Title: Like Getting Away With Murder
Author: Nevoreiel
Pairing: Harry/Sirius; Harry/Remus; Harry/Severus [if you squint.]
Rating: PG
Summary: The importance of touch is only known when it is sorely missed.
Disclaimer: All familiar characters and situations are Copyright by J. K. Rowling and Co.
Warning: Spoiling of Order of the Phoenix.
Notes: I'm not sure where this was supposed to go and so the end product is a mess, or so I think.
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Harry feels unloved. He feels it deep in his bones, a droning ache, like an itch.
The loss of Sirius is palpable. There is one less voice echoing in the vast rooms of Grimmauld Place, there is one less pair of feet creaking across the old floorboards, one less person who really, truly gives a damn about Harry Potter.
There would be no more lighthearted jokes and warm retellings, no more affectionate cuffs at the shoulder or the quick ruffling of dark hair.
Gone is the possibility of rainy days spent before a fire, Sirius' hand warm on his leg, recalling wistfully the escapades the Marauders had gotten up to in their days of glory.
No more damp kisses on the cheek before bed or the lazy mornings spent laughing over tea, legs brushing against each other under the table.
The house, no matter how somber and dark, was sometimes filled with laughter, when time permitted. Now silence resonates and Harry hears a high-pitched rattle in his ears, like a dead transmission signal.
Distraught and angry, Harry goes to Remus for some form of reassurance, for the steadfast advice and comfort, kindness in those old eyes.
There is no comfort found with Remus. His eyes look haunted, unimaginably sad, the set of the mouth permanently turned down.
Harry comes upon him, sitting on Sirius' bed, unmoving and silent. Sitting down next to him, Harry quietly speaks, "Professor Lupin?" When Remus turns his eyes to him, Harry stifles a gasp, those careworn eyes speak of dead friends, dead and gone. Friendships dissolved by death, brothers and lovers and lifelong companions, all crumbled and cracked.
Harry puts out his hand, placing it tentatively upon Remus'. A sob passes his lips and finally he lets his grief pour forth, no longer being the stoic one, helping others cope.
Remus grasps Harry's hand in his own, leaning his head on Harry's shoulder, hot tears seeping in through the thin t-shirt. Remus feels heavy and warm, heaving his grief into the crook between Harry's neck and shoulder.
When Remus lets go, tears no longer streaming down his cheeks, white fingerprints are left imprinted on Harry's skin.
Harry leaves Remus to his grief, none of his own lifted from his heart.
It is no better in Hogwarts; no one dares invade his personal space to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, wrap their arms about him and hold him close. All they do is tiptoe around, quietly offering apologies and well-wishes.
Out of the whole Hogwarts populace, it seems only Snape retained his usual manner of dealings with the ever popular Potter. Harry is grateful for the unwavering resentment; it proves to be a welcome occurrence.
Snape still speaks roughly to him, berating him for the minutest mistake, eyes opaque and voice cold and smooth. When Harry is about to blow something up, Snape is there to slap away his hand, gripping his wrist with his bony fingers, hissing reproaches. With an almost steadfast certainty, Harry knows that if he should ever lose his grip with reality, Snape would be there to slap him back into it, knowing he would not break from the touch but break without it.
Harry clings to the roughness of a push as Snape hurries him along in the hall, feels smug as their skin brushes faintly as Snape hands him his homework scroll back, dark eyes glaring pitilessly out of his pallid face.
Eyes rimmed black and blue, bones prominent, Harry walks the halls, drawing pitying looks when he stumbles and almost faints, darkness eating away at his sight. A firm hand catches his elbow. When the black haze clears, Harry finds Snape's pitying eyes on him.
That night, Harry goes to bed early, pulling the curtains closed without a word to anyone. He cries softly into the pillow, tears creeping like shadows from the past, marring his hollow, white cheeks.
Morning dawns and Harry climbs out of bed, no trace of his tears anywhere in sight.
Purged, Harry feels hollow and tired and utterly spent. He does not know if he can do it anymore.
End