Indifference Towards Difference || Harry Potter

13 | Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind

***

Younger Harry stood before the Mirror of Erised, gazing up adoringly at the figures on the other side. All his elder ancestors, with their knobbly knees and distinctive hair, and at the forefront his mother and father... and Sirius.

The beginnings of a smile faded from his lips however, when he noticed their faces; instead of warm, tender expressions, they were scowling at him in disgust.

"Mum? Dad?" The unfamiliar words felt so right and yet just as foreign on his tongue.

"It's your fault we're dead," his mother said, so sharply and factually younger Harry stumbled backwards in shock. "It's your fault we're all dead."

"We died to give you life, and yet you've only brought about more death," his father added quietly, coldly.

"No—no no no please, I'm sorry—"

"How could we ever call someone like you our son?" His mother sounded mournful, mourning for a better son, mourning for a life she could've had if he hadn't been born—

"Please, Mum, Dad—" His parents turned and walked away from him without a second glance. Tears turned to cruel icicles just as he felt something inside him crack.

Sirius— there's still Sirius. Sirius would understand. He had to, please he had to—

"Sirius, please I'm so so sorry—"

"You think apologising will bring back the dead, Harry?" His godfather spat. Somewhere, he could feel himself screaming, sobbing, crying—but the nightmare refused to break.

Sirius loved him, he'd promised him a home, he'd promised him a life away from the Dursleys—

"You were never my godson. Not to me."

Pain tore through his heart, splintered his ribs, pierced his soul—

I'm sorry, Sirius, please please PLEASE I'm so sorry—

The nightmare exploded to reveal a world of raw pain, only the shards of glass came for him and Harry let them, hoping one would stop his heart, stop it all—

By the time Harry had stopped yelling, stopped pleading— praying for a death that would never come, he had little will to do anything else. He had little will to do anything at all.

***

The next two days worked Harry to the point of bone-deep lassitude. The last time he'd felt this tired had been just after Sirius had been killed. It was exhaustion in every form; a physical depletion from Snape's "all work, no play"attitude, and a mental drain trying to convince everyone and himself that he was fine, that he was handling everything.

Because he was. He was completely fine.

Snape had done nothing to hide the blatant despisement he held towards Harry. Though not overtly cruel beyond the snide remarks the Potions Master often gave, it was the smaller things.

The way the man distanced himself from Harry unless proxemity was required— and even that was done with acquiescence. The way the man looked at him, as though he was some nasty bit of fossilised dragon's dung he couldn't shift. The way the man spoke to him, that Slytherin subtlety hiding it enough to avoid accusation, but it was there.

It was the exact way the Dursleys treated him— with aversion, antipathy. And he hated it.

In other news, Malfoy had resorted to the typical glares he gave Harry. During mealtimes, run-ins in the library, in the hallways of the manor. A part of Harry was almost grateful for Malfoy's run-of-the-mill pettiness. It could be easily ignored, but helped remind Harry of exactly where he stood in the household.