Disclaimer: Everything you recognise is J.K.Rowling's property. This story is a response to the Severitus Challenge.
Chapter two: habits die hard
Severus woke up in a start with the feeling that he ought to be doing something important. The potion! It must be ready by now!
He got up in a hurry, not bothering to dress as the potion would make him pass out for a few hours (depending on the amount of memories he had to get back). There. It was perfect. Perfect colour, perfect smell, and without doubt perfectly disgusting taste.
He took a sip of the milk-looking potion and stopped. Did he want to know? It wasn't too late. Perhaps Potter hadn't read his letter yet. He could stole it and forget all this ever happened.
Except he wouldn't forget. Not now. He had to know.
He didn't know which scenario he preferred. The idea of having a son made him ambivalent.
He was quite happy without one. Well, perhaps "happy" wasn't exactly the word. But satisfied, at least. He liked the quiet of his rooms, the tidiness of everything. He liked being able to do as he well pleased without having anyone to judge him constantly. He liked singing under the shower (something he definitely didn't want anyone to find out, especially a student), he liked eating when he wanted and what he wanted, he liked… lots of things that came with being alone.
Basically, he liked his independence. He liked not having to worry about someone else. He liked not caring about other's feelings. He liked not risking being wounded by someone he loved.
However, since he knew the possibility of being a father existed…
He caught himself thinking how nice it would be to have someone to share everything with. A son. To be proud of, to care about. To love, even, if he could. Someone who would value his judgment, look forward to his company…
He was scared, of course, that it wouldn't work like that. The darkest part of him knew intimately that Harry would never ever want to have him as a father, where it counted. If, if, he was the boy's father, it wouldn't really mean anything in itself, would it?
Harry, knowing the truth, could still decide that he didn't want to have anything to do with Snape. And Severus could still decide that he much preferred being left alone than having to take care of a teenager.
Then there was the matter of Harry's appearance. The Heir Potion only worked as long as both the child and his mother's husband were unaware of his true parentage. Once Harry found out, he would stop looking like a Potter.
And that could prove disastrous, as long as Voldemort was alive.
Harry was the hero of the wizarding world. He was a figurehead, much needed to give hope to the rest of their world. He couldn't simply vanish, nor could he become the son of a filthy death eater. Harry Potter must remain.
And if Voldemort learned that the boy who had defeated him was Severus' son, his role as a spy would come to an end.
Either way, he had to find out. He drank the potion. And collapsed.
As always, the Weasleys (and everyone who was foolish enough to come with them) were nearly late to take the Hogwards Express. They weren't even seated when the train left King's Cross. Ron and Hermione had to go to the Prefects compartment, while Ginny wanted to go find her friends. So Harry was alone (not that he minded, it would give him time to read his letter). He tried to find an empty compartment, but they were all taken…
At the far end of the train, he did find one. He pushed his things aside, and sat near the window. There, he took his letter in his hands and looked at its envelope. It was a simple blank one, almost mugglish. It had a simple name written over the front in Sirius' harsh handwriting. "Harry
He simply stared at it, unable to unfold it. But he had to, hadn't he? He had pushed it aside as long as he could, making up all sorts of excuses, but now was the perfect moment. He was alone and would be for quite a while now that everyone was seated.
He didn't know how long he just stayed like that, staring at his name written by a man who would never write anything again, when suddenly the door opened and he quickly put the letter in his pocket. Then he stared unbelievably at the boy standing in front of him.
"Malfoy? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Shut up! They're gonna hear you!"
"Whom are you talking about?" He whispered
"Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy and Theodore and every bloody roommate I have!"
At that, Malfoy seemed to broke down. He sat next to the window and put his head on his hands. Just as Harry was wondering what to do, he heard Crabbe's voice saying to try their compartment. Without thinking, Harry opened the door, just enough to get out, then shut it.
"What are you looking for?" he asked them dryly.
"Potter. Are you alone in there? Did you see Malfoy?" asked Parkinson back.
"Nope. Why?" he looked disdainfully at them, as if thinking they weren't worth his time.
"We just wanted to see him… talk a little." Said Goyle, trying to sound confident.
"About what?" Harry asked without care. Witch was an act. Actually, he was beginning to feel a little curious.
"About what the Dark Lord thinks of his pitiful excuse for a father! Now be a good little boy and tell us where he is." Threatened Goyle.
"Do I look like someone who would protect Malfoy?"
That seemed to do the trick. Harry's and Malfoy's dislike of each other was well known, since they had despised each other from the first day of school - and even before in Harry's case.
"Perhaps not. Well, if you don't, be sure to let us know if you see him, okay? Perhaps we'll let you play a little…" concluded Parkinson, smirking.
"Sure. Bye."
He re-entered the compartment and smirked at Malfoy's look of astonishment. Probably thought I would hold him while they beat him up…
"Now could you explain why I just had to save your sorry ass?" he asked casually, sitting in front of the other boy.
"I suppose. You know what happened last June? I heard you were there."
"Yeah" I got my godfather killed in the process, he thought bitterly
"Well, my father was leading the assault. But it didn't go well. He didn't accomplish the mission he'd been asked to do, and instead got many D.E. to get caught and put in jail. Himself included."
"I assume his Master wasn't thrilled."
Malfoy shrugged ironically, then replied seriously:
"No he wasn't. And he seems to think that letting him stay in Azkaban isn't enough. And that sending him my head as a birthday present would be appropriate. "
"Eugh."
"Yes. So, I should probably be thanking you for saving my sorry ass."
"Yes, you probably should… "
"Wanna tell me why you did that? "
"Hum. Didn't fancy having my compartment all bloodied?"
"Is that an answer or a question, Potter?"
"No idea."
"…"
"…"
"so, what were you doing in here all alone Potter?"
"Well, trying to sleep actually."
"Liar."
"No, really."
He didn't fancy telling Malfoy that he had been staring at a letter written by his dead godfather for who knew how long without having the guts to open it!
Unfortunately, he was even a worse liar than he thought, because Malfoy replied sarcastically:
"Sure. And I was avoiding my ex-friends because we picked flowers for the Dark Lord and we fought over who would have the great honour to actually give them to him. "
"Well, that explains it all."
"Yeah it does."
"What kind of flowers does Voldemort like best, anyway?"
"It doesn't matter, as long as they're pink."
"Really?"
They both smirked, as Ron and Hermione entered. Looking back from Malfoy to Harry, they stopped at the door, looking bemused. Draco just rolled his eyes and said:
"Nothing to worry about, we were just joking around about the Dark Lord and flowers. Wanna sit down and join us?"
Ron and Hermione hesitated a while longer. Sitting down with Malfoy? Definitely not something they wanted to do. But the alternative, leaving Harry alone with the Slytherin boy, just wasn't acceptable. And apparently Harry planned to stay.
Looking uncertainly at the scarhead boy , Ron slowly entered the compartment and sat down next to his best friend, his eyes never laying off of Malfoy. Hermione sat next to him, closest to the door.
Harry rolled his eyes too, not noticing that he was behaving like Malfoy earlier, and began talking to his friends.
By the end of the journey, even if the ambiance was still heavy, Ron was playing chess with Malfoy (after having beaten Harry five times in a row and boasting of it loudly, Malfoy had stated that everybody could play Potter, and Harry had dared him to play Ron).
Hermione was reading an advanced potions textbook borrowed from Malfoy. At first, Malfoy had seemed disgusted at the idea that a 'mudblood' would touch his book, but then he had glanced at Harry, and said in a voice trying to sound casual 'sure you can, Granger'.
All in all, the trip went pretty well. When he wasn't surrounded by bodyguards, the blond boy was actually quite bearable. He seemed… small without them. Vulnerable.
Malfoy was trying to seem very confident all the time, but it was painfully obvious that he wasn't. Every time Hermione or Ron spoke to him he seemed to bite back his words, and while after playing chess with Ron (and not actually winning, but close enough for Ron to accept another dare) he seemed to ease up with him, he still wasn't comfortable around Hermione.
Which wasn't too surprising, considering. He had been taught from his earliest age to hate 'her kind', and the only fact that the major investigator of these thoughts was in jail wasn't enough to just erase them completely.
But he was trying, just like Ron was trying to ignore the little voice saying to him that this was the evil boy that had made him and his friends miserable the past five years. Just like Hermione who was trying very hard not to notice the disgusted look on the blond boy's face as she read his book.
The weirdest thing was that they were all behaving likewise. When one of them felt an urge to say something unkind to another (and it happened quite often, habits die hard) they glanced at Harry and bite it back.
He didn't really know what to think of that. His friends seemed to think he would go mad at them if they said something unkind to Malfoy. And it was quite funny, because he himself had to bite back some angry retorts or unkind things quite often too. When it happened, he just conjured the thought of Draco breaking down because all his classmates wanted to sale his head to The Dark Lord. Usually he disguised the remarks with sarcasm, grinning, and Draco grinned back.
While his friends seemed to think for some reason that he would be angry at them if they said something bad to Draco, that didn't explain why Draco gave him the same look. It was as if he was afraid that if he said something to one of Harry's friends, he would just be shoved out of the compartment, and back to the lions. Or rather in the snake's pit.
But when he saw Harry grinning at him after a not-so-gentle remark, he relaxed. And even let himself do the same.
Harry wondered what it would be like once out of their little compartment. They were together because Draco had needed a haven from his hunters. But once they were at Hogwards, there were plenty of places to hide, and he wouldn't need him anymore. Would they still be civil to each other, or would they go back to their old hatred? Friends or foe?
When the train stopped and they had to go to the castle, each of them seemed to be deep in thoughts, probably wondering the same thing.
And when they separated to go to their own tables, Harry made a decision. Slytherin or not, he wouldn't let Draco's head go anywhere without his body if he could help it. He took a good look at Draco and said:
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Draco Malfoy."
And he left the bemused boy gasping in surprise while he followed his friends to the Gryffindor table. He didn't miss, nor did he like, the calculating look the Headmaster gave him, certainly wondering if the Slytherin boy would be an asset or a liability.
He did miss, however, the relieved look Snape gave him, seeing that his boy hadn't change yet.
So he didn't know. Yet.
And as much as it pained him, because a great part of him wanted the chance to try to be the boy's father, he should never let him know. At least not until the seemingly immortal bastard was dead forever.
He had to make sure Harry didn't read his letter. For both their sakes.
Because he was really the boy's father. The Healing Verity (a potion who mixed Healing potions and Veritaserum qualities) had given him all his memories back. It had made his hatred towards Black reach a point he hadn't even thought possible. The man had erased his Lily from his very mind. Lily. His dear Lily. The only human being he had ever been able to care about, to respect, to love…
With these memories, it stroke him how much he had lost. How much his life could have been different… Lily planned to leave the bastard, they were going to live together, to have a son…
He would have had a family. Him, Lily and Harry. And perhaps other children…
Now he could only daydream about that perfect life. He could picture them (Lily and their three or even four children) waiting for him at night to arrive from work, kissing him goodnight, looking at him without loathe or hatred in their beautiful green eyes, but with love.. and himself watching them grow with pride.
But because of Black, this would never be. Because of him, his Lily was dead, dead without even remembering him, and himself had become a cold bastard, alone and cynic, and Harry had been forced to live with these damned muggles, which according to Black didn't treat him like a Golden Boy at all…
So much lost. And now it was too late. Black didn't know how cruel he was when he send those letters. Some truths were better left unknown. How good was it that Snape knew Harry was his son now? He couldn't even acknowledge him. It was too dangerous.
He had to stay Albus' spy, and Harry Potter had to remain an annoying Golden Boy, bearing the hopes of the light side.
But now, he knew. And it hurt to know. To remember Lily, just to grieve her. Lily, who would never be smiling softly anymore. Lily, who would have hated the man he had become.
Lily, whose eyes still looked at him through their son… their son who hated him.
Why did the mutt had to tell him the bloody truth now? Just to ease his conscience before he died? If he wasn't dead already…
If the man wasn't dead already, he would kill him. And enjoy it. Why did you have to die? And I wasn't even there to see it. Pity.
The welcoming meal was ending. He had to act now. Before Harry had time to read that bloody letter. Slowly, he rose and walked to the Gryffindor table, where his son was preparing to leave, and demanded in his coldest voice:
"Potter, a moment of your precious time, if you will."
The boy looked at him with so much hatred in his eyes that he almost flinched.
Well, that answered the question that had been in his mind since he read the bloody letter. If the boy didn't hate him before, like Black said, he certainly did now. Getting their godfather killed tented to do that to people...
The boy rose and followed him without a word.
