He wakes after having the dream again, the one where he's torturing people: Ron is always first, then Sirius, then Vernon. They scream, but its not real screaming. Real screaming makes his gut clench and his heart pound. The sounds they make put a warm feeling in his stomach, not a nice feeling, but a warm one. He begins the prayer Snape taught him instantly—begging for forgiveness, proclaiming that he's evil. It helps.
Everything is quiet, meaning Snape is asleep for once. He slides into his slippers and shuffles down the stairs, careful not to cause any creaking. The kitchen is cold and dark, but orderly. He chews on his bottom lip as he surveys the cereal options. For days he's thought there was only a box of Cheerios. But now that he's looking closely, there's something else. He moves the Cheerios box out of the way and stares down at the brightly-colored box lying behind it. Cap'n Crunch.
He snatches the box and tears it open before plunging his hand in and pulling out a handful of pieces. His hand shakes as he brings them to his mouth. They aren't something he's ever thought to covet before. Ice cream, yes; Children's cereal, no. He chews slowly, savoring the taste, withholding the moan begging to be released. Instead of continuing to eat the cereal by hand, he pours out a bowl and puts just enough milk in it to have milk, but not enough to make it soggy. A creak from the stairs catches his attention and he whips around, spoon hanging out of his mouth. He drops the spoon, suddenly guilty, though why he's not sure. Should he feel guilty for eating it without permission? Or for abusing Snape's kindness? Is he abusing Snape's kindness?
"Morning, sir," he whispers.
"Not really," Snape responds too quickly.
Harry frowns as he notices that the man is in full robes. At 2 in the morning. "Are you leaving?" He absentmindedly eats another bite while waiting for an answer. It's not fair. Snape was asleep for once, and now he has to leave, just like that. "Its not Dumbledore, is it?"
"Most assuredly not." Snape growls and crosses his arms over his chest, protecting himself. "The Dark Lord has called me. I can only imagine what we'll be getting up to." His voice drops to a whisper. "Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on."
"Poetry?"
"Shakespeare, a-ghlaoic. Hamlet."
Harry half-nods, lip back between his teeth. "You don't sound upset. The opposite really."
Snape blinks a few times, like he usually does when trying to come up with the right thing to say, the adult thing to say. "The things that are bad for us are usually addictive. Alcohol, cigarettes, violence. Sugar."
The spoon hangs from Harry's lips as he freezes. It's a joke. The last part is a joke. The first part, alcohol, cigarettes, violence, all at once it is something Harry understands and something he thinks he shouldn't have heard. "I can't stand the smell of blood," he says for no reason. "Passed out in a pool of it one time too many."
"Logical," Snape mutters. "I felt that way once. When I was wee. But blood, the flow of blood, the temperature of blood, I can control that." He swallows and his adam's apple juts out uncomfortably. "Tarraing fala, bloodletting, has many spiritual and magical purposes. It is speculated that the Roman Emperor Hadrian's lover, Antinous, died while they were in Egypt due to bloodletting. It was not abnormal for Egyptian wives to engage in bloodletting for the health and safety of their husbands. Bloodletting produces particularly strong protection charms, but can be used for other purposes." He pauses like there's something else that needs to be said.
"Okay." Harry takes another bite, the wheels in his head turning. "Are you gonna be back?"
Snape's mouth falls open as he reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Bod an Donais." This early in the morning, his voice is deeper than normal, scratchy. He shuffles to the phone, his left arm clenched and fisted, and writes on a paper pad with a shaky hand. "I don't have time to get you to head-quarters. I should have left already. This is Eachann's number. You know how to dial emergency." He ruffles Harry's hair as he passes. "Be good Heilyn."
Harry eats the rest of his cereal slowly, rooted to the spot. He'll be home alone for the weekend, unless Snape comes back. He can't keep his eyes off the phone. What if he calls his seanair for company, not because something's wrong? Isn't that what people usually do? He won't be spending New Year's alone that way. And he can probably meet his cousins. But most importantly, he'll get to stay home until the first day of term.
-:-
He eats his bowl of oatmeal in a chair next to the phone, counting down the minutes until it is a polite time to call. Petunia had taught him from a young age that proper life does not start before 9am. He runs through what he's going to say again. Dad got called back to work for an emergency and Mom's out of town, so I'm home alone. Do you think I can come over? That should cover Snape being gone.
The clock strikes 9 and he picks up the phone, oatmeal practically tossed on the counter. It rings twice.
"Halo?"
"Uh, Seanair? This is Heilyn."
"Madainn mhath, Heilyn. Ciamar a tha sibh?"
"Madainn mhath, Seanair. I'm still working on my Gàidhlig. I don't know what that means."
"How are you child?"
"Good, oh wait…." He knows this one! It's in Snape's book. "Tha mi gu math."
"Good job."
He can't help the grin that fills his face. "Sir, I was wondering if I could come over for a bit. M 'athair had to go to London for an emergency. And my mum's out of town."
"Aye. We are còcaireachd uh, how do you say, cooking. For Hogmanay. I come at sia uairean sa oidhche."
Sia? "Is that six?"
"Aye. Tapaidh leibh."
"Tap-ah leave."
His grin falters only slightly. That's 10 hours he has to entertain himself!
He drags his feet up the stairs, trying to figure out what he can do with the time. Clean? No, he and Snape do enough of that. Read? Study? Drink? Nothing sounds enjoyable. On a whim, he pops his head into Snape's room. It's wrong to be in there, a violation of privacy, but it makes him feel less alone. He runs his finger over the side table, careful not to touch the old book. It's probably got magic in it—the words look like words that are in spells. Veneficus ius. Vetus sedes anguis. It's something you could chant.
Next to it is a silver cross pendant on a chain and a nice watch. He bypasses the cross. The look of the watch is sophisticated, a silver exterior with gold accents, little circles on the face with their own hands. He doesn't know what those are for. It's probably the single most expensive thing in the entire house. He holds it gently in his hands, turns it around slowly. Inscribed on the back is a date: 30 June 1978. Snape graduated Hogwarts in 1977, so it's not that. His mastery maybe? It would be about the time that picture in his trunk was taken. He tries the watch on, slowly and carefully so as not to hurt it. It's too big, but it feels great. Very adult.
He puts it back and continues poking around. It really is the only nice thing though. The hamper in the corner is falling apart; the table that all of his papers are on has a book propping up one of the legs; a few of the drawers are pulled out, their handles missing. It's a mess.
Every muscle in his face tightens as he gets closer to the hamper. Its fucking rancid! They can't both be teenage boys. He drags the hamper down to the washer and throws the clothes in by the handful. The shorts have holes in them, just like Harry's own shorts have holes in them. He pushes up on the door, trying to get it closed, before realizing that the piece of wood he had to move from between the door and the adjacent cabinet was there for a reason. The piece of wood goes back into place only after a lot of shoving and wiggling. The washer shakes wildly, but starts all the same. He pads over to the pile of peat and takes another one for the fire.
Ideas come and go on how to fix the dresser as he carefully moves all of the paperwork from the makeshift desk to the bed. If he had spare wood, a saw, and a drill, he could probably manage some sort of solution. But the desk situation can be rectified immediately. He moves his books and papers off the desk in his room, sad to see it go, but it really does belong in Snape's room. He pulls it into the hall, cringing at the sound it makes on the floor. The floor's trashed anyways. He leaves it next to the loo while moving the other one out of Snape's room and into his.
As soon as the switch is complete, Harry collapses onto his bed. He doesn't have time to sleep—he still needs to get Snape's clothes hung up to dry, something cooked for dinner, and the downstairs tidied up before he can think about doing something relaxing. His eyes flutter shut for what's only supposed to be a minute.
-:-
Harry checks his reflection in the mirror again. His hair is tidy and he's dressed in layers to fend off the cold. 6 o'clock comes, but no knocking comes with it. The entryway is spotless. He can't have Eachann thinking Snape's a lacking father. At long last, a car horn sounds. That's it? No knock at the door? He holds his head high on the walk to the car and greets Eachann politely. "Oidhche mhath."
"Oidhche mhath, Heilyn."
Eachann makes no other attempt at conversation, so neither does Harry. Instead, he focuses on where they're going. Just in case nobody remembers to take him home. It would be a shitty walk, but he'd do it. He follows Eachann inside and finds himself surrounded by strangers.
He's instantly light-headed and confused. Only a few words are familiar, but even then the definitions do not come easy. Eachann's disappeared, people are talking at him, pointing. His feet land hard on the steps as he runs toward the room upstairs he's expecting to be unoccupied—Snape's old room. The door slams shut behind him.
In his peripheral, he sees movement and reaches for his wand on instinct. It isn't there, in his pocket where it should be. He wouldn't dare bring it here. He gulps and clenches his fists as he turns toward it. It's a boy! His fists release as he takes the other boy in. Messy red hair, soft red, not Weasley red, eyebrow piercing, sitting up against the wall with his left knee popping out of the hole in his black jeans with a bottle of whiskey in his hands.
"Hi," Harry whispers.
"British?"
"That obvious? I'm Heilyn."
"Fionnlagh." He takes a long drink of the whiskey before patting the floor next to him. "Me ma keeps saying Eachann's bastard's bastard. You innit?"
Harry nods as he plops down, repeating the name in his mind. Fee-own-lak. He shouldn't drink. It might give Eachann the wrong idea. Not that Eachann is paying attention to him. "We're not cousins are we?" he asks with a laugh.
"Ack!" Fionnlagh's laugh is rich, sweet. "No! The Camshrons are neighbors." He taps Harry's thigh with the bottle until Harry takes it and humors him with a drink. "Spent some time in London me self. Dirty."
Once the whiskey crosses his lips, he can't stop drinking it. Laughter and smiling come easy. Being with Fionnlagh is easy. 7 o'clock becomes 11 o'clock and they can no longer hide. He holds Fionnlagh up as they stumble downstairs and join the festivities. They join the other boys outside and walk a ways before building a small structure for what is to come, the word on everyone's lips: fire.
As cold as he is, he does not shiver. Doing this, being a part of this, is magical. It's only a shame Snape had to leave. When midnight finally comes they light their bonfire and Fionnlagh pulls him away. There's something broken in his eyes, but the smile is still on his face.
"Go tell Eachann you've enjoyed it. We'll go to yours."
His. Harry's throat dries out. He and his new friend are going to have a sleepover. While Snape's out of town. "Okay!"
-:-
Harry wakes slowly, with each breath telling himself that he won't vomit. Snape's going to be pissed! After the long walk home the night before, they'd eaten pretty much everything they could find and enjoyed another two bottles of whiskey.
"Fin?"
A grunt comes in return.
He rolls over, away from the wall so that he's facing Fionnlagh. The other boy is sprawled out on his back, arm over his eyes. It is only now that the lighting is right for Harry to notice the faded bruising on his cheek. That's always how it looks when your dad hits you. Or your uncle.
"Happy New Year, Fin," he whispers before drifting back to sleep.