Completely unaware that Harry's world had just been turned on its head -again- the baby slept, still snugly cocooned in his blanket, curled in the basket that had appeared without warning on the seventeen year old's doorstep. In the middle of the night, no less. What kind of parent would do such a thing?

Shaking himself from his thoughts- after all, Albus Dumbledore had done exactly the same thing in the wee hours of November 1st, 1981 with another baby- Harry sighed and reread the letter that passed for explanation of why he was suddenly finding himself to be the guardian -temporarily, at the very least- of a week old baby boy.

Mr. Potter,

I'm so sorry to resort to this, but I can think of nothing else to do.

You're the only witness for Professor Snape's defense that will be taken seriously, and the only one I know for certain that wouldn't use this against him.

I cannot tell you who I am, but Professor Snape will remember me, though he undoubtedly won't want to, and probably won't admit to it readily, but I'm a student at Hogwarts. Or, at least I was. I doubt I'll ever be back now, and that's probably for the best, all things considered.

Suffice it to say that I'm muggle-born, and was unfortunate enough to have been targeted in one of the raids during the last war. My entire family was killed, and the Snatchers took me somewhere; though I'm not sure where. I was locked in a cell and used for the Death Eaters' idea of fun and games, which you're familiar with yourself. Thankfully, most of the damage was superficial, as they favored the Cruciatus.

But, not so fortunately, some other things went on that I would never have spoken of if not for the consequence, which I've left in your care.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named decided that it was impossible to kill every muggle-born witch or wizard, so he decided to 'breed' us out. It's exactly what it sounds like. We were used as broodmares, in essence, to 'purify' our inferior bloodlines by having children with purebloods.

All things considered, I was very lucky with the Death Eater I was assigned to. I'm sure you've probably guessed by now that it was Professor Snape. I know you're probably doubting your decision to keep him out of Azkaban right now, but you shouldn't.

While I won't say that the experience was in any way pleasant, Professor Snape did not hurt me when he easily could have, and was in fact strongly encouraged to do so. I am probably the only girl subjected to the 'breeding' project who is not traumatized beyond bearing, and scarred for life in a very literal sense.

I have no idea what spell -or perhaps potion- he used, but though it's obvious that he did at least the minimum of what he was ordered to in order to produce a 'pure' heir, I know I felt nothing, and only remember bits and pieces, as I was in some sort of daze and rather disconnected from the situation at the time.

It was probably the kindest thing he could have done for me, and I do not hold him at fault whatsoever for doing what he had to under the circumstances.

By the same token, I am unable to care for the result of that union, currently six days old, and sleeping in the basket I've left on your stoop. I am sixteen years old, have not finished school, and my family had very little in the way of material wealth. What little I have from the sale of our house and things is in a trust for me until I come of age, and as I have no remaining family, I am currently in an orphanage.

I don't want my child to grow up here. It's not completely horrible, but the little children all have blank, lifeless eyes from being passed over for adoption, and I can't bear the thought of that happening to my son, regardless of who his father is or how he was conceived.

After all that, I suppose what I'm asking is for you to take care of him until his father can. If the worst should happen and Professor Snape can't be kept from Azkaban, all I ask is that you find my son a loving home, if you're not able or willing to keep him yourself.

I've known for a while that I was going to give him up, so I couldn't bring myself to name him. I thought it would make it harder than it already was. I don't know what his father would consider naming him, but while you have him it's up to you what he's called. I would request that it not be something that Professor Snape would find completely offensive, though, as I'm sure you remember his personality and provoking his ire isn't something you'd want to do lightly.

Regardless of what you choose to do in the long-term, thank you for everything you've already done, and for defending Professor Snape to begin with. He doesn't deserve prison after everything he's done for the war, and I'm glad you see that as well.

The letter wasn't signed, but the writing was definitely female.

Peering into the basket at the sleeping infant, Harry admitted there was a definite resemblance between the baby and the Potion Master. The ebony hair, for one thing. But, there was also something about the shape of his eyes that reminded the former Seeker of the Potions professor, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it exactly.

Sighing, Harry sat down on the couch, staring at the baby in the basket at his feet, feeling competely out of his element, and lacking any real family of his own to give him an idea of what he was supposed to do.

One thing was certain; the Ministry absolutely couldn't get wind of this. Snape had entirely too many enemies there as it was, and they were already convinced of his guilt despite the fact that Harry was providing testimony on his behalf. They simply wanted to believe that he was guilty, and were incensed that Harry intended to give evidence to the contrary.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Harry started compiling a mental list of all the things he would need for a baby. A crib, nappies, clothing, toys...there were so many things just to meet a child's physical needs, not even accounting for what went into raising a well-adjusted, good person. Forcing back a wave of panic, Harry narrowed his focus to more immediate necessities, such as a name.

He'd always intended to name his son after his own father, but that certainly wouldn't work now. Snape would almost certainly murder him if he named the man's son 'James' or anything remotely similar, though it was tempting, if only for a few seconds.

Staring at the slumbering infant, Harry went through every male name he'd ever heard or read, trying to mentally attach one to the tiny face he was looking at. Stefan. Markus. Aidan. Seamus. Alexander. Tiberius. Sean. Nathaniel. Ciaran...Wait. That one was good.

And it was one of the few names he actually knew the meaning of, as Remus had confided that James and Lily had considered it before ultimatly deciding on 'Harry'. Ciaran meant "little dark one", which certainly fit the diminutive, ebony-haired newborn. Now, to figure out a middle name that wouldn't end up making him sound utterly ridiculous.

Since he'd picked an Irish first name, probably because of the fleeting memory that Snape's mother had been named Eileen, Harry supposed it was only fitting that he pick a middle name that was Irish as well. That narrowed his choices considerably, since he didn't know that many people who hailed from Ireland, all told.

Thankfully, Hermione had managed to make a computer work for him, despite the fact that Harry's house was unquestionably a magical home, so he had access to the internet. After half an hour of browsing baby-name websites, he hit the jackpot with one that let you search by the meaning of the name rather than by the letter it started with. Scrolling through the meanings listing, he smiled to himself as he read it for the second time. "Without enemy". Yes.

Turning his attention back to the baby, Harry was a little startled to realize he was awake, though he was still quiet, seemingly looking around with the darkest eyes Harry had ever seen. Well, besides Snape himself, of course.

Making his way over to the basket, he crouched down, running a gentle finger down the plump, soft cheek. "Ciaran Diarmuid Snape. What do you think? Can you live with that?" the young man questioned rhetorically. "Of course, we'll have to call you a Potter until it's safe for your Daddy, but that can be our little secret, can't it?"