Rated M: nothing triggering here, I think, except talk of PTSD, (not mentioned by name or in detail)
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Chapter Six: Running Man
It was early autumn now, and Harry was walking in the crisp open air of early morning on his way to work. Home was not far from the nearest Porting-Booth and he walked when he could. Only sometimes he missed the convenience of floo-travel. Sometimes. He didn't think about it much anymore. He left the car for Hermione to use and hardly ever took the bus, unless it was raining too hard. Besides, learning to drive in this country was stressful enough without actually trying to beat Washington D.C traffic in the mornings. Hermione had picked up American driving habits faster than he had, so it was better this way. Besides, he enjoyed walking. His preferred route to the nearest public Porting Booth took him right through the heart of America's capitol city and it was beautiful.
In their first weeks of settling down here in America, Harry and Hermione had taken the kids to see the sights on the weekends, mostly as a mutual distraction. But it was enjoyable despite all that. They visited the Smithsonian Museum, and the Vietnam Wall, and the big Obelisk that seemed almost out of place in its modern surroundings. The Lincoln Memorial remained a favourite of theirs. With its columns and hushed, temple-like atmosphere, it truly didn't feel like the heart of the most important city in the country. It felt like a different era, sometimes.
Even though the Potters were settling into their new life, Harry had not given up on Sev. He contacted both the magical and muggle law enforcement offices here in America and told them his story. Although they were kind and understanding, he wondered if they even believed his story, such as it was. Nobody was taking them seriously. Due to the relaxed laws on family rituals here in the U.S, Harry and Hermione had done a few locating spells … but to no avail. Sev needed some kind of magical core to sympathize with the magic his parents were expending, and if he had no magic, then he couldn't be found that way. Harry wished he knew spells that could locate muggles, but so far, he hadn't even been able to find anyone who would help. The thought of writing Snape occurred to him several times, but the one time when he rented an owl, the creature didn't even want to leave with the letter and Harry gave up in disgust after an hour of trying. He missed Hedwig.
But even with the lingering pain of losing their son, the rest of his family had settled down by now, and they were almost used to living in America. They got news from family and friends in the wizarding world, and Ron had apparently decided to invest in a telephone, installed in a small cottage on his property, but well-enough away from the house that it shouldn't be a problem. So far, though the line was crackly and sometimes cut out, it was working out alright. Things were settling down somewhat, but some other veterans of the Great Wizarding War were getting the magnifying glass thrown over them by the new Ministry, like Ron and Neville and even Luna. They assured Harry that it wasn't anything they couldn't handle, but he still felt bad for leaving them behind in such a mess. The Ministry of Magic had given up on him and his family once they saw how troublesome it would be to demand his return through the American Congress, which was a relief. But The Daily Prophet was still printing up 'stories' about the Potters and the War and other nonsense that was either taken out of context or completely false. Harry was glad they'd left. How does one fight that kind of stupidity?
Harry often passed joggers taking advantage of the early morning coolness, but he hardly ever acknowledged them. Even to random muggles, he was dressed like a nurse or doctor on his way to (or from) work, with his dark overcoat slung on top of dark blue scrubs. The daily commute from his house to the Post Office where the Porting Booth was located only took twenty minutes at the most, and he enjoyed the brisk exercise and the fresh air.
It looked like rain this morning, and Harry hunched his shoulders into his coat, glancing up as he passed the Lincoln Memorial again. Looking out, down the wide steps, he saw a man jogging laps around the pond. He was dark-skinned and athletic, and Harry recognized him as someone who came here at least once a week. He was one of the, what Harry thought of as, regulars. But he didn't know the man's name. Why would he? They'd waved to each other exactly two times and once Harry had stepped aside to let the man jog past.
But something made the man stop this morning, or at least slow down. He was panting and sweaty, but grinning in a friendly fashion. "Hey," he greeted Harry breathlessly.
"Hey," Harry returned cautiously, still wary of strangers and surreptitiously glancing at the man's hands. They were empty and relaxed, which reassured Harry.
"You don't jog?" the man asked, still grinning and panting. He bent over and rested his hands on his knees.
"Not really," Harry answered uncomfortably. He wondered if the man was a threat, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. He was just a friendly American looking for a chat. "I … just walk through," Harry explained. "On my way to work."
"Oh?" the man squinted up at him and then grinned again. "Well, it's kinda nice to see a regular. I'm Sam." He stuck out a strong, lean hand for Harry to shake, straightening up as he did so.
"Harry," he answered shortly. He shook Sam's hand and then backed off. "I'm sorry, but I really ought to go. It was nice to make your acquaintance."
"Same here!" Sam said cheerfully, beaming all over his sweat-shiny face. "Come on out one of your mornings off and put a mile or two in; it'll put a smile on your face."
Harry frowned, considering the odd advice. "I'll consider it," he said gravely. "If you'll excuse me."
With that, he left on his way, wondering if all Americans liked to invite random strangers to jog with them to 'put a smile on their face'.
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Hermione liked to have everything just so, but over the past few months, she had been forced to adapt her standards, obviously. After the chaos of the metal-armed muggle's attack, and moving to a whole different country, the Potters had more or less settled down, and Hermione felt like her life was somewhat back on track. The house they now lived in was rather smaller than she was used to, but that was alright, because there was less to clean. With only three bedrooms, they were comfortable. The girls shared a room, using a very nice antique four-poster with a trundle bed if they suddenly wanted to sleep separate, but ever since the Attack, she hadn't seen the girls sleeping apart from each other, which was fine. James had a room to himself, although there were a few boxes in one corner and some more in the closet that were labeled with Sev's name, and James was obsessive about keeping his brother's 'side of the room' bare and spotless so it could be ready at a moment's notice. The master bedroom was nice, though not as large as the one in Asphodel Cottage, and the backyard was spare too. Next spring they would have a garden, Hermione assured the kids and her husband. But this time, of course, they wouldn't have Neville and his wife to help, so who knew how it would turn out. With Neville as Assistant Professor to Sprout now, he was way too busy even for a weekend visit in the early spring. Hermione would just have to 'wing it' as these Americans said.
Whatever else could be said about Americans, they were mostly friendly people. Their neighbourhood had the typical locals, but in all, they lived in a quiet place with respectable neighbours who were helpful and polite, and left them in peace to live their own lives. It was refreshing to be able to go to magical places too and not be recognized. She knew Harry enjoyed the anonymity.
James' new school was a muggle one, but he was enjoying it so far. It was a charter school and thankfully he seemed to get along with nearly all his classmates and teachers. There were no Snape-like characters to make her son's life miserable there; just professionals (most of whom happened to enjoy working with children) doing their job. Hermione was just relieved. Her own school experience had been alright, except for an obnoxious Language Arts teacher who had once read out a (not very good) poem of hers in class in a mocking tone before she tore it up like so much rubbish. Bullying had been a bit of a problem for her too, but thankfully, James' school did not tolerate such behavior at all and James had not had a single complaint. He seemed more relaxed with the promise of little-league football season coming up, and was determined to figure out how to play. It wasn't any more dangerous than Quidditch, so Hermione knew her own hands were tied if he decided he wanted to try out for that.
The girls were just as sweet and mischievous as ever, and Hermione kept them home, despite the local Mrs. Busybody (a sweet lady, if a bit nosey) insisting they needed socialization at a kindergarten. Rubbish. They would be six come Christmas, and next year they might go to school, but it was too early to think of such things now. Rose and Lily could read a little and write the alphabet and a few words, including their names, and from what Hermione could see, that was mostly what children learned at a kindergarten anyway. Keeping up with the twins and the housework every day, not to mention driving James to school and picking him up five days a week now, was exhausting. Harry worked five days a week and left early in the morning, so he wasn't able to help much. If he got home early enough, she might be able to tell him to take the car to the closest market and pick up a few things for supper, or she would do it when she picked up their eldest from school. Things worked out somehow or other, but in the midst of the busy-ness, Hermione still found ways to go through what they had unpacked from their old home.
She was going through some boxes of books while the twins were napping when one of the heavier tomes tumbled free of the shelf and hit Hermione in the foot. She yelped, and then grumbled as she bent to pick it up. She opened it out of idle curiosity, wondering which photo album it was. She was surprised that it was actually Harry's old photo album; the one Hagrid had given him. Originally, he used to keep it in their bedroom, in the knick-knack shelf that always collected dust. But Hermione was reorganizing everything, including Harry's hoarded things. She gingerly picked up the old album, hoping she hadn't cracked the spin or torn a page or something … but something yellow slid out. It was lined notebook paper that reminded her of her parents' old notebooks from the seventies, and it had been folded and unfolded so many times that it was falling apart. Frowning, Hermione put the album down on the coffee table and held up the folded page, wondering where it had been in the album. She must have looked at this entire book a couple dozen times with Harry and/or the kids and she was pretty sure she had never seen this before. Maybe it had been a hidden message or something.
Curiously, Hermione lifted the top third of the letter, wondering if it had a date on it. It didn't, but the handwriting, and the familiar insult, made her breath stop in her lungs.
Mr. Potter,
You are a dunderhead.
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Harry arrived home in drizzling rain, exhausted from another long day. It didn't rain in Washington D.C as often is could in some parts of England and Scotland, but it rained enough, and it got much hotter in the summertime. Hot and humid weather was now giving way to warm, muggy afternoons and chilled, clammy evenings. Fall was not really his favourite time of year anymore, (without Hogwarts to look forward to) and here in the States, the unpredictability of the weather was driving him mad.
After working late at the hospital again, Harry was exhausted and wet and he just wanted to take a warm shower and go to bed, feeling too tired even for supper.
He got inside the door and the girls came running to greet him, and then they squealed when they felt how wet he was. Greeting them as cheerfully as he was able, he peeled off his wet shoes and hung up his coat before puttering into the house, wondering why his wife hadn't come to give him a kiss as she usually did. James was at the table, chewing on his eraser while he bent over some math homework, and startled when his father messed up his hair.
"Dad!" James yelped, dropping his pencil.
"Hi, son," Harry said tiredly. "Where's Mum?"
"Oh, she locked herself in her room after supper," James huffed, looking annoyed. "She's been acting odd ever since she picked me up, but I asked and she said it wasn't me or the twins. So whatever's bothering her … I think it's something you did. She seemed mad."
"Me?" Harry blinked in surprise. What had he done? He couldn't recall anything all that significant. Yes, he burned the potatoes last night when he was supposed to keep an eye on them, but he hadn't thought she would be upset about that. He kissed her goodbye this very morning and she'd seemed perfectly happy. "Well," Harry said awkwardly. "I'd better go see what I can do to fix it."
"Yeah, and you might want to be careful of the mess by the bookshelves," James suggested, turning back to his homework. "She was going through all the photo albums earlier. Maybe she lost a picture and thinks you took it."
Harry frowned and shook his head in confusion. When he walked into the hallway where their bookshelves were, sure enough, there was a mess there. He drew his wand from his sleeve and flicked it, watching as most of the mess cleaned itself up, but he stacked the photo albums on the coffee table behind him so he could organize them later. He continued down the hall until he reached their bedroom door. Hesitantly, Harry knocked three times, wondering if he would have to play twenty questions or if Hermione would just tell him what he'd done already. Nobody was answering, so he knocked harder and waited again. After another few seconds, Harry sighed and rattled the doorknob. To his surprise, it was unlocked. Carefully, he pushed it open and peeked inside. Hermione was nowhere in sight. Frowning, Harry slipped inside the bedroom and shut the door behind him, then busied himself in getting some fresh clothes out of the bureau drawers. When he turned around, he almost jumped out of his skin, because Hermione was standing right behind him.
She looked furious.
And she looked like she'd been crying.
Harry put his hands up by his shoulders, dropping his clothes in the process, and smiled sheepishly. "Whatever it was, I'm sorry."
"Of course you are," Hermione scoffed. She was holding a silvery swath of material in one fist and he gave it a curious look.
"My invisibility cloak? You were in here the whole time?"
"Genius," his wife muttered. Her eyes were red and puffy and her cheeks were blotchy. But she was radiating anger in a way that made him very uneasy.
"Hermione, love," Harry said patiently. "James told me you were upset. But I can't think of anything I did. So … could you give me a hint? I really am sorry about the potatoes last night, by the way."
"You think this is about potatoes?" Hermione laughed bitterly. She shoved her cloak at him, but he dropped it on the floor, because he couldn't imagine why she was acting like this. "Why don't you start telling me about the secrets you've been keeping from me, Harry James Potter. Because I can't imagine what you'd hide from your own wife!"
Harry blinked, completely bewildered. "Hermione," he protested. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have any secrets. Did someone tell you something about me? Do you … you're not thinking I've been … unfaithful, do you? Because never in a million years, Hermione. I'd never …"
"This is not about an affair," Hermione hissed. "Though at this point, I don't even know what to think that you'd immediately jump to that conclusion."
Harry flinched and wondered if that tightness in his throat was going to turn into tears of his own. "'Mione …" he said carefully. "Just tell me, already. I … you're scaring me."
Hermione did not reply. She glared at him for several more seconds before she reached into her jeans pocket and withdrew a tattered piece of lined paper, yellowed with age. She tossed it at him, turned on her heel, and dropped down into the chair sitting in the corner of the bedroom. She was still glaring at him furiously.
Harry sighed and picked his clothes up. He put them on the bed before he bent to pick up his invisibility cloak and the folded piece of paper. He stood up before he realized that he recognized it, although he hadn't actually looked at it in several years and hadn't thought of it for weeks. His blood froze and he groaned as he sat down on the bed.
"Oh Merlin," he muttered. What a mess. He unfolded the paper and shook his head at the spiky handwriting, faded through the years, with its odd mix of insults and profundity, derision and advice. She had a right to be upset, he knew that. He would be upset too if she had been the one with the secret. He didn't know what to do … or say. But apologizing seemed like the best place to start.
"I … I'm sorry, Hermione." He looked up at his wife, who had narrowed her eyes at him.
"Sorry I found out? Is that it?" she demanded. "So when were you planning to tell me you've been in contact with a dead man, Harry?"
Harry hesitated, wanting to be honest, but not sure of the answer anymore. If she had asked him before Sev had been kidnapped, the answer would have been a definite 'never'. But now …
"I don't know," he said quietly, staring down at the letter. "I … If you had asked me last year, the answer would have been … I wasn't planning to tell you, exactly. It didn't seem important."
"Not important?" Hermione snapped, her face crumpling with hurt. "Severus Snape isn't really dead and you think that's not important enough to share with me?"
"What would you have done?" Harry asked a little desperately. "Would you have tried to send him an owl? Pestered him about how he's doing? Invited him to Sev's christening, maybe?"
"Right, I'm that stupid," Hermione shook her head bitterly. Harry winced and cursed his big mouth, again. She turned away to wipe her face and Harry tossed the letter down. In a few seconds he was on his knees in front of her. He reached out for her hands, but she yanked them away from him and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Hermione, I didn't mean to hurt you," Harry said in a low voice. "But … I owed him my silence."
"You didn't tell me," Hermione whispered, shaking her head angrily and swiping at the tears that dripped down her face. "It's as if you've forgotten that I was the one who kept all your secrets in school, I was the one who sneaked around with you after curfew … I was the one you told first, about what you saw in Snape's memories. I was the one who was with you when he … when you … Argh! I can't even say 'when he died', can I?"
Harry shrugged helplessly, his hands still on her knees. "It's not as if we've kept in touch, love. I should have destroyed this letter to begin with … but that letter is full of the nicest words Snape had ever said to me."
"You could have told me!"
"I was thinking about it," Harry admitted. "I was considering trying to contact him about … maybe knowing how to find Sev."
"But you never got around to it," she said with quiet hurt.
"I'm really sorry, Hermione," Harry insisted, a bit desperately. He wished she would let him take her hands and wipe her tears. "I should have told you as soon as possible, and I had no idea it was … I mean … I didn't think. And I'm just so sorry. I hope you can … forgive me."
Hermione sighed and reached up to wipe her face. Harry fumbled in his pocket for a fresh handkerchief, but he only had a used one. He stood up and searched the drawers for the hankies. When he found a nice blue one, he came back and knelt back down in front of her. She took the cloth without a word and wiped her tears before she blew her nose.
"Remember when I asked you to marry me?" Harry asked softly. "We were in your parents' house, in that den off to the side of the sitting room … You were sitting down like this, I knelt down …"
"And you said those three words that changed my life forever," Hermione finished softly, giving him a look that said she saw what he was doing, distracting from the issue at hand.
Harry laughed a little. "I think I stammered out a few more words than three."
"I only heard three."
"I love you."
Hermione's mouth twisted into a reluctant smile. "Make that six words," she amended.
"I love you. Please marry me?"
"Right."
Harry sighed and clasped her hands in his, the soggy hankie and all. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I never should have kept such a secret from you, and I never will again. I hope … can you ever forgive me?"
His wife drew in a deep breath and nodded reluctantly. "I forgive you, I suppose," she murmured. "But … it hurts, Harry, that you'd keep something like this from me. How long have we been married?"
Harry winced and shut his eyes briefly before he looked up at his wife's pain-filled face. "I'm really sorry," he repeated. "But I swear that's the only secret I've had from you, 'Mione. I just … I wanted to tell you in the beginning. Remember when we were dating and we'd chat about Snape? I wanted to tell you about it so badly, but I … it felt good to be keeping Snape's secret, you know? Especially after how badly I screwed up with the pensieve Fifth Year."
Hermione sighed. "I suppose I understand," she said slowly. "But … you could have told me."
"I know it," Harry murmured apologetically. "I … I want to make it up to you, and I will. I can't imagine how shocking it must have been for you … I know I'd be angry if I'd found out something like that."
"You would," Hermione snorted. But she looked like she was in a better mood now.
"Is … is there anything I can do right now?"
His wife shook her head impatiently. "Just … tell me what happened. How on earth did he survive? And where is he? And how did you know he was still alive to give him the Marauder's Map and the money and the port-key?"
"I don't know, I don't know, and we met at his funeral," Harry answered, feeling relieved that his wife's temper seemed to have burned itself out already. "He was disguised as somebody else … Do you remember that gray-haired man who stayed near the castle while the speeches were going on? I pointed him out to you and wondered why he was so far away from everything."
Slowly, Hermione nodded, her eyes widening with recognition. "That was him? I never would have guessed."
"He went up to the tombstone during the refreshments, and I went there too. We talked … I thought he was a friend of Snape's, actually."
Hermione laughed softly through her clogged nose and wriggled her hands free from Harry so she could blow her nose again.
"So he started losing his temper with me, and said some strange things, and then he freaked out, insisting that Snape was dead and gone and good riddance and if Snape was alive he might want to make up for his crimes somehow by doing good, and it got me thinking about maybe … not becoming an Auror just because everybody expects me to. In all, it was the most civil conversation I'd ever had with him."
"And … you sent him a letter? And the Map?"
"No …" Harry hesitated, frowning as he thought about the order in which he'd done those things. "I dropped the Map as I left so he could sneak into Hogwarts to get anything he might have left behind there. He probably could have snuck in on his own, but I guess he used it anyway. Then I sent him some money since I knew the goblins might have frozen his accounts if they got word he was dead, and a portkey so he wouldn't be forced to try and sneak out on a muggle boat or something. He sent me back the Map with that letter. I saved it, of course. It was some of the best life advice I'd ever gotten."
"Still is, I suppose," Hermione said quietly. She glanced up at the yellowed paper on the bed.
"I was thinking about contacting him … the thought actually came to me when I was talking to Draco the first time. But I never did it. Actually, I tried to get an owl, but the stupid creature wouldn't even leave. Maybe it was my accent."
"American owls don't listen to British citizens?" Hermione smiled crookedly. "I think it might have been something else."
Harry smiled back and shrugged. "I don't know why it wouldn't listen to me. But … Do you think … wherever he is … would he respond?"
"I don't know," Hermione muttered with a frown. "They don't really use many owls here in America, but they have some other birds. Pigeons are really popular. So are ravens."
Harry chuckled at the thought of Snape getting pigeon mail. "Somehow, I think Snape would prefer a raven to a pigeon."
Hermione smiled a little. "I bet you're right."
"So … we're writing to him?"
"We've tried everything else," Hermione sighed. And they had. They had reported their missing son to the correct authorities here in America, and they had also done as much research as possible on the Winter Soldier, but they hadn't come up with very many new pieces of information, besides records of a few assassinations that made their blood run cold. The muggle and magical authorities here had put out some notices for Sev, (mostly to placate the frantic parents) but they had not had any luck. He had vanished off the face of the earth.
"Alright," Harry said. "I'll check the magical district of D.C for a different mail bird. Do you want to write?"
"Sure," Hermione shrugged, straightening up. "I suppose after the tantrum I threw, it's the least I can do, right?"
Harry laughed and leaned in to kiss her soundly. "Don't ever change, 'Mione," he murmured against her lips.
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Sam was running again when Harry walked to work the next morning. He was lost in thought about Snape, the bird he had to get for the letter, and all the other problems in his life. His chest ached when he thought of his younger son. Where was Sev today? Was he alive? Was he … suffering? He sighed and shook the thought away. It wouldn't do him any good to kill himself over it, and he had a long day of delicate surgeries and consultations to get through. They put him in the Emergency wing last week and he'd spent hours of mind-numbing work undoing spell accidents and treating burns. This week he had a round of heart surgeries and an organ transplant on his schedule, and while he wasn't exactly excited about them, he looked forward to the delicate work. It gave him something to focus on that wasn't Sev or the rest of his family or the latest letter from Neville Longbottom.
"Hey!"
Harry jerked in surprise, realizing that Sam had been calling him three or four times already. The man jogged up from behind and stopped next to him, panting, but not as hard as yesterday.
"You doin' alright, man? I waved and you didn't wave back."
"I'm fine," Harry answered automatically. "I just … have a lot on my mind today."
"I totally understand," Sam nodded solemnly, his dark eyes gleaming with understanding. "Anything I can do to help? Advice? Prayer? Shoulder to cry on?"
Harry laughed at that last one, and Sam smiled self-deprecatingly.
"Prayer would be nice," Harry admitted. "I … well, I have a lot going on and it's … complicated."
"You got it," Sam nodded decisively. "And hey, I wasn't kidding about you gettin' out here, workin' out some miles. You really don't jog at all? you're built like a jogger."
"Not really," Harry laughed nervously. "I've got terrible stamina." He awkwardly adjusted his glasses. Really, this man was probably only a year or two younger than him and offering help like an older gentleman. Did he truly look so pathetic?
"Well, we can start slow. How about Saturday?"
"Saturday?"
"Yeah, say seven o'clock?"
"In the morning?"
Sam laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Harry my man, don't tell me you sleep in on the weekends."
"Doesn't everyone?" Harry retorted with an easier smile.
"Well, I promise that some time jogging in the peace and quiet of a cool autumn sunrise makes it all worth it. You might even get addicted."
Harry hesitated. "Well … don't count on it," he said cautiously. "But I'll think about it."
"Lookin' forward to it!" Sam laughed happily. He held out his fist and Harry only just remembered the correct response in time. He carefully set his own fist against Sam's and laughed a little as the man threw him a salute and jogged off. Harry shook his head at himself and wondered what he was getting himself into … again.
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Hermione laughed as Harry described the jogger who had invited him to join him on Saturday. The three children were romping noisily in one of the bedrooms, with James playing the dreaded Tickle Monster and the girls squealing and shrieking like banshees.
"And you met him where?" Hermione asked again, shaking off a dripping plate to dry it.
Harry chuckled and set a glass in the drying rack before plunging his hands back into the soapy water. "He jogs some mornings along that track around the pond in front of the Lincoln Memorial," he explained. "Yesterday we got each other's first names. Today I got an invitation to 'get in some miles'. So … I asked what you think."
Hermione smiled and shook her head. "I think it would be nice for you, Harry. I know we used to have our little training routine, but with all that's been happening … we haven't really been staying in shape."
"You think I need to stay in shape?" Harry laughed as he rinsed a plate. "I'm wounded, Hermione!"
"It would be good for you, and to have a friend, maybe," Hermione added thoughtfully. "What's this Sam like?"
"I don't really know," Harry grinned. "I basically met him yesterday, remember?"
Hermione paused and thoughtfully pursed her lips. "Well … if he is part of some nefarious plot, you'll have your wand. They won't be expecting that."
"He seemed muggle enough," Harry said cautiously. "But I …"
"Look, if you had a good feeling about him after two conversations, I'd say he's probably fine. You go; have fun and maybe learn something. You never know what might happen."
Harry shrugged. "Knowing my luck, it'll be something odd."
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But nothing odd seemed to happen. Harry arrived in front of the temple-like building at precisely 7:00 a.m. on Saturday and only a minute later, Sam jogged up.
"Dude, you came!" the athletic man cheered, grinning brilliantly. His teeth were bright white and straight and Harry suddenly felt shy about grinning back. His own teeth were slightly crooked in comparison.
"Here I am," Harry said sheepishly. "Go easy on me, alright?"
"Sure thing," Sam laughed. "Let's start with some stretches."
The running stretches Sam showed him were not too different from the stretching he and Hermione used to do before their dueling routines. But he was a few months out of practice and his muscles protested. After twenty minutes of stretches, Sam started him off on a gentle jog no more than a loping walk. Harry fell into stride easily enough and found he was barely winded. They sped up a bit, and Harry still had breath for chatter.
"So, Sam," he said casually. "How's the wife?"
"Non-existent," Sam laughed. "Yours?"
"Getting breakfast for the kids, probably," Harry chuckled back. His muggle running shoes clicked on the concrete path in rhythm with Sam's and their breathing was almost in sync as well.
"You've got kids? That's awesome," Sam grinned. "First time I saw you I thought 'college student' or somethin'. But married with kids? Nuh-uh. How old are they?"
"Ten, and the four year old twins," Harry answered promptly. And then his heart took a nosedive as he realized that he'd left out Sev. He slowed his steps and stood there, stricken and horrified. Was he really moving on from the loss of his son to such a degree that he had forgotten how Sev would be nine in January? That Severus was still his son and decidedly not dead and shouldn't be left out of a list of his children.
He ignored Sam's worried voice and turned to go. He was still panting and warm from jogging, so he turned and ran. He ran all the way home and when he got there, his muscles were weak and rubbery and his breath was coming in stuttering gasps. He stumbled into the house and right into his wife's arms. By the time he convinced his wife that he wasn't actually running for his life and he had only run because he was sort of running from himself. He had the girls clinging to him and trying to tell him it was okay, and James was hovering worriedly with a fresh cup of tea for him.
"I love you," Harry murmured to his family. He kissed Hermione. He kissed Lily. He kissed Rose. He beckoned James over and hugged him tightly, knowing how his son didn't really appreciate kisses these days. He held onto them with all his might, not wanting to lose anymore members of his family. In his heart, he felt like he had lost Sev all over again, as if by unintentionally forgetting him for a brief moment, he had somehow abandoned his boy.
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"You doin' alright?"
Harry glanced up, startled by the concerned voice. He was walking on his normal route to work and hadn't even reached the Lincoln Memorial yet. But Sam had been waiting for him, apparently.
"Should I be worried that you apparently have my schedule and my route memorized by now?" Harry asked without any heat. He was too tired this morning for a fight. Nightmares had kept him up all night.
"Nuh-uh," Sam smiled kindly. "I just tried to chase you when you ran off Saturday and ended up as far as here before I lost you. Was it somethin' I said?"
"I am sorry about running off like that," Harry said uncomfortably, aware that his tone was a bit stiff. "I just … It's my fault. I started the conversation. You didn't do anything."
Sam nodded, a strangely solemn look on his face. "What service were you in?" he asked quietly.
Harry blinked. Of all the questions he had been asked in his life, this was the strangest. "…What?"
"Oh, you weren't?" Sam looked surprised. "I'm sorry … I just assumed. It's something in your eyes."
"What's in my eyes?"
"The look of somebody who's seen war … or maybe just death on a brutal level. Tragedy, I guess you'd say. I'm sorry for assuming."
Harry shook his head slowly. "You … you're not far off," he said quietly. "I … was in a war. I saw death. Lost people. But I'm British-born, as I'm sure you could tell from my accent. I wasn't in any American branches of military."
Sam nodded in understanding, still looking solemn. "I was para-rescue, U.S Army. Lost my wing-man. He was right next to me."
Harry nodded, though he was not entirely sure what a 'wing-man' was. He understood loss in either case.
"I know you said you weren't in the American military, but hey, Britain's our ally, right? You're welcome to come down to where I work: it's the VA center downtown. There's always somebody around. We've got some nice gardens, a gym; some talks every other week too. I run a therapy group, actually. You'd be welcome to come check it all out sometime, if you want."
Harry blinked slowly. Did Sam think he needed … help? Hermione had nagged at him to get some sort of therapy after the war, and he'd always blown it off. She eventually quit trying. He'd heard she went to a therapist for a couple of years herself, and she seemed much more put together than he felt most of the time. The way she had been able to bounce back after the losses of Charlie and Sev had impressed and awed him. Maybe there really might be something to learn from muggle mind-healers.
"I'll … think about it," Harry said slowly, reluctantly, unable to explain why his throat felt tight. "Thank you, Sam."
Sam grinned, though there wasn't so much fun in the expression as genuine concern. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded scrap of paper. "Here, I thought you might want this," he said with a shrug, holding out the paper.
Harry took it and found that it had the name Sam Wilson and a phone number scribbled on it. On the back were the words 'VA Center, D.C' and an address. Harry looked up and blinked hard against his burning eyes. It had been so long since anyone … a stranger, anyway … had done something so thoughtful. So genuinely kind.
"Why?" Harry whispered, fighting the strange surge of emotions that bubbled up inside him. Confusion. Surprise. A bit of anger, true. Gratitude. He felt like someone had thrown him a line while he was drowning.
"Well, you can call me anytime day or night," Sam nodded at the paper in Harry's hand. "I can't guarantee I'll be coherent if you call me in the middle of the night, but I'll be there on the other side. I'll listen."
Harry shook his head in bewilderment. "You … don't even know me," he muttered. "No one … nobody's cared … I just … Why, Sam Wilson? Why are you trying to help me?"
"Hey man," Sam smiled brilliantly. "I just saw you day after day, and somethin' told me you could use a friend. So … I took that step."
Harry shook his head. It couldn't be that simple, could it? He didn't really know Sam, but something told him that this man was telling the truth. This man … wanted to help him. As bizarre as that sounded, it had been so long since a complete stranger had offered him so much as a genuine smile and greeting that he was overwhelmed with a strange mixture of gratitude and bewilderment.
"So … your hobby is finding pathetic wayward souls to give hope to?" Harry asked, making his words sound joking, but he was actually curious. What was in it for this Sam Wilson?
"Pathetic? Wayward?" Sam laughed. "Nope, not you. And you're kinda the first guy I've ever even approached like this, t'be honest. I just … Like I said, I had a nudge, and a good feelin' about you, Harry. If you want a friend, I'm here."
Harry stared, and blinked. Eventually he smiled. "I … I wouldn't mind, I suppose," he said softly, and stuck out his bony, pale hand for a shake. "Friends? Tentatively?"
"Tentatively," Sam chuckled genuinely and grasped Harry's hand strongly in his own large, dark one. The two of them clasped hands for a few seconds longer than a normal handshake would last, but Harry could sense something beginning here today. As he dropped his hand back to his side and Sam stuck his hands in the pockets of his shorts, he realized that Sam Wilson was his first friend in America.
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"Daddy! Help me!"
Harry couldn't reach him. His feet were sloshing through sludge and Sev's voice was getting further away. He looked down and saw that he was wading through blood. He cried out and realized he was falling in. He was drowning in blood.
"Crucio!" a high pitched voice chanted and his boy screamed somewhere.
"Sev!" Harry tried to shout. But the words clogged in his throat. He couldn't breathe. He was falling, dying, drowning in blood …
Harry jerked upright with a wheezing gasp, Sev's name on his lips as he woke. He clawed the damp sheet from his face and Hermione grumbled on the other side of the bed before she dropped back into dreamland. She was a heavy sleeper these days, for which Harry was grateful. Trembling, he rubbed his sweaty face and untangled himself from the bedclothes. Easing himself out of bed didn't wake Hermione, and Harry was shaky and wide awake. He shrugged his robe on over his sweat-damp pajamas and automatically stuck his feet into his slippers. Even though here in America it wasn't quite chilly and damp enough to warrant wearing slippers in the house all the time, old habits died hard. He made his way to the kitchen and made some cocoa. When he sat down with it, the shaking still hadn't really gone away. He could barely hold the mug steady enough to drink. Pushing the steaming mug away, he buried his face in his trembling hands, letting out a harsh, angry breath.
He couldn't go on like this.
He hated feeling so weak and helpless, but he couldn't fight what he couldn't see. He had no idea what muggles did when their kids went missing, but he had done his best with the muggle police. He had done everything he knew to do. But the owl had not been able to find Snape, Hermione's desperation led to an internet search that yielded nothing, and their mutual efforts with magic had been just as useless. He did not want to accept that Sev was probably gone forever. The muggle police had been kind, but even then, they didn't lie. They pointed out that if a kidnapped child was not found within the first forty-eight hours, chances were slim of them being found at all. Alive, anyway. The magical police had been sympathetic too, but upon learning that Sev was a squib, they did not seem optimistic about him ever turning up again either. He was stuck in this nightmare with no way out.
This was not the first series of nightmares he had endured about Sev. Sometimes he was seeing everybody he had ever lost, all falling through the veil one after another, sometimes he was chasing people in Death Eater masks while his son's voice cried out to him from somewhere, and sometimes, like tonight, he was listening to his boy being tortured while he was trapped somehow. He couldn't talk about such things with Hermione. It would simply reignite old pain for her too, and he didn't have the strength to be strong for her.
He needed to talk. He wanted to. But there was no one he could talk to about this … or was there?
Jerking his head up in realization, Harry got up from the table and went to the front door. After rummaging in his coat pocket, he found the scrap of paper that Sam had given him the other day. He had not given it much thought, and certainly had not ever meant to actually avail himself of Sam's generosity in the middle of the night … but he was feeling desperate. Being able to talk to a virtual stranger about this might be easier than waking Hermione and reducing her to tears at the thought of their son, dead or suffering or simply lost …
Harry grabbed the house phone before he could change his mind. It was a bit bulkier than normal telephones because of some regulating device the U.S wizards imposed on electronics in wizard households to protect them from shorting out in the presence of magic. So long as spells did not actively touch the devices around the house, nothing should happen, but the Potters were still careful. He carefully dialed the number on the slip of paper, and biting back his guilt when he noticed the time, (not quite three in the morning) he set the phone to his ear.
It rang a handful of times and Harry's guilt was eating him from the inside out. He was about to just hang up and try to apologize the next time he saw Sam, when it was answered.
"This's Wilson," a groggy voice came through the phone, which Harry recognized as Sam's.
"Hello Sam …" Harry said hesitantly. "It's Harry."
"Oh!" Sam sounded more alert now, though his voice was still froggy with sleep. "Hey, Harry. Bad night?"
"You could say that," Harry replied with a nervous laugh. "Look … I'm sorry I woke you up. And I shouldn't be calling you at this hour. I don't even know what I was thinking. I'm sorry. I'll just –"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa; hold on, hold on," Sam groaned. He yawned and Harry could hear him rummaging through things on the other side of the line, and then the roar of a coffee grinder startled him. Once it stopped, Sam spoke again, sounding a bit more awake. "I'm the one who told you to call me, Harry, no matter what time it is. End of story. I'm here. It's okay, I promise. So what's the matter? Nightmares?"
"Something like that," Harry said a bit desperately. "I can't talk to my wife about them, that's all. They're eating me alive."
"You did the right thing, buddy," Sam assured him. "Want to tell me? I'm listening."
Harry took a deep breath, and then another. He realized he was trembling and his eyes were burning. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose and wondered idly if he should go back to his room for his glasses. But he had just made cocoa with only the light from the microwave and the moonlight from the window and didn't really need them. His vision was blurred, but not that bad in the dark, actually. Not when he moved mostly by muscle memory in a house he was pretty familiar with.
"Harry?" Sam suddenly spoke up, sounding worried. "You still with me?"
"Yeah, I'm here," Harry murmured. He was not going to cry about this. All he did was cry. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "I just … don't know where to start. I could tell you the dream. But you wouldn't know the significance of anything … and that's not really what I wanted to talk about anyway."
"Okay then, tell me whatever you want. What's on your mind?"
"Remember when I was telling you about … my children?"
"Mmhmm," Sam hummed, sounding like he was smiling. "They sound like great kids."
"I have four children, not three. I only told you about three."
"Okay …"
Harry pressed his palm to his forehead and rested his elbow on the table. "We moved here to America after Sev, my younger son, my eight year old, was kidnapped. He just ... this chap broke into the house, shot my wife, my older son ... and took my boy."
"Wow, man ..." Sam murmured, sounding shocked. "Man ... I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. Um ... can I ask ...? How long has it been? You know, since ..."
"It's been, I don't know, maybe four months since it happened," Harry sighed. "I … nightmares are something I've always had. But lately …" he trailed off helplessly.
"Hey man, I get it," Sam said compassionately, his voice completely sincere and serious. "I had no idea about your son, Harry. For what it's worth, I'm just really sorry. I can't even imagine … But the nightmares? Totally normal. They're how your brain processes terrible things, a lot of the time. How are you holding up otherwise?"
Harry hesitated. "I don't know," he whispered honestly. "My wife … she's handling everything so much better than I am, and … she even had a miscarriage because of the attack. I don't know why I'm so … weak."
"It's not weakness, Harry," Sam replied solemnly. "People process things differently and on different levels. It's possible that your wife actually isn't holding up as well as you think because some folks internalize things … but I don't know. I've never met her, obviously. All I'm sayin' is, don't compare your progress to others'. Everybody's journey is different."
Harry was silent as he processed this information.
"May I ask …" Sam spoke up carefully. "Has there been any progress with finding your son? Or …"
Harry choked on a sob and swallowed his tears. He blew out a harsh breath instead. "He just disappeared off the face of the earth, if you'd believe it. Nobody can find him, nobody has any hope that he's still alive … I don't want to give up … but I don't have anything left to do."
"I'm so sorry, Harry," Sam said quietly. "I wish I could do somethin' for you."
Harry found himself laughing a little. Relief, pure and refreshing as clean water, coursed through his veins. He wasn't alone. He wasn't being made to feel weak for his struggles. "You already did," he replied. "You … you're here now, listening to my pathetic rambling, you even invited me to go jogging … I just needed a friend, I guess. So thanks."
"Anytime, Harry, anytime," Sam chuckled quietly. On the other side of the phone, Harry could hear a cupboard slamming and the clink of a ceramic mug. Was he getting coffee? "Will you tell me about your son?" Sam suddenly asked, sounding hesitant, but also curious. "Did you say his name was … Sev?"
"Severus, actually," Harry replied with a small smile. "Sev's his nickname."
"Nice," Sam said approvingly. He grunted and sighed as he seemed to sit down and then sipped what was probably his coffee. "So … what's he like?"
"He's … well, he's a quiet boy. He likes to read and write … he likes being outside … He likes hiding too, when he's upset or scared. There was this cupboard in our old house where he hid sometimes … kept his treasures there. He's got great reflexes. I … had this ball, from when I went to school. It's pretty small … but he caught it each and every time I threw it for him." Harry fell silent, thinking about his black-haired son and his sparkling brown eyes. More wonderful memories filled his mind. A mind that had been so full of darkness and despair only moments ago was now filling with light. Sev's light.
"I know you love him a lot," Sam said softly. "Your voice changed when you started talking about him."
Harry laughed a little. "Don't tell James … that's my oldest son, by the way … but Sev was always my favourite. He's smaller, skinnier, and not quite as healthy as my other children. He was the only one to need glasses like me. But he was … is … special."
"I believe it," Sam murmured solemnly.
"I have no idea why anyone would kidnap him," Harry whispered heart-brokenly, running his hand absently through his messy hair. "He wasn't anyone special, except to us. He was a brilliant student, but he wasn't the only smart kid at his school. He wasn't especially handsome or skilled in a way that would … attract that kind of attention. I don't understand, Wilson. Why did they take my son?"
"You know I can't answer that, Harry," Sam said slowly. "But I can tell you that you shouldn't fall into despair or give up, and you shouldn't obsess over it either. Your wife needs you. The rest of your kids need you. Most importantly, you need you. Don't neglect your own health in all this."
Harry nodded, but then remembered that Sam couldn't see him. "I won't, and I'm not," he answered. "Why else am I calling you in the middle of the night?"
Sam laughed heartily. "Good point, my friend," he said cheerfully. "I'm glad you called; I really am. It ain't good to keep it all bottled up. So what else is stressin' you out lately, eh?"
"You don't want to know," Harry sighed wearily, even though he secretly would like to spill everything right here, right now. It was dark, he was exhausted, and it was so nice to hear a friendly, non-judgmental voice that he lost his own judgment.
"I do actually," Sam retorted in a friendly fashion. "Besides, I'm awake already. Let it all out, brother."
So he did.
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I really enjoyed this chapter. Sam always seemed like a steady, reliable guy, and he was a good friend to Steve from the get-go. Why not throw him in with Harry, who really needed a more sensitive friend than Ron anyway. No offense to Ron-fans out there. I personally am not fond of Ron, and Falcon's one of my favorite characters, so I'm definitely biased.
I'm stuck right now on the chapter after next ... wish me luck. I'm struggling with how I want the attack on Fury and the entrance (or re-entry) of the Winter Soldier to go.
Thank you as always for your reviews and for reading!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: See the Prologue of Avenge (1) for the full script of Snape's letter to Harry. I forgot to mention that before. Oops ;)