Notes: If you haven't guess, this is very much based on the Bruce Springsteen song of the same name. It's a short story set during Deathly Hallows that isn't very slashy at all. (Damn you canon for intruding on my fun!) Please enjoy.
Warnings: Rough, un-beta'd, filled with typos. Comments/criticisms always welcomed.
Dancing in the Dark
The wind howls against the windows of the drawing-room for a moment, drowning out the crackle of the flames and that of the radio. Harry's not sure of the time, but the shadows inside the drawing room are deepening. The blue glow of twilight paints the gray curtains. He rubs at the crust still in the corner of his eyes. His face feels filthy, and he's too tired to care.
He's tired of a lot of things lately. Tired of waiting. Tired of hiding. Tired of the dark, dank shadows of Grimmauld Place closing in on him. Out there, people are fighting, dying. There's action and excitement, and things more vital than what he's doing now, sitting and staring at the fire. Something's happening out there, and he's here, hiding and waiting.
He bolts to his feet and begins to pace. The stone figurines groan as they move, watching him with their granite eyes. The woman on the radio is talking about something, but it's hard to focus on the empty words, harder to understand. What Harry would give for music, for news, for something tangible that'd make the world a bit warmer, a bit more real.
He goes to stand by the window, not daring to pull back the curtain, irrationally afraid that someone will see him if he does. It's hard to convince himself that the house is still Unplottable and still tucked away in Secret.
He sees a man standing across the road, the whiteness of the man's nose catching the waxy yellow light of the street lamps. It's only a matter of time before the Death Eaters find their way inside, Harry knows. Snape will let them in on the Secret, and Harry and his friends will have to find somewhere else to hide.
The only questions he has are 'when' and 'why hasn't Snape done so already'.
Severus catches his reflection in the mirror. Mesmerized by the sight, finds himself staring. There's a gray strand of hair at his temple, and a sudden urge to tear at his skin fills him. He wants to change his hair. His clothes. His face. He wants to shed his very self onto the floor and escape, find some relief from the heavy obligations and expectations, the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.
He slinks away from his reflection, disgusted with himself. He does not have time to let these wild fantasies distract him from his tasks. The world is growing colder and Darker, and the slightest slip will spell disaster. One mistake, and it will be his body carved up, hanging from the rafters for Nagini to devour.
He pulls out his ragged treasure from his pocket and gazes down at Lily's face. She is smiling, always smiling up at him, with a bright and unburdened heart. The green of her eyes sing of easy springtime. And if he allows himself, he'd let himself pretend that it was real. That the warmth of her eyes is as fresh and as real as the grime underneath his fingernails.
Only when his eyes begin to burn does he tuck the torn picture away, back into its pocket above his heart.
The darkness outside is impenetrable, and his broken heart is black with misery.
He drapes his cloak over his shoulders and pulls the hood over his head. He glances once more into the mirror; all that can be seen of his face is his nose, jutting out of the hood's shadow.
Harry abandons the window and flops onto the couch. The radio drones on, and bitter frustration's making his skin itch. What he wouldn't give for something, anything, to drive the boredom out of his skin. To ignite a spark. To alleviate this hunger in him for action, for more.
He wonders where Hermione has disappeared to. He wonders if Ron has fallen asleep upstairs. Harry is suddenly feeling very alone.
He goes back to the window, seeking out the man across the way, needing to know that he isn't alone in the dark, even if the other's an enemy, waiting to destroy him.
He pushes the curtain aside and stares at the white nose, at the slump of the man's shoulders. His robes are black, and the way he stands, swaying towards the shadows, triggers a memory in Harry.
He clenches his fist as a great wave of rage fills his belly.
Snape! his mind shouts as the man's head tilts upwards. Harry sees the glittering, beetle-black eyes staring right through him. Snape's voice echoes through his head, muttering words he had screamed at Harry not two months before.
And now, the hood over the man's face falls away, just enough for Harry to see. There's a look on the man's loathsome face, daring Harry to come out of his hole, to do what he had sworn he would the next time they met.
And Harry's body's on fire, dying to smash that look off the man's face until his hands came back covered in the other man's blood.
He runs to the front door, ignoring the chattering elf heads on the wall. Mrs Black, startled out of her quiet, bitter droning, begins to scream. Harry holds his wand out and at the ready as he throws the front door open. It bangs against the wall, the sound echoing up and down the dark square.
He doesn't care if there were other Death Eaters in the shadows, waiting for a glimpse of him. He doesn't care if the Trace is still on him, ready to draw the Ministry's attention on him in an instant. He aims at the spot Snape had stood, only to find the man gone. He jerks his head about, searching, but the square is empty.
"Harry!" Ron whispers as he grabs Harry from behind and pulls him back inside. "What are you doing?"
"I saw Snape," Harry says, struggling to escape Ron's hands. "Right out there."
Ron pushes the door closed even as Harry tries to pull away. "I think being cooped up inside for so long is doing a number on you."
"He was there, Ron," Harry insists.
"So you decided to let him know we're here, too?" Ron counters.
"He knew that already," Harry argues. "I saw it in his eyes." He goes to the window, half-certain Snape's still there, waiting for him.
But the man is long gone.
Snape sinks further into the shadows, his teeth grinding as he watches Weasley draw the curtains, hiding the two boys from sight. Potter… is reckless, but no more than Severus is tonight. He can practically hear the world laughing at him, the tragic fool.
His fingers traces the outline of the torn picture in his pocket. His body aches for a reaction, a look, and he got it, but it's not enough. He feels incredibly tired suddenly, and without another glance, Apparates away.
- end