Imagine.

A lithe, handsome boy, with rippling, jet hair, runs over to his beautiful mother, who stands tall and stately as Cleopatra, her hazelnut brown arms open and a smile on her scarlet lips. As he falls into his mother’s embrace, her dark braids tremble and she closes her midnight eyes in happiness. She helps her son push his trolley, loaded with trunks, an irate, brown owl and a gloating anaconda, through the barrier; they will take a portkey home, to northern Italy, where, outside their sun-bleached villa, Blaise’s grandparents will be waiting for them, the scent of breads and fresh made tomato sauce humming in the sultry air.

A gangly boy, all arms and legs, thuds off the train, his chestnut curtains swinging as he bumps his trunk and empty owl cage along with one hand, while the other grasps his excitable familiar, whose small, black head darts around so much that the blue horizontal stripes adorning his cheeks and back fizz like electric currents. A pretty, plump woman, her chestnut hair messily piled on top of her head, rushes over, levitating the trunk, whilst her lanky, slightly balding husband strolls behind her, flanked by two majestic dogs. He chuckles to himself as Theo, an embarrassed flush spreading across his lightly freckled cheekbones, is pulled into his mother’s embrace and, taking pity on the boy, calls to his wife that they better head off sharpish if they’re to get to ‘Flourish and Blotts’ before closing time.

Blond hair shining in the sunlight, a regal couple stand, awaiting their beloved, only child. He, a handsome, slender man, elegant in his dark, heavy robes, and she, a petite woman, whose traditional silver, suede gloves and boots are augmented by a modish, muggle-made trench-coat, which matches her sapphire eyes and emphasises her hourglass figure. Their wintry eyes shine with happiness as Draco bounces off the train, dragging his raven-haired best friend by the sleeve of his jumper, calling to Suvie to load his trunk, owl cages and Isis’s tank off the trolley, which Harry is desperately trying to keep upright.

And taller than any, dressed in a green polo and black trousers, with his long, black hair falling down his back like an inky waterfall, a father waits to welcome his son, to push the child's heavy trolley through the station, to load the bags into the boot of his Bentley as Harry takes the passenger seat; the favoured place by driver’s left hand, which had always been denied to Harry until this year, when he gained a parent in whose affections he would always be first.

Together they drive, windows open and stereo blaring, laughing together at Tom Lehrer’s lyrics, their voices, at first timidly, then spiritedly joined in song.

They arrive in Winchester, park the car. A quick, surreptitious wave of his wand as he opens the boot and Severus scoops out the now tiny trunks, placing them in his pocket, before guiding Harry to the handsome, Tudor Inn where they are to spend the night. In a comfortable, beautifully appointed room, Harry feeds Hedwig some owl treats, fills the bath in his en-suite with water for Reggie and unpacks his clothes, before changing into a crisp white shirt and black slacks for dinner.

A rap at his bedroom door, Severus is outside, waiting for his son to join him. Together they stroll down the waterfront, savouring the scents wafting from restaurants and pubs until they encounter one so delicious that it compels them to enter and order that self-same dish.

Over moussaka and garlic bread, Severus and Harry discuss their past, present and future, Severus’s dark eyes shining with joy as well as intelligence as he explains the mysteries of the universe to his young son. Whilst they wait for their treacle tart, Harry notices, for the first time, that a new set of lines have been indented into his father’s face; around Severus’ mouth, smiles have carved their signatures and the skin at the corners of his eyes is crinkled. That once pale, gaunt, anxious countenance has tanned, filled out, positively glows with happiness and, as Harry looks at his father, he realises that his own expression, his own heart, are both open and joyful.

And that, had Lily chosen Severus for the father of her child, Harry could be no more his son than he was now.