Something He Never Got To Say Before
for @impishtubist 's prompt here ; it's not wolfstar raising Harry, but close! hope you like it ! words: 955 summary: Harry wants to call Sirius ‘dad’. [Set in the summer after PoA, Peter’s caught, Sirius is free and raising Harry the best he can.]
It frustrates Harry how it fits so perfectly. Sirius is spelled soft and warm on his tongue but dad—it’s tender and something Harry’s never got to say before and homey and it makes his cheek hurt with a smile. Harry loves how it sounds.
But he isn’t meant for it.
Harry stares at the words.
Oh, and I’m sure my dad will~
That’s where they end, the curved end of the l smudged into a waving, blotted line; Harry’s quill had jerked with the realisation of what he’d written.
Dad.
He stares, biting his lip, heart starting to pound in his chest. Sirius, he means. But.
Sirius isn't his dad. Harry doesn't have a dad.
It shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
Sirius changed his whole life. He bought Harry a home, now gives him a life that is a thousand times less miserable and more exciting than his previous one—it is love filled and brimming with smiles and soft touches (instead of shrieking and pan-throwing and knee-scraping heart-wrenching hurt) and Sirius buys him candies and ice creams (the very best ones) and takes him to carnivals and teaches him about Holi and Diwali and tells him stories about his parents. Sirius ruffles his hair and watches the telly with him and tells Harry: I love you, kid.
You're the best, Harry.
It's enough. It should be.
It is, in a way. Harry is more than grateful, beyond it really, for all that Sirius has done—he’s done so much for him in a mere twenty days than the Dursleys ever did for him in all of Harry’s thirteen years.
And yet, he finds himself wanting more.
His lips taste of blood as he scrapes back his chair to throw the crumpled parchment into the bin.
-
He is four (but he doesn't know it then) when he, looking at Petunia's long pale hair and Dudley's very blue eyes (handsome, Petunia always says), asks: “Are you my mum?”
It's a question that's been troubling him, after that Incident at the grocer's, whizzing around in his mind and buzzing right next to his ears and crawling over his fingers ever since.
Petunia turns with a crack of her neck, her face pinching and scrunching. “Where did you get that idea from?”
“That woman at the—”
“I am not,” she cuts in, sharply. Then she shudders. “I'm not your mother and never will be, you understand? I would never want you as my son, you freak of a child.”
Harry fights back tears.
“Who is, then?” he whispers.
“You don't have a mother, you idiot.”
One of the words he learns that day is orphan.
-
It frustrates Harry how it fits so perfectly. Sirius is spelled soft and warm on his tongue but dad—it’s tender and something Harry’s never got to say before and homey and it makes his cheek hurt with a smile. Harry loves how it sounds.
But he isn’t meant for it. It’s how it is. Like how he will never have his parents back. How the sky is blue. It’s how it will be.
Yet. There’s a childish part of Harry that hopes so badly, hopes with all of his snitch-sized heart and rule-defying soul that Sirius accepts him and calls him ‘son’ and —
Maybe he should write a letter to Hermione. Or Ron. They’re good at family stuff, especially Ron. Harry wonders what his best friend would say if he asked: ‘Mate, what do you do when you feel like calling your godfather ‘dad’?
He probably wouldn’t know, nor Hermione, Harry thinks, chewing his morsel for far longer than he should, staring at his plate.
The thing is, the real thing that is behind it all, that Sirius is really, when you think of it for a good while, the perfect picture for the word ‘dad’. He’s the synonym of dad, really, and Harry’s sure that if he said it to whoever wrote dictionaries, the writer would most definitely agree and immediately jot it down next to ‘dad’ and congratulate him immensely for the insight. (In his mind, he looks like Cornelius Fudge.)
And that is why, when Sirius asks Harry in his gentle voice, eyes grey and kind, if something is wrong (because Harry has been quiet throughout dinner and Sirius is sure the curry tastes alright and there’s nothing wrong Sirius has said and he’s wracking his brain if today is a date kids should be morose on but he can’t handle Harry looking so sadly at his plate, like it’s broken his heart or something) that Harry blurts, “Can I call you dad?”
Sirius blinks.
His spoon clatters on the plate.
Harry’s mouth parts as he realises what he’s said and he inhales a sharp, stuttering breath.
Way to go there, Potter. “Er—I mean…”
He doesn’t know what he means except what he said and he knows that he shouldn’t have said it and there’s an expression (shock? surprise? dread?) drenching Sirius’ face and he needs to look away and down at his plate.
Shame burns in his throat, flaming his face and his heart twists.
Harry says, “I meant…” He has no idea what he can say that would rectify this situation. He stares at his orange-red curry, imagining his face is as red as it.
“Oh, Harry…” Sirius say, voice sounding... strange. He clears his throat. “I—of course you can. If you want to.”
Harry looks up so quickly his vision greys a little. “I can?”
“Yeah, you can.” Sirius’ hand flies to his smooth hair to smoothen it.
“Oh.”
He can’t believe it. Sirius smiles; a smile that makes him think of his parents’ wedding photos, that makes Harry believe in everything, including this.
Harry’s face splits into a wide wide grin. “Um, thank you… Dad!”
Sirius’ smile wobbles. “Come here, kid.” Sirius gets up and raises his arms, inviting Harry for a hug. Harry rushes forward, chair screeching, heart soaring in delight, and burrows himself in the tight hold of his godfather, and—dad.