Harry stood in front of the dungeon floo, silently willing the cold embers in the grate to burn brightly enough to expel Snape. He’d been waiting all morning for the man to return, but the elder wizard had yet to make an appearance from his holiday trip. Chewing absently at a fingernail, Harry wandered over to one of the chairs near the fireplace, slumped down, and began drumming his fingers on the small table next to him. He was bored. And restless. And nervous. And hanging out in the dungeon waiting for Snape to return had done little for him, except leave him with sweaty palms and a touch of nausea.

"I need to get out of here," Harry mumbled, launching himself out of the chair.

For the hundredth time that morning, he plodded over to the closet to retrieve his heavy cloak, and for hundredth time, he changed his mind. It just didn’t feel right to leave. Nothing felt right this morning. It seemed like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to be, or what he wanted to do, or even how he thought he should feel.

"Ah, bugger," Harry cursed as he threw himself back down into the chair and rubbed his face. "What is wrong with me?"

In truth, Harry knew what was wrong. He had to talk to his father, and it didn’t sit well with him because, frankly, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man. Snape had always been a git to him, and that was easy to understand. But blast the man, he had to go and do something nice and confuse the matter.

Harry stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned is head back, his mind drifting to the bright, if not warm, sunshine he knew was currently shining down upon the quidditch pitch. He wished he were flying. Hell, he wished he were anywhere else but in the dungeon waiting for his fathers return; however, he wanted to thank the man for arranging Ron’s visit. It was the decent thing to do - he was, after all, deeply grateful that Snape had taken the time to set it up. Still, the churning in his stomach told Harry that doing so would be, at a minimum, uncomfortable. He had no idea how to approach the man, and just thinking about it caused a his heart to beat faster.

Harry pondered the matter. Should he say something formal immediately upon the man’s return? Snape was definitely austere, but somehow, Harry didn’t think a stiff, "Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your concern," follow by a forced handshake was the way to go. Too much like Percy Weasley... That option was out. But Harry was also certain that waiting to say anything would mean his father would have time to find something to yell at him about - probably the botched potions assignment. Harry shook his head at the thought. Having to thank Snape after suffering through his father’s demeaning comments would be humiliating. That option was out, too. And he couldn’t ignore it and then casually drop it into a later conversation because... well... he and Snape didn’t actually talk. So, what did that leave? Nothing much, in Harry’s opinion.

Sighing heavily, Harry thumped his head against the back of his chair. "What is wrong with me," he mused silently. "It’s just a simple thank you. What’s the worst that could happen?" His thoughts were cut short as the grate in the hearth suddenly flared to life. Harry had only a brief second to realize what was happening before his father, tall and imposing, stepped out of the floo and squarely in front of the younger wizard.

"Damn," Harry hissed quietly. In his haste to stand, he tripped over his feet and nearly upended the table next to him. Harry felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He could have kicked himself - all that time he waited this morning and then, when Snape finally did get back, he had to go and make a complete fool of himself by nearly falling flat on his face and destroying the man’s possessions. Righting himself and the table, Harry turned to his father.

"Sorry, Sir," he muttered quietly.

Snape didn’t respond. At first, Harry thought the elder wizard was just pausing for dramatic effect before launching into a scathing criticism, but the silence between them continued longer than expected. After a moment, Harry risked a glance up. Snape was definitely glaring at him, but it seemed to Harry that there was something else embedded on the potions master’s face. Harry couldn’t place it, but the look his father was unnerving, and he had no idea why the man was glaring at him like he was... It reminded of the way Mrs. Weasley looked when Cornelius Fudge visited the infirmary after the fiasco at the Ministry. He recalled it vividly - Ron unconscious in the bed next to him; Percy hovering behind the minister - ashamed to look at his mother; and Mrs Weasley standing stiffly, lips pinched together and staring angrily at Fudge, whom she clearly blamed for all of the harms done to her family. Loss, anger, regret and powerlessness... it was all there... written as openly on Snape’s face as it had been on Molly Weasley’s face. Harry wasn’t sure why he made the connection, but whatever the reason, he wasn’t used to seeing such emotion from Snape. It was uncomfortable to witness.

"Um, Sir, are you ok?" Harry didn’t expect Snape to answer, at least not in a meaningful way, but he really wanted to distract the man from whatever he was thinking about....

The ploy worked, and Harry felt himself begin to breathe again as the potions master snorted and then pushed roughly past him.

"I’m fine, Potter. Just basking in the glory of your presence, that’s all," Snape hissed as he busied himself with a few odds and ends - hanging his cloak, making tea, depositing some paperwork in a cabinet drawer.... For a minute, Harry was distracted by the drawer - he could have sworn he saw his invisibility cloak in there - but Snape’s gruff voice brought his attention back to more immediate matters.

"Mr. Potter, this is for you." Snape stretched out his hand, and Harry was surprised to see the most recent edition of the Daily Prophet.

"You should know," the potions master continued, "that Fudge has petitioned the Wizengamot to have your illusion removed and a repeat paternity test performed."

"Oh," was all Harry could manage to say. He hadn’t been expecting Snape’s rather odd reception, and he certainly hadn’t expected the current conversation. He’d been expecting to thank the man and endure a few criticisms for the botched potion, and his mind was having a hard time processing the change in topic.

"What happens if the illusion is removed?" Harry asked. He stared at the heading which proclaimed, in bold, black lettering, "Minister Fudge Petitions Wizengamot for Truth - Alios, Snape Reluctant!" followed by a smaller heading, "Is Harry Potter the Boy-Who-Lived or the Child-Who-Died?"

Snape’s reply was clipped, his tone harsh and unyielding. "As you heard in the pensieve, we do not know exactly what the effects will be if the illusion is removed."

Harry looked up at his father’s cold face and shivered. He recalled the conversation clearly - the one where everyone was talking about how he might be ‘damaged’ by removing the illusion. He didn’t want to be considered damaged goods. But in the back of his mind, he knew that wasn’t what he was asking Snape. He cleared his throat, and tried again.

"I mean, Sir... if the illusion is removed, will the paternity test still show that I’m your son?"

It was a thought he’d toyed with in the first few days following the paternity test. Maybe they’d all jumped to conclusions and cast the illusion unnecessarily... And maybe the presence of the illusion had created a false positive... And maybe, just maybe...underneath everything - he really was a Potter.... It was unlikely, Harry knew, but still - it was his last, unvoiced hope, and the last possibility Harry could envision that would allow him to hold on to the person he used to be. Harry watched Snape’s face carefully - never dropping his eyes. He wanted to know... and he wanted to see the man’s face when he answered. The silence between them seemed to pulse sickeningly in time with Harry’s own heart... Snape’s answer simple, one syllable, and crushing.

"Yes."

Harry blanched slightly, but forced a stoic nod, determined not to let the disappointment show on his face, or in his voice.

"I’d rather not have the illusion removed," he croaked. Even to his own ears, Harry thought his voice sounded wounded. Still, he felt the need to state his opinion on the matter. He wasn’t all that fond of his looks, especially his scar, but the idea of losing his appearance was disturbing - it was too much like losing ones self, and Harry couldn’t help but feel like he’d lost enough lately.

"I rather not, also," Snape acknowledged. "The Headmaster is doing his best to derail the proceedings. But you should prepare yourself for the possibility." The two wizards stared at each other a moment longer, each locked in his own thoughts about what the culmination of that possibility might mean. After a moment, though, Snape turned away and grasped a copy of the fifth year potions text book.

"For now, though," Snape declared, "We shall discuss your potion. Where is your sample?"

Snape looked at Harry expectantly, but the look quickly turned hostile. Harry knew he was in for it. Still, he mentally cursed the man for dropping a bombshell on him and then flat-out turning the conversation to something as mundane as homework. It was like being blindfolded and on a roller coaster.

"Potter!" Snape hissed. "Please tell me that you completed your assignment."

The antagonism in the air was unmistakable. Harry was doing his best to control his temper - he really wanted to keep things as civil as possible with the man - but he found himself increasingly irritated with Snape. What in the name of Merlin was the man’s problem? Blood hell... he just got off holiday. People were supposed to be relaxed after a few days away. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t fathom what had got the man’s wand in such a knot.

"I can’t, Sir," Harry replied through clenched teeth. "I had some trouble. But I will finish the assignment." And Harry was damned well determined to do so. No way, no how was he going allow Snape the satisfaction of not finishing.

Snape smirked. "Yes, you will," he replied coldly, his eyes flashing. "What, pray tell, was the problem?"

Harry was silent for a second. What had been the problem? He wasn’t sure now...he hadn’t been able to get it, and the bloody book was too boring to slosh through... it had been something with the newts eyes... or maybe it was something with his attitude at the time... he hadn’t really cared very much about the potion when he was making it... The thought was like a pin in a balloon. In a blink, Harry went from feeling puffed up and indignant at his father’s attitude to feeling squashed and deflated.

"Um, I’m not really sure," Harry conceded, more than a little ashamed of not putting enough effort into the potion. Especially since Snape had put effort into arranging Ron’s visit.

"I’m sorry. I just didn’t get it, Sir."

"Perhaps you were too busy with Christmas conversations to be bothered with the assignment?" Snape asked quietly. "Or too busy with other thoughts this morning to make another effort?"

Harry didn’t reply - there was nothing he could say. He’d had all day Christmas morning, not to mention the present morning, but he hadn’t re-brewed the potion. He had tried to brew it once, failed, and then simply given up. Harry rubbed his eyes dejectedly. Even though they’d only been talking for a few minutes, Harry felt wrung out and exposed by the conversation with Snape. And he’d never even said thank you to the man. All that energy wasted worrying about how to show his gratitude, and now he was just too spent to think coherently on the subject.

"You will brew the potion until you get it correct. No son of mine will be a failure at potions. Do you understand?" Snaps’s voice was low and electric, but not overly hostile. It didn’t need to be. Snape was intimidating enough even without his voice dripping with malice.

Harry kept his head down, but through is bangs, he snuck a sidelong glance at his father.

"Yes, Sir," he replied somberly.

Snape leveled a penetrating gaze at Harry, leaving Harry feeling defenseless in the face of his father’s blistering presence. The elder wizard’s reply was quiet, but deeply meaningful.

"I don’t think I heard that properly, son."

Harry’s heart sank, and he dropped his eyes to the floor. He knew what Snape wanted to hear, and it pained Harry deeply to give in. But he couldn’t see arguing with the man. Maybe, Harry reasoned, it wouldn’t be so hard just this once. He made it a point never to say it properly... never with any degree of respect. And while he still didn’t like his father - Harry felt strongly that he owed the man a measure of gratitude for the decent Christmas he’d enjoyed. Maybe, Harry’s mind whispered, maybe this would be a okay way to show his appreciation, even though it hurt... desperately hurt... to say it...

Harry scuffed his shoes on the floor and bit his lip, but in the end, gave in. In a low voice, with bowed head, thick tongue, and mouth full of cotton balls, Harry quietly repeated himself, adding one small, but significant change along the way.

"Yes... Father," he said, and then quietly left the room.