I started writing this fic during Serious Request 2013 and planned to finish it over Christmas. Well, I failed. But here it is anyway, and I would like to draw some attention to the fact that good people still exist, even though they wear t-shirts and large spectacles instead of shiny armour. This year, there have been glass houses in The Netherlands, Sweden, Switzerland, Belgium, South Korea, and Kenya, and huge sums of money (and in the case of Kenya: ladies products) have been collected for various causes. The sacrifices made during SR are huge, and I'm immensely proud to live in a world where people are willing to ignore their own needs to help others. Guys and girls, thank you!
Sirius' request
His hands were trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure before having to enter the dim hallway. Snape had never quite liked the place, and returning here after a rather unnerving Death Eater party was one of the many things he detested about his life. The dust, the poorly lit surfaces, the shadows, and the blasted elf to top it off – he would much rather go home and bury himself in his books, knowing that nobody could disturb him if he did not let them in himself. But he was here, at number 12 Grimmauld Place, and he would have to take in the foul smell of the place and report back to the Order before returning home, where he could sleep until the weekend was coming to an end.
His breath steadied slowly and he blinked. There was a lump in his throat he had not felt in a long time. Being a spy had never been one of the most cheerful jobs, but today had been especially challenging. The Dark Lord had captured a pair of Muggle children, barely old enough to stand. The boy had looked him straight in the eyes the moment the killing curse fell, as if pleading for mercy. The girl had just cried and stroked his soft brown curls, trying to bring life back to his motionless body, although a blind man could have seen that it was too late to help the child. And Snape? He had just watched, his face unreadable, as the Dark Lord tortured these innocent beings. There was no logical reason for this crime, no benefit of killing a pair of children who had never even heard of wizards except in bedtime stories. He did it purely for his own amusement. A shiver had gone down Snape's spine when he heard the cold chuckle, as if the Dark Lord had shared a joke with the surrounding Death Eaters. Others had roared with laughter, a few had looked away with a barely concealed pain in their eyes. But nobody, not even the ones who did not have the heart to look, had extended their hand towards the girl. She had clutched at her younger brother's body, her hair growing moist with tears. Only minutes later, the tears were mixed with blood.
There was a day when he could watch these scenes without feeling even a trace of emotion. He would return home, send a brief note to Dumbledore, and fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. How had that all changed? There really was no reason to believe that he was growing soft. He still felt the same contempt for his pupils, rolled his eyes when they cried over poor grades, and hid a smirk when their potions blew up in their faces. If he didn't feel sorry about their petty worries, why should he feel any sympathy for the brats he didn't even know? Somewhere, deep down inside, he knew that what he had seen today was very different from the teenage drama he witnessed day in, day out at Hogwarts. But he had always been able to ignore this rational part of his brain and put aside the gruesome scenes as a necessary part of his job. A job he could only motivate himself to do with a single thought in mind…
His trail of thought was interrupted by a woman with a stroller passing by him. He was leaning against the door, well-concealed by the Magical barriers that were put in place a few months ago, and the woman did not notice him standing there. She halted only inches away from him and fixed the blanket that kept her child warm. Her child with brown curls, not very different from the ones that were entangled in the little girl's blooded hand less than an hour ago. Groaning to himself, Snape shook his head to get rid of the dull pounding in his head. He took a deep breath, and opened the wooden door, careful not to hit the umbrella stand that was always right around the corner and seemed to have moved a bit towards the door each time someone entered. Looking around, he saw the woman smile at the boy snoozing in the stroller. And tempted though he was to slam the door in her face, he pulled himself together and shut it softly.
The kitchen, though cluttered with brass pots and silver goblets bearing the Black crest, was thankfully empty. No Black to mope about his seclusion, no Tonks to knock over everything within her reach, no elf to mutter to himself and pretend he did not realise that he had company, and best of all: no Molly Weasley to overwhelm him with questions, concerns, and offers of her cooking. At least he could work here, and use the protected network Shacklebolt had set up to submit his work to the rest of the Order. Regaining his usual confidence, he let his cloak billow behind him and made it straight to the back of the long wooden table. He sat down, summoned some parchment, quills, and ink from the cupboard, and sneered at a newspaper clipping covering the latest tragedies of Minister Fudge that was left on the table, just for good measure. At last, his day was under his control again. Wasting no more time, he dipped a quill into the ink bottle and started on his report, finally able to detach the event of the day from his emotional experience.
It was over an hour later and the report was all but finished when he finally heard movement elsewhere in the house. A cough, someone slowly walking down the stairs, and finally Sirius Black shuffling into the kitchen, wearing a red dressing gown and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Snape watched him with mock amusement. Black had not noticed him, and pulled a coffeepot out of the nearest cupboard. He poured himself a mug of steaming coffee and sat down in the corner, his shoulders slumped and his hands clutched around the mug as if he was hung over. He really did look pathetic when he thought nobody was looking, Snape thought to himself. Child in a grown body when his input was unwanted, pathetic piece of sorrow when he was alone. Typical, why anyone could be fond of that man was a mystery to Snape. He sat at the table and watched his childhood nemesis for a while longer, folding his arms and schooling his features into his trademark glare. Black continued to stare at the floor and did not seem to be aware where he even was.
With a strange feeling of grim satisfaction, Snape took in the miserable state the man was in. Nothing in his posture still reminded him of the boy that had once made his life hell, together with his arrogant companion and two loyal sidekicks. Well… Not so loyal after all, looking back on recent years. The man who came back from prison had still reminded him of that boy. The arrogance, the conviction that he alone and no one else understood the true meaning behind things, the Gryffindor bravado that not even the Dementors could wash away, and worst of all: his never-ceasing support for the insufferable brat that was determined to put himself into as much danger as he could possibly manage, never mind the people who risked their lives for him, never mind the ones who cared about him. But the spirit that still shone more brightly than Snape had deemed possible when he returned from Azkaban had faded now, and was replaced by an aura of despair that made even his bright red gown look pale. When did that happen? And more importantly: why? Logic dictated that his former spirit would only come back to him, and that he would turn back into the man Snape had watched him grow up to be: loathsome, but at his proper place when surrounded by Order members.
He had made a fool of himself long enough, Snape finally decided. He put down his quill and leaned back into the wooden chair, the ornate carvings pressing into his skin. "Better stop sulking Black, your admirers will arrive shortly to hear you bragging about one thing or another," he informed the man in a sarcastic tone. The man jumped up, his coffee mug landed with a satisfying crash on the marble tiles. "AARGH!" he shouted, suddenly looking wide awake, his hands going over his dressing gown in panicked searching motions. When his eyes found Snape's, however, the look of alarm turned into one of annoyance. "You," he spat angrily. He straightened his gown and stood tall, giving Snape an angry glare. Just when Snape thought he would start shouting, he turned, exited the kitchen, and slammed the door. "Merlin," Snape heard the man whisper through gritted teeth.
He chuckled. That had gone even better than expected, he reflected. He had anticipated a fight, maybe some cursing, the usual insults, but not for the man to jump up as if bit by a doxy. And he had clearly left his wand somewhere else. Maybe on his nightstand, or wherever his alcohol-soaked brain had last been conscious the night before. Good thing he had no opportunity to do active work for the Order, Snape decided; he would be a danger both to himself and to everyone else involved with his careless lifestyle. Not that he was any better in a sober state – he would kill the lot of them in one of his foolish attempts at bravery, or take just one risk too many and expose the entire Order, including Snape himself, leading him straight to an inevitable death at the hands of the Dark Lord or one of his followers.
It took only moments for Black to re-emerge at the kitchen door, buttoning up an ornate midnight-blue doublet. Snape caught a glimpse of his wand, which he quickly tucked into the pocket in his sleeve designed to carry it – a subtle threat, warning Snape not to play any tricks, but not obvious enough to be interpreted as a provocation. Snape had seen the man make the same move many times before, most of those times right before another fight broke out and he had to defend himself against both Black and Potter – inseparable, insufferable, inexcusable. He involuntarily felt the hairs in his neck stand up straight, a shiver going down his spine. Black did not look like he planned for this to end in the truce they had been able to maintain over the past weeks, and by the looks of it, he had come back for him, not for another cup of coffee or, Merlin forbid, a nutritious breakfast. Not that he needed one – he would just be inside the house all day, sulking and waiting for someone to show up and cheer for him.
Yet, the look in the man's eyes could hardly be called hostile. There was a frown on his face, but the look in his eyes was distant, perhaps pensive, and his shoulders were drawn up, as if he was bracing himself for something coming at him. That was odd, because Snape was still sitting at the table, one eyebrow raised in a mocking stare, waiting for the man to make the first move. An then, unbelievably, he sighed and looked Snape in the eye. "I should not have said those things," he said softly but clearly. What did he say? Snape could only just keep his mouth from falling open in surprise. He raised the other eyebrow and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. That sounded almost like an apology, what in the world would possess the man to apologise for anything he did? He never had before. The silence in the kitchen was screaming loudly, and Snape could hear his own heart pounding into his ears. "You should not?" he enquired, careful to let his voice not betray his bafflement. Black swallowed audibly and nodded, a pained look crossing his face. "About abusing your authority over Harry during Occlumency lessons, I was wrong to say that," he added. He turned around briskly and started rummaging through the cupboards.
Snape watched him go through cupboard after cupboard. Black barely seemed to know what he was looking for, the way he was pushing things around in cupboards and taking out nothing. His movements were swift and anxious, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. Eventually, he pulled out the same coffee pot, and two more mugs bearing the Black crest. He poured coffee into both mugs, and Snape could not help but notice that his hands were shaking, even though his expression was calm and controlled. When both mugs were full, he picked them up and made his way over to the other side of the kitchen in a few long strides. He put one mug on the table in front of Snape, slamming it down on the table a little harder than necessary, and dropped into a chair, clutching his own coffee in both hands. Snape felt a strong urge to move his chair back and create a bit more distance between himself and Sirius Black, but caught himself in time. Instead, he picked up his mug and lifted his face, silently pressing for him to continue.
"In fact…" Black spoke slowly, as if he had not just taken a break from his little speech by ploughing through the entire kitchen, "I think you should use the authority you have been given to explore a bit more of Harry's mind than he might find acceptable." He looked down into his mug, his thumb going over the crest as if trying to wipe it off. If Snape was surprised at what the man had said before, it was nothing compared to the confusion he felt now. His frown returned, and he looked at the boy's dogfather sharply, using his piercing gaze the same way as when he intimidated his students to tell him the truth about their actions. "Do continue," he ordered in a low voice.
Black hesitated for a moment, but then looked up again, immediately dropping his gaze when catching the intense stare Snape have him. "Harry cornered me just before he went back to Hogwarts. He wanted me to tell him about what Arthur had been doing on his watch. Where he was, what he was guarding, who else knew about it, who was involved, whether the Ministry knew anything about it…" he spoke softly but urgently, no longer drowsy or suffering from any effects of a hangover, or so it seemed. "I fear that he might try to find out more, and that this will leave him even more vulnerable to the intrusions of… Of You-Know-Who. And if he indeed finds out more, or is trying to, you will probably be the only one who can find out and keep the Order informed. I know Harry. He has Lily's capacity for taking responsibility, even when it isn't his to take, but he also has James' arrogance to think he knows better how to proceed than anyone else. He will put himself in danger if we don't look out for him. You know he will. And you can warn us." With obvious effort, he lifted his gaze again and looked Snape in the eye. "Will you try to find out whether he is up to anything during Occlumency lessons?" Black asked in a strained tone.
Snape leaned back into his chair and couldn't help but smirk. "You mean to tell me," he started gleefully, "that you would like me to pry around in your godson's mind, regardless of his sense of privacy, and actually prevent him from displaying his usual stupidity?" This was excellent. He had told himself he would torment the boy no more than necessary, but this opened up a whole new perspective. If Black indeed meant what he thought he meant, he could search the brat's mind for all the information he needed, catch him in every possible misdeed, and he would not have anyone to answer to given the request of the brat's own godfather. If anything would make his job as an educator easier, this was it. Black closed his eyes for a moment, obviously fighting back an hateful response and replied: "Bravery, I'd rather call it. But yes, that is the general idea. Keep him safe…"
Barely a week later, Snape was sitting at his desk, waiting for the boy to turn up. The words of Sirius Black still lingered in his ears: "use the authority you have been given to explore a bit more of Harry's mind than he might find acceptable," he had said. That left quite something to the imagination, Snape could even defend poking around a little in the boy's childhood. The thought left him with a feeling of grim satisfaction, as if finally getting revenge for all the tricks the boy had pulled right under his nose for the past few years. But the way black had put this left him thinking about how he had come to the conclusion. It did not seem like a Gryffindor to request such a thing, instead of asking for the desired information straight away and trusting the answer to be truthful. But was this an act of betrayal towards his godson? Or was it maybe the ultimate act of love?