The Wish Jar (final)
Harry Potter-Snape opens his eyes to an unkind world.
The fire, too hot, burns him under the heavy blankets; and the rain, too loud, drums against the window.
The world was -is- unkind.
Harry sighs, resting his head on the too-soft pillow, weighed under the too-warm sheets.
"Harry," a voice from the doorway sings. Tired, relieved. A thousand emotions lost in a storm. Harry says 'sings', and the thought humours him into a smile, urging his eyes open because he is here.
He is home.
Severus rarely breaks decorum. In fact, he makes it quite clear it's something that he doesn't do.
You don't wear your heart on your sleeve, when everything is fair in war.
And nothing is fair in love.
The shaking hands cradling his cheek tell a different story. The trembling fingers through his hair paint a million memories Harry didn't need to be awake to experience.
The world is too warm.
And for a stubborn, painful moment… it is a bit less unkind.
"I've left," says Harry, his voice allowing horse whispers Severus hushes with words that are gentler than the world had been to him, "I've left, and I don't know what to say."
"An apology," Severus kisses the crown of his head, above the scar that tied their futures, "For putting me through that misery."
Harry chuckles, cheeks dusted warmer than the fire as Severus' hands lift him from the sofa. The cold embraces him first.
And then the only kindness in this unjust world.
His father is old. The years have settled on his shoulders, mindless of what they could carry. His father is old, not because he's spent years others have not, but because while others had their chance to grow up… Severus Snape was left to grow old.
His father is old.
And he smells of hours shut in his apothecary, herbs and fumes of potions marking his scent.
"I dreamt," Harry says again, settling his chin on Severus' shoulder. Dreamt is the start of the sentence, because the only difference between a dream and nightmare is not what you see, but how you see it.
He has dreamt, because it is the most bittersweet sleep he has the curse to wake up from.
"I dreamt we were happy, you know. Truly happy, without worry."
"Are we not happy?" Severus asks, knowing the answer. Silence clogs Harry's throat, suffocating him with the heavy words his heart burdens. He doesn't speak.
And so he cries.
Crying, easier, brings them closer. As fighters. As a family. As to souls matched by a hand they both exhaust their lives to end.
"I never got to say goodbye," says Harry, because they're the truth, the only words his mind wants to remember.
"And I can give you a better world than dreams," says his father, lips touching the side of his head, because it is also the truth.
Because it is a promise.