The last time Harry had spoken to Severus Snape was after the war when he was recovering from Nagini’s snake bite at St. Mungo’s. He’d seen Snape a few more times after that, including when he’d testified to Snape’s role in the war against Voldemort as a spy for the Order to clear Snape’s name. But he hadn’t told Snape that he was his son. And he’d never questioned that choice, until now.

Now he found himself walking down a cobbled street called Spinner’s End. The houses along the way were run-down; some of them were deserted. Graffiti littered the walls and broken children’s toys were strewn across lawns. He wondered why Snape still lived here. After what he’d seen in the Pensieve, he couldn’t imagine it was because of any good childhood memories.

He hadn’t thought much about Snape in the last thirteen years. Their dislike had been both intense and mutual, and even knowing what he did about Snape after seeing his memories, he still couldn’t help thinking that the man could have made different choices. He could have been nicer to Harry. He could have chosen to see past his own prejudices. But he hadn’t, then. The question was, would he be able to now?

Severus Snape sat in his sitting room, reviewing correspondences. While meager, a few letters trickled in a week, as well as journals on potions, defeating the darks arts, herbology, and a selection of others. His owl, Cinder, hooted dolefully from her perch.

“In a minute,” Snape muttered absently, flipping the page of the journal article he was reading.

When a knock came at the door, the owl hooted hopefully. “Fine,” Snape said, holding his arm out. The bird landed softly, and together they walked to the door. As Snape opened it, Cinder flew out, making the person standing there duck against the unexpected rush of wings. Snape’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes rested on an older version of Harry Potter.

“May I have a word with you?”

Snape studied the man before him. He was no longer a boy. His hair was tidier, though still long enough to hide the scar on his forehead. His clothes were neat but casual. He stood with the bearing of someone who had seen too much but had managed to rise above it. Much to his surprise, he looked like Lily. Snape could no longer find the traces of James Potter that had been so evident to him in Potter’s schoolboy days.

Against his better judgment, Snape stepped aside and allowed Potter to enter the small sitting room he himself had just vacated. He watched as Potter took in the sparse furnishings and the multitude of books that lined the walls, tables, and any other horizontal surface available. Potter’s gaze did not linger long.

Snape shut the door and followed Potter into the room. He crossed his arms and leaned against the archway. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Snape asked, sarcasm clear in his voice.

A younger Potter might have taken the bait, but this man’s face was a study in worry and something more indefinable. He had come on a mission, and it was clear that he would not leave without having his say. Snape stood up straight and observed his former adversary more closely.

“I have a daughter. Her name is Lily. She’ll be three next month.”

“If you’re expecting congratulations...”

“I’m expecting you to shut your mouth and listen for once,” Harry shot back. After what seemed like some sort of internal struggle, Potter added, “What did I ever do to you anyway?”

“You were born,” Snape retorted.

Harry laughed without humor. “Ironic, that.”

Snape watched as Harry ran his hands through his thick black hair, ruffling it slightly and making it look more like it was when he was at Hogwarts.

“As I was saying, Lily. She got struck down with dragon pox when she was two years old. She’s never recovered. She’s getting worse every day and if we don’t do something, she won’t live much longer.” Harry took a breath. “I’ve come to ask for your help.”

Snape watched the play of emotions on Harry’s face: vulnerability, fear, desperation. “I’m not a healer, Potter.”

“That’s not the type of help we need,” Harry said softly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old piece of parchment tied with a red ribbon. Caressing it with his fingers, he addressed Snape. “I was given this after the war with instructions to give it to you when the time was right. I guess that’s now.”

Snape looked at the proffered parchment as if it might bite him. Harry, he noticed, did not offer any reassurances to the contrary.

Taking the missive from Harry, he immediately recognized Dumbledore’s loopy, slanted script.

Dear Severus,  

If you are reading this letter, then I have moved on to the next level of existence, Tom Riddle is dead, and you and Harry Potter have both survived. Congratulations.

Let me first express my gratitude for all of your hard work and efforts. I know that the personal cost to you was great and that you had to endure more than any witch or wizard should ever have to. I also wanted to thank you for protecting Harry and keeping him alive long enough to fulfill his mission. I know the boy was a painful reminder of Lily’s loss, and I regret not being able to bridge the distance between the two of you while I was still alive to see it.

On that subject, I have more to say. As you know, Harry Potter is Lily Evan’s son. However, James Potter was not his biological father. I am sure this will come as a shock to you, Severus, but his biological father is you.

Please understand that I believed it best to keep this from you for the safety of everyone involved, including yourself and young Harry. Not only had Riddle marked Harry for death, and I’ve no doubt he would have killed you both, but I also didn’t believe that you’d be able to knowingly send Harry to his fate at the hands of Riddle if you knew that he was your son.

I won’t ask for your forgiveness, as I am not worthy of it. I doubt that you will ever be able to grant it anyway. Merlin knows how different things might have been if you’d been the one to raise Harry after Lily’s death. Regrettably, all that can be done now is for you to consider how you wish to proceed from this point forward.

May I remind you that Harry was born of your love for Lily and that Harry lives on in her spirit. This is something to celebrate, not mourn, Severus. The war is over and it’s time that both of you got on with your lives. You have more in common with one another than you’ve ever been willing to see. I sincerely hope that the two of you will be able to build some sort of relationship, for it is my belief that Harry needs a father as much as you need a son.

As you of all people know, Severus, things are not always as they seem, misunderstandings abound, and people can change. Do try and keep an open mind. Give the boy a chance. He may well surprise you.

Humbly yours,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry watched Snape as he read Dumbledore’s letter. His gut churned with  apprehension. It was one thing for Snape to deny Harry as his son; it was another thing entirely for him to refuse to help his granddaughter. The play of emotions that ran across the man’s normally stoic face would have been comical if the situation had not been so dire.

Snape’s hands were clenched as he read the parchment, as if he was hanging on to it for dear life. When he finished, he closed his eyes, and whispered, “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Snape met Harry’s gaze. “How can you be sure?” he asked, and for once, his voice held no trace of cruelty.

“The blood bond spell,” Harry said. “The one you caught Ginny and I using in the hospital on you that night. The red light…”

“Proves the familial bond,” Snape finished, nodding curtly. “And why are you first telling me this now, Potter?”

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead absently. “I tried to tell you the day after we performed the spell,” Harry replied. “But you told me to get out of your room and leave you in peace.” Harry didn’t add Snape’s last word, forever, but it hung in the air between them nonetheless.

Snape shook his head and turned away, busying himself with rearranging the few objects on the mantle of the fireplace. Without turning around, he said, “I need some time to think, Potter. Can you give me that?”

“Of course, sir,” Harry said, moving towards the door of the small house.

“How much…” Snape said, and then cleared his throat, “How much time does young Lily have?”

“A month,” Harry said around a lump in his throat. “Maybe two at most.”

Snape nodded once before Harry let himself out.

Shock and raged blazed through Severus, along with a burning desire to wring Albus Dumbledore’s sanctimonious, interfering neck. Good thing the mighty Wizard was already dead or Snape might well end up in Azkaban for murder. How dare Dumbledore keep this information from him? His own son! What right did Dumbledore have? What right did anyone have?

Snape cursed and paced the small expanse of his sitting room. He fought the urge to break every trinket and piece of furniture in the house. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was his son. “Damn you, Albus!” he screamed, slamming his fist down on the mantle. A few potion bottles fell and shattered on the floor. “Damn you for all eternity.”

“How’d it go?” Ginny asked as she cradled Lily in her arms.

“We’ll see,” Harry said, brushing soot from his robes. He walked over to the two of them and kissed them each on the forehead in turn. “How are you my precious little one?” he said to Lily.

Lily looked up at him with large green eyes. “Daadee,” she said.

“Yes, I’m your daddy,” he said, running his fingers through her soft strawberry blond curls. His eyes met Ginny’s and Ginny shook her head sadly. Harry felt his guts twist. Lily was worse today, then. He fought back the tears that inevitably rose every time he thought about losing his little girl.

“What did he say?” Ginny inquired, craning her head momentarily to look out the window and check on their other two children who were playing with a snitch in the back yard.

Harry straightened and repositioned his glasses. “He said he needed some time to think.”

“I bet he does,” Ginny murmured, “I bet he does.”