Pygmalion

Harry was stone that summer, hard face, cold eyes; he didn't feel and didn't think anything about anything, or if he did he didn't show it. Uncle Vernon had taken a belt to him, finally, after he intentionally burned their breakfast one morning, and Dudley had held him down, or tried to; Harry, thin but wiry, had ducked through Dudley's thick, greasy fingers and kicked him hard in the stones. The Dursleys had to deal suddely with a vomiting, mewling sixteen-year-old and hadn't noticed Harry vanishing up the stairs. They hadn't considered him at all until they were already on their way to hospital.

Harry had packed calmly and methodically, folding his clothing neatly, and then had simply crossed the street and knocked on Arabella Figg's door.

"It's over," he'd said.

And so they'd had to take him to Twelve Grimmauld Place, where he was just as much a prisoner as Sirius had been, but not sullen or pointedly irritating as Sirius had tried to be. He washed regularly, did his laundry, kept his room tidy, patiently did everything he was told to do, and always ate everything on his plate. If spoken to, he would answer politely but briefly, and then go about his business.

"Talk to him," Molly told Remus. "He'll listen to you."

"He listens to everyone," Remus replied. "That isn't the problem."

But she was right, someone had to say something to the boy, so at breakfast one morning as he set a plate of cornflakes in front of Harry, he said, "Now you know."

Harry looked up at him, his usual cool gaze broken only by a hint of inquiry.

"Know what?" he asked indifferently.

"What it's like to lose your whole world in a day," Remus answered evenly, pouring himself some orange juice from the jug on the table. Harry was silent. "And if it turns you to stone, then you are that much harder to kill."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to the cause. When you're a soldier the cause is your life."

"Then I don't want to be a soldier."

"What do you want to be?"

"Dead."

Remus gave him a small smile. "The feeling passes, in time."

Harry carried his bowl to the sink, and stood over it, filling it with water slowly, staring down.

"I don't want it to," he said.

Remus had eaten another three bites of his own cereal before he realised Harry was bent over the sink, fingers gripping the edge, chest heaving. He was crying, soundlessly, as though he'd had a lot of practice in silent grief.

Harry turned when he put his hand on his shoulder, and he was surprisingly warm in Remus' arms, fingers gathering up his loose threadbare shirt into knots.

"It's all right," Remus said. "He didn't feel any pain, you know."

"I'm not crying for him," Harry mumbled, into his chest. Remus stroked his unruly hair -- so like his father's, though James could always make his behave if he wanted.

"Then who are you crying for?" he asked.

"I'm not crying for anyone," Harry said. He took a heaving breath, and let out a soft sob. "I'm just crying."

"All right then."

They were silent for a while, until Harry stepped back, and Remus let him go carefully.

"I hate myself," he said, and Remus stifled the urge to pull him close again. "Because it's not Sirius I miss."

"You barely had time to know him," Remus answered. "That's not all that surprising, Harry."

"But he used to...he'd grab me, you know, and we'd wrestle, or he'd sit next to me..." Harry wiped his nose and looked embarrassed. "He treated me like family are supposed to. I miss that."

"He touched you," Remus said.

"No, not like that -- "

"I didn't mean that way." Remus brushed some hair off Harry's forehead. "Like this. Just -- touching. He did the same thing to me when we were young, after the full moons."

"He made me feel -- "

" -- real."

Harry nodded.

"But he's gone," Remus continued, "and we're still here."

"What happened last time?" Harry asked.

Remus shrugged. "I survived."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

Harry leaned against the sink again, studying his trainers.

"But I'm here this time."

Remus smiled. "Yes you are."

END