When A Slaughterhouse Becomes A Home (selfcest/tomarry)

nine

Sometimes Harry wakes disorientated, unable to tell dream from reality and truth from delusion. He believes that his four curtain bed is a much smaller enclosed space than it is -- he is eleven years old again, trapped in a cupboard too small for a boy of his size (and unfitting for any boy at all.) Or, sometimes, when he is lucky, he wakes to dreams much simpler and less horrifying -- like the belief that it is a Saturday instead of a Monday.

Like he said, he is haunted. Sometimes his past is his present.

The dreams with Potter, however, have stopped. He is glad to have befriended the man instead of him hovering in Harry's nightmares like an off brand boogeyman.

It is odd, then, that he is in Harry's dream now. It is at the very least no longer terrifying.

They stand at the top floor of the Astronomy Tower. Harry feels the wind on his skin, coming from the open window, revealing a ledge and the ground below, and it feels so real--

"That's a long drop there," says a voice, and Harry turns toward it. It is the familiar figure of Potter, well dressed and smiling his sometimes unnerving grin. "I'd watch the ledge if I were you."

"It's a dream," says Harry, laughing. "I'd just wake up." He walks up to the window and stands at the edge, one hand loosely on the wall beside it.

Behind him, Potter smiles knowingly.

"I've been wondering something," notes Harry, looking down below. "About you."

Potter hums. "What is it, dear?"

Harry tries not to flush as he answers, "Your age."

Potter smirks. "What about it?" He tucks a piece of hair behind Harry's ear, the gentle caress of a lover.

Harry shuts the thought out of his mind instantly. "If you're from 2007," he pushes through, "then why do you look like you're forty, at least? You should be twenty seven."

Potter blinks at him, expression blank, then a grin breaks out on his face and he laughs. "Clever -- I could never have it in me to underestimate you, Harry. You are such a clever boy."

Harry tries to tune out the praise, the pleased way it makes him feel. "So?" he prompts.

And Potter does answer: "I have tried this before. Once before."

Harry is only more confused. But he is glad to have such an upfront answer. "... You mean befriending me? Going into the past?"

"My plan -- the original one I mentioned that prompted this... vacation that I'm on. I figured that this vacation could serve as more of a means to an ends. I attempted something, but it didn't work. I had to wait a great number of years to get out of the timeline. I managed to make it back here, before I made my mistake."

There is something off here. Something he isn't telling Harry. Harry wanders away from the ledge and begins circling the room, examining the many objects inside it without paying much attention to them. "What was your mistake?"

Potter's gaze darkens. But only for a moment. "I killed you," he says simply.

Harry's eyes widen in alarm and he stumbles backwards. "What?"

"It was a mistake, I assure you."

Harry doesn't want to doubt that, so he doesn't. "If your younger self died, how are you still alive?"

"Isn't that obvious?" asks Potter. He sounds bitter now, old. "I'm immortal."

Harry stares at him, jaw open and on the floor. "Are -- are you serious?"

"No, I'm Potter." Harry barks out a laugh, surprising himself. Potter smiles, then continues, "Yes, I'm serious."

"That's... so cool."

"You'd think," mutters Potter. He walks over to the windowsill, standing on the ledge, his back to Harry. "If I jumped out of this window right here, I wouldn't die. But if you jumped,Harry, if you jumped..." A great smile makes its away across his face, although Harry can't see it. "... you'd go splat."

Harry shuffles nervously. "But I don't want to die."

"Nor did the last Harry." Potter tilts his head, making eye contact. "But if things change, and they might, I want you to remember this place. This conversation."

"Is this real?" asks Harry, quietly. His hands are fists at his side. "Are you my Potter? The one I know? Or are you just a dream?"

"Does it matter?" asks Potter boredly.

"It matters, because you're acting insane," spits Harry.

"Maybe I am insane," says Potter, shrugging. Uncaring. "That doesn't mean I need you any less. And I think you need me, too, Harry. No matter how insane I'm sounding."

"I don't want to die, Potter," repeats Harry, needing to make himself clear. "If you don't like being immortal, then you can just say that. But it isn't my problem."

"Not yet," remarks Potter.

"I wouldn't be overjoyed if I lived forever, but I'm not talking about forever. I'm talking about right now. And right now, I want to live."

"Right now," repeats Potter.

Harry sighs, exasperated. "If you don't want me to become immortal, or in your case to be immortal, then fine. Tell me how you became immortal, and I'll avoid that in the future."

Potter whistles. "It's not that simple."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter. It just can't happen."

Harry circles his arms around himself, a comfort. He doesn't like the new, forceful side of Potter. Potter seems to notice his distress, because he backs away from the window and gets a soft smile to his face. He approaches Harry and places one hand on Harry's face, cupping his face.

"It's okay," he soothes. "I'm sorry for how I've been acting. I'll explain it all one day to you. When it matters."

"I don't know if I can trust you," Harry says, trying not to cry.

"Trust," sighs Potter. "Always a hard thing with us, yeah? But I'm you. You trust yourself, don't you?"

I want to live, thinks Harry, and he says, closing his eyes, "If there is anybody at all to trust, I suppose."

When Harry opens his eyes, he is awake. Potter is gone and his bare feet rest unsteadily on the floor of the Astronomy Tower. The wind rustles his air and cools the drying tears on his cheeks.