CONTINUED FROM HERE. @obsidianwarden
when your purpose dies without you, how do you go on? he wished he could figure it out. in all the months gone by, harry had felt as if he were chasing endlessly, after some amorphous thing that fluttered just out of his grasp, his hand splayed and arm reaching. it had to be found again — purpose. lots of people had plenty of ideas about what his purpose ought to be now (come now, harry, the aurors are where you belong. i'll help, but — are you free to give testimony tomorrow, mister potter? yeah, let me just — could you give a speech at the funeral next week, harry? 'course i can, whose this one for? did you see my child's last moments, mister potter? could you please tell me, were they brave, were they strong, were they afraid — i ... i ...). they banged around his head in the middle of the night like a thunderous cloud, always seeming to promise rain but never quite making it fall. rest would happen at some point, wouldn't it? he'd make it there. i have to keep going. they were counting on him, after all. more, always doing more, and he wouldn't have to think about that looming 'afterwards'.
bagged eyes behind round-rimmed glasses peered about the room with unabashed interest sparking in their green color, the untidy head turning this way and that as casual steps eased him further in. the sleeves of the pullover he wore dangled half-over his fingers as a hand plucked absently at a loose string on one of the ridged cuffs, shoulders held discomforted under the rumpled fabric. he'd only had the one glimpse from their ... lessons during fifth year. terribly gloomy it was, not that he'd really expected much else. they say it's difficult to picture your teachers living anywhere else but school — this wasn't hard at all. harry didn't think it was much different than the dungeons. it could be that he's allergic to a decent amount of candlelight, i suppose. or he's part boggart. " marginally tolerable? " harry repeated, the corners of his mouth quirking a tad. he knew this snape — even if he looked a right mess, the jabs were familiar. a shrug. " reckon it must be some pretty strong stuff to make me that. "
he can smell it on snape (and he's trying to pretend he doesn't, for the other's sake). moving purposelessly along one of side of the room, a hand lifted, the tips of his calloused fingers bumping aimlessly upon every book-spine that lined a shelf as he strayed along it. the titles smudge together without him really reading them, sight heavy-lidded. a small snort. you berk, he thinks. " oh, uniquely cursed, i'd say. sorry. i don't think there's a counter-charm for it. " his head canted towards snape, blinking with an incredibly faked sort of naivety to the widening of his eyes as if to pretend, what, bothered by little old me? while brows lifted mildly into his bangs. he stilled a bit aways from the armchair, hand falling from the books.
" d'you always drink this much, or am i just special? " harry accused shortly. do you hate me? do you want to? i don't know if i can, still. the anger doesn't know where it's supposed to go, and he can feel it battering about inside his throat, a homeless thing (its house in shambles where he used to put it, when snape was a traitor. that was easier. this wasn't). harry took a deliberate breath through his nose. bad choice — it wrinkled at the stench of the firewhiskey, mouth forming a pink line. i hate you. i don't hate you. i hate seeing you like this. you're giving up! and it feels —
hands turned briefly into white-knuckled fists. then, crossing the last bit of distance between them, he snatched up the nearby firewhiskey bottle. " look, i know you'd rather see the back of me, but we need to talk ... " professor? sir? mister? harry didn't like any of them. " — snape. " the bottle thumped against his leg. shacklebolt had asked him to go see the man for a reason. " what are you doing? " green eyes sought the other's dark ones, frustration like a lightning strike in the gaze. " the ministry — they know! you can't just — go off on your own killing death eaters. the aurors are tracking them down. " and so am i! did snape think him incapable? it's swelling like a wind-gale, his temper (where was he supposed to put it? where does the anger go?), and he gestured jerkily at the empty glass with the bottle in his hand. " is this what you do now? getting plastered and then — heading out to hunt down what's left of voldemort's gang? " the anger turns in his stomach. " we're handling it, all right? and i don't need you going and — and — " angry, angry, angry (at what?). " and ... almost dying on me again! " a harsh breath out. i hate you. i don't. i can't go to your funeral. not another one. jaw setting, his tone turns flat as he asks, " it's stupid. are you even fully healed yet? "
