The Fairy Tale of Git, Dog, and Murderer
Title: The Fairy Tale of Git, Dog, and Murderer
Author: gypso_child
Fandom: Harry Potter
Medium: Book
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sirius/Severus/Harry
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is NOT MINE. Get over it, biotch.
Theme: X is for Xanadu:
Xanadu is an idyllic, beautiful place, much like a children’s fairy tale. The heroes and damsels are always beautiful, kind, and gentle, with awe-inspiring character traits and little to no flaws. Certainly fairy tales have their share of evil witches and all around bad guys, but somehow, Black is always Black and White is always White, Good always triumphs and everyone is happy and wholesome in the end.
This is not a stereotypical Xanadu; it is not happy and full of joy. It is angry, desperate, and deranged in turns, but for these three, that works astoundingly well.
THE FAIRY TALE OF GIT, DOG, AND MURDERER
*
Once upon a time, there was a boy and his dog.
Once upon a time, there was a murderer and his occasionally canid lover.
*
There are times when Harry understands Voldemort.
It isn’t that we don’t appreciate what you’ve done for us, Mr. Potter, but…
On these days all that he can do is move; turn his back on them like they did him, put his face up to the sun, and strike out, his faithful dog at his heels.
Harry wonders if, supposing he had living parents, they would disown him as well; cast him out, say: Sorry lad, we love you and everything, but it isn’t enough, we don’t want something like you around, sayonara.
It isn’t that we don’t love you Harry, but…
Sometimes Harry can’t hold back the scream that claws its way up his throat. Sometimes, he will scream and scream and scream until his throat is raw, until wherever he is (a clearing in a forest, a meadow, a back alley, a seedy motel room) echoes resoundingly with his agony.
It is during these times that his dog becomes a man, and wraps him tightly within his arms, tangles their legs together and crushes him to his broad chest. Then, Harry can look into haunted gray eyes and see a kind of love that is all encompassing, the kind that is not blind, can see faults and shortcomings, yet goes on loving anyway; not in spite of, but because of.
It is this, Harry knows without a doubt, which saves him from becoming a monster like the one he killed.
"I want peace," Harry whispers, eyes burning and dry, like how a cornfield must feel in the middle of a draught, just before it catches fire. "I want to go home."
"I know," Sirius says. "I know."
"Don't I deserve it? God, I killed him, it's over, and it's done with, now where's my fucking happy ending? Where is it, Sirius?" Harry's fingers dig into Sirius's back like claws. "Why won't it end?"
Harry has asked this question so often it has become almost listless, more rhetorical than any real contemplation of suicide. Sirius hates the question, and sometimes he hates Harry a little for asking it, but he knows he will most likely hear the question for the rest of his life, so long as he stays by Harry's side.
Sirius tells him, his voice wavering with a kind of terrible love, "Shut up Harry, just shut the fuck up," and kisses him. Sirius's kisses are like the antithesis of a Dementor's embrace: a reminder of just why it shouldn't end, not quite yet. It is Sirius who is the keeper of Harry's sanity, and his humanity.
In the morning, the two will rise, and somehow find laughter in another day.
*
Once upon a time, the handsome knight rescued the beautiful maiden from the forces of darkness.
Once upon a time, the scarred murderer rescued an ugly git from himself.
*
Harry had known, of course, that Severus had been exiled as well. Harry smiles in bitter ruefulness to recall the vicious satisfaction he had felt, hearing the nasty git’s condemnation. To be truthful, the irony of it all is usually rather painful, but here in this dingy bar, facing down a completely sloshed Severus Snape, he finds that he can still laugh so hard his belly aches.
The man is just as ugly as he has always been: sallow skinned and hook nosed to a violent degree, harsh lines aging his face older than he has any right to be, and hair in a greasy, knotted tangle. It’s good, Harry thinks, to see that some things don’t change. Other things, however, he feels must.
“Come on, Severus,” he wraps his arm around his too-thin, willowy ex-professor, and begins to lug him towards the door. Like magic, the crowd clears for him, and a hush falls around him. He wishes it were magic, and not the fact that most people cringe away at a look of him, with his vicious scars peeking up from his clothes like shy, besotted lovers, crawling their way across his face in dreadful deliberation. They stare at him as they would a train wreck, horrified and unable to look away, their useless prattling falling silent before this tragedy manifested before their eyes.
Harry wishes they'd go screw themselves, because it's not really all that bad, considering, and he's really very tired of crowds ogling him. It's no wonder Severus liked the dungeons so, where people couldn’t, perhaps wouldn't, point and hiss Death Eater behind his back.
Half way across the floor, the man seems to perk up a little. “Nhhh.”
Harry grunts back, pauses and shifts, and then finally simply swings Severus into his arms, a tattered parody of a groom and his bride. Harry would laugh again, if it weren’t that Severus is far too light to be healthy. Despite the height Harry has gained, and despite the muscles that stretch over his wiry frame, this should be more difficult than it is.
Cold fury fills him; the man who was once the Potions Master at Hogwarts should never have been brought down so low, and he hates the wizards and witches who cast him out more than he ever has before. He was not the only leftover from a war so many people wished only to forget, to bury their dead in peace, where they only had to revisit horror and pain when they but chose. Where they could lock up the broken remnants of people and look the other way and smile.
He is not the only victim, Harry realizes, and it is like emerging from beneath blanketing water, and taking, finally, lung-searing, life-giving breaths.
*
Once upon a time, there was a fierce battle, and good triumphed heroically.
Once upon a time, there was a struggle, and someone may have, perhaps, triumphed.
*
Severus has the worst headache he has had in a good, long while. This is, primarily, because it has been a good, long while since he was ever not drunk. He finds that he has not missed hangovers, and is vaguely surprised that he isn’t so much food for the worms and maggots in the ground. His liver, for certain, is only still functional because he is a wizard and above such mundane things as liver failure. He also thinks, for one woozy, half-drunken moment, that you can take the wizard out of the magic, but you can’t take the magic out of the wizard.
He wonders if insanity was always part and parcel with the fuzzy mouth and evil bell tolling inside his hollow, aching head, or if this is a new development.
“Severus,” a voice screeches, and he flinches. Sirius watches the pathetic sight and, absurdly, finds that he feels like crying. He teeters on the sharp edge of this dreary, cobalt urge, wishing fiercely and hopelessly that the searing, familiar comfort of hate would wrap jealously around him again, and knows, instead, that he will slice his heart to pieces if he is not careful. Harry steps up beside him, and places a hand on his shoulder.
And just like that, he’s safe again.
“Severus,” Harry calls softly once more, waving the spicy food below Snape’s large, hawkish nose. “Come on Severus, eat this for me, and I promise your head will feel better.” Though fajitas have always been Sirius’ favorite Mexican dish, the hangover cure is very dear to his heart as well.
A bitter, croaking voice, grits out through clenched teeth. “Shut. Up.” Harry grins, fierce and bright, and his scars do a savage dance. Sirius tries to remember a time when he danced for innocent joy, and finds that he cannot. The world has moved on, and his mind has let it. He finds that he doesn’t mind.
“Not until you eat this Severus; eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it,” Harry taunts quietly and Sirius laughs, raucous and loud and wildly, inexplicably joyful. Severus snarls and hisses a curse at them, and Sirius laughs harder, thinking that this man, this irascible, infuriating, hateful man would insist the sky is green merely because Sirius called it blue, and he finds himself unbearably happy for it.
Severus, however, is anything but happy. He would like nothing more than to cleanse away his demons in liquor, his holy water of choice, to curl up into a miserable ball and die while his heart breaks again and again, sounding like the unforgiving, splintering crack of a snapped wand.
The voices, their sounds that of serrated steel edges scraping agonizingly down the insides of his skull, do not let him however. He thinks, half-wonderingly, of blood-soaked comrades, acid green, and the keening cry of a phoenix, and when he eats, it tastes to him like death.
*
Once upon a time, the kind Prince and his gentle bride lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time, the murderer, the git, and the man-who-was-at-times-a-dog made life bearable, and interesting, together.
*
Sun lances through the cracked window of the motel room, and Sirius groans, turning his face from the light and burying it into hard, ungentle flesh. Severus grunts and shifts. They have been staying here for several days now, enjoying the luxury of a stationary place to sleep at night, a heater and a relatively soft bed. It’s a rarity, and thus a luxury.
They have lots of sex.
Harry peeks in on his two lovers from the bathroom doorway, his face fresh from shaving and eyes still a little bleary from alcohol, sleep, and languor. He smiles at them, all pale skin, black hair, and tangled limbs. They are both angular and vulgar, even in their sleep. Padding over to them, Harry leans down and strokes sweat sticky hair from Sirius’ face, and places a tender kiss on Severus’ collarbone.
The hook-nosed man makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and throws an arm, corded and knotted with thick muscle, across Sirius’ handsome, wasted back. Harry studies them, as he always does in moments like this, where time sees fit to stand still for him, showcasing the remnants of his world and the last dregs of his life.
The animagus is like a faded photograph; an echo of his inherent beauty and striking looks still lingering upon his ravaged frame. He will never, Harry knows, recover from Azkaban. Severus is ugly, despite the soft, natural light. But he is also striking, in his uniquely menacing way. Harry smiles in amusement.
Soon, they will run out of money, and will have to leave. Perhaps one day they will find a place to settle at, where they can rest their weary feet and weary souls, and never be forced to roam again.
But for now, Harry knows that they will keep on moving, and fighting, and arguing, and fucking, and loving each other, as they heal their wounds together. He makes his lazy way to the phone, and dials room service, placing a soft-voiced request for three trays of breakfast, coffee for Sirius and tea for Severus.
As he listens to the obscenely cheerful voice repeat his order back to him, he turns back to the bed and lets his eyes drink their fill. It has been quite a while, he thinks, since his turbulent heart has felt such strange contentment. His days stretch out before him, and he smiles. The future is not quite so bleak. Not anymore.
The end.
Thanks to arcanefairy, my fabulous beta. :]
Author: gypso_child
Fandom: Harry Potter
Medium: Book
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Sirius/Severus/Harry
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is NOT MINE. Get over it, biotch.
Theme: X is for Xanadu:
Xanadu is an idyllic, beautiful place, much like a children’s fairy tale. The heroes and damsels are always beautiful, kind, and gentle, with awe-inspiring character traits and little to no flaws. Certainly fairy tales have their share of evil witches and all around bad guys, but somehow, Black is always Black and White is always White, Good always triumphs and everyone is happy and wholesome in the end.
This is not a stereotypical Xanadu; it is not happy and full of joy. It is angry, desperate, and deranged in turns, but for these three, that works astoundingly well.
THE FAIRY TALE OF GIT, DOG, AND MURDERER
*
Once upon a time, there was a boy and his dog.
Once upon a time, there was a murderer and his occasionally canid lover.
*
There are times when Harry understands Voldemort.
It isn’t that we don’t appreciate what you’ve done for us, Mr. Potter, but…
On these days all that he can do is move; turn his back on them like they did him, put his face up to the sun, and strike out, his faithful dog at his heels.
Harry wonders if, supposing he had living parents, they would disown him as well; cast him out, say: Sorry lad, we love you and everything, but it isn’t enough, we don’t want something like you around, sayonara.
It isn’t that we don’t love you Harry, but…
Sometimes Harry can’t hold back the scream that claws its way up his throat. Sometimes, he will scream and scream and scream until his throat is raw, until wherever he is (a clearing in a forest, a meadow, a back alley, a seedy motel room) echoes resoundingly with his agony.
It is during these times that his dog becomes a man, and wraps him tightly within his arms, tangles their legs together and crushes him to his broad chest. Then, Harry can look into haunted gray eyes and see a kind of love that is all encompassing, the kind that is not blind, can see faults and shortcomings, yet goes on loving anyway; not in spite of, but because of.
It is this, Harry knows without a doubt, which saves him from becoming a monster like the one he killed.
"I want peace," Harry whispers, eyes burning and dry, like how a cornfield must feel in the middle of a draught, just before it catches fire. "I want to go home."
"I know," Sirius says. "I know."
"Don't I deserve it? God, I killed him, it's over, and it's done with, now where's my fucking happy ending? Where is it, Sirius?" Harry's fingers dig into Sirius's back like claws. "Why won't it end?"
Harry has asked this question so often it has become almost listless, more rhetorical than any real contemplation of suicide. Sirius hates the question, and sometimes he hates Harry a little for asking it, but he knows he will most likely hear the question for the rest of his life, so long as he stays by Harry's side.
Sirius tells him, his voice wavering with a kind of terrible love, "Shut up Harry, just shut the fuck up," and kisses him. Sirius's kisses are like the antithesis of a Dementor's embrace: a reminder of just why it shouldn't end, not quite yet. It is Sirius who is the keeper of Harry's sanity, and his humanity.
In the morning, the two will rise, and somehow find laughter in another day.
*
Once upon a time, the handsome knight rescued the beautiful maiden from the forces of darkness.
Once upon a time, the scarred murderer rescued an ugly git from himself.
*
Harry had known, of course, that Severus had been exiled as well. Harry smiles in bitter ruefulness to recall the vicious satisfaction he had felt, hearing the nasty git’s condemnation. To be truthful, the irony of it all is usually rather painful, but here in this dingy bar, facing down a completely sloshed Severus Snape, he finds that he can still laugh so hard his belly aches.
The man is just as ugly as he has always been: sallow skinned and hook nosed to a violent degree, harsh lines aging his face older than he has any right to be, and hair in a greasy, knotted tangle. It’s good, Harry thinks, to see that some things don’t change. Other things, however, he feels must.
“Come on, Severus,” he wraps his arm around his too-thin, willowy ex-professor, and begins to lug him towards the door. Like magic, the crowd clears for him, and a hush falls around him. He wishes it were magic, and not the fact that most people cringe away at a look of him, with his vicious scars peeking up from his clothes like shy, besotted lovers, crawling their way across his face in dreadful deliberation. They stare at him as they would a train wreck, horrified and unable to look away, their useless prattling falling silent before this tragedy manifested before their eyes.
Harry wishes they'd go screw themselves, because it's not really all that bad, considering, and he's really very tired of crowds ogling him. It's no wonder Severus liked the dungeons so, where people couldn’t, perhaps wouldn't, point and hiss Death Eater behind his back.
Half way across the floor, the man seems to perk up a little. “Nhhh.”
Harry grunts back, pauses and shifts, and then finally simply swings Severus into his arms, a tattered parody of a groom and his bride. Harry would laugh again, if it weren’t that Severus is far too light to be healthy. Despite the height Harry has gained, and despite the muscles that stretch over his wiry frame, this should be more difficult than it is.
Cold fury fills him; the man who was once the Potions Master at Hogwarts should never have been brought down so low, and he hates the wizards and witches who cast him out more than he ever has before. He was not the only leftover from a war so many people wished only to forget, to bury their dead in peace, where they only had to revisit horror and pain when they but chose. Where they could lock up the broken remnants of people and look the other way and smile.
He is not the only victim, Harry realizes, and it is like emerging from beneath blanketing water, and taking, finally, lung-searing, life-giving breaths.
*
Once upon a time, there was a fierce battle, and good triumphed heroically.
Once upon a time, there was a struggle, and someone may have, perhaps, triumphed.
*
Severus has the worst headache he has had in a good, long while. This is, primarily, because it has been a good, long while since he was ever not drunk. He finds that he has not missed hangovers, and is vaguely surprised that he isn’t so much food for the worms and maggots in the ground. His liver, for certain, is only still functional because he is a wizard and above such mundane things as liver failure. He also thinks, for one woozy, half-drunken moment, that you can take the wizard out of the magic, but you can’t take the magic out of the wizard.
He wonders if insanity was always part and parcel with the fuzzy mouth and evil bell tolling inside his hollow, aching head, or if this is a new development.
“Severus,” a voice screeches, and he flinches. Sirius watches the pathetic sight and, absurdly, finds that he feels like crying. He teeters on the sharp edge of this dreary, cobalt urge, wishing fiercely and hopelessly that the searing, familiar comfort of hate would wrap jealously around him again, and knows, instead, that he will slice his heart to pieces if he is not careful. Harry steps up beside him, and places a hand on his shoulder.
And just like that, he’s safe again.
“Severus,” Harry calls softly once more, waving the spicy food below Snape’s large, hawkish nose. “Come on Severus, eat this for me, and I promise your head will feel better.” Though fajitas have always been Sirius’ favorite Mexican dish, the hangover cure is very dear to his heart as well.
A bitter, croaking voice, grits out through clenched teeth. “Shut. Up.” Harry grins, fierce and bright, and his scars do a savage dance. Sirius tries to remember a time when he danced for innocent joy, and finds that he cannot. The world has moved on, and his mind has let it. He finds that he doesn’t mind.
“Not until you eat this Severus; eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it,” Harry taunts quietly and Sirius laughs, raucous and loud and wildly, inexplicably joyful. Severus snarls and hisses a curse at them, and Sirius laughs harder, thinking that this man, this irascible, infuriating, hateful man would insist the sky is green merely because Sirius called it blue, and he finds himself unbearably happy for it.
Severus, however, is anything but happy. He would like nothing more than to cleanse away his demons in liquor, his holy water of choice, to curl up into a miserable ball and die while his heart breaks again and again, sounding like the unforgiving, splintering crack of a snapped wand.
The voices, their sounds that of serrated steel edges scraping agonizingly down the insides of his skull, do not let him however. He thinks, half-wonderingly, of blood-soaked comrades, acid green, and the keening cry of a phoenix, and when he eats, it tastes to him like death.
*
Once upon a time, the kind Prince and his gentle bride lived happily ever after.
Once upon a time, the murderer, the git, and the man-who-was-at-times-a-dog made life bearable, and interesting, together.
*
Sun lances through the cracked window of the motel room, and Sirius groans, turning his face from the light and burying it into hard, ungentle flesh. Severus grunts and shifts. They have been staying here for several days now, enjoying the luxury of a stationary place to sleep at night, a heater and a relatively soft bed. It’s a rarity, and thus a luxury.
They have lots of sex.
Harry peeks in on his two lovers from the bathroom doorway, his face fresh from shaving and eyes still a little bleary from alcohol, sleep, and languor. He smiles at them, all pale skin, black hair, and tangled limbs. They are both angular and vulgar, even in their sleep. Padding over to them, Harry leans down and strokes sweat sticky hair from Sirius’ face, and places a tender kiss on Severus’ collarbone.
The hook-nosed man makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and throws an arm, corded and knotted with thick muscle, across Sirius’ handsome, wasted back. Harry studies them, as he always does in moments like this, where time sees fit to stand still for him, showcasing the remnants of his world and the last dregs of his life.
The animagus is like a faded photograph; an echo of his inherent beauty and striking looks still lingering upon his ravaged frame. He will never, Harry knows, recover from Azkaban. Severus is ugly, despite the soft, natural light. But he is also striking, in his uniquely menacing way. Harry smiles in amusement.
Soon, they will run out of money, and will have to leave. Perhaps one day they will find a place to settle at, where they can rest their weary feet and weary souls, and never be forced to roam again.
But for now, Harry knows that they will keep on moving, and fighting, and arguing, and fucking, and loving each other, as they heal their wounds together. He makes his lazy way to the phone, and dials room service, placing a soft-voiced request for three trays of breakfast, coffee for Sirius and tea for Severus.
As he listens to the obscenely cheerful voice repeat his order back to him, he turns back to the bed and lets his eyes drink their fill. It has been quite a while, he thinks, since his turbulent heart has felt such strange contentment. His days stretch out before him, and he smiles. The future is not quite so bleak. Not anymore.
The end.
Thanks to arcanefairy, my fabulous beta. :]