He kind of liked the way young Severus looked with his hair long enough to fall into his eyes. Lily liked it too, at least until Severus was in his twenties, and that was good enough for Harry.

Hermione protested as expected when she asked Harry to sit down before Saturday's game (which he wouldn't be playing in since he missed practice the week before), and he refused.

"But why won't you let me cut it? I cut Ron's last night so it would be out of his face when he played!"

"Maybe I want it long," he said quietly, admiring his face in the mirror he stood in front of in his dorm with Hermione behind him. He had not noticed the similarities between him and Severus before, and why would he without reason to. But now that he had spent hours staring at himself, he knew that there was no mistaking whose son he was.

"I just don't understand why you'd want it to. You know Mrs. Weasley will make you cut it at Christmas time. Don't you remember how she ambushed Charlie when he came home for Christmas last year?"

Harry turned his head to the side and was surprised to see that his hair had grown an inch just in the past few minutes. Hermione's eyes widened as she noticed as well.

"My father's hair was long when he was my age."

Hermione frowned and crossed her arms. "I've seen pictures. He had short messy hair just like you've always had."

With the first genuine smile he'd had in weeks, Harry turned and put a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Maybe you've been looking at the wrong pictures. My father had long hair."

Grabbing his sweat jacket, he left her there alone in the dormitory as he headed off towards the game, hair growing as he went. No wonder aunt Petunia had had such a fit when she cut all of Harry's hair off and it had grown back overnight.

* * *

Ginny Weasley flew out onto the field in Harry's place, and Severus' throat caught from his seat in the staff stands high above the Quidditch pitch. Where was the boy? An awful thought occurred to him then, that perhaps the boy had slipped from time again and would not appear until years later, but he fought hard to dismiss this notion and turned to Minerva at his left.

"What has happened to your Seeker?" He couldn't bear to call him Potter any longer now that he knew the truth. The boy was his. And realizing this notion again, as he so often had over the past week, he sat in awe for a moment, until Minerva spoke and gained his attention again.

"Harry missed a practice last week, and as is policy, he is not allowed to play in the game this week."

"Why did he miss?"

She raised a brow at him. "Trying to spy out weaknesses in my team Severus? Tsk tsk. You should know by now that loose lips sink ships. If you wish to know at the end of the season I'll tell you then." With a smile she turned from him, and didn't notice the man's face sink. He excused himself and began a brisk pace towards Gryffindor stands, where he scanned for any sign of his son. The fifth year Gryffindors sat in the back row, and there was a fifth year from another house, but no Harry. His eyes scanned the group again, and he squinted to find that he did not know the strange boy from any other house. Moving closer, he stopped when he realized that it was Harry after all, with hair that fell into his eyes, and most of the way down the back of his neck. Harry threw his head to the side to keep the hair from his face, and Severus' heart pounded. He left the pitch at a brisk pace and did not return.

I have a son. I have a son. I have a son. He would make this night to his grave if he didn't calm the beating of his heart.

In his quarters, he recalled Harry's face again. He had been smiling, and this lifted Severus' heart enough for him to calm. It was disheartening to know that the boy had been so distraught to find out who his real father was.

"What do I do now Lily?" he asked to thin air. "He is mine, but surely I cannot claim him as my own. No one would believe you loved me enough to be mine." And then, as it did every time he thought about the loss of his love to Potter, Severus' heart fell once more to the very bottom of his stomach. She was mine, and he made her his.

"What do I do Lily?" he asked again. "Tell me what to do."

* * *

Nobody liked Harry's hair, except Ginny.

"You look like him you know."

Harry raised his brow at her. "Who?"

"Your dad."

"How do you know?"

She pointed to the head table at Snape, whose hair fell into his eyes, just as Harry's did. He had allowed Hermione to shorten it just a little, because he could no longer bear that it tickled his nose.

Harry was quiet as he stared into Ginny's eyes. "You know?" he asked softly, for he had told no one yet, except his hint to Hermione about looking at the wrong pictures.

"Mum's been swearing for years that she once saw a boy just like you in Diagonalley talking to Professor Snape."

"And from that you pieced together I'm his son?"

She took his hand and said, "You were gone for two days, and when you'd come back you said you were in the East attic. But Ron had checked and you weren't there. Then you were so moody and when you grew your hair out you seemed happier, and Professor Snape seemed moody. I wasn't sure what to believe except that you look so much like him Harry."

Harry sighed. He had been happier for a short while after he'd acknowledged that he was Snape's son, but in the last few days he felt himself slipping back into uncertainty again. His father had done nothing in the last weeks to reveal to Harry that he wanted him. In class the man never looked or spoke to him, and he seemed to avoid him in the halls. He wasn't even at the Quidditch match that Harry missed.

"Are you all right?"

Harry shrugged. "He doesn't want me you know. I went back in time and he tried to erase me. And when I told him I was his son, he never said another word to me."

Ginny scooted closer to him and wrapped an arm around his back. "I want you. Ron and Hermione and our whole family want you. You might as well change your hair to orange and short again, because mum also said in the letter that regardless of whose son you are, you're part of our family."

Harry took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. "Thanks Ginny," he said, and she squeezed his hand again.

"But I'll still understand if you want me to become Mrs. Harry Snape someday."

He turned to see a mischievous grin on her face, and hugged her hard, ignoring the stares of the people around them. Nobody saw the silent tears roll down his face, but Ginny knew they were there. She was the only one that understood.

* * *

"Gonna grow a hooked nose next Potter?"

People laughed and Harry frowned as he passed by a group of seventh year Ravenclaws that had been picking on him since he'd grown his hair out.

"Go on then, deduct points from us for being rude to our Potions Master!" The group laughed again and Harry moved on. He passed the real Potions Master of Hogwarts a few steps down the hallway, who had to have heard the jeers towards his son, and yet looked as if he would do nothing about it. Hurt at the notion that the man wouldn't even stand up for him, Harry hurried on to the library, where he couldn't concentrate on his homework.

* * *

"Mr. Potter, please sit down."

Harry peered up at his Head of House as he plopped down into a chair in her office. What had he done now? He couldn't think of anything, and despaired at the thought that he would prove to be even more of a disappointment to his father, for that was the only reason he could think of that his father had yet to acknowledge him... had yet to claim him as his own. Harry's stomach bubbled uncomfortably as Professor McGonagall considered him carefully, and Harry's last thought before she spoke was that he hated how easy it had been for him to slip into depression once again. His comfortable mood of acceptance had lasted such a short time.

"I'm worried about you Mr. Potter, and frankly, so are some of your friends."

"Yeah?" he asked, feeling melancholy over the whole thing, and not being able to make himself properly angry that apparently his friends had dragged McGonagall into this.

"You have been moody, withdrawn, and not yourself lately. Your grades have slipped, especially in Potions, and you've been missing Quidditch practices."

Harry swallowed hard and looked down at his hands. She leaned against her desk and her tone softened a little. "Is there something you wish to tell me Mr. Potter? I know we haven't spoken much about your personal life in the past, but I am here if you need to talk."

With a deep breath to steady himself, Harry shook his head. He wanted to tell an adult, but he really couldn't. He'd already been judged by his new hairstyle by the entire school and had been punished accordingly by members of other houses with cruel pranks and jokes. Surely McGonagall wouldn't understand either.

"Potter?"

"No Professor," he said quietly, swallowing back his tears. Having long bangs to fall into your face had advantages, he thought secretly. Nobody could see the torment in his eyes. "There's nothing I want to tell you."

"Well, if you're sure. But I want you to know that if this continues, you will need to speak with the Headmaster. I would hate to see you lose your position on the Quidditch team, but if you keep missing practices, then I'll have no choice. Hogwarts policy is that if you miss eleven practices in a term then you are to be suspended for the remainder of the year."

As he sat there, Harry tried to feel broken up at the prospect of losing his position as Seeker on the team, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring up a single feeling either way about it.

He stood then, and shook the hair out of his eyes so that he could clearly see his professor. "Take me off the team then," he said, eyes looking dead, and then he walked away, leaving her standing in her office looking uncertain.

He pushed past Draco Malfoy in the hallway, but kept his head down and kept going. He didn't look back to see that Draco looked as if he wanted to taunt him, but upon seeing how sunken his shoulders were, withheld, and stared on in wonder at Harry's retreating back.

Harry didn't care anymore... he just couldn't. It hurt too much to care that his father hated him. Would he just cease to exist if he just didn't care about anything anymore? He hoped so. With this thought, Harry went to sleep in his bed, and hoped not to wake up again.

* * *

Harry lay awake in the middle of the night. Why me? Why does death ignore me so, when I have asked to be taken away from this place? Anger burned in the pit of his stomach. He hated his life.

"Where are you going?" Ron sat up groggily as Harry jammed his shoes onto his feet angrily.

"Kitchens."

"At three in the morning?"

"I'm hungry, ok Ron?" Harry practically ran from the room, feeling suddenly as if he needed to escape his own skin.

The castle was cold and dark, and it calmed him some, but not enough. He was mad at the mirror for accusing him of always running from his problems. Ha, as if he had a choice. There was no way out of this. His father hated him, his friends didn't understand, and Harry just didn't want to do it anymore.

Get to the kitchens, get to the kitchens. He repeated it over and over, the only words that were keeping him from falling to the ground right there and breaking down, his mind finally lost to the hurt he felt inside. He didn't know what he was going to do once he got there, but he would form a plan, and it would all be over. Get to the kitchens.

Twice on Harry's way down through the castle, stairwells changed directions on him and he had to find a new route. It was like the castle didn't want him to find a way down, but he was determined, and soon found himself standing before the portrait of the ticklish pear, which would lead him to the kitchens.

Harry reached up and tickled the pear, but the portrait wouldn't open up. He tried again, and then once more, and was so frustrated that he hit the stupid painting. "Come on!" he shouted. "Open up!" He tried again, and again nothing happened.

Reaching up to tug on his hair in despair and frustration, Harry realized that he didn't have his wand on him in order to blast the thing open, and resorted instead to kicking and punching the portrait with all of his might. His hands and feet hurt from the effort, but he pressed forward, sure that this would convince the portrait to open lest it be destroyed.

"Argh!" He hit it again and again, shouting out in frustration, when suddenly a strong pair of arms grasped him from behind, and held tight, refusing to let go.

Looking up, Harry found his father's dark eyes, and locks of dark hair. Harry pushed and struggled against him, hitting his chest and begging to be released, but Severus never loosened his grip. Finally Harry gave up, and sobbed into his father's dark shirt.

"Don't disappear on me again Harry," his father whispered into his ear. "I want you to stay this time.

"You want to erase me, you always have."

Severus was silent as he held tight to his son, determined that he should do himself no more harm. He had watched for weeks now as his son had deteriorated and fallen further away from his life, until he was nothing but a shell of a boy. "That was before I knew you were my own."

Finally Harry could stand it no longer, and began to sob full force, unable even to stand any longer as he let his father hold him up.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he choked out. "Tell me, tell me please."

Severus Snape carded his fingers through his son's dark hair. "Be my son. Just be Harry. I'll take care of the rest."

Sucking in a deep gulp of air and shuddering in the suddenly too cold hallway, Harry closed his eyes and wished to fall asleep in the warm, tight embrace. He would take hold of the future and make it his own, with his father at his side. No more running. Just tomorrow. And it was then that Harry knew he could not promise himself a life without hurt or despair or uncertainty, but he did know one thing for certain: he looked forward to seeing the sun rise on tomorrow, and each day thereafter.

"Tell me again," Harry said, barely able to keep his eyes open as he held onto his father's robes for dear life.

"By my son Harry. Be my son."