She summoned up a smile for him, but it was a very sad smile. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Harry shifted his feet uneasily on the scruffy grass. “What about?” He tried to keep any uncertainty out of his voice, but he had to give it up as a bad job.

Andromeda paused a moment before replying, and hen she did, she spoke quietly. “Dora and Remus’ wills,” she shook her head and closed her eyes. “It’s distasteful just after the funeral, I know.”

Harry wasn’t sure how he was supposed to reply, so he just stood silent, waiting for her to continue.

“I guess neither expected to die so soon, Harry, they left guardianship to you.”

Oh. Harry swallowed. “I, I,” he stuttered.

The sun pounded down on them both. “If you wanted him, you would have him. The ministry would hardly say no to the Boy Who Defeated Voldemort.”

The title, Harry mused, wasn’t as catchy as the Boy Who Lived. Then he realized what she was trying to say. “I can’t take him from you!” He stared at her trying to find the words. “He’s your grandson! And I’m going back to school!”

Her face lit up and she smiled radiantly, though only for a moment. “Thank you, Harry.” A gleam entered her relieved eyes. “It’s been done before, have a child in the care of a student at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s mind supplied him with the image of a Molly Weasley-like girl with two toddlers and a baby in tow as she pushed her way though the halls, making her way to class. He tried not to laugh, and he mostly succeeded, only snorting. “I still want to, you know, get to know him, Mrs. Tonks.” He smiled back at her uncertainly.

She set Teddy down in his arms, and he stopped fussing long enough to examine this new person. “Of course,” she sighed, the anxiety leaving her voice at last. “He is your godson.”

Teddy’s hair changed abruptly to a shocking pink, and Harry remembered when he had first met Tonks and she had done the same thing. A rush of gratitude filled him for Andromeda not dying filled him. What would he have done if he had been the only one able to take care of him? He handed Teddy back to her and she set him against her shoulder. He blinked curiously at his parents’ headstones.

Andromeda’s formal black robes, a bit moth eaten and unused, swished against the grass as she walked with Harry out of the graveyard. Halfway down the path to Hogwarts, Harry broke the silence. “Is Teddy a werewolf?”

Andromeda started. “Why? Would it change your opinion of him?” A trace of maternal defensiveness sprinkled her words.

“No, I just mean, Remus speculated…” his eyes widened in an attempt to prove his sincerity. “It’s pretty important to know, isn’t it?”

Her expression softened. Harry had been Remus’ friend, and it was clear what he meant, even if he said it badly. “No, the full moon passed, and Remus’ worries were unfounded.”

“Oh,” Harry said, “Well, that’s good then.”

She nodded and they continued walking. A short while later, she passed him Teddy. “I forgot how heavy babies were,” she commented ruefully. Looking up at Harry, Teddy’s eyes suddenly turned a vivid shade of green, and Andromeda laughed. Teddy giggled hearing her, his cheeks dimpling. “He likes you; he’s only just started laughing.”

Harry laughed then himself hearing that, and they walked in companionable silence to the front door of the school.

~*~

Severus stared into the mirror as if searching for any trace of Potter. There wasn’t any; Potter had cast the glamour ably. He snarled at the thought. For a moment after the pensieve had expelled him, he had panicked, worried that his appearance would change before his eyes.

Only a small section of his brain was left to work logically, the rest of it teeming with the sheer weight of the knowledge of his misfortune. It was that larger portion that had him fleeing to a mirror. He cursed it.

He didn’t often lose his head like that, or in any way at all. Severus slumped down on the bed, lying back against the curtain covered wall. Heartily he wished that he had never seen the memories, or that they could be fabricated. Trouble was it was difficult to convince one’s self of something untrue when one knew one was doing it. Logic got in the way.

~*~

The Gryffindor common room hadn’t changed, but with most of the students gone, it felt bare and dull. Harry sank into the cushions of one of the overstuffed chairs. The tears that had dried on his eyes at the funeral spilled over. They had their victory and all the elation that went with it, but Harry didn’t want to feel it anymore. The last of the marauders had died, leaving another baby boy an orphan. Tonks’ hair had frozen in the same hot pink she had died with. It wouldn’t change again. The Weasley twins were not a pair anymore and pranks weren’t nearly as fun alone. Guiltily he felt glad he wasn’t George.

There was a missing place in his chest, like something had been snatched out of it. It couldn’t be his heart though, that hurt too much to be gone.

If his friends had been there, he would be wishing they could just leave him alone for a while to mourn alone. Relief flooded him at the thought of Hermione wanting to talk him through it, or worse, Ron trying to cheer him up.

Yet he wished they were there, to mute the pain and badger him to think about anything else. Ron and Hermione would want him to laugh and smile, and find a new face to the school to solve and explore.

But Ron had returned to be with his family, at least for a while, mourning his own dead, though he planned to return in a few weeks and Ginny had begged to stay the summer. Hermione had to leave as well, to find her parents and lift the enchantment, but she promised to return as soon as she had found them. Dean had left to assure his family he was alright, and Seamus left because there was no reason for him to stay. Of the boys, only Harry and Neville had stayed.

A few members of the other houses stayed too; Tracey Davis and Graham Pritchard a fourth year and of all things a Muggle-born (a classmate had claimed him as a cousin) stayed for Slytherin, along with Malfoy, whose parents were imprisoned at Hogwarts. Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, Zacharias Smith, Laura Madley, a fourth year stayed for Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw had the most with Luna, Lisa Turpin Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot (whom both other Ravenclaws leapt to claim as a cousin). There weren’t enough people to create a whole Hogwarts year, or even half of one.

Once Harry thought about it, members of the DA disproportionately made up the students who had chosen to stay. It made him somewhat happier. These would be the students who helped rebuild the school.

Neville dozed in a nearby chair, his head resting awkwardly on an armrest. The light sound of his snores drifted over to Harry, who thought he had the right idea. After the previous night, naps were in order. Bouncing from elation to grief hurt somehow, in a physical way, and he wanted to sleep until it stopped. He suspected that his friends and fellow students were likely napping on the school train, and he felt a sudden closeness to them, even as the moved ever further from the Gryffindor common room.

A muffled argument filtered its way into Gryffindor. Someone was trying to convince the Fat Lady to let him through. He wished whoever it was luck. She had been out of sorts ever since she found out she would have to continue her service over summer break, and that furthermore, any scorch marks she had acquired were low priority next to structural damage and replacing windows.

The Fat Lady’s opponent let fly a string of incomprehensible insults. Harry winced, his stomach sinking to rest somewhere near his knees. He recognized the voice. It was Snape. Harry swore under his breath and rose from the chair, trudging reluctantly over to the portrait hole. The last living person he wanted to face with tears trailing down his cheeks was Snape, who was, however absurdly, his son.

The portrait of the Fat Lady swung open at a touch and he stood facing a furious, snarling Snape. He brandished the red and gold bottle in front of his face before shoving it at him. For a moment, Harry was absurdly reminded of Eileen pointing her wand between his eyes. “Is this your idea of a joke, Potter?”

Harry marshaled his defenses. Gesturing into the common room at Neville, he asked as politely and calmly as he could, bottling tears and confronted with an irate Snape, “Could we take this somewhere more private?”

Sneering at the Gryffindor common room, Snape growled at Harry and swept down the hall, Harry following somewhat hesitantly in his wake. The distance devouring pace Snape set carried them to the dungeons with little time for Harry to prepare what he should say. When they had reached his office door, Snape threw it open, and then nearly threw Harry through it.

The door slammed ominously shut behind them. Dread pushed Harry’s stomach further down into the region of his ankles. Wildly he wondered what people would say if he survived killing Voldemort, only to be killed by Snape in a fit of pique. Most fathers, Harry thought resentfully, had at least the advantage of age and supposed experience, and most fathers had nine months warning. Their sons didn’t spring fully grown and old enough be their fathers!

Snape descended on him like a walking, raging, ink stain. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he repeated. “Answer me, you miserable, arrogant little boy, is this your response the memories I deigned to give you?” In misguided kindness it seemed. It was difficult to convince one’s self of something untrue when one knew one was doing it, but it wasn’t impossible. Never the less, a lingering, if sharply suppressed, doubt nagged at him.

Harry sucked in a gulp of air, his voice tightening with anger despite himself. Whatever anxiety he had felt evaporated when faced with Snape’s simple denial. “No, you greasy git, it isn’t a joke, it isn’t even funny!” Harry glowered at him, surprised to find he was taller than Snape. “Do you think I would even admit such a thing if it weren’t true, risk someone believing it?” The grimace of distaste on his features explained what he meant. He didn’t like being Snape’s father any more than Snape liked it.

A pair of pink blotches formed on the tops of Snape’s cheeks. “You would jest about anything, Potter.” The words when they emerged came out in a low, dangerous spit.

Harry laughed humorlessly. “I went back in time, I slept with your mother, and I managed to father you!” He straightened up, relishing looking down into Snape’s eyes. “You saw the memories.”

“You could have easily falsified the memories, Potter!” It struck him that Potter might think that was what he had done and regretted rescuing him from the Shrieking Shack. But why would the boy attempt such elaborate payback when he could just turn him over to the Aurors instead? Perhaps that wasn’t enough fun.

Harry favored him with his own sneer, well aware that he resembled his own father all the more for it. Unconsciously it might even have been intentional. “Have you ever seen fake pensieve memories, Snape?”

After an expectant pause, he concluded Potter wasn’t going to continue until he received his answer. “No.”

“They’re obvious when you see them! Really obvious.” Harry folded his arms and clenched his fists. “Besides, when would I see your house to falsify it?” This was stupid, Harry thought, why did he even care if Snape believed him?

Snape’s eyes bored into Harry’s as Snape raised his wand. “Legilimens!” he cried. That was one way of finding out the truth, Harry decided, summoning up the grief he felt at the funeral to shield him as he discovered at Dobby’s grave. Anger nipped just under the barrier. How dare he invade his mind like that?

Severus’ expression abruptly turned from puzzled to triumphant. There could be no greater proof that Potter was lying then that he tried to hide it with Occlumency. Harry suddenly realized he had made a tactical mistake. He had handed Snape the memories anyway, so he let the barrier drop.

Flashes of his memories passed behind Harry’s eyes, as he felt Snape search. He stood there, peering down at him, hands slack around his own wand, waiting for him to finish. At last, Snape cornered the recollections he was looking for, Harry brewing potions with Eileen, nagging her about buying a mortar and pestle, Harry cooking French toast while Eileen smirked, the both of them sitting under the bridge skipping rocks, Eileen teesing him about the transfigured couch, the two nestled in blankets in front of the kitchen fire, talking about what they would do if he never went home. Last of all, Harry saw him find a memory of Eileen and him in bed together. Even as Snape ripped himself out of Harry’s mind, the barrier came down again. There were some things that Harry would keep private.

The brittle veneer over Severus’ knowledge cracked and buckled, falling away. A strange sort of shattered weakness pervaded his limbs and he stumbled to collapse in his desk chair. He stared at Harry as if he were some being from the bowels of the earth, to terrible to contemplate in the light of day, his features frozen in wide eyed horror.

Harry sheathed his wand and leaned back against the wall awkwardly, waiting for Snape to speak, but Snape seemed transfixed. His skin had faded from sallow to wax-like. Harry wondered for a moment if the shock had killed him. He shuffled reluctantly over to him, and touched him on the cheek. Harry might as well have held a bare electric wire to him. He scrambled to his feet, eyes narrowing. A sudden perverse desire to see what he looked like under the glamour rose up in him.

For a few short moments, Severus had appeared vulnerable, but then he straitened up as he did when he loomed over first years in class, but his face held the fury only Harry, Sirius, and sometimes Remus could achieve upon it.

He tried to compose himself, banishing the horror so that he could concentrate on ire. “Why did you have to be so incompetent as to forget to insure you did not get her pregnant! What possessed you to sleep with my mother?”

“Could be worse,” he remarked, “you could have not been conceived at all.”

Harry pulled off his glasses and rubbed at the salt stains on the lenses with the edge of his cloak, thinking that probably for the fist time, he had completely blindsided the other man. When he put his glasses back on, he looked down at Snape, waiting for him to speak.

Severus visibly reigned in his temper. “You’re a fool if you think this changes anything, Potter!”

“You already think I’m a fool,” Harry spat. His eyes narrowed to green slits. “And I wouldn’t want anything to change with us.” Pure horror filled him at the thought of feeling paternal for this man, or worse yet, having Snape feel some need to fulfill filial duties.

“Get out of my office.” He enunciated each word as if it were something he could throw at Harry to drive him out like his mother had chased Tobias Snape away with jam jars. Harry tactfully refrained from mentioning that Snape had dragged him inside his office in the first place.

Harry picked the bottle of his memories up off the desk where he had left it and stepped across the office to the door, but paused before opening it.

Severus scowled at him. “This makes no difference, Potter!” but it almost sounded as if he wanted reassurance. He needn’t have been worried Harry would force him to acknowledge their shared blood. He had just thought Snape should know; he had thought it Snape’s right to know. Just then, he felt like the idiot Snape constantly called him.

Harry turned his head slowly to face him, his voice cold. “No difference at all.” His hand on the doorknob was clammy and stuck to it as he pushed the door away from him. The door closed behind him with a faint click.