I am not going to be the boy's father, he reminded himself. He could not be, he didn't deserve to be, and it wouldn't actually be in Harry's best interest for him to try. He knew the children of Death Eaters, and abusers, and they were not like this boy. This boy was still sweet. He still loved. He was neither angry, nor cold. Besides that, the boy was still alive. The less he had to do with Severus Snape, the better off he would be.
But the boy was so very, very sad. Far sadder than Severus had intended to make him. And Harry was his son. And Lily's. So very, very much Lily's, with that gentle streak.
Unable not to, he finally lay a hand on the boy's back, and tentatively rubbed. The boy's breath hitched in surprise, and then he froze absolutely still. Barely even breathing.
Did he not like it? But no, the freezing was not a protest, or a movement away. It was more like Severus' hand on Harry's back was some kind of wild animal that might run away, that required absolute, perfect stillness if you wanted it to stay. A twinge of guilt pinched in Severus' chest, but he just kept up his rubbing, gently.
“Relax,” he found himself saying. “I won't stop.”
He could feel Harry try, but the attempt was only half successful – the boy was still holding very, very still, and much as Severus wanted to deny it, he couldn't help but know what was going on.
He'd barely touched the boy. Ever. And Harry was absolutely starving for it.
How had he missed it? He knew that the Dursleys didn't actually care for the boy; that they took care of him only because they were compelled to do so. He knew that it was only his own presence that prevented them from being actually abusive. How could he not have known, that they would not touch him? And how could he possibly forget what that same treatment had done to him?
This was why the boy had wanted him to come, he realized. Not the clothing that he'd given the boy – but the very, very few times he'd actually touched him.
Which meant he was rewarding him, but somehow Severus couldn't bring himself to refuse the boy, when Harry was being so, so careful not to do anything wrong and make him stop.
“Harry,” he told the boy's back. “It- it's not you. You deserve a father. I just – cannot be that for you. I am not a good man. You think you've seen my temper – you haven't. You would not be safe with me, or around my...” he hesitated, searching for a word that didn't require further explanation. “...friends,” he said finally. “You are better off here.”
“I don't care,” Harry retorted.
And promptly froze again, and hid his head, nearly cringing.
“I do,” Severus told him shortly, surprised at the boy's temerity. Harry was typically timid with him, and though the boy had a stubborn streak, he'd largely learned not to give Severus lip. But though Severus' tone was sharp in return, he didn't stop rubbing. The boy would think it a punishment, at that point, and this was a conversation they were going to have to have.
There was a long pause, but Severus could tell the boy was steeling himself to say something.
“Take me with you,” he asked. No – demanded.
“Harry,” Severus told him, “I just said-”
“I don't care!” Harry told him more forcefully. Angrily. And then cringed for real.
“Watch your tone,” Severus told him. But he wasn't actually angry, and the boy could no doubt tell. Severus was still rubbing his back, and he knew that that ran counter to any other message he'd try to give the boy. Still, he didn't stop.
But- “I'll run away,” Harry threatened, then.
And that – Severus stopped the rubbing, immediately. It was horrible, but it would get his point across stronger than anything else. “You will not,” he told him. The boy would be dead within an hour, if he did.
“S-sorry,” Harry said quickly. “Sorry, sir. I'll be good.”
Frantic. Like he'd swatted him, and was threatening to continue. Worse, actually – the boy was trembling. Harry was just like he had been...just younger and a lot softer. So very vulnerable, still. His protection counted for something, at least.
He is better off here than among Death Eaters, he told himself again. Draco Malfoy was this boy's age, and already likely doomed. It was a known thing that the Dark Lord used his followers' children against them. And Severus was already doubly dangerous to be around because he was a spy, and also very high in the Death Eater ranks. Any child of his would be very much of interest, even if he weren't Harry Bloody Potter.
But still he again started up the gentle rubbing, unwilling to punish the boy for long when he'd just spanked him. And especially not to punish him that way for any period of time. The boy didn't want the touch, he needed it. Needed it like food and water and warmth.
And he wasn't getting it. Could someone else take the boy?
But no, Lily's blood wards. They kept Harry safer than anything anyone else could do save maybe Albus or Minerva, and even they would have to be so careful.
And yet – if they were careful – would Minerva take him?
They'd all thought that the toddler Harry would be better off with his own kin, but Minerva had loved the little tyke. She'd been devastated to give him to people as self-centered and unhealthy as Lily's sister and her husband. But the war had only just been over – the Death Eaters had been angry and desperate, keen for revenge on the little baby that had so humiliated them. Minerva, too, had seen the necessity.
But that was almost nine years ago – the world had calmed. And if Harry was really this starved for affection – so starved that he was willing to get beat up to call a father who he'd only ever seen for twenty minutes at a time, a father who had generally only scolded or spanked him and then left- then...
Then he was not safe, even under the blood wards, and no matter how distant Severus tried to keep himself. No matter how much he hurt the boy in the process.
'I'll run away'. He would, too. He was nine. He had no notion of what true danger even was.
Minerva. She would be careful. Harry wouldn't run from her, and she could not only adequately protect the boy, she could fix him. Severus knew from experience.
And Harry wouldn't throw it back in her face.
She and Albus would both need convincing, he was sure. It would be difficult to take a ten-year-old who'd never met them, and try to become his family. Possible, but very difficult.
Severus would beg on both knees, if that's what it took.
Slowly, he eased off his rubbing, and finally stopped. “I need you to get up now, son,” he told him.
Almost worryingly obedient, despite the misbehavior that had gotten Severus there in the first place, Harry struggled back onto his knees, evidently fully recovered from the spanking.
Curse it. The likelihood that the boy would remember anything from this encounter other than the affection he'd received afterward was now minimal.
Harry stood in front of his father, nearly overwhelmed by the last hour. He was still a little sore, but that hardly seemed to matter. His father – his father had rubbed him. And not just for a moment, either, even though Harry had made him mad again in the middle.
But...one thing still stuck out in his mind, that bothered him more than anything else. “...you let him hit me,” he said again. That part still hurt.
His father looked at him, and for once his expression wasn't hard. “I did,” he told him. “I was right there, and I watched him hit you.”
Harry looked down at the ground, feeling his lower lip poke out without him wanting it to.
But then his father kept speaking. “I will not allow you to be hurt,” he told him softly. “But I will allow you to get into trouble if you seek it. Do not seek it again.”
Harry nodded, and kept his head lowered, swallowing down the tears that wanted to fall again. He hurt. And he really didn't want his father to be mad at him, but- “Y-you said you wouldn't come,” he insisted.
There was a pause, and a single finger on his chin lifted his face up to meet his father's serious gaze. “You were not listening,” his father reproved. “I said I would not always come to protect you from lessons you needed to learn. I also said that I will always come back to protect you from harm. Always, Harry.”
Oh. Oh. Suddenly hopeful, Harry found himself swallowing hard, and tentatively speaking up. “You promise?”
There was a pause, and Harry felt himself tense, waiting for the excuse.
But – “I promise, Harry,” his father told him, finger still on Harry's chin. “I have never let anyone hurt you, and I never will, not if there's anything I can do about it. Now you promise me that you will not seek trouble.”
Oh. And he didn't want to lie – couldn't lie, and still believe that his father was telling the truth. But he couldn't promise, either. “B-but-” Harry protested, pained.
His father just raised his eyebrows, and waited.
He should lie. He should definitely, definitely lie. All he had to do was say 'yes, sir', and his father would stop looking at him like that, and he wouldn't be mad.
But the words were nearly choking him, so desperate they were to burst out. “I can't promise,” Harry told the man around the lump in his throat. “You'll never come.”
Severus froze, pained, and his son apparently took it for disagreement.
“Y-you won't,” he told him more freely. “You only ever come for- for some reason, and th-this time it was forever, and I kn-know you don't want me b-but y-you come when I'm in danger a-and I just- I just want you to come!”
The last was almost a shout, and the boy had pulled away from his finger, and now he gave Severus a looked of mixed anger and terror before staring at the ground, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. “S-sorry,” he said softly. “Sorry, sir. Please don't go away.”
The boy was crying again, his face now soaked and blotchy from all the tears, and he was staring at the ground like he could sink through it.
I know you don't want me. Please don't go away.
He'd done this.
“I- I can't, Harry,” he said softly. “You don't understand-”
But of course the boy didn't understand. He was nine. “It's okay,” Harry said quickly. “I'm sorry, sir. Th-thank you for s-saving me from Dennis.”
Horribly, Severus' first impulse was to run. He had no idea what to say, what to do, and his instinct was to simply leave, to go find Minerva and recruit her to heal his boy of the damage that he had hitherto blamed on the Dursleys.
The Dursleys, who did not want the boy. Who refused to touch him. How dare they, really?
I know you don't want me.
Those mean-spirited, self-centered, hateful muggles were there for Harry far more than Severus himself was. And had hurt him less.
His father. His only surviving parent. I know you don't want me. It was clear that the boy didn't actually blame him for that. Explanations wouldn't matter in the slightest.
And here he was, standing and staring at the boy as he cried his heart out over his heartless bastard of a father.... and apologized for begging him to come see him. Clearly, the boy didn't think he deserved any better. Oh, Lily, I'm so sorry.
He hadn't a clue what to do about it. The boy was not safe with him. He could not possibly continue as a spy with Harry Potter for a son. Even if he quit, the Dark Lord would target him and anyone associated with him, as a message to the rest of his followers.
The boy was a target anyway, though. He always would be priority number one as far as the Dark Lord was concerned – he couldn't go higher than that, even as a Death Eater's son. And if Severus had trusted anyone but himself to keep the boy safe, he wouldn't be here – and the boy would not be being fed. Harry was still skinny, and Severus didn't actually believe it was because he was picky. The Dursleys were clearly still feeding him the minimum they could get away with – or, perhaps, mucking with his food somehow. He wouldn't put it past Petunia to over-salt it, or something.
I'll run away, the boy had said. It wouldn't be long, before he actually did. It had taken Severus only fourteen years to get to that point, and Harry was nearly ten. The instant he ran, the blood wards would fall. Severus could not guarantee that he would be there at the particular moment they fell, nor could he trust anyone else to be.
Whereas at Hogwarts, the boy would not only have him, but Albus and Minerva.
This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? He couldn't just stop being a spy, for the sake of one nine-year-old boy who happened to carry his DNA.
Irrationally, the thought came with a stab of guilt. Harry wasn't just some nine-year-old boy. He was his nine-year-old boy. His responsibility.
But still just one. He couldn't reasonably prioritize him over the entirety of the wizarding world, could he?
But- Says who? He didn't know where the thought came from, but it was an oddly tempting one, looking into the face of a small boy who looked so like his Lily – and also, subtly, like him. A small boy whom he'd already hurt so badly. Screw the damned wizarding world. What has it ever done for me?
But the answer was, unfortunately, everything. The wizarding world had rescued him. Hogwarts was the only place where he'd ever been safe, or treated like he mattered. It hadn't saved him – that had taken Lily – but it had given him someplace to come back to after his repentance and her death. It had taught him that there was a world out there that was worth saving, even once she was gone. He'd been a key player in its salvation, the last time around. Surely he couldn't abandon it, the next time the Dark Lord rose. Not for the sake of just one boy.
But – his son actually wasn't just one boy, he realized suddenly. His son was Harry Potter. It wasn't Severus who was supposed to save the world, it was Harry. Severus had brought back the damned prophesy himself.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ...
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, implying that no-one else did. And just because the boy could, didn't necessarily mean he would. Could the wizarding world afford it, if the boy turned dark – or just stopped caring, the way Severus had? There were only so many times you could hurt a boy, before he started either hitting back or just not feeling it. It was only his love for Lily that had pulled Severus out of that. He had no idea what would pull Harry out, if he got that bad.
They really had no idea what the 'power to vanquish the Dark Lord' would look like. Apparently whatever it was, Albus didn't have it. That was terrifying.
And Harry was still so, so vulnerable. Still willing to show hurt, to demand that Severus fix it.
A familiar stab of guilt made him grimace. I'm sorry, James. Fathers were supposed to be proud of their children, proud of having taken part in the creation of a new little person that looked like them, proud of raising them to be forthright and courageous, to take each small step towards adulthood with confidence.
He could have no such pride.
I am not a good man, Severus thought, with another wave of guilt. There had been a certain pleasure, in multiple ways, in stealing James' wife out from under his nose, even if he'd felt nothing for Lily, but now Severus could only look back in disgust. He'd thought James would come kill him, honestly – and the man could've. Despair was no better a motive than lust or revenge, but he hadn't even thought about his motives at all until James hadn't killed him.
At first, he'd thought that Lily simply hadn't told him, but he couldn't actually believe that. Lily had been determined to do so, from the moment she sobered up. She would not have chickened out.
No, the unexpected element had been James. Far from killing him – or even shaming him - James had said nothing at all, then quietly allowed Snape's son to be acknowledged as his firstborn. And yes, society would have disparaged James, too, if he'd made it known. For two years, Severus had consoled himself that that was why the man had not accused him, or rejected the son his wife bore him.
Two years – until October 31, 1981, when the man had died protecting that same son. A child he knew was not his own. A child he knew to be the son of his...Severus nearly snorted. James' worst enemy. How juvenile. That hadn't been true since they'd both left Hogwarts. Voldemort was James' worst enemy. Severus was just the pathetic loser who couldn't let go of a grudge, even in the midst of war. That was whose son James had protected.
Severus did not like being indebted – again – to James Potter. And now he couldn't even apologize.
But – actually – would James mind, so much, if Severus did take the boy? The man had died for this boy, and for his wife, even knowing all that had happened. There was no way James would like the way Harry was living, now. No doubt the damned all-loving Gryffindor would even prefer Severus take him.
James had always been the better man. The boy should be James'. But James would prefer Severus to the Dursleys.
I would prefer James have him, Severus realized, looking down at the boy's tear-glazed face. Harry was still just standing there, trying and failing to choke back tears, while Severus stared at him like an idiot. He hadn't a clue what to do with a child.
But he had to do something, and he actually did know...one thing. It didn't feel exactly natural, but-
Slowly, uncertainly, Severus reached out with one arm, and pulled his son into his chest.
Father...was holding him. Actually holding him, one hand wrapped gently around the back of Harry's head while the other seemed to engulf his whole body and pull it close. What had changed?
But Harry didn't care, for the moment. This might never happen again. He buried himself in it, close enough that he could smell a strange bitterness in his father's clothing, along with the smell of soap.
It was probably supposed to make his tears go away, but somehow they only increased in his father's embrace. It hurt, and yet he couldn't get enough of it, and he whimpered and wrapped his hands in his father's robes in a futile effort to pull him even closer.
“Alright,” he heard his father say softly, his tone one Harry had never heard before. “Alright, you win. Albus is going to kill me.”
Harry...clung to him. Clung to him like Severus was the only stable point in a hurricane, and Severus found him gripping him harder in response, trying to protect the boy from something he couldn't put a name to. Perhaps from damage that had already been done.
You can be a better man, Severus. Albus had said that to him, over and over again. And he'd scoffed at him over and over again. Now he could only pray that it was true.
He snorted inwardly. He'd have Albus' help, in not too long. There was only going to be so much time he could keep the secret, now. The thought of Albus' expression when he found out about Severus'... indiscretion...and subsequent ten years of deception was not enticing.