Harry sits on his bed, tightly holding a mug of hot tea, and stares blankly at the journal. Snape's snores come at sporadic intervals from the next room and Harry's surprised he managed to get downstairs and make tea without waking him. He doesn't have the words to describe how cold he is and feels foolish in all his layers, but every now and then a numbness sets into his cheekbones and gives him the faintest impression that death has come. Clearly it has not; clearly Snape has adjusted over the many years; clearly he's just a silly little boy.
He still hasn't put his name in the journal yet—how can he possibly put anything but Harry Potter? It's his name, a name he's proud of, from parents that loved him…from parents that died, leaving him in the Dursley's care. It's a name that Sirius doesn't always remember to call him. He doesn't know how to tell his godfather not to call him James anymore than he knows how to admit to using a different name.
Heilyn: a name offered up by a man he hates, who hates him, as something of a peace offering. A new name, new clothes, a new home, everything he's ever wanted all for the price of betraying Sirius. He sips at his tea as Snape's snoring starts back up again. "Heilyn," he says slowly, forcing his lips to form around each sound. "Hay-lin." He can't help but wonder if it's what Snape would have named him.
The snoring stops abruptly and, not a moment later, Snape stumbles into the hall. Harry sips his tea as their eyes meet and swallows audibly. "You look like shit," he mutters.
"'S e plàigh a th' annad," Snape responds with a sneer. He seems to think better of whatever he'd planned to do and steps into Harry's room. His greasy hair pokes out in various directions and the dark bags under his eyes indicate he hasn't slept at all. "Why are you awake?"
"Why are you awake?" Harry responds instantly.
Snape sits on the edge of the mattress, causing Harry to tense his arm so as not to spill his tea. An odor emanates from him—Harry barely withholds a gag. "Nightmare," Snape says plainly.
Harry bites his lip as he studies the man's face. It is not the sort of thing he thinks Snape would ever lie to him about. The man is, after all, brutally honest. For just a moment, he sees himself in the lines of Snape's face: frown lines from too much worry; bags under the eyes from not enough sleep; crow's feet from squinting. "Me too." He takes another long drink and wonders if he should say something else. "Why Heilyn?" the question is out of his mouth before he even realizes he's thinking it.
The mattress creaks as Snape shifts his weight and makes the silence awkward. "I like the name and it is not dissimilar to what you are accustomed to being called. It's a well-suited name meaning 'cup bearer'."
A warm feeling rises in Harry's chest. Try as he might, he cannot push it down. "If you had a son…?"
Snape raises a single eyebrow and Harry returns to chewing on his lip. He can imagine Snape as a father. Not the sort of man that would be called 'dad' or say 'I love you.' He'd probably be a bit on the physically abusive side, not that Harry's sure getting slapped around counts as abuse. It probably wouldn't be the happiest home, but he's sure Snape would never let his family suffer.
"A shilling life," Snape says slowly as his gaze bores into Harry's skull, "will give you all the facts: how father beat him, how he ran away, what were the struggles of his youth, what acts made him the greatest figure of his day: of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night, though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea: some of the last researchers even write love made him weep his pints like you and me.
"With all his honours on, he sighed for one who, say astonished critics, lived at home; did little jobs about the house with skill and nothing else; could whistle; would sit still or potter around the garden; answered some of his long marvelous letters but kept none."
A stray tear runs down Harry's cheek, the physical effect of an emotion he cannot name. "You're a wonderful poet," he whispers.
Snape snorts and shakes his head. His greasy hair remains unmoving, even with the motion. "It's W.H. Auden, you uncultured swine. Some of us are meant for greater things than family, regardless of desire for it, which I assure you I do not." He gently takes the mug from Harry's hands and sets it on the side-table with the journal. "There are men who are placed on this earth to fight wars and conquer lands whilst longing for a man at home, tending the garden, loving and compassionate; There are men who are placed on this earth to enjoy the spoils of those wars and have families, wives and children, whilst longing for adventure."
He holds the blankets up while Harry slides further down the bed and gets comfortable. As Snape tucks the blankets around Harry's form, he hums. Harry can't help but enjoy someone finally doing this for him—somebody finally telling him a bedtime story, well poem, and then tucking him in. The tears he holds back are not those of relief or joy, but of distress at having to accept that it's Snape.
"Oidhche mhath," Snape says as he abruptly pulls away.
Harry nods as he wraps himself tighter in the warm blankets and everything slips away. A shilling life will give you all the facts.
-:-
The next morning, Harry wakes with a vicious headache and the feeling he knows something he shouldn't. A look at the clock tells him it's 11 and the eerie silence tells him he's alone. Fear wells up in his stomach, but he can't imagine why Snape's absence would scare him. He steps into his slippers, another item of clothing from Snape, and shuffles downstairs. They fit him well, but weigh him down differently than his trainers.
Downstairs, the potion Snape's been brewing is bubbling away and a different color than the day before. A journal lays open next to it. Harry squints as he lowers his nose close to the page. The ingredients are not obscure, but he doesn't know much about potions, and it seems ominous.
The tea and porridge on the table are cold and the chair lies on its side. Clearly, Snape's gone. Harry sets the chair right on his way through the kitchen. He sits on the sofa and picks up his potions text while staring at the door. Surely Snape will be back soon and his fear will dissipate.
He only manages to read the first paragraph before the door swings open. Figuring Snape will not appreciate being crowded, he remains seated and looks hopefully at the entering figure. "Heilyn?" calls a voice too high to be Snape's.
Harry lets the book fall from his lap as he jumps up and whips out his wand. A man with short, gray hair frowns at him as he kicks his wellies off and mutters something Harry doesn't hear. "Who are you?" His voice cracks as he yells.
The old man chuckles as he enters and tosses his jacket onto a chair. He's tall and skinny, like Snape; his lips are thin, like Snape's; his nose is honking and crooked, like Snape's. "Ur seanair," he says as he extends his hand.
Seanair... shay-ner…. "You're my grandfather?" Harry asks as he dramatically drops his wand to his side. He looks up and down the man and curiously notes that, while skinny, this man is also muscular. "Eachann?"
"Aye," Eachann replies. "And you are Heilyn." He hikes his trousers up past his ankles and drops into a chair as he stares at Harry. "You look enough like him," he says as he points to the sofa.
Harry drops back down with a sad smile. Ever since first year, people have told him he looks like James Potter…except for the eyes, which are his mother's. Never has anyone insinuated, in the slightest, that he looks like Snape. "Yes sir." He taps his foot, unsure of what to say. "Do…do you know where…" he pauses for a moment to remember the phrase Snape used, "m 'athair is?" He says it muh-air, like the sound is completely foreign.
"Mare is a better pronunciation," Eachann mutters, "but it is good of you to try. Severus was needed in London—asked me to come check on you." During the long pause, Harry thinks he should offer tea, but the look on Eachann's face disinclines him. The man looks both sad and furious. "You must forgive Severus, if he is not the father you were hoping for. Just as he must adjust to a boy he had no part in raising."
The hair stands up on Harry's neck and he thinks that might be important. "Like you did?" he asks quietly.
Eachann grunts as he nods and adjusts his legs. "Women are superior in loving children that are not theirs. For a man to love a child he must raise it and see himself in it. Beyond that there is only adjusting and accepting—you mustn't expect more."
"He's a good dad," Harry responds almost on instinct. A blush rises in his cheeks as he realizes he called Snape dad. "He isn't patient, but he cares." Movement at the door pulls his attention and as soon as he sees the black wisps of Snape's hair he runs. "Dad!" he yells as he throws his arms around Snape's unsuspecting waist.
Snape stands unmoving in his hold, limbs tense, breathing heavy. "Heilyn," he says slowly. "Eachann."
"Severus," the old man says.
Figuring it's been enough, Harry steps back and waits to follow Snape into the sitting room. Snape gives him a severe look before slowly walking to the sofa. His limp is almost unnoticeable, but he's straining himself. Harry skips as he runs to the kitchen and retrieves Snape's tea. After a quick warming spell, he takes it in and places it gently on the table before sitting next to Snape.
"I assume you behaved yourself," Snape says as he stares at Harry out of the corner of his eye. "Tapadh leibh, Eachann."
"Ceart gu leòr," Eachann responds quietly. He grips the armrests and narrows his eyes as he looks between Snape and Harry. "Am bi thu a' creidsinn ann an Dia?" he says as he stares at Harry.
Snape's eyes grow large for a moment and Harry thinks he must be translating. "Aye." The look he gives Harry is so severe that Harry gulps and decides to just go along with whatever is said. "Heilyn is a god-fearing boy. He might be with his mother on Sabbath—we're working it out."
Eachann growls and stomps his leg in a Moody-like manner and Harry recalls everything he's ever heard about god and church. "If you are to teach the boy to be a man you must also instruct him in the way of the Lord. If you fail him in all else, you must not fail him in this, as I did not fail you." He leans forward until he is on the edge of his chair. "Latha na Sabaid, Heilyn?"
Harry looks to Snape with pleading eyes and sighs in relief when the man comes to his rescue—he really must learn Gàidhlig if he's going to live here. "If, and I mean if," Snape says slowly, like he's about to give detention, "Heilyn is still here come Didòmhnaich, he will attend church with me."
"Yeah," Harry says as he nods.
Eachann hums as he stands, his gaze still on Harry. "Tha m' ùrnaigh ri Dia gun a thig thu. Mar sin leat."
Snape stands and pats Eachann's shoulder as he walks him to the door. Harry hesitantly follows. "Beannachd leibh."
"Bon-ack-ed leave," Harry attempts to repeat.
When the door is shut and Eachann is gone, Snape turns to him like the motion is painful. "Ben-ached, Heilyn. Beannachd leibh means 'blessings with you.' He said he prays you'll go to church. Now then," he shuffles back over to the sofa and retakes his seat. "As I am not instructing you in occlumency and m 'athair has met you, I will today teach you a psalm."
Harry winces as the thought of memorizing one and follows Snape's moving gaze to his bedroom. His journal! He putters off, in no hurry to complete this chore. He's agnostic, so are the Dursleys…and practically everyone else. But it's important to Eachann, and he's not about to let Snape be perceived as a poor father. He bends over his new journal and scribbles his new name in it—Heilyn Camshron—before taking it, and the pen, back downstairs.
"Fine," he huffs as he sits on the floor and places his journal on the table. "What's a psalm?"
"The Book of Psalms," Snape says as he leans his head back, "is the first book of the third section of the Hebrew bible. The title is derived from the Greek translation, meaning 'the words accompanying the music.' Here in the Hebrides, they are sung and very important. You shall learn Psalm 23." He growls and stretches his arms over the back of the sofa.
"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want." He speaks slowly so that Harry can write it down. "He make me down to lie in pastures green: he leadeth me the quiet waters by. My soul he doth restore again; and me to walk doth make within the paths of righteousness, ev'n for his own name's sake." He glares at Harry's writing as he pauses to take a sip of his tea.
Harry nods as soon as he catches up.
"Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, yet will I fear none ill: for thou art with me; and thy rod and staff me comfort still. My table thou hast furnished in presence of my foes; my head thou dost with oil anoint, and my cup overflows. Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me: and in God's house for evermore my dwelling-place shall be."
As he finishes writing, Harry withholds his snide comment. How foolish, to not fear anything because of belief in some god! "Sir?"
"What, Potter?"
Harry almost doesn't ask, but somehow it is an answer he needs. He needs to know if Eachann failed Snape; he needs to know why Snape only calls Eachann 'athair' when he isn't present. "Do you believe this…drivel?"
Snape chuckles as he stares down at him. "Drivel? You do sound like a proper wizard, don't you? I go church; I say my psalms…and my prayers; I believe in divine forgiveness of sin." He snaps his finger and a peat log floats past them and into the fire. "I will ask you pretend, but I will not ask you to believe."
"Okay," Harry whispers as he returns his gaze to his journal. The Lord's my shepherd….
-:-
That night, he wakes with a start and hopes he wasn't screaming. Cedric was dying in his arms again to a chorus of voices telling him it was his fault. He slams his head down on the pillow a few times and focuses on the stable sound of Snape's snores. "The Lord's my shepherd," he whispers as he clutches his blankets. "I'll not want. He make me…make me lie…make me down to lie in pastures green. He leads…leadeth me the quiet waters by." His mouth hangs open while he tries to remember the rest of it.
Despite his complaints regarding it, the words of the psalm are somehow soothing. Especially now, in the cold and dark. Not a single owl has come for him and Sirius has made no effort to contact him, despite Snape's assurances that an owl would come if sent. And he's pretty sure Snape spent the day doing… Death Eater things, not Order things. In no time at all, he'll be with Sirius again.
"The Lord's my shepherd," he says again. "I'll not want. He make me… down to lie in pastures green. He lead…eth me the quiet waters by."
The second time it does nothing to sooth him, so he says it again. His mind begins to wander and he decides to put it to good use. He crawls out from under the covers for only a moment and grabs the nearest book before diving back in. As he runs his finger over the title, he leans closer to the light. The Inferno of Dante: a new verse translation by Robert Pinsky. The book looks brand-new, like it's never been opened. He flips to the copywrite page and sees that it only came out the year before.
Without hesitation, he flips to the first page and slowly reads: Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost. To tell about those woods is hard—so tangled and rough and savage that thinking of it now, I feel the old fear stirring: death is hardly more bitter.
He hums as he thinks about Snape's obvious preference for dark literature: poems and books about death and a dreadful life. It's fitting, given Snape's past; it's fitting, given Harry's, for him to read them as well. A loud bang shocks him out of his thoughts and he looks up to see Snape in the hall.
"You're awfully clumsy," Harry says as he sets his book on his lap.
Snape's hair curtains his face and the bags under his eyes are darker than during the day. "'S e plàigh a th' annad," he groans. He walks forward, still dragging one foot slightly, and leans against the frame. "I would rather be sleeping, but alas the Dark Lord's potion requires attention at this hour, and I can hardly sleep during the day if I am going to supervise you."
Harry almost feels bad, but his attention is on the phrase Snape used. "What does that mean?"
They stare at each other for a long moment and Snape moves slightly so that the light falls on less of him. He blends in with the dark well. "Lay down, Heilyn." He shuffles in and sits on the edge of the mattress as he had done previously while Harry slides under his covers. "Out of their slumber Europeans spun dense dreams: appeasement, miracle, glimpsed flash of a new golden era; but could not restrain the vertical white weight that fell last night and made their continent a blank."
He pauses a moment to better tuck the blankets around Harry's shoulders and Harry wonders what his face must look like. He's probably staring up at the man with a stupid grin.
"Hush, says the sameness of the snow, the Ural and the Jura now rejoin the furthest Arctic's desolation. All is one; sheer monotone: plain, mountain; country, town: contours and boundaries no longer show. The warring flags hang colourless a while; now midnight's icy zero feigns a truce between the signs and seasons, and fades out all shots and cries."
Harry strains to keep himself awake long enough to hear the end of the poem, long enough for Snape to leave.
"But when the great thaw comes, how red shall be the melting snow, how loud the drums."
Snape's cold fingers brush lightly against his forehead, moving hair out of the way, and Harry gives up. He's tucked in and been recited a poem. Sleep comes easily and with the tiniest thought that he would rather stay with Snape than go to Sirius.
