Work Text:
How do you love someone, if all you've ever done is observe it from a distance, like a visitor at an art museum pressing dirty fingers against the protective glass of a family portrait? What shape does love take for you, if the only love you've ever known is bruised and fractured? Could you recognise love if it found you, when the only love you've experienced has uneven edges so sharp, it has etched itself into your skin, a phantom wound that stains every single one of your interactions with shades of black and blue?
* * *
"I love you," Sirius says.
Harry feels many things around Sirius—the rapid beating of his heart, a tightness in his chest, a warmth in his stomach—but love is not one of them. He would like to return the sentiment, his godfather deserves it, but he doesn't want to lie, so he says nothing at all.
Sirius' bright smile dims just a little.
Just enough to sting.
* * *
He gets the idea from Vane.
* * *
"I love you," Sirius says.
Harry's heart stutters. "I want you," he whispers.
* * *
How do you love someone, if all you've ever been is an observer?
You don't.
~fin.