Waking up from that memory at seven in the morning was all well and good. It was a nice memory, a happy memory. In fact, it was the happiest day of his life. But what came after that memory was not so good, because while during those first few days of living with his new parents, Harry had been okay--sick, but okay--it wasn't until after the illness had passed through the household that his old nightmares returned.

And Harry didn't wake up at seven, because he had a pattern. Whenever he woke up, he would stumble into the bathroom, effectively knocking something over, and when he had done his business, he would stumble back to bed, effectively knocking something over, before falling back onto the soft mattress and snuggling deep into the warmth of his covers until at least ten-thirty.

And once that first memory replayed, others were always sure to follow.

"Mommy, mommy, help me!" Hayden shrieked, full-on panicking as he ran into the kitchen. At three years old he was extremely fast, and extremely loud, and his mother wanted nothing to do with it.

"What do you want, you little brat?" she demanded, pausing to drink the last of her vodka.

"Harry's really sick, mommy, he's really sick and I don't know what to do." Hayden wailed, hands shaking and eyes bright with tears.

"The little weirdo's probably worked himself up over something again." His mother spat angrily as she poured another drink. "Let him be sick, it'll make him think next time he wants to freak out over nothing."

"But daddy hit him and he was crying and he already was feeling yucky when he woke up and when daddy hit him it made him lots worse--" Hayden tried fruitlessly to get his mother to listen, but only earned a backhand in response.

The boy stood silently, willing himself not to cry at the burning on his cheek, and turned and ran back to the bedroom, spotting Jordan outside with a soccer ball.

"Jordan! Jordan, help me!" he hollered as he ran out the door.

His older brother immediately looked up in shock, losing his focus and sending the soccer ball flying through a neighbor's window. "What, what is it? Oh my God, Hay, did mom do that?"

"Yes but that's not important, I don't care about that!" Hayden started crying. "Harry's sick, Jordan, and daddy was hitting him!"

"Where's dad now?"

"In the basement with his bear."

"You mean his beer?"

"Yeah, that gross stuff!" Hayden took his brother's hand and pulled at it insistently, leading him towards the house.

The sight they were met with made Jordan angry. Harry was sobbing on his bed, his face ashen but turning a greenish color. He had been sick on the floor, and their mother was screaming, angry. It was clear she had already slapped her son once, if not twice.

"Is it so hard to get off your ass and move to the bathroom, Harry, is it?" she screamed. "I don't understand you sometimes, working yourself up like this, it's ridiculous!"

"M-m-my t-tummy huuurts, mommy!" Harry wailed, clutching it tightly. His face was red, though Jordan couldn't tell if it was from fever or their mother's hand. The little boy spotted him and wailed. "Jorrrdannn, I'm siiick! I--I'm--g-gonna b--"

Harry chose that moment to vomit all over their mother, and Jordan winced. Not because it happened, because he honestly couldn't give two fucks about her at the moment, but because of what he knew would happen next.

Harry started sobbing harder, causing snot to peek out from his nose, and their mother shrieked, then smacked Harry across the face with a resounding 'slap!'

"You vile child," she hissed, grabbing her son's arm and effectively digging her nails into it, drawing blood. "You disgust me. I never wanted you and I was stuck with you, but this . . . this is ridiculous. Grow up, honey, because sooner or later you're gonna have to real quick. I'm not staying with you much longer."

Harry started sobbing so hard that Jordan was momentarily afraid that his little brother might have some sort episode that left him unable to breathe, and he quickly rushed to the side of the bed that his mother wasn't at.

"Come here, Harry, it's okay bud." he held out his arms, earning himself a look from his mother that was best described as 'I-can't-believe-you-fucking-turned-out-this-way.'

Harry let out a strangled sob and inched towards his brother, holding out his shaking arms.

"It's alright, bud, I've got you."

"Don't call me bud," Harry sobbed, and Jordan realized that their father had probably been drunk on Bud Light recently. Maybe the kid couldn't read yet, but after all of the shouting and complaints of 'I'm out of Bud Light,' that came from their dad's mouth, Harry had probably put two and two together, or learned to recognize the word.

"Okay," Jordan rubbed his little brother's back gently, glaring at his mom. She wouldn't hit him. Not now, maybe not ever. He always got the abuse the least. Somehow, his mother thought her life got fucked up when the twins came--more specifically, when Harry came. She loved Jordan--she wanted Jordan. Right? She had said that, hadn't she?

"Will 'buddy' be okay?" he asked softly, and upon earning a soft nod, continued to comfort his brother. "You're alright buddy, yeah? You still feeling sick?"

Harry nodded, wiping his snotty nose on Jordan's shirt before sniffing in stuffily. At that, their mother threw her hands in the air and left, a string of colorful words floating from her overly plumped red lips.

Jordan forced himself not to shiver at the gross feeling, knowing it would only make his brother feel worse. "Let's get to the bathroom buddy, okay? We'll clean you up, give you a nice bath--"

Harry perked up a little, lifting his head to look at his brother with dull, glassy eyes. "Can Hayde have a bath, too?" he asked hopefully. "I wan' 'o play wi' him. We like o play wi' our duckies."

"Yeah buddy," Jordan smiled, running a hand through his brother's thick hair. "Yeah, Hayden can come, too."

Hayden was very quiet at the door, and Jordan turned to look at him to find the young boy cowering in the doorway, tears still flowing down his red cheeks. He was quaking like a leaf in a breeze, and his little lip was trembling. Jordan strongly suspected that the kid hadn't ever entered the room, probably paralyzed in the doorway the moment he saw his mother abusing his twin.

Jordan quickly stood up, earning a gag from a startled Harry, and brought the two of them over to Hayden.

"Kiddo, you good?" he asked gently, placing a hand on the shivering boy's shoulder.

"N-n-no." Hayden sobbed. "W-wan' out."

"Out of what, kiddo?"

"H-here." Hayden wailed, his eyes filling up with fresh tears and freely spilling out. "D-don' like it here. I w-want somebody to love us."

It took a moment for Jordan to process what had been said; Hayden had trouble with his 'r' sounds, but had finally gotten his 'l's right--until he was upset bad enough, and after that it was all downhill. When Jordan finally did understand, his heart broke, and it broke all over again when he realized Harry had understood much sooner, bringing on another wave of hysteric sobs.

Harry reached his arms out for his twin, and Hayden gratefully accepting; Jordan, who luckily at seven was smart enough to realize he had to brace himself for the added weight, and did so just before Hayden crashed into him. It was easy, with the twins' heads together, but still he took extra care to make sure neither one of them saw his silent cries. He had to be strong for them--he knew they didn't do anything wrong, but they didn't. He knew somebody could love them, but they didn't. He knew his mother had problems, but they didn't. They didn't understand--Jordan barely understood, but he could only imagine what might run through two three-year-old's minds.

"Come on boys," he said when he was sure his tears had stopped. "How about that bath?"

Harry woke up screaming, thinking he was still in that home, still three years old. He kicked and hit and thrashed and yelled, eyes still shut because he was afraid to open them, even though at five and almost six he knew that opening them would make the vision come to a stop.

"Harry! Harrybo, it's okay!" Hayden's voice began to reach his ears, and Harry slowed down a bit as his mind slowly started realizing that he was not in his house--he was at home, with the Petersons--and he slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing he realized was that it was dark, a nightlight shining by the door. Second thing--his pants were wet, something that hadn't happened in at least a year. He recognized his brother staring at him with wide brown eyes, frightened and sad. Next thing? He was going to vomit, and he was going to vomit soon.

This realization, of course, set off a new wave of frightened sobs, and Hayden struggled a moment before climbing onto the bed and cuddling up to his brother's side in his usual attempt to calm him. He didn't care if Harry was a mess or if the bed was a bit damp. It wasn't the first time, and Harry had never cared when their roles were reversed. Why would Hayden care when his twin needed him?

"Harry? Hayden?" Jordan's sleepy voice rang out in the hallway through a yawn.

Harry didn't understand it, because Jordan had seemed to adjust to the new house very easily. On second thought, he didn't always seem thoroughly interested in it--grateful, but slightly weird, though then again he was always weird. But he seemed to have settled nicely. Hayden had as well--at first he had a few nightmares, and as he and Harry shared a room Harry always climbed into bed and lulled him back to sleep with whispered re-imaginings of "Humpty Dumpty" and "The Princess and the Pea" all which usually ended with some weird knight jamming out to Prince whilst plunging a sword through a pumpkin.

So why wasn't he adjusting that easily? He had been overjoyed at first, with his new mommy taking care of him while he was feeling poorly, and his new daddy giving them his toys and the way they read them bedtime stories or hummed them to sleep when they couldn't get there on their own. But then he had started to withdraw--he hadn't been hungry as often, or as happy, and played numbly with his toys, unknowingly wearing an expression that often matched one that etched itself onto Jordan's face, when Jordan wasn't near him or Hayden, an expression Jordan wore on his own, once of confusion or loss because he didn't know exactly what he felt.

Harry's stomach rolled grossly causing him to let out a high pitch whine, letting his mouth give out any sound it wanted to, which in this case was similar to that of a banshee's scream. Hayden tried desperately to help his brother, but his little words of nothing and frantic story-telling did nothing now, and just as the bedroom door opened, Harry vomited harshly all down his front.

His new mommy let out a cry and sat down quickly, pulling him into her despite how gross he was, just as he started shrieking again. New Daddy scooped Hayden up to comfort him, because Harry's panic attack had taken a toll on Hayden as well, once the little boy realized he was absolutely helpless in the situation.

"What happened, dear, what is it?" Mrs. Peterson asked frantically. "What happened, Harry dear? Are you sick?"

"Mom--Mommy," was all Harry could choke out, practically suffocating on his sobs.

Jordan stood in the doorway, all traces of sleep gone as he watched with wide, frightened eyes. To Mr. Peterson's surprise, the older boy came and joined him and Hayden at Hayden's bed, where the two had situated themselves to give Harry and Mrs. Peterson some space.

"Mommy, mommy, mommy. . ." Harry was crying out repetitively now, body shaking as Mrs. Peterson rocked him, shushing him gently and humming tunelessly in a way that was still calming and beautiful.

"What happened?" Jordan asked quietly, gently tracing his thumb down Hayden's flushed cheeks in an attempt to wipe the tears away, prevent more from spilling. He wanted more than anything to take some of the pain away, make his brothers happy again, just like they had been at dinner, goofing off and laughing, shoving thin French fries in their mouths as they pretended to be walruses, shoving those same fries up their noses to make the other one laugh so hard they spat chocolate milk from their nose. All he wanted for them to feel loved in the way he had never been able to give them, the way he had felt for all of two and a half years and hopefully felt again now. He knew how badly they had wanted to be loved by someone besides their brother, by real parents. Maybe he wasn't a parent, but as their big brother he could certainly love them and help in any way they needed.

Hayden shuffled into Mr. Peterson's lap as opposed to the man's side, so he could reach out to cuddle into his brother--if he could get comfort from two people instead of one, he was all for it.

"Harrybo was yelling in his sleep," he sniffled, clutching Jordan's forearm tightly. "I tried to wake him up and when he did he was still scared. He wet the bed and everythin', and I couldn't get him quiet. He just screamed and screamed and screamed and he cried somethin' awful, Jordan. Then he threw up and mommy came in an' he's still cryin'! Why's he still cryin', Jordy?"

Jordan detected the return of his brother's mangled 'l' sounds, and he sighed as it was a dead giveaway of how frightened the kid really was. "He had a nightmare, Hay, you know what that is, right?"

"Yes," Hayden sniffled again and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, taking his grip off Jordan's now aching skin in favor of his blankie. "But I tried everything! I talked to him and made up stories and told him how happy we all are here; and that mommy and daddy would help him and I asked if he was sick and I cuddled him and I even bopped him on the head with Dino!"

Jordan chuckled softly as his little brother gestured to the green, purple-spotted stuffed dinosaur that lay discarded by their father's feet. "I know you tried to help, kiddo, and I bet Harry really appreciates it."

"Then why didn't it stop it?" His little brother's face screwed up in confusion as he asked the question. "It should have taken all his pain away, Jordy, it did that for me when I had nightmares."

"Sometimes pain doesn't go away, little brother." Jordan said softly, swallowing in a hard way that almost hurt his throat. "Sometimes it just lingers. Sometimes it goes and comes back. Sometimes it fades but stays. Sometimes you fake that it's not there, you pretend. But there will pain more than once in your life, kiddo, and you'll get through it eventually, every time. But sometimes it takes longer for other people to do that, to push through. Sometimes they don't think they're strong enough, or they haven't figured out the best way to push through yet."

"Will Harry be okay?" Hayden asked softly.

Jordan listened as his other brother's cries slowly but surely began to slow down in gasping, choked and choppy breaths. He turned to smile at Hayden and cupped the small boy's face with his palm. "Yeah kid. Yeah, Harry will be just fine."

Mr. Peterson smiled at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Jordan had grown very close with Mr. Peterson. Maybe the man didn't know everything about Jordan yet, and maybe he never would, but for now that was okay. Jordan knew that the older man looked at him as a son, and that was a feeling that had been suppressed for so long that the boy welcomed it with open arms. Mr. Peterson was the only person to see Jordan's face when he was alone, able to relate enough to comfort him on the occasional night he had resorted to crying himself to sleep. The memories were vivid, the sight of the bruises on his brothers' arms, the blood on their faces and the little scars that would surely grow larger as their bodies did. Mr. Peterson had sense the pain in Jordan's voice as he had spoken, a fact Jordan knew with certainty and held no opposition towards, but luckily Hayden hadn't noticed anything.

"You're very wise, Jordy." Hayden said, leaning into his brother's touch gratefully. "I love you, big brother."

Jordan knew better than to point out the mangled phonetics, and didn't mention that the sweet little voice had said 'brudder,' because he knew it would upset Hayden. He knew it was because his little fighter was stuffed up from crying and he was bouncing back from being very upset, and so he let it go. In the morning, Hayden would have bounced back completely, joyously turning over tubs of building blocks that would scatter over the living room floor. He would go back to saying his 'l's and 'w's properly and soon enough he would even be saying his 'r's right! Hayden was a smart kid, and Mr. Peterson was teaching him to read now, and he was doing so well that Jordan couldn't help but be a proud big brother as he watched, even smiling when the kid stumbled over words, and grinning so widely he thought his face would break whenever Hayden got a word right which caused his whole face to light up.

"I love you, too, kiddo." he said with more sincerity than any other time he had ever said it to anyone. "Look at that, see? Harry's not crying anymore. I told you he would be alright."

Hayden took that news with wide eyes that turned bright quickly as they began to dance happily, and when he saw that Harry was now sucking his thumb, Hayden grinned and nestled his own face into Mr. Peterson's chest, quickly falling asleep with very, very light snores and a smile on his freckly face.

"Harry, dear, tell me what happened, honey?" Mrs. Peterson whispered.

"Bad dream," Harry croaked around his thumb. His eyes were a bit glassy from lingering but un-shed tears, voice wavering, but he had calmed down substantially, now comforted by the feeling of loving arms around his tiny body. His head was resting against her chest, listening intently to her peaceful heartbeat.

"What was the dream about, dear?" Mrs. Peterson's voice was soft and calm, and Harry felt much safer now, hearing the care in her tone.

"Old Mommy," he answered. "How she would hurt me."

Mrs. Peterson's grip tightened, but in a protective way, and Harry, even at only five years old, could sense this, and looked up at her, removing his thumb from his mouth for just a moment.

"I'm okay, mommy." he said. "I'm okay."

"I wish I knew how to help you, dear." Mrs. Peterson was trying hard not to cry.

"But mommy, don't you see?" Harry said, slightly confused. "You are helping. I stopped crying. I'm not sick anymore. I'm safe now, I feel safe. I never felt safe before, mommy, not before you and daddy came."

Mrs. Peterson hugged him tightly, beginning to rock him again, and Harry rested his head against her chest again and resumed his thumb sucking as he grew drowsy.

"Mommy?" he asked hesitantly, his voice growing tired.

"Yes dear?"

"Are you okay?"

"Better than ever, honey." she kissed the top of his head as she let a silent tear drip down her face.

Jordan saw this and smiled to himself, because Mrs. Peterson loved them all so much and it was so easy for him to see that, and he was suddenly so much more grateful to her and Mr. Peterson for having adopted them in the first place.

"Mommy?" Harry yawned widely. "I'm tired. But I'm all yucky, I want a bath."

"Let's go give you a bath, dear." Mrs. Peterson chuckled with a small sniffle.

As she stood up and clutched Harry to her side he asked, "Get Blueberry, Blueberry wants to swim with me."

Mrs. Peterson snatched Blueberry from the bedside table and glanced to her husband, who smiled softly and nodded for her to go, silently telling her that he was more than alright where he was with the other boys.

Unfortunately, the nightmares happened several times a month, for several months, until Harry was so sick and tired of them that he stayed awake for two nights in a row for fear of closing his eyes; by that time he was so exhausted he passed out into his lunch of macaroni and cheese and slept for the whole day, and afterwards his new mommy even told him she was proud of him, because he slept without having the bad dreams. But even still, he chose then to sleep with her and his new daddy for a few nights, until he was positive they were all gone. Because even at nearly six he knew that even afterwards, when he got older and bigger and his voice grew deeper, he would still have those nightmares on days he got really sad, and he didn't like those nightmares, because he was happy being a Peterson and he should have happy dreams. But nobody had happy dreams all the time, and nobody ever would, but sometimes you had to have the bad ones in order to recognize the good ones.

Harry awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. It only took him a minute to realize he was sitting in his childhood bed in the room he had grown up in with his twin. He recognized the pain and the rug and the patterned bed sheets and the toy chests and the race car lamps and the little nightlight and even the familiar scent of roses because his mother always wanted things to smell clean.

He was sweaty, thick but short hair sticking to his damp forehead. His clothes stuck to his body and aggravated him, but he was too tired to bother trying to move them because he knew they would just stick again and he was too tired to get up to change into new and clean clothes. He shivered as he licked his lips only to taste the salt of the sweat, and he felt dampness to his cheeks that could only be tears. His stomach was in knots, and sure enough his entire body screamed for him to run to the bathroom.

But he knew his mom and dad were sleeping and so he got up slowly and walked calmly down the hallway to the bathroom, but once he got there his mouth was watering so badly that in his haste to reach the toilet he let the door slam as he landed hard on his knees.

Please don't wake up, he thought desperately as he fumbled to flip the toilet lid open, but sure enough he heard a bedroom door creak, followed by footsteps muffled by slippers on carpet.

He spat into the toilet and gagged as he looked down at the water, then retched loudly. The door opened just as he hid his head in the bowl, and he felt a warm hand on his heaving back. It was silent except for the echoing sounds of him being sick, until a fuzzy voice entered his ears--his mother telling him little nothings to calm him down, like "you're alright," or "that's it," or "I'm right here. You're safe now." She knew the drill, because she had had to learn it very quickly so many years ago, and now, though she hadn't expected it to happen again, she was still the same expert she had once been, and Harry was immediately comforted by this.

He spent a good three or four minutes with his head in the bowl, emptying his stomach until his whole body ached and begged forgiveness for whatever it had done to deserve such torture, and finally he sat up and leaned back on his heels, gasping for breath.

A thin hand reached past him and flushed the toilet, wiped his face with a tissue, threw it away, then came to rest on his stomach, which ached with pain but was no longer nauseous. His ears weren't so fuzzy now, and his vision wasn't blurred with the tears that had come back from the sharp aches of his stomach as it expelled itself. His head wasn't dizzy anymore, and so nothing was foggy and spinning as it usually did when he threw up. He was . . . okay again.

"M-Mommy," he whimpered shakily.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't need his mom, even at twenty years old. He knew that even at forty years old, he would still need his mom, and that was something he had come to realize and accept and be grateful for, a very long time ago--Mrs. Peterson was, for him, his real mom, and that was okay with him. It was preferable to him, and aside from the strange flashbacks he had on the odd occasion, he couldn't even remember his birth parents. Really, that's all they were--distorted flashbacks, the people who birthed him. The Petersons were his real parents, without a doubt.

"M-Mommy, I'm sorry." Harry rasped.

"For what, dear? Don't be sorry, you didn't want this any more than I do." she said softly.

Her pet name for him comforted him just as much at twenty as it did at five, and a faint, exhausted smile played on his lips as he leaned backwards into her, turning his head to rest against her chest as she rocked him slowly. She hummed softly, that same old tuneless, comforting and beautiful tune that had lulled him to sleep so many nights as a child. The sound of her heartbeat was just as strong at it was when he was a child, if not, somehow, stronger, and it relaxed him further until he was all done crying and could breath properly again.

There was no sign that anything had ever been wrong, aside from the fact that he was curled against his mother, the faint smell of vomit in the air, and that he was extremely disheveled on the bathroom floor. So really, not any hint at all (and if you didn't note the sarcasm, you must be plain silly).

"I didn't think this would happen anymore," Harry finally sighed, shivering as the cold of the bathroom tile began to register in his slightly numb body. "I didn't--I didn't think. . ."

"Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay." his mother hummed softly.

"I thought I'd grow out of it," he choked as a new wave of tears threatened to overcome him. "I'm too old for this."

"Honey, it's okay. You know why it happens."

"Doesn't mean I like it," he sniffled. He had been diagnosed with OCD and PTSD at the age of eleven, though chosen not to be medicated for it until he was fifteen. When he turned seventeen, he had had enough of a grasp over everything to be able to stop taking the medication, and only had attacks like tonight's every once in awhile, and even then there were tells that it was coming. Tonight however seemed almost out of the blue, at least, until Harry remembered the things he had talked to Sadie about. Going to bed that sad was never good for him, and he regretted telling her those things now--not because he told her, but because he chose to tell her at freaking three-forty in the damn morning.

His mom chuckled then, a sound so nice and unexpected he almost jumped a foot in the air, which made her laugh more, louder until it echoed nicely in the bathroom, yet another wonderful thing she did that made him feel that much better, because it made him happy to see other people happy. His brother Jordan had taught him a long time ago--"if you make other people happy, you're one of the luckiest people in the world."

Harry still remembered the words that had come next, "And you, Harry Peterson, are by far one of the luckiest people in the world, because you're a Peterson now. You can be happy now."

He had died only a few weeks later, and Harry's eyes watered and his lip quivered as he thought about that day again. It always made him sad, of course, but now, with his system so out of whack, it hit him a lot more suddenly than it usually did, and once again he was melted into a sloppy, sobbing mess of an ugly-cryer resorted to burying his face in his mom's pink bathrobe, getting snot and tears all over it without caring.

When his mother finally calmed him down this time, she held a tissue out to him and instructed he blow his nose, which he did and threw away, his head feeling a lot lighter and clearer now.

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess, mommy." he whispered. He never called her 'mommy' anymore, unless he missed her terribly or was feeling ill, or if he simply needed her. Right now, he needed her.

She rubbed his shoulder as he pressed his cheek against the top of her nightgown, sighing contentedly as the sound of her beating heart slowly kept him placid, breaths evening out until they were slow and, if he had to describe them, he would use the word tranquil, because 'peaceful' had a soft 'c' and he never had been able to say the sound of an 's' correctly--unless he was singing, that is. Which, of course, was just another one of life's little mysteries that he couldn't figure out, but one he had filed away as 'okay to leave unsolved.'

"I'm okay now, mommy." he whispered finally. "You can go back to bed."

"No, I'm alright. I'll stay up with you." she smiled, gently patting his head and stroking his hair. Nobody could ever deny that she was a loving mother, and Harry had always thought it was sad she had had to wait until she was twenty-eight to be one.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, stifling a yawn. "You should go back to daddy."

Mrs. Peterson smiled at that. Harry had one day grown too old to call her 'mommy' unless he felt it vital, but 'daddy' had always been okay in his book. "I'm sure, dear."

Harry smiled, sighing affectionately as he closed his eyes, the feel of his mother's bathrobe nice and warm against his face. "I'm cold."

"That's because we've been sitting on the cold tile for an hour." his mother chuckled quietly. "It's six in the morning, Harry."

Harry sat up, eyes wide and alert, and he shook his head vehemently. "Are you sure? Really? It can't be."

He glanced at the clock on the pinkishy wall--which he had never appreciated because it make taking long showers rather difficult--and found that she was right as the little hand ticked to 6:01.

"I'm so, so sorry." he began to ramble, getting awkwardly to all four and using the vanity to stumble to his feet. "Go to bed, get some sleep, daddy will wonder where you are, I shouldn't have woken you up, I--"

He stopped when his mother placed her hands on his shoulders, something she rarely did but always got him to stop and breathe. "Harry, it's okay. You're my son, and as a mother I don't mind these things."

"You're a good mother," Harry said, momentarily glancing to the ground so he could swallow the hard and familiar lump that had risen into his throat. When he met her eyes he saw that hers were damp with tears of her own. "I'm really glad . . . that I'm your son. I . . . I am, I'm really, really happy."

Several stray tears slid down his mom's cheeks, and he fought the urge to wipe them away because she had done it so many times for him, but he knew she wouldn't want that and instead he just held out his arms awkwardly, much in the same way he had as a kid, and let her embrace him in a huge, comforting yet almost bone-crushing hug that should never have to end.

"I love you, mama." he whispered hoarsely, his throat taking its time recuperating from how violently he had made himself sick.

"I love you too, dear, I love you too." she rubbed his back and took a deep breath. "I never told you or your brothers this . . . and maybe I should have . . . but the day we adopted you boys was the happiest day of our lives."

Harry felt the waterworks turn on again, and suddenly found himself wondering if this was how a girl's emotions worked on her period. The thought left just as quickly, being filed under 'weird random thoughts' in the back of his mind as he tightened his grip on his mom.

"For us too, mama, us too." he whispered.

His mom pulled back and wiped a tear off his face. "Are you sure you'll be alright, baby?"

Harry smiled reassuringly. "Yeah mama, I'm alright now. Thank you."

"For what?"

"I don't know," he shrugged helplessly but tiredly, and grew aware of how surprised he was that he hadn't collapsed from how exhausted his entire body felt. It always did after a bad panic attack like that, and it never ceased to amaze him how long he could go without sleep. Then again, in his job, nights with little sleep were kind of a given. "For just . . . being here?"

"I'll always be here, Harry, as long as I can be."

Harry smiled softly, and knew that she saw how tired he was.

"Go to bed, baby." she whispered, cupping his face with her palms and placing a gentle, motherly kiss to his forehead. "Get some sleep. We'll have a late breakfast this morning."

"That sounds great, mama." he smiled. "I'm just going to clean up a bit. You go on to bed, and if daddy woke up just tell him I'm fine . . . and leave it at that please."

She nodded understandingly, and with a smile left the room quietly, her slippers against the carpet almost inaudible, allowing her to move like a cat-burglar.

So that's how she did it when we were growing up. Harry thought, amused, not sure how he had never come to that conclusion before.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, noting that his hands were still slightly shaky, before turning to the toilet to relieve himself. He hardly spent two more minutes in the bathroom, but it felt like nothing was quick enough because his mind had settled on one specific thing and he had his sights set on it, and he wanted to get back to his room as quick as possible.

When he reached his bedroom he changed into sweatpants and a red t-shirt before flopping down onto the bed, sending his stuffed rabbit bouncing into the air. He grinned and caught it before it hit him in the face, then rolled over to snatch his phone up from the nightstand. He was exhausted, and wanted to sleep for a day if not a week, but he needed to talk to her because she was slowly but surely becoming his absolute everything. It wasn't healthy, it wasn't advised and maybe it wasn't smart, but he couldn't help it. He liked her, the way she spoke, the way she teased, the way she pretended not to care; he liked that she gave off the feeling of absolute safety, like he could say anything at all and feel better and then even more-so after she answered. And yet all he really knew was one thing, and that was a name, and a beautiful name at that.

Sadie.