Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet Exclusive

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent and Seeker of Truths Most Shocking

My dearest readers,

Have you missed me? Oh, of course you have! How could you not? It’s been simply ages since we’ve had a little chat, hasn’t it? My deepest apologies for the rather lengthy absence, but I assure you, darling readers, it was for a very good reason. You see, I’ve been busy—oh yes, very busy—working on something truly monumental. The kind of revelation that will make you spill your morning tea in shock and awe.

At one point, I even considered publishing it all as a book—oh, I almost did! But then it hit me, like a burst of inspiration during a particularly dull dinner party—you, my most loyal and devoted Prophet subscribers, deserve to hear it first.

So, here’s the deal, my loves: every week (sometimes even multiple times a day!) in this very column, you’ll get exclusive excerpts of my latest serial, right up until the grand release of my new book at the end of the year.

And let me tell you, my dears, you are in for the most delicious treat. Truly, I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. It would have been—well, utterly selfish—and we can’t have that, can we?

So, to show you just how much I adore you, I’m unveiling a tantalizing sneak peek of what’s to come in my upcoming exposé. "Yours, Always — Lily"

Picture it now: a story of love and sacrifice. A tale that will captivate you, entrance you, and—dare I say it—break your heart. And the best part, my darlings, is that every word of it is true. Yes, truly.

And yes, you read that correctly. The Lily in question is, indeed, our dearly departed Lily Potter. But—and here’s where you’ll want to lean in, trust me—this is not the story you think it is. Oh no, not by a long shot. This is not about Lily and James.

By the time you’ve read every word of this thrilling serial, you will know—without a shadow of a doubt—who The Boy Who Lived’s true father really is. And I daresay, if I told you now, you wouldn’t believe me. But mark my words—if by the end of this tale, you still aren’t convinced, well… I’ll eat my hat.

Now, this column is based on dozens of letters all exchanged over eight months between two tragic lovers who risked absolutely everything for love and family. And in this very issue of the Prophet, you’ll find three of the earliest letters—word for word, untouched.

So, my darling, inquisitive readers, without further ado, I bring to you:

"Yours, Always
— Lily"

Until next time, my precious darlings,

Remember, truth is often far more shocking than fiction, and I am always here to deliver it—whether you’re ready for it or not.

Stay scandalized,
Rita Skeeter
Your most trusted source for everything that matters

Chapter Text

Feb 20th 1981

My Dearest Doe,

It has been nearly two weeks since I left you and H at the insufferable home of my childhood nemesis - meaning his transformation is complete by this point - and my child is now growing up to be a bespectacled-Gryffindor clone. I shudder at the concept. But if it ensures the safety of you and H, you could clone yourself to be the mutt for all I care.

Did you know that today marks the longest time we have gone without seeing each other since we were nine? A thoroughly miserable milestone if you ask me. I half expect that every time I hear the popping sound of an apparition, you will appear - just as you did on that thoroughly miserable Christmas in 6th year when your family indecently decided to escape the hellhole we call England to go - and I shutter to even think of it - skiing. And on Christmas morning you broke at least three laws apparating, across borders to my house. I still don’t know what you were thinking doing something so irrational. Your inner Gryffindor truly came out that day. Can you imagine H ever doing anything so idiotic!? Salazar forbid he ends up a Gryffindor like his fearless mother. Mark my words, our son is going to grow up with a healthy sense of self preservation. I still remember my father’s face when you materialized in front of his morning show. Just that alone made your lion-brained-lunacy worth the risk-even when he almost brained you with his beer bottle. Then we ran over to your back yard and hid in our treehouse for the rest of the day. It was absolutely ridiculous and reckless and was one of my fondest Christmas memories. Merlin help us all.

Anyhow. The days here have been torturously long. Both literally and metaphorically. I’ll spare you the details. But an unanticipated highlight of my stay here is that I get to spend time with my godson. I hope that one day very soon H will be able to meet his god-brother. Although I fear what the two of them might get up to.

Hug H for me,

Yours, always

—H.B.P.

Feb 25th 1981
Dear Sev,

Albus delivered your letter today. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t both laugh and cry reading it—at the same time, no less. Remus and Sirius were visiting, and I’m fairly certain they now think I’ve gone completely mad.

Sev, please don’t hate me. I know I promised I’d burn your letters, but—I can’t.

I won’t.

Not when, in just a month’s time, you’ll have stripped yourself of every memory of writing them. And I’ll be left without even the luxury of preserving them the way we did with those memories we bottled before you left.

Call it Gryffindor idiocy if you like—you always do—but I have to keep them. I know I can’t actually send replies. I know you’ll never read these until you’re home and safe. But I can’t not write to you. So I will. And when you come back, you’re going to read every single letter we wrote to each other. They’ll never replace the memories you gave up… but at least they’ll be something. I’m keeping them safe, sealed in a box charmed and linked to open with our will should you not open it yourself (Hopefully the box doesn’t outlive us all.)

As for that Christmas—if it was weird that it was one of your favourites, than weird must also equate cherished. Because it was one of my favorites too. You want to know what I was thinking when I apparated cross countries, law be damned? That if I had to listen to one more of Tuney’s tirades about “normalcy”, I was going to hex someone’s eyebrows off. You were my escape. You always were.

And yes—our Harry is absolutely, unequivocally not allowed to do anything so dangerous. Not intentionally, anyway. Preferably not by accident either, but… well, that ship has sailed. He’s become something of a pint-sized escapeologist lately. Blink, and he’s vanished. Nothing in Witch Weekly’s “Tips for Taming Your Accidental Apparition Artist” is helping, unsurprisingly. Thankfully, he never goes too far. He’s actually rather predictable. He always apparates into—wait for it—one of your cauldrons. Yes Sev. Cauldron. He apparates into one of your bloody pots every single time! It’s good that I’m not brewing anything these days, and that James has never been all that interested in the subject to begin with, or else I would fear our baby would find himself the newest ingredient to the bubbling boil cure. Hopefully, by the time you are home he will have out grown that habbit. Although, something tells me if you were home he wouldn’t want to curl up in the cauldron because he could curl up in your arms instead.

It is quite endearing, really, if irritating. James has resorted to simply placing him in a cauldron in the morning instead of the baby walker. Carries him around like that all day. Sirius thinks he’s lost his mind. Personally, I think it’s adorable.

I miss you, Sev.

Yours, Always

— Lily

March 1st, 1981,

Dear Sev,

Today was supposed to be our wedding day (if you don’t count the five other dates we’ve had to postpone). But this is the first time we’ve reached one of our cancelled dates without having already chosen another. Please, come home so we can decide on one. Playing house with James is getting old. I already spent seven years sharing a tower with him. He really has been playing up the Best Man gig though. But, don’t worry, I talked him out of calling himself the James of Honor when I told him that I wanted him and the marauders as my groomsman instead of the traditional bridesmaids-still haven’t convinced him to stop calling the rest of them my Maids of Marauder though. I told James you would bar him from the wedding completely if he was still calling them that by the time you returned home, and then the only best man at our wedding would be yours. I think the thought of Lucius Malfoy smirking by your side, leaving the wedding party bereft of any Gryffindors is what will finally shut him up.

Honestly, though, maybe it’s for the best we’ve postponed the wedding again. Mad-Eye showed up at the last Order meeting and started showing me these new gadgets the Aurors have been developing. Apparently, they could use them to track down anybody at the wedding with a Dark Mark. At first, I was furious—how dare he try to use my neutral wedding as a trap to catch his enemies? But then I realised he probably thought my reasons for postponing were based on fear of Death Eaters crashing a high-profile Light wedding. He didn’t suspect anyone invited might already be a Death Eater. He thinks I’m marrying James bloody Potter for crying out loud!

And I did not know what to do with that. Here I am, a dark witch, fighting on the light side of this war, and a Muggleborn, likely planning to invite Death Eaters to my wedding—not as a trap, but as guests… Do I dare ask you how many people at our wedding might have Dark Marks? No. No, I don’t want to know. What would I even do with that information? I know the people you’d call close friends—the ones we’d invite—are fighting for the expansion of dark magic rights, not those blood purists. But still, the thought that anyone could join a cult that kills innocent people in order to push their agenda makes me feel sick to my stomach. Then again, I’m in the Order of the bloody Phoenix, so who am I to talk?

How did we get ourselves so entangled in this war, Sev? Where do two muggle-raised, anti-purist, dark warlocks, belong in the wizarding world today? If I didn’t love magic so much I’d say we should just go buy a farm and leave it all behind. But then I try to think of you out on a farm and the fantasy dissipates pretty quickly. Still, it feels like yesterday we were making up spells and experimenting with potions and now we have somehow found ourselves apart of both Dumbles and Voldies inner circles. I blame it mostly on you by the way. You say my Gryffindor idiocy is what gets us into most of our messes. But I say it’s your Slytherin snoopiness. Then again, maybe it’s just the both of us—our bloody curious minds. It’s certainly not because either of us believes in the ‘greater good’ Albus keeps harping on about. Anyway, I should probably go and put Harry to bed. Don’t know why I bother though. He’s just going to end up in another one of your cauldrons by morning.

Maybe I’ll take a page out of James’ book and just leave the bloody pot on the bed.

Yours, Always

— Lily

And there you have it, dear readers — three letters between Lily and her mysterious love! Were you expecting a scandal and got a love story instead? Were you hoping for a hidden affair, only to find a fiancé that James Potter himself knew about? I know I was!

But here’s the question that’s sent this reporter’s Quick-Quotes Quill into a frenzy — who is this enigmatic “Sev”? Any guesses? I’m quite certain many of you have at least an inkling, even if you’re loath to admit it. Lily Potter — in love with a Death Eater? The Boy-Who-Lived, the son of a Death Eater? Spy or otherwise — it’s enough to make even Dumbledore’s portrait blush!
And as if that weren’t enough to send shockwaves through wizarding Britain — Lily Potter herself, a dark witch?

It took me months of tireless investigation (and more than one discreet Firewhisky with certain sources) to confirm this last, most startling revelation. But after a particularly curious chat with none other than Algie Longbottom — yes, the esteemed wizard and long-time friend of the Potter family — I can reveal exclusively that Lily Potter was indeed a Muggle-born witch with, Merlin forbid it… a dark core.

So, my dear readers, it seems even the brightest witch of her age had shadows of her own.

Well, I did promise you a tragedy, didn’t I?

— Rita Skeeter,

Quick-Quotes Quill in hand, always first with the facts you wish weren’t true.

Harry looked up from the paper. 
“This is rubbish, right? Like everything else she writes?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” Hermione said quietly.

“It can’t be true, though. Right? It’s not possible.”

“Harry. I. Don’t. Know,” Hermione said, each word clipped and deliberate. “But these are primary sources. I have no reason to believe she forged them—at least, not yet.”

“But it’s hardly like Algie Longbottom is a reliable source. And we know Skeeter isn’t.” Ron shoved his copy of The Prophet aside as if that settled the argument. “I mean really—Lily Potter, a dark core? That’s utter malarkey. She was a hero!”

“Ron, having a dark core doesn’t automatically make you evil,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not how it works. If it were, a quarter of the wizarding population would be born evil.”

“Of course that’s how it works, Hermione!” Ron scoffed. “There’s a whole house for them!”

“Right,” Hermione replied dryly. “Just like every Gryffindor is perfectly Light, and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are all somewhere in between.”

“Exactly!” Ron said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “I mean, really, ’Mione—have you ever met anyone with a dark core that you actually liked?”

“Ron! You do realize I’m not a Light witch, right?”

“What?” Ron blinked at her, completely thrown, as if she’d just told him she was secretly a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

“If anything, I’m on the darker side of grey,” Hermione continued, calm but firm. “Not dark enough to be considered a Dark witch by any means, but certainly not Light. Would you consider me any less of a Gryffindor? Any less good?” Her tone was even, but Harry caught the faint strain beneath it.

“Of course not! You belong here more than anybody!” Ron said quickly. His words were earnest, though his face betrayed the panic of a man whose worldview was rapidly crumbling.

“But that’s exactly the problem, Ronald!” Hermione pressed on. “This obsession with labels—Light, Dark—it’s all identity politics. And I let myself be blinded by it.” She exhaled sharply. “Merlin, if this is true—if both of Harry’s parents were Muggle-born, or at least Muggle-raised, and Dark—it gives their lives so much more context! Can you imagine? There would’ve been nowhere safe for them. Especially during the war. These letters, true or not, are enlightening.”

She shook her head, her curls bouncing with the motion. “I always lumped Dark wizards and purists together, and Muggle-borns and the Light in another. But that’s not how it works. You can’t choose whether you’re Dark or Light any more than you can choose whether you’re Muggle-born or Pureblood. The only thing you can choose is how you treat people who are different from you.”

“So you’re saying the letters are true?” Harry asked miserably as they started toward Transfiguration. Honestly, he was only half paying attention to Hermione's spiel, his mind far less concerned with the revelation around one of his parents magical aptitudes, and more focused on the revelation that one of his parents might not actually be his parent.

“No, Harry,” Hermione said softly. “I’m saying I don’t have enough information to say they’re false. And if I’m being honest—it would make sense if they were true. But I’m also painfully aware of the integrity—or rather, lack thereof—of the source.”

“But how could Harry be a Light wizard if both his parents were Dark, ’Mione? That doesn’t make sense!” Ron protested.

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe it’s a recessive gene.”

“A recessive what?” Ron sputtered, nearly tripping over a first-year Hufflepuff darting past. “Oi! Midget! Watch where you’re going or I’ll deduct points!”

“How do we even know I have a Light core?” Harry asked before Hermione could scold Ron for abusing his prefect privileges.

Both Ron and Hermione stopped short, staring at him.

“You mean, other than the fact that you can conjure a Patronus in two seconds flat, mate?” Ron asked incredulously.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Hermione groaned, flopping into her seat at the front of the Transfiguration classroom. 
“On this week’s to-do list,” she muttered, “explain genetics to Ron and coreology to Harry.”

Professor McGonagall, perched on her desk in her Animagus form and fixed the trio with a distinctly feline glare that made Harry certain she’d heard Hermione perfectly. He groaned, and laid his head down in his arms for the rest of the lesson, trying to ignore the constant prickle of his classmates stares on him.

By the end of the day, practically the whole school had a subscription to the prophet to receive the special evening exclusive of the “Your’s, Always — Lily” Column. So it was with a sinking heart that Harry watched hundreds of owls fly into the Great Hall during dinner.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet Exclusive

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent and Seeker of Truths Most Shocking

Here we are my lovelies! Our next set of letters between Lily Potter and her darling Sev!

March 15th, 1981

My beloved Doe,

My godson took his first steps today.

I believe it may be the first time I’ve ever seen his father cry. Do not EVER tell him I said that. His mother, of course, threw a whole cocktail party—pardon—"soiree" — once you surpass a certain calibre of wealth, it seems you also abandon the English language — in celebration. I still haven’t the faintest idea what a soiree has to do with a child's first steps, but… it was a welcome reprieve from the usual drudgery. I even managed—miraculously—not to roll my eyes when L presented the child with a broom as a congratulatory gift. A broom. For a child who can barely stand, much less fly! Fortunately, the thing only levitates about a foot off the ground. An utterly asinine use of perfectly good magic. The boy couldn’t even mount it properly. L, however, was practically glowing as he paraded the child around the room atop the blasted thing, beaming like some overgrown cherub. Every time he tried to let go, the boy toppled over. Just that short, absurd fall—every time—was enough to send my heart into my throat.

Our son is never flying a broom. I mean it. Don’t let Prongs near him with one. Not even to sweep the bloody floor.

Has H started walking yet? I can’t help wondering what milestones I am already missing. Watching my godson grow—it's… touching. But it serves as a reminder. A sharp one. Of all that I’m not there to see. All that I can't even speak of while I'm here.

Take care of yourself, and give our son a hug and a kiss.

Yours, Always

— H.B.P.

March 18th, 1981

Dear Sev,

I’m truly happy that you’ve had the chance to witness Draco’s milestones. I know how precious those moments are. And though you haven’t been able to see Harry’s, I want you to know… you deserve to be part of both boys’ lives. Maybe you still can be. After all, Harry and Draco are a full two months apart. Harry’s a remarkably gifted little boy, but even he needs more than a day to catch up with Malfoy. Two months is a lot of time when you don’t even have a year under your belt yet (it is also a lot of time for his dad to tell Albus to screw it and come home to personally see his sons first steps).

The biggest milestones you have missed are Harry’s magical ones. He has started apparating when he gets too excited…or lonely…or bored (Merlin help us), and I regularly find his favorite toys floating mid-air as he babbles proudly to himself. And just yesterday, he levitated my old Muggle broom — purely for fun, mind you. So despite your wishes... I think we might be raising a future Quidditch star, whether we like it or not. Honestly, what did you expect? You knowingly left him with James Potter.

But I will do my best to keep the daredevil flying lessons to a minimum. And for the record: that Wonky-Faint or whatever James calls it, is officially banned from this household. So don’t worry. Even this Gryffindor has a shred of responsibility left… even if she is completely surrounded by ones who don’t.

I am looking forward to your next letter. Please write again soon. Each time I receive one I worry it is the last.

Yours, Always

— Lily

March 21st, 1981

My darling Doe,

My godson managed to set off what I can only describe as a small bomb during dinner this evening — though of course, wizards have no true equivalent. One moment, we were about to eat what appeared to be a perfectly respectable cherry pie, and the next, the dining room resembled the aftermath of some dreadful massacre. Cherry filling clung to the ceiling, the walls, the curtains — and to everyone unfortunate enough to be in attendance.

We are fortunate He was not present. I shudder to think what sort of “lesson” that might have invited. Still, when L recounted the event to Him later, He seemed more amused than displeased. Claimed that he had done something similar at the same age — as though exploding desserts were some twisted rite of passage for up and coming Dark Lords.

Please tell me no puddings have met a similar fate at home, I hope? It is clear that my godson possesses an extraordinary degree of raw power. One day, he may even rival Him. That thought lingers with me… and inevitably leads to another: how is H faring? He, too, carries within him a formidable and - given his parents - likely dark core. Power such as theirs does not sleep quietly.

Life here proceeds in its curious rhythm. There are days of unbearable tedium, and days when survival itself feels like an accomplishment. It is strange — one finds a routine even in places where routine should be impossible. I rise, I read, I brew, I endure. It is, disturbingly, not unlike my routine at home. 

Ah, but the library, my dear — the library! How I hope you will one day see it. Study in it. You would be astonished. Shelves upon shelves of works long forbidden or “cleansed” from the Light’s archives. The breadth of knowledge that has been deliberately buried… it is staggering. The so-called enlightened world has censored itself into ignorance.

I have learned more in my short stay here than years of Ministry-sanctioned study ever offered. Not all of it dark — though of course, the Light insists on branding anything it fears as such. I have learned that there are so much more Muggle influences and biases woven through every “modern” theory, every sanitized spellbook, every rewritten history that the Light has to offer than I ever dare believe before. There is so much knowledge that witches and wizards once considered commonplace that has been lost but that can be found among these shelves, protected by this family for generations, often at great risk to themselves. I find myself understanding where the Purists are coming from perhaps just a little more. Still, it unsettles me to admit that they might posses any leg to stand on, however warped, misguided, and bigoted that leg may be.

I will write again soon. Stay safe.

Yours, Always

— H.B.P.

March 25th, 1981

My dearest Sev,

Every time Albus brings me one of your letters, my heart leaps — a flicker of joy, followed swiftly by that familiar sting of fear. I’m grateful to hear from you again, but I can’t help wondering if this one will be the last. Each letter feels like a reprieve, like catching a whisper before the darkness swallows the rest.

Your story about that cake explosion made me snort tea clear up my nose. Do I need to remind you of the Exploding Cake of 1961? Neither of us were old enough to remember it, but my parents still talk about that wretched community picnic — the one where a perfectly innocent cake detonated across the park. No one ever did figure out what went wrong, though I suspect Mum and Dad have long since pieced it together after discovering magic was real.

Anyway, my point is this: exploding pastries are not a prerequisite for Dark Lording. Just because you don’t strut about in flowing robes proclaiming your dark core so strong that you must rule over everything, doesn’t mean you weren’t born with a very powerful core of your own. You just simply chose sarcasm and cynicism over domination and dramatics.

Look at you now: a brilliant, sardonic, utterly exasperating, occasionally austere wizard. Not a Dark Lord. So don’t start reading omens into every flicker of uncontrolled power. I’m sure Harry will blow up his own cake someday and be welcomed into your little “frighteningly overpowered wizards” club. But if that day ever comes, it won’t mean he’s destined to be a Dark Lord — or a Light one, should his magic diverge from his parents and lean Light, instead. For now, our dessert remains safe though, as he’s perfectly content apparating into cauldrons. He’s really found his niche. I personally prefer the pastry bomb.

Honestly, Sev, one of these days he will splinch himself, and then what? James and I now carry Essence of Murtlap everywhere we go, like nervous first-years lugging textbooks. If the Malfoys have discovered any clever way to handle magically volatile children, do tell me. My current methods — raiding the wine cabinet and consulting Witch Weekly’s parenting section — have yielded precisely nothing useful. I wish I’d listened more carefully when your mother used to tell those stories about raising you.

I sometimes imagine what it would be like to walk through Malfoy Manor with you. It is hard to imagine a future (even a distant one) where I’d be welcome (much less safe) within those walls. Still, it softens my opinion of them to know they’ve risked themselves in the name of knowledge. Until now, I would’ve sworn they believed any blood spilled for a cause other than family purity wasn’t worth the stain on the carpet.

I’m sorry. I know Lucius is your friend, and I shouldn’t speak ill of him or his family.


Actually — no, I’m not sorry. I listen to you complain about my friends often enough. In fact, now that I think about it, complaining about each other’s friends accounts for at least a quarter of our relationship.

Perhaps we just need better friends.


But then, what would we possibly talk about?

Please, Sev — come home soon. I’d give anything to hear you in person, harping on about how insufferable my friends are. It’s far lonelier without your voice filling the silence.

Yours, Always


— Lily

March 30th, 1981

My Dearest Doe,

This will be my last letter to you before the removal of my memories. There is so much I want to say — yet I find myself sitting here, quill in hand, with nothing but an empty piece of parchment in front of me. Nothing at the forefront of my mind except for the fear of who I will be tomorrow.

I remember once admonishing — with all the arrogance of youth — that I could never understand how anyone could become so twisted, so utterly evil, as Him. And you said: “There is nowhere quite so lonely as being a Muggle-raised-dark-warlock in England.” I can’t help thinking how right you were, as I inch closer to the memory wipe.

There is nothing quite so bitter as loneliness, is there?

Where would either of us be without the other? You would still have the bloody Marauders, no doubt. Me? I’d be exactly what I always feared I would become — bitter and alone.

Without my memories of you... will I be any better than Him? I am no beacon of morality. I never have been. But you —

You made me try.

Thank Merlin our son won’t be Muggle-raised. Not that your parents aren’t kind and well-meaning — but he will be spared the cruelty, the prejudice that the Muggle-born and the Muggle-raised endure from blood-purists. Still, even he will likely face the scorn of those who think a child touched by darkness is already corrupted. However, as we both know, the prejudice of the Light — while still insufferably sanctimonious — is at least survivable. The blood purists would rather see him - us - obliterated than understood. 

I suppose the scorn of the Light is at least a touch more bearable than the venom of the purists.

But will I think so tomorrow?

I don’t know.

But this I do know: I love you, L.

No matter what memories are taken, no matter what I become — that one truth will cling to me like marrow to bone.

I love you. 

I always have.

I always will. 

Tell our son that I love him too. Every day. Even if I cannot remember.

Yours, Always

— H.B.P.

Chapter Text

What did you think of that my dear readers?
How positively delicious was that salacious sample of letters exchanged between our two lovers—before our mysterious H.B.P. was forced to vanish into the shadows, wipe his own memories, and abandon the family he never was able to publicly claim?

Tragic? Perhaps.
Suspicious? Oh, absolutely.

But now, the real question:
Have you figured out who “Sev” really is?

Of course, my sharpest readers cracked it ages ago—the oh-so-unique nickname, the suspiciously potions-themed references (subtle as a cauldron to the face!), and, of course, the most damning detail of all: a certain godson, named by Lily herself.

For those of you still puzzling it out—or lacking, shall we say, the intellectual pedigree of our brighter minds—allow me to spell it out.

Yes, my darlings.
“Sev” is none other than Severus Snape—Hogwarts’ famously brooding, eternally greasy, and increasingly suspicious Potions Master. The man many love to hate… and whom at least one very famous witch apparently loved in a much more intimate capacity.

Still choking on your pumpkin juice?

Don’t fret, sweethearts. I know—it’s a lot to swallow. Rather like one of Professor Snape’s more... volatile concoctions.

But allow me to ease you into this reality with one last letter before I bid you adieu for the evening. A little bedtime reading, if you will. Because whether you believe it or not, it’s time to answer one of the questions that have been simmering since page one:

Why the H.B.P.?

An innocent little pseudonym?
Or a clue, hidden in plain sight?

Stay tuned, my dears—because this mystery is just heating up.

April 1st, 1981

My darling Sev,

James and I filed our final joint will today at Gringotts.

I know. Let that sink in.

Everything is moving too fast now. It’s only been a day since your memories were erased, and already we’ve gone to bury them deeper still. I feel like the world is spinning just beyond our grasp, and we’re doing everything we can to hold on to the bits that matter — the ones we must protect.

If someone had told me even a year ago that I’d be drafting a joint anything with James Potter — let alone a will — I’d have laughed, or hexed them. Probably both. And yet… here we are. War has a way of rearranging our certainties. Strangers become allies. Enemies become family. And the people we once couldn’t imagine ourselves beside become the people we can’t imagine leaving behind.

Anyway — the important part.

Your memories — the ones we bottled together before you left — are sealed safely in our vault. Goblin law, ancient protections, wards more complex than even you might enjoy unraveling. They’ll be there, waiting, until it’s time for you to retrieve them. Alongside them is Harry’s finalized birth certificate.

Don’t fuss. James made sure every t was crossed, every i dotted — though he did try to sneak in Chudley as a second middle name. (He thought he was being clever. He wasn’t. I told him if he wanted Harry to be taken seriously in life, he could start by not naming him after a Quidditch team.)

If the will is opened — by you, Sirius, or Harry — and James and I haven’t had the chance to update it, then everything activates. Automatically. No loopholes, no questions. His name will be corrected. The official certificate filed. The safebox containing these letters will open. And you’ll be able to access your memories.

It’s all done. I made sure of it. You know I don’t leave things undone.

Now. About his name.

You told me you didn’t care what he was called — only that he lived. That he survived. But Sev, don’t lie to me. You may be the most gifted Occlumens Britain has ever seen, but I see you anyway. I always have. I know when you’re telling the truth and when you’re burying it six layers down under guilt, pride, and whatever else you use to shield your heart.

You didn’t want him to bear your father’s name. I understand. Truly.

So here it is — officially and irrevocably:

Harry S. James Prince-Potter

• Father — You. (Obviously.)
• Adoptive Father — James.
  We did what we had to do to keep him safe. But for what it’s worth — James does love him. Fiercely. Completely. Like his own flesh and blood. You’ll have to learn to share him. I know how hard that will be.
• Mother — Me.
• Godfather — Sirius Black.
  Yes, him. Get over it, Sev. I haven’t forgotten what he did to you, and I haven’t forgiven him either — not fully. Maybe I won’t, not until you can. But war makes us grow up fast, and Sirius has grown. He’s not the boy you once knew. He’s become something better. And I’ll tell you something else — he adores Harry. The way he holds him, talks to him, the way he’d kill or die for him without hesitation… He’s a fantastic godfather. You’d be surprised.

It’s all sealed and notarized. Can you believe it?

Harry — the son of a muggle-born and half-blood from a grubby little street in Cokeworth — is now heir to three ancient houses. Prince. Potter. Black. You should have seen Sirius’ face when he declared Harry his heir, grinning like a lunatic the whole time (Of course, he doesn’t know about the Prince line. For obvious reasons.).

I nearly laughed. James actually did.

Sometimes, all of this — the war, the bloodlines, the prophecy, the danger — it’s all too much. And then I look at Harry. Or at James holding him like the most fragile thing he’s ever known. Or at Sirius lighting up just to be near him.

And sometimes, it’s just enough.

Or it would be. If you were here.

Take care of yourself, Sev.

You are not as alone as you think.

I love you.

Yours, Always

- Lily

And there you have it, my darlings. The clincher. The pièce de résistance. The letter that tied it all together with a neat little bow.

But I must confess, even I was left pondering. You see, this mysterious box—the one containing these oh-so-private letters—was delivered to me ages ago. Anonymously, of course. I’d nearly forgotten about it, gathering dust beneath my desk at the Daily Prophet. It refused to open. Sealed tighter than Gringotts on a holiday.

Until one day…
Click.
As if it had never been locked at all.

So, what changed?

According to Lily herself, if this box opened, it could only mean that one of three very specific individuals had triggered the conditions outlined in her magically sealed will. And if that had happened, a number of rather important things were to occur in tandem. Chief among them?

The formal filing of a certain boy’s official birth certificate.

Naturally, I did a little digging. (And by “digging,” I mean a late-night visit to the Ministry Records Office…with a little help from a clerk who simply cannot resist a juicy tidbit.)

What did I find?

Brace yourselves. Or better yet, sit down and pour yourself a stiff Firewhisky.
Because the Boy Who Lived—our Harry Potter—has recently undergone a legal name change.

He is now registered as:
Harry S. James Prince-Potter.

Now, now, don’t all gasp at once.

Curious, I dove a bit deeper. Ministry files, confidential records, a few whispered Floo calls to the right ears—and what did I uncover?

Severus Snape, our ever-moody Potions Master, is a Half-Blood.
His father? A Muggle by the name of Tobias Snape.
His mother? One Eileen Snape nee Prince.
Yes—that Prince. Of the old wizarding bloodline.

Let’s put that together, shall we?

Prince. Half-Blood.
Half-Blood Prince.
H.B.P.

And where, you ask, was our elusive Half-Blood Prince raised?
Why, in the drab little corner of nowhere known as Spinner’s End, tucked away in the equally forgettable Muggle town of Cokeworth.

Never heard of it? Neither had I. But do try to keep up, darling.

Here’s where it gets downright delicious.

Guess who else lived in Cokeworth—just a few doors down?
None other than Lily Evans. Beloved Gryffindor, war heroine, and, yes, the very same Lily whose letters speak so tenderly of her dear “Sev.”

Childhood sweethearts?
Star-crossed lovers?
Moonlit rendezvous between Muggle lampposts and potion fumes?
One can only speculate.
(And you know I will.)

But whether you find it shocking, sentimental, or scandalous beyond words, one truth now stands irrefutably clear:

Severus Snape is the father.

A truth long buried, scrubbed from memory, sealed behind wards—and now?
Thanks to a forgotten box of letters, a touch of journalistic genius, and yours truly…

Splashed across the front page.

You’re welcome.

More details to come. Because this story is about to take a decidedly dark turn. 

I told you I’d deliver a tragedy, didn’t I?
Well—a tragedy you shall have.

So brace yourselves. The truth is a slippery thing, and we’re only just beginning to unravel the knots on a much more gut-wrenchingly-twisted-tale.

Until then, my darlings, keep your wands close, your tongues wagging, and your secrets a great deal better protected than Professor Snape’s.

Rita Skeeter
Still the most dangerous quill in the wizarding world.

Harry trembled, the Daily Prophet crumpled in his grip.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real. How is this even possible? He'd have known if his name had been changed. Right! At the very least he would have been informed of that!

“Potter! The Dungeon Bat is your father?” Justin Finch-Fletchley called mockingly from the Hufflepuff table. “To go from thinking you’re the son of Seeker extraordinaire James Potter to finding out you’re a Snape—what a fall from grace. Must be humiliating.”

Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
Because just then, Malfoy strolled into the Great Hall—and answered for him.

“Oh, give it a rest, Finch-Fletchley,” Malfoy sneered. “Only a complete imbecile would believe such drivel. It’s clearly a work of fiction, cashing in on Potter’s little… transformation.” He glanced at Harry, and Harry felt his heart lurch at the look in Malfoy's eyes.
“As if my godfather would ever sleep with a Mudblood.”

Harry’s face flushed, hot with fury. Before he knew what he was doing, his wand was out, pressed against Malfoy’s throat.

But whatever anger he had for Malfoy evaporated the moment Professors McGonagall and Snape entered the Great Hall, deep in hushed conversation. If they were aware of the commotion—or the headlines—they didn’t show it.

A hush fell as the two professors moved between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. At the staff table, Umbridge stood, clearing her throat with theatrical severity.

McGonagall and Snape looked up, visibly annoyed at the interruption.

“May we help you, Headmistress?” Snape asked, his voice thick with disdain.

“You certainly can, Severus. I’d like an explanation regarding this evening’s Daily Prophet.”

“I was unaware the Daily Prophet released an evening edition,” Snape replied in his typical cool tone.

“It was a special edition,” Umbridge said smugly. “A continuation of this morning’s release.”

“My apologies, Dolores,” Snape said. “I’ve been otherwise occupied and haven’t had the pleasure of reading any edition today.”

Harry, still clutching the paper, glanced at Snape. Now that he looked closely, the man seemed… exhausted. His robes were wrinkled, his hair even more unkempt than usual. Hadn’t he been away the past few days? Something to do with Order business?

“As neither of us has had the opportunity to review this so-called evening edition,” McGonagall said briskly—though Harry saw the flicker of guilt cross her face. She had read the morning edition after all. Whatever news Snape had been informing her of that distracted her from that must have been significant. “Perhaps you could enlighten us, and we might comment more intelligently.”

“Of course,” Umbridge replied, voice sweet and poisonous. “I merely wish to address Rita Skeeter’s latest article. While we may have been—regrettably—caught off guard by today's releases, I trust future publications will receive appropriate attention before they grace our tables.”

“I don’t waste time on Skeeter’s latest romantic fiction,” Snape snapped. “I have far more important matters to attend to.”

“Not even the title?”

“No,” Snape said flatly, turning his back on her.

“Yours Always, Lily.”

The entire hall went still.

No one missed the way Snape froze mid-step. His usual calm, drawling tone turned a sharp and brittle cold.

“What did you just say?” he asked, without turning.

Umbridge gave a saccharine smile, her voice thick with triumph. “It’s the title of Skeeter’s newest column. Yours Always, Lily. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Should it?” McGonagall cut in smoothly, doing much better job at mimicking Snape’s usual tone of disinterest than the man himself.

But Snape had already seized the nearest copy of the Prophet—Professor Sprout’s. She gave him a disapproving look but didn’t protest.

“Severus…” McGonagall began, stepping closer as she caught sight of the headline now crumpled in his grip. She gently guided him toward his seat. He hesitated, then sat, fumbling with the paper until he found the page in question.

McGonagall, now seated at her place, unfolded another copy she’d more cordially acquired from Hagrid, scanning it quickly.

Around them, the Great Hall remained deathly silent—every eye fixed on the unfolding scene.

One.
Two.
Three.

Harry counted the breaths it took for Snape to read what was on the page.

Twenty.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.

Whispers started to creep through the hall.

Seventy-one.
Seventy-two.
Seventy-three.

The noise had almost returned to normal volume.

Ninety-one.

Harry felt Ron and Hermione trying to get his attention, but his eyes—and ears—were locked on one thing.

Ninety-two.

Somewhere behind him, Malfoy lowered his own wand and stepped away from Harry before storming out of the hall.

Ninety-three.

Snape finally looked up from the paper—and looked straight at Harry.

Guilt.
Remorse.
Terror.

Harry saw all three in those eyes.
But not confusion.
Not surprise.

He knew.
Snape knew!

Maybe not about these letters. But he knew he was Harry’s father. Which meant it was true. All of it.
And Snape had kept it to himself.

Harry turned and walked out of the Great Hall.

Chapter Text

This hadn’t been the plan.

Not that there had ever truly been one—but if there had, it would not have involved this.

Whatever this was—this catastrophic unraveling—it spat in the face of anything that might’ve resembled strategy. If there had been a plan, it would have involved preventing exactly this moment from happening.

He hadn’t been given enough time.

He was still a mess—fragmented memories colliding in his skull, relentless migraines, feelings he couldn’t afford to name, let alone sort through. Especially the ones concerning the boy.

His boy.

Severus stared at the headline, eyes scanning the first page of the Prophet's morning edition. He couldn't bring himself to read further. Not here. Not with every eye in the Great Hall fixed on him, confirmation enough of what those cursed letters must have revealed. He would read them later. Alone. When he could at least pretend to compose himself without an audience.

But one fact was now unavoidable. The secret he had discovered mere weeks ago was now unveiled.

Well. At least Dumbledore’s infuriating insistence that it be kept quiet was no longer his to obey or disobey. That burden had been ripped from him.

He exhaled, low and tight, and made the mistake of looking up.

Potter’s eyes met his instantly. No—not Potter’s.

Harry’s.

His son’s.

The boy who now knew the truth.

It took only a heartbeat for the expression on Harry’s face to shift—from confusion, to something far more dangerous. Betrayal.

Damn it all.

Severus’ Occlumency shields—normally a fortress—were in tatters. Useless.

Well, he certainly didn’t need Legilimency to feel the boy’s fury, his hurt. He watched, helpless, as Harry rose and walked out of the Great Hall.

No. Not walked. Fled.

And Severus knew with a sickening certainty: Harry did not want him. If there ever had been a flickering chance of acceptance before this, it certainly did not exist now.

Just as Albus had predicted the day he had learned the truth. Why did the old man always have to be right?

Just like today, that day had begun perfectly acceptable and had ended in tatters. 

The day he’d found out he had a son had started on an early Saturday morning several weeks prior. Severus was enjoying a rare, peaceful breakfast alone in his chambers, free of squabbling students, meddlesome colleagues, and demanding Dumbledores. It was really shaping up to be quite a tolerable day.

Naturally, that couldn’t last.

A flare of green from his fireplace notified him of a request to access his Floo from Gringotts. 

Intrigued, he granted the request, half-expecting to see the goblin who typically managed his accounts.

To his surprise, it wasn’t a goblin who stepped through the fireplace, but William Weasley. Snape blinked. 

"Mr. Weasley," Severus greeted him with a measured nod, gesturing toward the sitting room. "I must admit, I wasn’t expecting you this morning. I was in the middle of my tea. May I offer you something to drink?"

"I’d appreciate some tea," Bill replied with a polite smile.

Severus retrieved the tea and returned, settling across from the eldest Weasley in his modest but comfortably appointed sitting room.

"So, what brings you to my fireplace at this hour?" He harbored no particular ill will toward Bill. In fact, before the infamous twins had turned Hogwarts into their personal testing ground for chaos, Severus had found the Weasley brood to be tolerable enough—bright, if occasionally exasperating. But certainly not the sort of people he expected unannounced visits from. Something had changed.

Bill hesitated, visibly weighing his words, before exhaling and choosing bluntness over delicacy.

"Were you aware that you're one of only two people authorized to open the Potter will? Well—three, technically, if you count Harry, but he can't access most of it until he comes of age."

Severus raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. "I was not aware. And how, exactly, did you come by this information?"

Bill looked mildly sheepish. "Curiosity. Like everyone else, really. Ever since Halloween, there’s been talk—about the glamour dropping, the Veela traits manifesting. It’s obvious now that some serious concealment magic was in place. And the deeper people dig, the clearer it becomes: there's no trace of Veel heritage in either James or Lily's family trees. Not anywhere. Someone covered something up."

"I don't disagree," Severus said slowly. "But what does any of that have to do with me and the Potter will? Surely you’ve noticed I bear no resemblance to the Veel.”

Bill let out a brief chuckle. "I’m just giving context. That’s what led me to look into the will in the first place. It’s stored at Gringotts—locked, but not inaccessible. I pulled some strings and got limited clearance. Just enough to see who had access and who had used it."

Severus tilted his head, prompting him to go on.

"And it turns out, only two people are currently authorized to open it."

"Albus and Sirius," Severus said flatly. That much, at least, he had known. Dumbledore had accessed the will after the Potters’ deaths to arrange for Harry’s placement.

Bill shook his head. "Not exactly. Dumbledore only had provisional access—just enough to determine guardianship in the event of James and Lily’s death. He used that authority once, then sealed the will using emergency powers granted to him as Chief Warlock during wartime. He effectively locked everyone else out."

"So the full Potter will has never been opened?" Severus asked, incredulous.

"Not since before their deaths. And—aside from Harry, who can’t access it until he turns seventeen, you're the only person currently authorized to open it. Sirius was the other, but… well, he’s still a fugitive."

A strange tension coiled in Severus’s chest. There was no logical reason for it—he was in his own home, sharing tea with someone he at least mildly trusted. Still, the weight of the conversation unsettled him.

"From what you’ve said, it sounds like I can’t open it if Albus locked it down."

"That restriction only applied during wartime," Bill replied calmly. "And according to the Wizengamot, we’re not officially at war anymore."

Severus blinked. "What?"

"Dumbledore’s authority to seal the will was tied to wartime conditions," Bill clarified. “Those conditions haven’t technically legally applied for years, neither has his right to keep it sealed."

Snape’s mind whirred behind his impassive expression. He had always known there were secrets surrounding the Potters—especially Potter’s spawn. How could there not be? He was the Boy-Who-Lived after all. Albus had been evasive, even by his own maddening standards. But to learn this—that he had been named in the will, that he had access to something even Dumbledore did not, something of Lily and the old man had hidden it away—

It unsettled him. Deeply.

“I take it,” Snape said at last, “you didn’t come here just to deliver this news.”

“No,” Bill admitted. “I came because I think someone needs to open that will. Someone with… enough sense not to make things worse.”

Snape scoffed quietly. “And you think that’s me.”

“I think you’re a man who values truth, whether you like it or not,” Bill said. “And I think—whatever the will says—Harry’s going to need someone who can handle it.”

“Not to mention, I am the only one who is legally able to access it. And you want to be there when I open it.” Severus added. Bill shrugged his acquiescence.

“Well, someone needs to be the witness.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Snape said, putting his tea aside and standing to grab his traveling cloak before following a smug looking Weasley to his Floo.

Severus slammed through the front door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the echo of it shaking dust from the ancient chandelier above. Bill stumbled in behind him, barely managing to close the door before following the potions master into the gloomy corridor. The Order meeting was already underway — voices droning from the kitchen — but Severus hardly cared.

He still tasted iron at the back of his throat. The magic from the will’s opening had left a bitter tang in the air, and his head… Merlin, his head was spinning.

Bill had accompanied him in Gringotts as the official witness, thank Merlin for that. Severus had been in no condition to deal with the procedural trifles — the small bequests, the letters that needed to be sent along to their designated owners, the bureaucracy. He had ignored all of it the moment he received the vials.

His memories.

He’d barely waited for the goblin’s formalities to end before uncorking the first vial and pressing it to his temple. Then the next. Then the next. Bill had warned him to take it slowly, but he hadn’t listened. Of course he hadn’t. He had needed to know. Needed to see. Needed to feel what had been stolen from him.

And then his mind became a storm.

The influx had been too much. It wasn’t only memories returning — it was memories overwriting each other, twisting and merging, two versions of the same life warring for dominance. In one, he remembered Lily as a beloved childhood friend, long dead and gone. In the other—
He’d had to stop. Had to breathe.

He realized then that Dumbledore had not merely altered memories. The old man had rewritten feelings. Emotional responses — subtle, almost invisible — woven into the very fabric of thought. He’d agreed to some of it, long ago, for Harry’s safety. But not all of it. Never for life.

And some alterations — he was certain — he would have never consented to at all. He would never find the vial that would contain a memory of that consent. Because it wouldn’t - couldn’t- exist.

There were blanks, too.  Lily had said there hadn’t been time to preserve everything. Those were gone forever, stolen pieces of himself that he would never reclaim.

How could he not have known? How could he, a master Occlumens, have failed to notice such invasive tampering?

Because it had taken the combined power of Albus Dumbledore, genius of Lily Evans, and sheer Occlumantic exactitude that only Severus Snape himself possessed to make the spell work that had invaded his brain for years so convincingly. Only that delicate balance of genius, power, and prowess had kept the tampering hidden from him. Had kept him from going mad at the time.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t going mad now.

At last, trembling, he had drawn the memories out again — every one — and replaced them carefully into their vials. He’d been methodical about it, precise even through the migraine splitting his skull. He couldn’t risk shattering them. Not yet. Not until he had a system. He had then chosen only three — the ones he had labeled most precious — and reintroduced them slowly, deliberately. The rest, he promised himself, he would view in a Pensieve first. So he knew what he would be subjecting his mind to before replacing it back in his head.

But that could wait. There were… other matters.

He could feel the weight of the parchment in his hand as he stalked down the corridor, the will burning like fire through his gloves.

He pushed open the kitchen door.

Conversations halted.

Dumbledore sat at the head of the long table, his cursed arm cradled against his chest, pale and sickly. Severus barely cared about the old mans infirmity anymore. He strode forward, slammed the will onto the table, and hissed,

“Did you know about this?”

“Severus Snape!” Molly Weasley’s voice cracked through the air, scandalized.

“Snivellus!” Sirius spat, half-risen from his chair. “How dare you walk into my house—”

“I dare,” Severus cut across him, voice like a whip, “because this concerns Harry Potter’s safety. Which, I have recently discovered, we have entrusted to entirely the wrong hands.”

That silenced the room. Lupin, ever the mediator, laid a hand on Black’s shoulder, urging restraint.

Severus turned back to Dumbledore. “Where was he raised, Albus?”

Dumbledore’s tone was infuriatingly calm. “That is highly confidential information, Severus — information that, given your position in this war, you yourself agreed should remain unknown to you.”

“A flimsy agreement made under false pretenses,” Severus snapped. “It wouldn’t hold up for two seconds in custodial court, magical or otherwise.”

A murmur of confusion rippled around the table, but he ignored it. His gaze was locked on the old man. Dumbledore’s face had gone ashen.

“Severus,” the old wizard began softly, “for the boy’s own safety—”

“Promise me,” Severus interrupted, “you did not leave him with Tuney and her walrus of a husband.”

Black frowned. “Who the hell is Tuney?”

Severus snarled at the interruption, before turning his glare back to Dumbledore. “Promise me, Albus, that Harry Potter was not left with Petunia and Vernon Dursley. Promise me that I will not find a wizard at Number Four, Privet Drive, if I go there next summer.”

“How do you know that address?” Black barked. “Did your master give it to you?”

“I might ask how you know it,” Severus sneered, “but your reaction tells me all I need to know.” He faced Dumbledore again. “You can’t promise me that, can you?”

Silence.

“Then I will answer my question for you, Albus,” Severus said coldly. “No one will find him there next summer. Because I will not allow it.”

“That is not your decision to make!” Black roared, springing from his chair so violently that it scraped across the stone floor. “I’m his godfather, and even I can’t remove him from that place! If Albus Dumbledore says that’s the safest place for him, then that’s where he’ll stay. End of story.”

Snape didn’t move. He merely regarded the man with that cold, disdainful stillness that always seemed to infuriate Black more than words ever could. Had this same argument with the old man, have you? He thought. And you didn’t win.

But Snape had something that Sirius hadn’t.

“Even if his parents expressly forbade it?” he asked, and then — with a sharp motion — grabbed the parchment back off the table.

“Severus, this is not the time for hypotheticals—” Dumbledore began.

Snape spoke over him, voice slicing through the noise like a blade. “‘It is imperative that, under no circumstance, Harry be placed with my sister, Petunia Dursley, or any member of her family.’”

A stunned silence followed.

Lupin leaned forward, his voice cautious. “What is that you’re reading from?”

Snape’s eyes flicked up, black and unyielding. “James and Lily Potter’s will.”

Dumbledore’s throat cleared — a measured sound, too casual to be convincing. “The contents of that will are highly confidential, Severus. I had them sealed for a reason. It is not something to be flaunted.”

A humorless smile touched Snape’s lips. “So you do know the contents.”

“I do,” Dumbledore admitted, his voice soft. “Partially. And I ordered it sealed for everyone’s safety. Largely for yours.”

Snape’s composure cracked. “My safety? No. This had nothing to do with safety. You were so desperate for your spy, for your control, that you were willing to destroy lives to achieve it. Black’s. Mine. Lily’s. Harry’s.”

Lupin raised a conciliatory hand, as if soothing a wounded creature. “If Dumbledore read the contents and deemed it safer to keep sealed—”

Snape’s voice cut through him like steel. “ ‘Before we begin,’ ” he read, “ ‘Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper of our house. Sirius Black was a decoy. The remainder of this will may only be read if Sirius Black and/or Severus Snape are present. If neither can, the will may be opened only by our son, once he comes of age.’ ”

Lupin went still. Black’s expression flickered from confusion to dread.

“I’m sure the rest was kept sealed for Harry’s safety,” Black muttered, his tone uncertain and frail.

“I wouldn’t stake your life on it,” Snape said, turning another page. “ ‘Should we pass away, custody of our son—pseudonym, Harry James Potter—goes to his father.’ ”

Lupin frowned. “His father? Isn’t this James’ will?” Meanwhile Sirius was mouthing the word pseudonym with no noise coming out.

“Oh, that’s the best part,” Snape said, his voice cold, brittle.

“Severus,” Dumbledore interjected, his tone sharp now, no longer gentle. “You will not continue this. It is beneath you, and I forbid it.”

The air shifted. Magic rippled — ancient, binding, suffocating. The weight of an Unbreakable Vow pressed against Snape’s chest, a tangible reminder of the leash Dumbledore had placed around his throat.

For a moment, the others only stared. They could all feel it. Rumors had always been whispered in the Order about the nature of Snape loyalty — Dumbledore’s control over him — but none had expected Dumbledore to wield that sword he held against Snape so blatantly.

Snape’s laugh was low and dangerous — unhinged, almost. It was a sound that fit a Black fresh out of Azkaban far more than it did the collected potions master. “You forbid me?”

Bill Weasley reached forward, panic flashing in his eyes. “Professor, please—you’ll lose your magic—”

“No,” Snape said smoothly. “I won’t. Some Unbreakable Vows go both ways, Mr. Weasley. And I would think the great Albus Dumbledore would have had the sense not to tie a man’s loyalty to false memories of his own design.”

The understanding dawned slowly across Bill’s face, followed by disgust. His gaze flicked to Dumbledore, who held an air of calm before the storm.

Snape turned back to the parchment. “Let’s share what our illustrious leader wants buried, shall we?”

“Severus,” Bill tried again, “maybe now isn’t—”

But Snape was already reading.

“ ‘To my love, Severus Snape.’ ”

A derisive snort escaped Black. One sharp glare silenced him.

“ ‘My greatest fear, outside of you and our Harry dying, is dying before I could return your memories. The hardest thing I’ve ever done was agreeing with your crackpot plan to alter them, but I understood why we had to do it. But if both James and I are dead, well then there is a truth you must know. Far more important than your spy work. You are Harry’s father.’ ”

Snape’s voice faltered. Just slightly. Enough for the words to hang heavy in the air.

“ ‘Though we planned to marry, we called it off for his safety. But I have always loved you.’ ”

The line burned through him like a curse. For one breath, he could not speak, could not even look up. Then he gathered himself — the careful mask of detachment falling back into place — and continued.

“ ‘Attached to this will you will find Harry S. James Prince-Potter’s finalized birth certificate. It will automatically be filed upon the opening of this will. If his father cannot take custody, his godfather shall. If both are unable, then custody passes to Remus Lupin, Frank and Alice Longbottom, Arthur and Molly Weasley, or Andromeda Tonks.’ ”

Snape looked up, eyes glittering. “Quite the list, wouldn’t you say? And yet none of these names raised the Boy Who Lived. So tell me, Albus—where was my son?”

The room had gone utterly still.

“He had to go somewhere safe,” Lupin murmured, but his voice was brittle.

“The blood wards,” Dumbledore said quietly. “They could only function through Lily’s blood. He needed her relatives.”

Snape’s jaw tightened. “So you left my son with Tuney.”

“It was the only way to ensure he was—”

“Safe?” His laugh was bitter. “ No. If you were concerned about his safety then you would not have placed him with Tuney. You were only concerned that the Dark Lord not find him. And you made sure that both Black and I would be unable to contest that decision. Didn’t you?”

Dumbledore’s silence was answer enough.

“I’m surprised he arrived at Hogwarts with all his limbs intact,” Snape spat.

“They were… well compensated,” the old man said finally. As if it was perfectly acceptable to pay off guardians to prevent child abuse.

“With what?” Snape’s voice was soft now — the dangerous kind of quiet. “The Potter vault?”

Dumbledore didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

“You bribed Petunia Dursley,” Snape said, fury trembling in his hands, “with the boy’s own inheritance.”

“It’s common practice—”

“Not when the father is alive and perfectly capable of raising a child! And certainly not when the guardians are abusive!”

“You do not know the Dursleys—”

“Oh, but I do. Even if for years every thought I had of them seemed to miraculously just… slip from my mind,” Snape hissed.

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned, “you cannot remove him from that home.”

Snape’s expression turned to stone. “Luckily,” he said, “it is not your decision to make.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed. “And what then? Do you think he will want to live with you? After years of loathing? After the way you’ve treated him?”

Snape froze. The words struck a nerve he hadn’t known was raw.

He had to be a better alternative than Petunia and Vernon. He had to be. But would Harry—his son—see him as a greater evil than whatever horrors he’d endured with his Aunt and Uncle?

“What happens when he disobeys you?” Dumbledore pressed. “When he pushes you? Will you treat him as a son—or as the boy you’ve despised for years?”

“Hatred you planted,” Snape said tightly.

“That doesn’t make it any less real,” Dumbledore replied. “Not to him. Not even to you. Every memory he has of you—every one you’ve held of him—has been steeped in that hatred. Save, perhaps, for the few from his first months of life. But what are a handful of moments weighed against years of mutual disdain?”

The truth landed like a physical blow. Snape said nothing.

At last, he exhaled—slowly, deliberately. “Then perhaps,” he said, voice low, “it’s time to start building new ones.”

“Do you truly think you can?” Dumbledore asked, his tone almost gentle now. “Do you think they will be good ones?”

“Albus, be quiet!” Molly Weasley snapped, breaking the tension.

It was all the opening Snape needed. He swept from the room, black robes billowing behind him, leaving stunned silence in his wake.

Out in the corridor, he stopped. The will was still clenched in his fist, the parchment crumpled and trembling. His breath came shallow—not from rage, but from something colder, older, infinitely more fragile.

He had spent years convincing himself that Harry Potter was a burden—an echo of every wound he’d ever suffered.
Now, the truth stood unflinching before him: the boy was his. His son.

But would Harry ever see anything but hatred?

Would he ever want to know the truth? He would be seventeen in less than a year. He was almost legally allowed to take care of himself. Did he even need a parent?

Would telling him now do anything but destroy what little peace the boy had left?

He didn’t know.

At the very least he had to sort out his own memories and feelings before he could possibly even plan to tell the boy anything.

Chapter Text

Anger. Blinding, white-hot fury. It seared through him, so intense it threatened to split him apart.

“Nagini—kill,” Harry hissed, the words sliding from his tongue like venom. The snake slithered toward the cowering witch in the corner, her sobs cut short by the sharp command. He turned on Wormtail, snatching the trembling scrap of parchment from the man’s shaking hands.

Useless creature. He ought to kill him too—just for bringing such vile, treacherous news. But that would be wasteful. Wormtail still had his uses. One of them was fear—fear that kept him crawling back, bearing tidings even when he knew what his master’s wrath might bring.

His eyes scanned the paper, and fury surged higher.

The betrayal!

He had always suspected them all—every follower, every simpering servant—to be disloyal. And Severus Snape… Snape had always been the foremost among them in suspicion. The man was brilliant, too clever by half, and brilliance was a danger. Yet that same power, that same cunning, had earned him favor as well.

It only proved how dangerous he truly was.

“Your arm, Wormtail,” Harry said. When the man hesitated, he seized his hand, yanking it forward. Flesh met cold rage as Harry dragged the sleeve back, pressing a bone-white finger to the mark burned into his servant’s skin.

The Dark Mark pulsed faintly beneath his touch. He pushed magic into it—commanding, summoning.

Nothing.

He tried again. Harder.

Still, nobody appeared in the space in front of him.

The fury built until it was a living thing inside him. He poured more of his power into the mark, magic twisting through the air, demanding obedience from the one who hid in Hogwarts’ shadowed halls.

Wormtail screamed. The pain that seared through him was only a whisper of what the other man must have felt—Snape could not ignore this forever. No one could. Not when he—not when Voldemort—demanded it.

The power burned, scorching through Harry’s veins and into Wormtail—his trembling servant, his conduit. The rat’s body convulsed as Voldemort’s fury poured through him, a vessel for the wrath meant for another. Wormtail sagged, nearly collapsing, but Harry caught him by the arm, tightening his grip until bone ground against bone.

He would not allow him to fall. Not yet.

If this was Wormtail’s state—broken, shaking, half-conscious—then the other man, the true target of this punishment, could not last much longer. He would feel it too. And it would be much worse than what Wormtail was experiencing. No one could endure such a summons forever. Especially if they were unconscious, which seemed would be the only likely scenario in which his unfaithful servant was going to arrive at his side.

The summoning thrummed like a curse between his fingertips, until—

Pain exploded through his hand. He cried out, wrenching his finger away as the link snapped.

Wormtail crumpled to the floor, still whimpering.

—and then Harry was falling. Falling. Falling…

He jolted on his bed, gasping. His scar was on fire. His head throbbed as though it might split in two.

He was shaking. His hands—his real hands—were slick with sweat. Ron’s voice was distant, shouting his name.

Harry pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. The echo of Voldemort’s rage was still there, beating like a second heart even as the dream began to fade.

“Harry! HARRY!”

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bedcovers were twisted all around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a white-hot poker was being applied to his forehead.

“Harry!”

Ron was standing over him looking extremely frightened. There were more figures at the foot of Harry’s bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him. . . . He rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.

“He’s really ill,” said a scared voice. “Should we call someone?”

“Harry! Harry!”

He had to tell Ron, it was very important that he tell him. . . . Taking great gulps of air, Harry pushed himself, willing himself not to throw up again, the pain half-blinding him.

“Snape,” he panted, his chest heaving. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”

“What?” said Ron uncomprehendingly.

“He was—he was furious,” Harry gasped. “About Snape—he thinks—he thinks Snape betrayed him— Or knows he did . . .”

Ron stared, wide-eyed. “You saw him?”

“I was him,” Harry said hoarsely. His stomach turned at the memory of Wormtail’s screams, the sight of that pale, sniveling face contorted in pain. “He was torturing Wormtail—using him—to get to Snape. He tried to summon him and it—didn’t work.”

“I’m going for help,” said a scared voice, and Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory.

“Harry, mate,” said Ron uncertainly, “you . . . you were just dreaming . . .”

“No!” said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron understand. “It wasn’t a dream . . . not an ordinary dream. . . . I was there, I saw it. . . . I was him. . .”

He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backward out of the way.

“Harry, you’re not well,” he said shakily. “Neville’s gone for help . . .”

“I’m fine!” Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his pajamas and shaking uncontrollably. “There’s nothing wrong with me, it’s Snape you’ve got to worry about — we need to find out where he is — before he — before he tries again . . .”

He tried to get out of bed but “Ron pushed him back into it; Dean and Seamus were still whispering somewhere nearby. Whether one minute passed or ten, Harry did not know; he simply sat there shaking, feeling the pain recede very slowly from his scar. . . . Then there were hurried footsteps coming up the stairs, and he heard Neville’s voice again.

“Over here, Professor . . .”

“Professor McGonagall came hurrying into the dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose.

“What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?”

He had never been so pleased to see her; it was a member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now, not someone fussing over him and prescribing useless potions.

“It’s Professor Snape. I saw him,” Harry said, breathless. “Voldemort. He was trying to summon Snape—it wasn’t working—he’s furious—he knows something—”

“What do you mean, you saw it happen?” said Professor McGonagall, her dark eyebrows contracting.

“I don’t know. . . . I was asleep and then I was there . . . “Harry hesitated. His scar still burned, and behind his eyes he could still see Wormtail writhing, Voldemort’s pale hand gripping his arm. “He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him,” he said quietly. “I don’t think he’s going to stop until he finds Snape.””

“You mean you dreamed this?”

“No!” said Harry angrily. Would none of them understand? “I was having a dream at first about something completely different, something stupid . . . and then this interrupted it. It was real, I didn’t imagine it.”

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him through her lopsided spectacles as though horrified at what she was seeing.

“I’m not lying, and I’m not mad!” Harry told her, his voice rising to a shout. “I tell you, I saw it happen! He’s going to try again. And Snape. He was already so weak. I didn’t see him. But I knew he was. He knew he was. If he tries again — When he tries again — I don’t know if he will be able to resist.”

McGonagall’s face tightened. She didn’t ask for more details; she merely spun on her heel. “Follow me.”

Ron helped him up, and together they hurried after her, their footsteps echoing sharply off the stone walls. Harry’s scar throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could still feel the heat of Voldemort’s fury — the lingering echo of that dark power clinging to him like smoke in his lungs. At least the nausea had faded.

Professor McGonagall ushered them swiftly into her private quarters. Any other time, Harry might have been curious; he hadn’t seen the rooms since first year. Now, he barely registered them. They crossed to the fireplace, and Harry only half-listened as she prompted Ron with the words to say. Then, with one arm bracing Harry’s weight, Ron pulled him into the grate and threw down the Floo powder.

They landed in a fireplace in the dungeons.

Any other time, Harry might have found it irritating that Ron — even while hauling a half-lucid sixteen-year-old through magical transport — still managed to land cleaner and more upright than Harry ever did on his own. Now. He was just mildly aware of the fact.

Ron guided him quickly out of the hearth, just as McGonagall stepped out behind them.

“Severus?” she called, her voice echoing faintly through the still air. Realizing they were in Snape’s private quarters, Harry frantically looked around the space before him. His desperate search yielded no greasy haired potions vampire though.

McGonagall crossed to a slightly ajar door — apparently leading into Snape’s bedroom — and knocked once before pushing it open. Inside was a pristine room, neat to the point of sterility. No Snape in sight. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Severus?” she called again, louder this time. No answer.

With a quiet, pained sigh, she withdrew her wand and conjured her Patronus. The silvery-gold cat leapt forward, padding soundlessly into the bedroom before vanishing through the wall.

Harry sank into the nearest armchair, limbs trembling, head heavy.

To his relief it only took moments for a reply to return to them — but not from Dumbledore.

A shimmering silver Grim burst into the room, Sirius’ Patronus, bright in the dim space.

“Severus sent word to Albus the moment he felt the summons,” it said in his godfathers voice. “Dumbledore activated the contingency protocols immediately. They’re both at St. Mungo’s.”

The light dissolved into mist, leaving silence in its wake.

“Will he be okay?” Harry heard himself ask. The words felt fragile — like they didn’t quite belong to him.

McGonagall didn’t answer. Her silence said enough though.

Had any Death Eater ever survived the Dark Lord’s wrath after being exposed as disloyal? Harry didn’t know. Somehow, he doubted the answer would be at all favorable to the likelihood of Snape’s continued existence on this earth.

“Can I go? To St. Mungo’s? Can I see him?” he asked again, quieter this time.

“There will be nothing to see right now,” McGonagall replied gently and with an air that lacked judgement toward the request. A request that, a day prior, would have been ludicrous coming from the boy before her. “Under different circumstances, I’d tell you to go straight to Grimmauld Place. But given the emergency use of portkeys I’m assuming Albus used to get Severus out of the castle earlier, along with our own use of the Floo network this morning, I should assume the Headmistress has been notified and is now monitoring for any further travel. You’ll have to wait. Take the Hogwarts Express tomorrow as planned, and go to the Burrow with the Weasleys. Then we can see.”

She crossed to another door — one that lead into a storeroom (she was surprisingly familiar with Snape’s quarters) — and rummaged through shelves until she returned with two potion bottles in hand.

“Since the Headmistress has likely been notified of your absence from the dormitory by now. We’ll need an excuse. I believe a stomach soother and Dreamless Sleep should be enough, given your earlier... episode.”

After a brief pause, she retrieved a third vial. “And perhaps something for the headache as well.”

This time, they exited through Snape’s front door — the lack of urgency making the ordinary route more appropriate and less worthy of Umbridge’s attention should she not already be aware of their travels through the school that night. Unsurprisingly though, they hadn’t gone far before running into the toad herself.

McGonagall, unfazed, pressed the potions into Harry’s hands while Ron made an exaggerated show of supporting his weight. Harry didn’t need to fake how awful he felt.

Ron and Harry moved ahead while McGonagall and Umbridge exchanged clipped, hissing words behind them.

When they reached the common room, Harry downed the headache potion. But instead of going back to bed, he and Ron sat in silence by the fire until Hermione joined them and they could walk down together to breakfast.

Just last night, Harry had gone to bed wishing to be as far from Snape as possible.

Now he needed to see him. Needed to know he was alive. Needed to make sure he was okay.

Even if Snape didn’t want him — a thought Harry didn’t dare look at directly yet (and wasn’t sure he ever would be ready to) — he still needed the man to be okay.

Harry walked down to the Great Hall, the weight of too many thoughts pressing on him. He could feel Hermione and Ron’s eyes following him through the corridors, hear the low murmur of Ron’s voice as he recounted the morning’s events to her.

“It’s the Dungeon Bat, for crying out loud! What does it matter if he donated some sperm once upon a time? He clearly hates Harry!” Ron hissed.

He probably hadn’t meant for Harry to hear that, but was far too caught up in his rant to notice how loud he’d become.

Hermione promptly smacked him on the back of the head.

“I’m just saying,” Ron muttered, rubbing the spot, “it’s not like he’s grieving. Any other day he’d be skipping with joy.”

A lump rose in Harry’s throat. Because Ron was right—nothing had changed. He hadn’t spoken to Snape since finding out the truth, hadn’t even tried. Despite everything that had been revealed—despite the fact that they were related by blood—nothing between them was different. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. He’d only learned something that had always been true. The world hadn’t shifted, only his understanding of it.

Family had never been about blood for him anyway. Not for Harry. The only blood relatives he’d ever known were the Dursleys, and they’d made it perfectly clear what family meant to them. If anything, that should have been proof enough—blood ties only brought trouble. Family was supposed to be something else entirely: lanky redheads, bushy-haired know-it-alls, and grungy-furred mutts. That was family. Not blood.

So why did it hurt so much that Snape was in the hospital? Why did it matter so much to Harry that the man might be fighting for his life?

It wasn’t just that Snape was his father. It was that the man who wrote those letters was his father. And while Harry could almost believe that the Snape he knew would have hidden the truth out of indifference, he couldn’t reconcile that with the man behind the words—the man who had written so honestly, so painfully, to the woman he’d loved. And knowing that Snape was in the hospital because of those very letters—because of him—that was what truly hurt.

“You should really eat something, Harry,” Hermione said gently.

He blinked down at the plate in front of him. He didn’t remember sitting at the table—or even walking into the Great Hall. Someone must have filled his plate while he was lost in thought. Probably Hermione. He sighed, forced a piece of sausage into his mouth, barely tasting it, swallowing it like a stone.

Once Snape was better, or at least ready to receive visitors, he’d go to St. Mungo’s, he’d decided. He’d demand answers. He deserved that much.

He should have expected more letters today, given the Prophet’s obsession with them—or rather, Rita Skeeter’s obsession with Harry. But he’d been too consumed by the past twenty-four hours to think ahead. So when hundreds of owls swooped through the Great Hall, dropping copies of the Daily Prophet in a storm of feathers and spilled pumpkin juice, Harry jumped in surprise. Plates clattered, students gasped, and the mess vanished in an instant beneath a flurry of wandwork.

No one dared use the chaos as an excuse for a food fight—not today. Everyone was too busy snatching up papers, too eager for the next exposé.

With a sinking feeling, Harry and Ron leaned over Hermione’s copy—because, as usual, she was the only one of the three with a subscription. Really, it seemed he and Ron might be the only two students left in the entire school who didn’t have one.

Pushed up against his friends shoulder, he began to read. The words blurred together for a moment, heavy and cold, as he braced himself for whatever came next.

And it was not good.

Perhaps he had been wrong after all.

Perhaps the hope that the man from the letters was the same man, or rather the real man, behind the stoic façade of Severus Snape had been in vain.

Because Severus Snape was not a good man.

The Daily Prophet Exclusive

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent and Seeker of Truths Most Shocking

Good morning, my dazzling readers!

Have you had your pumpkin juice yet? I certainly hope so, because today’s revelation is one you’ll want to savour. Ready your hearts and hide your secrets, my darlings — this installment promises to be an absolute stunner.

Perhaps our Lily should have simply thrown herself into James Potter’s arms from the beginning and spared herself the company of every other man in her orbit. As you will discover in these letters, it seems she possessed the most unfortunate talent for surrounding herself with powerful — and profoundly untrustworthy — wizards.

Between Sirius Black, the reckless friend who, as we all now know, betrayed the Potters to their doom, and — as the next letter will reveal — the venerable Albus Dumbledore himself, whose habit of “knowing best” may have concealed far more than anyone ever suspected… poor Lily was hardly in safe company. Not even her beloved “Sev” appears to have truly been on her side in the end.

Oh, my sweet readers, if only we could reach back through the sands of time and whisper a warning into that brilliant young witch’s ear before it was all far too late.

But, as ever, history does not wait — and neither shall I.

I won’t keep you perched on the edge of your seats a moment longer.

Here they are: the next series of private, passionate letters written by Lily Potter to the man she once believed to be her greatest love.

Prepare yourselves, my lovelies — the truth, as always, is far more riveting than fiction.

April 5th, 1981

My deerest Sev,

(Get it? Deer-est? Because your Patronus is a doe? I’ve clearly been trapped inside too long with James — his terrible jokes are contagious. I’m sorry. Mostly.)

Would you believe it if I told you Harry has the brightest magical core I’ve ever seen? Brighter than James’s even — and Merlin knows that boy radiates like a wand misfiring in six directions. I don’t know how you and I managed that. 

Wizards should really take magical genetics more seriously, but they never will. You and I both know why. Real research would unravel half the lies the Purists use to keep themselves superior. Imagine if they realized how necessary squibs and Muggleborns were. Although I feel it would be a fair political trade given the same research would likely show dark-core wizards are equally as necessary to the magical world as light-core ones. There’d probably be tea sets flying across Wiltshire before any political unrest met real change though.

Sometimes I think that knowledge — about inheritance, intention, core alignment — could bring us together. Or tear us further apart. Depends who gets to write the footnotes.

What do you think, Sev? Would the Light tolerate hearing that someone like you is essential to magical evolution? Or would they bury it deeper than the Chamber of Secrets?

Anyway, we’re doing our best to raise Harry without the usual rot — no purity lectures, no "light is might" nonsense. I think it will help that he will grow up with so many dark-cored familial figures between you and I as parents and Sirius as a godfather(don’t roll your eyes — Harry adores his Padfoot. You might as well get used to it). With any luck, he’ll grow up believing that power is about purpose, not brightness. You taught me that, once.

Before Dumbledore.
Before Voldemort.
Before everything.

And that’s what frightens me.

Albus is watching Harry. Not just with interest — with intent. I’ve seen that look before. He watched you like that, remember? Like he was assessing the shape of your soul, deciding how best to wield it. I see it again now. On Harry. The same way, I suspect, He has his eyes on little Draco. Like we’re all pieces on some chessboard they have both been playing too long. And those two little boys are the kings on the newest wizarding chess set released by the gods themselves.

I don’t trust him with our son.

Be careful, Sev. Please. The war is only part of the danger. And I wonder how much of the rest of the world I can protect Harry from without you by my side.

Yours, Always

— Lily

April 10th, 1981

To Severus.

My parents died last night

No — not died. That word is too soft.
They were killed.
No — not strong enough.
They were slaughtered.

Massacred. Along with so many others that we grew up with.

But you already knew that, didn’t you?

Were you there, Sev? In Cokeworth, when the Muggle attack happened? Don’t answer that. Moody found a trace of you. At the edge of town — near the stream, where you always used to disappear when we were kids. One of your favorite apparition spots as an adult.

I keep trying to make sense of it. Of you.

I always knew where you stood. I always knew who you were. Merlin, you invented deadly spells for fun and I never thought twice about that! Well, not really. I let it go. It’s not as if I am a saint and I certainly never expected you to be one either. Never wanted you to be. But how much of that is because I loved you? Because I thought... I don’t know what I thought. I at least believed you would never let this war touch my family if you could help it.

And now they’re gone.

And you were there, weren’t you?

They say that love is unconditional. I thought that I believed that.

Now though… I don’t know how to reconcile the boy who used to sit at my kitchen table and eat too many biscuits or the father who has put his life at risk countless times for our son — the man I loved — with the man who watched my childhood home burn last night.

Even if you are currently not quite in your right mind, you still knew people there! Or maybe you relished getting revenge on the people in our town that tormented you? But my parents! 

My Parents! 

The did not torment you.

They sheltered you!

They gave you tea when you were too cold and let you stay when you were too scared to go home. Those memories weren’t obliviated. I know that.

So tell me — were you there?

Were you there and did you watch?
Or worse — were you there and didn’t care?

I want to believe that Moody was wrong. He only found trace amounts of your magic, and you have always been so good at hiding your signature, even from the best. I can’t help but hope that those traces were from our past. It is not very like Moody to be wrong about these things though. Still, I want so desperately to believe you didn’t know.

I need to believe that.

But I also know you. And I know you would’ve made it your business to know if something was happening in Cokeworth. That place shaped you. Broke you. Fed your hate. Gave you me.

You knew.

Maybe you thought it was justice. Maybe it felt like power.
But to me, it’s just loss. Just another empty space.

How could you do that to me! No matter the state of your mind?

I’m so angry with you I can hardly breathe.
And yet — I miss you.
And yet — I still love you.
And yet — you left us.

And now I’m mourning my parents.

I think I’m mourning the man I thought I loved as well.

Was he ever even real?

I need to sleep. Maybe tomorrow I’ll think more clearly. Or maybe I’ll wake up and the world will still be broken.

Do you think this is the end, my ever more inquisitive readers? Has our dear Lily at last realised that her so-called Prince was never the gallant knight in shining armour she once believed him to be? Could this be the moment she turned her heart toward James Potter — for love, for safety, or perhaps for something far more complicated?

You’ll simply have to wait until next time to find out.

Until then, my ever-curious readers

As always (since Lily seemed it fitting to leave off her usual send off),

Your humble reporter,

Rita Skeeter