Harry Potter was quite ready to climb the proverbial wall. Over a year had passed since Sirius fell through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. The teen was still grieving from time to time, but he was worlds better than he had been the previous summer.

Sixth year, true to form, had been anything but uneventful. Remus Lupin had been convinced to return as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, much to the delight of most of the students who’d had him before. Dumbledore had personally taught Harry to shield his mind, and the young Gryffindor could, by Christmas, discern whether his scar-visions were the truth. This new ability had led to his annual “adventure.”

Harry happened to catch a scene of Voldemort handing out marching orders to the Death Eaters, Wormtail being among them. Pettigrew was assigned to infiltrate the castle, regardless of the risk of discovery. The teen had gone straight to his secondary godfather with this information upon its receipt in March, and the other Gryffindors on staff had been brought in to help. McGonagall had been of the most help, using her Animagus form to speak with every feline in the castle. They had been put on the alert for the peculiar rat with the silver paw. Crookshanks, who remembered the “off prey” from third year, had been the one to corner the traitor a week into June.

It was with a certain visceral pleasure that Harry had presented a living Peter Pettigrew to Fudge. The act had also given him a bit of closure, as Sirius had been proclaimed innocent the next day, even though it was posthumous. Since Azkaban had proven insecure, the criminal Animagus was currently Filch’s favourite toy in the torture chamber under Hogwarts, singing like Mrs. Number Two’s new budgerigar.

However, Harry had some highly uncomfortable secrets to keep now, which were carefully hidden from even his best friends, not to mention the few adults in his life who really gave a piss. Firstly, there was his “Super Top Secret” (as he liked to think of it) Animagus ability. Apparently, he could never be normal, even in such a rare talent. He had not one, but three forms: a large green-eyed crow with a wingspan of almost two metres; a powerful black unicorn with a snowy white horn and, again, his green eyes; and some sort of dark green water snake that he could not identify. Hogwarts was rather sparse on snake information, and the Dursleys never allowed him to leave the garden, let alone go to the library.

His second big secret was, naturally, the prophecy which linked him to Voldemort, and his research on how to escape future confrontations with himself alive and, hopefully, the dark wizard dead or severely incapacitated. Having seen a certain potential for irony, Harry had put thought into the theory that the man might be destroyed by the weapons of the Muggles the Dark Lord scorned so thoroughly. He has decided to obtain some as soon as he was able, namely a full set of blades, from daggers in all sizes—including throwing knives—to a sword or two. Perhaps it would even be three; it would probably be smart to have either a hand-and-a-half sword or claymore and a shorter blade for close work. Since he would be seventeen in just five days, he had planned on threatening Uncle Vernon with magic in order to get transportation into London for a decent shopping trip. His current rags had to go.

The teenager’s third secret, though, was by far the most… well, disturbing and perplexing. Once away from Hogwarts and his classmates this summer—and all the ambient magic that collected around a large group of magical folk—Harry’s appearance had begun to change inexplicably. First there had been his eyes: their shape had gone from round and innocent to almond and angled up slightly, with the distance between them widening to almost equal to the width of one of the emerald-irised orbs. His squared-off jaw had then slimmed to a more angular shape, mirrored by his cheekbones. His nose had gone from a small button on his face to a chisel-straight and slender blade. And, oh, his hair! In the most drastic change he had noticed yet, it had grown, and was still adding length on a daily basis. Almost all of the muddy brown undertones in the mop were gone, replaced by flashes of blue under the right light, and there were a few slightly red highlights from being out in the sun most of the time. The mass was already just past his shoulders, with a bit of wavy texture appearing to shorten the length. Today, he had tied it all back at the nape of his neck with a bit of yarn unravelled from his oldest Hogwarts jumper.

Currently, the Boy Who Lived was on his knees in the back garden of Number Four, delicately fertilizing Aunt Petunia’s prized electric-blue chrysanthemums. He had been removing dead blossoms only a few minutes earlier, and one of his older Dudley tees was spread on the grass a short distance away, with a few shrivelled petals still clinging to it. Harry worked bare-chested in the scorching summer sun, seemingly oblivious to the temperature.

If a casual visitor had seen him at that moment, she—or he, if inclined to appreciate the view—might have swooned at the sight of the lithe, trim muscles flowing beneath the sweat-glazed, sun-bronzed skin. Without frequent access to a mirror—in fact, none at all because he was at the Dursley residence—the youth could not fully comprehend how his body had changed. “Scrawny” had transformed into “dangerously lean” over the last three and a half weeks, and Harry had gained five or six inches in height.

As Harry mulched the last flower bed with fragrant cedar chips, he thought eagerly of his approaching birthday. Finally, he would be able to modify his bedroom, even if it would only be for a month. His birthday present to himself had already arrived: a thick book entitled Charms and Transfigurations for Home Improvement, owl-ordered from Flourish and Blotts. He had read it through twice thus far, and was confident that he could do what he wanted. Perhaps he’d link the spells to the Dursleys and make his modifications last as long as they lived in the house.

The impatient screech of an owl interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to find a greater horned owl perched carefully on the rose arbour, deftly avoiding the vicious thorns. A thick white envelope was bound to one of its legs.

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” the teen murmured softly. “Do I owe you anything?” The avian stood patiently as it was relieved of its burden, answering the question with an almost human shake of its majestic head and a reproving “chuurk.” Satisfied with the delivery, it launched itself with a silent sweep of huge wings and soon disappeared.

Harry had absolutely no idea who might have written, since Moony’s regular letter had arrived with Hedwig last night, and Pig had been in the night before that with messages from both the Weasley contingent and Hermione. The envelope itself, of Muggle manufacture, was entirely unremarkable save for the ink in which it had been addressed. The letters slowly shifted from deepest black to violet, then to blue, green, and back to black before starting over. The address was simple:

Harry

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surrey

The hand was delicately feminine. No seal adorned the back, other than a mundane lick-and-stick strip. Carefully tearing open one creased end as he sat, Harry slid the contents out: several sheets of thick cream-coloured parchment, and a slim silver chain bearing an intricately carved ring. Setting the ring on the envelope, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

30 October, 1981

My dearest son,

If you are reading this letter, then my terrible fears have come to pass, and James and I are dead. While I have prayed that the charm I placed on this envelope will never have to be activated, my most primitive instincts are telling me otherwise. There are a great many things you must know that I would rather tell you in person, but it is best to have a backup plan just in case. At the moment, some of these facts are so secret that it is dangerous to even put them in writing, but you are too young to understand anything more complex than “eat,” “bath,” “play,” and “sleep.” This letter is my insurance that this information will not be lost. Some of it may shock you, though I hope it does not. Please, keep an open mind. You may need it.

First, my sister Petunia. Contrary to the general assumption, were are only half-sisters, though she has no idea. Many years ago, a sylph took interest in your grandmother, God rest her soul, and took on the semblance of her husband so that he could seduce her into bearing his child. Alfred and Jeanine Evans had been planning on having a second child anyway, so when Mum conceived after the sylph’s deception, all three were delighted. Mum never found out about the trickery, but the sylph, my true father, approached me during my seventh year at Hogwarts. He told me the truth and, though I had just passed the age when I could take on most of the powers granted by my ancestry, he taught me what he could of the forest magic. I embraced those traditions, and have linked myself to an ancient oak in the Forbidden Forest. Before your birth, I also linked it to you in a protective manner. Should anyone try to kill you or severely injure you—life-threatening injuries, I mean—the oak will keep you from harm. Albus Dumbledore may think that I have used Blood Magic to protect you and place you in Petunia’s “care.” If he does, be sure that I will do my best to haunt him for the rest of his days. Remember, though, my child: just as I was far from unwanted, so are you. I have enclosed as much as I can remember of the sylph’s teachings, including copies of my notes from those days. You can claim your powers any time before 31 January after your seventeenth birthday—six months, obviously. I was born in February, and by the time my father found me, I had passed the six month deadline. He hinted that a lone person of sylph blood who began the rituals would receive a guide, but I am unsure of form or manner in this case. You never know when such knowledge, and yes, power, might be useful, so I suggest that you embrace this heritage.

Before I tell you of the second, more important secret, I give you a piece of advice. Do not leave a situation while you are angry at a loved one, and do not let them leave while they are angry, either. One can never know when death will come, and guilt comes in many forms.

The second secret. This section of my letter, as well as one of the documents in the papers accompanying it, it charmed so that it will appear to your eyes only. The spell on the document can be removed with a Finite Incantatem, but I recommend that you hold off on doing so for at least a month or two.

Your father is not James Potter.

My “romance” and marriage to the great prat are both as false as hens’ teeth in the Muggle world. It has all been a ruse, designed to protect the man I truly love, my husband. There are times, all too often, when I can only barely stand James. In fact, I feel that his poor judgement has put the three of us in grave danger. I had chosen Sirius Black, your primary and official godfather, as our Secret Keeper, but James got the hare-brained idea that Peter should be the one involved in the Fidelius Charm. That’s Peter Pettigrew, by the way. I wouldn’t trust Peter as far as I could throw him, if that tells you anything.

As you can probably tell, James and I row over even the smallest issues. Granted, Secret Keeper is a big matter, but…. I am completely combative with James.

Your father and I, however, get along famously. We are both rather bookish, and highly intelligent. Like any couple, we’ve had disagreements and said hurtful things to each other. All save our last dispute have been overcome. I hate that I may die with this rancour between us, which is why I have given you the advice I have.

By 26 July, 1997, you will most likely have noticed several changes in your appearance. This is the result of several charms and potions wearing off, as they supplanted your father’s features with James’ looks. I did this to protect all four of us, for you father had a very important role in the war, and could not been known as the father of a Muggle-born girl’s child.

Do not fear that you are a bastard child: your father and I were wed in the oldest wizarding traditions, a bond which can never be broken. The ring I am enclosing is my share of our wedding bands. Until today, I constantly wore it on that chain, the ring over my heart.

I am absolutely certain of the date—down to the very instant—of your conception. Your father had been assigned an incredibly dangerous mission, one that might have taken even his life. I learned of the danger a scant few hours before he arrived home for one last evening with me before his mission. I was determined on two counts: first, that my beloved would know as he left that he was loved, and second, that he would not die as the last of his line, nor would I be left without something of him, of us as a couple, if the worst did come to pass. Fortunately, I had been prepared for such an eventuality. I had found an ancient Viking charm which would ensure that a new life sprang from my lover’s seed, though its name has been lost to time. You were created that night, but when the magic of that blending woke me, your father was gone. He had left only a note and a lily on his pillow. I did not see him, did not even know if he was alive, for over a year.

You were born almost a month late, and I believe it is because of that dratted prophecy of Trelawney’s. Due to the war and your father’s position, I underwent the charms and potions I mentioned earlier. The last trimester—well, really, the last four months I carried you—were hard on me, because I had no idea if your father even lived. He resurfaced in late January of this year and came to see me. When he saw you, he jumped to conclusions based on your age and appearance, thinking that I had betrayed him with James. He denounced me and left before I could say a word in explanation. I have not seen him or been able to send a message since that awful day. You, my little one, have been my only remaining joy.

I have already written my final plea to your father, and charmed it to arrive at the same time as your letter. You may or may not have met him, if he still lives. Do not let his hatred of James and his anger at James’ supposed theft of his family close your heart to him. I have a frightening feeling that you, like your father, will not remember having a true family. Please, give that to each other.

Severus Snape—my darling, precious, smooth-talking spy and potions master—desperately needs love to help him put the past where it belongs, just as you may.

I have placed copies of both my will and James’ in my wedding ring. Severus will know how to retrieve them.

May your heart ever soar; let life and love lift you upon eagle’s wings.

Always,

Lillian Marie Evans Snape

Below the signature was drawn a tiny, detailed oak, ringed by entwined lilies of the valley, a black snake weaving its way through the blooms.

Harry remained seated on the lawn for several minutes, thinking. When Petunia Dursley looked out at one in the afternoon, she forced the young man inside to prevent a sunburn and vengeful freaks. He might not have looked like the same freak she had raised, but she had seen the changes as they happened: this was still her abnormal sister’s freaky brat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus Snape was more than a little surprised when, precisely at noon on 26 July, 1997, a rather familiar-looking envelope flew into his private laboratory through Hogwarts’ dungeon mail tubes. A second look gave him the reason for the familiarity; it was the private Snape family stationery. He was the only Snape alive. Ignoring the urge to decapitate whoever had dared to use such private materials, he checked the address, written in a delicate, heart-wrenching hand he knew.

Severus Snape

Dungeon Potions Laboratory

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Scotland

~Oh gods. She haunts me from the very grave,~ he thought with a mental wail. His wife had only ever written in that colour-shifting ink when she wrote as the Lady Snape, as his beloved. And yet, she had betrayed him with the immature Potter, his school rival, and then died, breaking his heart forever. Unnoticed by the wizard, slow, hot tears trickled over his angled cheeks. He slowly and carefully drew the wax seal away from the parchment, trying to keep her custom imprint intact. Three sheets of Snape parchment, the cream colour still fresh and the thickness bringing back memories of her missives, were folded inside. The Potions Master’s hand shook slightly as he read.

30 October, 1981

My dearest darling Sev,

It has been torture over the past nine months—no, make that the past twenty-five, not seeing you, not feeling you lie next to me at night. Only Harry has shared my bed since you left in September two years ago. You know very well that I am only barely friends with James; how can you think that I would have had sex with him, would have borne his child?

Do you remember when I asked you to help me understand that spell in Traditional Ancient Viking Magicks? Read it again and recall our last night together. I never meant to fall asleep. The spell used that much magical energy. As for the lateness of Harry’s birth, I believe that part of the reason is my sylph father and the protections he placed on me and my future children years ago, and the rest can be blamed on Trelawney’s blasted prophecy.

(At this point, Severus sat heavily on a stool, his knees too weak to support him any longer.)

When six months passed with no word of you, I feared that you had been slain by the madman. Albus did not know to contact me with information, and I could not trust him enough to tell him. I knew as well that, if you were still alive, no one could know that my child was your son. I did not want you dead, so I used a series of powerful charms and potions to replace your features with those of James. This treatment should be wearing off when you receive this letter. I weep that I will probably not see you again in this life.

Take care of our son, Sev. My intuition tells me that you will both survive to receive your letters, but that I will be long dead. I will love you forever, my darling, and death cannot truly take me away from you. Love Harry, and allow him to love you as I have.

Yours forever,

Lillian Marie Evans Snape

Her sigil appeared again below her signature. The wizard was now conscious of the tears rolling down his face, and held the parchment away so that it was not marred.

~I have a son. A son!~ An anguished sob ripped itself from his chest. He had wronged his own flesh and blood because of his prejudice and stubborn pride. He had missed nine months when he could have had a life with his family, all because of a few quick assumptions.

“Ai, Morgana, what have I done?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Forgive me, Lily, our son has been through hell, and I have helped to put him there.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The figures of two red-haired women watched as one dark man wept for lost opportunity, and a second marvelled at the strange new twist to his world. The smaller woman turned to the larger.

“Lady, is there no way for me to reconcile them? This is breaking my heart all over again.”

“I understand, my child. The boy already forgives the man. Wait, and watch what unfolds.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 30 July, but only for another three minutes and seventeen seconds. Harry lay awake in his bed, watching the clock as the minutes ticked by until his birthday. He was almost seventeen. There had been no word whatsoever from the potions master.

~Did he not receive his letter?~ the teen wondered to himself. ~Does no one want me?~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wind whipped long, silky locks out of his hasty ponytail as Severus doggedly urged his broom to keep up with the snowy white owl. Since he had spent hours flying since he left the school in pursuit of the unique bird, he was glad that he’d worn a few extra layers. The temperature at such altitudes was enough to chill one to the bone.

~Please, let me be on time,~ the wizard begged. He had split the last four days between reviewing the old Norse text named in the letter and going back through the memories he’d observed during the abortive Occlumency “lessons” over a year before. He had realized that not a single one of Harry’s few pleasant memories took place at the Muggles’ home, while most of the bad ones occurred in the general area.

Other birds began to join the group: one of the school’s nondescript owls had been with them all along, carrying the routine letter and a suspiciously lumpy package from Hagrid; a tiny fuzzball with entirely too much energy was carrying a box about six times its own size; a regal grey avian with a book-shaped package and a letter; a tatty creature that seemed ready to collapse; the list could have gone on. Nearly a dozen owls seemed to escort him. A lot of altitude had been lost in a short time, and they now almost skimmed the rooftops.

An extremely neat, well-tended garden hove into view among the others in the neighbourhood, and the owls began to stream in through an open window above the greenery. Severus halted just outside and peered in after the last bird.

“Happy birthday to me,” Harry muttered glumly inside the house as he tended to each owl in turn, offering water and the few stale owl treats he had left. The door on the other side of the room had a cat flap at the bottom and at least two dead-bolts that the older wizard could see, both with the key side in.

“I wish I’d heard from him already, Hedwig,” Severus heard the young man say morosely. “I mean, it’s been four days. Mum wrote that her letter to him was supposed to arrive at the same time.”

“Y-you want to see me, even after all the pain and hurt I’ve caused you?” Too late, the potions master clapped a hand over his errant mouth. As he spoke, Harry had jumped and whirled to face the window, his wand aimed straight between Severus’ eyes.

“Bloody fucking HELL, sir!” the youth choked. “Don’t do that to a bloke, especially not one with a Dark Lord out for his head!”

“Sorry,” the older man replied sheepishly. “That usually doesn’t happen, though Lily—she could easily get my mouth going without a filter.” A heartsick look crept onto both faces.

“Tell me about her, please? It’s just that everyone tells me that James was so great—and if there’s one thing I learned in fifth year, it’s that he was a complete berk—and the only thing they say about Mum is that I have her eyes.”

The floodgates opened. The pair remained awake all night, and daybreak was helped along by Petunia Dursley’s screams upon finding her family’s breakfast both cooked and kept warm by magic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years later, two dark-haired wizards sat before a cheery fire, sipping from tumblers of brandy. They looked remarkably similar: one bore streaks of grey in his black hair, obsidian eyes, and a nose that had been broken several times; the other had a few red highlights in his coal-dark hair, brilliantly green eyes, and a straight, unbroken nose.

“You remember my first birthday, when you’d been outside my window?” the younger man asked. A grin spread across both faces, and it was not a nice grin.

“Of course I do. Who could forget that harridan’s shrieks when she discovered magic being used in her precious home?” Severus still had problems believing the Dursleys’ magiphobia, even after several years and, surprisingly, two of Dudley’s children turning out to be magical. While Harry—now known to all and sundry as Harry Snape, the Man Who Saved Magic—had always been awed by magic, his father was often flabbergasted by Muggles, now commonly called Mundanes. Those few Magicals who used the older term were commonly shunned by polite society in both worlds.

Magical and Mundane were still quite disparate worlds, even forty years after the rather public—and undisguisable—fall of Voldemort. Harry had been twenty at the time, having spent a year studying in the United States and another in the Orient, broadening his repertoire and eventually developing a spell that, while flashy, permitted him to destroy Voldemort’s very essence.

During his year in America, the young wizard had found a way to rid his father of the evil overlord’s mark. The method had required a complex potion, an incantation, and a physical sample of the one who had originally placed the mark. Severus had blithely produced a vial of the ingredient, commenting that the dark lord had “become a blithering, slavering imbecile. Not that he wasn’t before, but it’s gotten worse.”

Harry had also picked up much of the cultural influences of the Americas and the Far East. In both regions, the Magical and the Mundane were well blended. In fact, the term “Mundane” was American in origin. Because so many Mundanes had seen the final battle in its entirety, the young hero had decided that Europe would no longer hide magic, but join the unification effort that was spreading around the globe. Humans were living together again, with no boundary between Magic and Mundane, for the first time—in Europe, at least—in over a thousand years.

It was a wonderful way to start off both a new millennium and a new chapter in history.