Chapter 23
“I tried to ask my parents to leave the room, but not my life. It was very hard. Because the room was the size of my life. Because my life was small.”
-- Chen Chen, Chapter VIII
.XoX.
Harry is angry. Angry at Tom, for keeping such vital information from him for so long -- no excuse he can conjure sparks any sort of understanding or sympathy -- and…
And angry at himself. His incompetence -- why did he take Tom’s word on it so easily, so quickly, without question? Tom was a Dark Lord fighting vehemently for his life; would he not have told Harry anything, if he thought it was what Harry wanted to hear? And even if he wasn’t -- even if he could have been assumed to have been telling, to his knowledge, the entire truth and for all the right reasons -- Tom’s knowledge, all of it, was backdated by half a decade.
Harry took Tom’s word for it for no reason at all. He did not do his own research and now here he is, knee deep into a Tournament he has both no chance of winning and no want to.
Because he knows, okay? He’s been around himself for long enough, listened to his own consistently destructive ramblings for as long as he’s had them -- so he knows.
He knows that, even if everything is at stake, even if the emancipation from his parents is on the line… he can’t recover. A part of his identity is his disorder and though it’s not what entirely defines him now, it’s still too big a part to abandon.
The vision with Katherine comes to his mind against his will.
“I’m eating. To get better.”
“But… Katherine was never supposed to recover.”
“Well then, Harry Potter. Maybe it’s time to write a sequel.”
And he is writing a sequel, he’s placing his quill against the parchment and watching a whole other world spill out of him -- but he gets the sense now that that’s not what that conversation meant. It’s not what it ever did.
Harry Potter was never supposed to recover. He decides that ‘supposed to’…
And he can decide against it.
Harry spends his days in the infirmary in silent fume and if he concentrates, if he allows himself a moment of free time for a bit too long, then he can nearly imagine it.
Being normal.
Is that the right word for it? Is it a kind one? For being not ill. For being free to eat in a normal manner; for not stuffing yourself; for not starving.
He would be able to talk to Tom, to Cedric, Luna, Julian -- and he would be able to do it kindly. They would bring up his eating disorder and he’d simply smile and say I’m alright and he’d mean it.
He’d be kinder overall, wouldn’t he? A person in pain is not a patient one. He’d be able to say Thank you and Please and it’d become second nature with ease.
And he would win this Tournament -- probably, maybe, hopefully; the judges have decided not to count the points for the First Task… considering Harry dying, and all -- and he’d get away from his stupid fucking parents and he would be normal.
He would be free.
Recovering from his eating disorder would make him free.
It’s a good idea. It’s also an impossible one. Even if he wanted to recover, he wouldn’t know how to. There’s no Mind Healers at Hogwarts and the Chrysalis Club would sabotage him at every twist and turn and -- and it can’t be done.
It just can’t be. This is what he is. This is who he is. And he thinks that, deep down, there’s nothing he can do about that.
.xox.
He is still angry at Tom the day Sirius Black breaks up the melancholy of his misery.
He’s spent this time in the infirmary writing, eating, and trying to purge to no avail. He’s spent it with his mouth pursed shut. Tom tries to engage in conversation numerous times -- each time met only with a whispered insult or pointed silence.
Despite this, Tom does not leave his side. Harry thinks he hates him for it. Harry also knows that isn’t true.
Tom does apologize. Again and again, he says he is sorry. He offers up excuses and when he finds that Harry doesn't care for them, he stops offering up any of them at all.
This, Harry thinks, is why he never wanted friends. They may seem kind, but every moment that seems too good is -- every moment of actual friendship is a part of a long series of omitted truths.
This is why he never wanted friends; they betray so easily. Everyone is just like Harry. They’re just less subtle about it.
Harry is writing his story, Tom at his bedside, when Madame Pomfrey tells him he has a visitor.
“I thought I wasn’t well enough for visitors,” Harry retorts immediately. He does not want to see his friends -- not because he’s mad at them, because he’s not, because he has no reason to be. They’re kind. And he is sure he would enjoy their visit, for the most part…
Only…
Only, he knows they might ask questions. Did you actually die? Why are people saying you’re working with Grindelwald? Who is this ghost at your side? Did you gain weight?
What is on the other side, Harry? What did you see when you died?
They would ask questions. And he doesn't know what he’d tell them.
But it is not his friends who are coming to visit.
Madame Pomfrey smiles apologetically and tells him that he can have people over now; he’s healed enough that a few, short interactions couldn’t hurt. And then she tells him that Sirius Black will be in here a moment.
“Oh,” Harry says, breathless. “Oh -- okay.”
Sirius Black, Sirius Black, Sirius Black. Harry knows him and, most importantly, he knows what him visiting means. He knows what this is.
Tom, at his side, asks quietly, who that is and Harry doesn’t respond. He’s busy trying to reel the air back into his lungs and failing, desperately.
Sirius Black is his godfather. He is a man who wears leather jackets and ripped black jeans and has tattoos covered over eighty percent of his body. When Harry was small, he’d teach Harry how to prank his father and tell him that though, yes, as his parents have said, whatever House he ends up in is fine, Gryffindor is obviously the best.
Sirius Black is a simple man.
But he’s also someone Harry hasn’t seen in over seven -- or was it eight? -- years. He is a close friend of Harry’s parents. There is that simple saying, is there not?
The enemy of my enemy is my friends; the friend of my enemy is my enemy.
Why is Sirius Black coming to visit him now? Because Harry has died? If that’s the case, then why didn’t he visit sooner? Why now, two weeks later? Dumbledore had been allowed to visit Harry before Harry was healed enough for doing so to be considered safe -- surely, they’d be able to make other exceptions.
So Harry this has nothing to do with Sirius’ devotion to him -- because it doesn’t exist. And Harry’s okay with that, with not being friends with Sirius. He does not hold that against him; does not think it’d be fair to. After all, aren’t relationships supposed to be two sided?
Sirius has not reached over in seven years, and Harry hasn’t either. That’s fine.
But that’s not what this is about. There’s no resentment in this feeling, in this train of thought. There is no emotion blinding this judgement.
No.
This is about Sirius’ devotion not to Harry but to Harry’s parents. Because they know that Harry would not talk to them. That he would refuse to even try and listen -- that he has a spell to ensure this distance.
And their son just died, you know? Their son just died. They sent him a letter and waited for a response and got nothing.
The waiting period is over. Now is the time for action. Action in the form of one Sirius Black.
Anyone else would be called paranoid, thinking like this -- with anyone else, they might just be right.
Harry Potter, however, is not anyone else. He has always been good at this. He thinks he is blessed with intuition.
Intuition, almost like wisdom.
.xox
Sirius Black arrives a quarter past noon. Pomfrey had told Harry that he’d be there around ten -- such a reasonable timetable, it’s only natural that Sirius would miss it.
Sirius looks exactly like he did all those years ago.
Well… almost. He shows obvious signs of aging. Wrinkles decorate the corners of his face and his hair has thinned, however slightly.
He grins at Harry so genuinely he could almost forget he was sent here by Harry's parents. It’s the look a father gives to his son and Harry curses his weakness; he is a child and children… Children do like the idea of parents.
“Hey, kiddo -- been a while, hasn’t it?” He chuckles, then coughs into his hands. Harry stares at the tattoos that wrap around his fingers. They weren’t there before. Of course he’s gotten more.
“It has,” says Harry, carefully. It is tempting to sink into this thing -- this easy, familiar thing he used to have with Sirius. But he knows the truth. And so he can’t allow himself to.
Tom takes his hand and squeezes it gently, once. Harry lets him. Just this once.
“I’d never pinned you as a Ravenclaw,” Sirius continues. He blinks at Tom, sitting in the designated visitor’s chair. “Erm,” says Sirius. He obviously wants to sit there, but it’s obvious, too, to Tom that Harry doesn’t want him to. After a moment of silence, Tom doesn't budge and Sirius clears his throat.
He continues standing. Harry tries not to feel back about it.
“Who’s this fellow, Harry? Your boyfriend?” Sirius stares at Tom, an odd expression taking over his face. “Hey, have we met?”
Harry blinks, alarmed. “What?”
Tom raises an eyebrow, shrugging. “First of all,” says Tom, “I am not Harry’s boyfriend. And, secondly, I do not believe we have.”
“You certainly sound like someone I’ve met.”
Sirius, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, recognizing a young Tom Riddle… Oh, yes, there’s no way that could go wrong. Harry opens his mouth, ready to dismiss his idea and offer up a fact name, but Tom is not interested in such theatrics.
He beats Harry to the punch. He sticks his hand out to Sirius and says, pleasantly, “Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord’s son. I’m his likeness; perhaps you’ve met him?”
Sirius stares at him. He stares, blinks, and then, just when Harry is sure they’ll start dueling right there and then, takes Tom’s hands in his own.
Impossibly, he shakes it.
Sirius laughs -- a weary thing -- and conjures his own chair to sit in. “I guess,” he says, quietly, “it has been a while, huh?”
Harry swallows. Sirius is… well, he’s disappointed. In Harry, for his company, that’s for sure, but it doesn’t end there. He’s disappointed in himself -- in Harry’s parents -- and Harry only has to ask why to know.
Sirius thinks it is their fault that Harry has resorted to the company of Dark Lord spawns. If Harry had been closer to them, then maybe it would have been different.
It’s their fault -- and so it is not anger he feels toward Harry. Just disappointment and just guilt.
Vindictively, and somewhat shamefully, he hopes the guilt eats away at them forever. He hopes it never goes away.
“Tom’s nice,” Harry says, purposefully gentle. “He’s my best friend.” Harry is also mad at him right now, but Sirius does not need to know everything.
Sirius clears his throat, looking at Tom. “I was sure, ah, that he was described to be more… human-y.”
“You mean my imposter?” says Tom.
“Your what now?”
“There’s this other boy -- looks like me but a bit older, competing in the Tournament, you’ve heard of him -- and he’s claiming to be me.” Tom shakes his head sadly. “It’s devastating to my public reputation.”
“Huh,” says Sirius, obviously thinking that maybe the ghost sitting next to him in the real imposter. “That’s -- not good, I suppose.”
Tom nods seriously. “Identity theft is a serious problem.”
Sirius smiles -- and his amusement is genuine. He looks at Harry and laughs a bit. “He’s warming up on me, I’ll admit.”
“Thanks,” Harry says, as if it was a compliment -- and it might be. “Em,” he says, unsure how to continue the conversion, or if he should at all. His eyes trail to Sirius’ hands and his eyes widen. “That’s -- a ring. You… you married--”
“Remus?” Sirius snorts, holding up the ring hand for inspection. “I sure did.”
“When?”
Sirius shrugs. “Two years. Nearly three -- at least, I think. I can never remember the date quite right and I’m usually just guessing when I give anniversary gifts, if not relying on Lily.”
Harry’s laugh dies in his throat.
Lily.
Right. Constant vigilance; Sirius is not here for him. He’s here for Harry’s parents and though Sirius is nice, it’d do him good not to forget that.
Sirius is aware of his drop in mood. “Listen, kid--”
“Why are you here?” Harry demands. He will give Sirius no room to slither his way out of this one.
Sirius runs a hair through his hair. “With all this Tournament business -- congrats on the entry, by the way; great opportunity for you -- we haven’t been able to talk much.”
It’s a lie and Harry knows you don’t have to be a Raven to see it. “Wrong,” says Harry. “We weren't talking before.”
“Seeing your name in the newspaper has reminded me of when we used to hang out, and I couldn’t help but--”
“Wrong again,” says Harry. “My name’s been in the newspaper ever since the Champions were drawn -- and that was months ago. And this is now, Sirius.”
Sirius sighs, dropping his head into his hands. He says, lowly, pained, “Why are you like this, kiddo?”
“Why am I like this?” Harry barks out a laugh, affronted. “Why am I like this, Sirius? Do you have any idea how stuck up that sounds?”
His head hurts and his hands press into the side of his head. Tom places a hand on his arm, trying to soothe him, but Harry shakes it off.
“No, kiddo, it’s just…” He sighs again, wringing his hands together. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he tries.
“Yes, you did.”
“Alright,” says Sirius. “I did -- but, Merlin, Harry, do you hear yourself? You’re paranoid beyond belief--”
“So I’m paranoid now?”
“-- because someone related to you comes to visit you while you’re injured, in the hospital, and they want to check up on you, and your first instinct is to treat their concern like it’s something to be disproven.”
Harry’s not having it. “You’re the one here under false pretenses.”
“I what?”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re here because my parents sent you.”
Sirius throws his arms in the air. “Of course I am, Harry! Of course!”
“See! Exactly what I mean!”
“Why can’t you understand their situation?” Sirius rises from his chair. “Why can you unravel people’s mind so easily, but not understand something as simple as a concerned mother and father wanting someone to check in on their son?”
Harry stiffens. “It’s different with them.”
“No, it’s not. You enter some death-ridden Tournament for money you don’t need, and then, not only that, you die in it--”
“I didn’t die!”
Sirius talks over the outburst: “And then, when your parents reach out, you don’t respond -- and they’re the unreasonable ones? They’re the ones that have no right to use underhanded methods? They’re the ones that have no right to be worried?”
“Yes!” Harry yells and his anger surprises him. “Yes, Sirius, they are--”
“You’re so mature one moment and the next you’re acting like--”
“They broke me!” Harry laughs and it breaks into a small sob. “They broke me,” he repeats. “They shoved me into a marriage with her and it didn’t matter what I thought and that’s the reason I’m like this. They broke me because they didn’t care then. They don’t have the right to care now.”
“But you know why they did that, Harry; they had little other choice.” Condescending, angry -- insufferable.
Harry laughs dryly. “If I know why they did that,” he says, “then that’s news to me.”
Sirius gawks at him. Realizing he’s not joking, he lowers himself back into his chair. “I thought that they…”
“They didn’t,” says Harry, sharply. “But they obviously told you.”
Sirius quiets. After a moment he says, all anger completely drained from his voice, “You were so young when it happened… They couldn’t tell you then. You were… you were so young, Harry.”
“Am I too young, now, Sirius?” His voice is full of venom, but Sirius does not even flinch.
“No,” says Sirius, softly. “You aren’t -- and… and you haven’t been, for a long time.”
Harry…
Harry could get answers. Right here and now, he could get the great answer to the large, ever haunting question of why? Most of the time, Harry writes it away as ‘if arranged marriage worked for us, it’ll work for Harry’ -- something traditional and unsympathetic and surface level.
But Sirius doesn’t talk about it like that and if there’s something deeper to be known here, he wants to know it. He deserves to. He has suffered for years because of his parents’ actions and he’s more than earned an explanation.
Harry says, Harry dares him, “Then tell me.”
Sirius glances at Tom and he says, “Okay. But he’s leaving.”
Harry scoffs at the same time Tom snaps, calmly, “Absolutely not.”
Harry exhales deeply. He says, evenly, “Tom is my best friend. He’s staying.” Because Sirius is an enemy and though Tom is a liar, he’s a liar that came clean. He is Harry’s first ever friend.
Harry wants him here. He might need him.
“You’re joking,” says Sirius. “He’s the alleged son of Lord Voldemort with an alleged doppelganger out there, claiming to be him. Do you know how crazy that sounds? And -- and, just -- look at him! I have literally never seen a person more suspicious.” Tom shrugs in response.
“He’s been better to me than any of you have.” Hit him where it hurts. Harry Potter has been vicious for a long, long time.
Sirius winces but insists, “I can’t tell him with him here.”
“Then, perhaps,” says Harry, cooly, “you can tell me another time.”
Sirius looks pained. He rises from his seat slowly and Harry can almost see the words why are you like this? imprinted above his head.
He is disappointed, sad. But not angry. Not anymore.
“Perhaps I should,” says Sirius. And then he leaves and Harry is left wondering if he made the right decision. He looks at Tom, feels his hand, covered in scars; proof of his devotion to Harry -- and he decides that it doesn't matter what Sirius was going to say.
Because he’s going to get emancipated. And then whatever reason for him to be in an arranged marriage will be void and he will be free, finally and fully.
He is going to get emancipated.
But he has to recover to do it.
He looks at Tom beside him, squeezes his hand, and thinks that recovery is a hard thing to do. An impossible choice to make. But Tom has made a lot of impossible choices and maybe Tom…
Tom can help him.
.XoX.
“Fighting against a raging riptide; when and where drop their irrelevancy
Decisions made in the heat of the moment -- but the heat of the moment is hot
And however despised, they stick
Sickly with conflicton, there is only so much one heart can take
But hearts do not break.
No, mon amour. They bend.”
-- Harry Potter, “Ten of Cups.”