A Father's Sin

A Father's Sin

By Severitus

Chapter 8---Reaction

...dark....

...quiet....

...and warm?

Harry inhaled sharply at the revelation, struggling to drag himself up out of the state of half-consciousness he'd been drifting in for the past few minutes. Yes, he was definitely someplace warm, snuggled within a mound of blankets...but it didn't feel like his bed. The sheets held a very familiar crisp scent, felt cool against his feverish skin, but he couldn't quite place it. His thoughts seemed muddled, fuzzy...still resisting wakefulness, and he couldn't remember clearly what had happened. There was something about a lion, and being chased...pain too, that was still fresh in his mind; but everything else was still elusive and distant. A firm voice suddenly sounded from someplace nearby, and Harry jerked in surprise, a few more memories sliding into focus.

"Now Neville, what did I tell you about not messing with the bandages? How do you ever expect it to heal properly if you insist upon undoing my work?" Madam Pomfrey scolded, and Harry blinked in surprise. The Hospital Wing? But...hadn't he been in a ...tunnel of some sort? No...it was the secret passage, that was right...he'd been running from the Serpent's Children.

"But it itches!" Neville complained, and the nurse made a subtle 'tsk'ing sound in her throat, and Harry could just hear the subtle 'snip snip' of a pair of scissors, most liking as she re-dressed Neville's wounds.

So it was definitely the Hospital Wing, but how had he gotten there? The only people at Hogwarts who knew of the tunnel were Ron, Hermione, the Weasley Twins, and himself. But there was no possible way that any of them could have known where he was...Wait. He remembered something, almost like a dream...waking momentarily while he was being carried, and someone's scratchy beard tickling his ear. Could it have been Hagrid or Dumbledore then? Then again, did it really matter? Stretching out beneath the covers, Harry cringed slightly at the sharp pain in his muscles and the nausea in his gut, and opened his eyes. He almost began to reach for his glasses, but stopped his hand halfway, drawing it slowly back against his chest. Another memory of the previous night had resurfaced, first the searing pain of the Cruciatus Curse, and then the glass-like shattering of the Glamourie spell. Harry bolted upright in an instant, though he immediately regretted the sudden movement, nearly crying out in fresh pain. Momentarily panicked, he stared wide-eyed out through a curtain of dark hair. He'd broken the Glamourie spell....

Suddenly he felt very vulnerable, as if the deepest part of his mind had been violently ripped out and set on display. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them. He didn't want to see what had changed, what his mother had so desperately tried to hide. He wanted to close his eyes and not see the long hair hanging in his face, to not feel the absence of his glasses upon his nose, but he couldn't stop himself. Almost unconsciously, his eyes drifted downward, fixing upon the arms wrapped around his knees.

His skin was pale, he noticed that immediately. The exposed flesh of his wrists and hands no longer bore the vague, light tan, but was now ghastly pale. Even though he imagined it was partially do to being sick at the moment, the thought still elicited an unconscious shiver. The fingers were longer as well, clutching painfully at the cloth of his pajamas around knees that were no longer knobbly. He didn't mind the last so much, but the discovery still caused his stomach to churn and bile to rise up in his throat. Leaning his forehead against his knees, he struggled to take several deep breaths, fighting to quell to turmoil in his stomach and the rising panic in his mind. 'Don't panic...don't panic...and don't throw up, please don't throw up...' he chanted to himself, clenching his teeth and tightening his throat. At that moment, he was very glad that someone had been considerate enough to draw the curtains around his bed.

After a minute of calm breathing, he lifted his head and leaned his chin on his knees, staring at the thin wall of beige cloth surrounding the bed. Idly, he ran a hand back through his rain-dampened hair, unused to having so much of it. Despite the tingly nausea the idea invoked, Harry realized that he was curious. What did he look like now? Would anyone be able to recognize him at all? That thought brought a mix of emotions, he almost liked to idea of not being recognized, but the reason behind it buffered the feeling. Looking to the side, he saw a rectangular silver tray, topped with a glass of water and a damp washcloth sitting on the table to the left of the bed. The tray was polished brightly, truthfully reflecting the objects sitting upon it. 'Well,' Harry thought, drawing a deep, shuddering breath, 'Only one way to find out...' he thought, and reached over to move the cloth and glass.

He nearly dropped the tray when he sighted his reflection for the first time. Hermione had been right, for there was a complete stranger looking back at him from the polished metal. When he lifted the tray again, the first thing he noticed, however, wasn't any change in appearance, but rather the small square of gauze placed precisely over his scar, hiding it entirely from view. The second was his eyes, which were still as blazingly green as they had ever been, albeit now with a bit of a slant to their positioning. His eyebrows were thinner and darker, arching smoothly above his eyes in a way he immediately recognized. Snape's were exactly the same, though they were constantly twisted angrily downward, always casting his eyes into even darker shadow. Harry shuddered, shutting his eyes briefly against the image. When he opened them again, his gaze flicked slightly downward, desperately hunting for some remnant of his former self. All of his features were sharper, he noticed, cheekbones well defined against the smooth line of his jaw. His nose was a tiny bit longer, not rounded and boyish as it had been, though thankfully it was still proportioned correctly and not crooked and hooked. To his surprise, that thought alone brought a significant amount of relief.

And then he recognized her. In the shade of his eyes, the roundness of his chin, the shape of his nose, and finally in the way his hair curled into ringlets just at his shoulders. It all belonged to his mother, and brought with it a conflict of emotion. First there was a hint of pride, for never before had he recognized her anyplace but in his eyes. And then there was disgust and shame. Disgust because he also looked like the man who raped her, and shame because he was the product of the two; his evil mixed with her purity. And then there was the feature that outdid them all, that squashed his pride and lessened the disgust, and that was the Serpent's Mark. Standing out like a horrific testament to his reason for life, the mark, pure, obsidian black upon his pale flesh, sat directly between his eyebrows. The small, curved serpent was not even an inch in height, but it filled him with more horror than any of his other features combined. He suddenly felt nauseous again, both sickened and horrified by the mark that attested to the sin of his creation. His life, every pain and pleasure, existed solely because Snape had raped his mother, forged in a moment of relentless pain and shame. The mark seemed to drive it all into startling clarity, standing out from within a mixture of features. His mother's eyes, and her attacker's face, the two eternally linked within him.

The tray slid from his fingers, falling softly to the bed with a dull 'thump.' In the next instant, Harry was on his knees beside the bed, emptying the meager contents of his stomach into a tin trashcan. After he'd coughed up the last, he stayed kneeling, his hair hanging about his face like a bed curtain. So...it was true then, he thought, leaning back from the trashcan. God...it was all true, every word. He was a Serpent's child, bred to serve Voldemort. Snape had raped his mother. He wasn't Harry Potter,' the Boy Who Lived, beloved son of Lily and James. No, he was Harry, the bastard child of Severus Snape, the accident that had somehow managed to defeat the Dark Lord. It was true...Snape was his father. Snape hated him, and he was his father. It was all true....

Leaning forward onto his hands, Harry hung his head, struggling desperately to breath past the tightness in his throat and to stave the burning in his eyes. But he couldn't, he could feel the hot trail of tears escaping his tightly shut eyes, and failed to still the violent trembling as he fought tooth and nail to keep from sobbing. Sucking in shuddering breath after breath, it only seemed to worsen, as if a massive force was welling up inside, desperate to be free. It had been years since he'd cried, since he'd hidden beneath the blankets in his cupboard and sobbed as quietly as he could. Even now he couldn't completely free his tears, couldn't truly let go of what had been.

A warm hand suddenly settled on his back, and Harry sucked in a surprised breath. The frail fingers rubbed gently back and forth, and he raised his head, turning to look. "It's alright, Harry," an old, gentle voice whispered, and Harry bowed his head again. Dumbledore knew, then...but what would he think? Would he be kicked out of school, or be turned over to the Ministry? Would Dumbledore be disgusted, ashamed that the esteemed Harry Potter was truly nothing? Sucking in another shaky breath, he squeezed his eyes shut, again struggling vainly to stave the tears, to hold off the sobs caught deep in his throat. The warm hand moved upward, and grasped his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. Harry tensed, and then began to relax as the thumb moved against the back of his neck, gently rubbing. "It's alright, child, you need to let it all out. You've earned to right to cry," the voice said, and the hand began coaxing him backward, toward Dumbledore's kneeling figure. The Dursleys had always yelled at him for crying, for showing any sign of weakness or emotion. It was strange to have someone encouraging it, patiently waiting for tears to fall. The hand seemed to give off comforting warmth, welcoming him into a pair of waiting arms. He loved the feeling, needed it desperately; needed someone to simply be there. His whole body felt as if it had gone limp, and he allowed himself to be guided gently, collapsing back into a warm embrace. Frail arms slid tightly around him, one wrinkled hand directing his head against a welcoming shoulder.

Harry sunk into it suddenly, burying his face within the soft, velvet folds of the robes, clutching desperately at the loose material draped around the arms that held him. Dumbledore began whispering gently, rubbing one hand slowly up and down his back.

It was if something shattered inside then, as if a great wall had crumbled, releasing the vast flood behind. The tears flowed down his cheeks, darkening the soft velvet robes, and he began to sob. Burying his head tighter, shrinking against the comforting figure, he let it all out. All of his fear, his pain, his anger and frustration, he let it all out in a wash of tears and quiet, desperate sound. And Dumbledore continued to hold him, running one willowy hand through his hair, and all the while whispering 'It's alright, everything will be alright...' It seemed as if he cried for hours, embraced by the one person he feared rejection from the most. But then the tears slowly died away, the sobs quieting down to a whisper, and the hand that had been in his hair was holding a warm rag, gently wiping away the salty tears. When the rag was set aside, Harry pulled back, looking away in shame. He rose and sat back on the edge of the bed, face hidden by his hair. Dumbledore rose a moment later, but Harry didn't look up. There was still a bit of mud caked deep under his nails, he noticed, in addition to a few vivid crimson scratches across the backs of his hands, from running blindly through the forest.

"How are you feeling?" the old wizard asked after a moment, not bothering to straighten his rumpled robes.

"Okay," Harry mumbled, still staring down at the floor. "Headmaster, I'm sorry..." he began, but Dumbledore stopped him short.

"Don't apologize for releasing what you feel, Harry. It is not a thing to be ashamed of. You've been through more these past few days than any child rightfully should be, you have every right to cry," he said, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Harry slowly raised his head, casting a wary gaze toward Dumbledore's expression. He didn't want to see rejection there, to see a hint of disgust or shame on the wizard's face, and he didn't. Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling with a smile, his eyebrows turned in genuine concern.

"How did you know it was me?" Harry asked after a moment, absently reaching up to shove a lock of hair back behind his ear.

"I found out about your true parentage only yesterday, myself, Harry, but that scar of yours would have given you away in any event. Ms. Granger was quite helpful on the matter as well. She came up to my office yesterday, worried after you didn't show up for dinner or in the common room afterward. It was she and Mr. Weasley who actually found you, with the aid of a certain map, I believe," Dumbledore said, smiling at the last. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, Harry, what happened? I'm afraid you're the only one who knows what transpired during your brief disappearance," he said, his face knitting with a bit of worry. Slowly, Harry nodded. He wasn't anxious to relive the previous day's venture, but he was willing. He told him everything about hiding from Snape in the hall, about running from the Serpent's Children, and finally about the Glamourie spell. Dumbledore's eyes never drifted once during the whole tale, and by the time he'd finished, he looked both worried and, strangely, relieved.

"So...they've already been taught at least one of the Unforgivable Curses, then," Dumbledore mused, scratching his chin in thought, "And they apparently can't sense one another, as they obviously didn't recognize you as the same person after you removed your mother's spell...Brilliant idea, by the way," he added, casting Harry a bright smile, "but they do seem to be congregating nearby, which suggests that they're trying to find a way through the school's barriers. And that, I fear, is most certainly not a good thing...."

"Pardon me, Headmaster...but you said that my mother cast the spell? I assumed she had, but...could you tell me about it? I mean, it felt so real...I didn't think Glamourie could do that..." Harry asked, and Dumbledore paused in his thoughts, turning to face him.

"Ah yes, I had a feeling you'd be wondering about that. It was indeed your mother who cast the spell. I'm not sure if Minerva has gotten that far into the subject yet...but I suppose a short explanation won't hurt," he said, and cleared his throat in a very teacherly sort of way, "You see, Harry, Glamourie doesn't just fool your eyes, it is an illusion that affects all of the senses; touch, taste, smell, sound, hearing...the perception of each is warped by the spell," he paused a moment, mouth twisting slightly in thought, "I'm not sure if you know much about your mother's history, so I'll go ahead and explain a bit of that to you as well. Your grandmother came from Ireland, the birthplace of Faerie Magic, and thus, Glamourie. The Fae folk taught Glamourie to the wizards and witches of Ireland many hundreds of years ago, and to this day it is the most common form of magic there. Your grandmother was an extremely powerful practitioner of it, and she passed that precious knowledge on to your mother. The spell she cast on you was very powerful, it caused even you to take the illusion as truth. Do you understand?" he asked, and Harry nodded after a moment. It did explain a lot, like his glasses and impaired vision. And strangely, it also explained why his hair had always been so ceaselessly untidy, even after multiple choppings at the mercy of Aunt Petunia's scissors.

"So...um..." Harry began nervously, "Do you think maybe...you could turn me back? Please?" he asked, and Dumbledore sighed tiredly.

"Truth doesn't like to be hidden, Harry. It will always find a way to show itself," he said, his eyes grave and serious. But then he softened somewhat, and reached up to pat Harry lightly on the back, "But if that is what you want, then I will. But not until you've recovered and have had some time to think over everything," he answered, and rose slowly from the bed.

"Why not?" he asked. Although he didn't mind his 'true' look, he was anxious to be back to normal. As much as he liked looking more like his mother (and not having knobbly knees or poor vision), he didn't like seeing Snape in his reflection as well.

"Well, I fear Poor Poppy would have a heart attack if one of her patients suddenly looked completely different," he replied, chuckling lightly, and added when Harry's hand drifted toward his hidden scar, "Yes, I thought it best in order to avoid any questions, at least until you and Severus have had a chance to talk," he added, and Harry cringed slightly.

"He knows?" Harry asked quietly.

"Yes, I spoke with him yesterday after dinner, and your relation came to light then," Dumbledore answered, and Harry hung his head, hiding his face with his hands. "Oh, before I go...I brought you something to help you pass the time," Dumbledore said, and Harry looked up again, curious. Reaching deep inside a pocket of his robes, Dumbledore pulled out a very scraggly, worn, and decrepit looking old book. The title had nearly faded from the spine, and the covers hung loosely from their bindings.

"What's that?" Harry asked, his lip curling slightly at the sight.

"This would be one of my favorite books, I've had it since I was about your age," Dumbledore answered, dusting the cover lovingly before passing it to Harry, "It may look a little unpleasant on the outside, but I think you'll be surprised by what you find on the pages within. And now, I must attend to some business. I will talk to you soon, Harry," Dumbledore said, and left quietly through the curtains, not even waiting for a thank you.

The book really was in a bad condition, Harry thought as he stared at the cover. It was stained and threadbare it spots, with many of the pages sticking out beyond the others. Setting it aside on the table, Harry lifted his legs back up on the bed and leaned back into the pillows, looking up toward the smooth ceiling. Dumbledore hadn't once mentioned anything about being kicked out, and hadn't acted any differently toward him than normal. Harry smiled slightly, crossing his arms back behind his head. It was a great relief that Dumbledore was still the same kind, odd old wizard, even after knowing that his student was born to serve the Dark Lord. Maybe things could get somewhat back to normal after all...and maybe Professor Snape would just ignore the whole thing. Harry paused, frowning slightly. How would he react when he saw Sn--...his father again? Would the man be even worse than before, nastier now that he could claim Harry as his? Or, as far-fetched as the idea sounded, would he lighten up? Harry wasn't sure which idea he preferred. Rolling over on his side, Harry blew a strand of hair out of his face. The idea of having a living father was still alien, even excepting who it was. And truthfully, Harry had now idea how he was supposed to act either.

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Fool.

What did you expect?

Didn't you even think?

No...of course not. You never do, do you?

Now look what you've done.

Severus Snape leaned his hands against the mantle, staring vacantly into the dying fire. He'd only left his rooms long enough to teach the days classes, and now he was back down in the dungeons, ignoring the hunger twisting in his stomach and the mound of paperwork on the desk in the corner. He hadn't slept either, but had spent the entire previous night sitting by the fire, staring deep into the flames. Simple things like sleep and paperwork could wait, there were more pressing matters occupying the entirety of his thoughts.

He was afraid, and angry; along with a multitude of other emotions that he couldn't even begin to unravel. Yes, he'd been afraid when Albus had asked him to return to the Dark Lord, he'd been terrified when he'd set foot in Albus' office with the intention of becoming his spy all those years ago...but this vastly different. This time he wasn't afraid of the Dark Lord's wrath, or of Dumbledore's shame...this time he was afraid of a certain pair of green eyes. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to feel...or if he was even supposed to feel anything. All he knew was that he was responsible for all the pain and suffering in yet one more life, for all the shame, fear, and humiliation experienced by yet another human being; by his son. The boy was alive because of him, was a constant target of the Dark Lord because of him, and now had everything he'd known ripped from him...all because his father had tried to be righteous.

Laughing shortly, Severus pulled away from the fireplace, turning to pace in front of the flames. Had he even considered the possibility so many years ago, when he'd chosen to rape his former friend? Hadn't he even thought that there might be a chance that something would come of it? Or had he just imagined that his good intentions would prevent all that, and that beyond the memory, nothing of that night would remain? Fool...you did, didn't you? He chided himself, growling mentally in anger. Bloody idiot. You tried to lessen her pain, and what do you do? You cause her more of it; make her live with the knowledge that her son was a Death Eater's, force her to give life unwillingly. Oh yes, splendid job, well done indeed. And yet, that's not all is it? You spend four years yelling, humiliating, and thoroughly hating a child that turns out to be yours. Oh yes, and not to mention the fact that in the past two days, you jumped twice at the chance to rub his nose in the fact that his parents were dead? And then, like the bloody idiot you are, when he tries to tell you to truth, you virtually bite his head off while his entire world is crumbling around his ears.

Falling heavily into a chair before the fire, Severus leaned his head in his hands, massaging his violently throbbing temples. And he wondered, what was he supposed to do now? Apologize? Stroll up to Gryffindor Tower and say, 'I'm sorry I raped your mother, and that your entire life has been a lie...can we forget about the whole thing now?' What was he supposed to do? He didn't know anything about being a father, his own hadn't been much of an example. He didn't even know if he should acknowledge that anything had happened at all. But then...you didn't just discover that you have a son and then ignore the whole thing. No...things would change, one way or another. Hell, he couldn't figure out how he felt about the boy now let alone how he would act, or what he would say.

There was a sudden, cautious knocking on the door to his rooms, and Severus jerked slightly, casting an annoyed gaze toward the door. "What?" he snapped, rubbing his temples again.

"May I come in, Severus?" the Headmaster's voice asked, and Severus sighed, dropping his hands to the arms of the chair.

"Come in," he replied reluctantly. He knew precisely why the Headmaster had come, but it wasn't subject he was anxious to discuss. The door creaked quietly as it swung open, allowing Albus to walk slowly into the room, his face drawn into a concerned frown. Severus didn't look up as the old man sat down in the opposite chair, glasses sparkling in the dim firelight.

"How are you doing, Severus? You haven't been up for any of the meals today," Albus said, and Severus snorted indifferently.

"How do you think I'm doing?" he replied with a sneer, and Albus sighed heavily. "Is there something in particular you wanted, Albus?" he asked icily, but the Headmaster made no indication of having taken offense.

"Yes...it has been discovered that a group of the Serpent's Children are congregating either in or near Hogsmeade, most likely to try and find a way past the school's warding spells. I'm afraid they've already been versed in at least one of the Unforgivables," he said, and Severus looked up in surprise.

"So soon?!" he asked, former worries temporarily forgotten, "Do we have a confirmation of that?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair, and Albus lowered his head slightly.

"We have a witness, unfortunately," Albus replied, reaching up to straighten his glasses. Severus watched him curiously, eyebrows knitted in confusion. Something was stalling the older man, preventing him from telling him something outright....

"What is it, Albus?" he prompted, and the older man sighed again.

"Harry's the witness," he said, folding his hands beneath his chin. "He was pursued by a few of the Serpent's Children yesterday night outside of Hogsmeade, one of them cast the Cruciatus on him," Albus continued, eyes focused carefully on his companions face. For a moment, not a muscle twitched. Then, the eyes filled with a strange sort of confusion, and he sat back in the chair, eyes sliding out of focus.

Severus didn't reply at first. He was too...confused to reply. Potter...his son had been injured, but...he wasn't exactly sure how he felt about it. First there was a hint of anger, definitely, for what had the boy been thinking running around Hogsmeade after dark, especially after having been warned about the loyal Serpent's Children? And secondly...there was a hint of worry, mixed with a swirl of other thoughts and emotions that he couldn't place a finger on. "What was he doing out there?" he settled on asking.

"I won't tell you the reason, that's between you and him. We found him unconscious in a secret passage late last night, Poppy is going to keep him in the hospital wing for a few days," Albus replied, and Severus' eyes widened slightly. A secret passage? He thought, of course...through the statue. Struggling to keep his face blank, he clenched his teeth tightly, and squeezed his eyes shut. He'd yelled at the boy, probably frightened him so badly that he'd gone running off to Hogsmeade. And now he had yet another thing to feel guilty for....

"There's no need, Albus. I know the reason," he replied, and his eyes snapped open when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Albus was standing next to him, watching him with concerned eyes.

"Talk to him. Neither one of you will survive the week if you don't work something out...I promise to do what I can for the both of you," Albus said, and stood back slowly. Severus cracked a weary half smile, reaching up to rub his temple yet again.

"Thank you, Albus," he said, and the old man nodded, heading toward the door. He stopped just inside the doorframe, turning a mischievous smile back over his shoulder, "he looks just like you, you know," he added, and then slipped out the door and away from Severus' surprised expression. He shook his head with a short laugh and rose from the chair, heading over to put out the fire. As he stood before the last flickering flames, he furrowed his eyebrows in determination. He would speak to the boy tomorrow, if not just to see if he would end up hating him all over again or simply stare wordlessly. As to what he would say? He still didn't have a clue. There was too much guilt, shame, and pain roiling within his mind for anything to seem sensible enough, but he had no doubt that he would say something, even if it happened to be, "Have you finished that three-page report yet?"

---End Chapter 8----