“B-but …” Harry couldn’t believe his ears. “Wh-what are you saying?”

Snape surveyed him sadly. “I think you know.”

Harry shook his head. “No. No. No. There’s no way—NO!” He jumped to his feet. “You’re lying! Say it’s not true!”

“Harry. Sit down. Please.”

Snape never pleaded, but the look in his eyes was begging Harry to understand. Trembling from head to foot, Harry sat back down again. Breathing seemed to have become something he had to think about doing.

“I married Lily,” Snape said after a moment, as if there had been no interruption. “despite the odds being stacked against us. As far as anyone but James Potter was concerned, the two of them were together. You have probably heard, that he and I famously didn’t get on—” The lip curl was back, but only for a second. “But he adored Lily, and when he found out she and I were trying to keep our relationship hidden, he offered to help.

Then you came along.” Snape’s voice was the softest it had ever been, and Harry felt a Quaffle in his throat. It couldn’t be true, any of it. “It was … I can’t describe that time justly. I was being called by the Dark Lord at all hours of the day and night, and terrified of the consequences should he find out about us—about you—but at the same time, it was the best few months of my life.”

Harry suddenly teared up, and blinked furiously. His mind seemed to have frozen.

“I was away, on a mission for the Dark Lord, that night. If I had known what …” Snape swallowed. “I have a house of my own, but since it was frequently visited by other Death Eaters, it was impossible for Lily and I to live there. When James covered for us, he also offered us a floor to ourselves in his own home in Godric’s Hollow. When I went on missions, it helped that I knew he was right there, in case anyone came after Lily and you. Otherwise … I would never have left.” Snape’s voice cracked and he took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “I came back late, and found them both dead—and you weren’t there.” Harry’s eyes widened. “There was a pile of ash on the nursery floor, and I … thought the worst.”

It sounded like every word caused Snape pain. Harry could relate; every breath was feeling like a struggle. “I found out later, that you were alive, and had been removed on Albus’ orders, and taken to whom he believed were your mother’s relatives.” Harry nodded, deciding to put that question aside for later. “I … didn’t know what to do. The Dark Lord was apparently gone, but Albus didn’t seem convinced it was for good; I had no confidence in my own ability to bring up a child single-handed and in the emotional mess from losing Lily, and … despite Lily’s rocky relationship with Petunia, I thought you might still be … better off with them, than with me.” Snape paused. “I understand if you … cannot forgive me, for that. Over the years, I’ve questioned my decision not to claim you, but—the more time passed, the harder it became to tell anyone.” Snape’s head sunk lower and he was determinedly not looking at Harry now.

Silence fell in the room, and Harry didn’t know what to say. He was sure that most of what Snape had said had not really sunk in. Only one fact had been received loud and clear—that James Potter wasn’t his father.

Snape was.

He didn’t know how he felt about it. He had no idea what he should feel about it. The emotions inside him seemed to have blurred into one, completely unidentifiable burning in his chest and throat.

Suddenly, he needed to get out of there. He couldn’t just sit there and watch Snape anymore; he decided to take Snape up on his suggestion.

Harry jumped to his feet, fled Snape’s quarters, and didn’t stop till he reached his dormitory.

-

There. Severus had finally done it. He had told the truth. And been rewarded by his son running away from him as fast as his legs could carry him.

It hadn’t been an unpredictable reaction, but it still hurt Severus more than he could have guessed it would. The truth had been so hard to choke out, he felt exhausted, as if he had run a marathon followed by ten games of Quidditch and then one of his own detentions. He buried his head in his hands, and the tears finally flowed.

-

“Harry?” Ron poked his head around the dormitory door. “Are you okay?”

After a pause, a muffled voice said, “Got a headache.”

“You should go to Madam Pomfrey.”

“No.”

“Harry—”

“I’m fine. Just want peace and quiet.”

Ron hesitated. “All right, then. I’ll see you later. Just call if you need anything, okay?”

He received silence in response, and took it to mean yes.

-

By the time the other boys came up to bed, Harry had cried himself tearless and now lay staring up at the hangings on his bed, strangely thoughtless. He didn’t say anything to his dorm-mates, and they didn’t say anything to him, apart from Ron’s quiet query as to whether his headache was any better.

“No,” Harry mumbled.

He lay awake for a long time, and when he finally slept, it was restless.

In the morning, his class-mates must have noticed that he was exhausted—Harry certainly noticed his white face and the heavy circles under his eyes in the mirror—but they didn’t comment, though Ron and Hermione both looked worried. Harry seriously considered actually going to Madam Pomfrey. He didn’t feel ill, per se, and usually he avoided the Hospital Wing as if it were the plague; but he didn’t feel at all ready for facing his normal routine and he knew if the matron saw how he looked, she would have him tucked up in bed with a sleeping potion before he could say ‘insomnia’.

On the other hand, that would be taking the coward’s way out … besides, Harry was pretty sure that if he did that, he would feel even less ready to face the school routine after he had skipped it for a day. So with great reluctance, he headed to his first lesson, thankful that at the least, he had no Potions today.

-

At the end of the day, Severus wasn’t sure how he had managed to get through it all with his mask still in place. Having not had to teach Harry’s class today, he had no idea how the boy was taking the news; which was perhaps a good thing. Years of practice at hiding his raw emotions meant he reached the final bell with not so much as an odd look in his direction.

But not for long.

Severus had just settled down with a fresh bottle of Firewhiskey when a sharp tapping sound came from the fireplace. Groaning, he realised he had left the privacy guard on the Floo, and removed it. A moment later the fire turned green, and his heart sank as Lucius Malfoy entered his quarters.

“Lucius.” Severus pushed the drink out of sight and studied his fellow Death Eater. “What can I do for you?”

Lucius was studying him with the most curious expression on his face, and Severus felt unnerved. He hadn’t let his mask slip, had he? Or had Lucius noticed the alcohol? He didn’t find out, for after a moment Lucius said simply, “I need to talk to my son. A private matter.”

“Oh.” The man was usually much warmer towards Severus, but at that point he couldn’t bring himself to care. “All right. I’ll fetch him.”

Severus went back to his Firewhiskey while the two Malfoys met in his office, which had been soundproofed so he couldn’t listen in. He couldn’t bring himself to be curious, anyhow. When the door opened again, Lucius strode towards the fireplace purposefully and without a word, and Draco was still standing in the doorway, watching his father and something unsettling in his eyes … a mixture of fury, and disappointment.

After Lucius had gone, without bothering to say goodbye, Severus turned to Draco. “Back to your dormitory, then, Mr Malfoy.”

The boy walked off, and any thoughts of informing Dumbledore of the strange meeting were lost in a haze of Firewhiskey.