Severus sat in the Headmaster’s office, perched stiffly on the edge of what would otherwise have been a comfortable chintz chair.  He couldn’t bring himself to relax enough to sink into the soft folds of the furniture beneath him, and he certainly couldn’t relax enough to properly focus on the Headmaster’s words.   Especially since the conversation dealt with one of the more distasteful skeletons that lurked in his closet.  Indeed, this particular skeleton had haunted him for years, and most emphatically in the last four or so years.  Severus closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer up to whatever gods there may be that it wasn’t really happening.  Not now, not after all the time and the bad feelings that had taken hold.

"This has to be a dream," Severus consoled himself quietly.  "A horrible, awful, painful dream."  Surely this was the most logical explanation.  It was, after all, a Tuesday. And Tuesdays were barely tolerable in their own right, mainly because he had Potions with the Gryffindors, and thus by extension, with Longbottom.

"That’s it," Severus mused. "This is all Longbottom’s fault."  It must have been an accident with the Dreamless Sleep antidote they were working on - the particular formulation being studied was known for causing horrible nightmares.  Damned Longbottom, the insufferable twit must have done something to cause an accident in the brewing process....

"Severus?" Dumbledore prompted.  The Potions Master, however, didn’t hear the query.  Instead, he continued to silently curse Neville Longbottom while staring vacantly out of the large window overlooking the Quidditch pitch.  From his seat, Severus could see Potter flying over the pitch in manic circles. If it were up to him, there’s no way Potter would be allowed to fly like that...

Severus shook himself quickly.  Best to stop that train of thought...

"Severus," Dumbledore’s second query manage to break through the fog surrounding his brain, bringing the Severus' attention back into the Headmaster’s office and back to the situation at hand.

"He has nowhere to go, Severus," Dumbledore implored.  "Sirius is dead, and the Dursley’s have flat out refused to take him back."

"Yes, I know, but why is that my problem?" Severus barked.  Even as he said it, he knew it sounded foolish.  The Headmaster’s slightly raised eyebrows did nothing to make him feel better.  Obviously, Severus knew why and how he was involved - it’s not like he could have forgotten that night - but still, it didn’t make sense to drag him into Potter’s life any further than was necessary.  Why not send the brat to the Weasleys?  They would want him.  There was no reason to bring this up now, not after so many years.

"Surely, Albus, there is somewhere more appropriate for him?  The Weasleys, for instance?" Severus couldn’t quite keep the slightly plaintive note out of his voice, but he was past caring.  "There is no reason to do this now."

Dumbledore rose from his seat, walked silently toward Severus, and seated himself lightly on the desk.  He was quiet, but Severus didn’t think for one minute that the old man was done talking.  Dumbledore was just biding his time... letting the notion sink further into Severus’ head before the old coot once again tried to cram the idea down his throat.

"Severus, the events of the past few months have frightened the Dursleys significantly.  They are convinced Harry is a danger to their family, and they have said as much to the Ministry.  There is no one else who has legal authority to assume custody over Harry."

Severus knew this was true.  Shortly after the fiasco at the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore sent a letter to the Dursleys explaining Harry’s involvement.  The muggles had promptly responded by contacting the Ministry and demanding that someone else assume custody of the brat.  That had been two weeks ago, and Dumbledore had successfully managed to stall the guardianship proceedings that had ensued.  But time was running out, and with no other legal options, Cornelius Fudge was banking on getting control of Potter.

"The possibility that you might have to claim him has always existed.  I know that it is not ideal for you, but the alternative would be disastrous.  Voldemort would find him and kill him within a matter of days," Dumbledore stated quietly.

Severus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scents of the Headmaster’s office consume his senses for a moment.  He knew Dumbledore was right, of course.  Damn the man.  He was always right.  There had always been a chance that he would have to acknowledge Potter.  Indeed, they had planned for it - kept the option as a last resort, so to speak - but Severus never really believed it would come to pass.  And now, here they sat, discussing the details of Potter becoming an active member of his family.  What was once a distant possibility had suddenly become a full fledged (and thoroughly sickening) probability, and there was no way around it.  Standing abruptly, Severus made his way to the large window just in time to witness a horrifying scene.  Potter was tumbling, head over broom stick, towards the ground in a sickening free-fall.

"Albus!" Severus hissed.  Albus was beside him in an instant, wand drawn, but there was nothing they could do.  They were simply too far away.  Both men watch in horror as the ground rushed up to meet the small figure clinging desperately to the broom.  But at the last minute, Potter regained control of the broom.  Pulling up sharply, Potter pulled out of the dive and brought himself parallel with the ground. Close enough, in fact, that Severus though he saw the boy’s feet kick up a dusting of snow.  Severus exhaled forcefully.  He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he had been holding his breath.  Apparently the Headmaster had been, too, because the man looked a bit paler than he did just a minute ago.

"What in the name of Merlin was that?" Severus bit out. But before the Headmaster could come up with an answer, both men watched as, once again, Harry pushed his broom to a terrifying height, only to once again enter a dizzying free-fall.

"What the hell is he doing?"  Severus watched, thunderstruck, as the boy once again courted death, escaping its clutches only by sheer dumb luck.  The slightest error in his calculations would have sent Potter headfirst into the snow covered ground, and into an early grave.  What the boy was thinking, if anything, was beyond Severus’ comprehension.

"What is wrong with that child?"  Severus shook his head and turned his back on the window.  He had no desire to watch that kind of insanity.  If Potter wanted to kill himself, so be it.  But Severus didn’t want to watch. Dumbledore, however, seemed determined to end Harry’s antics.  He snapped his fingers sharply.  An instant later, a small, odd looking creature with bright eyes, big ears, and multiple pairs of socks appeared.

"Good afternoon Dobby,"  Dumbledore greeted the house elf.  "Would you be so kind as to tell our young Mr. Potter that the Quidditch pitch is now closed?  I believe Hagrid has obtained a brood of amphiptere for next semester’s enjoyment, and he would like to exercise them over the pitch.  It would, of course, be unwise for anyone or anything else to be flying at the same time."

Dobby nodded enthusiastically, "Oh yes, Master Dumbledore, sir, Dobby is most happy to help, sir.  Dobby is going right away, sir."  And the little elf disappeared with loud crack.

Severus had no idea if Hagrid was needed to fly his hideous creatures or not, but it was clear that Dumbledore wanted Potter out of the skies.  Severus couldn’t blame him, though... the child was a menace in the air.  There had to be something wrong with him...

Dumbledore returned his attention to the Potions Master.  "In answer to you question, Severus, he is hurting."  The Headmaster didn’t elaborate on the source of the brat’s pain, but both men knew that Black’s death had hit the child hard.

"He is without guidance, Severus, and he is desperately lost.  Not unlike a young man I once knew, I might add."  The Headmaster looking knowingly at the younger wizard before him.

Severus reluctantly made his way back to his chair, slumping half heartedly into the seat.  It was true, though.  He had also once been "desperately lost", as the Headmaster so dramatically phrased it, but to Severus, it seemed like comparing apples to oranges.  Potter’s situation was nothing like his.  At the time, he had been adrift in life, on the rocks with his family, and no friends in whom to confide.  And so he had turned to the only thing he knew well, dark magic, and submitted himself to the Dark Lord’s rule.  It hadn’t however, taken him long to realize his mistake.  He had gone quickly, with great remorse, and begged Dumbledore’s forgiveness and protection.  The Headmaster had been willing to helping him, but there was, of course, a price - that he spy for the Order.

Severus willingly agreed to a clandestine existence.  It was a small price to pay for the acts he had committed, and for the protection Dumbledore offered.  The result, however, was that most people disliked and distrusted him - only a select few knew the truth.  And his relationships with those select few were kept relatively quiet.  Of course, on some level he wanted to truth to come out - wanted to be vindicated and watch as though who doubted him squirmed in discomfort - but, he also knew that he had played an important role in the fight against Voldemort.  He was, after all, partly responsible for the end of the Dark Lord’s first rule, even though it didn’t turn out quite the way they had planned.  When he and Dumbledore crafted the plot to tell the Dark Lord of the prophecy, neither expected him to act on it immediately.  They thought he would wait to see which child it would pose the biggest threat.  But they had been wrong.  And the Potters had paid the price.  It was a mistake that gave Severus nightmares for a long time.  And it would seem the blasted error was still giving Severus nightmares, because here he stood.  In the Headmaster’s office.  Talking about how Potter had no family to care for him. Damn it.  Damn it all to hell.  Severus sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"If I do this, Albus, I want complete control.  You cannot step in and override me on anything," Severus warned.  Privately, Severus was banking on Albus refusing to hand over complete control of the Golden Boy.  Then, they would just have to figure out some other alternative.  One that didn’t involve him... But to Severus’ great surprise, and greater disappointment, Dumbledore only nodded.

"Harry is your son, Severus.  As such, decisions regarding parenting are yours to make. I will not interfere."  Severus didn’t say a word.  He was simply too stunned. Dumbledore rounded the desk and once again took his seat, seemingly oblivious to the shocked look on the Potions Master’s face.

"But Severus," continued Dumbledore gently, "If you will forgive me for saying so, I fear your treatment of Harry will be harsher than might be warranted, partly due to your history with James, and partly due to Harry’s own transgressions against you.  I would respectfully ask that you not allow anger to dictate the manner in which you treat him."  Dumbledore didn’t move.  He simply sat quietly and stared at Severus, as if actually expecting him to answer.

"Really, Albus, what do you think I’m going to do to him" Severus scoffed.  Dumbledore just tipped his head down and stared at the Potions Master over his half-moon glasses.  It was a penetrating gaze, and Severus shifted a bit under the weight of the Headmaster’s stare.  He suddenly felt a hot, uncomfortable feeling wash over him, and Severus found himself hoping that the Headmaster wouldn’t answer the question.  Thankfully, Dumbledore chose instead to focus on the necessary details of the situation.

"You will reveal your relationship to Harry," he stated sharply and with clear authority.  Dumbledore had suddenly turned business, and the crispness of his tone let Severus know there was no going back.  He nodded once, but said nothing. Severus was sure the Headmaster had more to add, and he did.

"You will agree to undergo any reasonable Ministry procedures, including but not limited to a paternity test, to help establish your claim to him.  You agree to refrain from relinquishing custody of Harry for any reason, and you will assume full responsibility for him, both during the school year and during holidays and breaks."  Dumbledore paused and eyed Severus appraisingly, as if to see whether the man would still agree to the plan once he realized that he had to actually take Harry home with him.  Sensing no objections, the Headmaster continued.

"I will file the appropriate paperwork at the Ministry.  The Minister will be furious, but he can do nothing to thwart the plan.  Of course, once this becomes public, which is bound to happen quickly, your spying will be discontinued."

Severus winced.  He knew it, of course.  But still, the younger wizard couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang in his chest.  Despite the danger, he found a sense of purpose in his work as a spy.  Not many people could do his job, yet he had done it well.  Ah, well, what could he say?  With Voldemort’s return, his days of spying were numbered anyway, regardless of whether his relationship to Potter came out.  No more hiding in the shadows, it seemed....

"What about the illusion?" Severus had almost forgotten about it.  It had been so long, and it hadn’t occurred to him that it might be an issue.

"There is no need to keep it any longer.  It must be removed," Dumbledore stated casually.  "It is draining his power, and he will need every bit of stamina he has available to him as Voldemort gains strength."

Severus leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and groaned.  No more hiding for him or for Potter, it seemed.  This was getting worse and worse by the minute.  How was he supposed to deal with this?  If it were just him, it might be easier.  But there were others to consider...

"Severus," Dumbledore’s voice was soft, but carried a hint of urgency that wasn’t lost on the Potions Master.  Severus reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at the Headmaster.

"You must keep him alive.  He is our only hope.  Obviously, Voldemort is the primary external threat; however, you will need to be prepared for internal threats as well."

"What exactly to you mean, Albus?" Severus asked warily.  Watching the older wizard out of the corner of his eye, Severus had the rather disturbing feeling that he had just stumbled into a large pit of quicksand hidden smack in the middle of the Headmaster’s office.  It was like he stuck one toe out to test the ground in this quagmire and all of a sudden, he was up to his neck in it, wondering how the hell he was going to get out...

Dumbledore reached for a lemon drop and began absently ripping open the wrapper.  He didn’t answer Severus’ question right away, and in fact, Severus thought he looked rather reluctant to answer the question at all.  But eventually, the Headmaster spoke.

"Harry can be immature, obstinate, and arrogant. He is almost always combative, angry and guilt-ridden." Severus nodded.  He knew Potter felt responsible for Black’s death.

"More concerning though is the fact that he does not value himself.  Accordingly, he has a very pronounced ... and if I daresay, deliberate... self-destructive streak." Severus snorted.  That Potter had a destructive streak was an understatement if he ever heard one.  Dumbledore ignored Severus’ reaction and leaned forward intently, apparently oblivious to the melting lemon drop clenched tightly in his fingers.  "You will need to reign him in, Severus. Control him so that he is less of a danger to himself and to others.  Our future depend upon it."

"Charming," Severus hissed.  "Tell me again why I am doing this?"

"Because there is no other option," the Headmaster stated simply.  Severus barely nodded. He knew they were at the end of the rope, so to speak, and it had to be done.  But still, that knowledge did nothing to make the circumstance more palatable.  Severus, in a rare display of surrender, slumped forward, dejectedly thumping his head a few times on the Headmaster’s desk.  Dumbledore chuckled and reached out to pat the Potions Master on the head.

"Severus, it is true, Harry is everything I have just stated.  But if you allow yourself to look beyond these qualities, you will see that he is also much, much more.  He has his father’s wit and cunning, for example."  Severus looked up to find that the twinkle had returned to the Headmaster’s eyes.  Sitting up properly, he was also mildly annoyed to find the man smiling mischievously at him.  He found nothing amusing in the situation, notwithstanding the Headmaster’s foolish grin.  Dumbledore just kept smiling.

"Harry is also kind, generous, unfailingly faithful, and remarkably selfless.  Notable qualities in any person, but even more remarkable in Harry, especially given his upbringing."

Severus snorted.  "What about his upbringing?  Didn’t they cater to him enough?"

Dumbledore just shook his head.  "No, they did not. But it was better not to delve too deeply into the details of his childhood."

"Why?" Severus asked.  He was at a loss to understand the Headmaster’s point.

"Because,"  Dumbledore answered sadly.  "Knowing the truth may have required me to remove him from the protections of Privy Drive.  And that would have been catastrophic."

Severus remained quiet for a moment.  He never really gave much thought to Potter’s upbringing.  Frankly, he tried to avoid thinking about the damned Boy-Who-Would-Not-Die.  Dwelling on his life at the muggles’ house seemed like a supreme waste of time and brain cells.  Dumbledore, however, took his silence for acquiescence.

"I will contact the Ministry and begin the paperwork," Dumbledore stated briskly. "Our dear Minister will most certainly demand proof, so be prepared for a trip to the Ministry for testing relatively shortly.  Harry will not be pleased, but he must be made to understand that this is the best possible outcome, given the circumstances."

"Somehow, I doubt he will be easily convinced," Severus muttered, rubbing his eyes.  He could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

"No, I’m afraid he will not."  Dumbledore popped the nearly forgotten lemon drop into his mouth and sighed heavily.  "And it will be even more difficult for him to hear the news about the illusion.  But I think, for now, that can wait."

Severus nodded.  That was a conversation he wanted to postpone as long as possible.  Dumbledore rose gracefully from his chair, prompting Severus to do the same.  The elderly wizard put a hand on the Potions Master’s shoulder and gently guided him toward to door.

"Well Severus, that’s enough talk for today, I think," Dumbledore said happily. "May I suggest you use this time to introduce yourself to your son?  I’m sure it promises to be an exciting and spirited discussion."

Severus allowed the Headmaster to show him into the hallway, but he waited patiently for the office door to close behind him before he groaned aloud.  Despite the Headmaster’s attempt to put a positive spin on the situation, Severus couldn’t bring himself to believe it would be anything other than an excruciatingly painful experience.

The day dawned frosty and cold as the bitter chill of a December snow settled over Hogwarts like a shroud.  A storm had passed through the previous evening, blanketing the grounds and covering the trees in a spectacular display of ice and snow.  The lightest of powdery snow could be seen glistening like a shower of jewels, blown gently by the wind and visible only against the background of the towering walls of the castle.  On any other day, the freshly fallen snow would have brought students out in droves, like moths attracted to a flame.  But today, the grounds stayed silent and no feet disturbed the desolate beauty of the landscape. The only soul about was a disheveled looking young man who was sitting in the Quidditch stands, plucking dispiritedly at the tail twigs on his broom stick.

Looking out over the empty grounds, Harry felt a wave of loneliness wash over him. Most of the students, Ron and Hermione included, had gone home for Christmas break, leaving a thick, oppressive silence in their wake. Even Hedwig was gone - Harry had sent her off this morning loaded with Christmas packages for his friends. She would travel to Hermione first, and then to the Weasleys, where she would stay for the remainder of the Christmas holidays.

"She’s only going to the Burrow," Harry told himself bracingly.  "Ron will bring her back at the start of next term."

The long flight would be good for Hedwig, but he still missed his owl and couldn’t help but feel slightly diminished by her absence.  With the exception of Dobby, who had unceremoniously kicked him off the Quidditch pitch, the only other living thing he had seen today was a small group of martlets that were nervously fluttering about the owlery rooftop, perpetually searching for a place to land.  They soared in and out of the windows, dipping and diving in unison until they rounded the far side of the school wall and were gone from view.

Harry snorted.  He knew how they felt - what it was like to want a home of your own. He couldn’t even go to the Dursley’s, since they had made clear he was no longer welcome at their house in the summers, let alone Christmas.  All in all, though, Harry didn’t feel that badly about it.  The Dursleys weren’t much of a family, anyway.  The Weasleys were more family to him than his Aunt and Uncle had ever been.  Harry supposed he could always go their house, if Dumbledore let him and it wasn’t too dangerous for anyone.  The Weasleys would let him, of course.  They had even invited him to the Burrow for Christmas despite what happened at the ministry...

Harry smiled when he thought of the Burrow.  The ramshackle building, complete with chickens and gnomes, was, next to Hogwarts, the place he loved most in the world.  Warm and welcoming, it was filled with friends, heavenly smells, and more than a little laughter and yelling.  It was invariably what he pictured in his mind when he thought of what a home should be like. Still, Harry had elected to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays.  Mrs. Weasley seemed genuinely disappointed, and she had heartily insisted that Christmas wouldn’t be the same without him. But in the end, Harry had turned down the offer.  Ron was still recovering from his encounter with the brains, and Harry thought the family might be in need of a some private time, notwithstanding Mrs. Weasley’s assertions to the contrary.

Sighing heavily, Harry shook his head in a useless attempt to dispel the gloomy mood that had settled around him.  Bending over his broomstick, he began his post flight maintenance procedures.  The free-fall tricks he had been doing were fun, but they did have a tendency to split the tail twigs.... Moving methodically from tip to end, Harry worked in a concise, practiced manner.  He found that if he kept himself moving, there was less time think.  The only problem was the nightmares, which had been haunting his dreams ever since the fiasco at the Ministry.

At first, the dreams were a replay of those horrible events.  In the past few days, though, they had become darker... colder... and they pulsed with a horrible sense of urgency and fear.  Sometimes Harry would find himself in the Hall of Prophesies, running down endless rows of shelves lined with glass orbs gruesomely illuminated from within by throbbing, blood-red flashes of light.  Other times, though, he found himself fleeing through unnamed hallways that invariably led to the same place.  An unearthly arch atop a huge stone dias.  And always, Sirius was there.  He never said anything, but the cold, accusing stare on his Godfather’s face told Harry everything he needed to know.  There was no love there, no kindness.  Just anger and bitterness.  And then Sirius’ face would morph into Voldemort’s ugly countenance, leaving Harry unable speak or even breath.

"Thank you, Harry," the high, cold voice would laugh.  "You’ve done a wonderful job of killing people lately.  Indeed, two in the last six months!  I daresay you’ve been almost as productive as I have...."

And then the dream would fade, leaving Harry cold and sweating, with a strange ache in pit of his stomach.  It was as if he swallowed a large, cold stone.  One that now sat, fixed and immovable, at the center of his being.  The feeling was similar to the feeling he had when visiting Ron and Hermione in the infirmary.

"Where you put them..." his mind whispered.

Hissing softly, Harry rubbed his eyes.  He briefly considered going back to Gryffindor tower and taking a nap, but the prospect of another dream kept him from the warmth of his bed.  What he really needed was some Dreamless Sleep to get him through, but even that wasn’t an option anymore, since Madame Pomfrey flatly refused to give him any more.  She didn’t like that he had managed to use the entire supply she had given him shortly after the Ministry.

"Professor Snape is working on a concentrated Dreamless Sleep Potion that has less possibility for dependence.  You may ask him for some once the formula has been perfected," the nurse-witch had told him, not unkindly.  "For now, though, I must insist that you refrain from using any more than you’ve already had.  It is an aid only, and it is not meant to provide you with a means to avoid your problems. Have you talked to anyone about your loss?"

Harry just shrugged.  "Erm, yes... well... I was thinking of talking to Mr. Weasley...." And in truth, he had considered it.  He just hadn’t acted on it.  Pomfrey, however, was already nodding in a business-like fashion.

"Excellent.  Arthur is a very understanding man," she had said.  But that was two days ago, and Harry still hadn’t bothered to fire-call Mr. Weasley.  He really didn’t know how to begin the conversation.  At the Dursley’s, no one ever asked him how he felt or tended him when he was hurt.  He had learned to handle things on his own, and the idea of asking for help with such a personal loss seemed somehow wrong.  He was fine.  He would be fine.  And for now, he was content with the idea of being alone.  Having so decided, Harry once again turned his attention to his Firebolt.  His solitude, however, was short lived....

After leaving the Headmaster’s office, Severus stopped briefly at his quarters to contact his house-elf, Biddy, and have her alert the household of the impending change.  Having set the wheels in motion, Severus then worked his way silently out to the Quidditch pitch, going over in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Potter.  He had given the matter some thought previously, when it became clear that someone was going to have to step in and take the boy.  But now that the moment was upon him, he was at a loss for words.

"Well," Severus thought, "first thing’s first...where is that bloody urchin?"

Severus pulled his cloak tighter around him and headed towards the pitch.  He wouldn’t be surprised if Potter was still flying, notwithstanding the Headmaster’s order.  As he approached the field, Severus caught sight of Potter bent over his broomstick.  Moving quietly, Severus approached the child from behind, taking the opportunity to covertly study the younger wizard.  Perpetually mussed hair and face flushed red from the wind, Potter lay disheveled and sprawled out on the bleachers. Clearly, the child had no idea he was being watched.  He was too busy playing with his precious broomstick to concern himself with inconsequential things like paying attention to his surroundings, worrying about his own security, or even listening when the Headmaster said to vacate the pitch.

Severus snorted.  The illusion must have been more complete than anyone could have predicted, because - biology be damned - the child was a Potter inside and out.  It was evidenced by the attitude of superiority he had worn since he walked into Hogwarts. Severus wasn’t surprised, though. He had been expecting it after that long ago conversation with James.... Indeed, remembering the child’s arrogance during his first potions class made Severus angry just thinking about it.

"POTTER!" Severus bellowed.  He watched Potter start violently, and then had to stifle a laugh as the boy tumbled backwards off of the bleachers.  It took a few moments, but Potter managed to right himself enough to look around for the source of the confusion.  Severus saw the look child’s look of bewilderment change to anger once he figured out exactly who was yelling at him.

"I wasn’t doing anything wrong," Harry grumbled, managing finally to straighten his glasses and push them back onto his nose.  "Dobby told me that Hargrid needs the pitch, and I’m just finishing up with my broom."  Harry stared back at the Potion’s Master defiantly, clearly expecting to be scolded by his professor.

"Is that so," Severus responded quietly.  "It heartens me to know that you are such a good listener, because I have something to tell you.  Follow me."

And with that, Severus turned and marched back towards the castle.  He had considered telling Harry on the Quidditch pitch, but decided against it at the last moment.  Instead, he led the boy back to the silence of the dungeon.  It was, after all, his "home field."  The place at Hogwarts where he was most comfortable, and where Potter was least comfortable.

"Where are we going? What do you need to tell me..." Severus could hear Potter stumbling along behind him, but he continued on without acknowledging the questions.  As they entered the labyrinth that was the dungeon complex, Severus could feel the boy’s mounting apprehension.  He debated leading Potter down a few more hallways just for fun, but ultimately he decided that getting to business was more important that terrorizing the brat.  Having so decided, the Potions Master rounded one last bend and stopped abruptly at an ornately carved mahogany door set deep in one of the damp dungeon walls.

"Nervous, Potter?" he sneered, opening the door and motioning the younger wizard inside.  The door led to the antechamber of Severus’ private residence, which aside from Draco, no student had ever set foot in.  Severus smirked as Harry walked past him, and he found himself actually looking forward to the conversation.  It was sure to wipe that arrogant look off of the boy’s face....

"What is this place?" Harry asked, feigning indifference.

The small room was chilly and dark, but not morbidly so.  Looking around, Harry could see a bookshelf and two lush chairs and a settee in rich chocolate brown, along with a towering grandfather clock in the far corner of the room.  There was no fireplace, but there was enough heat circulating from the lanterns on the walls that the temperature was tolerable, if not comfortable.  The walls were adorned with various pieces of artwork, primarily paintings, but also a few pieces of aboriginal art that Harry found vaguely disturbing.

"This is a sitting room that leads to my private area here at Hogwarts," Severus finally answered.  Closing the exterior door, he strode past Harry to make his way to a smaller, interior door set next to the bookshelf on the far wall.

"Through that door," Severus motioned towards another door nearest to the fireplace, "is my personal residence here at Hogwarts.  Through this door," Severus directed Harry’s attention to the door near the bookshelf, "is my office.  Come." And, as directed, Harry followed Severus through the door.

Harry had no idea what to expect as he followed the Potion’s Master through the door into the man’s private office.  In fact, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he was even in this place.  Looking around, Harry was surprised by the office.  It wasn’t bad.  Actually, it was rather nice.  A large mahogany desk with a high-backed leather chair sat in one corner, piled high with neat stacks of parchment, ink wells, and much used quills.   In another corner, a small fired burned warmly in the grate of the fireplace.  A large mantle set over the grate served as a home to numerous pictures of smiling, happy people.   And all around, the walls were lined with what could easily have been a centuries worth of dray and dusty books.  All in all, it was neat and orderly, as expected.  But there was something vaguely cozy, and distinctly un-Snapeish, about the room.  Harry continued to look around in fascination, oblivious to his professor’s malevolent stare.

"Best not to let your mind wander, Potter," he sneered.  "It’s too little to be out on it’s own. Now sit."

Harry shot Severus a withering look, but did as he was told and took a seat opposite the Potion’s Master.  As he watched, the elder man rummaged around in his desk, finally pulling out four small, clear glass bottles, each filled with a silvery looking liquid.

"I’ll be damned if I’m going to drink anything he gives me...sadistic bat," Harry thought, eyeing the vials with unease. There was something familiar about that swirling liquid, though...

"Potter," Snape hissed.  "I don’t like what I have to say.  Accordingly, I will only say it once, and you had best pay attention."  Harry turned his attention away from the bottles in time to see his professor run a hand through his lanky hair.  It was an oddly human gesture.  One that Harry could not, in all of his years at Hogwarts, ever remember seeing from Snape.

"Frankly," the elder man continued, "were it up to me, I would gladly pay good money - a lot of it - to have someone obliviate this information from my mind. Believe me, I have tried.  But thanks to your beloved Headmaster, I cannot." Severus sighed.  "And now, I have to tell you."

It was clear to Harry that, whatever the professor had to say, it was something he found highly unpleasant.  Naturally, this piqued Harry’s curiosity beyond measure. As far as he was concerned, irritating news for the professor was probably good news for him.

"Potter," Severus stated, drawing the name out.  "Such a vile sounding name, don’t you think?"

"It could be a hell of a lot worse," Harry shot back.  "It could be Snape." Much to his astonishment; however, the Potions Master just laughed quietly before responding.

"It just got worse."

Harry blinked, unsure of what to make of the statement.  And he didn’t like the way that his professor was staring at him - there was something vaguely predatory about it... Slightly unnerved, Harry decided the best course of action was to sit quietly and wait for his tormentor to spit out whatever was to be said.  After a minute, Severus snorted and shook his head disdainfully.

"Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it, Potter," he taunted.  "Well then, allow me to be direct.  James Potter was not your father.  I am.  Hence, you are not a Potter.  You are a Snape.  Which, according to your most recent comment, makes your life - and here I quote - ‘...a hell of a lot worse.’"  Severus finished his brief rant and sat back in his chair, carefully watching Harry as if he were a cauldron about to explode.

Harry, however, didn’t explode. At least not as expected. Instead, he did the only thing possible.  He laughed - hard.  For the first time since the fiasco at the Ministry, Harry found himself actually laughing.  He tried not to, but he just couldn’t help himself.  Harry couldn’t help but think that Snape was a bigger toerag than he originally figured, if the git thought he could get to him with such a stupid story...

"What fumes have you been sniffing?" Harry managed to ask while trying, and failing, to regain some composure.  "I mean, couldn’t you come up with something better than that?  Have you been watching old muggle movies... ‘No, Luke...I am your father...’"

As he said it, the absurdity of the statement hit him again.  He leaned his chair backwards on two legs and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of laughter in spite of the subject matter.

"Who is Luke?"

Harry threw his head back and howled.  He didn’t even care when his precarious position on the chair gave way, tipping him backwards onto the floor.  Instead, he sat there, tears streaming down his face and laughing harder than he could remember in recent days.

"I can’t wait to tell Ron," he thought, swiping his eyes.

Through the tears, Harry saw Snape walk to a cabinet and retrieve something, but it wasn’t until the professor set the object on the desk that Harry realized it was a pensieve.  Quickly, the professor unstoppered three of the four glass vials and poured the silvery contents into the bowl.  At that moment, Harry suddenly realized what was happening.

"They’re memories," he told himself.  But before he could follow the thought further, he felt a hand grasp him harshly by the arm, pull him off the floor, and plunge him violently into the swirling depths of the past.

Harry felt himself land hard on a cold stone floor in an unfamiliar home. Moving quickly, he steadied himself and looked around in hopes of figuring out where the pensieve had taken him. Snape had, of course, entered with him, and the man still had a tight grip on Harry’s arm. Wrenching himself free, Harry turned in an effort to pull away from the elder wizard. He stopped short, however, when he saw a girl in the far corner of the room. She was young, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, with long dark hair that fell in loose waves around a face that looked tired, but otherwise fairly pretty. In her arms, she held a tightly wrapped bundle of blankets, and it was a second before Harry realized that it was a baby. She was looking down at the child, but Harry could tell that her attention wasn’t really on the baby. When she looked up, her black eyes sparked with barely suppressed rage.

"Severus," she hissed, "what do you expect me to do?"

"What did you expect me to do?" Harry heard a familiar voice and noticed for the first time that another Snape occupied the room with them. Harry snorted. Snape’s memory version was younger, definitely, and a bit thinner, but still just as greasy-haired and bat-like as ever.

"There was no choice," Snape stated. "She and I were both dead unless I did it." He spoke frankly, openly, and without regret. "You know that the Dark Lord would have seen a refusal as the gravest insult, and he would have killed me. Without question."

The dark haired girl sighed. Cradling the infant in one arm, she slowly reached up to cup the child’s face in the palm of her free hand. The gesture was a small one, and probably nothing out of the ordinary, but still, Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. Was that how a mother held her child? Was that how his mother had held him all those many years ago? In that brief instant, Harry felt himself consumed with an ache that had long ago faded into memory ... the desire to be loved by a parent. He watched, transfixed by the scene, until the girl’s stress-filled voice broke the silence.

"Is she sure that it’s yours?"

Harry wondered who they were talking about. Harry didn’t quite know what they were talking about, but he was starting to become a little uneasy with the conversation.

"No," sighed memory-Snape. "there is a chance that it is his. We won’t know until further along." Snape paused, as if weighing his next words carefully.

"If it is mine, what would you have me do? Would you have me claim it?"

The girl’s response was immediate. "No!" she hissed. "No. Let her deal with it. We have our family already. We don’t need any extra complications - things are complicated enough, as they are."

The force of her denial took Harry by surprise, and he had the distinct impression that she was holding back tears. But even that knowledge wasn’t enough to dampen the anger that flared in chest.

"So, that’s it. The git got someone else pregnant," he thought bitterly.

Harry knew the girl’s attitude was probably her way of protecting her family. But still, the selfishness of her response struck a nerve. It bothered him that she was so quick to brush off a life - like the potential child had nothing to do with her or her husband. A nuisance, really... not worthy of having the great Severus Snape as a father... But, as fast as these thoughts came to him, they were followed by another, more disturbing thought.

"Wait...Snape told me that he’s my father..." The horror of the situation was slowly dawning on him. Harry watched the scene unfold before him. Memory-Severus was standing in front of the girl, cupping her face in his hand in much the same way the girl had held her baby’s face. It was an oddly intimate gesture, and one that made Harry deeply uncomfortable. More than anything, he wanted to leave this memory, but he couldn’t because the blasted git still had his arm in a vice-grip that kept him from throwing himself bodily out of the pensieve. Younger Snape was talking again, this time consoling the girl.

"You are my wife," he stated quietly, but firmly. Looking down at the baby in her arms, he continued, "and this is our son. No one else matters. Not now, and not in the future."

"But it would be yours," she continued, "and he might force you to claim it. And it might draw his attention to Caden..."

The memory was fading, but not before Harry heard Snape’s reply, "I would help her hide it," he said simply. "And I would ask Dumbledore to obliviate anyone who knew the truth, ourselves included. It would be Potter’s child, not mine. Never mine...."

As the scene faded, Harry felt himself wrenched off his feet and once again propelled forward in a swirling mass of color and sound until, quite suddenly, he found himself in the Headmaster’s office with Snape beside him. Harry could feel the man’s eyes on him, but Harry refused to look at him. Instead, he focused his attention on the people, the memories, that surrounded him. As usual, the Headmaster was behind his desk, hands folded gently in front of him, and a pensive look on his face. Memory-Snape was also present, speaking to the Headmaster in a quiet, yet determined manner. Finally, Harry saw two others in the room, and it only took one a moment for him to realize who he was looking at. Lily, heavily pregnant, sat next to James. They were both listening attentively to Snape as he talked about the Dark Lord. Harry, however, couldn’t have cared less about what was being said - his parents were right in front of him. Right there. Close enough to touch...

"Mom, Dad..." Harry started forward, but Snape had gripped his arm and pulled him backwards.

"Potter," he hissed. "They’re not real." Harry tried to pull away, but Snape wouldn’t let go. "They’re not real," he repeated again as he steered Harry’s attention back to the conversation.

"Now pay attention. You’ll want to hear this part."

Memory-Snape was still talking about the Dark Lord. It seemed to Harry that Snape was, if nothing else, consistent. He was a greasy, Voldemort-loving bat when he was young, too.

"He knew how much I hated James," memory-Snape stated, "and that’s why he gave Lily to me. As a reward, of sorts," he finished. Leaning his head back, the younger man closed his eyes and sighed. "It was not my intention to hurt Lily, or create the situation we now find ourselves in. I regret that I wasn’t able to alert the Order sooner..."

"Severus, you did everything you could, and the Order responded to Lily’s capture as quickly as humanly possible." Professor Dumbledore stated. "Time was not on our side, and you had no choice but to act as Voldemort expected. Nevertheless, we are now faced with the realities of biology."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, as if expecting someone to comment. But no one did. Sighing, the elderly wizard continued.

"Well then, I understand that you have reached an agreement about the impending child?"

For the first time since entering the memory, Harry heard his mother’s voice. "Yes," she stated, looking directly at the Headmaster. "We have decided to use a Heritage potion in combination with a paternity charm." Lily reached out and set a small, clear vial of opalescent liquid on the Headmaster’s desk.

"James and I brewed the potion and Severus will cast the paternity charm," she stated. "This should create an illusion that is virtually undetectable. James and I will raise the child."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, and then turned to Severus, "A powerful, yet relatively untested, combination," he stated. "If I recall, the scant amount of research done suggests that long term use might have some negative effects on the subject. Also, the effects of removing the illusion are currently unknown. Have either of you considered these issues?" Severus and Lily glanced at each other, but only Lily spoke.

"There could be some potential consequences, although we can’t be sure what they would be." Lily rose, somewhat awkwardly, and begun to pace behind her chair. Harry could see the distinct bulge at her midline. It was a surreal feeling - watching the memory of his dead mother pace the room while pregnant with a child that would one day become himself. Harry shook his head, watching as Lily reached down to rub her stomach before continuing her explanation.

"Research suggests that the illusion will be a constant drain on the child’s magical abilities," she stated. "It’s also possible that it will be strong enough to alter the texture of the genetic makeup if it’s left on long enough. So, there’s some concern that removing it after a lengthy time could damage the child, perhaps magically or physically." Lilly shook her head. She was clearly frustrated with the lack of certainty.

"In short, we don’t know the full effects of the illusion, or how his mind and body will react if it’s ever removed," she finished quietly before looking to Snape for confirmation.

"Lily is correct," memory-Snape stated. "The longer the illusion is in place, the more James’ DNA will become part of the child. We don’t know what will happen when - if - ," Snape corrected himself, "it’s ever removed. The results are, at best, uncertain, especially given the mediocrity of the Potter gene." Memory-Snape virtually spat the last comment out, as if talking about Potter heredity left a sour taste in his mouth.

James was on his feet in an instant. "Just wait, Snivellus. If you’re still teaching that stupid potions class when my son comes to Hogwarts, you’ll see how much of a Potter he really is. He’ll be able to make you look like an ass even when he’s ignoring you, which will probably be all of the time since you’re such a git. I might sneak into his first potions class to watch, just for the fun of it..."

Snape’s wand was out, followed in an instant by James’. Dumbledore, however, had apparently had enough. Waving his hand idly, both wands flew to his desk.

"Now, gentlemen, I believe we were discussing the possibility of removing the illusion..."

"It will not need to be removed," James hissed. "There is no reason for Snivellus to have anything to do with my child."

Snape’s face flushed red. "It is only yours because I permit it to be so," he bit back. "The illusion cannot work without my consent."

"Enough." Lily’s spoke softly, but it carried enough authority to quiet the bickering men. "For the illusion to be effective, you need to participate without hesitation, Severus. If you have any doubts, speak them now."

His response was quick and certain. "No, I have no doubts. We’ll craft the illusion and the blasted, brain-damaged child will be Potter’s curse to deal with. Not mine." And with that, Snape sat down, stretched out in his chair, and eyes closed as if the discussion no longer concerned him.

Harry watched the memory before him, transfixed by the scene he was witnessing. Did it really happen? Did they all really sit there in their comfortable chairs and talk about him like he wasn’t a person? The rational part of him knew that, at the time the conversation took place, he wasn’t even born. But still, it was a bit unnerving to hear them talking not only about hiding his paternity, but also about the possibility that he might be irreversibly"damaged" by their choice to do so. It was almost unreal.

"This is crazy," Harry thought, "Dumbledore wouldn’t risk me... wouldn’t risk anyone... like that..." but in the next instant, the thought was pushed out of Harry’s mind as the headmaster rose and walked around the front of his desk.

"Very well, then," Dumbledore began. Harry couldn’t help but think there was a somewhat calculating look in the old wizard’s eyes. "Voldemort is already aware of Lily’s pregnancy and he has suspicions. The prophesy has been made, and while he is as of yet unaware of it, Voldemort may try to force Severus to claim the child if he has reason to suspect James is not the father. I believe he would find it humorous to do so. Even in light of the potential consequences to the child, I believe it is best to proceed. We will do so now. Severus, I would like you to stay behind after we are through placing the illusion."

Harry was so engrossed in the memory that the sharp tug from his professor startled him. They were leaving the memory, and Harry felt the world around him melt as the memory disappeared. Looking around, Harry found himself in the Headmaster’s office, with present day Snape beside him, because everything - the office, the headmaster, Fawkes, everything - looked exactly like it normally did. Dumbledore was behind his desk, eyes twinkling irritatingly from behind his half-moon spectacles. Through the picture window, Harry could see the quidditch pitch blanketed in fresh, powdery snow. The only thing that gave it away as a memory was the second Snape sitting stiffly in front of the Headmaster.

"Brilliant," Harry thought, "two of him at one time..."

"This is the most recent scene I have to show you, Potter..." The potions master’s unpleasant drawl was hot in his ear. Harry could hear the Dumbledore talking. As he listened, a cold band seemed to settle over his chest, becoming tighter and tighter with each passing word the Headmaster spoke.

"Harry is your son, Severus. As such, decisions regarding parenting are yours to make. I will not interfere..." the Headmaster stated, but Harry was having difficult time breathing. He couldn’t make everything out. There was something about revealing the relationship... The Headmaster was still talking...

"You agree to refrain from relinquishing custody of Harry for any reason," Harry heard the Headmaster’s voice as if from far away. His head was pounding, and he wanted nothing more than to turn away...to blot out the voices and the images that were suffusing his mind...

The memory was fading around him... Dumbledore was still talking... "and you will assume full responsibility for him, both during the school year and during holidays and breaks..." Harry’s mind was reeling, he could barely hear the last part, and what he did hear, he wished greatly to forget...

"You will need to reign him in, Severus...." The Headmaster’s disembodied voice followed Harry as he stumbled out of the pensive, once again in the Potion Master’s office. Looking around, he saw his professor standing by his desk, smirking.

"Well, well" Severus mocked, "here we are, father and son, together again in the present." His face was impassive, but the Potion’s Master’s voice dripped with scorn. "Tell me, Mr. Potter... or perhaps I should say, Mr. Snape... what did you think of Dumbledore’s willingness to just hand you over to me? He gave me much freedom with you, wouldn’t you agree? He said I am to explain to you how to obey authority..." Severus advanced on Harry quietly, watching his reaction with sharp, cold eyes.

"You are a liar," Harry hissed. "I know memories can be manipulated. Hermione told me. Did you really think showing me few stupid memories that you’ve messed with would make me think that you’re my father?" he spat.

"Trust me, dear son, those memories are real. I’ll leave them in the pensieve and you can peruse them at your leisure. I’m sure it will be such fun for you."

Snape’s condescending tone grated on Harry’s nerves, but he was determined to ignore the man. Instead he moved steadily toward the door. He wanted out, but before he did so, he was going to make once thing perfectly clear to the greasy haired bat standing in front of him.

"James Potter was my father," he hissed, his voice quiet and controlled, despite the anger roiling in the pit of his stomach. "You can’t change that. I’m going to tell Dumbledore, and you’re going to be fired."

And with that, Harry yanked open the door and bolted out of the room, leaving Snape leaning quietly against his desk, nursing an oncoming headache.

As Snape watched the boy bolt from the room, he rubbed his head. Things were going to be much uglier than he had imagined. Not that it bothered him - he rather enjoyed baiting Potter. But still, was time and energy away from more important things. Plus, the brat just annoying. He was had a foul temper and a deliberate stubborn streak, not to mention the child was damn near obtuse. If it were up to him, Severus knew he would have nothing to do with the child. But, it wasn’t entirely up to him.

Sighing, Severus returned to the seat behind his desk and picked up the fourth memory vial that was still left unopened on his desk. He swirled the contents around, examining it as though hoping to find a solution to the present dilemma somewhere in the churning mass of thoughts contained therein. Pulling the cork, he gently tipped the contents into the pensieve and watched as the ghostly figures swirled about in the bowl. He had considered showing Potter these memories, too, but in the end, decided against it. Even after all of these years, it still made him angry, and as much as he wanted Potter to know certain things, Severus just didn’t feel like reliving them. Not today anyway. The brat was on his way to see Dumbledore, and Severus knew he would be needed in the Headmaster’s office. Setting the pensive aside, he straightened his robes and waited for the Headmaster to fire-call him.

Harry ran through the corridor, not really seeing where he was going. He had no recollection of leaving Snape’s office, or of making his way out of the dungeons, but before he knew it, he found himself at the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. He was reeling. The memories Snape had shown him seemed so real, but the message - that Snape was his father - was simply beyond comprehension. Darting past the gargoyle, Harry had only a brief moment to register the fact that the stone guardian moved aside even though Harry hadn’t uttered the password.

As Harry reached the top of the spiral staircase. He quickly leaped forward through the open door that led directly into Dumbledore’s chambers and came to a clumsy stop in front of the Headmaster’s desk. The elder wizard was standing near the window and stroking Fawkes when Harry entered. Looking around at the panting, disheveled boy in front of him, the Headmaster smiled.

"Welcome, welcome, Harry. Do come in and sit down. Lemondrop?"

"No, thank you, sir..." Harry responded automatically. He bent forward slightly and rested his hands against his thighs in an effort to catch his breath. But then, something struck him. Dumbledore’s greeting was courteous, calm... the way you would greet someone you were expecting. But, Dumbledore didn’t know he was coming, so why would he be expecting him...? Harry looked up at Dumbledore, but the elder wizards’s attention was distracted by the floo, which flared brightly. A tall, slender figure stepped gracefully out of the hearth.

"Severus, thank you for coming," the Headmaster said.

"Of course, Headmaster," Severus replied, absently brushing a bit of soot off of his robes. "I am not surprised that he didn’t believe me. Potter doesn’t have the intellect to discern truth from fiction, even with the help of pensieved memories." Snape’s caustic remarks didn’t seem to phase Dumbledore, and Harry was left wondering why the Headmaster didn’t seem surprised by the Potions Masters presence in the room, or by his comments. Surely Snape hadn’t gotten to him first...

"Headmaster," Harry began, "Snape said..."

"Professor Snape, Harry."

"Yes, sir... Professor Snape said something... he said... he said that..." Harry couldn’t bring himself to say it. It was just too awful to put into words. He paced back and forth in front of the desk, desperate to try and explain, but unable to figure out where to start. Plus, there was something bothering him about Dumbledore’s behavior. Something was wrong with it...

Harry stopped pacing and stared at the Headmaster expectantly. He was sure Dumbledore would ask him to explain, and then the Headmaster would take care of Snape. But, as the seconds ticked by without any response from Dumbledore, Harry’s fear seemed to grow exponentially. Why wasn’t Dumbledore asking someone to explain the problem? Why was he just standing there, watching Harry with those piercing blue eyes? And in one breathless moment, Harry understood perfectly. Snape had told the truth.

"No." The denial was barely more than a whisper.

"Harry, please..." Dumbledore began, but Harry cut him off.

"NO!" Harry shouted, loudly this time, and began backing away from Dumbledore. "NO! I don’t agree to this!"

Snape snorted. "It seems your knowledge of biology is as abysmal as your knowledge of potions. You have no choice in the matter, Mr. Snape. You are mine." Harry was fairly certain that Snape added the moniker just to be a prat, and it was all he could do not to draw his wand and hex the man into oblivion.

"No. You. are. not. my. father." Harry virtually spat each word at Snape. He didn’t care what the pensieve showed. He didn’t care what Snape or the Headmaster said. In fact, Merlin himself could show up on the doorstep and profess Snape as his father and Harry still wouldn’t believe it. And what was more, even assuming for the sake of argument that Snape was his father, Harry still wouldn’t care. He was fifteen years old, had survived the Dursleys, Voldemort, Death Eaters, and just about ever other foul thing that could be imagined. He didn’t need or want anyone stepping in and trying to tell him what to do now. Without another word, Harry turned his back on the two older wizards and marched away.

"I won’t talk about this anymore. And I’m leaving." The words were out of his mouth before he could help himself. Reaching the door, he pulled on the handle only to find it locked.

"Big surprise," he thought caustically. Harry drew his wand, ready to blast the door. It was a fair bet that his professor...father...slimy git... whatever the hell he was... wouldn’t like it, but Harry really didn’t care. He was getting out of there. Unfortunately, before he could mutter the spell, Harry’s wand flew out of his hand and into the Headmaster’s grip. Dumbledore quickly gave it to Snape, who slipped it securely into his robe.

"You’ll get that back soon, Harry," came the old wizards gentle response. "But for now, I believe that you should continue this discussion without it."

Harry watched with indignation as the Headmaster handed his wand over to Snape. The smirk on Snape’s face as he pocketed it was infuriating. But, all in all, Harry decided that the best course of action would be to remain calm. Snape would have to give it back eventually, since he needed it for classes.

"No thank you, sir," Harry replied. "I don’t feel up to discussing this right now. May I leave, please?"

"I’m afraid not, Harry. Why don’t you have a seat," the Headmaster gestured towards a large comfortable looking chair near the desk, but harry just shook his head.

"Sir, really..." Harry began, but he was immediately cut off.

"Potter, SIT DOWN!" Snape roared. "I expect you to do as you’re told without argument."

If the circumstances weren’t so extreme, Harry might have laughed. Snape never expected him to do what he was told to do. And certainly not without argument. In the entire time he had been at Hogwarts, the only thing that Harry could count on when it came to Snape was that Snape would always consider him a defiant screw-up. Squaring his chin, Harry marched up to his father, he stopped just shy of the man. He lifted his head and eyes in what he hoped was an aggressive glare.

"You don’t have any right to expect anything from me," Harry hissed. "Oh, and I’m not a Potter, remember?" he spat. "I’m a greasy-haired, big-nosed, foul-smelling SNAPE!"

Snape smiled menacingly. "I’m glad to know that fact has slipped into your brain so easily. Now sit, before I take a belt to you." Harry didn’t know if it was an empty threat or not, but all in all, he really didn’t want to take the chance at that point in time. Sending a silent but heartfelt expletive at his father, he worked himself across the room and slumped into the chair.

The Headmaster cleared his throat. "Thank you, Harry. Now, if we may proceed."

Dumbledore waved his wand with a gentle flourish, and the door nearest to Harry opened to reveal the corridor beyond. Harry briefly considered running, but he would have to duck underneath the object floating in through the door... It was large, square, and strangely familiar...

"Hey," Harry protested, "That’s my trunk..."

Severus watched Potter as his trunk floated gracefully across the room. The child’s face was an odd mixture of anger, pain, and powerlessness, and as much as he enjoyed baiting the brat, he couldn’t stifle the small pang that flared inside of him. Obviously, this experience was not a good one, for either of them. But still... if the child would only do as he was told without argument, it might be a bit easier....

"Yes, Harry, it is." Dumbledore gently hovered the trunk towards Severus, bringing it to rest on the floor in front of the Potions Master’s feet. "I’ve taken the liberty of asking Dobby to pack a few of your things," he finished.

"Why? What do you need my trunk for?" Harry was on his feet again, a look of sheer indignation on his face. Dumbledore didn’t answer, choosing instead to give Severus a slight nod of the head. In response, Severus opened the trunk and began to root through the mess of balled up socks, dirty clothes, and teenaged paraphernalia.

"Hey..." Harry made a grab for the professor’s arm, but Dumbledore put a gentle hand of restraint on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus could see Potter bouncing on the balls of his feet and chewing his thumbnail in agitation. Severus grimaced. The child’s manners and habits were atrocious... After a minute, Severus found what he was looking for. He stood up, holding what he guessed were Harry’s two most prized possessions. His Firebolt and his invisibility cloak.

"I’ll just keep these for now, shall I?" Severus suggested.

"No, you shall not." Harry cried, "They’re mine. Sirius gave me my broom. And the cloak was my Dad’s."

Severus hadn’t missed the hint of panic that crept into his son’s voice. He smiled coldly. The boy was so predictable. Baiting him was so easy that it was almost boring. Almost. "Your trunk is here because you will be living with me over the holiday. Once Christmas break is over, you may return to Gryffindor tower."

Severus paused to take in Harry’s stunned face. It wasn’t up to him, not really. If it were, Harry could spend the remainder of his school years in Gryffindor tower, summers and all. But Dumbledore seemed to think that Harry needed to be watched closely over the holidays, and Hogwarts just wasn’t set up to house children during summer break. Severus had briefly considered permanently moving the child to Slytherin house, which he had the right to do, but it didn’t make sense. Harry had Slytherin qualities, but at heart, he was undoubtedly a Gryffindor. To force him to move houses would create unnecessary complications for himself and Slytherin House, and it would impede Potter’s progress in school. And the child had enough problem as it were. No, he would stay in Gryffindor... As for the broom and the cloak... well, those were clear.

"I will keep the broom for now because you are a menace when you fly. And as for the cloak, it belonged to James Potter, who, as we have already discussed, was not your father." Severus didn’t look at Harry when he was talking. Instead, he pulled his wand, muttered a quick incantation, and quickly vanished the offending items.

Harry was standing dead still, his hands gripped tight at his sides and his breath coming in uneven rasps. "James Potter was my Dad!" Harry hissed. "And I would gladly take 15 months with him over 15 years with you."

"You’re nothing." Harry continued. "During the entire time you’ve known me, you’ve treated me like dirt. And I’m not going to forget that just because decide you want to play ‘Daddy’."

Harry turned away as he raised a slightly shaky hand to his eyes. Severus found himself uneasy with the situation. He could deal with a demanding Potter, or even a raging Potter, but a weepy Potter? No, he no idea what to do with that. Fortunately for Severus, though, there weren’t any tears in Harry’s eyes when he turned back around. Instead, the young wizard straightened his back, thrust his chin out, and looked defiantly at the Potions Master.

"James Potter was my dad. He didn’t want to die and leave me to...." Severus watched Harry shake his head.

"Leave you to what, Potter?" Severus snipped.

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to the Headmaster.

"Sir," Harry pleaded, "Please. Don’t let him take away my things. Or take me away from Gryffindor tower. It’s my home..."

"Harry, please try to understand." Dumbledore spoke, not unkindly. "I’m sure your father will return your items to you when he is convinced you will use them properly. And you will still be in Gryffindor, you will only need to stay with your father at those times when he requires you to do so."

Severus remained quiet. Privately, he agreed with the Headmaster. If Potter wasn’t any trouble, he might give the broom back and let the child ride. Nothing unsupervised of course, and only if the child began to show some restraint when flying. But the cloak, well... Severus, had no intention of returning that. Indeed, he was considering handing it over to the Headmaster. Severus’ connections to the Potter family were distant at best, and he really had no rightful interest in the item. But still, the reality was that Potter did carry some of James’ DNA, thanks to the illusion. The child probably had as much claim to the cloak as anyone else. But given Potter’s penchant for finding trouble with it, Severus was certain that the cloak was best kept away from the child.

No," Potter hissed, "He can’t do this to me, can he? Professor, please don’t let him take away my broom and cloak. They’re the only things I have from my Dad and Sirius." Severus watched as Potter sat down, the heels of his hands pressed tightly to his eyes. He was taking long, deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself.

Clearly Potter was trying to exploit the Headmaster’s feeling for him by playing the ‘poor orphan’ card. The child was spoiled and manipulative, and it irritated Severus to no end. The Potions Master leaned in a bit closer. He wanted to see the brat’s face when he realized that Dumbledore wasn’t going to give in. He watched closely as the elderly wizard squatted down in front of the child, gently grasped his wrists, and slowly pried Harry’s hands away from his face.

"Harry," Dumbledore stated sharply. "Look at me." Harry followed the command, looking up into the crevices of the old wizard’s face. Severus could see kindness on the Headmaster’s face, along with regret. But there was also a hardness there that rarely graced the man’s features.

"Harry," came the steely response. "You will listen to your father."

Harry couldn’t look up. He couldn’t even breath. He had hoped somehow that Dumbledore might pull through for him - might realize that this was all a mistake. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t even step in and make Snape give him back his broom and cloak, and the knowledge that he could no longer depend upon the Headmaster for help was like a knife in his gut. He had always trusted Dumbledore. Even after the thing with the prophecy - well, Harry had been angry with the man for not telling him the full truth, but he still didn’t doubt that Dumbledore had his best interest at heart. But now, it was different...

As if from a distance, Harry could hear the Headmaster talking. He looked around, but the room looked different, sort of grey and two dimensional. Harry pulled his hands away from the Headmaster and stood, but walking seemed to be more difficult than he remembered. He was spinning, or maybe the room was spinning...either way, the air around him seemed to be rippling in waves, punctuated by odd bursts of color and sound. Harry didn’t know what was happening, but he could see the door leading out of the Headmaster’s office, and he tried desperately to focus on it. He wanted out. More than anything, he wanted out. But try as he might, Harry just couldn’t seem to reach the door. His feet were stuck to the floor, unwilling to move him forward; his breath caught sharply in his throat; and his vision had narrowed into a tunnel. He couldn’t see Snape any longer, but he could see the Headmaster standing in front of him. The man’s lips were moving, but Harry was beyond understanding what was said...

Dimly, Harry felt an arm encircle him harshly from behind. At the same time, he was aware of a hard pressure at the back of his head, as if someone were shoving his chin into his chest. The rationale part of his mind screamed in protest and urged him to hold onto his anger, but it was drowned out by something larger... something strangely intoxicating... a low, rhythmic drumming that thrummed just below the level of his awareness and seemed to settle over him like a blanket... Harry moaned softly. He no longer cared about the Headmaster or Snape, or about his anger. The only thing he could focus on was the ghostly sound that surrounded him and left him feeling as though he were enveloped in a cocoon. The hand at the back of his head was still pressing forward, moving his head in back and forth to the cadence of the strange pulsing that had enveloped his senses. Harry could feel himself slipping, but it didn’t bother him. All that mattered was the movement of his head, the pulsing sound, and the rhythm that was washing over him...

Severus exhaled as he finally felt Potter’s body go limp in his arms. The boy wasn’t asleep, but he was in a surprising deep stupor as result of the chant he had incanted. Shaking his head, Severus looked up to see the Headmaster grinning at him.

"Interesting, Severus. I am pleased with how you chose to disarm the situation." Dumbledore chuckled as he walked back to his desk. "It’s amazing how those little tricks come back to us despite the passage of years, isn’t it?" The Headmaster sat down and began unwrapping another lemon drop, his eyes never leaving Severus.

"What else was there to do?" Severus seethed, "Stun him?" Actually, the idea had occurred to him when he realized what was happening. Potter’s ability to do magic was mediocre at the best of times, and under stress, it appeared that the child lost all control. When the Headmaster had refused to step in and allow Potter to keep the broom and cloak, the child’s emotions boiled to the surface and threatened a rather nasty bout of accidental magic. Fortunately, Severus was able to diffuse the situation before anything happened, but it was a miracle that it worked.

"Personally, I would have wagered money on a stunning spell, Severus, but you’ve surprised me yet again."

Severus just rolled his eyes and laid Harry unceremoniously on the ground. "Somebody had to calm him. You weren’t doing anything!" He had indeed considered a stunning spell, but he figured the Headmaster wouldn’t appreciate a spell battle in his office.

"My dear Severus, you are his father, not me." Dumbledore raised his hand to his chest and put on his best look of mock indignation. "I wouldn’t dream of intruding upon such an intimate parent-child moment." Dumbledore had finally unwrapped the lemon drop, and after popping it in his mouth, began to hum a little tune. Severus could have sworn it sounded like a lullaby.

"Tell me, Severus, what made you choose a Soothing Chant?"

"I don’t have a calming drought in my pocket, Headmaster," the Potions Master hissed. He had to resist the impulse to pat his cloak pocket, though. The headmaster might hear the vials clinking if he did... And at any rate, it seemed a shame to waste a good potion on Potter, and so Severus had to think quickly. The Soothing Chant was an incantation used by parents to calm hysterical children, typically toddlers who were too young to ingest calming draughts. Most children became accustomed to the magic behind the chant by the time they were seven or so, rendering it useless in older children. Severus wasn’t sure what made him think of the Soothing Chant - it had been years since he incanted it - but it proved useful against Potter because the child had never been exposed to that particular brand of magical authority. Frankly, Severus doubted that Potter had ever been exposed to much authority at all, which is why it worked so well on the brat. He was going to enjoy telling Potter how easily he had succumbed to a chant used to quiet recalcitrant four-years olds.

Looking down, Severus noticed that Potter was beginning to regain some of his painfully sparse mental faculties. The child had pushed himself into a sitting position, and was blinking owlishly at the Headmaster.

"What happened," Harry asked. "My head hurts...."

"You were incapacitated for a moment, Harry," the Headmaster stated. "But all is well now. Your father was just going to show you to your new quarters."

Severus smirked at the child. The chant was wearing off and Severus could once again see anger coming to life behind vivid, green eyes. Reaching down, the Potions Master hauled the child to his feet and pulled him towards the floo, while the Headmaster levitated Harry’s trunk into the grate.

"No." Harry mumbled. "I don’t want to go with him!  I don't want this!"  Harry fought, but not with as much heart as Severus was used to seeing from the child. The effects of the chant were still lingering. He pulled the child in front of him, and then tightly wrapped both arms around the boy to keep him from falling. Harry fought and cursed, but Severus didn’t have much trouble holding him. Really, the boy was ridiculously light. Once in the grate, Severus leaned close and whispered in what he hoped was his most chilling Death Eater voice.

"Come, son. Let us go to the dungeons." And with that, Dumbledore tossed a handful of power into the grate, sending them spiraling away to a very uncertain future.

Harry was sitting by himself in the library, quietly contemplating the strange and unwelcome turn his life had taken. It had been three days since Snape and Dumbledore dropped the news that Snape was his father, and Harry was still trying to wrap his mind around the changes that had taken place. In the space of just a few days, he had found out (rather unfortunately, in Harry’s opinion); that his father was alive; that Snape was his father; and that the git pretty much had total control over Harry’s life. Oh, and he also learned that Dumbledore was useless. The only thing that stayed the same was the fact that Snape still hated Harry.

"Oh, well," Harry thought listlessly, "at least he’s consistent." Rubbing his eyes, Harry gave a fleeting glance towards the large grandfather clock in the corner of the library. It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, and he was bored already. Most of the students had cleared off for the holidays. Only a few Ravenclaws and Slytherins remained behind - all of Gryffindor was gone. Harry smiled when he thought of his friends, but it was short lived. He missed them very much, but in some ways, he dreaded their return. He would have to tell them, and he just couldn’t imagine how to say it...

"Master Harry, please!" Harry’s musing were cut short by the high pitched whine of Dobby’s voice. "Master Dumbledore is needing to see Harry Potter right away, sir. Master Dumbledore wants Harry Potter in his office right now, sir."

"Oh, hello Dobby," Harry replied, deliberately ignoring the message. He had no desire to go see Dumbledore. "How are you?"

The little elf looked slightly surprised, but pleased, by the question. "Dobby is fine, Harry Potter. But Dobby would be better if Harry Potter listened to Master Dumbledore, sir."

"What does he want, Dobby?"

Harry was still stalling. He was sure it had to do with Snape, but Harry really didn’t care to know. He had been living in Snape’s quarters for a few days, and he had successfully managed to avoid the man the majority of the time. Aside from showing Harry a small, sparsely decorated room and barking out a few orders, Snape had been strangely absent from the dungeons. In fact, he was usually gone when Harry awoke, and in general, seemed to be doing his best to avoid Harry. Harry, being the appreciative sort, did his best to repay the favor. Whenever Snape showed up, he would retreat to his room or otherwise vacate the residence until sheer exhaustion forced him to seek the comfort of his bed. It seemed they had worked out, in rather quick fashion, a mutual if unwritten agreement to ignore each other. In fact, the only real insult the man had thrown his way had something to do with disobedient children and the strange spell the Potions Master had cast in Dumbledore’s office. He would have to ask Hermione about that one...

"Dobby doesn’t know, sir," the little elf whined. "But Harry Potter must go now..." Dobby had Harry’s arm in a surprising strong grip and was pulling heartily.

"All right, all right, Dobby. I’ll go." Harry gathered up his books, stuffed them into his bag and made his way out of the library. Dobby followed close behind, ready drag Harry to the Headmaster’s office if the boy looked like he was going to deviate from his course. When they finally reached the office, Dobby gave a little wave and a bow, and then vanished without a sound. Making sure the little elf was gone, Harry took two steps back and turned to walk away. But before he could get a step in, the door opened to reveal the Headmaster sitting behind his desk stroking Fawkes.

"Harry, do come in," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a chair nearest the desk where the Headmaster was seated.

Harry sighed. Oh well, there was no getting out of it... He turned around and let his feet pull him reluctantly into the Headmaster’s office. He didn’t make it very far, though, before he noticed another figure in the room. Cornelius Fudge, complete with bowler hat and striped suit, was perched stiffly in a chair on the far side of the room. He wore a pinched, uncomfortable expression that reminded Harry of the look Dudley used to wear whenever he hadn’t had a bowel movement for a few days. But he supposed Fudge was, in his own way, a bit constipated. The man spent so much time refusing to acknowledge Voldemort that is seemed likely he had gotten into the habit of holding things back. Despite the ick-factor, Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the mental image that formed in his mind.

The Headmaster cleared his throat softly, "Something is amusing, Harry?"

"Oh, no. No sir. Just a bit of a cold," Harry replied, faking a few coughs for good measure. "You wanted to see me, Sir?

Harry kept his voice polite, but formal. He was angry with Dumbledore - furious, in fact. But after some reflection, Harry had come to the conclusion that being disrespectful towards the man would not solve anything. Clearly, raging at the Headmaster hadn’t done any good the day Dumbledore told him about the prophecy. Harry had destroyed several of Dumbledore’s possessions, but the Headmaster had simply smiled and continued to hide truths from him. There was no reason to think Dumbledore would react any differently now. And so, Harry decided that cool formality was the best approach for dealing with the Headmaster.

Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow at Harry, but said nothing else about Harry’s alleged illness. Instead, the elderly wizard chose to get straight to business.

"As you know, your guardianship has been a major issue over the last few weeks," Dumbledore announced. Harry snorted. It seemed as though Dumbledore was really good at pointing out the obvious.

"Your father’s custody application is pending at the Ministry; however, before approving it, they would like to conduct a paternity test. I have tried to convince the Minister to perform it here, but the Wizengamot is insistent that it be performed by authorized personnel." Harry didn’t miss the strange look that passed from Dumbledore to Snape, or the murderous look Snape turned on Fudge.

Harry didn’t say anything, but all of a sudden, he could feel his heart beat faster. Maybe there was something more to this than they were letting on... Maybe the Potions Master really wasn’t his father, and Dumbledore and Snape were getting nervous at the idea of a ministry test... Harry felt his heart leap.

"Great," he said. "When do we go?"

Dumbledore looked a little surprised by Harry’s reaction, but recovered quickly. "I’m glad to see your enthusiasm showing through, Harry. We will proceed to the Ministry shortly, but before we go, there is something you must know."

Harry waited silently for the Headmaster to continue.

"We have tried to keep the custody issue as quiet as possible; however, that is no longer possible. The information has been leaked to the media, and there is a full contingent of reporters and spectators awaiting our arrival at the Ministry." Harry’s heart sank. Just what he needed. A room full of Rita Skeeters waiting to pounce on him when he arrived. Still, it would be worth it if he found out Snape wasn’t his father.

"What happens if the test shows he’s not my father?" Harry asked. Dumbledore started to answer, but Fudge immediately cut him off.

"You will become a ward of the Ministry, and you will have the highest protection that we have," the Minister gushed. "Once this absurdity is settled, you will be under the protection of the Ministry until you reach the age of maturity."

Harry felt his hopes die a bit with the Minister’s comments. Being "under the protection" of the Ministry sounded strangely like being "under the control" of the Ministry, and neither seemed a very good option. Rubbing absently at scars on the back of his hand, Harry addressed the Minister.

"What if I don’t want to be a ward of the Ministry?"

"You have no choice, dear boy. I mean, surely you realize that you have to go somewhere? What better place than the Ministry?" Fudge leered.

Harry was silent. He couldn’t think of a worse place. Well, the dungeon was close...

"But I can’t live at the Ministry," he pointed out. "So where would I stay?"

The Minister waved his hand as if brushing away a bothersome fly. "Oh, we’ll find a suitable home for you, to be sure." He didn’t look at Harry as he talked, but instead, chose to focus of picking a few stray pieces of lint off of his trousers.

"It will not be an issue," Snape’s crisp voice cut through the office. "He is my son, whether he likes it or not." Harry looked up to see Snape staring at him. His expression was strangely unreadable. Harry, however, couldn’t hide his anger.

"Let’s just wait and see what the test shows, Father..." Harry hissed. He couldn’t help uttering the last word as if it were a nasty insult. When Snape had taken Harry down to the dungeons, he insisted that Harry call him ‘father." Harry wasn’t sure why, but he suspected it was to humiliate him. It was one of the few orders that Snape had given him, and the one that Harry was most determined to ignore. Most of the time, he refused to use the title, but when he did, Harry was careful to make sure Snape knew that it was a slur, not a token of respect.

"Harry, please..." Dumbledore sighed. Harry ignored him and continued to glare at his father. He didn’t care if the Minister was there or not - he wasn’t going to put on a ‘happy family’ show for anyone.

"Dumbledore, this is most unusual. I would like a few moments alone with Mr. Potter," Fudge huffed. "I mean, really? Do you have any idea what you’re doing? He’s a Death Eater for Merlin’s sake?" The Minister gestured angrily at Snape. "The Ministry needs Potter to help boost morale. Can you imagine what people are going to say when they find out he’s the son of a Death Eater?"

"Yes, Cornelius," Dumbledore soothed. "It is unusual. But it is also true. Severus used to be a Death Eater, but he is now a spy for the Order. And Harry is his son. The ministry test will bear that out."

Fudge just snorted. "Well, then, Dumbledore. If you’re so sure, we had best get this underway. I’ll see you at the Ministry within the hour." And with that, the Minister tossed a handful of power into the floo and disappeared, leaving only a small poof of ash behind as he went.

Harry hung his head. It was a question he had been turning over in his mind ever since this whole nightmare started. He could almost see Rita Skeeter, pen in hand, dishing out some rubbish about how Harry Potter, bastard son of a Death Eater, was surely going to be the next Dark Lord. Not that he cared about Rita Skeeter, but he did care about his friends.

"Ron and Hermione will stick by me," Harry told himself silently. And in truth, Harry believed it. Ron was as good as a brother, and maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to stay with the Weasleys if the paternity test showed that Snape wasn’t his father...

Taking a deep breath, Harry turned to Dumbledore. "I’m ready," he said simply.

Dumbledore nodded and then looked toward Severus. "Severus, are you ready?" The Potions Master looked genuinely pained, and Harry briefly wondered why. But then again, they were about to floo into a den of wolves and undergo a Ministry test that would prove or disprove Snape’s claim to Harry. Either way, the situation was one that could fairly be termed painful. And strangely, instead of feeling at odds with Snape, Harry felt - for the first time - an unusual sense of association with the man, if for no other reason than their shared, mutually unpleasant experience of being a reluctant family.

Harry held his breath, stepped into the floo, and shouted, "Minister’s office!" Pulled forward in a haze a soot, he finally tumbled out of the grate in Fudge’s office. Dumbledore was already there, thanking Fudge for allowing them to floo directly into his office. Apparently, the atrium was filled with reporters, and there was some concern as to whether Harry and company would be able to get through the crowds in order to undergo testing.

"Yes, well," Fudge huffed, we need to get this over with, and having you swamped with reporters won’t exactly help the matter. There will be plenty of opportunities for press conferences once this ridiculous situation is put to rest." Fudge was nearly bouncing as he said it, his small, beady eyes alight with anticipation at the prospect of a roomful of eager reporters. "If you will follow me, please."

They left the Minister’s office - Fudge and Dumbledore in the lead, Harry and Snape pulling up the rear. Harry had been anxious to have the paternity test, since it might show that Snape wasn’t his father, but the closer he go to it, the more apprehensive he became. What did he have to do for it? Was it a potion or a spell? What if the showed Snape was his father... how would it feel to see that supposed fact confirmed by magical means? Or, what if Snape wasn’t his father? Fudge would want custody, but what if he didn’t let Harry continue at Hogwarts? It was a sobering thought. Without realizing it, Harry began to walk slower, as if he could postpone the inevitable by taking smaller steps.

"Potter, you’re lagging," Snape stated. "Keep up."

Harry rolled his eyes and quickened his step. As they made their way along, Harry could feel heads turning as they passed through the labyrinth of passages that was the Ministry of Magic. He kept his eyes straight ahead, willing his ears to not hear the words being whispered in the corridors...

"Father?..."

"He’s a Death Eater’s kid?"

"Nothin’ normal ‘bout that kid, is there?..."

The comments swirled around them, and Harry wished desperately that they would get to where ever they were going. He had always been an outsider, and being stared at was nothing new. But this time...well... it was different. Harry wasn’t sure why - maybe it was because it was so soon after the Ministry, or maybe it was because the situation was about family, which he couldn’t help but think was a very personal subject. But whatever the reason, there was something about the whole thing that made the rude comments and intrusive stares seem that much worse. It was like having your most intimate fears - and hopes - put on display for others to gawk at and comment on...

Shaking his head, Harry did his best to keep himself focused on Dumbledore, who had just passed through a set of open double doors. Beyond the Headmaster, Harry could see a large group of people congregating. It was almost as if they were waiting to catch a glimpse of him as he passed. Harry dropped his head to avoid looking at them, while silently praying that he could keep Dumbledore’s shoes in his sight. It wouldn’t be good if he lost track of Fudge and the Headmaster...

To his surprise, Harry felt a stiff pressure against his back. It took a moment, but he eventually realized that Snape had placed a rough hand on his shoulder and was guiding him past the throng of people into a cordoned off area of the Ministry. He didn’t really like having Snape’s hand on his shoulder, but he was so desperate to escape the horde of people that he didn’t question it. He just kept his head down and let the older wizard guide him. Rounding a last corner, the group came to a halt outside of plain, unmarked door.

Fudge and Dumbledore turned to look expectantly at Harry. "After you, Harry," Dumbledore stated airily.

Harry hesitated, but the slight push from the Potions Master told him that it was time. Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped over the threshold into a brightly lit, sterile looking room that smelled, oddly enough, of chemical disinfectant. It reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia’s kitchen after a particularly violent bout of cleaning. Various magical instruments; bandages, wraps and medical supplies were scattered about, and rather uncomfortable looking stainless steel exam table sat forbiddingly in the middle of the room. In the far corner of the room, two men stood, backs to Harry, looking into a cauldron filled with liquid. The paternity test was clearly a potion, as opposed to a spell.

"Eh-hem," Fudge coughed.

"Ah, yes, Minister Fudge!" A tall, lanky wizard with dark hair turned away from the cauldron and greeted the Minister with a handshake. His attention, however, soon moved to Harry.

"And, of course," he said, "Mr. Potter." A broad smile played on the man’s square features. "I am Mr. Alios, head of Wizarding Family Services. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance again." He said, extending a hand to Harry in greeting. For a minute, Harry thought he saw a brief glance between Snape and the new wizard, but the moment passed and Harry couldn’t quite tell what the exchange represented, if anything.

"Again?" Harry asked. He couldn’t remember having ever met the man before, although he did look slightly familiar.

"Yes," Alios explained. "After the Potters were killed, Professor Dumbledore arranged to have your care transferred to your mother’s relatives, which meant that Family Services was involved."

Harry could feel a muscle twitching along the side of his jaw. Damn Dumbledore. He was still angry with the Headmaster - for Sirius, for the Prophecy, hiding his parentage - everything. Hearing Alios talk about the Headmaster’s manipulations so frankly ignited a spark of anger in his heart. It must have shown, because Alios’ voice softened and he smiled gently at Harry.

"It seems, though," the elder wizard continued kindly, "that you may have living family, eh? Wonderful news!"

Harry snorted, earning him a laugh from Alios and a rather stern look from Dumbledore. He quickly tried to cover his mistake with a cough, but it was no good. Alios’ smile only seemed to grow wider.

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled half-heartedly.

"Yes, well, there is always a period of adjustment with such things, is there not?" Alios said as he patted Harry on the back. "Just give yourself and your father time."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Snape grimacing. The man had no patience for platitudes. Harry, on the other hand, liked Alios. The man had a quick, genuine smile and his presence was strangely comforting. And yet, there was something about him that made Harry think that the man wasn’t a pushover, either. All in all, Alios seemed like a good sort to run a Family Services department. Kind, even-tempered, and firm, which was, Harry supposed, what parents were supposed to be like. Nothing at all like Snape...

"Mr. Alios," Fudge snapped, "don’t you think we should perform the paternity test before we conclude that Professor Snape is his father? You’re acting like it’s been confirmed already, when I, in fact, have grave doubts about the legitimacy of this man’s claim." Fudge waved an angry hand towards Snape. Alios was unfazed.

"Yes, yes, Minister," he agreed, "we shall proceed at once." Alios pointed to the last person left in the room to be introduced - a short, squat little man in white robes, who was standing near the cauldron.

"This is Mr. Bulger, he’s the technician who has been helping with the potion. He will also help with sample collection." The little wizard smiled half-heartedly as he wiped the sweat from the steaming cauldron off of his brow.

Harry took a moment to inspect the potion a bit closer. It looked even more disgusting than Polyjuice. Thick and blood-red in color, it has a pungent odor that smelled like rotten eggs. As for the consistency, it was ... well, gooey. Rather like a foul version of molasses. As he watched, a few large, heavy drops of liquid bubbled over the edge and slipped down the side of the cauldron, landing with a grotesque splat on the white marble floor. Harry shivered. It reminded him of another cauldron filled with red liquid...  Harry looked away quickly. He just wanted to get this over with. He had no idea why he’d been in such a hurry to come here, but now he felt sick to his stomach. Determined to be done with the ordeal, Harry squared his shoulders, marched forward, and hopped up onto the exam table.

"Well, then," he said sarcastically. "Let’s get this going, shall we? My Dad is going to take me out for ice-cream and soda-pop after this. If you take too long and mess it up, he’ll hex you into next week. He really likes ice cream, you know."

Severus snorted. It would be a cold day in hell before he took Potter out for ice cream. But still, Severus was glad to see that Potter was plowing forward instead of cowering in the corner. Dumbledore and Alios must have liked the child’s attitude also, because they were both grinning. Bulger, the tech, however, looked hopelessly confused. When Potter sat down on the exam table, Bulger had immediate set to work on collecting the sampling supplies. But, after the relatively threatening comment, the tech stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at Severus, then at Potter, and then back to Severus again, the befuddled expression never leaving his face. He was clearly wondering whether he could move fast enough to collect the sample without getting hexed. It was a bit funny, in Severus’ opinion. But the humor in the situation was short-lived, and Severus found himself growing impatient with the tech’s immobility. Finally, Severus had had enough.

"Oh for Merlin’s sake," he yelled. "If you are incapable of collecting the sample, I will do it for you."

Severus shoved past the tech and quickly grabbed a gleaming silver dagger that had been laying discretely on the counter next to Alios. The tech looked terrified yet strangely relieved, and Severus had to stifle the urge to hex him. Surely there was a good reason to do so ... delayed ice cream or not. Severus shook his head and managed, with no small effort, to suppress that particular urge. Instead, turned his attention to the task at hand. He had the dagger, now he just needed a collection tube... Severus looked around to find Alios, grin on his face, waggling the necessary vial in his hand.

"Damn that man," Severus thought. "He’s enjoying this a little too much."

Severus quickly snatched the vial away from Alios while shooting him a withering glare. Without further ado, he closed the distance to Potter and unceremoniously grabbed the child’s arm. Severus assumed that Dumbledore would have, at some point previous, explained the procedure to the child so as to prepare him. But, apparently that wasn’t the case, because he felt Potter tense and pull back from him. Well, this wasn’t the time to be having second thoughts... Severus yanked his arm back into place and quickly brought the dagger to bear against the crook of the arm. And then something clunked into place in his head, making the child’s unexpected tension at the knife blazingly clear. There, raised and red, was the evidence of Potter’s tortured time in the graveyard.

Severus stared at the jagged scar that ran along the young wizard’s inner arm. It wasn’t a large or distinctive mark, and Madame Pomfrey had done much to heal it so as to minimize any scarring. But still, it was there, and it was a reminder - for Potter and for himself - that the child had recently had a very bad experience involving a blood-based potion. It was no wonder that Potter was tense. He hadn’t known he would need to provide a blood sample, and he felt cornered.

Severus looked up. Potter was white-faced, but his jaw was set in a hard line and the child was glaring daggers at the Potions Master.

"Potter," Severus snapped, "Has anyone explained this test to you?"

"When has anyone ever told me anything?" Harry shot back angrily. "And who was going to tell me? My father? Please, give me a break."

Severus felt his anger flare to life. He hated Potter’s attitude. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe Potter had a point. After all, how many people in the child’s life that had ever been completely candid with him? But still, even if that was the case, the child’s attitude was intolerable. The whole situation was intolerable, and it should never have gone this far. It wouldn’t have, except for Lily’s foul harpy of a sister and her walrus-like husband. How could they just kick the child out? He was their nephew - who abandons family like that, anyway? And as that question registered in Severus’ brain, another slippery thought entered beside it...

"You did."

Severus slammed his hand down on the table next to Potter, oblivious to the alarmed looks from Dumbledore and Alios, and to the violent jerk backwards from Potter. Severus fumed. He wasn’t anything like the damned muggles. The situations were totally different. He had never wanted that child, never asked to be in that situation. And Potter should have had Lily and James...

The Potions Master inhaled deeply. He needed to get himself under control, and he needed to do it quickly. Drawing deeply on his occlumency skills, Severus managed to suppress his anger and the nagging thought of his own inadequacy. Focusing on Potter again, he briefly explained the procedure.

"Potter," Severus stated, his voice low and threatening. "This is a simple potion. But you’ll have to pay attention or it likely won’t penetrate your thick skull," he sneered. "The potion in the cauldron is what is known as a blood-based potion. That means that the constituent ingredients of the potion are linked to a blood product that is woven into the potion base. When a second blood product is introduced, the ingredients will react, or not react, to the magical markers on the new blood product. If the second blood product is a direct magical derivative of the first blood product - in other words, if the blood that runs through your veins came directly from me - the potion will not change color. If the blood products are not directly related, the potion will turn clear."

Severus could see Potter digesting the information. It looked painful. He gave the child another moment to turn the information over in his mind before quickly pressing the dagger to his arm. In his experience, it was best to perform these tests quickly and without much discussion when the subject showed any type of apprehension. To do otherwise caused anxiety to build, making the test even less comfortable for the subject. As he felt the knife slip easily along Potter’s skin, Severus was careful to avoid the older scar. Potter flinched backward, of course, but Severus held his arm in a painfully tight grip. When he was sure enough blood had flowed from the wound, he withdrew the vial and collected the necessary sample. Finished, Severus drew his wand to heal the cut. Before he could do so, Potter pulled his arm away. The child looked ready to kill him..

"Couldn’t you have at least warned me?" Harry hissed. He held his arm protectively at his chest, as if Severus was going to grab it and try to inflict even more damage. "I would have been able to mentally prepare myself."

"You’ve never been mentally prepared for anything in your life," Severus stated coldly. "Why start now?"  Potter didn’t say anything, he just glared. Severus glared back - spoiled teenagers didn’t scare him in the least. But Potter’s dramatics were taking up time, and Severus knew the sample was growing cold as they spoke.

"Potter, we don’t have time for this. Either hold your arm out now for me to heal or bleed to death on the floor. The choice is yours." Obviously, the child wasn’t going to bleed to death. But still, it was a nice thought.  Potter didn't respond, but the anger radiating from his eyes told Severus exactly how much the child resented him. Severus was almost surprised when Potter held out his arm. Without further comment, he healed the incision.

Having taken care of Potter, Severus turned his attention to the bubbling cauldron in the corner, where Dumbledore, Fudge, and Alios were gathered. Without ceremony, Severus tipped the contents of the vial into the viscous red liquid and waited for the results. As they watched, Harry’s blood swirled into the potion. It momentarily turned a deep, angry black, but then the color changed to red, making Harry’s blood indistinguishable from the bubbling goo in the cauldron and leaving the entire contents the same bloody color it had started as. The paternity test was positive. The only thing of note was a slight haze that formed above the cauldron. Dumbledore and Alios were both smiling. Fudge, however, looked like he was struggling not to lay an egg. His face was puffed-up and red, a vein was throbbing angrily at the edge of his temple, and he could barely speak through his anger.

"What?... how? ... Alios! How did this happen?" the Minister raged.

"You’re asking me to explain the birds and bees, Minister?" Alios asked innocently. Fudge, however, didn’t take kindly to the quip.

"Of course not," Fudge fired back, "but something is wrong! Surely you’ve noticed the mist above the cauldron? That, I’m certain, is not normal."

Snape was hoping Fudge would miss that, but sadly, the Minister had done at least a little homework on the potion. The potion had not changed color, which meant that, without a doubt, he was Potter’s father. No surprise there. The mist, however, only appeared when there was - for lack of a better word - interference. In this case, Snape was certain it was the illusion and the active presence of James Potter’s DNA in Harry’s blood.

"Yes, I did notice that," Alios responded curtly. "There is obviously more to the situation, but nevertheless, the test results are conclusive. Professor Snape is Mr. Potter’s father."

Fudge was livid. Severus, however, didn’t feel the need to join the argument. Frankly, he thought it best to remain quiet for a moment and see if Alios would do his fighting for him. After all, he really wasn’t thrilled with the situation. It would be hard to muster a lot of enthusiasm and argue for his status as parent.

"Now see here, Alios, I won’t have custody of the Boy-Who-Lived handed over to a known Death Eater! For Merlin’s sake, man, you work for the Ministry!"

"Yes, I do, and I take my job very seriously," Alios responded curtly. "I am giving you my considered opinion that, after review and relevant Ministry testing, Professor Snape is Harry Potter’s father." Alios was clearly angry at being challenged, and he wasn’t about to allow Fudge to operate under the mistaken believe that he, as Minister, was in charge.

"There are some unresolved questions regarding the source of the mist, but it is clear, just from looking at the child, that he is wearing an illusion," Alios continued. "This, I believe is the source of the mist, and it is in no way a reason to deny Professor Snape custody of his son."

"Then take off the illusion!"

"That, Minister, is up to Mr. Potter’s father. Our rules are clear - a positive test result on a Ministry conducted test is conclusive as to paternity. Extraneous factors, such as an illusion, may be detected in the test, as we see with the mist, but those factors have no bearing upon the validity of the results. My decision is firm."

"If you value your job, you will reverse your decision," Fudge seethed, but Alios remained unaffected.

"If you dislike my ruling, Minister, you can appeal it. But as I am sure you know, an order to terminate parental rights - even those of a Death Eater - requires a hearing before a panel of governing members. You’ll need to submit a petition to the Wizengamot to reverse my ruling."

Alios’ voice was cold, and his eyes held absolutely no regard for the Minister. Severus wasn’t surprised. Alios worked for the Ministry, but he wasn’t fond of Fudge. But then again, most people weren’t. How the man stayed in office was beyond Severus’ understanding...

Fudge was sputtering violently. The Minister had clearly thought that he would have Potter in custody at the conclusion of the test, and this unexpected development apparently left him at a loss for what to do next. Severus caught Dumbledore’s eye. He could tell that the Headmaster was ready to depart from the Ministry before Fudge could figure out a way to detain them further. Severus agreed - it was best to be going.

"Minister, I am taking my son back to Hogwarts. If you need to discuss this matter with me further, you know where to find me." Pulling Potter off of the table, he looked squarely at the Minster.

"There’s no need to show us out." And with that, he yanked open the door and swept out of the room, Harry in tow.

Harry felt himself being pulled down the roughly down the hallway. He knew Snape had him by the arm, that Dumbledore was behind him, and even that people were gawking as they pushed past, but it really didn’t matter anymore. Harry was still thinking about the potion. And while he had known about Snape for a few days, a small part of him had still harbored some hope that it was all a big ruse, and that a paternity test would show that Snape wasn’t his father. But now, that hope was gone. He briefly toyed with the idea that the potion might have been fixed, but in retrospect, he doubted it. Fudge was too keen to get control of him to allow any tampering. And so, he was left with the sinking knowledge that Snape was, truly, his father. His thoughts, however, were interrupted when they stepped through a set of double doors that led directly into the Atrium.

Harry stopped cold. He could feel Snape tugging at him, but his feet were rooted to the floor. Looking around, the evidence of destruction was still present. The floor was gouged and cracked from the intense spell battle that had taken place. The security booth, once streamlined and neat, stood charred and blistered. But it was the absence of the Fountain of Magical Brethren that really brought the destruction home to Harry. This is where it had happened. Where his friends were injured. Where Sirius...

All of a sudden, Snape gave Harry a violent tug, jerking him towards the closest fireplace available. Harry suddenly realized what was happening. People were stampeding. They were everywhere, yelling, calling out... and running. Towards him.

"Oh, Merlin...," Harry breathed, "There’s a lot of them, aren’t there?"

"Don’t talk, Potter! Move!" Snape yelled. But in an instant, they were surrounded by reporters. Pushing through them, Snape seemed oblivious to the questions coming from all sides.

"...Professor Snape, Marge Milado from Wizarding Radio, is it true Harry Potter is your son?" The thin women in a bright red cape pushed a magical microphone at Snape, but he ignored her and pressed forward.

"Professor Snape, are you a Death Eater?" A dark haired man yelled out. Harry thought that question would surely irritate the Potions Master, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

Then, out of nowhere, a short, plump woman with spiky brown hair and rhinestone trimmed glasses pushed through the crowd and nearly knocked Harry over. She looked a little like a crazed hedgehog, and Harry wondered briefly which organization she was representing. But when she announced herself, it made perfect sense, even if her question didn’t.

""Professor Snape - Betsy Bothers from the Quibbler - is it true you have another child named Ziggy, and that he lives with you and his mother, Moon Beam, in a secret love-shack by the sea?"

Harry burst out laughing. Leave it to the Quibbler... The reporters who heard the question immediately started laughing, but Snape seemed far from amused. He stopped suddenly and stared at her, a look of pure indignation on his face. Snapping his mouth shut, Snape shot Betsy a glare to could freeze water before once again tugging Harry towards the floo network. Harry was more than a little surprised at Snape’s reaction. It just seemed funny that, out of everything, it was a comment about a secret hippy family that got Snape’s goat. But in the end, Snape wasn’t the sort to tolerate idiocy, and Betsy clearly had gotten under his skin.

"Please, everyone," called Dumbledore. "Let’s have some order. Professor Snape may, at some point later, take questions on the situation. For now, though, he would like to return with his son to Hogwarts."

Their party continued towards the grate, even as Dumbledore was speaking. Having reached their destination, Harry stepped quickly into the floo behind Snape and the Headmaster. The reporters were still hollering out questions, and Betsy had even moved on to ask if it was true that Dumbledore had really decorated the love-shack boudoir to look like "the Jungle Room at Graceland", whatever that was... Dumbledore was fumbling in his pocket for floo powder. Just as he was ready to throw it down and call out "Hogwarts!", Rita Skeeter came into view. But as the floo fared to life, Harry heard her call out a question that sent him into a tailspin...

"Professor Snape, death records indicate you lost a wife and son 14 years ago - are those records correct, or is Potter that lost child...?"

Severus was never so relieved to be back in his chambers. The ministry had been a fiasco, thanks to the reporters. He had expected questions about his relationship with Potter. He’d even expected questions about his status as a now former-Death Eater. But he hadn’t been prepared for questions about his family. It had been such a long time since he had to publicly face the issue, and having it thrust upon him when he wasn’t ready was decidedly unwelcome.

Severus watched Potter stumble out of the floo behind him, followed closely by the Headmaster. He really didn’t want to deal with either at that moment, but clearly, he needed to speak with Dumbledore about the reporters. The boy, however, was a different story.

"Potter," Severus ordered unceremoniously. "Go to your room. The Headmaster and I need to speak."

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Dumbledore give Harry a small nod, silently asking the child to concede to the request. Potter looked like he was deciding what to do. In an effort to put the threat of conversation to rest, Severus pointedly turned his back on the younger wizard, making his way resolutely across the room and towards the sanctity of the liquor cabinet. He didn’t like what he was feeling right now - agitated, for lack of a better word. And it wasn’t like he normally indulged his emotions with drink. No... it was rare for Severus to feel out of control, and even rarer for him to imbibe alcohol when he was. However, he was, at heart, a man who believed that extreme situations deserved extreme responses. And, for whatever reason, drowning out the days events in a bottle of Madame Rosmerta’s finest felt, to Severus, like the appropriate response to the circumstances.

Squatting down, Severus began foraging through the jumble of tumblers, wine glasses, and assorted spirits. The cabinet was deeper than he recalled - he must have magically enlarged it at one point... But still, it was a good escape from the very heavy silence behind him. No doubt, Potter had questions, and Severus would have crawled all the way into the cupboard and locked the door behind him if it meant he could escape the conversation he knew would have to come sooner or later.

"Go away, Potter." Severus silently prayed as he dug deeper and deeper into the dusty collection of bottles at the back of the cabinet. "I don’t need talk right now, I need a drink." Now... where was the damned fire-whiskey? He knew it was there somewhere... past the champagne glasses, past that very old, rare bottle of elf-made wine... Just a little deeper, maybe...

"Sir...?"

Severus wasn’t surprised to hear Potter’s query. Indeed, he couldn’t help but feel that Potter’s statement, simple as it was, validated his belief that the child was incapable of thinking beyond his own, immediate needs.

"I knew it!" Severus bellowed, and then wished he hadn’t as the sound of his own anger reverberated off of the cabinet walls around him. "I knew you would not be able to do it...! No... not St. Potter! You are simply incapable of placing anyone else’s thoughts ahead of your own, aren’t you?!..."

Having finally located the dusty brown bottle that was the object of his search, Severus proceeded to back out of the cabinet, berating the child the whole way. He felt a bit stupid as he did so, given that Potter and the Headmaster were getting an earful while staring at his arse. But still, Severus was bound and determined to get out of the cupboard and castigate the child properly. In his haste, however, he inadvertently knocked the elf-wine against the side of the wall, sending chilly wetness down the front of his cloak and trousers. The shock of the cold liquid caused him to jerk backwards, hitting the back of his head off of the frame of the cupboard.

"Argh!... Damn... Son of Merlin..." The epithets spewed forth untamed and without concern for the other occupants of the room.

"Severus! Are you all right?" The Headmaster sounded concerned, but Severus could also hear the chuckle in the old man’s voice. What a sight he must be from the other end, Severus thought angrily...

"I’m fine, Headmaster." Severus hissed. "And I’ve either just wet my pants or I’ve broken a two-hundred year old bottle of elf-wine." Reaching down, he could feel the tell-tale shards of smooth glass underneath his fingertips.

"Ah, bugger... I broke the wine..."

He could hear the snickers behind him. Potter was laughing at him... oh, that boy was going to get it when he got out of the cabinet... With one last backwards heave, Severus finally extricated himself from what was, he supposed, one of the more undignified positions he had ever been in. Severus drew his wand, gave a passing thought to hexing Potter for laughing, and then performed a quick drying spell on himself. Standing up, Severus glanced at Dumbledore.

The Headmaster was grinning wildly, his eyes alight with laughter. So, it was the Headmaster who was laughing... Severus reflected for a moment, and then decided it must have been quite a sight. Indeed, under other circumstances, Severus might have been embarrassed by his lack of composure, but he didn’t have room for the emotion at the present time. He was too set on putting Potter in his place. Severus could tolerate a little humor at his own expense for the Headmaster’s benefit, but Potter was a different story. No, the boy needed to learn respect. Rounding on the child, Severus was determined to dispel the smug look that he was sure was plastered on the child’s face. But Severus’ anger faded the moment he glanced at Potter..

"Sir..." Potter mumbled. Severus couldn’t place the emotion he saw on the boy’s face, but it wasn’t smugness. Or anything like it. Rather, there was a mix of confusion and something that looked strangely like guilt, maybe... Severus continued to watch while Potter struggled to find the words he was looking for... he looked a bit like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing in a desperate rhythm... Severus stood, bemused, waiting for the child to grasp hold of whatever thoughts, if any, were floating around in his brain. Finally, Potter managed a strangled reply.

"I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t know."

Severus, having been a spy for so long, was not a person easily surprised. But he suddenly found himself in unfamiliar territory. Potter. Was apologizing. To him. To him...

"Merlin," Severus thought. "Now what?" Should he acknowledge Potter’s statement? Say something expected, albeit superficial in response? Or should he just ignore the child? Severus pondered the matter briefly... Ignoring seemed right. It seemed like the best way out of the thicket... Yes, ignoring the situation would work just fine for now... But before he could do anything - or not do anything - Potter was moving... across the carpet, head down, eyes lowered, and into his room. Severus didn’t say a word, and neither did the Headmaster - both just quietly let the child go. When the door was finally shut behind Harry, Severus breathed a sigh of relief, cast a quick silencing spell, and then made his way towards his favorite chair by the fire.

Reaching his destination, he plopped down heavily, glass in hand, and uncorked the bottle. Without even acknowledging the Dumbledore, Severus filled the tumbler and downed the contents in one seamless motion. Having done so, he closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and waited for the warm, sultry feeling of the alcohol wash over him. It didn’t take long.

"Severus," Dumbledore said gently.

The Potions Master didn’t respond, choosing instead to sink deeper into the delicious warmth that was invading his being. After a moment, though, he sensed the Headmaster beside him, followed by the gentle pressure of the man’s hand on the back of his head. There were few people Severus ever allowed to get close to him - either physically or emotionally - and Dumbledore was one of those few. Indeed, it was fair to say that Severus, having had a less than satisfying relationship with his father, had reached the point where he looked upon Dumbledore as a mentor and, in some respects, a father-figure. Severus breathed deeply, allowing the old man’s presence to calm his senses.

"It was bound to come to this. Once your relationship with Harry was acknowledged, the reporters were sure to start looking into your history." Dumbledore’s quiet voice found its way into Severus’ thoughts.

"But so fast?" the Potion’s Master hissed, looking up at the elder wizard. "There’s no time. I had hoped to make it through the term, at least, so as not to disrupt his schooling. Now the reporters will be all over us. And the Dark Lord will be all over us."

It was this last thought that scared him more than anything. He had lived a clandestine life for so long, he had become accustomed to the additional blanket of safety that the web of lies provided. And now, slowly and painfully, those layers were being peeled away. First acknowledging Potter, followed by the corresponding loss of his status as a spy. And now the damned reporters were digging up graves and unearthing ghosts that were best left buried.

"We can, perhaps, send her on a... what is the muggle phrase? ... a ‘wild goose chase’ to buy more time," Dumbledore suggested. "But you should consider that this is only a temporary measure. You will need to face this situation soon. The sooner the better, for safety’s sake." The Headmaster’s voice was firm, but kind. Severus closed his eyes as if to blot out the effect of the words, but ultimately, he knew the elderly wizard was right.

"Severus," the Headmaster sighed. "The situation is bound to create fear and hurt, but a relationship is only defined by these qualities if one allows it to be. We should seek opportunities to move beyond these feelings, my dear friend." Severus felt the Headmaster give his shoulder a squeeze before the old man moved away.

Severus stared into the smoldering embers in the grate. Somehow, this entire situation was spinning out of control, and he didn’t know what to do to regain his footing. It had been less than a week since he had told Potter of his heritage, but it felt like months. Years. Eons, even. Idly, Severus wondered whether this was what it would feel like to be trapped in a black hole. Weighted down with the weight of the world, yet powerless and adrift in a foreign universe where time was stretched and skewed beyond recognition...

"Enough wallowing in self- pity," Severus reprimanded himself silently. "There’s too much to do." And indeed, Severus knew what needed done. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but it was necessary. Standing abruptly, Severus purposefully placed his drink down, squared his shoulders, and addressed the Headmaster.

"Headmaster," he stated. "I will need to be away at Christmas in order to address personal issues." Dumbledore didn’t respond, but gave Severus an brief nod of the head. Severus took this as his cue to continue.

"I know that I am responsible for Potter, but given the circumstances, I cannot take him with me. It will only create more resentment."

"What are you proposing, Severus?"

"I would like him to stay at Hogwarts over the holiday," Severus answered cautiously. He wasn’t sure how the Headmaster would respond to the request. But, it wouldn’t be a long time, so maybe...

"I will only be gone two nights, and he will be safe here without me for this short time." To Severus’ surprise, Dumbledore nodded.

"I think that is wise," the elder wizard agreed. "But he will need something to keep him busy. Perhaps you can set him a potion to brew? Something to keep him occupied...?"

"I can," Severus said. "But I was also considering fire-calling Molly to see if she would allow young Mr. Weasley to come for a visit. There are no other students staying for Christmas this year, and I do not think it would be healthy for Potter to spend it alone."

And he didn’t. Severus really didn’t like Potter, he told himself, but nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel that the child had been asked to deal with a lot in a very short amount of time. It seemed likely that, if left alone, Potter would dwell unnecessarily on the matters, and Severus had no intention of allowing any son of his to indulge in self-pity any more than he, himself did. No, it would be better for the child to have a friend around - even a Weasley - to take his mind off of the issues, if only for a few hours.

"An excellent idea, Severus," Dumbledore agreed jovially. "Assuming they consent, the Weasleys are welcome to use the floo in my office." Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling merrily, and he smiled broadly at the Potion’s Master.

"I’ll be on my way, then. Please advise me before you leave," he said, stepping into the floo. "Oh, and Severus," he added lightly, "it was very thoughtful of you to suggest a visit for Harry. A very fatherly thing to do, indeed." With a parting grin, the Headmaster was gone in a blaze of fire.

Severus rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his near empty glass of whiskey. It wasn’t as if he cared about Potter’s feelings, Severus told himself again. It’s just that it was Christmas. And nobody should be alone on Christmas. Not even Potter, Severus mused.

Draining the last of his fire-whiskey, Severus hiccuped once, vanished his glass, and determinedly set about finding something for Potter to do while he was away.

Harry stirred the messy concoction in front of him, but even the foul odor that emanated from the cauldron couldn’t penetrate his thoughts. His mind just wasn’t on brewing, and unfortunately, the sticky mess in front of him proved it. Snape had set him a potion to brew while he was away, and Harry honestly tried to get it right, but he just couldn’t seem to concentrate.

"Who assigns homework on Christmas, anyway?" Harry mused as he listlessly tossed the last of the newts eyes into the brew. The answer was conveniently delivered from the back of his mind. Your father.

Harry snorted. Yep. It was true. Leave it to him to have the only father in the world that would assign homework on a holiday. It wouldn’t have been so bad, maybe, if he could get it right, but he had clearly messed something up. The ochre color potion was hissing and solidifying into a concrete like substance, and Harry was fairly certain that was not supposed to happen. He could just imagine Snape’s voice... Potter, can’t you do anything right!

Grasping the stirrer with both hands, Harry tried his best to mix the newt’s eyes in a little better, but without luck. His mornings work was relentlessly hardening in the cauldron, and there seemed to be no saving it. Having had enough, Harry finally laid the stirrer aside and gave it up as a bad job.

"Oh well," Harry consoled himself weakly as he vanished away the mess. "I’ll have to brew it again when Snape gets back, but at least I have the rest of the day free." The thought, however, didn’t give Harry nearly as much comfort as he wanted it to. Not that he missed Snape - no, the thought of having to spend Christmas with either Snape or Dumbledore left him feeling cold inside. But still, ever since he and Snape had returned from the Ministry, Harry had been consumed with an uncomfortable, restless energy that seemed to grip both his mind and body. And Harry knew why. It was the same thing at the Dursleys... best to keep busy, keep moving... because when you’re not moving, there’s time to think about things. And Harry really, really didn’t want to think about anything.

Taking a final look around the potions room, Harry vanished the mess in his cauldron, grabbed his book, and headed back to his room in the dungeon. He had no intention of staying there, but Harry was having a hard to figuring out what to do next... Sneak into Hogsmead? No, Voldemort would probably find him within the hour. The Great Hall? No, Dumbledore might be there. Library? No, too quiet. Harry mentally checked off each option as he stalked down to the dungeon quarters, let himself in, and made his way to the bedroom Snape had assigned him.

Looking around, the young wizard scanned the small, sparsely furnished room. No pictures adorned the walls, no colorful rugs softened the floor, and no comfortable chair waited in the corner. But despite its lack of personality, Harry didn’t think that the physical space itself was all that bad. Bigger than the spare room at the Dursleys, with a fireplace, desk, and a down-covered twin bed, the room was probably ideal for any other teenaged boy - functional, large enough to grow into, and holding the promise of warmth and comfort. But to Harry, the room felt barren, cold, and unfriendly. It reminded him of the relationship he shared with Snape... father and son... To some, a relationship of well-being and belonging. To Harry - a relationship of icy hostility....

Harry shook his head in an attempt to divert his mind from Snape, but it was hard. His thoughts drifted mercilessly back to the man whenever Harry let his guard down. Worse than that, though, were the nagging thoughts that flitted at the edge of his mind - the ones about Snape’s wife and child. Who were they? How did they die? Why did they die?... It was that last one the worried Harry the most. Why did they die...? Did they die because of anyone specific, he wondered... maybe because of himself...?

"It is not my fault," he announced to walls.

Even to his own ears, Harry thought his voice sounded small and hollow in the dampness of the chamber. There was no way it could be his fault... Harry had told himself that time and again since returning from the ministry. But still... it would explain Snape’s anger, wouldn’t it? It would explain why Snape, his own father, hated him... Harry could feel the tentacles of guilt, cold and unforgiving as they were, creeping into his conscience.

"This isn’t working," Harry told himself. And he knew it. He needed something to do. He needed to keep him mind and body moving, and that was difficult to do in the dungeon. No, he needed out. Out of the dungeon. Out of the Castle. Just out. Period.

Looking around, Harry spotted his cloak lying in a jumbled heap at the foot of his bed. Snatching it up, he bounded out of the quarters, up the stairs, and to the entrance nearest the Great Hall. He really wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but anything was better than hanging out in a cold dungeon with nothing for company but his own accusing thoughts.

Having reached the entrance, Harry wrenched open the door and was nearly over the threshold when a soft "pop" sounded behind him. It was Dobby, the small house elf whom Harry had struck up a friendship with after his second year at Hogwarts.

"Dobby!" Harry exclaimed, "You startled me. How are you?" Dobby was the first person... or well, creature, Harry had seen all day, and he found himself suddenly very happy to see the little elf.

"Dobby is fine, Sir," the elf answered. "Dobby is enjoying Christmas!" Dobby’s eyes were large and excited, reminding Harry of the wide-eyed wonder children experienced at Christmas. Well, most children, anyway.

"I see you’ve dressed for the holiday," Harry quipped as he eyed Dobby’s fashions. "Are those new?" Harry pointed to the top of the elf’s head, where two bright red stockings, trimmed in green and gold fringe, covered his ears.

Dobby beamed. "Oh yes, Master Harry. Professor Dumbledore is giving them to Dobby. Professor Dumbledore is giving Dobby lots of clothes." Dobby pointed proudly to his new outfit, which included a sparkling gold jersey, brilliant purple sash, and a matching gold trimmed breeches. A pair of bright green suspenders with miniature twinkling holiday lights rounded out the outfit. Harry wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear that it came from Dumbledore.

"Looks great, Dobby." Harry smiled. "I have something for you, too, but it’s in Gryffindor Tower right now. Can I get it for you later?" Harry had found an old muggle fedora in Hogsmeade a few weeks ago, and he’d picked it up for the elf. But with everything going on... well, it had just slipped his mind.

"Harry Potter thinks of Dobby!" The elf gushed. "Harry Potter is kind and good wizard!"

Dobby was practically bouncing with excitement, making the tassels on the ear-stocking flap wildly around, giving Dobby the somewhat humorous look of a deranged Christmas elf. Harry grinned, but Dobby’s near-adoration made Harry feel slightly awkward. Harry had never really been comfortable with praise, and despite his goodwill towards Dobby, Harry again found himself itching to get out into the cold winter air and away from the confining walls of the castle.

"Of course I think of you, Dobby!" Harry forced himself to keep his voice light. "You’re my friend. I’ll come down to the kitchens with your gift a little later. For now, I’m heading out for a walk before it gets too cold out. I’ll see you later." Harry gave a half-hearted wave and turned towards the door.

"Oh, no, Master Harry," Dobby squeaked. The little elf grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him back into the castle. Harry tried to pull free, but the elf’s grip was surprisingly strong.

"Dobby, what are you doing..." Harry protested, but it was no use. The castle doors had swung silently closed - compliments of Dobby’s magic - and Harry was being dragged down the hallway.

"Master Harry must go to Professor Dumbledore’s office," Dobby exclaimed. "Professor Dumbledore is saying that Harry Potter has a gift there!"

They were moving up the winding staircase now, and Harry cringed at the thought of facing Dumbledore. He toyed with the idea of making a break for it, but ultimately decided to follow Dobby without argument. There was no sense in fighting Dobby, especially since Harry knew that Dobby could probably levitate him to Dumbledore’s office by force, anyway.

Trudging obediently next to the little elf, Harry wondered what the Headmaster could have gotten him. There was nothing he needed, really, and very few things that he wanted. And probably more to the point - Harry felt a little uncomfortable accepting a gift from the Headmaster after everything that had happened. The man had manipulated Harry’s life even before Harry’s life had official begun, and for that, Harry was deeply, profoundly angry. But on the other hand, he also knew that Dumbledore cared for him. And maybe Dumbledore didn’t show his concern in exactly the way Harry wanted him to, but still... shouldn’t the mere fact that the man cared for him count for something? The Dursley’s never cared for him, Harry mused. And Snape, his own father, never cared for him... so, shouldn’t it mean something that Dumbledore, despite his lies, did care?

Harry sighed in frustration. It was just too complicated to consider for very long. Eventually, they reached the winding staircase leading to the Headmaster’s office, and the gargoyle stepped aside without delay. Clearly, Dumbledore was expecting him.

"Harry Potter is going in now, " the elf proclaimed as he shoved Harry none to gently towards the staircase. "Harry Potter is having a good Christmas!" And with a parting wave, Dobby quietly vanished.

"Not yet," Harry replied to no one in general. "But maybe it will get better." Squaring his shoulders, Harry stepped onto the winding staircase, only to be deposited at the Headmaster’s door a second later.

"Hello?" Harry called through the open door. He wasn’t sure if he should go in or not. The door was open, but he didn’t feel comfortable just marching in like he owned the place.

"Headmaster?" Harry called again, as he walked hesitantly into the room. Maybe the Dobby was wrong, he mused, and Dumbledore really didn’t need to see him. Harry felt his hopes rise slightly at the thought, only to be deflated when a rich, warm voice sounded from the far corner.

"Ah, Harry!" Dumbledore called. The elderly wizard was glancing lazily through an ancient looking tome; however, he quickly placed the book on a deep shelf and smiled warmly at Harry. "Please come in," he finished, and waved Harry toward a comfortable chair near the desk.

Harry, resigned to the coming encounter, inched a little further into the room. His last few visits to the Headmaster’s office hadn’t been good ones, and the young wizard suddenly found himself on edge.

Dumbledore’s smile was genuine, but he was careful to keep some distance between himself and the younger wizard as he settled himself behind his desk. Harry wasn’t happy about being back in the Headmaster’s office, but he was thankful that Dumbledore seemed to sense his reservations and kept his distance.

"This office does not hold good memories for you, I’m sure," Dumbledore said quietly as he popped a lemon drop into his mouth and waited for a response.

Harry didn’t reply immediately - he was waiting for something witty - or even vaguely interesting - to enter his mind. But for some reason, the gift of speech seemed strangely unreachable. Idly, Harry wondered if it was related to the uncomfortable burning that was blossoming at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, and finally managed to croak out a response.

"No, Sir," he mumbled. "Not recently."

The Headmaster nodded gently, and Harry noticed that the elder man’s eyes seemed distant and sad. When he spoke, there was a heaviness in his voice that Harry was unaccustomed to hearing.

"For all the hurt that has been generated here, I do apologize," Dumbledore said. "It is my wish that someday, time will once again allow you the opportunity to find solace within the walls of this room."

The words flowed through Harry, and he felt his heart constrict painfully. It was all he could do to contain the storm of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t want to break down - not now, not ever. But it was hard, because, much to Harry’s surprise, he found himself wanting the same thing as the Headmaster - to feel, once again, like he was safe... welcome... like he belonged.

"Me too, Sir." Harry’s answer was simple, and in the end, as heartfelt as possible. And since Harry couldn’t think of anything else to say, he stayed quiet, allowing the silence that had blossomed to fill the space between himself and the Headmaster. After a few moments, Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Well, then. That’s enough unhappiness for one day," the Headmaster announced crisply. Harry looked up. Dumbledore was standing smartly beside his desk, hand clasped behind his back, while he looked at Harry appraisingly. Harry could see the tell-tale twinkle in the man’s eye again, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the Headmaster had up his sleeve. Clearly, something was going on...

"Today is a day of celebration," Dumbledore cried jovially. "And I do believe there is a gift for you here. Or, at least, nearly here."

Harry had no idea what the man was talking about. There didn’t seem to be any gifts in sight... maybe he was missing something... He looked around quickly, but there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.

"Sir?" he asked in confusion. Dumbledore just winked.

"I shall be leaving now, Harry," the Headmaster stated. Harry immediately stood to follow, but Dumbledore stopped him.

"No, no, Harry," he chided. "You will wait here. I’m certain the loss of my company won’t cause you too much distress, and in any event, your present should be here shortly. Please make yourself at home." As if to make his point, Dumbledore drew his wand, lit a warm fire, and conjured a few plush, deep chairs - the same kind that were in the Gryffindor common room - near the hearth. He motioned Harry towards a chair, smiling in satisfaction when Harry obediently took a seat. With a nod, Dumbledore stepped out of the room, but before leaving, he turned once again to the younger wizard.

"Harry," Dumbledore prompted, "I meant what I said. Make yourself at home. There are no ears listening, nor any eyes watching. You are safe here, I promise."

And without further comment, Dumbledore was gone, leaving Harry bemused and more than a little nervous about the "present" to come. He didn’t have to wait long, though, as in the next moment, the floo blazed brightly, and a lanky, red haired figure stepped out of the grate.

"Ron!"

Harry nearly fell off his chair. It was the last thing he expected...company! And it was wonderful. Seeing Ron step out of the floo was like getting an unexpected second wind. The restless feeling that had plagued Harry for the past weeks evaporated like mist, chased away by a wave of cheerfulness that left him feeling almost giddy with happiness.

"Harry! Happy Christmas, Mate!" Ron bellowed as he pulled Harry into a bear hug. Harry thumped Ron heartily on the back, but stopped quickly when he felt the other boy wince. In his excitement, he’d forgotten about Ron’s recent encounter with the brains...

"Sorry, Mate," he said sheepishly and pulled away. "Didn’t mean to hit you that hard. How are you feeling? And what are you doing here?"

Harry knew he probably looked ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop grinning. He was going to have someone to talk with on Christmas! Harry didn’t mind the idea of spending Christmas alone, since he pretty much spent all of his pre-Hogwarts Christmases alone, anyway. But now, staring at Ron, he was struck by the realization that he’d been - of all things - lonely.

"I’m visiting you, bonehead," Ron said. The elder boy dropped a sack he’d brought with him on the floor and flopped down into one of the chairs Dumbledore had conjured before he left. "Mum told me yesterday that I could come visit you today, and she said that Dumbledore agreed to let us hang out in his office. I couldn’t just let my best mate spend Christmas alone, could I?"

The sincerity in Ron’s voice was clear, and Harry felt a rush of affection for his friend. Of all the decisions he’d made in his life, by far the best was sitting with Ron on that first trip aboard the Hogwarts Express.

"Besides," Ron continued. "I had to get away from Mum. She’s driving me right bonkers fawning over me. At first I thought it was kinda neat, but now it’s becoming downright oppressive. Today, she actually asked me if I needed help tying my shoes." Ron shook his head as he tried, unsuccessfully, to kick off one of his trainers.

"Imagine that," Harry snickered as he took the seat opposite his friend. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel great." Ron shrugged as he finally managed to remove the stubborn shoe. Harry couldn’t imagine being comfortable enough in Dumbledore’s office to kick off his trainers, but for some reason, Ron was good ok with it, despite the fact that he’d only been in the Headmaster’s office a few times.

"Madame Pomfrey says I’ll be good as new by the time school starts up again," Ron added. "Check it out, though."

Harry watched as Ron leaned forward and pushed his jumper aside to show a long, angry red scar that ran from the hollow of his collar bone all the way to the edge of his shoulder. As far as scars went, it was an impressive one.

"Whoa, mate," Harry whistled. "That’s a right good scar you’ve got there. Can’t Madame Pomfrey fix it?"  Harry was surprised that the scar still looked as bad as it did. Looking at it, he felt a sharp twinge in the pit of his stomach, reminding him, rather unpleasantly, of how close they’d come to disaster.

"Well, to tell the truth," Ron whispered conspiratorially. "I asked her not to." Harry looked up, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

"Why?" he asked in disbelief. "I’d give just about anything to get rid of this one," Harry said, pointing to the accursed lighting bolt on his forehead. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want a reminder like that.

"Well, the way I see it, the girls might like it," Ron gushed. He pushed his jumper back into place, kicked his feet out in front of him, and stretched out in the chair. "You know Lavender Brown?" he continued. Harry nodded.

"Well, Ginny told me that before we left for break, she was going on about how brave I am, and how she wants to see my scars, and stuff," Ron added emphatically, wagging his eyebrows up and down lasciviously. Harry laughed. Personally, he thought it was a bit warped to remain scarred just to impress a girl, but he could see Ron’s point, to some degree.

"I don’t know," Harry quipped. "Scars can be a bit of a pain, too. But maybe you’ll have better luck with yours."

"Let’s hope so, Mate. I’d much rather have some pretty girl chasing me around than some crazed lunatic."

"What is the pretty girl is a crazed lunatic?" Harry asked with a smile. Ron, however, was undeterred.

"As long as she doesn’t have red eyes and a snake face," he responded quickly. "Hey, I’m getting hungry. Think there’s any chance of getting something to eat?" Ron rubbed his stomach and, as if on cue, it growled loudly.

Harry almost laughed out loud. Sitting around, talking to Ron about pretty girls and food seemed so normal. So very, very normal. And it had seemed like ages since Harry had felt like anything was normal in his life....

"Harry!" Ron prompted. "Earth to Harry... you there?"

Harry shook his head. "Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking of how glad I am to see you." Harry replied happily as he stood and marched to the floo. "Christmas breakfast coming up!"

One fire call to the kitchen, and several plates of steaming sausages and eggs later, the two boys were sitting comfortably in front of the fire, nearly immobile from the amount of food consumed. They had spent the better part of the hour laughing, eating, and discussing almost anything they could think of. Harry found out that Hedwig was safe and well-fed at the Weasleys; that Hermione was doing well, and would return to Hogwarts after break; and sadly, that Voldemort was once again operating in the open, with Death Eater attacks becoming more frequent.

"What’s the Ministry doing about the attacks," Harry asked nervously. He already knew the answer, but still, it seemed like an appropriate question to ask. Ron just snorted, though.

"Nothin’. They don’t know what to do," he mumbled around a last mouthful of sausage. "They’re completely helpless. Although, Fudge seems to think you’d be able to help somehow."

Ron was quiet for a moment, and Harry had the distinct impression that he was waiting for him to say something. But Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say. "Yeah, I’m the chosen one," seemed inappropriate, even if true. And "Fudge is an idiot," was just too obvious. So instead, Harry opted to simply chew on his lower lip. After a few moments, Ron cleared his throat and continued.

"There was an article in the Daily Prophet yesterday that said that Fudge is trying to get custody of you."

Ron’s comment startled Harry. "Yesterday?" he asked in confusion. "Are you sure?"

Ron nodded, but to Harry, it just didn’t make sense. He’d had the paternity test last week - Fudge was there and saw the results. Why would he be trying to get custody of him now, Harry wondered. And more importantly, could he? As much as he disliked Snape, Harry knew he was at least relatively safe with the bat. With Fudge, he’d be in deep trouble. Harry made a mental note to ask his father about it when he returned. Maybe it was just Fudge’s way of preening for the media.... of trying to garner enough support just to stay in office...

Almost unconsciously, Harry stood and walked to the large picture window overlooking the quidditch pitch. It was amazingly bright outside. The sky - a deep cornflower blue - was unbroken except for the sun which sat high in its mid-afternoon position. The brilliance of the sun, however, was nearly matched by the dazzling expanse of snow that lay over the grounds, and Harry was left wondering if the sun and ice were secretly battling to see which could outshine the other. The were both beautiful, but in the end, Harry hoped the sun would win. He closed his eyes, allowing himself, just for a moment, to drink in the warmth of its rays as they streamed through the window and bathed the office in a rich, honey colored light. It felt delicious, and it took a moment before he was able to pull himself out of the feeling enough to register the fact that Ron was talking to him.

"Harry, are you o.k.?" Ron asked quietly from Harry’s side.

Harry looked at his friend, noting the worried expression that rarely crossed the elder Gryffindor’s face. It was clear that, despite its simplicity, the question was heavily weighted. To Harry, the question seemed to convey a deep, visceral concern that struck an aching chord somewhere inside of him. It felt as if it was the first time since any of this had happened - since the Ministry, since Sirius, since Snape... that someone had asked him, really asked him, if he was doing o.k. And as much as Harry wanted to tell Ron that he was fine... the words wouldn’t come. They were hopelessly tangled in the knot forming at the back of his throat, and the best that Harry could manage was an unconvincing nod.

"Mate, it’s going to be ok, you’ll see," Ron said, as he patted Harry stiffly on the back. "Just because you have a rotten family doesn’t mean anything. Hell, look at Percy. I mean, it’s all going to work out, ok?" he finished weakly.

Ron’s attempt to console Harry came out a little awkward, and Harry suspected that his friend was trying to think of what his mother might say in under the circumstances. But it didn’t matter. In fact, he desperately hoped that Ron was right - that everything would work out. But in truth, Harry was having a difficult time believing it. The circumstances just seemed too far beyond complicated to ever actually "work out."

Harry shrugged. "So, you know, then?" Harry thought it sounded rather lame even as he said it. Clearly, Ron knew. He wouldn’t be surprised if the entire school knew by now.

Ron snorted. "Hate to tell you, Harry, but the whole world knows. You, Snape, the paternity test. Everything. The Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, Wizarding Radio, you name it - they’re going bonkers."

Harry groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. Not that he was expecting anything different, but on some level, he was hoping that maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal, in light of the news of Voldemort’s return. Apparently though, the press couldn’t get enough of him, notwithstanding the fact that the most evil wizard known to their world was once again roaming the streets.

"Brilliant," Harry sighed. "What are they saying? I mean, besides the obvious..."

Ron looked pensieve for a moment before responding.

"Well, that’s the odd thing. They’re going crazy over this, but more about Snape than you. I mean, you’re in there in everything... but everyone’s going on about what a hero Snape is, and how much he’s given up to keep you safe, and junk like that." Ron eyed Harry worriedly before continuing...

"They’re saying that he had a family, and that they were killed. I overhead Mum and Dad talking about it one night, too. Is it true?" Ron’s question hung heavily in the air. Harry couldn’t answer. Instead, he looked forlornly at his shoes and let the silence speak for him.

"Oh, man." Ron hissed and ran his hand through his hair. "Harry, I’m sorry."

"Me too." Harry replied quietly as he thumped his head against the window. And he was. Desperately sorry.

"Harry," Ron asked warily. "You’re not feeling guilty about that, are you? I mean, it’s not your fault. Anything that happened to them was not your fault."

Harry felt his stomach clench violently. Ron was not known for his perceptive nature, but it seemed to Harry that his friend must have learned a few things over the years, because Ron was able to pinpoint, with amazing accuracy, the heart of what was bothering him. It was the question that had plagued him relentlessly since the paternity test, finally expressed in words. Had he, Harry, been somehow responsible for their deaths? Presumably, he was only a baby when it happened, but still... it would make sense... It would explain why Snape hated him so very much...

"I know," Harry began, "But..." Ron cut him off.

"No buts, Harry. You didn’t do anything. You were just a baby."

"I know," Harry tried again, holding up his hand in a silent plea for Ron to hear him out. "But what if they died, for some reason, because of me? Don’t you think that would explain why Snape hates me? Don’t you think that would give him a right to hate me?" Harry was staring at his friend, willing Ron to see things his way, but Ron was only shaking his head.

"Harry, it might be the reason he hates you, but it’s not really an excuse. He’s the one who joined the death eaters, so it’s his fault."

Harry’s stomach dropped. "Was that it, then? A Death Eater attack? Did the Prophet say that?" Ron nodded slightly.

"Yeah, and I overheard Mum and Dad saying something about it. No details, just that they thought it was an attack."

Both boys were still standing by the window, staring quietly out at the bleak landscape below. It hadn’t snowed since the day Snape told Harry about their relationship, but it had remained unusually cold, and the once powdery snow had formed a brittle crust that sparkled brilliantly in the sun. Harry watched the flickers dance across the ground and silently

contemplated the revelation. It was possible that Voldemort killed them, but something about the explanation felt wrong.

"That doesn’t make sense," Harry said, chewing on his absently. "If Snape was a Death Eater, why would Voldemort kill his wife and son?" He turned expectantly to Ron, but it seemed as though Ron didn’t have any better ideas than Harry.

"I don’t know, Mate," he replied. "It was all kept very hush-hush. Even Mum and Dad don’t really know what happened. But it was about the same time that your Mum and Dad were killed. Rita Skeeter is saying that you’re the ‘lost son’ along with being the ‘chosen one’, whatever she means by that."

Harry groaned. Leave it to Rita Skeeter. Turning his back on the window, he slumped back down into the chair and dropped his head into his hands.

"No, I’m not Snape’s lost son," he said, deliberately avoiding the topic of being ‘the chosen one.’

"Snape showed me a memory of his wife and son when he told me that he... that we..." Harry shook his head. It was harder to get the words out than he would have imagined. He’d been living with the idea for a few weeks, but still, admitting it out loud, to another living person, was unexpectedly painful.

"... that we’re related," he finished weakly.

Ron followed Harry’s lead and flopped back down in the chair next to his friend. "I didn’t figure you were. Rita Skeeter’s convinced that you are, though. She thinks Snape’s wife died, and that he hid your identify for some reason."

"Does anyone believe her?" Harry asked. Ron just shrugged.

"Some do. But folks who know you or knew your parents don’t believe it." Ron caught his mistake only after it was out. "I mean, nobody who knew your mum or James Potter. Sorry, Mate," he stammered.

"You didn’t say anything wrong, Ron." Harry said forcibly. "James Potter was my father. More so than Snape ever could be." And as he said it, Harry felt feel a raw ache embed itself into his chest. His Mum had loved him, and so did James. In spite of their choices, Harry was sure that they had loved him.

"Mum says they loved you very much," Ron offered, as if reading his thoughts. Harry felt his eyes begin to prickle, but he pushed the feeling aside. Still, it felt good to hear someone say it - to know that someone else could confirm the fact that once, he had been a loved child. Harry nodded gratefully, and for few minutes, the two boys sat in heavy silence. After a few minutes, Ron cleared his throat.

"So, how’s it been," he asked as he tried to keep his voice light. "I mean, how’s he been? A bigger git than normal?"

Harry thought about the question for a moment before answering. Truthfully, he didn’t think Snape had been all that bad. At least not since the first few days, anyway. But recently, Snape had been mostly...absent.

"Well," he began. ‘We don’t see each other much. He’s making me stay in the dungeons until school starts again, but we really don’t cross paths. He leaves me alone, and I leave him alone. Oh, except for he took my broom and cloak. That was really rotten." Harry was still angry about that - he really wanted his stuff back, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to get it.

"You’re serious?" Ron asked incredulously. "He’s got you under his thumb, and he’s basically just leaving you alone?"

"Well, yeah. I guess so," Harry replied. "He deals with me when he has to, like when we went to the Ministry for testing. But other than that, he pretty much ignores me." Harry stared absently at the fireplace, and idly he wondered how much more time he and Ron would have together before the visit had to end. He didn’t want to spend anymore time on Snape than he had to, but at the same time, it felt good to talk about things with someone else.

"It’s odd, really," Harry continued. "When this first happened, I thought for sure he’d be at total git. He was, at first, and he still is, whenever we’re in the same room. But that doesn’t happen too often. He actually gone today, but I don’t know where he went," Harry finished.

"Probably out feeding on unsuspecting travelers, the bloody vampire," Ron quipped easily. A second later, though, he looked up expectantly at Harry.

"Sorry, Mate," he apologized. "But I don’t have to be respectful or anything now that he’s your dad, do I?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, and he’s not my dad. He’s my father." Harry hated saying that word. Hated that he had to say it about Snape, of all people. "And I don’t care what you say about him, because I would probably agree with it." He tipped his head back against the soft fabric of the chair and sighed.

"But, I think the best thing, for right now anyway, is to sort of keep my head down, you know?" Harry said quietly.

He’d given this a lot of thought... the issue of how to deal with Snape. And it seemed to Harry that, since maybe he was responsible - even indirectly - for Snape’s past losses, the least he could do was not give the man a hard time in the present. He would just keep his head down; not argue; and within reason, do what he was told. If he could keep that up until he turned seventeen, he could walk away from Snape with no regrets. Or, at least not many regrets.

"If you can do it, Mate," Ron added skeptically. "No offense, but you don’t exactly have the best track record." Privately, Harry thought that Ron had a point, but he didn’t see any sense in acknowledging the obvious. Ron, however, was still thinking through the issue.

"But, if you can, maybe he’d ignore you in potions, too," Ron gushed excitedly. "Without Snape deducting points every lecture, we’re sure to have a chance at the House Cup."

Ron’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Harry found himself laughing at his friend’s reasoning. "Can you imagine?" he asked. "Here I was feeling lucky because Snape’s been ignoring me. It would be a real gift if he ignored me right into the House Cup, wouldn’t it?"

"No kidding," Ron agreed. "Hey, did he get you anything? I mean, like a Christmas gift?"

"You’re joking, right?" Harry asked in disbelief. He and Snape didn’t exactly have a gift-giving type of a relationship. Frankly, Harry thought they barely even had a speaking type relationship.

"Well, don’t worry about him," Ron said as he leaned over and picked up the large sack he’d brought with him. Harry had forgotten all about it, but Ron seemed to have been waiting for the right time to open the bag.

"I guess I’ll just have to fill in as good ole’ St. Nick!" he exclaimed with a grin. "Always wanted to do this..." Rummaging around, Ron finally managed to extricate a rather worn package from the depths of the sack. Harry immediately recognized as the present he’d sent to Ron via Hedwig.

"Hey, that’s your gift," he exclaimed. "You didn’t open it yet?" Harry thought he might know why.

"Nah, wanted to wait and open gifts together," Ron announced before diving back into the sack. He pulled out four additional gifts. "Here," he said as he tossed a large, garishly wrapped package to Harry. "You go first. Bet you can’t guess."

The wry smile on Ron’s face gave it away as Harry ripped open the package with delight. He wasn’t much of a gift person - living with the Dursleys had taught him how unimportant "things" could be - but he always looked forward to this particular gift. Tearing through the jumble of holiday paper and ribbons, Harry found one of Mrs. Weasley’s trademark jumpers - burgundy and gold, of course, with a large H in the middle. The box had barely hit the ground by the time he pulled the sweater on, and while it wasn’t the height of fashion, Harry loved it just the same.

"Thanks, Mate. I love it!"

Ron sniggered. "You would," he jeered. "Here, try this instead..." he said, and tossed another, heavier package across the chair. And so it went, for the next half hour, the two friends opened gifts, explored their presents, and generally tried to put the subject of Snape behind them. It wasn’t until the floo came to life and spat out two tall, red haired youths that Harry realized how late it was.

"Ron, Fred!" Harry jumped to his feet in surprise. "It’s great to see you! This is turning into a better Christmas than I could have asked for," Harry beamed.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," the twins declared in unison. "Wouldn’t be Christmas without you, Mate," George said, as he thumped Harry on the back.

"Yes, indeed, Little Harry," Fred added, as he pulled Harry into a hug. "Christmas wouldn’t be complete without a visit with the ‘Long Lost Son’ of our favorite greasy professor." Harry winced as Fred rubbed his knuckles across the top of his head. "Glad to see he hasn’t turned you into potions ingredients..."

"... or chained you in the dungeons," chimed in George.

"Not yet," Harry laughed as he pulled away from Fred’s good-natured, albeit painful grip. "But there’s still time."

"Fear not," Fred consoled as he pulled a small package out of his pocket and set it gently on an unused table. Waving his wand once, the package suddenly expanded until it nearly covered the sideboard. "We bring you tidings of great joy," he said happily as he motioned Harry to come foward.

Harry approached the table warily and looked skeptically at the package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and didn’t have a bow, which was fine with Harry. But he was little unsure of the smoke drifting lazily out of one corner of the box. One never quite knew what to expect when it came to a gift from the twins...

"Uh, how about comfort?" Harry asked as he eyeballed the smoking package. "Aren’t you supposed to bring tiding of comfort and joy?"

George snorted. "Not likely. These are our products, Mate. The only way they’re comfortable is if you’re not on the receiving end."

A vision of Dudley, tongue swollen hanging out of his mouth, suddenly skipped through Harry’s mind, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the Weasleys were on his side.

"Since you’ve just recently, and unfortunately, become... ‘in the family way’ so to speak, Fred and I thought you might need a few tools to help you through the long days with Daddy." George said proudly. "Lots of stuff in here - some tried and true, some a little newer and relatively untested, but all guaranteed to cause confusion and irritation for the unfortunate victim." George waggled his eyebrows and grinned mischievously.

"Just do us a favor," he added, pointing towards the box. "The ones that are in the red packages? Try and write down how long the oozing lasts. We’ve had mixed results..."

"Ah, thanks guys," Harry said apprehensively. "I’ll find a good use for everything." Privately, though, Harry wasn’t so sure. As much as he loved the Weasleys and their products, he was pretty sure there would be a funeral service in his honor if he tried to use anything on Snape.

"So, you two set up in a shop yet?" he asked, trying to change the subject. The twins shook their head in unison.

"Well, we’re exploring options in Diagon Alley, but so far, nothing’s been decided." Fred answered as he waved his wand and tipped Ron’s chair forward, spilling him unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Hey," Ron protested, but Fred just stepped over him and dropped into the chair.

"Mum and Dad don’t know yet, though" he continued. "So my partner and I," Fred tipped his head towards George, "would appreciate if you didn’t say anything to our beloved parents." He winked conspiratorially at Harry. For what it was worth, Harry had no intention of spilling the beans. Ever since he’d financed their operation out of his tournament earnings, Harry had lived with a nagging fear that Mrs. Weasley would find out and become angry with him. So far, though, he’d luckily avoided that situation.

"No problem," he answered, as he idly watched Ron pick himself up off of the floor and shoot his brother a rather rude hand gesture. Fred rolled his eyes in return.

"Really Ronnie-kinz, why don’t you go practice tying your shoes," George teased as he conjured a chair and dropped down next to his brother. "We want to talk to Harry. So, how are you doing, Mate," he asked, gesturing towards the one remaining chair. "Surviving the bat?"

Harry could see that, although George’s tone was teasing, his concern was sincere. And he appreciated the concern... really, he did. But it was a fairly uncomfortable topic, even among friends.

"Yeah, I guess," Harry croaked as he watched Ron grabbed his shoes and then pulled another chair over to the group. Both boys deposited themselves into the open chairs. Harry pulled his legs up underneath him and watched silently as Ron set about pulling his shoes on.

After a minute, Fred chimed in. "Dad says the story at the ministry is that Fudge looked like he was going to lay an egg when the paternity test turned out positive. I would have loved to have seen it! Can you imagine, our dear Minister doing a chicken dance?" Fred suddenly jumped up, tucked his hands under his arms and started strutting around the room making crowing noises and pecking motions with his head.

Harry laughed at the imitation. It was funny, but not quite right. "Yeah, well... actually, he looked like he was having a little bowel trouble, if you asked me." He clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes tight shut, and did his best impression of Fudge trying to go to the bathroom, which brought a roaring round of laughter from the Weasleys.

"Well, Fred," George said when the laughter had finally died down a bit. "Maybe we’ll have to come up with a little something to help the dear Minister out - sort of a ‘morning constitution’ - if you will."

"Absolutely, George," Fred chimed in. "I think it’s splendid idea...a real humanitarian effort, if you ask me. "

Harry had no idea what the twins were thinking of, but he could safely say that it was one prank he had no desire to experience in person. They were still laughing when, once again, the grate flared brightly and out stepped a harried looking Mrs. Weasley.

"Fred, George," she exclaimed. "I sent you here to get Ron, not dawdle until the sun goes down!" she scolded. But it was only half hearted, and Harry could tell that she wasn’t really mad at her sons.

"Ah, but the time’s not been totally wasted, dear Mum," George laughed. "We’ve been helping Ron learn to tie his shoes!" Harry looked over at his best friend and noticed a huge knot had taken over his shoelaces. Harry was sure the knot hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

"Shut up!" Ron muttered as he tried, unsuccessfully, to undo the offending tangle. "We’ve just been visiting a little longer with Harry, Mum," he added.

"Never mind, Ron dear," Mrs. Weasley responded as she waved her wand absently towards her son. The jumble of shoelaces fell away, leaving Ron red-faced but otherwise able to walk. Satisfied, she turned to Harry and pulled him into an unexpectedly tight embrace. Harry wasn’t normally a very touchy person, but for some reason, Mrs. Weasley’s embrace felt like coming home. He buried his face against her shoulder and returned the hug eagerly. He felt a little silly, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. He just wanted to postpone the day - the feeling - a little longer, and a hug seemed as good a way as any to do so. After a minute though, he felt the witch gently pull away.

"Happy Christmas, love. How are you," Mrs. Weasley asked gently as she rubbed the fringe from his eyes and placed a small peck on his forehead.

Harry smiled brightly at her. "I’m great, Mrs. Weasley," he replied. And he meant it. He’d had an unexpectedly wonderful Christmas in spite of everything that had happened.

"I’m glad, Harry Dear," she sighed as she patted his cheek. "We’ve been so worried about you. You’ve been through so much lately."

Harry shook his head. "I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley. Especially after today. Thanks for letting Ron come over." He wanted to find a way to let Mrs. Weasley know how much he appreciated her thoughtfulness - to help her to understand that sending Ron was the best gift he could have gotten.

"I’ve had some great Christmases since I’ve met your family, but I think this is the one I’ll remember the most," he said sincerely. And it was. Without even knowing it, he’d desperately needed a friend. And Mrs. Weasley had provided it.

Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly at him as she rustled her children out of the chairs and towards the floo. "Oh, don’t thank me, Harry dear. I would like to take credit for it, but I can’t."

Harry thought about it for a second. He’d just assumed it was Mrs. Weasley who set up the visit. But if it wasn’t, that left Dumbledore. He was still angry at the Headmaster - deeply, angry - but he also cared for the man, too. At least with his father, it was easy. Harry didn’t like or understand Snape. And Snape didn’t like or understand Harry - end of story. But with the Headmaster... well, it was different. He felt like Dumbledore was one of the first adults who had ever taken an interest in him...ever cared about what happened to him. And Harry found himself in a painfully conflicted position, unsure of how to reconcile the feelings of love and hatred that were warring inside of him. Harry sighed as he watched the Weasleys jam themselves haphazardly into the floo, voicing their goodbyes as they did so.

"Well, then," Harry said to Mrs. Weasley. "I’ll be sure to thank the Headmaster."

Mrs. Weasley gave him one last, knowing look before replying. "Oh, no, Harry dear. Don’t bother to thank Professor Dumbledore for it. He wouldn’t accept the credit either. Your father is the one who asked if Ron could spend the day with you, and he’s the one who worked out the details. You should be sure to thank him."

And with a parting wink, Mrs. Weasley, Ron and the twins were whisked away in a haze of soot. Harry was left alone in the silent office, dumbfounded and confused at the revelation that the most precious gift he’d received that day - the gift of comfort, friendship and normalcy - hadn’t come from Dumbledore, the Weasleys or anyone else who really knew him. Instead, it had come from the one man who, up until that point, Harry had thought understood him least in the world. His father.

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.