and I - I never made it home," her hazel eyes flickered to Harry. "Tell my Ronnie that I love him. He's got another girlfriend now, the bitch, but - but I'm glad he's happy."
When Lavender left, Harry slumped on the bed. The matress was horribly uncomfortable, but Harry was dead tired. As he was about to slip into unconsciousness, Rufus groaned loudly.
Panicking, Harry yanked himself off the bed and dashed from the room. The moment he reached the landing, he let out a relieved breath, hands on his knees. Composing himself, Harry stepped out of the inn. Entering a dark alley, he gasped in surprise as a body slammed into his. Head hitting the back of a wall, Harry stared up at a dark-haired man.
His eyes were narrowed, colored a tunnel-like black that were at once both warm and cold. The man cut an imposing figure, giving off a aura of dominance. He had wide, sallow features, with a crooked nose that'd seen better days. Common to the Eastern Asian gene pool, he had long, sleek hair; a sheen of oil brushing against his shoulders.
"My apologies," the man murmured. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
"Don't apologize," Harry said, his voice gravelly and dry. His lungs burned from the effort of even standing upright, taking more out of him than he expected. "If you'll let me past?"
The man moved away, frowning. Harry lifted back his hood, hiding all but his too-familiar green eyes. Severus let out a strangled noise, and grasped his elbow with a bruising force. He seemed to flounder for words, before speaking just one: "Lily?"
Months Later
Severus has been good to him. When they first moved in together, Harry was sure Severus would kick him out after a few weeks. Soon, however, he learned that Severus was far too noble for that. The man served as Harry's mentor, re-teaching Harry people and business skills that he had lost while living on the streets. Harry helped Severus with his work, attending to clients during the day and returning home in time to make dinner.
It had been odd, at first. The two were essentially strangers, connected only by the memory of a dead woman and her green eyes.
Severus was a self-employed apothecary and chemist, brewing home remedies in the spare room above his shop on Knockturn Alley. This skill came in handy when they first met, as Harry was had been the verge of pneumonia.
Feeling a sense of duty toward the wayward, homeless, ailing son of his best friend, Severus had invited Harry to his home in Spinner's End. The boy had been in no position to protest, nearly falling over due to exhaustion and frailty. Severus stuck a cup of experimental peppermint tea in Harry's hands, sat the boy down, and handed him a letter.
My dearest Sev, it had begun in swooping, feminine handwriting. The letter was well-loved, and only by reading it did Harry learn why. The letter was Lily's last.
Harry soon reached the bottom, devouring every word and idiosyncrasy.
Harry's mother had been a vivacious, compassionate, courageous woman, but with a temper that could rival the devil's. Severus was her best childhood friend, finding Lily to be a bright spot in his otherwise dreary life. They'd attended secondary school together, and perhaps, if left to blossom, their closeness may have evolved into something more. Instead, Lily fell in love with another.
Her letter to Severus was full of eager plaintives and small talk, as she was content with the life she had. She was happily married and her son was just learning his first words. Her life was ideal.
Until it was shattered by a semi truck.
When Harry was too young to realize the visions of the dead were abnormal, he genuinely tried to help them.
He's attempted to ask for help, gathering enough courage to briefly question his Aunt about the strange, greyish figures that followed him everywhere. Petunia had stared at him like he was insane, and Harry never asked again.
No one but Harry could see the spirits.
The boys at school thought him strange, speaking to no one in times of strife and bursting into pained tears when a haunted spirit crept too close. He could feel their despair, their phantom pains like it was his own, hitting him hard when he least expected it. The shadowy spiders that scuttled at his feet were easy to ignore for the most part. But then there was his neighbor's scruffy, rotting pet cat, who'd choked on a plastic wrapper - after burying the tabby in the back guardian, Missus Figg didn't believe him when Harry said Mister Tibbles was sitting beside him, wheezing slightly and scratching at it's wiry fur. Of course, she quickly changed her tune when the cat began to haunt her, tripping her as she descended the staircase. When Mister Tibbles brushed against him, Harry could somehow feel a lodge in his throat, as if he was the one choking. He didn't mind it. It was all in his head, after all.
As he lay in his cupboard some nights, running his fingers across Mister Tibbles' spine and feeling the faint tickle of fur against his skin, Harry would remember his mother's last words.
'I'll do anything.'
'I'll do anything.'
'I'll do anything!'
In his dreams, tears stained her pale cheeks, dead eyes glinting like a shattered mirror. Her skin wasn't soft, much less warm; the expanse of flesh was sallow and grey, her hollow cheeks framed by lank hair.
From what little Petunia had told him, Lily had died praying. Harry - being only a toddler at the time - barely remembered the car crash. If he concentrated, he could recall a flash of green from the stoplights and a woman's screams. His father died first, his forehead smacking into the steering wheel, blood and glass spraying everywhere. Lily was still conscious, her legs crushed as the hood crunched against a tree. Harry was in back, his smooth, small forehead impaled with a glass shard. It was bleeding profusely and he was wailing, cheeks glistening with silver tears. Lily met his watery gaze in the rearview mirror and sobbed, the blood loss hitting her hard.
Perhaps she made a wish to fate, asking to save her son's life. She desperately hoped for Harry to survive - against all odds - and her wish was granted. Harry's brush with death made him special, made him something not normal.
Harry was grateful for his life, but sometimes wondered if it was worth the pain.
Severus was bent over a pestle and mortar, kneading a number of roots into a fine powder. Harry watched, unseen in the doorway, through half-lidded eyes. He memorized the crease between Severus' dark brows, tracing over the hunched shoulders the lead to spidery fingers. The man wasn't handsome in the classical sense. He had firm features, deep-set eyes and a large, crooked nose that told of an unset break. Harry wasn't sure what attracted him. Despite his brief forays into strangers beds, Harry had never willing been involved in lustful, reptilian pleasures.
He was more preoccupied with surviving, not indulging.
Perhaps it was Severus' mind at work that was so enthralling to witness. The man moved with swift, sure movements, not a doubt in his body as he added a sprig of ginger to pot of boiling water. It was bubbling delightfully every few seconds over the hot stove. Harry wasn't certain if the man was making essential oils or ointment or - hell - maybe even tea. Severus didn't rely on a recipe book, using his own extensive knowledge of botany and medicine to create. It was beautiful to see those dark eyes light up when Severus came across a working combination.
It made the long, quiet, weary days better.
A bell chimed from the shop. Harry quickly thumped down the steps and slipped behind the counter, trying to appear as though he'd been there the whole time. The sun was going down outside, casting the shop into darkness. A large, hulking figure sneered at the pots of labeled ingredients and premade medicines. Prince's Apothecary smelled permanently of peppermint, thanks to a knocked-over pot of oil that soaked into the carpet overnight. Since then, the jars were locked into cabinets and carefully protected by plastic lids. Harry sorted them during his free time by Latin classification, medicinal uses or the best-smelling, depending on his mood.
The customer walked with a perceptible limp, his left eye twitching with every step. The orb was glossy and off-color, made of scratched glass. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody was a regular, claiming that Severus' ointment returned feeling into his dead left leg. Alastor quite liked the tingling sensation. A war veteran, Mad-Eye had many ghosts, but the man ignored Harry's every attempt at conversation. Alastor preferred to brusquely conduct business and leave without a word of goodbye. He and Severus got along swell.
Moody was not alone today. A fair-haired, haggard man stumbled in, lanky limbs trembling. Moody curled his lip. "Took your time, Lupin."
A red flush crept over his cheeks. "I wasn't sure . . ."
"Don't argue with me," Alastor snapped. He hobbled over to grab the fraying sleeve of Lupin's sweater. "It doesn't make you any less of a man to admit you need help."
As they moved into the light, Harry noticed pink, puckered scars splitting Lupin's face into jagged quarters. Lupin sheepishly stepped to the counter.
"How may I help you, sir?"
Amber eyes flitted about anxiously. Moody was lurking behind, his burly arms crossed. "I, er, need some scar cream," the man muttered. "Alastor says yours is the best." Without a word, Harry pointed to a shelf on the left. The man picked up a glass jar carefully in his calloused hands, face slackening as he checked the price. "I can't afford this."
Harry's eyes softened.
He looked up the steps, biting his lip questioningly. "We might have something similar, half the price, in a smaller prescription. It works just the same, but you'll have to use it sparingly," He warned.
Lupin lit up. "Please."
"I've got to fetch it from our storage. It'll only take a moment."
Harry stepped into the backroom. It was small, dark and cold, with a plethora of ingredients lining the built-in shelves. Harry looked for an orange container, having spotted it during his usual stock-keeping. He opened the lid and sniffed to ensure it's freshness. The scar reduction salve was honey-colored, tinged with lemon pulp. Harry wondered why it wasn't on display with the others. Scar-reduction salve was their best-seller, and despite it's smaller size, this jar looked just like the others.
"I hope this helps, sir," he went to the counter, wrapping the jar in a protective film. Harry paused, green eyes shy. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but how'd you get the scars?"
Lupin gave a sad, understanding smile, forking over a small pile of cash. "You're lucky to have stable work, lad," he said quietly. "I was let off a week ago and got mixed up in some bar fights, drunk as a sailor." He gestured to his face. "I woke up like this, stinging all over. I couldn't pay for hospital bills, so Alastor helped patch me up." Clutching the jar to his chest, he stepped away with a grateful smile. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you."
Harry inclined his head.
Moody paid for his own jar of muscle relaxant and led the way out. Harry watched through the window as Lupin frantically unscrewed the cap and applied some to his cheeks, visibly sighing with relief.
Shaking his head, Harry flicked the 'closed' sign. As he went to lock the storage door, faint footsteps were heard from upstairs. Severus glided down the steps, green oil smeared onto his jaw. "Let me put this away," he murmured, hands full of the pestle and a small tube of experimental salve. He slipped into the backroom, glass vials clanking as Severus tidied up. He placed the vial on the same shelf Harry found the scar reduction, and - suddenly - Severus paused.
Voice deathly calm, he spoke. "Harry, come in here, please." Severus pointed a finger at the shelf, expression conflicted. "There was another salve here. Orange container. Where is it?"
"I . . . don't know," Harry fibbed. He moved over to the clipboard nailed to the wall, running a finger down the paper. "I can check the stock again, if you'd like. What was the salve for?"
"Scars. Deep ones. It contained a rare ingredient imported specially from India."
Harry's eyelids lowered imperceptibly with guilt. "Oh. Does the salve work?"
"I don't know," he bit out, rubbing the arch of his nose. "It was highly experimental. That's why it wasn't on display. The only reason I kept it here was because of the lower room temperature."
"Well - " Harry turned around, abruptly slamming into Severus' chest. The man had moved closer, trying to read the board over Harry's shoulder. Severus took an abrupt step backwards, shoulders knocking against the shelves as he and Harry fell.
A glass of rose water shattered, the pink liquid soaking into their clothing. With his smaller body on top, Harry was greatly reminded of other - less platonic - positions. Severus' eyes were dark, flooded with a strange emotion.
Harry laid there in silence, not moving, hardly breathing. His heart hammered a tattoo against his ribs, and that was the only organ interested. Severus looked ready to speak, and Harry couldn't help but hope -
" . . . get off," Severus said gruffly.
Rolling Harry off him, the man stood shakily. His nostrils flared at the sweet scent of rose permeating the air. Without another word, he stalked back into the shop.
Harry lowered his head into his knees, struck by a turmoil of emotions. More than anything, he felt rejected. Severus didn't desire Harry - for god's sake, the man had been head over heels in love with a woman, and even worse, Harry's mother. Harry dipped his fingers into the spilt rose water, bringing the wet tip to his nose. Hesitantly, he dabbed the juice onto his wrists and the pulse points on his throat. He let his hair fall forward, the dark strands holding a red sheen in the light. Taking a deep breath, he walked out, locking the door behind him.
Roses were decidedly feminine, weren't they?
(Two weeks later, Lupin returned, grinning broadly. His scars were gone, leaving naught but a faint pink line that was soon to fade. Severus really was the best in the business.)
New Years Eve
Age Sixteen
Harry sipped at his mug of cocoa. The steam rose and collected on the smudged lenses of his glasses. He stood before the fireplace, flames flickering behind a cast iron screen. The heat was comforting, warming his tired bones. He felt old, despite being only sixteen. It was winter now, and Harry couldn't help but reminisce on how he'd spent the last few New Years; standing before a flaming rubbish bin with three other bums, or - if he was lucky - holed up in some abandoned warehouse, protected from the snowfall.
Though the shelf was too high to reach, Harry stared at the black-and-white picture frame on the mantel. Severus was younger in it, his hair only to his ears and his features fresher. At his side, an arm around his shoulder, Lily Evans stood out even in the monochrome photograph. He lifted his cup in honor of his mother, a woman he both loved and hated.
Jolted from these morose thoughts by a banging on the front door, Harry set aside his half-empty cup. Dragging a blanket over his trim shoulders, Harry unlatched the door. It was Mister Borgin, looking thoroughly unimpressed as he held Severus up by the collar of his jacket. The elderly man had lank brown hair and tired features, his lips permanently pinched in disatisfaction.
"Mister Borgin!" Harry exclaimed, lurching forward to catch Severus as he fell. The man stank of liquor, his uniform stained and in disarray. "Oh, Severus," he sighed, placing his blanket around Severus. "Drinking on the job again?"
"Y - you sound like your m . . . mother," Severus slurred, stumbling toward the couch.
Harry pinched his nose in frustration, turning back to Balthazar. "Thank you, Mister Borgin."
"Yes, well," the man said. "I spotted him stumbling toward his car. I doubted he could make it home, seeing as he couldn't take two steps without landing on his face." Borgin dropped a bag into Harry's arms. "Here're his things."
"Oh, thank you. By the way, I saw Severus working on your . . . 'special ointment' this morning. It ought to be in here somewhere."
"Don' touch my stuff!" Severus groaned from the couch.
Harry ignored him, digging through the bag. Pushing aside several clinking bottles of brandy, he removed a jar of cream.
Faintly flushing, Balthazar inclined his head. "I needed this fer tomorrow. I'm procuring a few items for my antique collection, and I have'ta walk a ways. Wouldn't want to chafe."
"That's, um," Harry coughed. "Very wise, Mister Borgin. I suppose I ought to be putting Severus to bed."
Borgin tipped his hat. "You're too good for that man," he shook his head. "Best of luck." Balthazar hobbled away to his old coupe, back hunched with an invisible weight. Harry took in a breath of cold, fresh air, and shut the door.
Severus was draped over the settee, not quite asleep. "You poor, stupid man," Harry huffed, tucking the blanket around him. "I let you go to work today on the condition that you'd actually work. You can't go a week without drinking yourself into a stupor."
The man smiled weakly. "I'm as well-acquainted with spirits as you are."
Harry didn't laugh. "Let's get you to bed, then," he hefted Severus up by the armpits. Recovered enough that Severus wasn't tripping over his own feet, they made their way into the largest bedroom. Severus collapsed onto the bed, his clothes bunching up around him. Harry struggled to remove the man's jacket and shirt, wincing at the rancid smell of spilt brandy. Harry hung the clothing over a chair and entered the bathroom, soaking a rag in cold water. He patted Severus' flushed cheeks and forehead.
"Tha's nice, Harry," the man murmured, dark eyes fluttering. "You're not entirely useless, I suppose," he yawned. Harry rolled his eyes. For Severus, that was a glowing compliment. "But for all your supposed skill in assuaging grief and giving closure, you can't help even me." A pang went through Harry. Severus wasn't wrong. For every spirit Harry saw, the one he really needed never appeared. Lily Evans had passed on long ago; leaving behind an orphaned son and a haunted lover.
"I wish she was here." The desperation in his voice was heartbreaking.
"She is," Harry blurted, nearly slapping a hand over his mouth. It had been the first thing to come to mind, a hope that lingered in the back of Harry's mind. Problem was, it simply wasn't true. Lily passed on long ago, meeting her husband in the afterlife. But Severus didn't know this.
Severus' eyes jerked open, the orbs hazy but hopeful. "What?"
"I mean - um. She . . . she's been watching us, from afar." Harry bit his lip, his knees shuffling on the mattress. "She's happy. But she misses you greatly."
The man's eyes began to well with drunken tears. "Does she know? That I love her?"
Harry ran his hand down Severus' sharp cheekbone. He leaned down to kiss away the salty tears. "After all these years?"
"Always," Severus breathed out, meeting Harry's burning green gaze. His hands crept around Harry's waist, tugging the man to straddle his waist. "Lily."
Harry let out a startled noise, quickly swallowed by Severus' mouth. The boy felt Severus' member hardening against the cleft of his bottom. His tongue was wet and bitter, probing demandingly at Harry's. Harry pressed his hands against Severus' hard chest, trying to push away. But the man was having none of it, slipping his hands down to cup Harry's arse. Unwelcome lust tore through Harry.
He knew it was wrong; Severus thought he was his mother, for God's sake, but Harry couldn't deny the truth. Though Lily wasn't there to love Severus, Harry did. It was a twisted love born through desperation and lonesomeness, the mutual frustration of two broken souls. Harry loved his savior, and hated himself for it.
When Severus' hands faltered, brushing gently against Harry's hardening erection, the boy was snapped from his daze. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to pull away. "You're drunk, Severus. You know how I feel about . . . "
"I would never hurt you, Lily, never - "
"But I'm not . . . " he swallowed, self-hatred burning like an inferno. "I'm tired, Sev. It's time for bed." Severus panted on the bed, blinking tiredly at the ceiling. Harry knew that if he offered Severus comfort, if he dared touch him - Harry wouldn't be able to stop. As he left for the door, Severus' voice was soft as silk.
"Goodnight, Lils," he rolled over into the pillow. "I love you."
Harry pressed the door shut, tears pooling behind closed lids. He tried to convinced himself that the man loved him - even if he called Harry by the wrong name, the words still stood. Severus loved him.
(Harry was a fool.)
Harry remembered the cold and lonely years at the Dursleys and on the streets, and felt his heart squeeze. Severus had saved him from all that, but Harry had neglected to save Severus.
He missed the moody, troubled man, his sharp brevity and wicked tongue having never failed to rouse Harry. Even if their relationship was twisted and marred by unrequited love, Harry would've done anything for Severus. He changed himself, trying to become more like a woman he never knew.
Harry just wanted to be loved; but their false, facsimile of 'love' was like the darkness of night, with sprinkles of starlight bursting through to reveal the truth behind carefully formed masks and facades.
Harry was never enough for Severus.
When Severus became sick, his skin somehow sallower than ever, Harry begged and pleaded for Severus to stay behind. Harry never wanted to be lonely again. For the last time, those dark, fathomless eyes shut, and Harry waited expectantly, his tear-filled eyes looking around for Severus' spirit to appear. But the ghost never did.
And Harry realized that of course Severus would never stay on this torturous plane; Severus passed on to join Lily, his one true love.
A woman Harry could never hold a flame to.
Though this story didn't end happily, Harry's tale isn't over.
To be continued in False Prophets