Undertow for Dudius Kahowabug

Title: Undertow
Author: #024 Griselda Grimknickers
Recipient: #081 Dudius Kahowabug
Pairing: James/Harry
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, chan, incest, non-con
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Word Count: 8500
Summary: "Harry," Lupin said. He was smiling in a way Harry had never seen before. "It's your dad."
Notes: I'm truly sorry you had to wait so long, my dear Dudius, however I simply could not release this until Snapecertain characters stopped behaving like greasy sulky children. I do hope you like it, despite the long wait.



"Arthur Weasley and Harry Potter," Harry told the dummy in the window, "here to see James Potter."

The dummy nodded, and Harry stepped through the glass and crossed the reception area to the lifts. He pressed the button for the fourth floor, and hoped against hope that Mr Weasley would settle for a long awkward ride.

"Harry--"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Understandable." Mr Weasley looked at his feet, and Harry bit his tongue. Cedric had been the Weasleys' neighbour, and they'd known him a lot longer than Harry. He couldn't bring himself to apologize though; once he had convinced Mr Weasley that the usual year-end visit to St Mungo's would be safe enough, his mouth stopped wanting to work.

They reached the closed ward, and Harry signed in at the desk, ignoring the healer's stare. Yes, Voldemort's back, Harry wanted to scream, and instead he pressed the quill so hard he broke the nib.

"I'll just wait here then," Mr Weasley said. "You take as long as you--" The door to the closed ward cut off the rest.

The permanent residents of St Mungo's spell damage department shuffled about their business, incomprehensible as it was, mumbling, whispering, smelling faintly of urine no matter how many freshening charms the staff cast. Agnes paused in the middle of brushing her face to wave shyly at him, and the motion dragged Lockhart's attention away from his stack of photos. Harry ducked his head, but it was too late.

"I know you," Lockhart cried. "You're back for another autographed photo, are you?"

Harry brushed past him without taking a photo. He sidestepped Neville's mum too, though he'd usually agree to pass along a gum wrapper for her, and slipped out the grey door at the end of the ward. Bright light and fresh air embraced him.

The patients' terrace could not make up its mind whether it was inside or out. It had walls -- painted bright green -- but a mild breeze blew from somewhere and the floor had grass growing from the tile. Harry had once thought there was no ceiling because of the clouds moving across the blue sky, but by his third visit he realized the sky was always blue, even on overcast days. Today, a dozen birds were flying back and forth overhead, passing through the light fixtures.

Harry looked around. The terrace was mostly lawn, broken by tile paths and the occasional tree or flowerbed. Patients sat in chairs or shuffled along the paths. He spotted his father at once, sitting at a table and wearing the pyjamas Harry had given him last Christmas.

"Dad," Harry said, and James turned to him and smiled.

"Presents?"

"Not this time." Harry sat down on the grass. "I'm sorry."

James leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Presents?"

Harry dashed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, and dug around in his pockets. He came up with half a pack of ice mice, and then had to stop James from stuffing the whole lot in his mouth at once. He sat quietly a moment, listening to the crunching and squeaking, calming down from the mad dash to get here before Mr Weasley recovered enough sense to rethink the wisdom of bringing him someplace so public after....

"Have you been painting?" Harry asked at last. "You've got some purple on your face."

"Presents," James said agreeably.

Harry looked around, but didn't see any paper or brushes, so the trainee healers must have already cleaned up. He hugged his knees, noticed neither of his trainers were tied, and leaned against James's legs.

"He's back, Dad. Voldemort, I mean. He killed a boy." Harry wanted to look up but didn't dare. He couldn't face that blissfully unaware expression. He'd come to St Mungo's four times a year since discovering, all in one blow, that he was a wizard and only half an orphan, and not once had he ever felt, looking into his father's eyes, any connection, any awareness. "I saw Mum," he said. "She came out of his wand and helped me get away."

"Presents," James said, and for a heart-stopping moment Harry thought James had patted his head. Then he realized James had stuck a half-eaten ice mouse in his hair.

Harry pulled it out, wincing as some hair came with it. "Anyway," he said to his trainers. "I can't stay long. Mr Weasley's waiting for me. I'm going back to the Dursleys' for the summer. Sirius has gone to Lupin's and everyone's doing something to help but me."

Something in his voice had captured James's attention. He blinked at Harry, face open and expectant, but Harry knew better than to believe it was anything but the change in his tone. He stood up and James held out his arms, reacting to this part the way he reacted to the sound of the dinner cart. Even if he didn't know who Harry was, he still liked hugs.

"I love you, Dad. I'll see you when I buy my school things in August."

"Presents," James said happily, and gave him the last ice mouse.

***

A crash woke Harry, and he sat up, hand fumbling for his wand before his glasses. His sheets stuck to his skin and tangled his legs as he tried to creep out of bed without alerting either the Dursleys or the potential intruder. He didn't think the Dursleys would be a problem; they all had loud fans in their rooms.

Over the hum from behind the bedroom doors Harry clearly heard the voices from the back of the house. He counted half a dozen before he reached the stairs, and he wondered if he could make it to the front door. A few steps down, and he could see shadows marching out of the kitchen. Too late to run. He gripped his wand tighter and edged down the stairs.

A motley assortment of wizards and witches milled in the hall, and Harry recognized Moody and Lupin among them. He lowered his wand. "What are you doing here?"

"Harry," Lupin said. He was smiling in a way Harry had never seen before. "It's your dad."

"What about him?" Harry came the rest of the way down the stairs.

"He's... well, he's come around."

"The nut house let him loose this afternoon," Moody said. "He's been asking for you."

***

Harry had never longed for murder to be legal more than he did during the roundabout flight to... wherever they were going.

"Come on, Mad-Eye!" Tonks shouted. "I'm freezing and Harry looks like he's ready to hex you silly."

Grumbling about vigilance, Moody made them circle once more before they landed in a trash-littered square. Harry barely glanced around at the grimy run-down houses.

"Where is he?"

"Hush, boy," Moody said, and Harry came very close to screaming as they went through another round of precautions. Finally they showed him a scrap of paper and a run-down house shouldered its neighbours aside to appear on the street. Lupin opened the door and ushered Harry inside. A narrow gloomy corridor greeted him, lit by two old-fashioned gas lamps. Lighter squares where portraits had once hung speckled one wall, and a staircase, its steps worn in the centers, occupied the other.

Sirius, dressed like he'd pulled his clothes from the hamper, was coming down, and behind him--

"Dad?"

James stopped and titled his head. Light from the gas lamps gleamed over his glasses, and for a second Harry expected to hear that soft childish voice ask for presents. Then James blinked.

"Harry."

"Dad!" Harry flung himself across the hall as a shriek pierced the tomb-like quiet.

"Filth! Degenerates! Shaming the house of my fathers---"

"Cram it, you old bat," Sirius said, cheerfully enough even though James had shoved him into the railing in order to catch Harry.

***

"It was like... being underwater," James said later, in the kitchen at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He had an arm over Harry's shoulders, and Harry didn't care one wit that his friends and most of the Order of the Phoenix were staring at them. Hermione kept dabbing her eyes. "I could see and hear but everything felt so far away that the outside world didn't seem very important." James snorted. "Not that what was going on inside was very important. I seem to remember eating a lot of paint."

"Do you remember much else, Dad?"

"I remember your visits." James squeezed his shoulder. "It felt like ages between them."

"Harry did have school," Lupin said, but Harry's stomach twisted anyway. He should have talked to Dumbledore or McGonagall about visiting more often.

"Does this mean Sirius is free now?" he asked to cover his guilt, and Sirius grimaced.

"The Ministry's not very happy with James's recovery. He told them I wasn't their secret keeper, but Fudge says that only makes it more likely I killed Wormtail and all those muggles. Personally I think he's just embarrassed that I escaped from their inescapable prison."

"The Ministry doesn't want to hear about anything connected to the first war or the Dark Lord," James said, never looking away from Harry. "But never mind that now. We have the whole summer to spend together."

"Fantastic," Sirius said, cheering up at once. "We're a bit short on bedrooms since the fourth floor is infested with jibbertots, but Harry can room with Ron and I don't mind the floor, so you can have my bed. It'll be just like old times. We'll stay up half the night plotting a prank for Snape--"

"Sirius," Lupin chided.

"Actually I was thinking of my parents' house in Shutford." James ruffled Harry's hair and Sirius's grin faded. "This gloomy old place isn't fit for a teenage boy."

"It isn't fit for a dog," Sirius muttered, kicking at the table leg.

"I closed the house up properly after Mum passed on, so it should be in good shape. It goes to Harry on his seventeenth birthday anyway," James said. "You'll love it, Harry. The grounds are fantastic, great for quidditch."

"When can we go?" Harry asked, already picturing it.

"Tonight, if you like."

"You're not staying?" Ron asked around a mouthful of potatoes. Next to him, Hermione frowned.

"Are you sure that's safe, Mr Potter?"

"Oh, my father worked for the Department of Mysteries. That's--"

"Magical research and development, I know."

James's mouth quirked. "So you won't be surprised to hear the house has some... unorthodox protections."

Sirius had recovered enough good humour to laugh. "Remember the garden statue your dad charmed to detain visitors? It had the biggest crush on Remus. Even after you white-listed him it would still chase him around the garden."

James smiled and Lupin turned pink.

"What's this then?" Tonks asked, looking at Lupin with an odd fake smile.

"Anyway! I'll help you with Harry's things," Sirius said, jumping up. "While we were cleaning I found that old portkey we rigged -- it should be good for a few more jumps. Remember when I snuck you in during Bellatrix's birthday? She never did forgive us for scaring Malfoy away from her."

Sirius kept up the stream of stories and old jokes that weren't as funny when they had to be explained to Harry. Harry had always loved Sirius's tales of James and their adventures, but now his head spun with the real James, awake and aware beside him, rolling his eyes and nudging Harry in the ribs at Sirius's more outlandish declarations. Harry could barely concentrate, and neither could James, it seemed, for he let Sirius prattle on with little response, one hand always warm and heavy on Harry's shoulder.

The portkey whisked them away, and Harry forgot to be nervous, forgot what had happened the last time he portkeyed anywhere, secure with Hedwig's cage in one hand and his dad's arm over his shoulders. The ride ended with an odd yo-yo-like bounce that Sirius said meant the portkey was just about at the end of its strength.

"Mind, it was only supposed to be good for one jump," Sirius said. "James's dad really should have known better than to leave us unsupervised with a magical object." He lit the tip of his wand. Harry glanced around, curious about his grandparents' house, but the entire room was covered with a single white sheet -- furniture, walls, floor... even the light fixture was a featureless lump on the ceiling. It looked as if it had snowed inside, and it smelled like mothballs and moldy lavender.

"I can stay and help you unpack the house," Sirius said. He tugged at the sheet and the whole thing stretched like warm toffee. Harry sneezed.

James cleared his throat. "Sirius..."

"Eh?"

"I've missed Harry growing up. I'd like to get to know my son a little before he goes back to school." James tilted his head at the portkey.

"Oh."

Harry looked from one to the other. "It's okay. I don't mind if Sirius stays, Dad."

"No, no, I'll just be in the way." Sirius grinned at Harry, but Harry could see the tightness lingering around his eyes and mouth. "I'll pop in next week to see how you're setting in."

"Maybe the week after," James said, and Harry waited until Sirius had gone to round on him.

"That was mean. He's stuck at Grimmauld Place, and we've the whole summer to catch up."

James's hand clamped around Harry's arm, biting deep, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath. "Don't contradict me, Harry. We need to spend some quality family time together."

"You're hurting me," Harry said flatly.

"Am I? Sorry." James let go. "You don't know Padfoot like I do. He needs to be the center of attention, always. We'll never get to talk, just us, if he's here."

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again. It occurred to him that his dad might be jealous of the little bit of time Harry had spent with Sirius. He sighed. "All right, Dad. We can invite Sirius over before I go back to school."

"Sure. Come on, let's see if my anti-vermin charms were good enough to save the linens."

Harry stared at his father's retreating back, and then, frowning, followed him.

***

Harry stretched, warm sunshine playing over his face in a way it never did at Hogwarts or the Dursleys'. At the first his bed had curtains and at the second his aunt didn't like him opening his blinds for fear the neighbours would see him acting abnormally.

He froze mid-stretch, realizing that he was waking in his own bed in his own house for the first time since he'd been a baby, and then a smile curled his lips and he relaxed into the warm sheets. He and James had spent half the night de-mothballing the house -- literally; the sheets turned out to be giant white moths that, once pulled away from the walls, curled into fist-sized balls. They had talked for hours and then, when Harry's yawning threatened to unhinge his jaw, James had had showed Harry his old room, now Harry's.

And James was just down the hall. James, not the broken shell Harry had faithfully visited ever since Hagrid told him his father was alive.

Harry flung back the covers and scrambled out of bed. He could smell breakfast, and he followed the scent to the kitchen, where James was waving his wand at a pan of sizzling bacon.

"Do you need help? I can set the table." Harry opened the cupboard, and a teacup perched on the edge of the top shelf wobbled and fell, shattering against the floor. "Whoops."

"Damn it, Harry," James said.

"I'm sorry. I'll clean it up." Harry reached for a towel but jumped back when James slammed the pan down on the counter.

"You shouldn't have broken it in the first place."

"I said I was sorry. Jeez, Dad, it's only a teacup."

"Just a teacup?" James grabbed his arm, fingers pressing against the spot where Wormtail had cut him. "I don't know what you got away with in Vernon and Petunia's house--"

"Let go," Harry said, and James did, baring his teeth. "Look, I'm cleaning it up now."

"Those were my grandmother's," James said, and Harry's irritation vanished into shame. For years he'd treasured every little scrap of his parents' lives, and he knew how it felt to lose those small connections to the past.

"I'm really sorry," he said with more sincerity, but James left the kitchen without another word. Harry collected the pieces and set them in a pile in case James wanted to try repairing it. He wished he could do it himself, but he didn't need any more trouble with the ministry. The articles in the Prophet were bad enough.

Later, when Harry had spread his Transfigurations homework over the coffee table in the living room, James came and sat down beside him.

"I love you, Harry."

Harry ducked his head. "I love you too, Dad. I really am sorry."

"I know. You've said it already."

Harry bit his lip, and after a moment James offered to help him with his homework and everything was all right again.

***

The house in Shutford had a way of making the rest of the world disappear. James dropped a bit of news here and there, though Harry never saw how he was communicating with the Order, but it was never enough for Harry. He told himself it was more than he'd heard in all the weeks he'd spent with the Dursleys, but it was difficult sitting around while Voldemort was out there.

Quidditch in the walled garden with James distracted him for a while. James insisted that neither of them leave the grounds, and though Harry had hoped to see some more of the wizarding world, he tried to content himself with the house and garden. There was a war brewing, after all, and his grandparents' house was far more interesting than the Dursleys' anyway. The portraits told him stories about relatives he'd never heard of, and James was happy to demonstrate any of the magical objects he found. Homework was going faster now that he didn't need to hide the fact that he was doing it.

Boredom and frustration nibbled at his heels, and Harry tried to ignore it for his father's sake but there was only so much entertainment to had in hitting a bludger around a tree or listening to Great-Aunt Eugenia ramble about seventeenth-century politics. James had started off full of stories, but by the second week of August had either run out or lost interest, and he spent most of the time simply watching Harry. It made him want to bask in the attention and hide from it all at the same time, and he wished now that they'd stayed at Grimmauld Place, where at least the Order members might have diverted James's focus once in a while.

No matter how many hints Harry dropped, James still would not invite Sirius. And though Hermione and Ron had apologized for not telling him anything while he was stuck in Little Whinging, they had stopped writing altogether now that he was living with his dad. He finally decided to write to them, but he'd barely started before he realized it was really Sirius he wanted to talk to. He set aside the letter to Ron and Hermione, and took out a fresh sheet of parchment.

Dear Sirius,

I hope you're doing well. I'm really sorry you couldn't stay. How is the cleaning going? Has anything exciting happened? I reckon there must have, if the twins are living there.

It's a bit boring here. I never thought I'd be sick of quidditch, but when that's all there is to do besides homework, it gets old. Dad likes to play though, so we spend most afternoons in the garden.

Had you ever noticed When you were young did Dad Is Dad much like you remember him? I don't have anything to compare him to. I'd always hoped you would tell me more about him someday. I guess I have the real thing now, but it would be nice to talk to you about how he used to be.

I hope you're coming to visit soon.

Love, Harry

He folded the letter and eased his window open. "Take this to Sirius, girl."

Hedwig gave a sleepy hoot and took the letter in her beak. With a silent flutter, she ghosted off over the wall.

***

Four days after he'd written to Sirius, Harry had staked out a spot by the kitchen window. He'd noticed owls liked kitchens, and tended to deliver the mail there -- probably due to the proximity of food. The window had a ledge just the right height for Harry to rest his chin on while sitting on an empty flour bin, and he kept it planted there even when James came in.

"What's the matter with you?" James asked, ducking his head to get Harry's exact perspective out the window. "It's not that wet, if you want to take your broom out."

"I'm sick of quidditch," Harry said. "Hedwig hasn't come back."

"You sent a letter? I wish you'd asked me. There's a confuzzlement charm on the house. Owls can get out, but they can't get back in."

"I'm not used to having to ask permission to write my friends."

"We're both still adapting," James said cheerfully. "Bacon sandwich for lunch?"

"But what will happen to her?"

"Oh, I expect she'll stay where you sent her. Who were you writing to, anyway?"

"Sirius."

"Hmm. Well, I'm sure he'll find a way to slip a note past the defenses when he has time."

"He shouldn't be doing that. The Ministry's still after him," Harry said pointedly, but James only asked him to toast the bread.

***

A week slipped by with no word from Sirius, or anyone else so far as Harry could tell. The long days of nothing stretched out, and Harry found himself looking forward to September first almost as much as he had when he lived with the Dursleys. The once-interesting house now felt small and gloomy, and the scent of mothballs never really went away. He felt horrible for wanting to leave when he'd only just got his father back.

James seemed to sense his dissatisfaction.

"You're not eating," he said over dinner one night.

"It's a little burnt." Harry smiled to show he didn't mind, but James only narrowed his eyes. "It's really good though, thank you," Harry added, and was suddenly furious with himself for the appeasement. He shouldn't have to placate his father over a singed dinner. He stabbed at his vegetables, ignoring James.

"I love you, Harry."

Harry sighed. James had taken to saying it every time Harry's patience threatened to snap, and it was beginning to feel... manipulative. "I love you too, Dad."

"Do you?"

Harry looked over sharply.

"I wonder sometimes," James said. He was staring over Harry's shoulder.

"I do," Harry said, trying to conceal his irritation.

"I suppose."

"I do." Harry poked at his dinner. "Can we stop in and see Sirius when we go to Diagon Alley?" he asked, and then, impatient with James's blank expression added, "We need to get my books soon, and McGonagall told me my robes were too short last term, so I need Madam Malkin to fix them."

"About that. I've been thinking."

Harry tensed.

"We've had so little time together. I'm not looking forward to you leaving."

"Me neither," Harry said, feeling ashamed at lying to his father.

"Good, it's settled then."

"What?"

James beamed at him. "You don't need to back."

"What?"

"You deserve a term off, Harry, after all you went through. You'll have to keep up with your schoolwork so you don't fall behind, but I can teach you all the practicals."

Harry's stomach twisted. "Dad, I like school. I love you, but I want to go back to Hogwarts."

James's smile never dulled, though something changed around his eyes. "It's too dangerous. You told me yourself that Lord Voldemort is back."

"Hogwarts is perfectly safe."

"Really. And how many times have you encountered the Dark Lord there? Three was it? And Sirius got in without any trouble, not to mention Wormtail."

Harry could only stare. He'd privately thought his friends a little ungrateful whenever they complained their parents wouldn't let them do this or that -- at least they had parents. Now he found himself sympathizing. "That's not fair."

"What's not fair is that your mother's dead."

A sudden icy fury gripped Harry so hard his vision blurred. The worst of it was that James did not seem to notice the line he'd crossed, and sat back in his chair like he'd won the argument. "May I be excused?" Harry asked.

"Sure," James said, voice light and cheerful now. "We'll start with transfiguration tomorrow. It'll be great, Harry, you'll see."

***

Harry woke with his skin prickling and light trickling into his room from the hall. He fumbled for wand and glasses, and settled for just the glasses once he realized it was James standing in the doorway.

"Dad?" He sat up.

"I'm sorry. This used to be my room. Force of habit." Instead of leaving though, James came in and sat on the edge of the bed. "I just want you to be safe, Harry."

"I know," Harry said shortly. He did know, even if he didn't agree.

"I haven't been there for you the way I should have," James said. He patted Harry's knee and then left his hand there. "You've been all alone with no one watching over you--"

"Dumbledore's looked out for me," Harry said, even though Dumbledore saw fit to leave him in the dark for half the summer.

"--no one to make sure you were safe," James continued, as though he hadn't heard Harry. He rubbed the inside of Harry's knee and a weird jumpy feeling started in Harry's stomach. "No one's going to hurt you while I'm here. Not anyone. Not even..." James trailed off and his hand shifted higher, fingers trailing along the inside of Harry's thigh.

"Dad!" Harry caught James's wrist.

"I don't want to hurt you. I'm not hurting you, am I?" James's hand crept higher, despite Harry's tight grip on his wrist. "I try to be a good father, but you just don't listen, Harry, and I don't know what to do."

"Stop it."

"So headstrong, just like Lily. But you're not my wife, Harry, you're my son, and you need to obey me."

"I said stop it." Harry dug his nails into James's wrist. James did stop and Harry, heart pounding, pushed his father's hand out of his lap and scrambled to the far edge of the bed.

James was frowning at his hand, tracing the scratches as though wondering how they'd got there. "I should let you sleep. We start lessons tomorrow. Good night, Harry." James pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead, which Harry dodged, and left the room.

Harry sat for a moment, willing the tightness in his chest to ease, until he heard his father's bedroom door shut. Then he snatched his wand, threw back the covers, and jammed his feet into his trainers. He pulled a jumper on over his pyjamas and then stood at the door, listening, and counted to three hundred.

He lost patience around two-fifty. He eased the door open and, when nothing stirred, slipped down the stairs. The Knight Bus would be risky, but so was staying here, and maybe if he got off the property Hedwig would return and he could send a letter to have the Order pick him up again. Either way, he would take his chances.

He slipped out of the house and into the overgrown front garden. He skirted the pond -- it was so full of reeds and lily pads that it couldn't be seen in the faint moonlight -- all the while thinking of James and his odd behaviour. The healers let him out too soon, he decided as he reached the gate. He'd never been outside it, but he had seen the muggle rooftops from his window and knew it wasn't far to Shutford. They should have made sure Dad was all right before they released him. What if he hurt himself?

A darker voice asked: What if he hurt someone else?

Harry cast a glance back at the house. James's window remained dark, so he turned back to the gate, hoping it would open quietly.

The gate wouldn't open at all. Harry pulled and pulled but it wouldn't budge, and when he tried to scale it, it suddenly bucked and twisted and flung him into the overgrown flower beds. He picked himself up and touched his cheek where a thorn had scratched him. James had said the house was protected, but Harry hadn't thought the defenses worked both ways.

The trees near the wall wouldn't let him climb them, turning into small furious cousins of the Whomping Willow if he touched them. After the elm swatted him into the brambles for the second time, Harry stepped back to assess the wall. It wasn't too high -- if he stood on tiptoes he could see over it -- and he was wondering if he could stack something at the base when a cold rough hand brushed his cheek.

Harry barely bit back a scream as he leapt away. Heart pounding, he spun around, but it was only the garden statue gazing at him with smooth blank eyes. It pointed at the house and then, when he didn't react quickly enough to suit it, grabbed his wrist in a leaden grip.

"Let go," he hissed. "I'm not breaking in. I live here."

The statue wouldn't budge, except to point back at the house, and Harry grimaced when he saw the light was on. James soon came padding across the lawn.

"Harry?"

"I was going for a walk."

James frowned. "It's not safe out there."

It's not safe in here either, Harry thought, but he allowed James to free him and take him to the kitchen for some hot cocoa. He couldn't tell if James believed him. One moment James chided him for risking leaving the property, and the next he smirked knowingly over the rim of his mug.

Harry was glad to escape to his room, and even though he knew it wouldn't keep James out, he propped a chair in front of the door, and slept with his wand under his pillow.

***

September first came and went, and Harry barely noticed, too busy avoiding his father in the limited space of the house and grounds. He gave in to resentment and sullenness for a time, but quickly stopped when that led to a cycle of James yelling at him and then assuring Harry he loved him in a way that made Harry think he was trying to convince them both. The apologies that followed left Harry uncomfortable at best and at worst trying to convince his father he didn't need that kind of hug.

A week after he should have been at school, Harry persuaded James to let him study alone from one of his grandmother's astronomy books. I ought to be falling asleep in Divination right now, he thought as he went through the study's shelves, half his attention on listening for James and the other half on finding out how James communicated with the Order. Harry was pretty sure James had not contacted them since deciding to keep Harry home, but whatever he had used to reach them had to be in the house.

He was listening so hard for James's footsteps that he almost didn't hear the knock, and when he did he stood frozen for a moment, convinced he'd finally gone mad and started hearing things. The rap came again, jolting him out of his daze; someone really was at the door. Harry glanced down the hall, and then darted for the stairs.

He eased the door open just as the caller knocked again. "Shh!" he hissed, and then drew back sharply as Snape's hook-nosed and greasy-haired form barged in.

"Potter. Exactly how long did you plan on playing hooky?"

"Keep your voice down! He'll hear you." Harry glanced over his shoulder, ignoring Snape's raised eyebrow. "How did you get past the gate? Oh, never mind. Can you get me past it, is the question."

"Whatever game you're playing--"

"I said be quiet!" Harry felt his throat tightening, and furiously ordered himself not to cry. Why did it have to be Snape? Why not Lupin or Moody? "I wanted to go. My dad won't let me."

"Potter."

"He's mad," Harry whispered, the words pouring out now that he had someone to listen. "Not like he was in the hospital, but he's not as well as the healers thought. They shouldn't have let him out."

Snape smirked. "Perhaps you are simply seeing your father as he truly is: an arrogant self-centered bastard. Reality has shattered your fantasies, has it?"

"Fine, it's all in my head. Take me back to school for detention."

Snape raised a brow, stepped back, and folded his arms over his chest. Harry clenched his teeth to keep from hexing the man for being so difficult. "I wouldn't dream of assisting you in running away. If your father wants to home school you, perhaps we should talk to him."

Harry bit his lip. He knew Snape was just being contrary, but maybe if Snape saw how James was behaving... only that would leave Snape knowing more than Harry wanted, and he didn't think he could bear to sit in the man's class if he knew the things James did when he had one of his odd turns.

The decision was taken out of his hands when James appeared on the stairs. "Ah, Severus! I thought I heard Harry talking to someone."

"Potter." A sneer twisted Snape's upper lip, and then faltered, and an oily smile replaced it. "The headmaster sent me to fetch the brat."

"Come now. Surely Albus can understand that father and son would like to get reacquainted after so many years." James pulled Harry to his side; Harry tried to step back but James only switched his grip to Harry's upper arm and dug in.

Harry tried to catch Snape's eye, but Snape only stared at James, looking thoughtful.

"The headmaster is sympathetic but insists I return the boy to school."

"Let's discuss the matter over tea," James said. "I insist. Harry, go and do your assignments while Severus and I talk."

James would wait until the one time Harry wanted to stay around him to send him away. He didn't argue though, only ran up the stairs, waited until they'd gone into the kitchen, and crept back down. He pressed his eye to the crack in the door in time to catch Snape ratting him out.

"Your brat seems to think you've gone mad again."

"He's been telling tales." James sounded disappointed, and Harry clenched his fists.

"How shocking," Snape said. "I'm afraid that without a strong parental figure the boy has gone quite wild. Have you been disciplining him?"

"I try." James waved his wand at the kettle and sat down, rubbing his temples while the water boiled. "I try so hard, but he... he just..."

Snape nodded, eyes kind with sympathy that Harry knew had to be phony. "I taught him for four years. I know it's hard, but you must be firm."

"I love him. I don't want to hurt him."

Snape accepted a cup of tea, and then said, quietly, "Do you hurt him?"

"Not really. I don't think so, at least, not like--"

Snape leaned forward. "Not like you imagine?"

James didn't answer, only squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his temples so hard his fingertips went white.

Snape sat back and sipped his tea. "I shouldn't worry about it. I've entertained a few fantasies concerning the boy's discipline myself."

James let loose a sharp bark of laughter. "I think about slitting his throat."

Snape's teacup froze midway back to its saucer, and Harry bit his lip, and then clapped a hand over his mouth when that couldn't contain the raw sound from rising to his throat. He felt like he was under cruciatus again, only this time it was James and not Voldemort holding the wand.

"Hell, I don't just think about it, I can see, see the blood gushing out of him all warm and coppery, and it's so beautiful, like Lily's hair in the winter." James stood, paced to the stove as the words poured out. "And then I think of her and I realize she'd never forgive me, but I can't just... stop thinking about it. He bleeds inside my head until he dies, unless I press my hands to his throat, and then he just dies faster because I can't help squeezing."

"I see," said Snape.

"That's all you have to say?" James spun around. "Harry's right, I am going mad again, and all you can say is 'I see'?"

Snape sipped. "I think you're letting him off too easy. If you kill him, he doesn't learn."

James glared at him. "I'm not going to kill my son. It's just --"

"You can't stop thinking about it," Snape said, and James looked away.

"It's okay. I know how to stop the urges. I just have to be nicer to him." James turned his cup around in circles without drinking from it. "He doesn't like it -- teenage boy, you know -- but I think if I can just find the right way to kiss him, touch him, these thoughts will go away."

Harry backed away from the door, feeling sick. All the strange hugs and lingering touches... had they all been James's overcompensation for violent impulses? Why had the healers even released him? And why did you run off so eagerly with him? If you'd stayed with Sirius...

"No... no, you're right, Severus," James said from the kitchen. "What Harry needs is some discipline. Affectionate discipline." A chair scraped the floor, and Harry scrambled back too late; the door opened and James nearly tripped over him.

"Eavesdropping! My own son."

"I'd have expected you to be proud of him," Snape said, appearing at James's shoulder.

"No, no, I've taken your point about discipline, Severus. Harry, come here."

Harry met his father's eyes and felt that same lack of connection he had all the years James lived at St Mungo's, only now those eyes were terribly coldly aware. The uneasiness in his stomach solidified into a ball of icy fear. Harry turned and ran for the front door.

He opened it only a fraction before it slammed shut and the handle vanished under his fingers. He drew his wand, but James disarmed him before he'd ever finished raising it.

"Harry," James said as Harry backed into the living room. "You're only making it worse for yourself. Come here and take your punishment."

"Dad, listen to me. You're not well," Harry said, and James's grim expression twisted.

"Don't you think I know that?" James shouted. He caught Harry's arms and slammed him against the fireplace. "I'm the one having the dreams. I'm the one who has to fuck you or kill you to save you, and you don't think I know I've gone round the twist?"

"Are you going to kill him or not?" Snape asked coolly, tapping his wand against his arm as if it didn't matter in the slightest to him, and James froze. His grip relaxed and then tightened. Harry's breath whistled in his throat.

"No," James murmured. "No, I can't do that. Lily would be so angry, and I don't want Harry to die, I don't." He squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, and then opened them again. "I love you, Harry."

Harry met his gaze and forced his voice steady. "Let go of me."

"Say it back."

"No."

"Say it." James shook him until his head spun, fingers digging deeper and deeper into Harry's biceps. "I don't want to hurt you. Say it!"

"I love you," Harry gasped out, and James kissed him, hard, knocking his head against the mantle. One thigh wedged between Harry's legs, and James caught both his wrists in one hand and pinned them against the rough brick. Harry tried to kick, recoiling back from James's cock, hard and demanding against his hip, tried to evade the hand undoing his jeans. "Snape!"

Snape was watching with hooded eyes and pursed mouth, as though he were studying a newt dissected on a cutting board.

"Why aren't you stopping him?" Harry cried.

"Why should I?" Snape said. "You've wanted a father all these years, Potter. It's about time you learned how lucky you were not to have one."

And with that he turned and walked out.

***

Three days later Ron and Hermione appeared in the garden with a portkey. Harry had staked out the upstairs as his territory, so he saw them arrive from one of the bedroom windows. He didn't know where James had gone -- Harry had hit him in the head with an astrolabe after being cornered in the study the night before -- but he didn't care to risk encountering him again.

He flung open the window. "I'm coming down. Don't go in the house, and watch out for the garden statue."

"Harry, what's going on?" Ron called up as Hermione conjured a trampoline in case Harry fell -- which he promptly did. Ron helped him off. "You weren't on the train and McGonagall pitched a fit and no one even knew your dad pulled you out of school until after the sorting--"

"Is the portkey timed?" Harry broke in.

"No," Hermione said. "Dumbledore left it in the common room with a note about visiting you... Harry, you look dreadful."

"I haven't slept in three days. Let's go."

"But we just got here... hey, wait up!" Ron grabbed the portkey, and the garden of the house in Shutford swirled away, only to be replaced by dark walls and heavy moth-eaten drapes.

"This isn't the school," Hermione said. She blinked around at the drawing room of the house at number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

"I thought," Dumbledore said from the doorway, "that we might need some privacy from our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for a few hours. If you will excuse us, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley?" When Ron and Hermione left, casting anxious glances back at Harry as they did, Dumbledore gestured to the sofa.

Harry remained in place, and Dumbledore sighed.

"Are you all right, Harry?"

"How could I possibly be all right?" Harry exploded. "I've spent the last month fending off an insane father who decided that... molesting me was the only was to keep me safe!"

"It's quite possible it was the only way to keep you safe."

"What?" Harry gaped at the headmaster. "Just tell me what's going on."

"After what happened at the final task of the Triwizard Tournament I had thought Voldemort would attempt to invade your mind through your scar," Dumbledore said. "It seems he found James an easier target."

Harry blinked, and finally sat down. "My dad's recovery..."

"Was caused by Voldemort. He needed a weak but self-aware mind to influence, though I suspect your father put up more of a fight than Voldemort anticipated. Countering every violent impulse with thoughts of his love for you was a good strategy, but Voldemort was able to warp even that."

"Voldemort... Voldemort was possessing him?"

"Not quite. Influencing him, for certain. The curse that destroyed your father's mind fourteen years ago left him particularly vulnerable to legilimancy, even at a distance. Professor Snape recognized the signs, as he'd been preparing to look for them in you."

At Snape's name, Harry leapt to his feet again. "Where is he? Where's Snape?"

"In class."

"You let him teach after what he did? He should be sacked."

"Don't judge Professor Snape too harshly, Harry. He was in the difficult position of needing to make Voldemort, who was watching through your father, believe him to be a loyal Death Eater. A harsh enough task, but he also could not alert you or James to the true nature of James's recovery, while provoking your father to see how far Voldemort's influence extended and whether your life was in danger."

"So why didn't he rescue me?"

"He concluded that the situation was not so dire that it merited revealing his true allegiance. He reported back to me at once so that I could arrange for your friends to remove you in a way that would not compromise Professor Snape's role."

"He left me!" Harry shouted. James had caught him twice more in the time it took Dumbledore to arrange for Ron and Hermione to get there, and the last time was something he wanted to bury so deep in his mind even a pensieve wouldn't be able to read it. "Snape knew what my dad wanted to do, and he left me."

Dumbledore bowed his head. "I did not say I agreed with Professor Snape's actions, Harry, only that he had his reasons. I will deal with him."

Harry clenched his fists. He planned on dealing with Snape as well, whether Dumbledore liked it or not. "What happened to my dad?"

"Mr Black and Mr Lupin went to retrieve him. He's upstairs." Dumbledore paused. "Harry, Voldemort's plan has failed, so he no longer needs your father's mind intact."

Harry shivered. "He's going back to the way he was."

"He's become less coherent, yes." Dumbledore touched his arm, and Harry's skin crawled under his warm dry fingers. "I've made arrangements for him at St Mungo's."

"Isn't there any way to fix him? Voldemort did it..."

"By invading James's mind, influencing him at the deepest levels of his subconscious. Are you willing to subject your father to that again?"

"No." Harry looked away. "I want to see him."

Dumbledore nodded, and Harry slipped out of the drawing room.

He met Sirius on the stairs, looking older and even more worn. "Harry..." Sirius said, and then pulled him into a hug. Harry let him for as long as he could stand it, and then he wiggled free.

"I need to see him."

Sirius searched his face, and then nodded. "He's in the room Ron stayed in. Harry? I'm glad you're safe."

Harry smiled, but privately thought it would be a long time before he would want anyone but himself worrying about his safety.

James was pacing in front of the window, and he spun around when Harry entered, and pressed himself against the wall. "I told Sirius to keep you away from me," James said. He looked feverish, face flushed, eyes bright and strangely lucid. Harry tried to feel bad about the black eye he'd given James during one of their struggles but couldn't find it in him. He only hoped Voldemort felt the pain too.

"Dumbledore explained that it wasn't you," Harry said, rubbing his arms.

"That's what Sirius said." James ducked his head. "And then he hit me too. I deserved it."

"Dad, it was Voldemort, not you."

"I listened to him! He wanted me to hurt you and I tried not to, I tried so hard, but even when I tried to love you it went wrong." James looked at his feet, misery and confusion twisting his mouth, his brow. "His voice burrows into your head until you can't tell which thoughts are his and which are... I don't know. Maybe it was me."

"It wasn't. Dad..."

"Don't look at me. Every time you look at me I think funny things." James rubbed his eyes, and Harry crept close enough to touch his arm. "My head hurts."

"I know, Dad."

"Will you still come and see me?" James asked, voice small.

"Every holiday," Harry said past the growing tightness in his throat.

"And you'll bring me presents?"

"Yes, Dad. I promise."

James laid his head on Harry's shoulder, and Harry stiffened but endured the touch. He still had to settle with Snape, but for now Harry held still and let his father cling to him. After a while he was even able to hug James back.





Request: James/Harry maybe with Snape/Harry, chan. James is a little off-kilter and making sexual overtures toward Harry. Harry ends up talking to Snape about it, but that doesn't turn out as well as he'd hoped. Play with it as much as you'd like. I'm not opposed to a James/Harry/Snape threesome, as long as the focus is James/Harry and Harry/Snape, not James/Snape.

I am sorry I wasn't able to work in the threesome, as I had originally planned. Snape, unfortunately, went on strike the moment I mentioned it to him.

Grizzy Grimknickers