My Lungs are Full of You

two: the man, the myth, the legend

The clock tower is a tall and impressive sight -- he is hesitant, always, to use the word 'pretty'... but thinks that the sentiment is one he feels nonetheless. He wears the polo t-shirt and jeans, the clock mechanic uniform, and clutches the key to the tower in his hands.

Finally. He's done it. Ron may have his ideas of manhood but, as far as Harry's concerned, they're all wrong. As far as Harry's concerned, he's made it.

It is a relatively simple job, from what he's heard. The hours are short and the pay is great and it's the job every little boy and girl wants to have -- it's just also the one Harry worked to get.

He is to monitor the condition of the clock and perform any necessary maintenance. As long as it's working properly, he gets his payment.

There's parts of it that he does not understand. Unfortunately, they're also the parts of it that James skirts around speaking about.

James is like that, in his thinking. The fact that magic exists -- magic that he is unable to understand, magic that does not follow a pattern that is logical -- is... something he does not like talking about.

Harry was -- and it is a was; his father believes that he will leave the scholarly thinking to whoever wants it... and you know what people say about Harry and James; they're exactly the same -- more curious. The idea that time can be treated as something tangible is nothing less than fascinating. And then there's the Hanahaki disease, the only other known form of magic.

It has nothing to do with time and it's called a disease for a reason. Unrequited love killing someone -- flowers forming in the lungs, it's gruesome stuff.

Gruesome and undeniably fascinating. Harry was flooded with questions.

If there is a direct connection between emotions and magic in one case, is there a correlation in the other?

And is there a correlation between the two types of magic? And there must be, mustn't there?

And then Harry stopped asking questions. Because that is what Potter men do.

Harry stands in front of the clock tower, takes a deep breath, and then enters. There is nothing slow and hesitant about his steps.

He is here to follow in the footsteps of his father. Secretly, and to only a very minor part of himself, he's here because the questions he had as a child are finally (finally!) being answered.

He is looking over the central gears -- deciding that, yes, they do need oiling, he can do that next time -- when he hears a voice behind him.

"Are you the new mechanic, or some freeloader?"

Harry swirls around, eyes searching the area. But he doesn't see the person -- man, it sounded like, but it could pass for either gender -- anywhere.

From another direction: "You look a bit young to be a mechanic," it drawls. "Can I guess freeloader?"

Harry scrambles, tugging a screwdriver free from his belt, nearly dropping it. He holds it out as if it's a knife, or something altogether much more intimidating

"But, then again," says the voice, much closer now, "you do have that drab uniform."

A figure appears in front of Harry, making him flinch back. He is a man in what looks to be his early twenties with blonde hair and a crooked smile. He is wearing a dirty t-shirt with a huge baggy jacket over it and sweatpants.

Also. He is semi translucent and glowing. That's probably important to mention.

"What the fuck?"

The man -- figure? Do ghost like entities have genders? Harry is so god damn confused -- furrows his eyebrows, clearing taking offense. "What the fuck yourself," he shoots back. "I'm just a guy. Just a silly little dude."

"Yeah, sure!" Harry laughs, running a hand down his face. His voice drops an octave. "Am I mental?"

The man sighs, kneeling down to Harry's level. "You're not mental," he assures hesitantly. "I'm -- I live here. That's all."

"Sounds like you're the freeloader," Harry says weakly.

He cracks a smile. "Sure does. But I work here."

"What?"

He holds out a hand to Harry. "I," he says, "am Death. I'm the clock spirit for this sector, and it's nice to meet you, my mechanic."

Harry promptly faints.

xxx

James sits beside him on the porch, grinning. "Congrats, kiddo."

Harry chuckles, a slight smile on his face. "Thanks. Um, y'know I do have some questions, though."

"Questions?" James sounds offended. "About what?"

"My job," says Harry, the words feeling sour in his throat. "And if there are such things as..."

"As what? Spit it out, son."

"Clock spirits," he says, and the words seem silly now, in the daylight, saying them aloud. They seem like they could have been a dream. He passed out from the heat and hallucinated a handsome, playful man and woke up hours later with his concept of fiction and reality blurred -- that's what happened, he's sure.

"Read too many storybooks, I'd say. You alright, kiddo?"

Not kiddo anymore. I'm a man now, pops. Can't you see it? Don't you know it?

Harry closes his eyes and the image of Death comes to mind again. "I'm fine," says Harry. There is weakness in his voice. By the looks of it, James didn't even notice. Isn't that a first?

"I've got to ask you about something, son," says James. Of course Harry could not have gotten off that easily.

Harry stands up straighter, hoping to appear as if he is not lost in his head. "What is it?"

James looks at him and Harry sees his own eyes being reflected toward him, his own being. This moment, they are one.

This moment after: "You're too touchy with Ron."

Harry is instantly on the defensive -- though he is not sure why. Because of the implications of homosexuality? Because Ron is involved? Because he is his father and his father would never be accused of that.

"I'm touchy with all my friends," protests Harry, which is true. His way of affection is, to say the least, expressive. "Ron's just a friend," he adds.

"I know that!" says James. To Harry's incredulous expression, he rolls his eyes. "I know Ron's just a friend, Christ."

"Then why..?"

"Because not everyone does."

"That's not fair."

James narrows his eyes at him. "Isn't it?" Harry can only think of how many friendships this man must've ruined in his own life under the guise of perception. A curdle of resentment forms in his guts and he buries it.

"I'm friendly like that with all my pals -- guy and girl alike."

"Not like you're friendly with Ron."

Which, now that Harry thinks about it, is true. Ron is someone special and holding hands and the rough brush of the shoulder here and then is not where it ends with him. He is close with Ron in all ways, shapes, and sizes.

Harry tries to play it off -- and this shouldn't be hard, because it's not a big deal, because Harry's not gay. Ron is just a friend. Harry thinks of Ron as just a friend. "I've known Ron my whole life. Can you blame me?"

Harry can tell James really wants to say 'I can and I will,' but doesn't. Harry appreciates the effort wholeheartedly. Instead James says, sheepishly, "I just worry about you, son. You know that. You know what people think about people like that. You know what they might do."

"People like us, dad?" Because Harry's petty and this is Ron we're talking about and he doesn't see the problem his father does, likeness between them be damned.

"No," says James, softly. "Not people like us. We hold tight to our beliefs, but we're cordial about it, you know? We're polite people. And -- and, son, not everyone is."

Harry says, "Noted, dad," but for right now, it's absolutely not. He would withstand any beating for Ron. Ron's his best friend and that's what you're supposed to do for best friends -- anything.