Title: Be Good and Don't Make a Sound
Snarry Games 2007 Team: Wartime
Genre(s): AU
Prompt: Chain of Command
Length: ~18,000 words total. ~5,000 in part 2.
Pairing: SS/HP
A/N: Dedicated to Ac1d6urn. Written between 24.3 - 21.4.07.
Betas: Sazzlette, Eeyore9990, Medawyn, Unrequited Angst, Joanwilder, Perfica and Ac1d6urn. Thank you all.
Summary: How can Harry rush to the rescue when it's his own dad who stands in his way, and Death Eater Severus Snape who needs his help?
***
Be Good and Don't Make a Sound
2:
The door of the training area opened and revealed Sirius standing on the other side, waiting for Harry. "Yo," he told Harry and saluted in mock greeting, grinning.
While studying Sirius, Harry had the notion that Sirius was studying him in return. Sirius looked scruffy and unkempt, with stubble and bruises covering his face.
Distantly, Harry wondered what he himself looked like. He was probably a little paler than last month, and he knew for a fact that his leg muscles had grown stronger from all the running he'd been required to do. His back was straighter.
Little by little, Harry's commanders were turning him into an Auror. He liked it.
"What are you doing here?" Harry remembered to ask Sirius. He looked around. "Where's Dad?"
Sirius motioned for Harry to start walking to the lifts along with the other recruits, albeit at a much slower pace. "We came back from a patrol a few hours back," he said. "I volunteered to stay and pick you up for your first weekend home."
"Is he all right?" asked Harry, worried.
Sirius nodded and quietly said, "He's fine, but roughened up a bit. Nothing big. He just wanted to check up with the new servant he's got for your house."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "A new servant?" he echoed.
"Yeah. With you gone for training and me and your dad in patrols and missions, the house is going to be empty a lot. Your dad doesn't want that." Sirius grinned. "He's a riot. He's got this wicked choker around his neck."
They arrived at the lifts and waited until the doors opened.
Harry said, "It's good to be out."
Sirius chuckled. "You make training sound like prison."
Harry grimaced in reply. While he liked being turned into an Auror, the process of turning into one was daunting. Sirius's chuckle turned into honest laughter.
***
It was strange for Sirius to go with Harry to the Pound. Sirius and James might have been best friends and Sirius might have been Harry's godfather, but he almost never came to the Potters' residence unless there was a good reason. Both men claimed that by the time they got time off from work, they were tired of one another, and needed a rest.
The only reason Harry could come up with was that James was hurt badly enough to need help, but Sirius had said Harry's dad was a bit pummeled and that it was nothing major, and besides, didn't they have a new servant at home?
A dark voice in Harry's mind reminded him of the night one month ago, when Sirius had brought somebody over and stayed until the morning after. And today, hadn't Sirius, telling about the servant, sounded more technical and rehearsed than necessary?
Harry shook his head as he dumped his dirty clothes into the laundry basket. His reaction was exaggerated. There was no reason for Sirius not to be with the Potters when his godson had been recruited for the Aurors other than to be with Harry, and there was nothing sinister in coming back with Harry to the Pound the first time Harry got a weekend off from training. It was only the suspicion that Auror training was trying to instill in him acting up.
With the resolve to believe in James and Sirius and to enjoy his weekend firmly in mind, Harry stepped into the bathtub and turned the tap. He'd forgotten how wonderful it felt to not share a shower with other people, and he'd been on the brink of forgetting how good it felt to shower for longer than three minutes.
Almost blind from exhaustion, Harry stumbled once, and then twice, but decided to turn off the water only on the third time he found himself tripping over water. He toweled himself dry and dragged himself to his room, barely remembering to close the door and put on his pyjamas before diving into bed.
Harry felt very dazed and pretty much immobile. An average of six hours of sleep per night for a month certainly left a person tired, he thought.
And then he fell asleep.
Only to wake up some time later, completely confused and very, very alert.
Harry stayed in bed for a moment and listened. Since everything was silent, he was quite prepared to go back to sleep, but a repetition of the sound that had woken him up occurred.
"JAMES!"
Harry's eyes shot open and he was up before he even knew why. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, and he noted with horror that the door to his room was open a bit.
What had happened?
He crept down the stairs with his wand drawn, careful not to make a sound. He stopped every so often to just listen and feel the air currents around him.
He reached the corridor at last and kept moving until he reached the door to the living room – and stopped dead in his tracks, staring slack-mouthed at the fireplace.
"Sir?" he asked his training commander.
Kingsley Shacklebolt's harried expression calmed a fraction with Harry's arrival. "Harry," he said. "I need to talk with your father. Is he around?"
Harry shook his head. "I don't know—" he began, but when Shacklebolt's expression reassumed its panicked look, Harry quickly offered, "but I can look for him, if you'd like."
"Please," Shacklebolt asked, his face pinched.
Having an idea where his dad might be, Harry climbed the stairs with a heavy heart. Had James been in the lower or middle stories, he would have surely heard Shacklebolt's calls.
That left the attic.
He wasn't supposed to go there, never ever, because it was where his dad kept some of his work. But he was sure that this was important. His commander wouldn't look this worried if all he wanted was to invite James and Harry for dinner.
He stopped in front of the door. Then took a step forward. Then, he knocked.
Nothing happened. This time, there were no shouts or sounds stopping abruptly, no clue that there was even anybody inside. Harry almost let himself leave the matter alone and tell Shacklebolt that his dad wasn't home –
But then he remembered that this was urgent, and so he gathered his wits, gripped the knob, and turned it.
Harry didn't know what he had expected to find inside, but his expectations most certainly didn't include a room he'd find in any other place with a similar design. The floor was of dark wood, and so were the walls, what little there was of them, because the sloping ceiling took so much space from the room that little could be otherwise used. At the far end of the room and to Harry's right, there was a comfortable-looking sofa and a couple of cupboards with glass doors, filled with books.
No, that was normal.
The thing that was not normal was that at the end closer to Harry, there was a man wearing a red dress and a white apron, sitting on the floor, shackles binding his feet together and a collar on his neck, tied to a ring in the wall. The man's eyes –that are so black – were open, alert, and looking straight at Harry.
"What the . . ." Harry began saying, but trailed off.
Some distant part of Harry's mind was saying that he wasn't supposed to have seen this. However, the larger part of his brain was covered by thick fog.
Harry walked over to the man, slowly, and crouched in front of him, looking him in the eye. Something fluttered in his mind and disappeared when Harry's clarity returned to him. He gasped and turned his head, breaking the link.
Somebody was coming up the stairs, Harry suddenly noticed, and sure enough Shacklebolt entered the attic in a second. Harry stood and looked between Shacklebolt and the strange man, thinking inanely, He's not supposed to be up here either. He was supposed to still be in the fireplace waiting for Harry, and not in the forbidden attic.
But Shacklebolt was there, and didn't comment on the very visible man chained to the wall. "Harry?" he asked. "Is everything all right?"
"Yeah," Harry heard himself say. "Can't you—" and then he stopped, physically unable to mention the man at his feet.
"Can't what? Harry, are you sure you're fine? You're terribly pale."
"Yeah," Harry repeated. He risked another glance at the man on the floor, whose eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth set in an angry line. Harry shook his head and said, "Yes, sir, I am. I just thought I'd seen something."
"I don't suppose it was James, by any chance?"
Harry shook his head. "No, sir."
Shacklebolt swore, looked at his wristwatch, and swore again. "Harry, I'll need you to tell your father to contact me immediately. I can't wait for him."
"Okay. . . ."
"Thanks. I'll see you again on Monday." With that, Shacklebolt hurried down the stairs. Harry followed him, but not before he glanced back one last time at the black-haired, black-eyed, hooked-nosed man that was sitting on the floor of the attic. Something akin to recognition stirred in him, but Harry didn't have the time to examine the feeling more closely. He had to look for his dad first.
"I'll come back," he promised, not knowing whether the promise was meant to reassure himself or the man.
The last thing he saw before leaving the attic was something Shacklebolt had failed to see: a cross-dressed man chained to the wall with his head bowed down toward the floor. All in all, the entire situation disturbed Harry greatly.
He closed the door behind him.
***
Harry had spent the rest of the afternoon in a busy daze, alternating between trying to find his dad and talking to people who were trying to do the same. He had stopped sitting on the sofa to wait for the next barrage of James-lookers. Instead he summoned a few cushions to sit comfortably in front of the lit fireplace.
Worry gnawed at his mind. Where was he? Why hadn't he told Harry he was going?
Harry dozed, between fire-calls. Bit by bit, the sparse afternoon daylight bled into dusk and dusk into darkness, and when Harry would open his blood-shot eyes, a smiling crescent moon mocked his anxiety. By ten o'clock, the fire-calls had slowed to a trickle, and by half past they had completely ceased.
It was only natural that James and Sirius would burst into the house then, half-carrying and half-helping Draco Malfoy walk. The clothing of all three was torn, some articles completely missing, and their faces were grey with exhaustion.
Harry jumped up to his feet and rushed over to them. He shooed Sirius from holding Malfoy and wrapped his own arm around the blond's waist. He didn't like the way Sirius was limping.
Sirius didn't fight Harry much, which worried him even more. He tightened his hold on Malfoy, causing a hiss in pain. "Sorry," Harry muttered, and helped Malfoy limp over to the fireplace.
Sirius, the only one now with both hands free, fumbled with some Floo powder and threw it shakily into the fire. "Headmistress McGonagall's office," he called, and waited.
McGonagall's face swam into view. "Sirius?" she said with relief when she saw who was standing in front of her. She turned her head and asked, "James?"
"It was a trap," James said abruptly.
"I know."
"And you didn't warn us."
"We tried," said McGonagall, tired and resigned. Her glasses hung low on her nose. "We've been trying to contact you for hours. How is Mr Malfoy?"
"Hurt," Malfoy croaked icily from between Harry and James.
McGonagall closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, she asked, "Can you Floo?"
"None of us should," replied James. "They hit us with something that might interfere."
"I will give you a Portkey in a few minutes, then." With that, she disappeared.
Sirius immediately turned around and went to collapse on the sofa, which obviously hurt him, as he drew his eyebrows together in pain. Harry and James shared a look, and when Harry tilted his head to the sofa in an offer that he and Malfoy also sit, James nodded.
"Should she really do that?" asked Malfoy once he and James were seated. "Take us back to Hogwarts with a Portkey?"
"Shouldn't be a problem," Sirius answered. "A Portkey doesn't rely on your magic like Floo does."
Only the fire's crackles and the clock's ticking sounded in the weary silence that stretched out. Sirius and Malfoy's eyes were closed and their heads thrown back against the backrest. James was staring at the air in front of the fire, waiting.
Harry asked softly, "Where were you?"
James sighed. "I can't tell you."
Harry clenched his fists. "A mission?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. He could also have asked Why didn't you wake me up? Why did you leave me here to find the man in the attic? Where were you? Didn't you know I was worried?
But he didn't.
James replied tightly, "Because it was secret. It still is."
Harry snorted in response.
"Harry," James said in warning. "Don't push it."
A minute later, McGonagall's head returned to their fire, and after a minute more, all three were gone and Harry was left alone.
Again.
***
Harry didn't know when his father had returned the previous night, but in the morning, James woke him up far earlier than Harry preferred and told him he was wanted at an Order meeting. Sirius didn't return with him.
That strange occurrence led to even stranger happenings. Harry had not expected to be waited on while he and James ate their own breakfast in their own living room in their own house.
And most of all, he had not expected to be waited on by the man he'd seen chained to the wall on the previous day, wearing knee-high socks that looked just a little too small and a red dress with a white apron that ended just over his knobbly knees. Wrapped around his neck was a metal collar that glinted in the daylight.
"This," James had introduced, "is Snivellus, our new housekeeper. Snivellus, this is Harry, my son. Do what he tells you to do."
Harry just looked up at him, stunned, and met – again – the blackest eyes he could ever remember seeing. They were too familiar for him to ignore, and they glittered – the only thing in the man that appeared alive.
"Won't you shake hands?"
Harry sneaked a glance at James and saw his mouth set in a small, tight smile that looked entirely too pleased for Harry's comfort. Harry turned his eyes back to the – back to Snivellus, and stuck out his hand.
"Nice to meet you," he said, hoping neither of the men had caught the slight crack in his voice.
Snivellus's hand was stained, thin and sallow when they shook hands, but it was also warm and dry. Harry looked up at his face again, and saw it was grim.
"Snivellus, aren't you going to greet him back?"
Harry was certain that the man's eyebrows twitched, but there had been no other indication that his dad's mocking words had got to him.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Snivellus, his voice deep and gritty and rich. It sent shivers down Harry's spine, and Harry didn't know why.
During breakfast, Harry tried very hard not to stare at Snivellus, but every time he glanced around, their eyes met. When he didn't look at Snivellus, he looked at his dad, trying to imply with no words that he wanted to be told what was going on.
James ignored his looks, and kept his face to everyplace else that wasn't Harry, and then, at last, he drained the last of his tea from his cup and set it down on the table. "It's time to go," he told Harry. "Are you ready?"
Harry nodded and stood, ignoring the clatters of movement behind him.
"Come on," James said impatiently and tugged on Harry's sleeve. "We have to go." To Snivellus he said with a touch of steel in his voice, "Clean up after us."
Harry took the Floo powder in his hand and followed his dad, shouting into the fire, "Headmistress McGonagall's office!" wondering how he'd land on the other side. He still wasn't good at Floo travel, but nowadays he at least remained standing.
He was glad to find himself landing on his feet and only barely swaying. Instantly, he took in the faces around him and found that he knew them all.
"Welcome, Harry," McGonagall said, smiling. "It has been a while since we've met. Please, take a seat."
Harry smiled back and chose a chair next to Sirius, who patted him on the thigh distractedly, deep in a hushed conversation with Tonks. Harry missed his old Head of House and he missed Hogwarts, but such was the price of growing up and moving on.
Once everybody was present, seated and silent, McGonagall cleared her throat. "Thank you all for coming at such short notice. I'm afraid I have to deliver some worrying news. First, allow me to stress the need for secrecy – things that will be said in this room will remain in this room. Now, some of you may know that last night, Mr Malfoy's position was . . . compromised, when he attempted to pass us valuable information. In simpler terms – the Order of the Phoenix has lost its spy, almost at the cost of his life."
Harry didn't know that Malfoy was a spy. He didn't even know that there was a spy. Or had been, according to the sudden chill and whispers that spread in the room. Harry was struck with the knowledge that everybody else around him had known.
McGonagall held her hands up. "Silence, please. That is not all! As I've said, Mr Malfoy was discovered while trying to pass us information about Severus Snape's sudden disappearance from the ranks of Voldemort's Death Eaters."
Harry flinched. Everybody else had some reaction or other – some stood, some paled, and some began shouting.
"Impossible!" barked Moody over the noise. "People are watching every step of his, there's nowhere he can go without being tracked!"
"But he is gone," said another's harsh voice. Malfoy's. "None of the Death Eaters have seen him since August, and if you send your men to look for him, they'll find nothing. Nothing. He's gone."
Murmurs.
From Harry's right, Sirius stated, "You think he's on some assignment for Voldemort."
McGonagall nodded once. "Correct. Mr Malfoy claims the Death Eaters are not looking for him, nor do they know anything of his whereabouts. It would seem that Voldemort has sent him to do something he wants to keep quiet. Harry," she said, drawing everybody's attention to him, causing him to stiffen. "Have you felt anything from your connection to Voldemort?"
Harry considered her question, thinking of the nights during training when he'd woken from bad dreams. "He's . . ." he began, seeking the right word. "His control is tighter," he said lamely. "I mean, he's disappointed over something, but I don't think he's angry. More like he's losing his patience."
"The boy could be manipulated again," said Moody to the crowd, completely disregarding Harry.
Shaking his head, Harry said, "No, I'm not. He's not aiming this at me; it's just leaking from him."
"Are you certain?" asked McGonagall.
"Yes."
"I see. Thank you, Harry. You may leave now."
Harry stared at her, shocked. "What?" he asked, not sure he'd heard right.
"I said thank you for your help," she repeated, her tone a tad softer. "You may go now; the rest of the meeting will not concern you."
Harry laughed shakily. "Not concern me? You're talking about Snape, of course Snape concerns me. Professor, you can't—"
"I assure you that I most certainly can, and that I am taking your experiences with Snape very seriously. That is exactly the reason I want you to leave now. You're not part of the Order, Harry."
"Fine," Harry managed to somehow say through clenched teeth. "See if I help you again with something that is none of my concern."
He went home, surrounded by green flames that whirled round him, making him want to hurl something against some wall. Or maybe it wasn't because of the whirling; it was simply rage.
The living room was all tidied up now. The plates were gone from the dining table, and the ash, which Harry glumly noticed only because he'd landed face-first in it, was the result of his own travel. The Pound had never been this clean of dust, he mused into the rug, not quite missing the sensation of dust bunnies under his cheek.
Seeing something moving out of the corner of his eyes, Harry scrambled up to his feet, barely keeping his balance as he fumbled for his wand – but it was only Snivellus, who must have heard him fall.
"You," Harry snarled and stalked over to him, wanting to take his anger out on something. "What are you doing here anyway?"
The corners of Snivellus's mouth twitched upwards. "Cleaning," he said, looking pointedly at the traces of soot on the rug and floor.
And again with that timbre. Harry knew he'd heard it, and knew he'd heard the silent, resigned mocking that gave it colour and texture.
"Do I know you?" he asked abruptly.
Snivellus's smile widened. "Perhaps."
Harry scrunched his face, remembering . . . nothing. Growling in defeat, he retreated back to his room, leaving Snivellus to clean. Which was apparently his job, even with the short dress, and despite the metallic collar and chains Harry was sure waited for him in the attic. He didn't want to ask right now; he was far too cross for that.
***
Harry had the suspicion that his dad hadn't meant to encounter him again that night, and the fact that he did was pure luck on Harry's side. All Harry had wanted was a glass of water, but when he walked by his father's bedroom, he heard faint rustling that he knew all too well. James was packing.
Harry turned the door handle and went inside. His dad was sorting through clothing, putting those he wanted to take with him on his bed. His face crumpled a little when he saw Harry. But just a little.
"Harry—"
"You're going again."
James nodded.
Harry was shaking. "And you weren't going to tell me."
"I was, actually," confessed James and summoned a piece of parchment, directing it to Harry's hands with a wave of his wand.
In a hurried scrawl James had written: 'I'll be gone for some time along with Sirius for work. Good luck at training on Monday. Love, Dad.'
"A note," said Harry slowly. "You were going to leave me this note and just . . . go."
"Harry . . . we've had this argument too many times now. I don't want—"
"What about what I want? I want to come with you!"
His father stopped packing and completely faced Harry now, his expression melting from weary to hard and somewhat unforgiving. Harry had to concentrate not to shy away. "Every time I tell you I'm going to a place I can't tell you about you throw a tantrum—"
"I don't throw tantrums!" Harry shouted. "It's my war, too! I have a right to know, and I've got the right to fight!"
"No, you don't!" James yelled. "You're no Auror yet, and you'd best remember that!"
"Dumbledore didn't think that!"
"And look where that's got him! To the grave!"
Harry's heart stopped beating. "Take that back," he said, his voice quivering. "Take that back!"
"Why?" sneered James. "Are you afraid of the truth?"
"I didn't kill Dumbledore!"
"Are you even listening to me? I didn't say you did," said James, his rage momentarily suppressed. "It was Snape who killed the greatest wizard of the century – the man we're all hunting, and whom you're practically begging to help hunt down. Now get out before I lose my temper!"
"No!" yelled Harry. "Stop treating me like a little kid!"
"THEN STOP ACTING LIKE ONE!" James roared one last time, breathing hard into the stunned silence.
It was at times like these that Harry wondered what his life would have been like had he had no parents at all, and didn't feel sick with shame. "Good luck with whatever you'll be doing," he said flatly and left.
He forgot to get his water, but that was okay. He wasn't really thirsty any more.
***
The next morning, the house was completely, eerily, disturbingly quiet. Harry thought it was because of the fight the evening before – he could still imagine the shouts ringing in his ears.
He craved another person's presence, but didn't know where to look. He didn't feel like talking with his friends yet, and he couldn't – and didn't want to – talk with his dad or Sirius, who had gone along with James.
The only person he had left on his depressingly short list was Snivellus, the strange man he'd seen in the attic. He didn't know what to make of him. On the one hand Snivellus was a servant here, and on the other he was chained in the attic and wearing Muggle women's clothes.
Harry didn't like the way he felt as he climbed up the stairs to the attic. With each stair his breathing hastened and his legs felt heavier. This time he didn't have the adrenaline shock of having Shacklebolt hurrying him to find James. This time, he was doing it all on his own.
He hesitated for a short moment before turning the knob and stepping inside, shutting the door behind him. To his left Snivellus sat on the floor, his legs spread out before him, his feet in an awkward position because of the shackles.
And he wore that ridiculous red cotton dress again. It hung oddly around his torso, where Harry would've expected to see signs for breasts. Where the hem ended, the white, knee-length socks began. Harry knew that some wizards liked to wear dresses, as they reminded them of their robes, but never before had he seen a man wearing a dress this short. Perhaps Snivellus preferred to have his privates feel more than a 'healthy breeze'.
"Is that dress comfortable?" he blurted, curious, and blushed.
Snivellus's eyes shot open and he tensed, his face guarded for one moment and in the next blank.
Oops – Harry hadn't realised that they'd been closed. How he could miss it he didn't know, because that feature was the one that drew most of his attention.
"Did I wake you?" asked Harry, feeling guilty, looking at Snivellus's eyes. "Sorry – I didn't know you were asleep."
If even possible, Snivellus drew further into himself, as if saying, Don't look at me.
Suddenly, Harry got the notion that he shouldn't be able to see Snivellus at all. He almost turned to leave before he shook his head and scrunched his forehead in concentration.
It must be the silence, Harry told himself and relaxed his stance, looking in Snivellus's eyes again – was that resignation that Harry saw flash in them?
Wait. Why was there silence? Harry'd come here in order to avoid the silence and have company, but ever since he'd come inside, Snivellus hadn't said a word. Harry kept expecting Snivellus to say something cutting in his shiver-inducing voice, and throw him out of the attic – wait. Why the attic?
Harry didn't want to stay there anymore. This sort of silence made him uncomfortable. "Um, I've gotta go now. Bye," he stammered and turned tail, scolding himself for having thought that this was a good idea.
***
Despite not wanting to, he remembers that the wand is lowered, almost pointing to the ground, and Harry's certain that Malfoy has decided not to kill Dumbledore.
"I can help," says Dumbledore kindly.
But he can't, because the Death Eaters make it to the tower. One squeezes Malfoy's shoulder in what Harry thinks is a painful grip, and levels his wand at Dumbledore's chest.
Dumbledore lowers his head in recognition. "Severus . . ." he says, but doesn't finish his sentence.
The hooked nose is high in the air and the black eyes glitter. The smile is thin and pleased, and the darkness hides the rest of his features. The man called Severus is silent until he speaks, saying curtly: "Avada Kedavra!" and a flash of green light shoots out of his wand.
Despite trying, Harry can't remember the man's voice. But he remembers . . .
. . . That it sends shivers down his spine the moment it says, "Why keep him alive?"
To play with, somebody replies jovially.
"Such a pity, that the Dark Lord will have your heads when he escapes."
He won't, the same person promises and recasts the Cruciatus Curse on Harry. Suddenly Harry's body is on fire, the numerous cuts and bruises pulsing heatedly in rhythm with his screams, his blood dancing in and out of his veins.
He hears laughter. Then the curse is removed and all he can see is a mouth, set in a thin line; black, limp hair covers its corners. His voice scares Harry, because of the power –
"I will not be held accountable when he escapes."
Well, what would you do with him, then?
"Kill him."