Disclaimer: see previous
Author's Note: The next chapters will be from other people's perspectives, not just Harry's. We have some from Lily and from Snape. So I hope you enjoy! And...there was a bit of radio silence last chapter; I'm curious as to why. Thank you to the people who reviewed. But for those who didn't, if it was because you didn't like something, I welcome concrit! I love it, actually. Some of my favourite reviews have been from people telling me the parts of a story they disagreed with and why. So if there was something you disliked, tell me! I can't promise I'll change it -- I made those choices for a reason -- but I'll definitely take the time to explain why I made them. And I'll be glad you were honest.
That's all. Onward and upward.
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10 May 1990
HARRY
So...I suppose I promised to tell you about that thing with Mum, and since it's been a few days since I last wrote and I have a lot to catch you up on, I'll start with that before I go on to talking updates.
Okay. So last entry I told you Mum slapped me once. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, how could Lily Potter do something like that? She's not that kind of person. And you're absolutely right. She's not that kind of person, and that's why it was so bad -- for both of us. She was horrified, and I was horrified, and everything was so utterly horrible in that moment that I'll never ever in my life forget the look on her face. Never. For as long as I live, I'll remember.
I remember that day like it was yesterday, even though it was actually two weeks after Dad's funeral. I'd just started that round of misbehaviour, you know? And it was before she went catatonic on me and tried to tune out the fact that I exist, so she was on my case constantly, like, "Why are you acting like this, Harry?" and "I just don't know what's got into you, young man." Stuff like that. And usually, the rows we had ended in one of us walking out, no harm done, and the next day things would go back to their usual wash-up-for-supper-Harry selves.
But this time...this time something went wrong. I went wrong, and she went wrong, and just all around things didn't go as planned.
It started out like normal, with Mum saying, "I just don't understand you, Harry. I got another call from the Head today. This behaviour is downright ridiculous." And I followed protocol and sort of shrugged like I couldn't be bothered.
"He's overreacting," I muttered. "I didn't do anything this time; it was stupid Parker and his stupid mates."
She didn't like that, you see. "Oh, and I suppose Parker and his mates are to be blamed for your bunking off school the rest of the day? Because last time I checked, Harry James Potter, you were responsible for your own actions."
Let me stop here and assure you that this is all normal. This is all according to plan. Even the bit where she said all three of my names, together, in that stern tone of voice. That was how it was supposed to go, so I didn't mind. In fact, I'm ashamed to admit I was kind of pleased, actually. I reckon I thought to myself, at least she's getting angry. At least she's paying attention. At least she seems to care. But she seemed to care about something that I didn't want to talk about. The school year was almost over. If I could just get through the next couple months, then get through the summer, I'd be off to Hogwarts and maybe there'd be fewer bullies -- and besides, I could fight back, finally -- and things would make sense again.
So I said, "Mum, come on. Can't you just leave it? Please?"
"No, I cannot just leave it, Harry," she said. And the look on her face -- that angry and wounded expression? -- that was new. "We will talk about this and come up with a practical solution!"
And see...that's not really what she wanted to say. I hear the things she wants to say even when she doesn't actually say them. Call it a gift: the ability to translate "Mum-speak" into "Normal-People-speak." Now, what she really wanted to say, "I'm at wits' end, Harry." Or...maybe, "I can't take much more of this." I heard it loud and clear. It's hard to hear your own mother implying she doesn't know what to do with you. That she can't take much more of this...of you.
I know I should have stopped there. That was the moment I should have walked out, gone to Janie's, thought things through...something...anything. But I guess I...just didn't, you know? I don't know why I didn't, but I didn't. All the stuff pent up for two weeks (or maybe ten years, I'm not sure) came exploding out of me in this long stream and I suddenly wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking at all, even. I heard what she meant to say but I didn't take it to heart because...well. Just because.
"What do you want from me, Mum?" I yelled. "I've done everything you've asked of me! I've gone to primary and got a proper education. I never once complained. I dealt with idiotic teachers who underestimated me and treated me like shit. When Parker and his mates kicked me around every day, I shrugged it off, just like you and Dad constantly told me to. I was the perfect son. I even let you pick out my clothes -- which, by the way, cheers for that, your taste in dress shirts is just brilliant --"
"Harry, this isn't a joke," she said angrily. "And watch your language, young man!"
I really did hear how she verbally underlined the word "joke," too. It's amazing how parents can just do that, isn't it? But -- guess what -- I wasn't joking, and so her underlined spiel had touched a nerve. Because even if I had been joking, nothing's ever a joke with her. Not anymore.
So I told her so.
And that's about when she came back at me with the requisite, "Don't you take that tone with me -- "
I shouted, "Then don't bloody say things that make me take that bloody tone!"
And so of course that's when pulled out the big guns and sank the shot with a foreboding, "Harry."
I knew I should have stopped there, because once The Parent takes on this tone and says your name in this voice you're just done. Pack it in, mate, you're finished. There can be no recovery from "Harry."
But like I said, I just wasn't thinking clearly. I...snapped, I guess.
I said, "Merlin, Mum, you're asking what is it with me lately -- how about asking what is it with you lately? When did you turn into such a -- "
Except I never got to tell her what she'd turned into because she suddenly did something she had never done before: she slapped me. Hard. And then she looked horrified, and I looked horrified, and we looked horrified at each other for a good thirty seconds or so...and then I touched my cheek because it stung worse than I thought it would. She has a good arm on her. She's tougher than she appears.
She looked at me with this horrible twisted expression on her face -- some awful combination of fury, self-disgust, and anguish -- and she said in a voice as terrible as her expression, "Go to your room, Harry. Just -- just go."
And I should have left, really, but I couldn't. I was so angry with her for slapping me. Even if I did deserve it for acting like a total prat. I wanted to storm out of the kitchen and go to my room like she told me to, but make sure to slam the door just like she always told me not to. Only something stopped me, and it was that awful look on her face. It just made me feel like the most wretched son in the whole wide world. So I just stood there touching my cheek like a brainless lifeless puppet that needed her command to make me move. And she looked so upset and I wasn't leaving so...she walked out instead.
We didn't have supper later that night, but it was okay because I wasn't hungry. I'm never hungry anymore. In a few days, just as predicted, it went back to the old Get-washed-up-for-supper-Harry routine, and once it did, I stopped provoking her because maybe my anger isn't really all that practical. And Mum likes to keep things practical. I did learn an important lesson from all of it: I should never make Mum angry no matter how upset I am. Like I said last entry, it just hurts us both.
So that's the story. After that, Mum went silent and I stopped trying to provoke her. The misbehaviour at school... I don't even mean to be doing that. It's the other kids mostly. They back me into impossible situations, you know? So I either take it (like with the toilet incident) or I fight back (like the time I got suspended for giving Parker a bloody nose). And when I fight back, it's like I have the worst luck in the world. For some reason, an interval attendant is always present just to see me charging like a cannonball, but suspiciously absent whenever the five of them are kicking me in the kidneys. Talk about unfair.
I guess... It's just that I so rarely am able to get the upper hand with those complete pillocks that when I finally do, I have to milk it for all it's worth. I go crazy. I may be small, but I'm vicious. I kick and punch and bite and scratch and claw, because -- well, because if I didn't, I'd lose, wouldn't I? It's the fact it's five-on-one, you see. If only Parker would face me one-on-one like he's supposed to, I might win more often. Of course, that's why I get suspended and they don't. They're neat and clean about their fights. I'm a right mess about mine. I reckon it's easier to lie down and take it than it is to risk expulsion for getting caught again, you know?
But the teachers, and the Head. It's always down to them. I'm sick of being told to just stay out of Parker's way -- to blend in and just stay off their radar and not provoke them. I mean, what do they think I'm trying to do? They act as if I actively seek Parker out for a good row or something. Truth is (and I've never told anyone this in my entire life, so don't go blabbing, okay?) I'd love to be as invisible at school as I am at home. It'd be brilliant. But I'm not. And the thing is -- this is just how life is, right now. This is just how things are going. There's no point in getting upset about it because it is what it is. It's not perfect, true, but it's not forever either.
It's better to be rational about things than it is to get upset about them. That's what they tell me, anyway. That's what they've been telling me all my life.
---
I was sitting at the table doing my English work. Miss Vance was having us write about the best day we've ever had, and I chose this time we went to the shore -- just me, Dad, and Mum. The water was so cold I couldn't feel my fingers and toes, and I was shivering a bit but I didn't want to get out, because Dad was throwing me up and down in the air and dunking me and letting me skim the water's surface like I was some sort of Merperson or exotic fish. From the sand, Mum sat beneath a bright purple umbrella, watching and grinning and occasionally even shouting out instructions for what Dad should do next. We finally got out of the water and Mum wrapped me in a towel, drying me off like she used to when I was a kid just hopping out of a bath, and said we should all go for an ice cream. I wasn't cold anymore.
So that's what I was working on when Sirius came in and ruffled my hair.
"What'cha doing, kid?" he asked.
He walked over to the chill box and grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice.
I wonder, sometimes, how anyone expects me to be a normal Wizarding kid with all these Muggle appliances around. Refrigerators and televisions and home-video systems...telephones...microwave ovens...hell, Mum was even talking about getting one of those computers like we have in the lab at school. I mean, really. For someone who does so much magic all the time, Mum sure does love her fancy Muggle stuff. And it doesn't matter that it's all run on magic. That's not the point, is it? The point is that it's even here in the first place. It takes its toll during the "formative years," as parents and teachers are so fond of calling them. I'm at an "impressionable age." So, basically, with all this Muggle stuff around, my first inclination when someone I know is acting weird is to ask if they're a victim of Body-Snatchers, like from that old film. I'm going to go off to Hogwarts still talking half-Muggle and be completely stigmatised for it.
"Nothing much," I replied honestly, turning over my half-written assignment. "Some stuff for English."
Sirius snorted. "Bugger that for a lark," he said. "Let's do Quidditch instead. All work and no play makes Harry a dull boy. You know how to read and write; your vocabulary rivals Dumbledore's. You don't need any more English. In fact, one might say it's irresponsible of me to let you keep learning. Who knows what sort of intellectual force I'll unleash into the world?"
I felt my lips twitch. It's so nice to be with Sirius sometimes: Remus is very lacquered over, and Peter is often eager to please, and Mum's so tired and depressed, but Sirius is just the right amount of patient and passionate.
"It's due tomorrow," I argued.
"So do it later tonight," he countered. "I'll be leaving before supper, so you'll have time without distraction this evening. Your mum has something special planned," he grimaced, and that in and of itself piqued my curiosity, "so she wants me to bugger off and let her get properly prepared. I might stop by later if it's a nice night and you're done your work, but otherwise now just might be our golden opportunity."
I smiled. "Might not have time to finish my work later tonight," I said, "If Mum's got 'something special' planned, and all."
He made a clucking noise and shook his head. "Harry, Harry. I'm disappointed in you. For such a clever, trouble-making rapscallion, you're not very good at seeing obvious solutions to very standard coursework problems. All we have to do is trick Remus into doing it for you and charm the handwriting to look like yours."
"Tempting," I agreed, "But no. This one's kinda personal, you know? It's about the best day we've ever had."
His face looked blank for a second before he seemed to get it. "Ah. Right. And the best day you've ever had involves -- "
"Right," I said shortly, looking down.
Sirius sat down across from me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Harry," he said, voice softening slightly, "If you ever want to talk -- about anything -- I'm here. I miss him too. More than I'd be willing to admit, sometimes. And I get the feeling you're in the same boat. If you wanted, we could miss him together."
He issued me an encouraging smile. I swallowed and looked away.
"Thank for the offer," I said. "I'll think about it."
He clapped me on the back and stood up to go. "Right," he said, forcing a grin. "Well, if you change your mind about that Quidditch, just give a shout, yeah? I won't be doing much but helping Remus reorganise the whole bloody study. I swear to Merlin, that man's more anal-retentive than a -- " he paused and seemed to rethink his wording, perhaps upon remembering my age. "He's just very anal-retentive, isn't he."
I snickered. "Brilliant, though."
"Oh, no doubt. If I ever found myself drowning in old newspapers and musty books, he's the one I'd want coming to my rescue."
As soon as Sirius had gone, I stared down at my work and sighed. Suddenly, I couldn't imagine a stupider assignment than this one, but before I could get upset Mum interrupted me again not five minutes later when she came in and said I should help her prepare supper.
"Thought we might try something new tonight," she said. "See how it goes."
"Why?" I asked, realising belatedly how rude that sounded.
Luckily, she ignored it. "Because we're having company, and I like to have something a bit nicer on the nights we have company." She was sounding tired again already. That was depressing: I could tire her out with a single question. No, not even -- I could tire her out with a single word. "I'll need some help preparing."
Company meant Professor Severus Snape; I didn't have to be a mind-reader to know that. The last time he came over for supper was two weeks ago, and I disappeared without so much as a how-do. And then there was that terrible tea a few days ago; I just slipped away right in the middle of it, after he said that awful thing about me trying to be Dad now that he's dead. (I still don't know how the rest of the tea went after that, but I guess no one was murdered, seeing as I've seen Sirius since then and Snape was coming for supper tonight.) So, basically, the long and short of it was this: Snape and I did not belong in the same sphere of existence, let alone the same house. Bad things always happened when we were in the same house. Bad things always happened when we were within two miles of one another. Why would two feet somehow be better? To me, two feet sounded like it would be worse.
But I didn't say any of that, I just got to work dicing carrots and peeling potatoes, hoping Mum wouldn't make me stay all the way through 'til pudding. Snape didn't seem like a pudding type of bloke anyway. Pudding (much like smiling and slate-blue and sunshine and happiness) didn't go with Snape's character.
But hey, I thought with a shrug as I dropped the potatoes in the pan and turned the heat on low, prove me wrong, Professor. Prove me wrong.
---
As a matter of fact, Professor Severus Snape did prove me wrong. He enjoyed Mum's double-chocolate eclair with creme fresh on top; he had two helpings and actually looked like he enjoyed them, not just soldiered through them to avoid wounding Mum in her fragile state.
And Mum...oh for Merlin's sake, Mum was smiling.
And it wasn't just a polite smile, or a tentative smile, or a sad smile like she's given a lot lately. It was a genuine trillion-Watt, eye-crinkling, heart-stopping smile. How long had it been since Mum had smiled like that? Since before Dad died, at least. Maybe longer.
God.
Part of me was glad to see Mum happy -- I mean, how could I not be? I love her, and I want her to be okay. I want her to stop hurting. And after so many weeks of being nothing but depressed and tired, she finally actually looked content and...well...alive, really. That was nice. No, not nice. That was brilliant. But another part of me... I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but another part of me really hated her in that minute. I just kept wondering, what does Snape have that I don't? Why is it that he can make her smile like that when all I do is exhaust her and make her wish I'd just disappear?
I tried to be as polite as possible when I asked, "Er...could I maybe be excused? I've got coursework, and..."
"Hmm?" Mum looked back at me and her face fell, and all at once I felt like a wretched son again. "Harry," she said, "You've barely touched your food. That's a perfectly good supper you're wasting, young man."
I looked down at it. I just...wasn't hungry. "Too much snacking as we prepared it," I lied. "I'll probably be hungry later, though. Can we save it?"
"What have I told you about snacking between meals?" Mum clucked. "Well, alright, clear your plate and be off."
"Cheers," I said uncertainly. "Er. And it was nice seeing you again, Professor Snape."
The man merely raised an eyebrow at me and waved a hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal. Which, let me tell you, really did not sit so well with me. He's not my father, and this isn't his house; he has no business dismissing me from my own supper table.
As I was wrapping my half-eaten food and putting it away in the chill box, I heard Mum and Snape's voices drifting in from the dining room. I couldn't hear everything, but I heard enough.
"I just don't know what's got into him lately," Mum was saying softly, and it sounded like her voice was muffled slightly, like she was talking into a pillow...or the front of Professor Snape's robes. "He used to be such a good kid. A little strange, but good."
"The boy did just lose his father, Lily," Snape said ironically, but his wryness was somehow gentler now that I was out the room and he could speak privately with Mum. It was like he was letting his guard down. Just for her. "You cannot expect things to just go back to what they were, instantaneously."
"It would be easier, though, wouldn't it?" Mum laughed. "It'd be one less thing to worry about, if I knew he wasn't hurting so much. What should I do, Sev?"
"Lily..." It sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth, now. "Talk to him. There is no greater advice I can give. The longer you put it off, the more complicated the situation shall become."
"Maybe you could talk to him?" Mum asked hopefully. "You two have more in common than you might think."
"I have nothing in common with that -- boy," Snape snapped.
Wow, I thought privately. If that was Snape holding himself back, I wonder what he would've said if it had been Sirius in the room, and not Mum.
"Careful, Sev," Mum said, and I could just imagine the expression that went with her tone. "That's my son you almost insulted."
"I apologise," Snape said stiffly. "But it's true. He and I have nothing in common -- nothing at all. Except, perhaps, for the fact we both love you and want to see you happy."
I winced. He loved Mum? This could only lead to bad things and sorrow. Soon they'd move in together and I'd have to stay in my room permanently and only leave for school and outings with Sirius. I could never drink tea on the patio or eat at the supper table again. I'd have to forage for food like some sort of wild animal. Whenever anyone came to visit I'd have to hide in my pants drawer and pretend I didn't exist. Eventually they'd find me, weeks later, nothing but bleached bones drowning in pants.
Then Mum responded, "Severus, you know I'm not ready for anything...romantic," and I felt loads better.
"I know," Snape replied. "But should you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"At any rate. Give him a chance," Mum went on, once the awkwardness had passed. "If you just look past the fact he's the spitting image of the man who tortured you all through your teenage years, you might actually see how beautiful and brilliant and wonderful my darling son is."
"And here we have Lily Potter, ladies and gentlemen, the psychological goldmine," Snape replied witheringly, and Mum giggled. "I cannot even begin to dissect that one; it's so rife with loaded language I would not touch it with a ten-foot pole."
"Help me clear the dishes, you great prat," Mum said fondly, and I knew I'd better scarper before they caught me eavesdropping.
Once I made it up to my room, I started wondering what the hell was going on. Snape was still in love with Mum, but Mum wasn't ready (thank Merlin!) to accept his advances. But she did want him to get to know me better...to make an effort with me. Maybe even try to get me to talk about Dad. And what was this business about it being "easier" if she knew I wasn't hurting so much? I mean, first off, I wasn't hurting that much -- it was hard, some days, and I missed him, but she made it sound like I was in a Jane Austen novel. And second off, what could I possibly do to make it easier? Really? I disappear, I pretend, I don't talk out of turn...we haven't had any more fights since that time with the slap...I don't know what she wants from me.
If I just knew how to put this all right, I would be doing a better job of it. But I don't, you see? And I feel like -- I feel like she should be doing a better job of it too.
And so that's about when I got to thinking how it really wasn't meant to be like this. If we're all trying to be practical like Mum says we should, then Mum shouldn't be ignoring me and Dad should be here instead of some surly hook-nosed professor who has only said one thing to me in the whole time he's known me. Because...talk about a serious breach in practicality.
It wasn't adding up for me...what it ought to be like versus what it was. It's like in maths, you know? Like you've got this variable. You've got this secret number you're trying to solve for, and then you'll get the answer you've always wanted to know. You'll understand, then. You'll get it.
But I still didn't get it.
It just didn't make very much sense, because the equation was right but it still wasn't producing the expected results, and I had no idea what I could do to make it work again. I mean...maybe if I stopped acting out or whatever, things would run more smoothly. Maybe if I just worked really hard -- like really, really, really hard -- and started solving all my own problems, I'd be self-sufficient. I wouldn't need anyone or anything. And besides, Mum would be able to focus on herself completely and that'd be one less problem in her life, and she'll be able to cope better and recover quicker (and not smile stupidly over double-chocolate eclairs, or let Snape touch the small of her back).
And I'll be better for it, too, because it means I'll be strong and independent -- confident and aloof. And practical, just like what she wants.
I could be a machine.
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A/N: Please tell me what you think so far!
