Ah, today was the day I finally met my son. Yes, I, Severus Snape, have a son. Oh, come on. It's as if you hadn't expected me to have slept with Lily. It's not as if either of us had regretted it…She put on the best act of convincing everyone from the moment he was born that he looked exactly like James. Except he doesn't. He looks like me. Except he has her eyes, but everyone knows that. And he has her skin tone; he's not pale enough to have mine. He has my black hair; it's not as unruly as everyone says, as was James's. And I must say that he has my scowl. He has Lily's nose, although no one wants to admit it because they want him to be an exact mini replica of James, except for his famous eyes.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is actually Harry Snape. But I hadn't told him that, I don't want to scare the boy. I haven't seen him in ten years, and the only other time I had seen him, I was too busy having my heart ripped out because Lily was dead. And then Hagrid, who actually isn't half bad once you get to know him, swooped in and tore him away from me. I so bitterly regret that Lily died, I mourn for her every day. But I did meet my son, who doesn't even know I'm his father. The day was quite, quite interesting, if I may say so myself. And devastating on my part.
Yesterday was the feast and the Sorting and Dumbledore introduced himself, but I rolled my eyes at him once more. He is a very wise man. I look up to him; he has welcomed me with open arms…after a couple discussions, of course. But the opening speech has never meant anything to me. I noticed that Harry had been put in Gryffindor, however, and the slightest bit of my heart cringed. I have to admit, I wanted him to be like me, to have someone to actually look up to me. I looked up and down the Gryffindor table until I spotted him. He was talking to a Weasley kid. Great. And he was staring directly at me as if I just stabbed him. I couldn't help myself but look at him. This was my son.
And I couldn't say I wasn't proud of him. But an overwhelming nausea came over me, just thinking about it for a moment. I had a son. A child. That I should probably raise now, because his mother is dead and his step-father, we shall call James, is too. And then Quirrell sauntered in. Ugh. Something about that man makes me detest him.
However, I went to bed early that night, and had a fitful sleep. I awoke this morning tired and groggy. I crawled out of bed, got ready, and went to my Potions classroom. I was terribly excited to finally meet my son, but when he came into the classroom and sat at the front desk, he scowled at me. I felt like he stabbed me, but I set my lips into a thin line, as all of them expected me to, and I couldn't help testing Harry. Was he as good at Potions as I was and had been? Well, I shouldn't have been surprised that the answer was no, because he had been raised by muggles.
He seemed more scared of me now. Bad choice, bad choice. I had made a mistake, alright?! But it's not like I know how to approach the eleven year old child that is my own spawn. Yes, I know I'm having a mini breakdown; you'll have to excuse me.
He left the classroom with the Weasley kid and the Granger girl; they seemed to be friends from the first minute. And they looked relived to exit my classroom. Or rather, my presence. I…I just don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to approach him. You must help me! The rest of the day dragged on, and I just heard more insults from the older students telling the younger ones that they mustn't approach me for their lives.
Please, please help me. I don't know what to do! I haven't raised this boy from birth, and I can't simply tell him I'm his father! What shall I do?