Snape lasted one full minute after Harry fled from the potions classroom. He moved slowly toward the door, as if walking through water. Dimly, he felt the worn, pitted wood beneath his palm as he pushed the door closed. And then his palms slid to the roughly hewn stone wall, and his body heaved as his guts twisted.

The memories flew at him like knives: the day he had presented Rapio Memoria to the Dark Lord, so anxious to please; the night the words of the overheard prophecy slithered from his lips; the gleaming anticipation in the Dark Lord's eyes as he had listened to Snape's pleas for Lily's life.

"Do not fret, Severus," the Dark Lord had purred. "You have been a most faithful servant. I can award you this request. There is no need to destroy the girl, after all." The Dark Lord had rubbed the tips of his fingers along his thin, serpentine lips, as though remembering a delectable wine. "No. No need at all. In fact, you will soon have a lovely surprise."

Snape pressed his forehead against the chilly stone wall, wishing the coolness could numb his mind. He breathed in the damp, mossy scent as slowly…so slowly…the tightness of his shoulders loosened. Then he carefully began extracting his feelings from his memories and storing them away.

The process wasn't perfect; it was like untangling two tightly coiled springs. Once they were released from their restraints, they leapt forward with surprising force. The painful, unbearable intensity of his own emotions and the uncontrolled outbursts that followed was why he had become interested in Occlumency in the first place.

He pressed a forearm against the wall, and felt the hard pressure of Harry's wand under his sleeve. He had meant to return it to the boy today, but things had spiraled out of control so quickly. Schooling his face, he opened the door and prepared to see the headmaster. But his heart quavered, and he found himself drawn toward his chambers instead.

Inside, Lily was nibbling on the end of a fluffy quill, staring at a sheet of parchment curling on her lap. She looked up at Snape's approach. "Have I written Tuney recently?"

Snape nodded. "Last month." He bit back a remark about how her sister had treated her after she'd been released from the hospital. It had been the first Christmas Eve after the attack when he had visited the Dursleys to find Harry and Lily in a tool shed out back. Harry had been screaming like a banshee, and Lily was clutching him like he was the only thing tethering her to the earth. He remembered staring down at the two of them, with Petunia screeching in his ear that she "just didn't know what to do with them."

A few hours later, Lily was sleeping in his parents' old bedroom while he sat on the bed in his attic room, holding Harry at arms' length. When it came to crying, the tiny creature had the endurance of a packhorse. His plan to wait out the child's cries was looking more and more futile.

In between howls, he heard the front door downstairs blast open. There was only one person who could break through the wards he had recently imposed. He stood up, but was unsure what to do with the child dangling in his outstretched hands. The toddler appeared to be working himself into a fit.

Before he'd decided, Dumbledore had appeared at the bedroom doorway. "What," he asked, breathing heavily, "were my instructions to you regarding your visits to the Dursleys?"

"I’m not a wayward student to be reprimanded by the headmaster," Snape muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Dumbledore asked over Harry's cries.

Snape sighed and dutifully repeated the instructions he'd been given. "Treat Lily with the new potions I've developed while keeping my interaction with the Muggles to a minimum." He raised the child closer to his face. He had the vague idea that seeing another face might calm the infant. It did not. Well, at least it gave him an excuse to avoid the headmaster's piercing stare.

"You do realize how precarious your position is at the moment?" asked Dumbledore. "This very evening I was engaged in the task of persuading Ministry officials that you do not belong in Azkaban among the captured Death Eaters."

The child's crying had slowed to quieter bursts of hiccupping coughs that lessened the ache in his ears. "I…do realize that, Headmaster."

"Then perhaps you would explain to me," said Dumbledore, his voice freezing the air in the room, "why--midway through my convincing argument on your behalf—a Ministry aide assigned to your case came charging into the room, shouting that one Severus Snape had hexed two Muggles and kidnapped Lily and Harry Potter?"

Snape, his very bones weary, pulled the child to his side and wrapped an arm awkwardly around him as he explained what had happened. Dumbledore eyed him speculatively as the boy finally, finally quieted.

"I am not pleased that you let your anger overwhelm your judgment, Severus." Dumbledore studied the two of them for another long moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer. "Perhaps…some good can come of this. I can still smooth things over with the Ministry. But we will need to discuss how to return Harry and his mother to their relatives." Dumbledore raised a hand at Snape's half-uttered protest. "We will discuss it after the holidays."

Over twelve years later, they had yet to have that discussion. But Lily, who was just beginning to recover during that time, did not recall the neglect of her sister, and still kept in contact with her. If he said one word against Petunia, Lily would defend her, as always. He knew from the brittle coldness in his chest that he was still too raw and shaken from his encounter with Harry to have another argument.

She blew out a sigh and set the quill and letter to her sister on a side table, on top of a fresh pile of photographs Snape had collected. "I never know what to write. We move in rather different circles." As she looked up at Snape her face grew solemn, and she rose from the sofa. "It's too early in the day to wear that face."

He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. He ducked his head, letting his hair veil his face. It was a gesture left over from adolescence, and one of the many aspects of his body language he'd rigorously drummed out of himself as he learned Occlumency. But near her, the awkward, desperate teenager gasped back to life. He became acutely aware of how his twisted features must look to her.

But she did not flinch, or move away. She merely threaded her fingers into his hair and curled it behind his ear. Her face turned up towards his, offering only love and trust.

Love and trust he should not be given, but that he so desperately needed. He wanted to tell her everything that had happened, but knew it was impossible. The words would tumble like an avalanche; it would take hours to sort through and find understanding. But she didn't have hours today. He could only offer her little handfuls.

"Harry and I fought," was all he said. He watched that flicker of confusion at the mention of her son's name before she remembered. No matter what he had tried, he could not pluck it away. The association with James was too close, and the damage had been too great. The moment was always brief, and he had hoped that his son had never noticed. But this new Harry had seen it straight away, and he realized he'd been fooling himself. Of course his son could see when his own mother gazed on him like he was a stranger. How could he not? He ached at the thought that his little one had lived with this pain his whole life and never told him.

Gentle hands touched his jaw, and he raised his head to look into warm green eyes. "My two boys. You'll sort it out."

He nodded slowly, wanting to believe her. He had learned over the years that even when she didn't know the details, he could trust her words. Somehow, even without memory, her heart knew. Then she was kissing him, and he was falling, blanketed in her. And allowing himself, just for a moment, to forget.