"Yes, Harry. I know it comes as a shock, but Professor Snape is your father." Dumbledore's face was grave, though Snape noticed that he spared him a glance before focusing once again on the Potter bra…
No, not Potter's.
On his brat.
His. Snape savoured the concept.
Potter was his. The wayward hair, the incandescent anger, the fierce pride. Amazing that he'd never noticed it before. No, instead he'd been attributing so many of – Harry's – characteristics to Potter over the years that he'd blinded himself to the truth.
Potter – Harry – was his.
His eyes narrowed in anticipation.
Harry stood before him, defiant.
Potter – Harry – didn't move. Snape's eyes narrowed.
"I will not repeat myself."
Jaw set, Harry stepped forward.
Surrounded by his possessions, Snape revelled in the boy's presence. Each possession, fought for, earned, with blood and sweat and shards of his soul.
And now Harry.
Snape reached out his hand. The boy flinched, but didn't step back. He ran his hand over the boy's hair, its silk no less pleasing than the silk of his skin. Smooth – the brat was slow to mature, still small for his age.
He looked debauched. An attractive look, undoubtedly. Snape felt himself stir again at the thought of the boy's fight and subsequent submission – so much passion.
Dumbledore's discovery allowed Harry to stay at Hogwarts throughout the school holidays. Six weeks. Protected by his father's blood, not that thin weak Muggle blood flowing through the veins of Evan's sister.
And not just blood. Semen.
In six weeks, Snape was sure that he could make his son the weapon he was truly meant to be.
For the first time, he believed that old bat Trelawney knew what she was talking about.