The Wish Jar (pt 2)
It’s the first day.
And in the cottage near the sea, there is no cold and emotions weighing him down. The stars sit alone in his room, three abandoned stripes lifting up and down with the gentle wind that blows inside.
The sea, warm against Harry’s feet, smells fresh and exactly what he imagines it to smell like. Lapping against the thin, pale sand; an ironed sheet stretching further than the eye can see, wrapping around the sun when it’s time for it to rest.
Harry feels home.
Snape is waiting for him in the kitchen before dinner, and Harry can’t seem to remember why he thought Snape as dead. The knife held between his slender fingers chop down on the carrots, his eye meeting Harry’s when he walks in, cuffs folded up his scrawny legs, socks and shoes at hand.
“Wash your feet first,” Snape says, nodding towards the bathroom.
There is no dirt to wash off his feet, but Harry washes them anyway, and dries them on towels smelling of vanilla, seemingly knit from the clouds and soft silk.
It’s the first day, and Snape teaches him how to cook, a hand over Harry’s knife wielding fingers, holding them steady. Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell Snape he knows how to cook when Snape compliments him, not able to hold in the smile when he gently ruffles his hair.
It’s the first day, and the food tastes like contentment gift wrapped into an envelope, sealed with the warm morning sun. With every book Harry reads, a new one sits in its place the next time his eyes land on it, the spine old with the years of collected dust.
He wonders between hazy thoughts if they ever talked like the way there are now, that first night. Window open, the delicate wind picking up the light blue curtains, words comfortably exchanged. Laughter, confessions. The topics circulating between memories they have shared, and the memories they have yet to make.
Harry wonders why he ever thought about odd names like Hermione, Ron and Hogwarts when Snape helped him sleep into warm dreams, no potion, no magic needed. Just his gentle voice, leaving Harry’s thoughts wandering into warm places, a warm sleep.
Here is warmth, and here Harry sleeps.
It’s the second day, and winter doesn’t hurt. Harry wakes up to a cold winter morning, and though the crunching snow seeps between his toes, a cool shiver shooting up his spine, it’s just a feeble touch on his bare skin, like those of soft feathers. It’s cold, the breakfast is warm and Snape’s hot cocoa warms his fingers, just as Snape’s hand warms the hair he’s touched, and the hand-knit blanket warms his shoulders.
“The sea must be frozen.”
“Wasn’t it always frozen?”
Snape’s thin hides behind his hair, his long fingers placing another cup on the table for the warmth to spread inside of Harry, “Have you ever ice skated?”
The cup’s brim brushes his lip, and the warmth pauses. He thinks he hasn’t, a door slammed to his face when he dared ask for it. But Snape looks at him with dark eyes bright with curiosity, helping Harry lift the cup for a sip, “I think that’s a no.”
“Will you teach me?”
Snape tilts his head with a smile, and the snow is not cold when they step out in their clothes sewn with warm wool, with warm love. Snape takes his hand, helps him past the sand and past the snow. Harry’s blades shake, and so does Harry, clinging madly on Snape’s arm lest he fall.
He doesn’t, and their laughter is a lonely one, the only for miles. Their laughter is a happy one, the only one that carries like the wind; through the trees, through their leaves. A drop of summer while the world rests, a sweet dream as spring sleeps under heavy, cold sheets. The ice creaks seldom, and when it does, it’s to them racing, sometimes almost falling, sometimes almost winning.
“You have skated before.”
“Would I lie to you?”
Snape brushes the snow from his hair, rolling his eyes, his long coat flying around him while he stops just in front of Harry, blades skidding, “A winter has passed.”
The sun is veiled silently behind white clouds, and Harry agrees, “A winter has passed.”
“And you have yet to call me your father.”
When Harry turns to face Snape, it’s to painful eyes with a crease on the skin to mark their sorrow. He wants to argue, but the guilt weighs like heavy blankets of snow, freezing to the touch, death to sleep under.
“I’m sorry,” he reaches out a hand, before the tears can mark their will, “I’m sorry, dad.”
Harry hears the ice creak, and the smile on Snape’s lips turn oh so quickly into a frown.
The water is cold, and the world is dark as Harry falls through the ice.
The world is cold.
And then, the world is no more