The classroom cleared quickly, as it always did. The students were eager to escape Snape’s gaze and the sharpness of his words. He watched them leave with an indifferent expression, already turning his attention to the next task at hand which was gathering the scattered parchment, organizing the ingredients left behind, and preparing for his next class.
He glanced over the room, his eyes narrowing in mild annoyance at the forgotten item. It was a notebook with a cover worn and faintly marked with Harry Potter’s name. Snape scowled. Of all the students to leave something behind, it had to be Potter. He turned it over in his hands, and though the urge to discard it was strong, something made him pause. A flicker of curiosity crossed his mind. What could be so important to Potter that it had kept his focus elsewhere during class?
Curiously, he opened the notebook. It was filled with sketches and drawings, along with some poems. That struck him as odd. Who would have known the famous Harry Potter had an artistic side, especially when it came to poetry? Snape’s fingers hovered over the pages, scanning the neatly written words. There was an unusual depth in the drawings, something personal and vulnerable about them that Snape hadn’t expected from the boy.
He turned the page, and one of the poems caught his eye. As he read the words, he found himself unable to look away. The poem spoke of a boy waiting at a window for the parents he knew in his heart would never come.
The Window Pain
The stars blink faintly, pale and shy,
A boy looks up and wonders why.
The world outside feels vast, unfair,
Yet no one comes, no one cares.
His hands press lightly on the pane,
Tracing patterns to mask the pain.
He dreams of faces he cannot see,
Of voices lost in memory.
The nights grow long, the days grow dim,
Yet still he waits, his hope grows slim.
A mother’s touch, a father’s call,
Are shadows now—if real at all.
He learned to stand, to laugh, to run,
Beneath a sky absent of sun.
His questions echoed, left unheard,
A boy alone with every word.
And still he sat when stars would gleam,
Clinging tight to a fleeting dream.
Though years passed by, his heart stayed young,
A quiet song forever unsung.
The world would say, “It’s time to go,”
But wounds that deep heal far too slow.
For though he learned to walk, to fight,
He still looked out into the night.
And there beneath the moon’s soft glow,
He whispered words they’d never know.
For parents lost, and time unfair,
A boy still waits, though they’re not there.
Snape’s frown deepened as he finished reading. This wasn’t the arrogant, self-assured Harry Potter he so often saw in the classroom. This was a boy longing for what he could never have, a boy carrying wounds far heavier than what he showed.
He closed the notebook slowly, the weight of the words lingering in the air. For a moment, Snape felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, a sharp pang of something that almost resembled pity. It was absurd, of course. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had always worn his bravado like armor, deflecting anything that might make him seem vulnerable. Yet here, in the raw honesty of these pages, Snape saw the cracks, saw the boy who had never truly been allowed to grow up without that aching absence.
Snape exhaled sharply, almost as if startled by his own thoughts, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he opened the notebook once more. His fingers brushed the pages, almost hesitating, before he found another poem, this one labeled “The Potions Master”. He raised an eyebrow, curiosity gnawing at him. But despite the sense that he should stop, the urge to know what the boy really thought of him won over.
The Potions Master
When werewolves howl and threats draw near,
He throws himself without a fear.
His body shielded us from harm,
A quiet power, a steadfast arm.
His words cut deep, his tone a blade,
Yet in his silence, trust is made.
Through every trial, sharp and true,
He stands beside me, though I rarely knew.
Though not by blood, a father’s care,
He’s there to guide, though unaware.
His silent watch, his steady hand,
A force that helps me understand.
No warm embrace, no gentle word,
But in his actions, love is heard.
A father’s role, though unspoken still,
He stands beside me, through sheer will.
His heart concealed, his face hard set,
Yet in his care, I don’t forget.
A father’s love, though cold and stern,
It’s something I can’t help but yearn.
Snape sat there for a long moment, the poem still open in front of him, the weight of its words pressing heavily on him. His fingers hovered over the page, as though the ink itself might betray him. Harry Potter, of all people, had written this about him. The bratty, defiant Gryffindor who had never once spared him a kind word, who seemed to loathe everything about him.
He leaned on a desk, closing his eyes for a moment. The weight of the poem was almost suffocating. A father’s love, though cold and stern, the words seemed to echo in his mind, unrelenting and sharp. Harry—No, Potter had written. Snape’s chest tightened, and an unexpected panicked feeling rose in his chest. He had never asked for this, never wanted to be seen this way. A father? No, he was a professor—an authority figure. That was all. He had no time for sentimentality, no place for softness.
His mind flitted to Sirius Black, the man who had once been so close to Harry. The reckless Gryffindor, the one who had claimed to be Harry’s father figure, had certainly been more capable of offering warmth and affection but he was a wanted criminal who had only come into Harr—Potter’s life two years ago and only sees him on rare occasions. And in his absence, it was Snape who remained. The thought twisted in his gut.
His thoughts shifted to Remus Lupin. The kind-hearted, werewolf had been a friend to Harry, someone who had always treated him with warmth and respect. But now that he thought of it, from what he could tell their bond had never been one of father and son. They had been friends, and Lupin had cared for Harry, no doubt, but in the way one cares for a student. It was a friendship built on mutual respect, not the deep, protective attachment that a father has with his son. While Lupin had given Harry guidance, it was Snape, in his own flawed way, who had stayed present during the darker moments, and Harry had probably realized it.
He tried to think of other people. Mr. Weasley? He had heard that it was he who had taken Harry to his hearing that summer, but were they really that close? Snape wasn’t sure. He had seen the Weasley patriarch in passing, always kind and supportive, but did Harry truly view him as a father figure? And The Weasleys had their own children to care for too.
Snape’s mind raced, spiraling deeper into a labyrinth of overanalysis. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the panic choking him. He was looking too much into it, he knew that. It was just a poem—words on a page, not reality. Harry had written it in a moment of… frustration? Longing? It didn’t matter. But still, the notion gnawed at him, a relentless echo in the back of his mind.
A wave of panic surged through Snape as the thought struck him. Fatherhood. The responsibility of it. Could he, Severus Snape, really be the one to take on such a role? To be the figure that Harry needed? He could feel his chest tighten, a rush of uncertainty and fear overwhelming him. It was unthinkable. He wasn’t capable of being that kind of figure. He was too flawed, too damaged. His own upbringing had been a twisted mockery of what a father should be, and he had spent his life burying the scars of it.
Yet, in the deepest recesses of his mind, a small, almost imperceptible part of him longed for it. A flicker of something stirred within him, despite the panic, despite the overwhelming doubt. What if he could be there for Harry, in a way that no one else had? What if he could actually give him something that resembled what he had always lacked? The thought lingered, stubborn and unwelcome, but it wouldn’t go away.
Snape pushed himself up from the desk, his legs stiff and unsteady as he moved across the room. He reached his desk, the familiar clutter of papers and ink bottles greeting him. His hand brushed over the quills, almost absentmindedly, before he grasped one. The coldness of the metal felt grounding in his palm, and for a moment, he simply stared at it, trying to clear his mind.
With a deep breath, he dipped the quill into the ink, the scratch of the nib against the bottom of the parchment strangely soothing.
“I may not know how, but I can try to give you a father.”
The quill dropped from his fingers as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of his own words settling in, uncertain yet strangely determined.
He picked up the quill again, the words flowing more easily now, almost as if they were meant to be written. He added, carefully:
“I may not know how, but I can try to give you a father, if you will take me.”
He set the quill down, feeling the finality of the words, the quiet hope buried within them. The note, simple yet raw, seemed to echo in the stillness of the room.
He cast a quick ink-drying spell, watching as the words became fixed in place.
He stood up, he needed to return the notebook to Potter—no, Harry. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, contemplating the note, but he couldn’t waste any more time. He left his office, footsteps echoing down the dimly lit corridor as he made his way to the library, thinking that would be a good place to start.
When he entered, he saw Harry at one of the tables, rummaging through his backpack, clearly distracted. His hands moved quickly, but his face was creased in frustration. Snape stood there for a moment, watching him, unsure of what to do next.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, clearing his throat. Harry didn’t look up at first, but then, hearing the sound, he paused, slowly raising his eyes. There was no mask of disdain, no challenge in them—only the flicker of surprise.
“I believe this is yours,” Snape said, his voice rougher than he intended as he placed the notebook on the table between them. Harry’s brow furrowed for a moment before recognition dawned in his eyes.
“Thank you, sir,” Harry said quietly, his fingers hovering over the notebook. He looked up at Snape, then added, almost unsure, “I would’ve thought you’d thrown it out by now.”
Snape’s eyes flickered with something almost imperceptible, and for a moment, he seemed to soften. “I’m not always as cold and stern as I appear, Potter.”
Snape turned to leave, his robes swishing behind him. As he did, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He glanced over his shoulder, and for a split second, he saw Harry’s face freeze in shock with wide eyes, mouth slightly parted. The boy was staring at the open notebook, his hands hovering over it as if unsure whether to touch it or not.
Snape didn’t linger. He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the silence of the library to settle between them. But even as he walked away, he couldn’t shake the image of Harry’s expression.
He smiled slightly as he walked.