Listen to the Mustn'ts, Child
Verse VII of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
- Vain
8.7-9.2003
Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
Warnings: SS/HP slash.
Continuity: This is the sequel to Though You Cannot Fly and is Verse 7 of J. Alfred Prufrock Arc.
Notes: Both quotes are Harry's.
This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. SAME AUTHOR. SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME. As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.
Thank you for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.
For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see my Livejournal (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.
Shout Outs go to my indispensable beta LadyDeathFarie for her ever-marvellous work!
Do not steal from me.
Enjoy!
"Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me—
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be."
Shel Silverstien
Listen to the Mustn'ts
Where the Sidewalk Ends
Harry—because no one ever called him Harold—James Potter was sixteen years old. He had green eyes and black hair that never stayed still. He had a quirky little mouth that was never set in one particular expression for very long and small, nervous hands that he had taken to wringing over the past few months. Like his father—the late, Great James Potter—he wore wide, thick, round glasses that made him look far younger than he actually was and had a propensity for biting his lower lip whenever he encountered a particularly frustrating problem.
Not that he was frustrated. No. Not by any means. He was merely . . . Tired.
Those small hands curled around the edges of the Divinations text that he was supposed to be studying.
He wasn't worried either. It was the Occlumency lessons. And the lack of sleep. It most certainly wasn't Snape. Or that . . . thing . . . that had happened.
He was just fine, though. He had his own room—a real room now that was just his. He could study whenever he wanted, ate three meals a day and had snacks as he pleased. And best of all, there were no Dursleys to worry about. He was fine.
The Divination text went flying across the room, sailing right into the dresser mirror and bouncing harmlessly off the glass. For a moment Harry stared at it blankly, breathing just a bit too fast and more than a little disappointed that the glass hadn't shattered.
Breathe.
He was fine. Just fine.
"Harry?"
Green eyes flashed behind coke-bottle lenses as the door to his room swung open with an overly cautious creak. Everyone was overly cautious around him now.
But he was fine.
"Harry?" Remus's head peered in around the heavy mahogany door. "I was walking past and a I heard a noise." The rest of his body appeared. "Are you alright?"
For a moment the boy's lips twisted towards what may have been a smile, but he turned away too fast for Remus to see. "'M fine," he mumbled, turning back to the desk.
He stared blankly down at his scroll for a moment, absently running his fingers over his quill. Remus's honey brown eyes flicked to the boy, then to the Divinations book on the floor, and then back to his young charge. He eased into the room slowly, his hypersensitive nose twitching at the heavy scent of anger and fear intermingled with a strange throbbing undertone of want that lingered in the air. The werewolf closed the door behind him and sat down on the edge of the large bed uninvited.
"You want to talk about it?"
There was no mention of the "it," although they both knew that he could have meant anything. Harry frowned moodily at his blank paper and nibbled on his lower lip. It was slightly swollen from the attention.
"There's nothing to talk about," he said after a moment.
Remus watched him with unblinking eyes, and the boy shifted unhappily.
"I'm—"
"Fine," the older man finished for him. Harry looked over at him with a dark scowl.
Remus smiled gently and ran a hand back through his prematurely platinum hair. After Sirius's death, the werewolf's hair had seemed to gray almost literally overnight. The years seemed to press down on him even harder, making him thinner, more tired, and just a bit less in control of the wolf. It hadn't been like that a year ago. It hadn't even been like that six months ago.
The boy watched the gesture and felt a painful, tearing surge of guilt and looked back down at his desk. Remus had aged far, far before his time—and he had not done so gracefully. Sometimes, as he crept down to the dining room at night to sit, he heard muffled, wrenching sobs coming from the room that Remus had claimed. Sirius's room. Harry never mentioned those awful, comfortless tears, and Remus never spoke of his insomnia. They were both just fine.
A short bark of laughter left Harry's lips, but it sounded alarmingly like a sob. He picked up the quill and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes tiredly. "I miss him." There was a terribly grating feeling of self-loathing and guilt as he spoke, unsure of exactly who he missed.
Sirius, of course. I miss Sirius.
But the image of dark velvet eyes and the scent of tea and roses was seared into his mind and those had never belonged to Sirius.
Remus continued to watch him with frank, sympathetic eyes as though he could see the boy's struggle written plainly on his face. Harry looked down at his lap, praying that he could not.
"I know how you feel. Wanting to see someone and not being able to. Wanting to talk to them, touch them, just look them in the eyes once more to assure yourself that they are real and none of it was a dream or some awful, twisted nightmare."
Harry's glasses slid forward on his nose slightly and all he could think of was the desperate chastity of soft dry lips pressed against his scar. He shifted in his seat as though trying to escape the memory and the sensation it conjured, trying instead to picture Sirius in his mind. He bit his lower lip, unable to come up with more than a faded image of a small, fierce man—angry, afraid, and hunted. He didn't want to remember Sirius like that.
For a moment Remus shifted forward as though about to touch the boy, but then he pulled back. Harry turned slightly, his face still lowered, to look at the last remaining Marauder. Guilt swam in his jade eyes, knowing that his black thoughts had to be stamped all over his face.
"Dumbledore told me that you shouldn't dwell on dreams so much that you forget to live." He flinched as he spoke, and his soft voice cracked uncertainly on the word "live."
Remus's eyes glittered an unnatural burnished gold color and his lips drew back in a smile so dark it was almost a snarl. "The Headmaster is a far wiser man than I."
Harry dropped his eyes quickly, suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to simply crawl under his bed and never emerge ever again. He was simply so tired now . . . It was no longer an adventure. It was no longer fun. It was no longer something to be taken in stride. It was a War—a War. And people would fight, and people would die, and it was going to be terrible. Harry did not want that. It had to end before that happened. Before there were more Siriuses and Cedrics; he knew what he had to do.
But he was only sixteen.
"Just a child."
And—Gryffindor or no—he was afraid.
"What have you done to me, boy?"
His head snapped up suddenly, green eyes flashing. He bit his lip hard to keep from snapping at Remus. Dumbledore wasn't wiser than he was. Dumbledore made mistakes. Dumbledore let people down. Dumbledore failed. Dumbledore—
—was only human.
Harry stood unhappily and started to pace the room. The primary guestroom, it was fairly large and held traces of pureblood opulence everywhere, from the carvings on the mahogany walls, to the large king sized bed, right down to the thick red carpeting. Sirius had cleaned it out and decorated it just for Harry while he'd been confined to Headquarters. It was the last thing he'd finished before . . . everything.
"Harry?"
The boy pivoted sharply and spun around, growing increasingly agitated. He missed Sirius.
I want to see him again.
He was mourning Sirius.
Why do I have to see him?
Sirius.
I miss him.
"Tell me what happened at the Dursleys, Harry."
The young man froze in mid-stride, his wide green eyes suddenly locking onto a pair of golden ones. Remus frowned at the shadows he saw there. No sixteen-year-old should have eyes like that. Sirius had had eyes like that.
Remus looked away, choosing to pluck at the bed's blue comforter and study the blank floor instead of those eyes. "Tell me what happened at the Dursleys," he murmured to the thick red carpet. His eyes flickered back to the boy's. "Please?"
Harry met his gaze levelly without flinching. "I lost my temper."
For a long moment they stared at one another. Harry did not elaborate and Remus did not ask that he do so. Dumbledore knew; that was enough. Remus dropped his eyes first.
That would have to be enough.
Remus stood, feeling suddenly, helplessly uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something—he didn't know what—but Harry spoke first.
His voice sounded thin and desperate in the void between them. "I didn't mean to."
Golden eyes closed. "I know."
He could feel his ward's eyes on him, begging for a forgiveness he wasn't sure he could offer. "I'm okay," he said after another long moment. "Really."
"I know," Remus repeated.
They both heard the lie. They both ignored it.
"I miss him."
He turned slightly to look up at the child who was the last remnant of his dead friends. It saddened him suddenly to see so little of James in the boy now. Faces were not people, and, however he may look, Harry acted more like Lily than James. He had her passion, her tenacity, and her endless depth of feeling. Everything touched him to the core, from seeing his parents in the Mirror of Erised to Dumbledore's lies by omission. And now it looked as though he were bent double beneath the weight of those feelings. He was old before his time.
"Will you be down for dinner?" He was surprised to find himself addressing the floor once again.
It was still too soon for both of them—the pain was too near.
Harry watched him in silence for a moment before turning. He retrieved the fallen Divinations book and placed it on the dresser with exaggerated care. "I'm not hungry."
Remus turned away and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything more. As he walked to the door he could hear a soft whispering sound as the boy dry-washed his hands absently. Suddenly he was not hungry, either.
The door closed behind him with a soft click and Harry remained at the dresser, staring aimlessly out the window. He could see muggles walking to and fro on the street three stories below, completely unaware of the mansion that towered above them or the anxious boy who watched them in silence. Light from the afternoon sun poured into the room, throwing odd shadows around. In the distance, he imagined he could see Hedwig returning from her delivery at the Burrow. Eventually he left the window, disgusted with himself.
Harry walked across the room, threw himself down on his bed and squeezed his eyes shut. He curled into a fetal ball, arms wrapped tight around his waist. "I miss him." He could almost remember how it felt when he kissed him. "I miss him." The painful grip he'd had on his arms. "I miss him." The tingles that had erupted throughout his entire body as he'd leaned up into that kiss. "I miss him." Rose and tea. Damp stones and cold earth. Sweet and sour. And so intimately him.
"I miss him."
He didn't know what to do.
"I miss him."
His whole body ached with the need of it, and he hated himself. He should be missing Sirius. He should be wanting Sirius. He should not be laying here thinking of how he tasted like chamomile and smelled like blood and peach tea. He should be mourning Sirius. Sad that Sirius was not here. Sad that it was his own fault that Sirius was not here.
So why, then, was it that he could only think of that painful psuedo embrace and the very soft "Oh." Snape had made when he pressed their lips together?
He didn't know, but it hurt. The absence of him—this man who should have been nothing but an afterthought—hurt like Crucius. It tore at him.
"Leave me alone, Severus Snape." But even as he said the words, he knew he didn't mean them. And that perhaps, hurt more than anything else.
He fell asleep sometime after that, he didn't know when. Hedwig arrived a little before sunset and tapped her beak repeatedly on the window in irritation at finding herself locked out. With a reluctant groan, Harry arose and stumbled out of bed toward the window.
The snow owl tapped again a bit harder to motivate her boy.
He shot her a half-hearted glare as he slid the window open so she could slip in. The owl darted past him towards her water bowl in a blur of feathers. He shoved the Divination book in the gap between the ledge and the window, propping it open.
"You could have stayed the night, Hed. Pig's really not all that bad."
Hedwig gave her master a look that could only be called skeptical, hooted and left her perch to settle on his shoulder. He winced as she nipped his ear a bit too hard in reproach.
"Sorry, girl." Long fingers ran through her feathers soothingly as Harry returned to his desk. He slumped down in his chair, and Hedwig hopped off his shoulder and onto the desk. Her sharp talons dug into his skin as she pushed off.
She cocked her head to the side oddly and looked at him in expectation. Harry smiled sadly and gently brushed the feathers on her neck, smoothing them down. "I've not really been myself of late, have I, Hed?"
The creature hooted in sympathy. She bobbed down, tapping the scroll on the desk with her bill, and then hooted again.
Harry pushed the scroll away from him in irritation. Hedwig pushed it back.
"C'mon, girl." He shoved the scroll away. "I'm not in the mood to do homework. Besides, school doesn't start for another week and a half. I have time."
The owl clicked her beak and pushed the scroll back, obviously waiting for something.
Harry glared at her in frustration. "I don't have anymore post today and there are treats near your perch."
Hedwig clicked her beak again and scratched at the desk with her claws, leaving light furrows in the hard wooden surface.
Annoyed, Harry picked up the quill on the desk, jammed it in the inkwell, and used his free hand to snap open the scroll. The thick parchment was three feet long, the required length for his essay on why one did not need the Eye to study Tarot (though it helped), and was still blank. He stared at it for a moment, sliding his fingers up and down on the quill's shaft as he thought. Hedwig scratched at the desk again and hooted.
Dear,
Harry immediately scratched out the word with a growl. "No, no, no . . ."
The quill hovered indecisively over the page for a moment and a large drop of ink fell, staining the paper and seeping through to darken the wood below. After another moment of hesitation, Harry rested the quill against the scroll and wrote out three lines in his very best handwriting. He stared at it for a moment before letting out a bark of self-deprecating laughter.
Dear Professor Snape,
I miss you.
H.P.
Snape would probably send him a Howler in reply. It would, no doubt, have perfect grammar and syntax. He could just hear it now: 'MISTER POTTER, KINDLY REFRAIN FROM WASTING MY TIME WITH YOUR CHILDISH NOTIONS OF ROMANCE. I DO NOT NOW NOR WILL I EVER CARE IF YOU "MISS" ME, AS YOU OH SO TRITELY PUT IT AND SHOULD YOU CONTINUE TO HARASS ME, I WILL BE FORCED TO PRESS CHARGES.' Then it would explode in some magical and theatrical way—a lot like Snape himself—and leave him with a hole in his chest and a pile of ash.
"Dear Professor Snape . . ."
Harry laughed once more and allowed the scroll to snap closed. It was ruined now; he'd have to get a whole new piece of parchment for his essay. He grabbed the scroll, prepared to throw it away, only to have Hedwig alight from the desk and snatch the scroll out of his grasp.
"Hey!" He leapt up in the air in a futile attempt to retrieve the scroll. "Give that back! That's not post!"
Hedwig flew around the room, the letter clutched tightly in her talons, and hooted triumphantly. Green eyes flickered towards the window and Harry immediately clambered over the bed to close it. The owl hooted again, sounding ridiculously pleased with herself, and darted towards the window, escaping just before Harry managed to yank the book out.
"Damnit, no!"
The dark-haired boy stood by the window and watched until Hedwig was little more than a smear against the sky. He jerked the book out of the window out of sheer spite and felt a pang of satisfaction at the loud slam the glass made as it hit the ledge.
He groaned and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. What had he just done? Snape was going to . . .
He shuddered and cut that thought off. Snape was going to make his life hell. Though Harry suddenly doubted that he'd know the difference. There was nothing he could do now, though; Hedwig was long gone and—even if he could go get her—he was forbidden from leaving the Manor. Voldemort had become bolder since his return had been made public. There was just no help for it.
Hogwarts was at least four and a half hours away if she flew her fastest. Harry returned to his desk chair and waited, choosing to seethe in silence instead of sit through a silent dinner or face Remus's omniscient gaze. Surprisingly, he actually managed to finish his essay on Tarot and edit his Transfiguration project a third time. Sometime around eleven o'clock, Remus hovered anxiously out side of his door for a few minutes. He did not come in and it never occurred to Harry to call out to him.
Midnight found Harry slumped across his desk, ink staining his left cheek and parchment sticking to his face when he heard the tapping on the glass. Hedwig was back.
"You are in so much trouble," the boy snapped as he jerked the window open again with unnecessary violence.
Hedwig hopped in, flew over to her perch, and promptly began to preen, completely oblivious to his displeasure. She looked immensely proud of herself.
Harry stared at her a moment, one foot tapping on the floor impatiently. The owl ignored him, happily slurping up her water unnecessarily loudly.
It was obvious that she was ignoring him. "Well?"
It suddenly occurred to him that he was half expecting the owl to reply and, disgusted with himself, Harry marched across the room to her perch. She hooted in greeting and stuck out her right leg. Attached to the side with a small bit of twine was a small square of haphazardly folded white paper. It felt thick and expensive.
Suddenly clumsy fingers undid the twine with a light tug and the paper fell into his palm.
It wasn't a Howler.
Hedwig looked positively smug.
But it wasn't a Howler!
Suddenly Harry was grinning like a loon.
He hurried back over to the window and sat down on the ledge. The paper crinkled and his hands trembled slightly as he opened the note. There was no greeting. It was simply one sentence, scrawled out hastily as though the writer had been busy, or agitated:
Call me Severus.
And, for no particular reason, Harry James Potter (because no one called him Harold) crumpled the note in his fist and smiled at the new moon.
"It's an itch we know we are gonna scratch;
Gonna take a while for this egg to hatch,
But wouldn't it be beautiful . . .?
. . .
Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?
Why can't I speak whenever I talk about you?
It's inevitable, it's a fact that we're gonna get down to it,
So tell me:
Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?"
Liz Phair
Why Can't I Breathe?
Fin
