Chapter Thirty-Five

Her Daddy had been gone since before Easter.

Grace remembered because the Easter Bunny had given her an extra egg that year, as if he was saying sorry that her Daddy wouldn't be coming back that time, when Harry went back to school after the holidays.

She missed Harry.

But she missed her daddy even more.

The sound of rummaging in her mum's room roused Grace from the awakening haze that she was lying in, head buried deep into her – totally not ripped – pillow.

Grace was immediately alert, rolling over, and she pushed herself down the mattress on the heels of her hands and feet, until she reached the bottom and jumped down with a bounce, scampering from her room to the threshold of her mum's.

Her mum was on her knees, but Grace couldn't see all that much of her, as she leaned into the confines of the cupboard at the bottom of her bed. A shoebox slid out, followed by another, and then her mum leaned back on her knees and reached down to pull off the lid of the first one.

"What are you doing, Mummy?" Grace hurried into the room, immensely curious.

Her mum looked up quick.

"Oh, you're awake, Sweetheart."

"Yep," she plonked down next to her, reaching over and pulling open the lid of the second box. She frowned, reaching down and lifting up the first thing in the pile.

It was a picture of a man she didn't recognise – tilting his head at the camera with a smile.

He looked a bit like Harry.

"Who's that?" Grace asked, looking at her mum and then back at the picture.

Her mum cleared her throat; "That's Harry's Daddy."

Grace frowned, trying to make sense of the information. She knew that Harry's Daddy was different from her Daddy, yes. And she knew that Harry's Daddy couldn't be with them now, no. Grace guessed it was the same as with hers; that Harry only got to see his own when she wasn't around. Like they weren't ever supposed to see one another. Because his Daddy was a secret too.

Like secret spies!

Harry had read her stories about spies once and she was overcome with head-stories about how awesome it would be, to be a spy-family with lots of cool secrets and things the rest of the world didn't know while they all saved them without anyone knowing.

"What's his name?"

"James."

"James," Grace repeated, slowly; "I like it! What's my Daddy's name?"

Her mum didn't answer.

Grace frowned, looking up at her mum, expectantly.

Her mum smiled, brushing her fringe back from her forehead; "Your Daddy likes it best when you just call him Daddy. It makes him feel very special."

Grace considered the information. She made Daddy feel special. She smiled and nodded, looking back down at the picture of James; "Okay."

"How come James doesn't come to see Harry? Is he working, too?"

Her mum adjusted herself, so she was sitting more comfortably, before she shook her head; "No, Sweetheart. Harry's Daddy. Well. He's not with us anymore. He went away."

"Went away where?"

"Do you remember what I told you about Heaven, when you asked about my mummy and daddy?"

Grace nodded; "You said it's a place we go – after – that we can all be together again, away from here."

"Yes, that's right."

"I know what you really mean though," Grace said, looking down at the picture of James; "He's dead."

Grace stared at the picture of the man who, all of a sudden, looked even more like Harry than he did before. The man who had left her mummy and her brother and died and that's why he wasn't there, with them, now. And Grace felt suddenly very afraid.

"Is my Daddy dead?" she asked, in a whisper.

"No," her mum said, immediately, her hand grasping her shoulder; "No, Sweetheart, he's not."

Grace could only stare at the picture she held, her lip trembling; "But Harry's Daddy's dead and he doesn't come to see him. And my Daddy doesn't come to see me anymore. And he didn't get to say goodbye, because I fell asleep." Grace remembered it, that last night with him, tucked up in bed and listening to his voice and unable to keep her eyes open any longer.

She shook her head, eyes stinging; "I wouldn't have gone to sleep, Mummy! I would have stayed awake and kissed him goodbye at door!"

Her mum drew her into a tight hug and it was only then, when she was held close in the comfort of her arms, that Grace realised she was crying.

But she didn't want her mum.

She wanted her daddy.

She wanted to touch him and make sure that he was really alive.

Harry always said their mum never told them the truth – because she thought they were babies who couldn't handle it – and to speak to Uncle Remus if she wanted to ask questions.

Grace's sobs became hiccups.

She drew in a breath, leaning back and looking up at her mummy, who reached up and brushed the tears from her cheek with her thumb.

"Where's Uncle Remus?"

She wanted to talk to Uncle Remus. He would tell her the truth. He would tell her where her Daddy was and if he was really okay. Maybe he could even go and bring him back for her.

Her mum looked so very sad and that made Grace even more afraid.

Why would her mummy be sad if her daddy was fine?

"Uncle Remus is working, Sweetheart. At the school where Harry goes."

"But last year he still came to visit us every Sunday for dinner. How come he doesn't do that anymore?"

"He has to stay with Harry this year."

"Because his Daddy died?"

"Yes."

"Is Harry sad?"

Her mum nodded, before she drew one of the boxes closer; "He asked me to send him some pictures, so that he could keep them at school with him, to look at when he misses him."

Grace reached in, taking out another one, before looking at her mum with a frown.

"But I miss my daddy too and I don't have pictures," Grace pointed out, before she peered, hopefully, in the direction of the cupboard; "Can I have some pictures of mine?"

Her mum pressed her hand to her lips for a moment and then she shook her head; "I'm sorry, Gracie, I don't have any pictures of your Daddy."

"How come?"

"He doesn't like it. Getting his picture taken."

"Well that's very silly!" Grace declared; "What if we needed to find him and then no one would know what he looked like? We need to get some pictures."

"The next time he's home, we'll get one," her mum said, and she tried for a smile, but it just looked wrong, because Grace wasn't stupid, and she knew her mum was sad and treating her like a baby by pretending everything was fine.

She wanted to see Harry.

Or Uncle Remus.

Both of them.

"So, I won't get to see Uncle Remus until Christmas then? When he comes home with Harry?"

Grace looked at the calendar. That was weeks away. They hadn't even started the Santa-Countdown on the fireplace yet.

She looked back at her mum, who hadn't answered, and raised her eyebrows.

Her mum nodded after a minute; "Yes, Uncle Remus will be here for Christmas."

"Okay." Grace nodded; "Good."

She would ask Uncle Remus about her daddy then.

Harry looked longingly at the moving photograph held in his hand; his Uncle Sirius slapping his dad on the back as they laughed, unreservedly, in a way that told Harry they were doing so about something incredibly silly, an inside joke between friends – brothers – and he loved it, this one of several that his Uncle Remus had given to him that morning.

"Okay, so is it fly fishing or bait fishing?" Malachi asked, from where he sat opposite on the library floor, one of the books on Muggle fishing Remus had given him along with the pictures that morning clutched in his lap.

"Uh, fly, I guess?" Harry said, with a shrug; "There was a fly on the end of the string."

"Line," Malachi corrected, lowering the book and pointing to the labelled picture of a fishing rod upon it.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," Harry nodded, remembering his dad's tutorial; "The line. Yeah."

"Looks like you just chuck the fly in the water and hope a fish tries to eat it."

"That's it?"

"It has a section on 'The Perfect Cast', whatever that is," Malachi said, palm swiping through the pages, quickly, no doubt looking for the section he mentioned.

Harry was suddenly reminded of a similar instance, from when they were younger, two little kids in the Learning Centre and only just newly friends. It wasn't a significant memory, no, just one like this; Malachi sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, turning the pages of a book in exactly the same way – a palming swipe – and Harry shook away the odd sense of deja vu.

It wasn't the first time since Snape had used the Orion exercise upon him that it had happened.

It had been listed as one of the side effects in the reading material the Potions Master had provided him with; that he may continue to recall forgotten memories – small, disconnected ones – in the days that followed.

And he had.

It had not only been James Potter who had come back to him.

A whole slew of memories, long forgotten, had followed on the heels of it. Each new – old – piece of history, his history, and his life that he had somehow forgotten from times long passed, as if the spell had unlocked an entire closet of skeletons that he didn't even know existed.

There were memories of his mum and dad dancing in the kitchen while he watched, chuckling, from his highchair.

There were memories of his dad carrying him up on his shoulders and sharing a joke with Sirius who beamed up at him from where he was down below.

There were memories of his dad slapping Remus on the back, telling him how Harry had walked all the way from the coffee table to the sofa and to try to come around more often, would he, because he looked like utter shite. And he did, his Uncle Remus looked beaten and broken in the memories from back then when he was a baby.

And then flashes came further, when he reflected on those things that he saw, and he saw Remus and Sirius fighting – so very much – and Remus was blaming Sirius for what happened to his dad and Sirius was calling Remus a coward and then he was calling Snape a Death Eater and saying how they had to stop him from working with his mum.

Snape was working with his mum.

And that brought on even more, so quickly, as Harry remembered the table that his mum was sitting at and the person who she smiled so brightly at. He remembered seeing his face for the first time, Snape, and that was the first time he had ever glimpsed him. In a moment where he was trying not to smile back at his mum.

It was all so very strange, that they all knew one another, that Harry should end up caught in the middle of all these memories he didn't realise he had.

Had Snape unlocked them for him?

"Do you remember when we went looking for Sirius and we ended up at Hogwarts?"

"Oh," Malachi looked up from his reading and shrugged; "Yeah. A bit."

"How did we end up in Snape's chambers?"

Harry was trying to figure it out. They had been in someone's chambers in the school, after all – Harry recognised the layout of the interior from his visits to Remus – and his mum had been there and so had Snape, in the memory, so it was surely his.

No matter how odd that would actually be.

"Oh, yeah," Malachi nodded, suddenly seeming to remember; "He was watching me that time. Don't you remember? My dad was gone. Dumbledore sent us down there to wait until your mum came to pick you up."

Harry nodded, slowly, vaguely remembering the event. He supposed that made sense, then, why he would be in Snape's chambers and why his mum and Snape would show up there, together.

"Right."

"Why do you ask?"

"I dunno," Harry shrugged; "It's weird. It's like, ever since Snape helped me find some stuff about my dad, all this other stuff has been coming back to me. Things I didn't even remember knowing."

"Merlin help us all, when Harry starts thinking."

Harry chuckled, giving his foot a kick with his own, and Malachi grinned, before turning back to the book.

But Harry was thinking, as much as Malachi claimed that to be a rare feat, and his thinking was almost entirely on Snape now because another memory was coming back to him.

They were in St Mungo's, both of them, him and Snape, he was only six and he was following him and struggling to keep up with his strides and Harry had the vague recollection that he wanted Snape to like him, for some reason, and Harry couldn't quite remember why.

It was all very odd.

Harry had known who Snape was, he supposed, before he had come up to Hogwarts – Malachi's Godfather – but he had made such little impact that anything he remembered of him had been quickly snuffed out in that first Potions lesson when he had basically mocked him in front of the whole class for his 'fame', which he really didn't want anyone taking notice of. Not on his first day of school!

And anything that had come before then hadn't matter because Snape wasn't important, no. He was just this arse of a teacher who Harry really didn't like, and he had spent the next four years ignoring Harry except to issue detentions and stare at him, weirdly, for afar.

But, now, Harry was starting to remember things from long ago, like that day in the St Mungo's hallway, or the night in Snape's chambers, and, just this moment, Snape standing in his kitchen, come to pick up Malachi.

And it was so strange that Harry had forgotten, because he was only now just realising.

Snape had been there all along.

There were many, many things to be concerned about right now.

Obviously, there was the situation with Grace, which continued to plague him. It was absurd, really, that he should continue to dwell upon this. Staying away, that was – should be – the easiest part of all of this. The lies, the deceit that Lupin had continued to accuse him of – true, yes – was nothing in comparison to the grand scheme of things.

There were worse things he could do – would do, there was no other way – to ensure that this war was won and his family could be safe and live their lives outwith these shadows. And he didn't need Lupin breathing down his neck about every choice – or, rather, order – that he had to make or follow to see to it that that happened.

This was war. And war was not won by weak, short-sighted fools like Remus Lupin.

And there was Malachi, whom the Dark Lord was not only hunting but, also, attempting to turn; for what better way could he really stick and twist the knife into one of his most hated adversaries than to make him watch his beloved boy walk the very same path he had done as a child. Severus still wasn't entirely certain they were out of the woods on that front, not that he had revealed as much to Regulus yet, lest he send him spiralling completely.

Because, now, there was also the Foundation. The missing, dying employees, whom the Dark Lord was picking off like flies in an attempt to destroy what Regulus had built and taunt him and turn the tide of favour against him, once more, as those who dared to stand with Regulus, against him, lost their lives for doing so.

It was all a game, and one that Regulus was losing, and Severus struggled to find anything that may offer help or comfort – for the Dark Lord did not want him involved in this particular aspect, lest he lose his most-important position at Hogwarts.

No, that was reserved for the other spy within the Foundation – and who the hell was that?

But it was difficult to brood with Harry Potter beaming at him the way that he was in that moment.

Severus tried, very hard, not to smile back.

"Are you ready?" Severus asked, instead.

Harry nodded.

"Legillimens."

Harry's gratitude was palpable and had remained so in the weeks that had followed the restoration of the memory of his father. And Lily. A memory that had brought – obvious – great joy to the boy and Severus told himself that that was what mattered here and what was important – no matter the lingering distaste that still remained in his mouth following the ordeal – and the effects had worked just as he had hoped.

There was a trust between them now, granted, which definitely proved helpful in these lessons. But, more than that, there was a calmness, a confidence about the boy in himself – which Severus inwardly prayed would not lead to him suddenly morphing into a mini-James-Potter – that meant he was, finally, at last, able to demonstrate some control and manipulation over the memories that Severus was seeing.

This time, Harry kept him out, almost, for barely a moment; obviously, an attempt to occlude, but, failing that, harmless memories – harmless in Harry's eyes – began to come forth.

Memories of Grace and her dancing in the middle of the kitchen, singing into a wooden spoon, while Harry doubled over laughing.

Memories of Harry chasing Grace through the garden in the summer.

Memories of Harry pressing a kiss to Grace's bleeding finger, as she smiled at him through tears.

Severus drunk them up, delighted with them, though he ought to push them away and teach the boy that these images were not safe. He had to conceal and protect those he loved with all of his strength. But Severus let it go, in this single instance, as he had never been privy to quite so many images of these two children together and it warmed him, to see, as much as he would never admit it out loud.

It took only a few moments, after Severus began to lose focus of the legilliemency casting, for Harry to fully push him out.

Severus dropped his wand arm to his side, looking at Harry.

Harry beamed at him – again, the little Hobgoblin, he was not making this distance-thing easy – and Severus pursed his lips together, so that he would not.

"I got you out."

"This once, perhaps."

Harry shook his head; "I got you out!" He repeated it, smile widening, impossibly, further.

Severus lips twitched but he crossed his arms across his chest; "I ought to point out that when selecting memories to offer up, the focus should be upon things that do not matter to you, quite so much as a beloved sibling."

Harry shrugged; "He probably already knows about Grace. What does it matter if he sees her? Obviously, he knows she's special."

Severus clenched his fist, briefly; "Nonetheless, it is best to conceal as much as you can of her. From everyone."

Harry shrugged; "Alright."

"Shall we try again?"

"Do you think that you're ready, Sir?"

"Five points for cheek, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes.

Severus lifted his wand, waiting for the nod, and then he spoke the incantation.

"Legillimens."

There was a blankness that met him for a few seconds.

And then there he, himself, was and he and Harry were walking down the corridor of St Mungo's so many years before – the first time that he and the boy had ever met – and they were talking about Lily.

Good grief.

Severus pushed, hard, against the boy's barriers in a way he hadn't quite done before, and he went further in, easily breaking Harry's carefully constructed defences, before they could have any time to dwell on that particular moment, and then he was facing Remus Lupin.

The joy.

Lupin was smiling warmly at Harry, still a little boy, only six or so, and Harry was saying it was as if 'he' was dead – his father, obviously – and Severus felt Harry, the older Harry, push hard back against him, attempting to reinstate the occlumency barriers.

And, now, they were still in the same room, although the view was obscured by railings, as if through a stair banister that the young Harry was peering down from, and it was Lily's voice 'I don't know what I would have done without you' first before Lupin was kissing Lily on the sofa.

Severus withdrew in a flash.

Harry looked befuddled, no doubt due to a more aggressive attack than he was used to, in Severus' attempts to push past any memory that may connect him with Lily, and Severus took the opportunity to turn away.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, trying and only just managing to keep himself from snapping, because as if seeing Lily with Potter was not enough, now, now he had to deal with an image of that.

Severus had always suspected, and Lily had always denied it, that Lupin felt more than friendship for her, and how could she possible do so when he had – they had – clearly made a move on these not-at-all platonic affections previously.

Severus clenched his jaw, drawing in a breath, and tried to keep calm.

The memory was clearly from years ago, he told himself.

That did little to placate him.

More certain than ever that the wolf was just biding his time; waiting until all of this finally blew up.

Severus shook his head; "That'll do, Potter."

He dismissed him, lest he totally lose his rag, as there were more than just lovely memories of Lily and Grace inside Harry's head and with him now being so rattled Severus was actually worried that if he were to be offered up such another ungodly sight, he may just reveal all their secrets in his reaction.

"It's not even been an hour, Sir," Harry said, frowningly, as Severus took a seat behind his desk.

Severus drew over a parchment and a quill, setting to work on some easy marking, while his mind wandered back in the direction of the Foundation – where he forced it to go – rather than on all the things he would like to do to Remus Lupin right now.

"Sir?"

Severus rolled his eyes, jaw clenching, but he didn't look up.

"Consider that your dismissal, Mr Potter."

He carried on writing – and brooding – not looking up.

But he knew Harry was still there, watching him.

He willed him to leave – as if willing Harry to do anything ever worked – to no avail.

After a minute, maybe even more, Severus sighed and lifted his eyes from the parchment to Harry in exasperation.

Harry was staring back at him.

A very strange look on his face, indeed.

Severus frowned; "What is it, Potter?"

Harry looked startled at being addressed.

And, then, he shook his head, his voice a whisper.

"Nothing."

And then Harry turned and hurried from the room.

Grace always got this look whenever she was thinking about something.

Usually, it was something she was incredibly, terribly concerned with. Like a puzzle she was trying to figure out. Or an injustice she was trying to understand. Or a scolding she didn't believe she should have been given.

She brooded, basically, her little mind going into overdrive in a way that Harry had always thought was totally adorable.

His baby sister, always thinking, and she was so entirely different from Harry.

His sister was utterly unique.

Harry knew no one in this whole world quite like her.

Until now.

Now, as Harry walked slowly from the office in the dungeons, Harry suddenly knew everything.

All of it was clicking into place.

Harry never really thought much about what his little sister had said to him, a few months before, when she had pointed at the professor he despised and declared that the man was 'Daddy'. The idea was so ludicrous that it didn't warrant further consideration.

His little sister had a crazy imagination at the best of times and was a real drama queen, to boot.

At least, that's what his mum, what his Uncle Remus had always told him. Had always had him believe.

That Grace was lying.

That she was a just a silly child, her voice not to be trusted. All of it fantasies, all of the tales she had eagerly told him, every summer – every damn summer – when he had come home, and she would regale him of anecdotes and stories about her most beloved father – who was there, always there, whenever Harry couldn't be.

His little sister wasn't the liar here.

For in that moment, in Snape's office, when Snape had withdrawn so abruptly from his mind and turned away – as if what he had seen there, Remus kissing his mum, was so abhorrent to him – and taken up seat at his desk, he had gotten it.

That look.

Eyes entirely focused on what he was doing; gaze utterly, completely intense. That would have been enough, alone, but then the Potion's Master had rolled his eyes, lifting them from the parchment to look at him, with such exasperation and hell.

Harry could have sworn he was looking at his baby sister.

There was a knock at the door.

Another.

Frantic, frantic, bang, bang, banging that told Remus, before he'd even made his way across his chambers to open it, that something was very wrong.

Remus pulled open the door.

Harry was standing on the other side.

His eyes were red. His breathing not quite steady.

And his expression, all that he was feeling, was so exposed, in a manner so vulnerable, that Remus knew exactly what he was going to say before he even said it.

"It's Snape, isn't it?"