No warm summer breezes reached the dark dungeons of Hogwarts Castle. The cool, stony expanse, surrounded only by a lightless lake, stayed unmoved by the heat outside. The fire in this small set of modest chambers was hissing quietly. Neither it, nor the man sitting next to it, were willing to break the cool solitude echoing from the stone walls.

No living soul could be heard bringing noise and warmth to the chilly stillness here, for all other Hogwarts residents had left for the summer holidays. Severus was alone in the castle this summer – not surprising considering they were all eager to return to whatever home and family the devastating war had left behind.

Only recently, it turned out that he had more family than previously thought; but that was all for naught, was it not?

His family, too, had been torn apart by the devastation.

He sighed.

The wooden clock above the fireplace ticked on, etching the passage of time into the stillness of his life. Time, he found, would pass, only to return to where it had started, the only indication of its passing being the scars of regret lining up on both his soul, and his body.

He winced lightly as he traced the thick scars at the side of his neck. Some days, they still made speaking difficult for him. But that, too, did not quite matter.

What could he say?

All the speaking had already been done for him, in the aftermath of that day.

The venom- and adrenaline-induced haze ensured he could remember little of the fatal day itself; the images of the boy, however, stayed:

Green eyes, familiar yet not, burning into Severus' own as the boy unleashed his magic on Severus' gushing neck, insisting that he live.

Bedlam when the Dark Lord announced Harry Potter's death, sparking a renewed bout of resistance in the name of the dead Saviour.

And then, out of nowhere, the boy coming alive again, challenging the Dark Lord to a final stand. Like vultures, they had circled each other, the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Seemed To Have Lived Yet Again. Every last man, woman, and child standing – most of Magical Britain, it seemed – had gathered in the ruined grounds of Hogwarts Castle to witness this crucial moment.

They all watched the boy as he shouted out to all and sundry that Severus Snape had loved Lily Evans for nearly all of his life…

(Neither the public nor the Wizengamot seemed to have any reason to disbelieve what would turn out to be among the 'Saviour's' last words, later backed up by Albus Dumbledore's personal Pensieve testimony.)

Severus thought he could remember himself, standing in the far distance, paralysed by the pain radiating from his torn throat, rooted to the spot by the boy's impassioned defence of Severus' character.

Little else had filtered through his mind until the sun had broken over the horizon, the golden light of dawn piercing his eyes. For that moment, it seemed to set the charred ground aflame, engulfing the two opponents in divine fire, before both vanished in swirls of ash.

A shout – two. A bang, followed by the rumble of thunder. An inky miasma flung through the rows of spectators like a shockwave, plunging the scene into darkness.

When the storm of smoke had finally cleared, the Dark Lord's lifeless husk lay on the ground, devoid of the soulless magic that had given it the ugly grandeur it sought, as shrivelled as the scars his Mark would leave on Severus' arm.

And –

Harry Potter had disappeared without a trace.

Severus Snape had remained.

With Lily's legacy gone, what could he have expected but only his bitter memories for meagre company?

One year of arduous physical recovery, while going back to teaching students, duller than before, had passed since the events of that day.

But if there was one thing that had stayed unchanged in the tumult of the last two months, it was the bleakness of his recollections.

The memories held in the cherry-wood box sitting before him, in fact, had been the catalyst for the most recent realisation of his loneliness, amidst the renewed attention he had gained for receiving said box:

" To Severus Snape ," the ministry bureaucrat read out with a sneer, " I leave the rest of my possessions, especially all that has not been taken from my vault and trunk. I also leave to him the cherry-wood box I always kept with me, and all its contents. "

Surprised murmurs sounded from the audience. Aware of the press cramped into the office, Severus fought to keep his expression impassive as he wondered why Harry Potter would leave the majority of his possessions to him, of all people.

The happenings were truly fantastical. They certainly were stranger than he had imagined the reason for his summons to Harry Potter's will-reading would be.

Most of those attending, especially those not given a personal endorsement, seemed to agree. They muttered their disappointment at the lack of acknowledgement as the will was expected to draw to a close, now that all of Potter's possessions had been bequeathed.

Of course, everyone would want a piece of the Saviour's Last Will And Testament. Severus was sure no one would have heeded the boy's own demand for absolute secrecy if the Dark Lord was still alive – he shuddered to even think of the ramifications of such a reveal under the Dark Lord's reign.

Certainly, no one was willing to respect the plea for privacy, even if, and especially now that the war had ended in the Light's favour.

"He will be able to open it if he remembers the first time he spoke to me. "

The scratch of quills buzzed unpleasantly in Severus' ears, stuffily, like the overheated, pompous office he found himself in. The public seemed to be hanging onto every word from Potter's lips, since the boy's reputation, if not himself, had risen once again from the ashes of 'Lying, Attention-seeking Undesirable Number 1'.

And yet, no one seemed to question why the post-war Ministry seemed so particularly eager to close Potter's Missing Person file, and declare him dead.

What were they aiming for?

" I know now that I should never have doubted Professor Snape's loyalties. Even under those impossible circumstances, he has done more for me than anyone, and –"

The official scoffed audibly, not at all trying to conceal his disgust at Severus.

"– he should be honoured as the hero he is. "

Someone, most probably an Order member, cleared their throat pointedly.

" I hope that, in time, he may come to accept the reasons for my bequest. "

Renewed murmurs rose.

" If Professor Snape does not survive, the cherry-wood box shall be buried with me. The rest of my possessions shall be split equally between Edward Lupin, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger. – Not applicable," added the official.

A box of dark red wood, just big enough to fit snugly into a briefcase, and decorated with golden swirls of flowers, was thrust into Severus' face, the Gringotts key attached to it dangling dangerously from one corner.

He had seen it in Lily's possession, many lifetimes ago. She had always kept it at hand, had used it to keep her most prized possessions close.

It seemed her son had, too.

Severus struggled to keep his expression blank as he plucked the box warily out of the brute's grip; it would not be considered acceptable for him to openly question or refuse the Boy-Who-Lived-No-Longer's last wish.

The first light touch of magic reverberated in his fingertips, this most fleeting of scans revealing no poisons, jinxes, hexes or curses. The box bore only the warm resonance of protective enchantments: a small yet noticeable part bearing Lily's familiar touch, overlaid with Potter's younger magic, not as familiar as the former but –

Wait. How had he never noticed the similarities between his and – ?

But more importantly, the loudest voice in his mind insisted, what reason would Potter have to leave Severus his possessions?

The lack of immediately detectable malicious magic did not mean its contents were necessarily harmless. It made him suspicious, wary of whatever secrets the box had to be harbouring.

As the will-reading drew to a close, the renewed sound of tears from those in attendance mostly passed Severus by.

His mind, possessed by the surreality of his position, was haunted by the spectres of unanswered questions instead.

Neither was he in a state to answer the vultures that demanded an explanation from him as he left.

His stubborn silence, it turned out, had served him well.

He had not known, that day, how much more surreal, and devastating, the circumstances of the strange bequest would turn out to be.

He could not have foreseen then that the innocuous-looking cherry-wood box would bring knowledge affecting him to this unexpected extent. He had not yet had his eyes opened to what his blindness had cost; had not yet seen the contents of the box the boy had left him.

He had not relived the choices of his past through the boy's eyes, in those thoughts and words Harry Potter had left him in a leather-bound journal at the bottom of the box.

Now, next to the box that had brought him unexpected clarity, the journal was laid out in front of him. His eyes immediately sought out the roughness of its crinkling leather cover and the wrinkling bends of its spine: it told a story of hardship, of wear and tear, and of the storm of emotions that precipitated onto its pages.

Vaguely, Severus' thoughts brushed upon when he had first come into its possession, the reason for the bequest revealed as he had first opened the box.

His first reaction of denial was inconceivable now that the contents of the box had truly become part of him:

So the boy must have known about his connection to Lily already.

Severus needn't even have given him the memories, he thought, with a sharp sting in his chest. He needn't have debased himself with this show of sentimental weakness in front of the boy –

But he refused to grieve the tears he had spilled in that fatal moment – he did not want to remember them, those bitter tears of loss.

Instead, he let curiosity overcome him once more, leading him through the contents of Potter's box.

Next came a piece of parchment, the light green wax seal slightly lifted: it bore the Caduceus marking of St. Godric's Hospital, the small hospital of Godric's Hollow, and its colour signified that it had to be some kind of birth record.

It vibrated with the potency of Lily's magic, warming and familiar, woven together in the careful mesh of a secrecy charm so that none but those she wished would even know that this document held a secret.

The secrecy enchantment was second only in strength to the Fidelius charm. Like the Fidelius, it included a component of containment that wiped the knowledge within from the uninitiated's minds once it was sealed.

Why the need for such secrecy?

Interest piqued, Severus carefully flipped the parchment open by its loosened seal. It was, indeed, a birth record – the original, if Severus was seeing it correctly, signed by the Healer who had monitored Harry Potter's birth.

Mother's name: Lily Jade Evans-Potter , it read. Date: 31/07/1980.

There was another line added beneath, in Lily's embellished hand, as was usual in the Wizarding World if the naming ceremony was performed immediately after a child's birth.

This was where the magic was concentrated.

Newborn's name: Aiden Severus Snape.

The name shimmered with the translucent overlay of the secrecy spell that would make the name spell out Harry James Potter for all those not keyed into it.

Severus did not know for how long he stared at the letters, uncomprehendingly, eyes refusing to move to the details of the birth written out beneath.

He refused to believe it.

Aiden Severus Snape.

It could not be possible. Yet here it stood, the impossible, staring at him, as evidenced by Lily's magic, and her flowery hand, both of which Severus knew by heart.

How?

The boy known as Harry James Potter, it said, had been his son all along.

Aiden Severus Snape.

It could not be.

This had to be some sort of mistake.

The possibility, he mused later, had always been there in the back of his mind, residing there, neither quite like, nor quite unlike a parasite: it festered, like a wound that would not heal, spreading its feverish notions though Severus' mind. Its impossibility had opened a small but steady drain of his energy, obscuring the resultant emptiness with the fumes of anger instead.

It had always been a wish, a child-shaped one that no spy could afford to entertain in his brutal, chaotic life. It had always been a wish further out of reach than any star.

But some stars – those known as shooting stars – did fall to earth. Sometimes, they could be found bearing treasures from realms only conceivable in the musings of the idle; small pieces of memory from an unfathomably fantastical life, nourishing and inspiring growth where they landed.

And sometimes, a fallen star brought devastation unlike any other, the utter destruction of all that had been known, or that was assumed to be true.

The fallout he had experienced in these last two months, since he had received the cherry-wood box, was immense. The magnetic pull of the leather-covered journal within – much more mesmerising than any Potions or Dark Arts text – had drawn him deeper into his self-imposed solitude, and not let go of him since.

It had given him a chance to escape the havoc Harry's bequest had caused in the outside world.

Evening after evening, he found himself spellbound by the lines left behind in that distinctive, messy, but overall surprisingly steady hand, recounting experiences in a perspective so close to, and yet so different from his own. As Severus read of the seasons passing, the words carried, more and more, the flavour of resignation and quiet acceptance of one's fate; of Death's looming shadow in one so young.

He could never have fathomed relating to Harry Potter to such a degree – but here he sat, night after night, until exhaustion overwhelmed the pain in his chest and the ache of his insides, to bring him nightmares that amalgamated the worst of both their horrors that had bled onto these pages.

And Severus could not turn away. Not this time.

Look at me , he had demanded of Harry. He had assumed that it was the boy who had not seen the truth before – oh, how irony was blind.

He sighed.

Tonight, as he so often did, he sat on the green velvet armchair in front of the fireplace, watching the Gryffindor-coloured flames dancing in front of his eyes. So often had they reminded him of Lily, her Gryffindor fire; but recently, more often than not, they would turn his thoughts to Harry – messy black hair, green eyes, red-and-gold tie always a little lopsided as if no one had ever told him how to tie it correctly – something Severus had, for so long, attributed to Harry Potter's arrogance.

How wrong he had been, about the boy he now knew to have been his son.

Brash red and gold fingers of light were jumping across the cover, prodding randomly at the worn weather, daring Severus to finally open it and read what last message Harry Potter had left him.

He sighed once more.

He had dreaded reading these last entries of the journal, because doing so would mean there would be no more new entries, ever again, for him to read. It would cement that Harry Potter – his son! – was irrevocably gone; that the boy had died saving the father from whom he had come to expect, and received, nothing but rejection.

It would mean, for Severus, that he would have to let go of his son, the son he had only truly known for these short months of reading the journal. It meant letting go before he could even truly believe, in his heart, that the boy could have been his. It brought the weight of knowing that he could only regret how he had hardened his heart against the boy he should have been closer to than any person in this world or the next; closer even than to Lily, his Gryffindor girl who had been the ultimate measure of his love for so many years.

He realised that his understanding of her paled in comparison to what he had learnt of Harry.

He saw now, and understood the deep scars that had shaped his son into the person he had been. Those were the scars of a childhood even more miserable than Severus' own, scars of the war that had ravaged their world for far longer than the boy had existed.

Naively, Severus had believed the ultimate goal was to spare his beloved Lily from such horrors; it had turned out to be a poor trade-off.

Lily had never truly experienced the ugliness of war, but only because her light had been snuffed out far too early; and her son – their son – had been the price.

Severus stood up, and set himself a tumbler of whiskey on the low oak table in front of him before slumping back into the green armchair. The light of the fire sparkled warmly through the amber liquid – and yet, it remained cold, as evidenced by the condensation slipping down the sides of the glass.

Like tears, he found himself thinking. Cold, like the tears of the dead, sinking into the wooden table as they would into the earth, leaving but a small, dark imprint where the natural order had been disturbed.

The empty casket they had buried had looked so similar from afar; so small in death, when, even as a scrawny 11-year-old, Harry Potter had seemed larger than life.

Severus did not want to remember that he, too, had succumbed to the illusion.

With a quick shake of his head, he let the sharp, rich smell of the spirit fill his senses instead. He sipped on the golden liquid, measuredly, as if it were in any way possible to stop the inevitable realisation when he reached the last page; as if it were possible to keep it from taking hold in his brain.

Now, as his son's journal drew to a close, he was once again faced with the consequences of his blindness.

It was time to rip off the bandages; time to confront the scabs of his eternally-blooming regret.

Carefully, he reached out to it with his fingertips, and gathered it to himself.

A stroke of the worn spine, and a flick of his thumb, opened the journal again. It had allowed him to keep his Harry close to his heart, this heart that could bear no trace now of the decades-old resentment he had harboured against the person he should have loved most in the world: His son, Harry.

Too late, was his conscience's whispered mantra.

He brushed his fingertips lightly against the pages, in a soft caress he would never have the opportunity to give his child. The imbued blood-based protective enchantments, welcoming him as trusted blood-relation, responded in kind – Severus wanted to believe that they sought to give what comfort they could.

It barely took the edge off the pain, to know that he had been the person entrusted with this last anchor to 'Harry Potter', to know that he was the only person allowed to see the truths that had been hidden for so long.

He pulled the journal even closer, cradling it to his chest in an one-armed embrace, relishing in its comfort before the final goodbye.

Severus took a deep breath, and braced himself.

"It is time for it to be time," the entry from April 30th, 1998 began.