Harry found himself standing before the door that McGonagall and Flitwick had exited earlier. It was again locked and impervious. Harry had tried every unlocking charm he'd ever learned, and had left a line of merely superficial scorching with a powerful blasting curse whose rebound had nearly knocked him off his feet. All to no avail. It had probably been Flitwick himself who had shut it up, and he did not hold out much hope of being able to break it open. Perhaps Hermione might know how.

Harry's frustration peaked, suddenly, and he resorted to physically jerking at the handle and kicking at the door itself, just to let off some steam. He got a sore foot for his trouble and felt hardly better when he was done.

He gave up and leaned his aching forehead against dark wood, sliding to the floor to sit with his back against the recalcitrant door. He didn't know why it mattered so much, suddenly, that he should have access to the room with Voldemort's physical remains.

He wanted to see for himself that his tormentor was well and truly dead, perhaps. To know, with absolute certainty, that the man who had murdered his parents (both of his parents, whatever idiot thing McGonagall might have gotten it in to her head to believe) could never come back.

Harry rubbed at his sore, tired eyes under his glasses, trying to ignore the unfamiliar planes of his face. She was wrong. All of them were wrong. McGonagall and Flitwick. Even Hermione. They had to be wrong.

He was James Potter's son. Everyone always told him how he was just like his father. Not just that he looked like his father, but was like him. Sirius and Remus and many of his teachers had meant it kindly. Snape had meant it as an insult. But either way it was always... Oh, you're so much like James Potter.

To suggest that he was... McGonagall might as well have called him a bastard to his face. And to suggest...! His mother wouldn't have... he couldn't even complete the thought. And who on Earth else could possibly...? Harry ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the long, thin line of his nose. A traitorous voice whispered at the edge of his mind that his reflection held a certain familiarity indeed, but the thought incensed him and he mentally shoved it away, feeling suddenly disgusted with himself for even considering that what McGonagall had suggested might be true.

His parents had loved each other. They had loved him. They had loved him enough to both die trying to protect him. To suggest... it was a lie and an insult to their memory.

His friends would be waiting for him in the Great Hall, as they'd promised. No doubt the house elves would provide dinner for those who remained. The castle had nearly been restored to its former condition, in less than twenty four hours. It was astonishing, really, but he'd known that house elves had strange and powerful magic. He thought about Dobby and swallowed against the pain his heart.

Harry dragged himself to his feet and left for the Great Hall. He was sure he could convince Hermione that she'd simply been mistaken. It was all just a misunderstanding, after all. She'd just been trying to help, but had come to the wrong conclusion, clearly. Whatever had happened to him, he was certain it could be reversed, they just had to figure out how.

There would be time to deal with it. After all, it's not as though they had to worry about Voldemort and his pack of Death Eaters anymore.

Harry slipped in quietly. Those students who remained were clustered together at the far ends of the two tables in the center, up close to the staff tables, heedless of the crests that were on their robes. The four houses were mingled together now, even a clutch of young Slytherins crowding together at the end of the Hufflepuff table. Harry smiled to himself at the sight. It formed a bright spot in his otherwise dark thoughts.

Harry looked up at the staff table. The headmaster's chair was empty, as was Professor McGonagall's. Flitwick was seated in his customary spot, as was Hagrid, Sinistra and Sprout. Slughorn was absent and Harry wondered if he'd left for good, perhaps returning to his retirement for some peace and quiet. Vector and Hooch were in conversation at the end of the table. Trelawny was absent, but had often taken meals privately in her office in previous years and had probably returned to the habit.

Harry looked over the huddled students, finding his friends at the end of the Ravenclaw table. Ron was seated between Hermione and Luna, across from a trio of Slytherin fourth years that Harry didn't know the names of. A few other students glanced at him in puzzlement, not recognizing him either as Harry Potter or, indeed, as anyone they knew at all, but Harry wasn't in the mood to explain.

Luna moved over to make room for him, giving him a warm smile and apparently unperturbed by his altered appearance. Ron and Hermione must have warned her, Harry thought. It was nice of her not to make a big deal out of it.

Harry ate with his friends in a companionable silence, listening to the chatter and conversation of the students around them. He overheard a few of the students discussing some sort of celebration which was planned in Hogsmeade that night, and whether or not the teachers would allow them to attend.

Harry himself felt in no mood for fireworks and revelry. The dead were not yet buried, not even Voldemort himself. He regretted now that in his hasty flight earlier, he hadn't asked McGonagall what was meant to be done with Voldemort's body. He felt he ought to have some say in the matter, at least, but did not know if others would see it that way.

After he'd finished picking at his food, he leaned over to tell Ron and Hermione that he was going to head up to Gryffindor tower for another night. Ron said they'd be along in a bit, but the two of them were still lingering over pudding and, probably, the same argument from before once he was out of earshot.

He left the hall and began making his way through the castle in no particular hurry. It was not yet late, even. Soft footsteps behind him turned out to be Luna, who had caught him up. She came to walk beside him, content to let him lead the way.

He stopped to watch a painting in which a knight was chasing a small dragon-like creature in and out between the trunks of several trees.

"Are you alright, Harry?"

"I'm fine, Luna."

The knight had grabbed the scaly creature by the tail and was now fending off small spurts of flame that singed the edge of his cape.

"Hm. I'm not sure you are being entirely truthful with me."

"I managed to defeat Voldemort once and for all and live to tell about it, that seems pretty fine to me."

Harry turned to look at her.

"Okay, maybe I'm a little bit not fine, I admit. Fred and Remus and Tonks are gone. And so many others. I'm not fine with that."

Luna smiled softly at him in that far-away manner of hers, her pale eyes reflecting the light of a torch on the wall a few feet away.

"Well, of course. That is to be expected. But I meant finding out today that your appearance was a charm all along. That might be upsetting, I think."

Harry turned back to the painting, watching the knight trying to pull his cloak out of the tiny dragon's mouth, who was tearing at it with its jaws like a dog playing tug-of-war now.

"I suppose Ron and Hermione told you all about it, did they? They don't know what they're on about. They're wrong, you know."

"Harry, I know the truth can be hard to accept sometimes. People are always angry when you try to tell them something they don't want to know. Like when they've got a problem with wrackspurts but don't want to admit it.

"Sometimes we worry about how others will treat us, or worry that we aren't who we think we are. But you're the same person today as you were yesterday, you know. You're just different on the outside now. But it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Harry shook his head watching the knight running between the trees within his frame, trying to escape from his dragon now that he'd caught it.

"I don't suppose Hermione told you what she thinks the charm was for, did she?"

Luna shook her head.

"Well, I imagine your mother must have had a good reason for wanting you to look the way you did. But you shouldn't be angry with her. She loved you, so of course she wanted to protect you."

Harry turned to glare at her, as though daring her to say more. He knew it was unfair to be angry with Luna; none of this was her doing. But he couldn't quite stop the feeling either. Luna paid no mind to his change in mood.

"You'll feel better in the morning, I'm sure. I think I might join some of the others in Hogsmeade, myself. I do so love fireworks."

With that, she turned and left him standing in hallway as the knight in the painting behind him ripped his burning cloak off and stamped on it to put out the flames while the small dragon flapped in circles around his head.

Minerva McGonagall was seated in one of Albus Dumbledore's old armchairs. It had been removed from this office during Severus's tenure as Headmaster but at some point during the day, someone had retrieved it from wherever it had been stowed away. Poppy, perhaps.

Minerva sat watching Severus Snape sleep fitfully on the transfigured bed (formerly the headmaster's desk, as it would be again once it was no longer needed for its current purpose). She'd been seated there for several hours now, having foregone dinner in lieu of keeping vigil over her suffering colleague in the hopes that she could be there when he finally awoke.

It seemed odd to her for them to keep him in here, rather than in the hospital wing, or even his own quarters a floor up, but the Ministry had decided this room would be the most easily secured and so here he stayed, under the watchful eyes of the school's former headmasters and the Ministry itself.

The Aurors named Proudfoot and Savage were perched like a pair of patient vultures in opposite ends of the Headmaster's office, as though there were some risk the former Death Eater might actually attempt to flee. It was a laughable notion, really. He slept, mostly, and had barely the strength to lift his own head when awake, according to Poppy Pomfrey.

Poppy attended his needs as well as she could while also looking after those that were currently in the hospital wing. The healer from St. Mungo's had managed to stabilize him, using knowledge gained from treating Arthur Weasley and more blood-replenishing potions than had probably ever been used on a single wizard in such a short span of time before. Severus' wounds were far more serious than Arthur's had been. The antidote developed before had not entirely worked for Severus either, as the snake's venom had changed somehow, or perhaps had simply been made more potent. Either the staff at St. Mungo's would find a new antidote, or not.

He will not die, she told herself. Well, probably not. The poor bastard had certainly survived worse scrapes before. Minerva simply couldn't imagine him dying like this. He was far too stubborn.

The former headmasters of Hogwarts snored gently from their frames, or else had slipped off to visit other canvases elsewhere in the castle, seemingly unwilling to disturb their (barely) living counterpart. Severus Snape was, technically, still the headmaster, as far as the castle's wards seemed concerned, despite his technical abandonment of the post earlier and his current incapacitation.

It had taken some convincing to get the two Aurors to let her stay at all. One or the other, sometimes both, stood watch at all times. The ministry could not, apparently, spare any others. They'd lost too many and of the survivors, some, like Dawlish, had taken to Voldemort's influence over the Ministry too readily and could not now be trusted.

The news that Shacklebolt had been installed as the Minister of Magic earlier in the day, at least for the time being, had not really surprised Minerva. It would take a while for him to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were, within the Ministry ranks. Severus Snape was hardly a priority at the moment.

Well, not for the Ministry. For Minerva, however, he was at the utmost of her mind. She needed answers. Not for herself, this time—the pensieve had satisfied her as to the man's true allegiances well enough, right before it was confiscated as evidence along with its troublesome contents—but she needed answers of another sort entirely for Harry's sake.

She thought it odd that the young man remained at the castle, now. He had not returned to classes after Dumbledore's death the prior year, preoccupied as he was with cutting all of Voldemort's remaining ties to life. Horcruxes. The very word tasted like bitter gall in the mouth. To think that the poor child had carried around a portion of that madman's soul all these years. No wonder he was short-tempered sometimes. Although, she supposed, perhaps he came by that more honestly than she'd previously thought.

And now this new revelation, right on the heels of his victory. It was almost all too much. Perhaps that was why he stayed, wanting to linger in familiar surroundings. It could not be healthy in the long run, but if clinging to the last trappings of his childhood for a few days helped him cope with the loss of so many friends, she could hardly begrudge him a spare bed in Gryffindor tower.

She did not hold out much hope that he would return to complete his seventh year, after everything that had happened, but she would certainly welcome him if he chose to do so. He'd once told her he wanted to be an Auror. Glancing at the two unimpressive examples currently occupying the room, she thought they'd be foolish not to take him immediately, N.E.W.T.s or no N.E.W.T.s.

As for his appearance, she knew he baulked at the obvious, and why. Harry would not allow himself to even consider the evidence of his own eyes. That he might not be the son of James Potter in blood was anathema to his mind; indeed his very sense of self and identity. And just who his actual father might be, well...

The two had hardly ever been on even polite terms, something which Minerva could not blame Harry for. No, that fault rested with Severus himself, or perhaps all those who had failed him so many years ago, including herself.

Severus wore bitterness like he wore that billowing black cloak – wrapped up in a thick layer of his own pain to keep away anything and anyone who might dare come close. Only the headmaster had ever had his confidence, although now she understood that even that might not have been terribly well deserved and certainly never rewarded.

There was a veritable chasm which lay between this man and the rest of humanity. For all of Albus's attempts at pushing the two of them toward some sort of reconciliation, what hope could Harry ever have had? To expect an adolescent to cope with, never mind overcome, the deep wounds of a very troubled adult had been foolishness at the very least, if not outright recklessness and cruelty, in some ways for the both of them.

Albus had certainly misjudged the depths of Severus's emotional problems and it was Harry who had borne the brunt of his mistake. Albus had admitted as much to her later, in the weeks after the disaster at the Ministry and Sirius Black's death.

Too little, too late, Minerva thought. Though now she wondered if Albus had known all along that Harry's parentage was in question, or at least suspected. He may have had greater motive in trying to force the two of them to come to some sort of understanding than she'd once thought.

Then there was the notion that Harry's mother might have been somewhat less than an absolute Saint. It was a hard pill to swallow for a teenager who still idolized the memory of his parents, whatever precocious maturity may have been thrust upon him by his circumstances. In time she hoped he would come to understand that people are complicated and often inexplicable creatures, and always, always imperfect.

There was one person still living, however tenuously, who might be able to shed some light on the young man's physical transformation. Poppy Pomfrey assured her that he ought to be able to speak, although he had not yet chosen to do so in his brief periods of consciousness. Whether or not he would be entirely lucid was another matter.

She hated the idea of deliberately waking him, but this could not wait indefinitely. Harry's distress could only grow with the uncertainty. And while the truth might wound him, in the end it would be better to be certain than to let it pass out of living memory entirely. Then perhaps he could begin to heal.

As might another wounded young man.

Not so young anymore, Minerva, though, is he?

Minerva McGonagall leaned forward, squeezing the shoulder of her former student gently.

"Severus, wake up."

His eyes stirred but did not open. She shook him as gently as she could, not wanting to interfere with the charmed and potion-soaked bandages wrapped about his savaged neck and shoulders.

"Severus, wake up—"

He gasped, his face drawing up into an expression like a silent scream, a hand weakly coming up as though trying to ward off a blow. Minerva leaned back in her seat, waiting for him to realize where he was (she hoped).

"Severus—"

He settled somewhat, the scarred arm falling to hang limply halfway off the bed. Minerva placed a hand softly on a pale bicep, ignoring the forearm where the Dark Mark still lay faintly just beneath his skin. She'd hoped, for his sake, that it would disappear entirely along with its originator, but took some comfort at least in the knowledge that it could never burn him again.

One eye cracked open slightly and peered up at the ceiling, the other following reticently.

The Auror named Savage took a step forward from his perch near the window, some pronouncement seemingly on the tip of his tongue. Minerva pinned him back to his place with a sharp glance and shook her head subtly to keep him quiet.

She needed Severus to speak to her and the hovering presence of the Aurors would not encourage him. She wanted to dismiss them from the room entirely, but knew they would not leave no matter what she said. She would have to trust in their sense of professionalism and propriety, or the very least in Kingsly Shacklebolt's respect for Harry Potter's privacy. What may soon come to light in this room would make a fine piece of gossip for the Daily Prophet or any other rag in the Wizarding world. It would come to light soon enough, it was unavoidable, but better for Harry if he has some time to deal with it on his own first.

But only if she could get the stubborn, difficult man before her to speak.

"Severus, do you know where you are?"

Severus attempted to swallow, provoking a fit of dry coughing. Minerva gave a wordless flick of her wand, pulling a small cup on a side table toward her. A quick Aguamenti filled it to the brim with cold, clear water. He allowed her to lift him slightly and press the cup to his lips without protest.

Minerva sighed and sent the cup back to its place as he resettled himself. She watched him patiently, not sure if he would be insulted if she repeated her question. She glanced up at the portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. She knew he would listen to every word.

"Not Azkaban, then."

Minerva caught herself before she gasped. His once rich, deep voice was a sandpaper whisper.

"No, it is not. I'm afraid you've been rumbled, as it were. Not quite the loyal Death Eater you'd fooled us all into believing. I do have to commend your fine acting skills, I suppose. Perhaps when this is all over, you can pursue a career in theatre."

Minerva noted that Severus studiously avoided looking at her. His dark eyes darted about the room for a moment, glancing at the portraits and the overflowing bookshelves. Eventually his gaze settled at a faraway point somewhere beyond the ceiling. She did not know what was going through his mind but did not doubt that most of it was deeply unpleasant. His penchant for self-loathing would only make this conversation harder, she knew.

He also avoided looking at the Aurors.

"I do not doubt you will be released sooner or later, Severus. I cannot guess how soon, as the Ministry is a bit of a mess at the moment, but there's enough to be going on with as it is. At least one of the healers at St. Mungo's is looking for a proper antidote."

His eyes closed again and he licked briefly at his dry, chapped lips. A slight twitch started under his left eye.

"Severus, I would not disturb your convalescence, but something has come up that cannot wait. I am afraid it is a rather personal and perhaps delicate matter, but I would implore you to be honest."

No response. Minerva huffed and silently prayed for forbearance. More than once she'd wanted to throttle this man, and had an inkling that she would again before she left this room, but in his current condition it would likely kill him.

"To put it succinctly, the numerous curses cast at Harry Potter during his confrontation with Voldemort could not kill him but apparently managed to dispel a rather powerful charm."

Minerva stalled, hoping Severus would show some recognition that he heard what she was saying.

"Lily Potter placed a charm upon her son, before he was even born. To alter his appearance, Severus. To make him closely resemble James permanently. Almost too thoroughly, really. Are you familiar with such things? It is a not Dark, exactly, but it is a charm that is rarely discussed in polite company."

The man laying before her did not move save for a slight curling of his fingers, gripping at the bedsheets. Minerva paused for a moment, wondering if this was not, perhaps, the wisest idea, but she'd already put her foot in it. Well, in for a penny...

"Harry's eyes are Lily's still, but his face is now rather unmistakably yours, Severus. Somewhat more refined, granted, after all he is Lily's as well, but—"

Severus's eyes opened again and he glared at her, the sort of warning look he used to send first years fleeing for their lives and sometimes a change of pants.

Minerva stood and leaned over him, somewhat guiltily grateful that he did not currently have the strength to come at her physically, or have a wand within reach. She had the feeling of standing on some sort of precipice, regardless. For all his desperate courage and fortitude, he seemed oddly small and fragile to her at this moment. She almost considered dropping the conversation and leaving him to his secrets, to his pain, to his guilt. But she also had to consider Harry and the pain and confusion he was feeling as well.

"Severus, this matter cannot simply lie as it is. Even if you hold your tongue, others will eventually guess. The boy walked willingly to his own presumed death last night, but he will not even allow himself to consider this. But others have no such inhibitions. Miss Granger, for example, who I think already has an inkling, although she is too kind to tell him outright."

Severus rolled over slowly, turning his back to her, despite the pain that flared from his wounds at being shifted. Minerva cringed slightly, praying that he did not re-open them yet again. Poppy Pomfrey would not be at all pleased with her.

"Severus, I must know. Is there any possibility, how ever remote, that Harry Potter is your son?"

A choked, pained sound.

She saw him in her mind's eye just then, stepping into the entrance hall of Hogwarts that first time. A thin, shabby looking child with long ragged black hair obscuring much of his face, walking nearly on the heels of a vibrant young red-haired girl with brilliant green eyes, holding close to her in the crush of first years being led away from the returning students for their Sorting.

The contents of the pensieve, also, crowded around her. Part of her wished she had never looked at them. It had been easier, so much easier, to simply hate him.

But now, she almost pitied him. She could not afford to indulge the feeling, not, at least, until he answered her. She grasped the man's bony shoulder, careful to avoid the bandages but pulling him firmly back toward her. He could not resist her, but kept his face turned away until she released him only to reach again and gently pull his chin toward her as well.

He shut his eyes firmly, his lips parted in a slight grimace. He was shaking and sweating in earnest now and strands of his black hair clung along his face.

Pitiful, indeed.

Minerva gave into temptation briefly and brushed the damp, oily hair away from his eyes. He flinched as though stung.

She looked again at the portraits above them. The portrait of Albus was awake and peering down at them intently, but did not speak. She might have hexed the canvas if he had dared. The two Aurors as well were eyeing them surreptitiously. They might as well have been errant flies or pigeons, for all Minerva cared right now.

"Severus, I can't leave until you say something. Please do not lie to me, this is too important. For the both of you."

The man breathed heavily for nearly a minute, unable or unwilling to reply just yet. Minerva refilled the cup with water, wishing she could give him something rather stronger, but did not dare with the charms and potions currently holding his ravaged body together like flimsy spellotape. Her hand was gentle but firm underneath his head but she did not give him much choice but to drink it. He choked momentarily at the first sip, but drank the rest.

She had to lean close to him, then, to hear his answer, but he finally spoke.

"It is... possible, perhaps..."

She should leave it at that, she knew. But something worried at the edge of her mind. He would not like her next question, but Lily Evans had been her student, as well, after all.

"Was Lily..."

She mentally batted her hesitation away like an annoying insect. If she didn't ask, she knew Harry would assume... Better for her to get the answer now than for him to attempt to get it later.

"Severus, was she willing, or...?"

He made a sound that might have been bitter laughter but came out as rasping breath.

"She came to me, Minerva. She came to me."

More laughter this time, harsh and cracked. He coughed violently, until a single, tiny crimson drop landed on the white sheet covering him.

"They'd quarreled. Over what... I do not know. She did not say."

Minerva sat silently, half hoping he would say no more, but the djinni was out of its bottle now.

"Her parents... they did not live far away. I was walking along the river. She... found me. I hadn't spoken to her in years, but...

"I told her, go away. I told her... She followed me anyhow. We sat for hours. She said almost nothing. I told her, go home, go back to her parents, her blasted friends, but... but she stayed, Minerva. It was late, I left her on the sofa, went to bed, thought she'd tire and leave on her own. Couldn't bring myself to force her away...

"Later... before dawn. She came to me."

Harsh, almost wheezing laughter. He stopped before he made himself ill again. Minerva stared. More of the portraits were awake now, watching silently. The Aurors had turned away slightly from them, shifting uneasily where they stood. Minerva passed a hand over her tired eyes, feeling voyeuristic.

Severus continued.

"I thought I was dreaming, did not even realize until it was too late to— She would never. She would never. In what world could she ever want? Would anyone ever...?"

He coughed again but regained control after a moment.

"I woke alone... thought perhaps I had dreamed all of it."

He slowly rolled to his side again, unable to face her any longer.

Minerva stood and collected herself, turning to leave. His soft, rough voice followed her.

"It can't be true... it was hardly even real."

Minerva shook her head sadly. Oh, it had been real enough, she thought to herself, whatever his disbelief. She could not imagine what strange thoughts and motivations had been going through Lily's head that night, but the proof of it was currently wandering about the halls of the school.