The Way It Should Have Been
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One to another
Do you remember me?
I feel so small
Well are you listening tonight?
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If it weren't for the moon, Harry would be sitting in complete darkness. That was the way he liked it – ink-colored walls and gray floors. Dull skin-tones and mysterious corners. But the moon was full, and despite the fact that there were no windows in his cupboard-under-the-stairs, the moon was shining bright enough to creep through the crack under his door. He was glaring at it.
He sat on his bed, chin in hand and cross-legged, a steady glare fixed upon the strand of light-shadow that skirted over his floorboards. He hated moonlight.
Moonlight was like roses. It was soft and sweet, reminiscent of romance and dreams. But it had its thorns. Its reflection of sunlight was a constant reminder that the peaceful night would end and morning would come. With morning came the harsh awakening of Aunt Petunia and soggy waffles for breakfast.
With morning came the memories of night.
At night, he was alone with his thoughts, lost in the dreams that he could never live. Dreams of his parents, his life with them, their friends. A family. Something that he would never know. Remembering these things that he had dreamed, caught up in the day's activities, he found it hard to concentrate. Every word Aunt Petunia said and every punch that Dudley delivered to his nose just got worse and worse until he had to break away and hide. It was easy for Harry to hide. He was the smallest boy in his class.
He reckoned that moonlight had stunted his growth.
Sighing decidedly, he lifted his chin from his head and un-crossed his legs. It was late. He needed sleep. Laying back on his bed and pulling the covers to his chest, he folded one arm behind his head and stared up at the empty ceiling. The moonlight was dancing up there, too.
He wanted to scream at it to go away, to leave him alone. It was relentless. It was hopeless. He glared at it again. "Well, fine," he said quietly. "You can listen to me talk in my sleep then, for all I care."
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So temporary,
For things that I have seen.
I ran so far
Will you take me back again?
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The moonlight didn't so much as waver with his words.
He sighed again, closing his eyes sleepily. They reopened instantly. I hate when that happens, he thought silently. He couldn't close his eyes. There were too many things in his mind's eye.
Lily. James. A flying motorcycle. And a bearded giant.
Rolling onto his side, he stared at the crack under the door once again. He could have sworn that the light shining through winked at him.
"Have you come to take me away from the Dursleys? Is that why you won't leave me alone?"
The light didn't answer. Of course it didn't – what was he expecting it to do? Form into a ghost and sit on the foot of his bed? He rolled his eyes at his own stupidity and pounded his fist against the lumpy mattress. I hate this place. I hate this life. Why can't I have the one that I dream about? Why can't I have my parents?
He lay on his back again, staring at the ceiling once more. He had a sudden vision of jumping onto that stream of moonlight, of following it to the heavens and dancing among the stars. He smiled to himself, picturing the delicate fingers of moonlight encasing him, carrying him away . . . away to what he had once been.
Can you take me there? It's all I want . . .
He sat up again, bolting at the sound of footsteps above him. Someone was either going up or down the stairs.
He waited a few seconds, breath held tightly in his chest. He wasn't supposed to be awake this late. Had his aunt or uncle heard him? Why were they up?
The footsteps came back, right outside his door. His eyes wide with fright, he waited.
Nothing.
A few more seconds. He heard a click. The moonlight disappeared.
The footsteps came back, and he heard Uncle Vernon's disgruntled mumbling. "Forgot to turn off that daft television . . . pointless piece of commoner's junk . . ."
Footsteps on the stairs again, and then no more. Harry flopped back onto his bed, bangs flying into his eyes. He wiped them away with a decisive swipe of his hand, scowling at the ceiling once more. But there was no moonlight to scowl back.
It hadn't been moonlight. It had been the TV. He had been dreaming of the light of a TV carrying him to unknown places. How stupid.
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Entertaining angels
By the light of my TV screen
24/7, you wait for me
Entertaining angels
By the time I fall to my knees
Host of heaven, sing over me.
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He closed his eyes again, deciding that if he couldn't sleep this time, it would no longer be worth his trouble. But the same images greeted his closed eyelids, and he groaned out loud, shoving the covers off of his body. "Stop it!" he cried out quietly, clamping a hand over his eyes. He pushed against them until he saw the sparks licking at the corners of his eyes and the images flickered away, leaving him with only their memory. He sighed, taking his hand away.
New images came. But he didn't open his eyes. He almost smiled.
A boy. A father. A mother. . . a turkey roasting in the oven and mistletoe strung across the ceiling. He could almost smell the cookies, almost taste the eggnog. He could almost hear the tinny music playing from an old turntable, almost hear the laughter of a woman with red hair.
He could almost feel his heart warming.
He settled his head against his pillow, keeping his eyes carefully closed. He was scared to think of what might happen if he opened them. He would lose this image, would lose this dream. He would never see it again. It would disappear like the flying motorcycle; it would dance out of his reach like the burly giant. And so he lay on his bed, snuggled under his covers and a weak smile flickering over his face. This was heaven.
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One to another
The feelings in between
I won't let go
Of all you taught me, all right?
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The father of his dream, the man with glasses and black hair, was raising his glass in a toast, was speaking what Harry could not hear. He laughed, he drank. He smiled at the red-haired woman, yet remained faceless. He sat down at the table and began to carve the turkey. His gaze fixed on the dream-Harry.
Harry could feel the empty eyes of the man pouring into his soul, reading his every thought – learning his every wish, digesting his every need. He could feel the smile that crept over this man's face, knew that it was directed at and only for him. He felt the pride that emanated from this man . . . pride of Harry.
It was something that he had never felt before, yet he knew what it was. It was a second-nature to him – something that his heart had always known, but that life had denied him.
You're my father
, he thought. You're the man that died, the man that gave me my last name and the opportunity of life. You're the man with the shoes that I can only hope to fill.And he knew that, despite having never known this man, he wanted to be as much like him as he could. He wanted his father to live within him.
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Close as a brother
The way we used to be
I hold my breath
And I wait for you to breathe
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The man then turned to the woman, his eyes flickering emotions back and forth until he found the appropriate one to communicate. Harry couldn't see it, but he knew it was reserved for just this woman. The woman smiled shyly, ducking her head over her plate as another man – one that Harry had not seen – shouted out something that made the father laugh.
The new man, another dark-haired person with a tall stature and thin face, returned the laughter, his eyes crinkling with youth. Harry could not place him – could not name him, could not think of who he might be. An uncle? Cousin?
Watching this man and his father interact, he couldn't see how the man could be anything less. They seemed to share the familiarity that only brothers could have – that instant understanding of every passing thought and word, the unspoken messages that sped across the table at the speed of light.
But as Harry watched this man interact with his father, he felt the sadness. The pain, the sorrow. It imprisoned this man within his own mental cage, locking him in and allowing the occasional laugh to escape the bars. He felt instant sympathy, wishing that he could pry the bars apart, pull the man out. But there was no doing. It was only mental, after all.
He knew that his father was thinking of this, as well. But his father didn't.
Harry stared at this family once more, implanting their faceless images into a hidden part of his mind, only wishing to see them again. They were no longer speaking. The image was fading quickly, their faces becoming more obscure as he fought to bring them back, to speak to them. With one last desperate hope, he reached an arm out to the woman, grasping her wrist in his hand.
She gasped, yanking her hand free. She turned to face him.
He had a glimpse of flashing green eyes and brilliant red hair before she blinked out of his site, lost to his dreams. He reached out to the space she had once been, trying to feel her, to find where she had gone.
"It won't work, son. She was never there."
Harry's gaze lifted until he saw his father, the face blurred into obscurity. A hand reached out to Harry's shoulder, resting on it lightly, until it disappeared as well. Harry cried out, lunging towards his father.
"I have to go, Harry. And I am alive. In you."
Harry blinked, and his father was no more.
The remaining man merely smiled lopsidedly at Harry, a slight twinkle in his eye. "I'm not like them, you know. I don't belong here, but I can stay as long as I want."
Harry stared at the man silently, his lip trembling at the thought of having lost his parents again. Who are you? he couldn't help thinking.
The man's smile only widened and he half-waved at Harry, winking at him. "That's not important right now. It will be. How's my motorcycle look, by the way?"
Harry furrowed his eyebrow in confusion, fascination. How do you know?
The man vanished.
And then Harry fell asleep.
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Entertaining angels
By the light of my TV screen
24/7, you wait for me
Entertaining angels
While the night becomes history
Host of heaven, sing over me.
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Morning was breaking over the horizon, the edge of the sea shining a delicate orange as it raced towards the light, begging to be brought back to the dawn. The light fingers of sunlight were sliding through the barred window, landing on the cot just behind the bars.
Sirius groaned, trying vainly to swipe the light out of his eyes with a thinned hand, growling when it did no good. He had been having a good dream, too.
What was it again? Lily and James, of course . . . and a boy. Could it have been Harry? Yes, that was it. A ten-year-old Harry. A Harry made to look like mini-James, just like it should have been.
Christmas dinner with the Potters. The way it should have been.
He scowled at the sunlight.
A/N: Hey, a songfic to something besides Jars of Clay! Aren't you all proud of me? Okay, a few clarifications: Sirius is protrayed as a "sad" individual in Harry's dream because Harry is seeing the present-day Sirius, the one imprisoned in Azkaban. Sirius looks twenty-something in the dream, but it's really the thirty-year-old. And Harry's only ten in this, a few months before getting his letter from Hogwarts. And don't ask why I go on and on about the moonlight so much. It was . . . a poetic moment, if you will. *shrug*
Merry Christmas, all =)