Harry was achy and shaky. Worry snaked through his mind like snake venom through blood. He had been so caught up in his grief, in his own world, he’d failed to notice. When he received the owl from Madam Pomfrey, guilt and fear had wracked his body. It still did, but now anger was dancing around the edges too.
The man lay, quiescent, on the bed, wrapped in St. Mungo’s white sheets. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive either. He was somewhere in-between and no one knew, least of all Harry, if there was any chance of him coming back. A wizard who attempts to take his own life has to want to return, for even if the body is healed, the magical soul remains separate unless said soul chooses to return and become whole again.
Harry reached for Snape’s hand. Unlike 14 years ago, the gesture wasn’t made with fear of awakening him. This time it was made from regret and guilt and a desire to truly know the man who was his father. Harry cursed himself. Why hadn’t he thought to check in on Snape? Surely Snape had been grieving too; Lily was his granddaughter after all. But Snape had led such a solitary life, and everyone had been so caught up in the loss of Lily, that no one had thought of Snape or how he might be doing. Harry cringed at the thought that this was likely how it was when his mother had died too. No one ever thought of Snape… until it was too late.
The only reason Madam Pomfrey, who had found Snape quite by accident when she’d stopped by his house to ask him to brew a particularly complicated potion, had contacted Harry at all was because Snape had written him a letter, or part of one anyway. The messy, scrawled parchment was more mystery than answer. More things were left unsaid than anything else. And the one question that was answered had lost its meaning and relevance for Harry 13 years ago. Harry had read it over and over, his frustration growing each time.
Mr. Potter Dear Harry, I thought you should know that I
I want you to understand how much I regret
I imagine you have wondered how the possibility of you being my son never crossed my mind. The answer is this. Any third year Hogwarts witch knows contraceptive spells, and your mother
Had I any inkling that you were my son
You deserved better than
I am truly sorry that I could not help more with young Lily. She looked so much like your mother I thought that I had seen and felt everything after the war
Words can not describe my
I wish
And that was it. He hadn’t finished it. Was it even meant to be a suicide note? Clearly he’d meant to rewrite it before sending it. What did the man regret? What did he wish? What had he wanted Harry to know that he couldn’t even put in writing when he knew he’d be dead before Harry’d even see it? Harry sighed and grasped Snape’s hand tighter.
“Damn you, Professor, for doing this to me,” he muttered. He laughed at the irony, wondering just how many times Snape had said the same thing about him.
Two weeks had dripped by, yet nothing had changed. Snape hung in the balance, no more here than a man kissed by a Dementor. Yet word had it that like a Muggle in a coma, Snape could hear everything Harry said. That didn’t mean the man would want to come back, though. What was left here for him? Harry knew that he himself wasn’t much of a draw. He sighed and rubbed his scar absently.
“You know, sir,” Harry said. “I’m really angry with you.”
“I’m mad at you because you left me and you didn’t even have the decency to say good-bye.”
“That was damn selfish of you,” Harry said, venting his frustration at the unconscious man in the hospital bed before him.
“Not that you care about me, I know. But you cared about my mother, and I think you came to care about her namesake too.”
“But you didn’t care about me, at least not enough to stick around.”
“Not even enough to finish that damn letter.” Harry exhaled loudly through his mouth.
“Guess you don’t regret anything that much, do you?”
Harry rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“You really are a coward, aren’t you?”
He watched for any sign from the man. Maybe goading him would help. Nothing else had.
“You stick around long enough to save my sorry arse in school, as you’ve said, but not long enough to get to know me.”
“Too damn cowardly to be a father,” Harry muttered.
“It wouldn’t have been that hard,” Harry mused. “I didn’t want all that much from you. Just to know you cared. That I mattered.”
“I guess I wanted someone to care about me for me, not just for what I could do for the Wizarding World. Not for this damn scar,” he said, pushing the fringe of his hair over it.
“But you never saw me as anything more than my father. I wasn’t like him, you know. I wish I was. I wish I’d have been as brave as him.” Harry paused, waves of regret and missed opportunities washing over him.
“Damn you, wake up!” Harry yelled. How many times had he demanded that of the man?
“You know," Harry said, taking a different tact, "if you don’t wake up, I’m going to move you into my house and let my children torture you and hire Hermione Granger as your personal nurse.”
No response.
Harry sighed. “There’s something else. I didn’t tell you. Albus’s full name is Albus Severus Potter. Even though you didn’t want me in your life, I wanted you in mine. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry I didn’t come after Lily died. There’s no excuse, really, other than to say I was a mess and so depressed after she died that I didn’t leave the house at all. And now I’m here. I guess I have you to thank for getting me out of the house.”
Absently, Harry scuffed the soles of his trainers against the highly polished floor. “I would have appreciated you doing it in a little less dramatic way, though, Professor.”
“Oh, and Ginny’s pregnant. She was actually already pregnant when Lily… Well, we weren’t trying anyway, it just happened. It’s a girl,” Harry said, swallowing against the constriction in his throat. “We’re planning on naming her Dora Eileen Potter. Dora after Nymphadora Tonks and Eileen, after your mother.”
Harry reached over and squeezed the man’s hand. He’d even tried “Ennervate” when no one was watching. It hadn’t made a difference.
“I just wish I knew if you’d even wanted to be my father. For all I know you still hate my guts and I’m wasting my time. Or you’ll wake up and tell me to get lost.”
Harry let go of Snape’s hand and placed his own hands back on his knees. “That’s why I didn’t tell you all those years ago, you know. I was afraid you wouldn’t want me. I didn’t think I could take the rejection. I guess I was the coward, huh?”
“If you could do it all over again, is there anything you’d do different, any fork in the road where you wish you’d have gone the other way?”
This wasn’t the first time Ginny had asked him this question. But it was the first time his answer was different.
“Yes, just one,” Harry murmured. “I’d have told Snape thirteen years ago that he was my father. Even if he’d have rejected me. If he had, it wouldn’t have changed much. But if he hadn’t…”
The End.