Work Text:
He wasn’t sure how long he half sat, half lay on the edge of the bed, but it was enough time for the last of the tears that silently racked his frame to mostly subside. When Harry had been moving from doorways to stairs to landings, he had half expected to be told off, for Kreacher to emerge from the shadows and tell him in no uncertain terms that vermin like him had no right to be skulking around, much less when it was so late it was in the beginnings of early.
But nothing had interrupted him, and no one besides the very person he was going to could have meaningfully told him off, anyways.
So here he was, perched awkwardly on the edge, in darkness. His feet were chilled from the walk, and he tucked them under what might have been a stray jumper but was equally likely to be a small, slightly scratchy blanket. One of the countless things he loved about the room was the many warm blankets there were strewn about—over armchairs, on footstools, a few folded on bookcases—both of Molly’s making and ones Remus and Sirius had bought together, the fluffier the better. This wasn’t the first time Harry had done this; nightmares or his mind making it impossible for him to stay in his bed, and he was pretty sure that Remus had taken to putting warming charms on the blankets folded at the end of the bed before the man slept.
It sometimes felt like the only room that could stave off the iciness that seemed inherent in the house.
So Harry let the darkness wash over him, soaking in the presence of another person breathing. He noticed, then, when the other stirred and his breathing lightened, and Harry stilled himself in return. Remus rolled over, now facing Harry, and he caught himself between two options; he wasn’t sure if Remus was still asleep enough that it would startle him if Harry said something to announce himself, but on the other hand, if the other man was awake, then Harry didn’t want to make him think he was some creature or apparition in the darkness.
After a moment of hesitation, Harry cleared his throat lightly, just in case his voice was still watery, and dared a small, “Hi,” and then, “Sorry.”
Remus seemed to wake up properly all at once. “Harry?” He saw the vague outline of his former teacher shift, and then his voice came through a seemingly jaw-cracking yawn, “What’s happened? Are you hurt? Was—was he rude to you?”
“What?” Harry replied, eyebrows furrowing, “Was who rude to me? And I'm not hurt,” he added hastily, his brain having caught up with the probably more important of the questions.
Remus made a small ‘hmm’ sound. “Kreacher. I thought he might have finally snapped.” Another soft rustle of movement, and Harry felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. An offer.
He knew, maybe, that he could just not talk about it. He had planned to not, to some extent, if just for the fact that he wasn’t sure the older wizard would even wake up when he had come in, face wet in the darkness, and had made special care to not risk accidentally upsetting the rather large pile of clothes on the end of the bed.
Harry also knew that a part of him—shaped suspiciously like a malnourished ten-year-old—would never forgive him if he didn’t accept such a blatant offer of comfort. Which was why, a few moments later, when they had both settled into a kind of loose, edges-of-sleep-still-clinging (Remus) and a stiff, somehow-still-unused-to-anything-like-this (Harry) hug, and Remus asked him again, “What happened?” And then, “Did you have a bad dream?” Harry found himself talking.
“I—No, I had a good dream.”
“Is it something with your friends? Your scar? Or—was it really not Kreacher?”
Harry huffed slightly, “No, Kreacher didn’t do anything, and no, Ron and Hermione and my scar are fine. I mean, I think.”
The confusion in the man’s voice was evident now. “No? Hmm.”
After a moment, he seemed to start from the top. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“No, it was… a good dream.” Harry’s voice, not for lack of trying, had become unsteady again.
A small, understanding noise. “Was it—Was it one of the painful good ones?”
“Yes.”
Remus was quieter now. “Was it Sirius?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded wrecked, now, even to his own ears. Scratchy, breaking, and too high. He felt frustration with himself bubble in his throat, not making it any easier to speak, and not for the first time he cursed his lack of a handle on his stupid reactions to this.
“Oh, Harry.” Remus said after his own shaky breath, held him tighter, and then once more, “What happened?”
The dark-haired boy shifted onto his back, staring less at the ceiling, and more at the empty blackness in between, brought on by the encroaching new moon. He briefly thought, again, that he really could—should—just clam up. But it was like Harry suddenly couldn’t stop himself; the itch in his mind of having something weighing on him, dying to get out, couldn’t resist the offer of a burden shared.
“He was—“ a pause while his tears choked him, and after a valiant swallow, he continued, “By some kind of—kind of dream logic, he had another week to live. They’d—there had been some mistake. He’d come and he’d walked right back out of the veil, but it was only for a—we only had a week.”
Remus’ voice had taken on an unsteady quality to it, too. “That’s—Merlin, I hate those dreams.” His previously loose grip now pushed Harry’s head firmly to his chest. The green-eyed boy wasn’t sure if it was intentional for him to be able to hear the other wizard's heartbeat, but Harry pressed his ear to the steady rhythm regardless. It felt like safety.
“He—“ Harry tried, but took a moment to breathe deeply when his voice came out more a sob than a sentence, “I was just so fucking—I wanted to record his laugh with a… with one of those muggle home video things.”
He felt Remus huff quietly.
“And—he—it was fucking stupid. He was filling up all the glasses in—in the kitchen with water by hand, right to the brim so you—it almost looked like they were still empty, from the right angle. He looked at me, and he—it was like he was letting me in on some great joke, and, Remus.” His voice all but stopped, throat constricting painfully, and he was dully aware that the part of the man’s jumper that his face was pressed into felt nearly soaked through, “I—Remus, I was just so fucking happy.”
He was crying openly now, clutching to the arms holding him, his neck bent a little awkwardly from its position pressing his cheek to the other wizard's heart. The bed shook slightly from the force of his sobs, and he heard one of the pieces of clothing on the bed slide from its pile and onto the plush carpet, a carpet Sirius had doggedly insisted on before—
Before.
Part of Harry felt like he was being very dramatic. Like half of him was a child whose world was still shifted on its axis, but the other half felt like he always had when he accidentally watched one of the soaps that aunt Petunia would put on when it was no one else but her and Harry.
Remus’ voice was watery still, and cracked halfway through. “Those are always the worst. You just waste the whole dream hugging him and crying.”
A startled laugh, unbidden, rose from Harry’s chest between his tears, “Yes! I—that’s exactly what I did, I…” He swallowed, his eyes burning again, though he hadn’t stopped crying anyway, and he wondered how much longer he even could: how many more tears he had in him. He was still holding onto Remus tightly, and he wondered if the man would start rubbing circles into his back as people did in books, but the man just held him, firm and still.
Harry continued. “I was so fucking happy. I’d just—I would keep telling him how happy I was and how—that—“ His voice broke, “That I just couldn’t believe it. That I was just so fucking happy and I couldn’t believe he was there.”
Harry took a moment to breathe purposefully, through his mouth, his nose too blocked to be of use.
“And when I woke up, it was like I… I didn’t even properly take it in at first. How cruel it was. It felt silly to be so upset about—about a good dream. And then I was upset because I was awake and I was—because I was forgetting it. It felt like I was trying to hold sand, and I kept losing bits, and it—I didn’t even get to have the full dream, because I woke up.”
Remus said nothing for a long moment, the room quiet beyond Harry’s catching breaths, and he worked to match his own with the steady rise and fall of the other’s warm chest. Harry searched himself for anything else he wanted to say, but now that the explanation had left him it felt like his bout of talkativeness had, too.
He let himself be lulled for a few long moments by the solace of the thump thump thump in his ear, his breathing calming down haltingly. He was pulled even closer for a long instant, his neck protesting the angle, but he ignored it stubbornly, soaking in the reassurance of being held.
Remus let out a long exhale, almost a gentle sigh, and he cleared his throat quietly, as though he was trying not to pop the bubble of peacefulness resting over them.
“What would you say to a cup of tea?” and then, a beat later as though it had even been a question, “Without Kreacher.” Harry considered it, his thoughts still feeling a bit like molasses, and then nodded silently. Both he and Remus knew that dreams of this sort usually left Harry feeling restless, like there was an irritation just under his skin that couldn’t be scratched with anything but taking his mind off of it entirely—and therefore totally unable to sleep, so it was usually better to suck it up and wake up whenever he woke up, damn the hour.
With one last firm squeeze, Remus carefully untangled his arms from around his charge and rolled back to the other end of the bed. Harry thought he heard the shift of another clothing item sliding to the ground from its precarious heap. He laid quietly, staring at the ceiling once more, and he thought it looked a little lighter than when he had previously.
The sun was starting to rise.
He heard a quiet /Lumos/, and Harry blinked a few times, suddenly realizing he had left his glasses in his room, though he still made no effort to move just then. After a few seconds of rustling from the other half of the room followed by the sound of the side table’s drawer shutting softly, Harry felt himself go slightly cross-eyed when a chunk of chocolate was held up to his face, Remus popping into his line of sight a second later. Even from his blurred view, the man looked at ease, despite the purpetual tiredness he seemed to carry.
“No dementor attack, but I find chocolate fixes most ills regardless—even the non-magical variety.”
Harry had heard this many times before, of course, but it still never failed to make the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, and he accepted the offered confectionary gladly, finally finding it in himself to sit up properly. The chocolate was a burst of flavor on his tongue after dinner so many hours before, and Harry suddenly found the idea of tea and an early breakfast much more appealing.
He munched contentedly, quietly watching his guardian and the small glow of light the man had summoned move about the room from his cozy vantage point. Harry observed quietly as he picked up the jumpers that had indeed fallen, and watched as he took one of the blankets folded on the end of the duvet and stepped his way back around the bed, closer to Harry.
Remus wrapped it around his charge’s shoulders in a quick, practiced movement, and Harry couldn’t help the slightly giddy grin that brightened his face if he had tried. He still felt, sometimes, like someone caring for him like this—easily, without even a thought to do otherwise—was some elaborate hijinx and someday the rug would be pulled out from under him after all, someone popping out from behind a corner and yelling, ‘Surprise! Off you go, back to the Dursleys!’
But nothing had come to drop the other shoe on him, and no one besides the very man who cared about him so much could have parted them, anyways. They had talked about it at length, and at this point Harry was rather sure that if he asked the man to, Remus would be entirely willing to kidnap Harry if the need came, damn the consequences.
The warming charm on the blanket, one he’d already known would be there, dispelled any last reservations he had about braving the colder rooms of the house. Still trying not to disturb that damn clothing pile, he slid off the bed.
When he looked up and found Remus already in the doorway and smiling at him, and the posters illuminated by his guardian’s wand—put up by Sirius so long ago, and though the thought sent a pang through him, there was a warmth to it—some waving down at him, and the rest defiantly unmoving, muggle—
Harry couldn’t have felt more at home if he’d tried.
Remus ushered him gently in front and to the hallway beyond. Harry gave him another quick, tight hug before moving past, and the responding fond huff Harry heard as he started down the corridor, the other wizard’s footsteps close behind, was really almost as good as a warning charm, anyway.