Harry paced and frowned, frowned and paced. It was eight strides from one end of the hearth to the other. He muttered to himself from time to time. He stopped and stared at the fireplace, as if it held the answers he sought. The chuckle that escaped him was a bit on the hysterical side and had been for the past six months.

“No…not Papa. That’s a rather cuddly sort of word, and Snape is far from cuddly. Father is a bit cold, and we’re trying to get over the coldness between us. Allegedly.” Harry coughed at the very thought of ever feeling warm towards his former Professor. He wondered if he’d ever be able to feel anything that wasn’t utter astonishment and a very slight thawing of the ice that had existed between them since Voldemort’s downfall some twelve years before. Harry reckoned such a state was about as likely as Draco Malfoy turning straight, Albus rising from his tomb or Hagrid developing fashion sense.

He snorted quietly at that last thought. “Daddy might work…if I were five years old, which I’m not.” Harry was thirty next month and wasn’t going to call anyone Daddy, no matter how much the mental image of the gobsmacked expression on Snape’s face tantalized him.

Harry threw up his hands in frustration and resumed his pacing and frowning. He had no idea what people called their fathers since he’d never had one. He couldn’t keep calling him Severus; that seemed to lack respect coming from a son, however late in life that fact had been discovered. He muttered to himself again, “Dad might be marginally acceptable, or Da, perhaps. If he or I were Italian, I could call him Padre and no one would be the wiser.” Harry paused to reflect, then snorted in derision, “I absolutely will not call him Sir; brings back too many unpleasant memories of detention.”

Harry flopped down on the couch, frustration evident in every strand of his short, perpetually wild hair. He wondered again just which capricious deity was in charge of his life; clearly he wasn’t in charge of anything, never had been, and never would be. If he were allowed to be in charge of his own circumstances, he was absolutely certain he’d never, ever have chosen Severus Snape to be his biological father. Come to think of it, he wasn’t feeling so warm towards his mum these days either. Maybe he’d put in for a replacement, while he was doing this bit of soul searching. He needed to calm himself, sort out his thoughts before this momentous first contact between the two of them took place.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Who knew that Lily Evans Potter was cunning, sly, manipulative, and determined to give her husband an heir despite said husband’s sterility? Only the medi witch who’d helped her pull it off, evidently. When Harry had stumbled into the Accident and Emergency at St. Agnes’ Infirmary for Magical Injuries in Kent after a particularly nasty mission six months ago, he’d had no idea his entire life was going to change drastically as a result. If he’d known, he’d have patched himself up a bit and gone limping to St. Mungo’s to be treated for the Acid Rash Curse he’d triggered during the mission.

He’d collapsed on the nearest exam table, moaning in pain, just in time to see the look of horror from the middle-aged Mediwitch who’d been assigned to treat him. Her reaction seemed out of proportion to his injury, so he’d quietly cast Legilimens while she gathered her composure and began to treat his wounds. Five minutes later, he’d had her in a full Body-Bind and was demanding explanations - loudly and with a great deal of dramatic flourish. Never let it be said that Harry Potter, Voldemort’s Vanquisher, didn’t know how to make a scene when it was needed.

He’d firecalled Ron Weasley to bring a team of Aurors to St. Agnes, and explained what he thought he’d found as soon as Ron arrived. He could still hear Ron’s disbelieving laughter ringing in his ears. Downright embarrassing, that was. When Ron had finally calmed down, he’d administered the Veritaserum and questioned the ‘witness’.

One of the junior Aurors was using a Quick-Quote-Quill to take down every word. An hour later, nobody was laughing. The group was so shocked that nobody had thought to contact Harry’s wife. Someone certainly gathered their wits quickly enough the next day; the Prophet got hold of the story and ran with it, much to Harry’s disgust and Ginny’s ire.

The details splashed all over the Prophet, when all was said and done, were fairly straightforward and backed up by simple paternity spells and Healer Smythwick’s sworn testimony.

Severus Snape was indeed Harry Potter’s biological father. He hadn’t been aware that his semen had been stolen and used to impregnate Lily Potter, nee Evans. Lily herself had remained unaware of the identity of her child’s biological father. Nobody had been aware that James Potter was sterile, not even James himself. If Harry hadn’t stumbled to the nearest Accident and Emergency on that fateful day, he’d have lived out his life none the wiser.

It seemed Lily had cast a fertility enhancing spell just after she and James were married, and it had failed miserably. Surreptitiously, she went to see her closest friend and year mate, Cecily Smythwick, who was able to tell her that the problem didn’t lie with Lily. That left James. She followed Cecily’s instructions, cast the diagnostic spells on James while he slept one night and found out the truth; James had contracted Muggle Mumps at the age of twelve. He was utterly sterile. The only explanation for his condition was that he’d been rendered infertile by the illness. It was a fairly uncommon side effect for wizards, so nobody had bothered to test him when he’d recovered.

Lily had been devastated by the news. She’d wanted a large family so very much. In desperation, she turned to Cecily for advice and solutions. Lily couldn’t bear the thought of James being publicly shamed by the news; she knew she could trust her friend not to breathe a word to anyone. Cecily was a gifted Healer and Lily had hoped there was some way to reverse James’ condition. There wasn’t, but Cecily was able to suggest a method by which Lily could begin to achieve her goal without destroying her marriage or her husband’s self esteem. Lily listened intently to Cecily’s plan and reluctantly agreed to it, knowing it was simply the lesser of two evils.

Thirty one years ago, give or take, Healer Smythwick had been working at St. Mungo’s as an Apprentice Healer. She was given all the monotonous jobs, the boring jobs, the jobs that didn’t require much skill to accomplish. One of those jobs was administering the required yearly physicals to Hogwarts staff members. She saw her chance and took it, telling herself that Severus Snape looked enough like James Potter for the deception to be believed. It had been, by everyone, for all of Harry’s life. She’d taken the semen samples without anyone being the wiser, and stored the excess under a stasis charm in St. Mungo’s extensive laboratories. As far as she knew, the other samples were still there. Ron immediately sent another junior Auror off to verify her story.

Once Cecily had the semen, it was a simple thing to make sure Lily got pregnant with it. A whispered spell at ovulation, a discreet insertion, a hastily planned seduction of her husband, and that, as they say, was that.

Harry had finally been healed of his Acid Rash, but was left reeling at the whole new set of problems presented to him by Healer Smythwick’s revelations. He’d left the Infirmary in a daze; Ron had called Ginny to help him Apparate home to their comfortable manor house in Godric’s Hollow. Once there, he barricaded himself in his den so he could brood in peace and get squiffy on Firewhisky. Ginny let him drink while she managed the house and the children with her usual mixture of brisk efficiency, breezy kindness and unending love for her husband and offspring.

When Harry came out of his alcoholic daze a week later, he knew two things. He should have turned down the blasted mission in Kent, and he didn’t want to be the son of Severus Snape. His wife was sympathetic, but more pragmatic than Harry ever could be. She owled Severus Snape as soon as Harry was sober enough to receive guests, opening the lines of communication and keeping them open until Harry could cope. Harry still didn’t know what the two of them talked about in their frequent letters, but he was content to let Ginny handle things for awhile.

Six months later, he still couldn’t believe it was true, though the deepest part of himself told him, quite insistently, that it was. He’d spent a long time looking at himself in the mirror once his eyes were able to focus again, thinking about his past; who he’d been, who he was now, and who he could be in the future. Now Harry knew why his skin would never tan, when James Potter had always had a ruddy glow about him. Now he knew why he couldn’t permit his hair to grow longer than his collar; it abruptly straightened, becoming lank and a bit greasy if he did. Now he knew why his hands were long and slender, rather than broad and blunt like James’ had been. Now he knew why he’d developed a voracious intellectual appetite once he’d left school and could study things that interested him; he’d come by his thirst for knowledge honestly.

He’d always assumed that his youngest son’s brown eyes came from Ginny; they could easily have come from his…father. Harry’s brain still stumbled over the term, even now. His oldest daughter was six and already interested in making potions; he’d never understood that until recently. She had a talent for brewing that was being nurtured properly now, thank Merlin.

Though he was loath to admit it, he could see his father’s stamp far more easily on his children than on himself. He’d always assumed his children were an interesting mix of Ginny and his Potter ancestors. Now that he knew differently, he looked at his children with new eyes. He bought six year old Maggie the First Brewing Kit she’d been wanting, and he did his best to help her learn. Her green eyes sparkled with joy when he presented it to her. She had an intent, focused look about her when she brewed, just as her grandfather did. Harry was pants at Potions, of course, and when Maggie mentioned that ‘Grandfather’s coming over to show me properly’, Harry made sure he had to work overtime that day, but he breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked at four year old Adam, already able to read and write a bit; he took the child to Diagon Alley one afternoon and bought him as many books as he wanted, on whatever subjects he wanted, with the proviso that he share with his siblings. The boy had masses of straight black hair and a nimble, inquisitive mind already. Harry cuddled his two year old son, Nicholas, before bedtime and noted the dark brown eyes with new understanding. He’d never noticed the boy’s scowl of displeasure when he was thwarted, but it, too, resembled his grandfather’s expression. He thought he knew where Nicky’s nose came from, as well; he chuckled to himself for the first time, glad that he’d escaped that particular inheritance.

Infrequently during the past few months, Ginny had casually shared snippets of Snape’s letters with her husband. He knew now that Snape didn’t expect Harry to take his name, as he felt it would be confusing for the children. Harry and Ginny had discussed the matter loudly and in excruciating detail; they’d decided to add ‘Snape’ to each child’s second name, as acknowledgement. The birth certificates had been updated, and copies had been sent to the Professor.

Ginny told Harry she thought Snape was pleased by that, but who could tell? He was as taciturn as ever, except in those letters to Ginny. She’d urged him more than once to read them; he’d done so a few days ago. Once he got over the shock, he’d talked with Ginny and she’d sent the Professor an invitation to Sunday dinner. This brought him back to his place in the sitting room - pacing, frowning and thinking.

Harry knew now that Snape had changed his will, leaving his assets in trust for Harry’s children. That pleased Harry for some reason; it was as though Snape didn’t want to push him into any sort of relationship. He was prepared to content himself with what contact Harry would allow. He knew, from listening to Ginny talk, that Snape spent quite a bit of time with the children, planning his visits carefully for when Harry was hard at work in the field. Until recently, it had suited them both, he’d thought. Then he’d read his father’s letters to Ginny.

Harry had followed Severus Snape’s reactions, from astonished disbelief to suspicious verification to sneering disdain to tentative acceptance to deep sorrow. The last reaction prompted a fundamental change in Harry’s point of view. His father was content that he was allowed to know his daughter-in-law and grandchildren; what he really wanted was to know his son. His only child. He was eloquent in his desire to build a relationship with Harry. While it was true they’d known one another since Harry was eleven years old, that relationship was - at its root - based on deception, misconception, preconceived notions and a lack of ability to compromise. They didn’t really know one another at all.

Harry, at some point, finally came to terms with the fact that he had a living, breathing parent that he could talk to, see, touch, and perhaps come to feel affection for, if he could only work up the courage to choose to bridge the gulf between them. Facing Voldemort seemed insignificant when compared with the terror and uncertainty he now felt. Late one night, in the privacy of their bedroom, he broke down and poured out all his fears to his wife. She held him, soothed him, and helped him find his way, as she always had and always would. Gently, but firmly, she helped Harry to let go of the past and begin to see the future.

Now he was pacing and waiting for a knock at the door. Finally, it came. Harry strode to the door, and stopped, suddenly nervous all over again. He turned his head to catch Ginny’s encouraging smile and the barely contained enthusiasm of his children. He slowly put his hand out, turned the knob and opened the door. His father stood there on the porch, gazing steadily at his son and waiting patiently. Small steps, Harry reminded himself; small steps would bridge the chasm between them.

Harry stepped back and made a sweeping gesture. He lifted his face and smiled briefly as he said, “Please, come in…Father.”