“Harry!” Hermione shouted towards me, I just happened to be lagging behind a bit. Well, more than a bit actually.
“I’m coming, ‘Mione!” I shouted back. My carrying bag had ripped on one of the many suits of armor that inhabited the Hogwarts castle. Unfortunately, I had most of my books in the bag at the time (Potions, Divination, Herbology, and Transfiguration. I didn’t trust my Care of Magical Creatures book enough to put it in with the others, so I carried it only when I needed it.) so it was taking quite sometime to get them all back in their proper places. Or, atleast to get them positioned in the bag so that I could close it.
It was turning out to be quite a difficult task. How had I gotten them all in there in the first place? If I could remember that then maybe…
“I can’t believe you still haven’t told him.” It was Professor Lupin’s voice, and by the sound of things he wasn’t far off. I looked up to see that my friends had continued without me—some friends—so I quickly ducked behind the aforementioned suit of armor, my bag in hand.
“Told who what? Really Lupin, you are going to have to start making more sense if you wish to have a constructive conversation.” Professor Snape. What was Professor Lupin talking to that greasy git for?
“You know precisely who and what I am referring to, Severus. It’s been fifteen years, don’t you think that he has a right to…” Professor Lupin was cut off before he could finish.
“To what, Lupin?! To know me, to know who. I. Am?!” Professor Snape sounded angry, but then again, he always sounded rather annoyed at something.
“No, Severus. To know what you are. Though I think that once he finds that out he might be more than interested to know more about you.” I felt rather guilty about listening in on my Professor’s private conversation, but I didn’t have much choice at the moment. If I stepped out I would be in trouble, and I wouldn’t learn whom they were talking about.
“For all I know, he’s not even mine. There is just a slim possibility, no more than that.” Not even his? That sounds an awful lot like they are talking about…
“He is your son, Severus and you know it.” Son?! Professor Snape, the greasy, slimy, Potions Master had a son?! Oh, the poor kid.
“Like I stated, there is nothing more than a possibility.”
“Then why didn’t you find out the truth before? Why make him suffer with…”
“Suffer?! I assure you, that boy hasn’t suffered! He’s a spoiled, arrogant…”
Spoiled? Arrogant? It sounds like he is talking about…
“Spoiled? Arrogant? My God, Severus, you don’t even know the boy.”
“You know nothing!” Remus was raising his voice? That couldn’t be good, he must be very angry. “You don’t know what he has told me, and only me! You don’t see the pain in his eyes, the pain put there after many years of abuse!”
I’m guessing that Professor Snape wasn’t comfortable with the direction the conversation was going, because he changed the subject.
“Can you imagine what would happen if I were to tell him?! Tell him that I am his father, and not the man whom he has believed to be for so long?!” He sounds distressed. Nah…the day Professor Snape gets distressed out of anything but anger is the day the moon breaks in half and comes plunging down upon the Earth.
“Have you not seen him, Severus? Have you not seen has he is changing? He is becoming you.” Suddenly, something becomes clear to me. I look at my reflection in the cold metal of the armor and hold in a gasp. I see myself, but someone completely different.
Someone who looks an awful lot like Professor Snape…
“He will never know! I will never tell him, nor will I tell anyone else!”
“Have you ever considered, even once, that he didn’t have a perfect home life? That he wasn’t spoiled? That he wasn’t arrogant? Perhaps, have you even considered the fact that he might have been abused? Abused by his anti-Wizard, alpha-Muggle relatives?” Oh God…
“What are you going on about, werewolf?” It was obvious that Snape had tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out cracked and weak, and it was made perfectly clear that Snape had, indeed, considered the questions in the statement that Remus had made.
“I’m saying that Harry Potter, your son, needs you. I’m saying that if you don’t help him, if you don’t help your son, he will not have the chance to die by the murderous hands of Voldemort, he will die by the abusive hands of his Uncle.”
“Severus. Remus. Is something wrong? You both have looks of distress on your faces.” Albus asked Remus and I as we entered his office. It seems strange that we were to find him here, as he is normally wondering the school, and eavesdropping on students. (and even Professors if he finds they have some form of interesting conversation passing between them) Doesn’t sound like Professor Albus Dumbledore, you say?
Bah. How else do you think he claims his advanced knowledge of everything that happens at Hogwarts Academy? Certainly not by magical means, I assure you. Albus is a noble character, yes, but he’ll do anything to keep this school and it’s inhabitants safe. And if eavesdropping is the way he does that, then so be it.
“Headmaster, we’ve just come to chat with you. We think there is some things you should know, that undoubtedly you don’t.” Remus spoke up before I had a chance. It doesn’t matter; I didn’t care to take the initiative anyway.
“Then by all means, sit. Sit.” Albus, while still sitting, motioned towards the chairs opposite of his desk. This time I didn’t give Remus the chance to take the initiative, I held out my arms in a very gentlemanly way, and let him walk by me to take the first chair.
Once I am seated, Albus looks up towards us, Remus and I.
“Are you going to sit there silently, or are you going to tell me what you have come to?” Both Remus and I look almost shocked. It’s quite unusual to see the Headmaster so impatient. Something could be wrong…
“Sir,” Remus begins, and I silently give him my gratitude. Although I would never admit it, mind you. “We have some…significant information about Harry Potter.”
Oh yes, Harry Potter. We have some significant information about the…I stop myself. I will have to work on that. I cannot admit to Albus that I, not James, am Harry’s father. Harry’s biological father, that is.
The Headmaster said nothing as he sat there, in front of Remus and I. Sitting, waiting for our information. Waiting for some word to be uttered from either of our silent lips.
He doesn’t wait long.
“Headmaster, Harry has confided in me. He trusts me and so he has trusted me with a valuable secret.” Once again, Albus said nothing. He just waited for Remus to continue, and I waited as well. I waited until my turn came to speak.
I waited until my turn came to reveal my valuable secret.
“Headmaster, you yourself placed Harry at his aunt and uncle’s house. You said that it was for his protection, did you not?” Albus looked confused, but it didn’t take him long to respond.
“Yes. It’s because that his blood…”
“Yes, Headmaster. We know that it has everything to do with the protection a blood relative can provide him. But have you never considered the fact that maybe he would have been safer in the home of someone trustworthy. Someone who would never think of hurting him?” Albus looked confused, and Remus continued. But still I sat.
“The Dursleys, or more precisely his Uncle Vernon, beats him. He came to my room once with his carefully hidden scars, and his delicate broken wrist. He told me that if he were to tell me of what happened, he would have to have my word that I would not tell anyone else.
I’ve mostly lived up to that reputation. But recent events have caused me to reevaluate my promise to him. I hate betraying his trust, since he gives it so cautiously, but I fear for him, Albus. I have to protect him, even if it is against his own family.”
Albus had an extreme variation of emotions across his face. First, there was anger, then it soothed to pity, then there was some self-loathing, then it turned to sadness.
And at sadness it stayed.
Albus remained silent for quite sometime. Neither Remus nor I had the courage to pull the Headmaster from his thoughts.
“He will have to be taken from them. We can’t leave him there…we may be able to get the Ministry to allow him a safe haven here, at least until he graduates. If not he will have to be sent to an orphanage…”
“No, Headmaster. That will not be necessary. You see, we have also discovered that The Dursleys are not the only surviving relative’s of Harry’s.” Albus looked confused, and so Remus turned to me.
I knew the conversation would turn to me sooner or later; I had just not been ready for it so soon. I take a minute to compose myself. No use sounding as angry as I felt. No use sounding as scared as I knew I was.
“Albus.” I say, and he turns his attention to me. He is ready to hear whatever it is I have to say, so I take a breath.
“Albus, I am Harry’s father.”
I walk and walk and walk. Once, somewhere, I heard that walking could take your mind off things. Well I stand here, walking, telling you that whoever said that was a verified crackpot. The only thing walking does is it gives you something to do while thinking about the things which are on your mind.
I’ve been walking for about an hour, but believe me every second of that hour has been spent thinking of three people.
James Potter, Lily Potter, and Severus Snape.
Three people who, in the past hour and thirty minutes, have caused me all of this grief.
James Potter: The man who I have believed to be my father since I was born.
Lily Potter: The woman who is, and always will be my mother and, at this very second, is the only person of the three that I hold no ill feelings towards.
Severus Snape: The man who has, for the past five years, made my life a living Hell. The man who has tormented me and humiliated me to no end. The man who I have recently found to be my father.
My father! Can you believe it? Severus Snape, the greasy Potions Master is actually my father! And Remus knew! And no one found it relevant to tell me! No one told me!
Well, if I think about it logically, I could see that only two people know and neither of them were in any position to tell me that my most hated teacher was actually the man I should be calling my beloved father, but can’t you see? I’m not up for logical right now!
In fact, logic is something I don’t want right now. If I were to be logical then I wouldn’t allow myself to think up schemes for getting to Sn…my father’s chambers. Or perhaps I could have him assign me a detention…No. That wouldn’t work, he would most probably give me a detention with Filch and then where would the whole father-son moment go? Right down the drain.
No. I would have to find someway to sneak into his private chambers and speak with him there. That is the only way.
“What? What did you say, Severus?” I knew this would be his reaction. Somehow, somewhere within me I knew it. Then again, I suppose it is quite a bit of information to take in. And I certainly can’t blame him.
“Albus, I am Harry’s father. He is my son.” I say it slowly, clearly, so that he does not ask me to repeat it.
“But...how?” Oh dear God, he is going to make me explain it!
“I trust that you remember the mission you sent me on in December of 1980.” Albus nodded, and I continued. “The Dark Lord had just begun to become interested in the Potter’s, and it was specifically James’ research that he wanted. He sent me to the Potter’s household to retrieve the information, but James at taken his work with him, and there were no traces of it left. I was about to leave when Lily showed up…”
“James?” Lily walked up to me, still disguised as James Potter. I looked at her, and I mentally cursed myself. She was smiling, her red hair hanging messily about her face. Green eyes sparkled underneath the mass of red bangs.
“Where are you going, silly? It’s late. Come to bed.” The last part was purred, not spoken, and I knew of the implication behind her seemingly innocent words.
“I…I really can’t. I have something to do.” I spoke nervously. I had to get out of there.
“Of course you have something to do, Jamsie-darling.” Lily walked towards me and wrapped her thin arms around my neck, pulling me close. “You have to come to bed.” She purred again. I looked mournfully towards the door, knowing that I would not walk out of it’s archway this night. I would not even see the door again until the next morning.
I allowed Lily Potter, the wife of my enemy, lead me to her and her husbands bedroom.
“My God, Severus…Harry is your son…” I resist the urge to smack my hand upon my forehead. This will be a rather…long night.
After several attempts to explain the situation at hand to Albus—which, believe me, is much more difficult than it should be—and when the elder, brilliant (Sometimes I wonder how he can be portrayed that way) wizard finally understood all that there was to be understood—atleast all that I was willing to tell him—I left.
I didn’t wait for the werewolf, it didn’t make any difference to me whether he followed me or not. In fact, I was extremely grateful when I was sure that Lupin wasn’t following me with his keen senses—or keen nose. Whichever you prefer—because, and I really have no problems saying this, I didn’t want his company.
Or any company.
In fact, I felt completely content retiring to my chambers without another word about Harry Potter, my son, Lily Potter, Voldemort, James Potter, Remus Lupin, and especially not the Dursleys. Even the thought that they…No. I’m not going to worry about them, or anything else tonight. I’m going to sleep. My large, comfortable bed seems to call to me. I’m drawn to it as if by dark magic.
And, if I’m forced to tell the truth, I really don’t mind what kind of magic it’s using.
I can picture it in my mind. I’ll walk into my chambers, into my living room. My living room is large. I’m very pleased to say that it is the largest of the Professors chambers, as it is in the dungeons and there was plenty of room to carve it into the stone.
Minerva doesn’t like the fact that anything of hers isn’t better than mine. She complains to Albus about it constantly.
I’ll walk into my living room and look to the right to see the fireplace, which is surrounded by various chairs. The chairs have been in my family for generations. The seats and backs of them are green velvet (have I mentioned that I am from a long line of Slytherins? Oh well, that pattern has been broken…) and the chairs themselves are made from ivory.
Yes, it’s illegal today, but when the chairs were made it was highly legal. The ivory has been enchanted to look like ebony, but it’s shines like mother-of-pearl when you look closely enough to notice. Into the ivory on one of the chairs is carved a dragon that wraps all of the way around the chair itself. It is a symbol of protection.
Into the other chair there is an elaborate combination of sacrificial daggers and cups full of some holy liquid. Perhaps the blood of Christ? However, more than likely it is just some form of the cultures ‘holy water’. I don’t know, nor do I really care. The chairs are not there to be studied, they are to sit in.
And sit in them I do.
But not tonight. Tonight I will go straight through the living room, ignoring my similarly designed couch which I enjoy sitting on, reading books from my beautiful book case full of books about, or related to potions. My craft, and my obsession. I never feel truly free unless I am brewing a potion. It gives me comfort and strength, and helps me keep up this charade that will one-day fall apart and then will bring an end to everything.
From my living room I will walk into my bedroom, my second favorite place to be—next to my potions room, of course—and I will throw off my useless robes, not bothering to remove the clothes I wear underneath, and I will fall into bed and into a deep sleep that I will pray not to be roused from.
I reach my door and give it a lazy smirk before uttering the password—do you really think I’m going to tell you the password to my chambers?—and entering.
I can hardly contain my genuine laugh as my father enters his quarters. That’s his password? Somehow, I find it sweet. Endearing, actually. Who would have guessed, who could have guessed that would be it?
As soon as I compose myself, I walk forward until I am in front of the door that will lead me to all of my answers. Perhaps they should call it The Door of Srewsna. It doesn’t matter what they call it, I have to get inside.
And I do…using two little words.
I watch my father behind a mask of invisibility. The invisibility cloak that should not be rightfully mine, but is anyway. It doesn’t matter to me in the slightest whether I am James Potter’s son or not, he believed me to be, and most likely would have never found out the horrid truth had he lived long enough. And certainly by that time he wouldn’t care much.
I watch my father remove his outer robes to reveal that below his visible shield between himself and the world that he wears nothing more than a black tee shirt and black jean pants. Muggle clothes. I smile to myself from under the invisible barrier that is separating my father and myself.
A simple layer of unwanted protection from the man that I need the least amount of protection from. Unless, of course, that this so-called-man happens to be some form of destructive cannibal who wishes nothing more than a child, like I, to enter his chambers late at night for him to snack on in a very grotesque manner which would make even the most sane of the sane suddenly fall from his chair and start screaming unintelligible profanities towards God and all of his supposed grace.
And if that were the case, then I would prefer to keep this invisible protection separating him and I, thank you very much.
Suddenly I feel extremely wicked, and I allow an almost sinister smile to cross my previously neutral features. I watch my father fall into the abyss known as sleep and, after making sure that he was truly asleep and not just lying there waiting for sleep to come, I make my way through the door which undoubtedly leads to his bathroom.
Being correct in my assumptions, the wicked smile that is still having it’s way with my face widens, and I look around for something I know that will be there. It has to be there.
It is and, once again, my smile widens. I do believe that Cheshire cat could get extremely jealous if it should get any wider, or last any longer. I dismiss the thought before it forces my mind to travel back to my childhood dreams of white rabbits, tea parties, red painted roses, and cards that have an obsession with chanting “Off with her head!”.
I quickly finish what is was that I came to my father’s bathroom for, and carefully walk from the room. I look at my father, sleeping on his bed in a manner that is anything but peaceful.
The man even sleeps with a scowl on his face. He must have horrid nightmares.
I give the sleeping figure a small, gentle smile, before walking over towards the bed an unceremoniously dump a cup full of ice cold water on his head, delighting in the way he jumps out of his bed, shocked and fully ready to curse whomever had dared to awaken him. He looks at me, highly confused, and slightly agitated. I can’t resist the words that are fighting to pass my lips.
I am, less that kindly, pulled from my sleep by the contact of something very cold against my warm skin. I immediately assume the worst, and jump from my previous position on my bed, ready to curse the person who had dumped the, what was obviously cold water, on me.
What I saw, or rather who I saw standing in front of me was the very last person I had expected to see. More than that, the words the are uttered from his mouth in the next few seconds must have stopped my heartbeat just long enough for me to notice.
Oh God, he knows…
I stare at Harry, who is staring at me in return. The room has been shrouded in utter silence, and the sound of a pin drop could be heard with ease, if there was a pin available to be dropped. Which there wasn’t.
So, because my room remained pinless, Harry and myself remained silent. After the first few words that were spoken, which was nothing more than a “Hello father”.
Those two words have had more impact on my sanity in the past few seconds than have all of the Cruciatus Curses Voldemort has cast upon me have since I joined his ranks as a teenager.
Oddly enough, the effect those words have given me a slight tingling feeling that courses through my entire body. The feeling is one that I undisputedly enjoy.
I watch the boy that stands before me, and I consider getting out of bed. It is, after all, wet with cold water. But I decide against it, because it is more than likely that I would not be able to stand properly at this point in time.
Harry just stands there, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes shinning innocently, trying to convince me that there was no way he could have committed the horrid act that I knew he did. A soft smile played on his lips, but it looked more like a pout than a smile.
It was then that I noticed something. The boy’s features were changing. They were no longer rounded and innocent as they used to be, but now were sharp. However, he still managed to look as innocent as always. The perfect Boy Who Lived.
I must admit to myself—as I will never admit it to anyone else—that if that boy hadn’t lived, I couldn’t have lived with myself. Guilt would have penetrated my defenses and left me shaking and alone.
But he did live, so no one else will ever hear my confession.
Speaking of confession…
I decide to take the initiative and start the conversation that is more than bound to occur.
“Mr. Potter, what do you think you are doing in my chambers? Who let you in? And what in Merlin’s name did you think you were doing dousing me in cold water when it was quite obvious that I was sleeping?!” There. That was good, keep up the coldness. Pretend that you didn’t hear what he said.
“I came to talk to you. I let myself in. And I was waking you up, if it wasn’t obvious.” I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times before finally stopping.
I wasn’t expecting such a direct answer. I wasn’t expecting any answer beyond the normal stuttering that usually accompanied my interrogations into the actions of my students.
Before I could open my mouth to speak another word, Harry interrupted me. For which I was slightly glad, though I would never admit it.
“And don’t you dare try to pretend that you didn’t hear what I said earlier. I know you did.”
Damn the brat. Damn the word ‘observant’. Bless my admirable acting skills.
“I assure you, Mr. Potter, that I have no idea what you said. In fact, before you opened your mouth, I had no idea that you had said anything at all.”
He seems utterly unconvinced. Damn my horrid acting skills.
“I want the truth, Professor.” Somehow, I just knew that he wasn’t talking about my hearing or not hearing what he said. “I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, you horrid brat. Now go back to your common room before I take points.” I quickly notice the fault in my threat. I should have taken points along time ago, but what my son had said knocked all sense from my brain.
“I want to hear you say it.”
I look at him, and see unwavering determination. Mixed with something I can’t quite recognize. He continues.
“I want to hear you say that you are my father!” He shouts, and I finally discover that the unknown substance in his eyes were welled up tears that are now flowing freely down his pale skin.
(AN: Just so you know, this would normally be where this chapter would end. You know, just to be mean and all. But I promised a longer one.)
The boy has always been too pale for his own good—yes, I know I am not one to talk, but for someone as active as he is, he should get more sun. Too pale, too short, and too thin. Before I hadn’t known why, but now I do.
Malnutrition as a child. It could be corrected, of course. Maybe I should remember that for later.
I’m babbling internally so that I would not have to think about what was just said. Just so I would not have to act upon what was just asked of me. No, what was demanded of me.
But I can’t resist it. I look into his tear filled eyes, his tear stained cheeks, and I can’t resist it. I can’t lie to him. I can’t sit here and send him back to his common room like this. I can’t just send my son away when he knows the truth. When he is waiting for his knowledge to be confirmed by me.
I can’t resist.
“Yes, Harry. You are my son.”
I knew it! I scream and I scream within my head! I knew it! I knew it!
Though for some reason, this new knowledge just brings even more tears to my eyes and I end up falling to my knees, consumed by the hot tears coursing down my face.
I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!
I lean forward, resting my arms, which are in a crossed position, on my father’s bed, and resting my head against my arms. Silently crying to myself. I believe that I felt hands on my shoulders in a semi-comforting manner, before I fell into darkness.
I watch, slightly mortified, and utterly terrified as my son falls to his knees, his sobs shaking his entire body. These feelings intensify as he rests his head on my bed and cries harder.
I feel, for some reason, relieved when sleep claims his frail figure and the weeping stops.
Now, my next actions were beyond my capability to control. I stood from my bed, surprised that I could walk, and I picked my son up, walking to the other side of my bed, instead of to the couch in my living room.
I look at the boy in my arms, before laying him down on my bed and tucking him underneath my sheets. He stirs a bit, but never actually wakes. I’m glad, though I have no Earthly clue as to why.
Harry relaxes in my bed, before falling back into his restful sleep, and I walk back to the other side of my bed. My side of my bed, and, after casting a quick spell to remove the water, lie down and cover myself in a much different manner than that of the way I covered my son.
I soon fall into a sleep that was more relaxed, and more fulfilling than any sleep I have had since I was very young.
Long, unnaturally white fingers drummed softly against black marble, which made the…thing sitting in the chair made by the black marble stand out, incredibly so. To an onlooker the picture of the man in the chair might look like something cut out of an old, black and white movie.
An old black and white silent movie by the looks, and the sounds of it.
Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who, and any other name, which might be attributed to this horrid figure sitting in this beautifully carved chair that was just made for him, was tapping his fingers against the chair in which he sat, angrily watching the men he called his Death Eaters.
“What did you say, Lucius?” The man said, his voice was elegant and silky, one of the only clues to the unknowing man, woman, or child that this thing used to be human. Once…
The bitter irony of it all. The once handsome, intelligent, cunning Tom Riddle reduced to a serpentine creature. The man who was referred to as a treacherous snake in most homes that were inhabited by wizards and witches, who were willing to talk about this feared Dark Lord, now fit the part in every way.
…And somehow it was sad. Sad knowing that somehow, all of this could have been prevented. Knowing that somehow, under the cruel, evil snake-like creature that Tom Riddle had become, laid the once scared orphan. So much like myself.
“M-my Lord I-I,” Ha! The faithful servant Malfoy reduced into a pathetic, sniveling slave, trapped by his own greed and his own dreams of greatness. Or perhaps his dream of power was a more accurate way of describing it. Greatness is something that must be worked for. Power was something different all together…
“You what, Lucius. I do not have time for your foolish stuttering.” Voldemort was getting angry, and I could feel the power radiating off him. Even from far away, even from this state of dream I could feel it. I could feel the power that made even the strongest of wizards fear this man…
But not I. I do not fear him, nor shall I ever. I know that, given the proper training, my powers could become equal, and then greater to that of Voldemorts. I know that someday I could hold power that Tom Riddle could only dream about, dreaming dreams like his pathetic minions. Dreaming dreams like the pathetic Malfoy.
“Master, forgive us…” Malfoy again! The idiot, when will he learn the proper time to speak and the proper time to not. Voldemort is playing games with this minion of his. Voldemort is playing horrid games.
“Forgiveness? You ask for forgiveness?” Voldemort asked, his voice was calm. It was like the Muggle saying, the calm before the storm. Oh, and there would be a storm. A storm that Malfoy would do best not to forget, if he could manage to forget, that is.
“Y-yes, M-master.” Lucius Malfoy has been reduced to his groveling self again, and I resist the urge to laugh. Somehow, I want to see this. I want to see Malfoy writhing in pain at the hands of Voldemort.
I feel my excitement grow as I watch Voldemort chuckle, lifting his wand into the air. The way he casts magic is graceful, and yet effortless. A craft perfected with time and patience, no doubt.
“Harry!” Severus had been yelling for him to wake up for several minutes, and he hasn’t budged. He has even resorted to shaking him, and that hasn’t worked either. Harry just won’t wake up.
…but then again…
Harry jumped from his former position of rolling across the bed into his father’s unsuspecting arms, and was just as surprised as Severus himself when arms gently wrapped around him, holding him close.
Severus’ arms rubbed his son’s back soothingly as he waited for Harry to calm down. He didn’t know what was pushing him into this state, but he didn’t question it. He would later, just not now.
“I’m fine…” Harry said, once the initial shock of the vision wore off, and it certainly seemed true.
“Yes, I am sure.” Severus released Harry from his arms and allowed his son to crawl to the bottom of the bed and curl up. Severus wanted to go and comfort his son, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Are you sure, Albus?” Asked a female voice.
“Of course I am, Minerva.” The old man’s eyes twinkled.
“That doesn’t sound like him.” She said with disbelief shinning in her eyes.
“Boys like Harry Potter can change people. So can parenthood. Don’t you agree, Minerva?” His eyes twinkled even more, and Minerva sighed. They rarely ever got into conversations about this, and every time they did it irritated her.
…but it also brought her a beautiful feeling she could not explain. The feeling that can only be established between father and child.
Silence had been reigning for the past few minutes and it was wearing on Severus’ nerves. He couldn’t stand it any longer.
“I don’t know how to be a father.”
“And I don’t know how to be a son. But both are learnable over time.”
“With the right amount of patience…” Severus warned.
“And a good deal of courage.”
“I suppose we could make it work.”
“We could. We can.”
“What will your Godfather say?”
“I don’t know. He might be angry, a little upset no doubt.”
“And your friends?”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do.”
Silence again. It didn’t last very long, however.
“I don’t know how to be a father.”
“And I don’t know how to be a son.”
But we are. We are father and son, and no matter what we know, and what we don’t, we are going to continue that relationship…
…Because we are a father and a son. And nothing is worth giving that up.