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. ~7,300 in part 3.
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

3:

Nobody came to pick Harry up the second time the door to the training area opened up for a weekend at home. He went with the other recruits to the lifts and largely kept to himself, suddenly missing Ron and Hermione very much. Letters just weren't the same as seeing them in the flesh.

Tomorrow, Harry promised himself. He'd see them tomorrow at the Leaky Cauldron and everything would be just the same as always.

He landed at home and coughed out soot from his lungs, blinking tears out of his eyes. He went upstairs to his room, put his trunk on his bed and began unpacking. He hissed when his fingers encountered something damp and cool, and when he took it out, he realised that a shaving potion vial had broken and spilt its contents all over Harry's undershirts.

Harry sat down hard on his bed. This was the last straw. He was beyond exhausted. The only thing stopping him from lying down on his bed and putting his head on the pillow was his trunk, and Harry felt far too tired to even put it down on the floor.

A shower was the next logical step. Harry scrubbed off the sweat and grime that three minutes of irregular showering left him covered with. He didn't feel any more refreshed coming out of the bathroom than he had going in.

Giving up, he went back to his room, ready to throw everything he had on his bed to the floor with no consideration.

At the door a surprise greeted him – his trunk was at the foot of the bed, and everything he had taken out was set neatly on his desk for him to organise later.

Thanking whichever deities there were, Harry put on his pyjamas and crawled into bed.

***

He woke up to a gentle hand on his brow and a solid weight dipping down the mattress of his bed. It took Harry a moment to remember to open his eyes and see who it was.

James was sitting on his bed, his fingers weaving patterns in Harry's hair. His face was troubled and set with lines, and he wasn't looking at Harry.

"Dad?" Harry asked hoarsely.

James's hand stilled and drew away. Surprised and guilty, he looked down at Harry with a faint smile. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said sheepishly. "Come down when you're awake, we need to talk." He leant down and kissed Harry's temple, then left the room.

Harry didn't see his father closing the door behind him, only heard it, and that was because he was already succumbing to sleep.

He woke up not long after feeling somewhat more refreshed than he had in at least a week. Not one to stay in bed, especially at six o'clock in the evening, he got out of bed and wondered what he was forgetting.

Then it hit him – his dad wanted to talk with him. Annoyance gripped him. James had come into his room while he slept and hoped Harry wouldn't wake up. He said they needed to talk, but Harry didn't think so. Harry and his dad would never agree about Harry's part in the war. In his stubbornness, James would never listen to reason.

Despite all of that, Harry went downstairs, not bothering to get dressed. If James wanted to talk to Harry, he'd have to do it with Harry wearing his pyjamas. If it bothered James – well, good for him.

He found James in the living room, curled up on the sofa and reading the Daily Prophet. James put his legs back on the floor when Harry approached, and threw the paper carelessly to a nearby coffee table.

Harry stood at the edge of the sofa. "You wanted to talk," he reminded James stiffly.

James nodded and sighed, maybe thinking So it's going to go this way. He patted the sofa next to him. "Come and sit," he said.

"I'd rather stand."

"Harry."

"Fine," Harry bit out and sat down in the armchair across from James. "Well?"

James scowled at him. Harry pretended not to care, and let his eyes drift all over the living room. The windowpanes were sparkling, he noted absently as his fingers clenched around the edge of the armchair.

"I spoke with Kingsley a few days ago. He's very pleased with your progress."

"Good for him."

"Harry. . . ."

"What?" snapped Harry. "I don't know why we're bothering to talk. We'll just end up fighting."

"Is that why you haven't answered my letters?"

Harry remained silent.

James sighed again and scratched his cheek. He was tired too, Harry realised with a jolt. Harry knew the signs well enough by now to know that something was eating his dad from the inside out.

Slowly and carefully, James spoke. "I know you're still upset with me over our fight last month, Harry. I said some things I shouldn't have, but I bloody well meant them. It's not your war to fight – Voldemort is a threat to society, and that's why fully-trained, Ministry-hired Aurors fight him—"

"The Order isn't part of the Ministry," interrupted Harry.

"Maybe not, but they're still fully-trained, and you aren't."

Harry retorted, "Neither is Malfoy."

James glared at him. "Draco is an exception."

"And I'm not?"

"No, you're my son."

"I don't see how that changes anything."

The glare intensified and the scowl came back. "It changes everything. Unlike the Malfoys, I'm not willing to give up my son and throw him into a war he's unprepared for, and send him to kill somebody. Draco did his part admirably, but if I'd had any moral say in the matter, I'd have kept him out of it too."

Harry tried a different tactic. "What about the prophecy? You can't protect me from it forever."

"I can damn well try," James muttered furiously. "And I will."

A loud pop sounded from the fireplace, causing the Potters to jump. Somebody coughed from behind a thick curtain of smoke that should not have been there, and took a step forward.

Both Harry and James had their wands in their hands and aimed at the fireplace before they could even think. Wand-pointing was proven unnecessary as Sirius walked through the curtain, coughing violently and waving his hand in front of his face. In his other hand, he carried some bags that Harry suspected were take-away.

Still coughing, Sirius croaked out, "Water!"

Harry hurried to the kitchen, glad get away from James. He took a glass and filled it with water from the tap, and dashed back to the living room where James was hitting Sirius's back repeatedly, snickering.

Sirius shot Harry a thankful look, filled with unshed tears, and took the glass from him, drinking the water in one deep gulp. He gasped and coughed once more, gasped again, and breathed deeply.

"Wow," he said, his voice hoarse. "That must have been one of my stupider ideas."

James laughed even harder.

Harry asked, "What were you trying to do?"

"Make Floo powder of my own," Sirius grumbled. "I'm tired of paying for the stuff."

"You're right," agreed James, guffawing still. "Most stupid idea you've had in the last decade."

"Last decade?" asked Sirius, curious. "What did I do the decade before?"

"Once upon a time, there was this bird—"

Sirius covered his ears with his hands, mortified. "I can't hear you."

"She even had the feathers—" said James gleefully.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!"

***

Supper came and went, and Harry was surprised to see that Snivellus was still there. His outfit had developed; from plain dress and knee socks, now he had white, frilly headwear, which stood straight from his lanky hair. A white underskirt, heavy on lace, peeked out from under his now-shortened dress. The socks had turned into gold, partially transparent stockings that did nothing for his bony legs. The collar – it was still there, polished and glittering and terrifying.

The light in his eyes was gone; his face was carefully blank. Nothing showed the unhappiness Harry somehow knew he felt.

When Sirius saw him, he'd raised his eyebrows and managed to choke out, "Nice clothes," before bursting into giggles, caused by James's wicked smile.

Harry didn't like the way acting like this made them look. They were behaving like immature, spoilt brats, and both he and Snivellus knew and hated it.

Snivellus's careful mask slipped a little when he thought nobody was watching, not aware that Harry was doing just that. His lips were pressed together so tightly that they turned a much paler shade of pink, and his knuckles turned completely white as he clutched the dirty dishes in his hands. His entire posture was stiff and reserved; a tense sort of anger.

But nothing happened.

Why he allowed it to go on, Harry couldn't fathom. Why did Snivellus allow James and Sirius to laugh at the choice of his clothes? Harry's dad might be his employer, but it didn't mean Snivellus was supposed to take this sort of abuse over his outfit.

"Well, that was nice," said Sirius and stretched, kicking Harry in the legs by mistake. He peeked down. "Oops. Sorry," he added, not sounding sorry in the least. "Hey James," he added. "I need you to look over my motorbike to check if I've missed anything."

James shrugged. "I still don't know why I'm bothering."

"In case I forgot something."

"We both know you haven't, but fine. Harry," he turned to Harry. "Will you be all right here by yourself for some time?" He grinned when Harry scowled at him. "Point taken," he said, rising to drag Sirius from his chair.

"Oi!" Sirius shouted in alarm, flailing his arms to keep his balance. "Stop dragging me by the neck, James, this is getting old—ouch, this hurts, let go!"

James stopped in front of the fireplace. "You do have Floo powder back at home, right? You didn't let your own powder mix with it?"

Sirius batted his hands away. "Yeah, yeah, I've got some left. Don't worry about it."

With bright flashes of green flames, they were gone. And so was Snivellus. Harry had his suspicion about where the man might have gone, and so he went up to the attic.

His heart was beating very loudly in his ears and he felt a little light-headed as he climbed up the stairs. He found disobeying his father thrilling and freeing in a way he hoped he'd find in battles. People always kept a tight watch over him, enough so he wouldn't have the chance to go out and fight. But this . . . this he could do, and this he would do.

He didn't know why, but he knocked on the attic door before opening it. Basic manners, he told himself, trying to make it all right to come up here. His dad would be furious if he found Harry. . . . Harry squared his shoulders and stepped inside. James wouldn't find out. James had gone with Sirius.

But Snivellus was here, seated on the floor and chained again to the wall, a shiny metallic black chain connecting his matching collar to the iron ring. He sat with his knees raised, and his feet on the floor were no longer shackled. Harry was relieved to see that the underskirt and skirt covered his private parts, and was somewhat disturbed to have looked.

Harry went over and crouched in front of him again, imitating the scene that Shacklebolt had caught him in one month ago. Snivellus shifted a little, leaning further back against the wall, flattening his back against it.

"You shouldn't let them get to you," Harry told Snivellus. "They're arses. They don't know how to act other than fool around together."

Snivellus arched one of his eyebrows in question. There was fire in his eyes now, Harry was relieved to see.

Harry scowled. "They might be family, but it doesn't mean I have to like the way they act."

Snivellus ducked his head, perhaps seeing his point. He didn't speak.

"I know you can talk," said Harry. "So drop the dumb act."

"How gracious of you to grant me my speech back," Snivellus replied sourly.

Harry scrunched his forehead in confusion. "Huh?"

Snivellus looked at him.

"You can't have gone dumb again!" Harry exclaimed, exasperated.

"I was hardly mute before."

"You wouldn't talk to me."

Shrugging, Snivellus said, "I've learnt that silence has its uses."

Harry frowned. He had the feeling that Snivellus was avoiding his question, but he couldn't tell how. He repeated the answer in his head a few more times, puzzled, then gave up. "Fine," he said. "You win this round."

"I wasn't aware that this was a game."

Harry conceded that he was right. "Fine," he repeated and asked, "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

Glowering, Harry said, "You know what I meant." That was an old trick – Harry could recognise it easily.

Snivellus hummed noncommittally, his black eyes still glittering. Harry had to stop himself from shouting out 'Hell yes!' and shaking his fist upwards.

When Snivellus didn't reply, Harry took it as a sign to ask his question anyway. He couldn't believe that now, one month after he'd wanted to ask it, he finally had his chance. "What are you doing up here?"

"Where else shall I be then?"

"How about the spare bedroom?"

Snivellus's bright eyes dimmed a little as he opened his mouth—

And the door to the attic opened. It was James and Sirius, chatting with each other and laughing. Well, they laughed until they saw Harry crouching in front of Snivellus.

Sirius paled; James turned red. Harry was frozen to the spot.

"What are you doing here?" James hissed, his voice so soft that Harry had to make a conscious effort to understand him.

"I—" stuttered Harry. "I—"

"Get out."

Two months of Auror training went down the drain as Harry stumbled to his feet. This wasn't supposed to happen! His dad wasn't supposed to return so soon after leaving, not while he was still talking with Snivellus.

His movements weren't quick enough for James, who strode over to Harry and ignored the way Harry flinched from him, recoiling back and trying to avoid having his arm caught by James.

When James did manage to grab hold of Harry's arm, Harry cried out in pain, then bit his tongue to hold back the noise. He would not shout, not even when it felt like James was yanking his arm out of its socket. He feared that James was doing this on purpose, because his dad was an Auror and Aurors knew what would hurt and what wouldn't.

And this hurt.

James dragged Harry down to his bedroom and threw him over to the bed. Harry landed on it and quickly jumped to his feet, but a single murderous look from his blotch-faced father got him sitting, looking at the floor.

"Do you have any idea what you did?" James asked, his voice tight and controlled. Harry didn't dare look up. "Do you have any idea who you were talking to?"

Harry shook his head miserably.

"Then I'll tell you," said James, "that the man is a murderer who wouldn't balk at killing you in your sleep—LOOK AT ME," he bellowed. Harry flinched once more and raised his eyes.

James began again. "The attic is off limits." He paused. "Isn't it?"

Harry nodded. Yes it was, and why had he ever thought that going there without his dad's permission was a good idea?

"Yet you went there, didn't you?" James hissed.

Harry nodded.

"SAY IT!"

"Yes," whispered Harry.

"Even though you were told time and time again that you were not to go there?"

"Yes," Harry whispered again.

"Don't you ever, ever go there again. I mean it, Harry. Don't try me on this. There's nothing there that's your business."

He left then. Left Harry seated on his bed and shaking violently, denying himself the urge to give in and rub his aching shoulder. Turned his back and fled, and Harry had a clue as to why – his father was close to losing his temper on him. Really close. As much as Harry loved James, and he did, very much so, James scared him badly when he was angry. Had James not turned, furniture would have started flying.

But he couldn't be leaving yet, not now; not when Harry had questions that needed answers. "Wait," he cried out, knowing that this was a very stupid thing to do. What the heck, though. He'd already been stupid today. No harm could come out of being even stupider. He hoped.

James turned back, his eyebrows raised sceptically. Some of his anger melted away, and that was good for Harry.

"It is my business," said Harry, standing up. Show some backbone, he shouted at himself. You're an adult and so is your father. He can't just terrify you into obedience anymore. "I'm living here too."

"Harry--!" began James—

"No!" Harry shouted. "Listen to me for once! It is my business who lives here with me. There's something you're hiding from me, both you and Sirius, and don't try to lie about that."

"We're always hiding things from you. That's what the attic is there for."

Harry's mouth fell open. Had James—just admitted to—? Did he have to say it this callously, to remind Harry that he was still considered a child in his own home, by his own dad? Harry let the thoughts roll away from him. No distractions.

"Snivellus," he choked out. He took in a deep breath to calm his roiling stomach and steady his voice. "Why is he up there?"

James's eyes were glittering now, similar to Snivellus's. "Maybe he's just another secret." Was he enjoying this? Enjoying playing with Harry?

"Why?" asked Harry, who wasn't stupid, but was on a roll that nothing but answers could stop. "Why is he in chains? Why do you keep laughing at him? Why—"

"Do you have any idea what you're asking me to tell you?"

"No," snapped Harry. "Because you never tell me anything!"

"Fine," said James and raked his hand through his hair. "Fine." He walked over to Harry and grabbed his arm again, his grasp gentler this time, and dragged him to the door.

Harry flinched at being handled; he couldn't help it. The memories were much too fresh, and the bruises he could already feel forming were far too tender for his liking. But he'd receive answers now, and he considered answers he wanted more important than fighting over being taken by the hand.

James took him back to the attic. They went up step by step until they reached Sirius, who was sitting very stiffly on the topmost stair. He opened his mouth as if to say something to the Potters, but shut it again when it was obvious that neither would listen.

James stopped right in front of Snivellus, whose expression was again the blank face of somebody trying to hide. Showing no emotions must mean that you had none, he must have thought, not understanding that people like Harry saw right through it.

Harry pitied him. Pitied Snivellus for having to pretend—

"This," said James coolly, "is Severus Snape."

—and the pity shattered into a thousand pieces. "What?" asked Harry, his mouth dry, his eyes not leaving the man in skirts but not seeing him either, not the way he really was.

"Not liking the truth?" James mocked, passing his hand through his hair again.

Harry didn't listen to him though. He was busy seeing the man in black robes pointing his wand, the green light, the words that still echoed in Harry's nightmares, "Kill him" – sending shivers down his spine.

He tried reconciling the two figures, but couldn't. Severus Snape was a murderer of the worst kind, a Death Eater whose loyalty to Voldemort was legendary. Snivellus was the man wearing an underskirt, dress and stockings, chained to the wall in the Pound's attic, a servant whom James and Sirius mocked. . . .

They couldn't be the same man.

"But—" Harry said, grappling with what he'd been told. "But why?"

Smirking, James said, "Because he was there and because we could."

"That's not what I asked!"

"I know," said James haltingly. Harry turned his head to look at him and saw the most bizarre expression he'd seen on James's face since this escapade began. James looked . . . lost.

"He killed your mum."

Harry turned his face back to Sniv—Snape, confused. "He couldn't have," he determined as he searched for any emotion in Snape's face. "Voldemort killed Mum."

"He told him to look for us," James said, the bite returning to his words. "He told Voldemort the – you know what," he finished lamely, not wanting Snape to hear the word 'prophecy' despite the cracks of smoldering emotion in his voice.

Harry blinked, remembering the hunt for the prophecy at the end of his fifth year very clearly indeed. He'd almost died at the Ministry. His godfather had almost died there, but was saved at the last possible moment by James. He'd almost got his friends killed –

Furthermore, the prophecy tore his family apart. When Voldemort had heard it, he came straight for Harry, and if it hadn't been his mother who'd died, it would have been Harry himself, and all because Voldemort had been told an incomplete passage from – from a spy, from Snape. . . .

Harry remembered Malfoy's painful expression when Snape had squeezed his shoulder at the end of Harry's sixth year, and remembered the death of Dumbledore, and he remembered things he'd worked hard to try to forget and almost managed to, but then Snape brought them back to the forefront, and Harry remembered.

"You killed Dumbledore," said Harry, his voice broken by having somebody to place the blame on. One would think that having your mum killed when you were only one was more important than having your mentor murdered in front of your eyes when you were sixteen. "The Order is looking for you," he added.

He turned to James and said again, "The Order is looking for him."

"So?" asked James with force. "He's harmless here."

"But that's – you can't punish him yourself!"

"But I am," said James, almost in a purr. "And I don't see him complaining."

His words struck something deep in Harry's soul. "That's because he can't, can he?" he said, dreading the answer. "You took away his ability to talk. How? He's not mute, but he can't – is it the Imperius Curse? Dad, please tell me you haven't—"

"Look at the chains."

Harry ignored the black eyes that forbade him to come closer. The metal was black and smooth, and close inspection revealed runes, whose meaning Harry didn't know. He fingered the metal, feeling the dents the runes made, and startled when he reached the collar around Snape's neck, also covered in runes – similar to those on the chain.

"The Chain of Command," said James behind him. "One of Sirius's better inventions. Unlike the Imperius, it isn't illegal to use, and it's impossible to throw off."

Harry felt sick to his stomach. "What?" he whispered, remembering all too well the ecstasy that flooded the person under the curse. Did Snivellus feel like that too? Snape. Snape. There was no such person as Snivellus, just another mask for Snape to hide behind. His sickness increased.

"I have to get out of here," he muttered and left the attic, noticing James's smirk and hating it.

***

Sirius caught up with Harry some five minutes later, more than halfway to the playground Harry used to go to when he was younger. "Harry!" he shouted, running to his godson. "Harry, wait!"

Harry didn't wait, but did slow down his pace a bit. Now, instead of almost running, he walked quickly, not looking to the side. He didn't know why he wanted Sirius to catch up, because Harry was angry with him too.

He spun around when Sirius's hand touched his shoulder. "Don't touch me," he snarled and resumed walking.

He changed his mind a foot later. He turned to face Sirius again and asked, "How could you do that?"

"Do what?" asked Sirius, puzzled.

Harry waved his hands wildly as he spoke. "How could you just lock up a person in the attic? And use those horrid chains on him – Sirius, you and dad shouldn't do stuff like this, you aren't—"

"Harry, calm down," Sirius said slowly, and the fight in Harry disappeared.

"How could you just decide to own a person like that?" he whispered.

"Oh, Harry," Sirius sighed and pulled Harry over to sit with him on the edge of the sidewalk. Harry didn't argue and didn't fight, accepting and welcoming the guiding hand that belonged to Sirius, wrapped around his shoulder in a comforting hug.

"The truth isn't exactly what your dad said," Sirius said. "He's really angry with you for going up the attic, and so am I, but he shouldn't have said all those things." He paused. "I punched him for you after you left."

A surprised snort of laughter escaped Harry. It sounded a step short of hysterics. "Really?"

"Yes, really," said Sirius with renewed vigor. "He was a bastard, but he's my best mate – I couldn't let him do this on his own. I kept him from going too far."

"Going too far?" Harry ground out. "He's keeping a murderer locked up in the attic."

"It could have been much worse than dressing Snivellus in skirts and keeping him in chains that make him obey everything we say. We haven't hurt him in any way and we haven't taken his mind. All we're doing is keeping him away from Voldemort. When James calms down a bit from the novelty of revenge, we'll give him to the Ministry."

"Still, it's not right—" Harry closed his mouth, repeating Sirius's words in his mind. "You dressed him in those clothes?" he asked, both curious and horrified.

Sirius glanced away shiftily. "Er."

"Sirius!"

"Yeah. We did."

"Oh God," Harry moaned and buried his face in his hands.

Sirius patted his shoulder. "There's a reason we didn't want to tell you about the attic."

"I wish you'd have told me earlier."

"I wish you'd never discovered about it at all."

Harry peeked out from behind his palms. "Why?"

"You're not an Auror yet—no, let me finish—" Harry shut his mouth, "and in training you learn about all the things that should be done. This isn't a case like what you're learning – it's far more complicated. Your dad blames Snape for what happened to your mum—"

"I haven't forgot that!" Harry cried out, cutting in.

"No," admitted Sirius ruefully, "but you aren't getting it either. Your dad loved your mum very much, and he misses her, even after all these years."

"I miss her too," said Harry, a bit defensive.

"You were one year old when she died. You never really knew her."

Harry stared morosely at the road under his feet. "It's still not right, what you're doing," he murmured.

"No," Sirius agreed. "But this is war, and in war you don't always do the things others think are right."

***

Meeting Ron and Hermione had been wonderful. They hadn't changed one bit from how Harry remembered them. Well, other than Ron getting some colour on his face, and Hermione too, not to mention that they were both smiling and holding hands in a way that made Harry feel a little left out.

It was Harry who'd changed the most out of the three, as Hermione had noted. "Is everything all right with you?" she asked, worried, leaning away from Ron to examine Harry up close. "You're looking a bit pale."

Harry had laughed; somewhat shakily, but he'd laughed. "I'm fine," he promised her. "It's just lack of sun."

She pursed her lips – Gods, how Harry'd missed seeing her doing that – and said, "They shouldn't do that. You've got the right to go outside once a day at the very least—" and Harry was hard pressed not to laugh as he caught Ron mouthing her words along with her, rolling his eyes.

Then Hermione smacked them both on the head, and they couldn't hold in their laughter anymore. Just like the old times they'd had at Hogwarts.

But this was the Leaky Cauldron – a respectful Wizarding establishment where everybody went on their way to and from Diagon Alley. Harry didn't feel comfortable talking with his friends there. He asked them to move into Muggle London, where they'd wandered, speaking of things that were of no importance to anybody but themselves.

He'd tried mentioning Snape, he really did, but the same thing that happened with Shacklebolt happened with Ron and Hermione – he simply couldn't get the words out. He could think the words, he could make sounds with his mouth and throat, but the two didn't mix.

All in all, the afternoon had been wonderful and Harry was not going to allow not being able to tell his friends something to ruin it.

He got back home sometime after suppertime, and was surprised to find his father gone and a new note taped to the door to his room. Harry read it aloud in the smothering silence of the corridor.

"Gone for work. Take-away in the fridge. See you again next month and I hope you'll answer my letters when you're in training. Don't go up to the attic again. Love, Dad and Sirius."

Harry dumped it in the bin and went for a shower. He'd eaten at the Cauldron with Ron and Hermione, barely avoiding a food fight with Ron, and wasn't hungry.

A faint voice in his head was incredulous that Harry was making sure to take a shower before going up the attic, rather than taking a shower before going to meet his best friends, but Harry was pretty good at making it shut up. He got out of the tub in under ten minutes and toweled himself dry. The only thing Harry felt comfortable wearing was the least threadbare-but-not-fancy clothing he owned.

Harry frowned. Maybe the voice did have a point. . . .

He climbed up the stairs, not surprised to meet a ward to keep him out. Harry pushed against it and broke it, annoyed that his dad underestimated his magical abilities. He continued on to the door, where he stopped and ran his hand through his hair – a nervous habit of James's that Harry had picked up.

Damn.

Taking a deep breath and not backing down, he turned the knob and went inside. Snivellus was still there – no, not Snivellus, start thinking of him as Severus Snape because that's who he is, the man who killed Dumbledore and the man who told Voldemort about the stupid prophecy—

— and the man sitting on the floor who had to chain himself to the wall because he was ordered to, who wore skirts against his will, who was forced into servitude for James Potter, a man he obviously hated.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I didn't think you would return."

Harry hadn't thought so either, but seeing the words Don't go up to the attic again written in his father's aggravating scrawl had made him decide that he should see the man again. "Yesterday was sort of . . . cut short," he finally said.

Snape smirked. "In a manner of speaking."

Scowling, Harry sat down on the floor and crossed his legs. "If I ask you something—will you lie to me?" he asked.

The question seemed to surprise Snape, whose eyes widened just a little. "I might."

"And if I order you not to?"

Bitterly, Snape said, "Then I would not be able to say anything but the truth."

"Did you really kill my mum?"

Snape stared at him strangely before shaking his head. "No."

"Did you tell Voldemort—" it was interesting to see even Snape wince at the name; Harry wasn't expecting that—"about the—" he thought hard and then decided he didn't care, "—the prophecy?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"A loyal minion would usually inform his master."

Harry glared at him. Snape shrugged. "Is that what you are? A minion?"

"We all have roles to play."

At Snape's cryptic words, Harry threw his hands up. "You're impossible."

The corners of Snape's mouth quirked up and he shifted his back against the wall. "Ah, but this is the most fun I've had since arriving."

"I'll bet," Harry mumbled, at a loss for words. He looked into Snape's eyes, and again felt something shoot past his mind. Straightening his posture, Harry said, "I'm not going to let you out."

"A pity," said Snape, seemingly undisturbed, but his face – Harry wanted to make the blankness go away. It didn't fit Severus Snape better than it had Snivellus.

"Why did they call you Snivellus?" Harry asked.

"If you haven't noticed, it's a bastardised version of my name."

"I have noticed, but there has to be a reason they call you that."

"The story is between them and me. You're not a part of it."

"Oh, come on; tell me."

He didn't expect the torrent of helplessly said words that followed. "In our years at Hogwarts, your father and his friends made every attempt to make my life miserable. One of their antics was to call me Snivellus after the sniveling I would do whenever they would prank me."

An angry, ugly flush flooded Snape's face. His expression contorted horribly and all of a sudden he was shouting. "Get out! Get out!"

"Why?" Harry asked, confused. "What happened?"

"You will not order me to spill my secrets, Potter!"

"But I didn't!"

"No?" asked Snape, and his tone made Harry glad that the man didn't have a wand in his hand or the ability to move freely. "Then why did I tell you the exact thing I said I wouldn't?"

"I . . . don't know. . . ."

"Of course you don't," Snape spat. "Which is exactly the reason you ordered me to tell you why I was called Snivellus."

"I didn't order you to tell me!" Harry argued, growing more confused by the moment. "I asked you to tell me, but you didn't have to!"

"Is that why you phrased that request as an order?"

Phrased it as an order? Oh no, he hadn't. He'd just been curious over the name and wanted to know more about it. Snape couldn't possibly be implying that Harry'd had his curiosity satisfied only because he'd ordered the answer to be said –

"Shit," he said emphatically once he realised what he'd done. "Look, I didn't mean to do that, all right? I didn't know the Chain would make you do stuff like this without wanting to—"

"You must be as daft as some say," Snape cut in the middle of Harry's little speech, "because the point of chaining me like this would be to make me do everything I am told!"

"It didn't register," Harry mumbled, tracing the wooden floor with his fingers, following the lines that separated one board from another.

Snape calmed after Harry's admission. Harry looked up at him, and his face wasn't all that terrible any more. The repugnant red stains on his cheeks disappeared and faded back to show the rough, sandy quality of his skin.

"I'm sorry," said Harry earnestly, guessing how horrible it was to tell his secrets to those you didn't trust.

He met Snape's eyes, offering him the truth, and felt his mind tighten again as unwelcome memories raced past.

"Do not repeat it," said Snape.

Relieved, Harry gave him a small smile. "I won't," he promised. "I really am sorry."

"I know."

"Really?" Harry asked, startled. "How?"

Smirking at Harry's words, Snape raised his right hand to tap his fingers lightly against Harry's temple. Harry was surprised that he didn't lean back to evade the motion. "I can read your mind," Snape said.

An instant blush spread across Harry's cheeks. Snape's fingers, though quite knobbly and a bit discoloured, felt soft against his skin, and the warmth of his digits overheated Harry's face; of course, it was only heat. Only heat.

Snape's smirk turned feral, and Harry found himself looking into his eyes again, drowning in them and searching for the glitters he liked, seeing only a darkness he knew all too well, even though he'd always tried to hide it for James's sake.

Harry knew what it was like to receive attention he worked hard to avoid. He knew what it was like to have his secrets told to those he didn't trust, like, or know. Newspapers and gossipers were not always careful with what they said.

I know you, Harry almost blurted aloud as he realised that. He couldn't put his finger on exactly why, but seeing Snape shut down when he wanted to lash out, and seeing him try to keep to himself –

I know you now, Harry told himself silently, tasting the way the words rolled on his tongue. He smiled, lowering his eyes back to the floor, and missed Severus's frown.

***

Harry's conversation with Severus on the previous day had blunted some of Harry's anger. Definitely not all of it – it would take more to make Harry forget all that had been said and done – but at least he didn't feel like he was going to burst from the steaming rage.

Maybe it was because he was still angry, or maybe it was out of spite, but Harry's legs carried him up the stairs the next day as well. What drew him up there, he couldn't tell, but it was strong enough to make his legs start walking on their own.

Severus was truly asleep when Harry saw him. There was no mistaking the open mouth and snores, nor the creases that decorated his forehead. Harry wondered what he should do. Should he leave?

He decided to stay. He went to the side opposite Severus's corner and perched there, watching Severus as he waited for him to wake.

Severus slept, still as the dead. Aside from the movements of his mouth as he breathed in and breathed out, he was as still as corpses came. Harry knew – he'd seen the dead to whom he'd just compared Severus.

He didn't know how long they remained like this, Harry staring at Severus and Severus being unaware of Harry. Harry thought he'd dozed off for a few minutes while he stared. He found the silence comfortable. Comforting.

Severus awoke with the same dedication he gave to sleeping. One moment his eyes were closed and his mouth open, and in the next, his eyes were open and his mouth closed.

"How long?" asked Severus, his voice gruff from sleep. He cleared his throat for a longer time than Harry thought was normal.

Harry felt his cheeks heat. "Not too long," he muttered.

Severus curled his hand into a fist and rested it against his thigh. "Is watching people sleep a habit of yours?"

Harry stared at him, puzzled. "What?" he managed to force out in a shameful squeak. "No!" he exclaimed. "I don't get a kick out of watching helpless people—"

Some muscle twitched in Severus's face. Harry was sure of it. "Are you calling me helpless?"

"N—no!" Harry stuttered. Even with the Chain and the collar and the ring in the wall, Harry would never be able to think of Severus as helpless. Certainly, Severus was in a very bad spot, but helpless? The word didn't fit him. He didn't fit the word. Nobody helpless would be forced to wear women's clothing and not make much of a fuss over the subject.

Severus frowned. "Then what?"

Harry wondered what he should say. He'd never ever say that he pitied Severus, and he'd never say he empathised with him. "Nothing, really! I wanted to talk with you, that's all."

That same muscle twitched again, somewhere between Severus's eyebrows. "You wanted to talk. With me."

Some answering muscle in Harry's face twitched in return. "You don't have to repeat everything I say," he said, a tad bitter.

A slight touch of amusement cleared Severus's remaining sleepiness, and he said, "It is called reflection, and its purpose is to allow you the space of mind to reconsider what you've said."

Displeased, Harry scowled at him. "You're playing with me."

"You make it so easy," Severus drawled.

Harry ducked his head as he blushed, and avoided looking at Severus.

"Potter," said Severus suddenly, his tone soft and desperate. Harry looked up, alarmed, and found himself staring for the first time at Severus's passionate expression. "Harry. Let me go. Please."

Harry's breath caught. "I—" he swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. "I can't." His heart was picking up its pace, growing stronger and faster. In a whisper, he added, "When they got me last year – you told them to kill me."

"Would you have preferred to be tortured to death?"

Shaking his head, Harry said, "You're definitely playing with me now."

"Harry, please."

"No," said Harry firmly. "There's nothing that will promise me you won't join Voldemort—" Severus winced, "—again after you leave, and then try to kill me." His voice rose to a pitch Harry was mostly unfamiliar with. "You're a Death Eater!"

"I am a minion," corrected Severus. "The Dark Lord uses me as a pawn in his war against everything Muggle."

Harry laughed. "Are you saying you're no Death Eater?"

"No."

"Then no – I'm not letting you go."

"You are saying this as if sure I would return to the Dark Lord!" shouted Severus, an angry flush staining his cheeks like misapplied powder.

Harry blinked. "And you wouldn't?" he asked, incredulous.

"Would it matter?"

"Yes!" snapped Harry, realising he was passing his fingers through his hair, and stopped in the middle. "If I free you now – I'll be dead, and so will my dad and Sirius! Won't we?"

Severus didn't look away. Harry refused to avert his gaze first, and instead stared right into the black eyes. "If I am given the order, then yes," Severus admitted, and Harry felt like he'd just received a punch to his gut. "Assuming the Dark Lord will see past the Fidelius charm."

Forcing himself not to curl his arms around his stomach in a hug, Harry gaped at Severus. "The Fidelius charm?" Once, long ago, when his mum had still been alive, the Potters had lived in Godric's Hollow under the Fidelius charm. So that was why Shacklebolt hadn't seen Severus, when the Death Eater had been right under his nose, and that was why Sirius had told him in great length about the servant and the choker around his neck.

"You didn't know."

Harry shook his head and gathered his thoughts along with the movement. Now wasn't the time to think of Shacklebolt not finding Severus! "I can't," insisted Harry. "If you go—"

"Listen to me," Severus hissed. "This is not a matter of can or cannot, but a matter of will and won't!"

"Well then, I won't!" Harry took in a deep breath. "Come on; I don't want to fight. Let's change the subject."

The emotion disappeared from Severus's eyes. "Very well," he said, and Harry was astounded to hear it perfectly cool, polite and decorous, "but before you think of a new subject, I will let you know that I was the one who saved your father's life when the Dark Lord came to you." A small shine appeared in his eyes. "I am not a monster."

Harry absently licked his lips. "What?"

"You will reconsider allowing me to leave."

"Wha—no, I can't—no, wait," Harry stammered, looking for the right answer for Severus. "Alright," he said. "I'll—er, I'll think about it," he promised, consoling himself he could always say no again.