The Dark Lord Voldemort had been dead six months, and the Wizarding world was slowly beginning to recover from his brief, but devastating, reign of terror.

The Ministry of Magic was in an uproar, not only because of the multiple trials of Death Eaters that were currently underway, but because of the massive shakeup in the Ministry's own ranks. Nearly a hundred Ministry employees were included as defendants in the trials of Death Eaters, and it was doing absolutely nothing to aid in repairing their rather tattered reputation.

Currently, the Ministry of Magic was regarded by most of the Wizarding world as a laughingstock, hardly credited as a governmental agency, and spoken of in tones of utmost disgust and loathing, even as the skeleton crew of actual upstanding Ministry employees and officials worked around the clock to restore order, and ensure that justice was being served in the way it was intended following the war.

Until things were more settled and an election could be held, Kingsley Shacklebolt was acting Minister of Magic, and at the moment he was presiding over everything being done at the Ministry with an iron fist, unwilling to allow any detail to slip through the cracks after the complete cock-up that was the justice system under previous Ministers Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour.

He was adamant that there would be absolutely no favoritism or bribery on his watch, regardless of who was being investigated, and that included the trial of Severus Snape, previous Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, member of and spy for the Order of the Phoenix, accused right hand of Lord Voldemort, and murderer of Albus Dumbledore.

Personally, Kingsley was furious with Snape, and if he hadn't had the responsibility of governing the recovering Wizarding world on his shoulders, he would have been only too happy to corner Snape down a dark alley some night, but nothing was that simple anymore.

Especially with the Wizarding world's Savior, Harry Potter, insisting on Snape's innocence. Or, more accurately, not innocence exactly, but extremely extenuating circumstances that turned the murder of Albus Dumbledore into an actual suicide, nevermind that his death had absolutely been from a Killing Curse from Snape's own wand.

Kingsley could fathom no realistic explanation for how Dumbledore's death could have possibly been suicide, but he was unable to dismiss Potter's testimony, and as such, the Savior would be an integral part of Snape's defence, loathe as the Minister was to allow it.

It was six months since the Dark Lord's fall, and it made Kingsley's head hurt just thinking about how long it would take for the Wizarding world to even begin to function in anything resembling normalcy again.

One thing was certain; nothing would ever be the same.

Exhausted, Harry Potter fell into his bed fully clothed, not having the energy to take off his shoes or even remove his glasses.

In the six months since he'd finally killed Voldemort, it seemed that rather than having less work, it compounded on a daily basis, to the point that he was so tired he could hardly see straight.

If it weren't enough to be helping with removing the rubble and repairing Hogwarts, as well as assisting laying the wards around the school's grounds, and within the hulking structure, he also had to give almost daily interviews to the Prophet regarding the status of said repairs and wards, as well as any other projects he was helping with, and report to the Ministry of Magic to give testimony at the trials of multiple Death Eaters he had personally witnessed comitting various atrocities.

It also didn't help that for all the damning evidence he gave on other Death Eaters, with the requirement of pensieved memories and Veritaserum, he was also a witness for the defense of an accused Death Eater, Severus Snape. The reporters that hounded him like sharks following the scent of blood almost always wanted to turn the subject to that very thing, at once lauding him for everything he'd done for the war effort and the things he was doing to help with the recovery of the Wizarding world, and in the same breath condemning him for having the audacity to speak in Snape's defense.

It rankled, and while Harry had no particular fondness for Snape himself, it bothered him more than he liked to think about that the majority of people who wanted to talk about Snape's trial weren't upset that Harry thought Snape was innocent, they were more upset because Snape was so unlikeable, and thought that was reason enough to leave him to rot in Azkaban, regardless of whether or not he was guilty of the crimes he was accused of.

It infuriated him that people were condemning Snape not because of what he had supposedly done, but based solely on the fact that he wasn't a snuggly Hufflepuff or audaciously brave Gryffindor, but a generally abrasive, cunning, and irritable Slytherin.

Despite the war barely being over, and heavy losses on both sides, it seemed as if nobody had learnt a bloody thing from it all. Predjudice still ran rampant; and everyone was too blind to see the depth of their own hypocrisy.

Thankfully, once he was home, Harry didn't have to worry about reporters or idiotic well-wishers, or slavering fans wanting autographs. Mostly because nobody knew where he lived, very purposely on Harry's part.

Rather than move into the house at Grimmauld Place, which was corrupted beyond repair even before Sirius' untimely death and brief occupation by Death Eaters, Harry had bought himself a decent-sized muggle house on the outskirts of London.

It wasn't anything too flashy, and was really a bit of a let-down, given how much money Harry actually had to spend, but it was more than enough for the 17 year old, and it was quiet, somewhat secluded, and absolutely the last place anyone in the Wizarding world would ever think to look for him.

As it was, Harry only had use for one of the four bedrooms, and had already begun converting one of the others to a library/study. On his own now, he'd taken care decorating his little slice of the world, and the furnishings were all dark, solid wood, made to last, and sparsely placed. After the suffocating abundance of flower-printed furniture and wallpapering, draperies, etc at his relatives' house, Harry was of the opinion that less was more, and he quite liked the open spaces in his humble abode. Each piece of furniture was understated and functional, and the rooms weren't crammed full to the brim with unnecessary furnishings and decor.

He had a few framed pictures of his friends on the mantle, and a nice painting here and there, but on the whole the entire house was comfortable without being loud and demanding of attention.

And most people who knew Harry would be quite surprised to find that there was very little red and gold in his house at all, with the exception of a few Quidditch souvenirs he'd kept from his Hogwarts days.

Even his bedroom was rather understated. The furniture was all black, with the bed hangings and bedding in various shades of icy blue, deep navy blue, and silver, and the curtains over the windows matched. There was a deep navy rug at the side of the bed that covered half of the room from the bed to the armoire where Harry dressed, but there was little in the way of extra adornment, and that was how Harry liked it.

Of course, he would've liked it much better if someone wasn't ringing his doorbell at three in the morning, when he'd hardly finished bouncing from his fall into bed.

With a frustrated groan, the former Gryffindor forced himself up and weaved his way back downstairs to the front entrance, muttering darkly under his breath regarding what he'd like to do to people without the sense to refrain from disturbing him at this hour.

Unfortunately, all of his dire threats weren't going to be of much use, as he opened the door to find his visitor to have fled.

Frowning, he leaned over the threshhold, peering left and right in the attempt to catch someone trying to run away, but saw noone. And, at that moment, a small sound caught his attention, coming from the front stoop, much lower than any visitor Harry might've expected.

Blinking, Harry tried to make sense of what he was seeing, his brain refusing to supply any answers as to what could possibly be going on. Casting another wary look around the darkened yard, he returned his attention to the basket on his stoop. Or rather, what was in the basket.

Who in Merlin's name would leave him a newborn baby?

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?"

The lower levels of the Ministry of Magic were probably one of the most depressing places in the Wizarding world, Harry decided as he strode down the corridor in preparation of collaborating with the man he intended to defend at trial to the best of his ability.

He followed his escort, a dour-faced Auror whose name he hadn't gotten, trying his best to ignore the shouts of other prisoners in the holding cells that lined both sides of the dark marble hallway.

"He's in here," the Auror advised, unlocking the door to one such cell. "I'll need to confiscate your wand for the duration," he added.

Harry arched a brow, making no move to relinquish said wand. "I believe I'll be keeping my wand, Auror. If there's a problem, Kingsley can take it up with me later," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

The Auror frowned, obviously weighing the consequences of denying The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Kill-Voldemort his wand, versus the repurcussions of breaking regulations.

Harry sighed. "I'm not going to do anything to the prisoner, but I will not give over to my wand to anyone, for any reason. You're an Auror; I'm certain you understand the desire to remain armed at all times?"

The Auror wavered, then finally gave a slight nod. "Understood, Mr. Potter. Just know that if the prisoner takes it off you, you'll be held responsible for whatever is done with it."

The dark-haired teen smirked. "Never happen, but thank you for the warning all the same," he drawled, stepping through the now-open cell door and shutting it firmly behind him, effectively ending the conversation.

The cell was small and dark, barely illuminated by a weak shaft of sunlight that came through a tiny window at the top of the cell. There was a cot with a pathetically thin mattress, and a threadbare sheet. No pillow.

There was a chamberpot in the corner furthest from the cot, but no toilet tissue or other supplies to offer even the slightest modicum of respect for whomever found themselves unlucky enough to be quartered in the tiny space.

"Potter."

Harry was drawn out of his indignation at the conditions of the cell with an almost physical jerk, musing inwardly that it was almost funny that Snape could inject that amount of venom into one word.

"Professor Snape," he replied, giving a slight nod.

Snape's lips compressed into a thin line. "Come to gloat, then? I suppose you'd like pictures for such an auspicious occasion as being in attendance to see me punished for all my failings to adhere to your moral standards."

Harry stared at his former professor in silence for a long moment before chuckling wryly. "I'd almost forgotten what a git you could be, Professor. Oddly enough, it's rather comforting that you haven't changed."

"Of course. I live to serve," the ebony-haired Potions master said, the sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.

Harry snorted. "Not hardly," he replied, then shook his head. "As entertaining as it is to exchange jibes with you, I do actually have a reason for visiting you, so please try to keep that sharp tongue of yours behind your teeth for a bit, won't you?"

Snape's dark eyes flashed dangerously, but he remained silent, waiting for Harry to elaborate.

The former Seeker began pacing the short length of the cell, casting a muffliato distractedly after the first circuit to keep anyone from eavesdropping. "Right. Basically, what it boils down to is that you're up on charges as a Death Eater. The main charge of course being murdering Dumbledore," he recapped, glancing up at Snape momentarily. "No solicitors in the Wizarding world are accepting cases that involve the defense of accused Death Eaters, so your defense depends on people willing to testify on your behalf and give evidence that clears you," he said.

Snape gave a dark chuckle. "Indeed. Well, I suppose I should be flattered they sent you personally to advise me of my imminent demise, Potter, what with your greatly improved standing."

Harry shook his head. "No, that's not why I'm here. I'm here because I'm going to testify on your behalf."

The ex-Death-Eater stood abruptly, glowering down at the much shorter man. "I neither need, nor want your assistance, Potter," he spat, fury flashing in his dark eyes.

Heartbeat in his throat, Harry forced himself to stand his ground without flinching back from the strength of his former-professor's ire. "With all due respect, sir, I wasn't giving you a choice in my testimony. I'm here to make sure I have all the information I need to give an accurate account, and to find out if there's anything that might come up down the line that could cause issues, nothing more, nothing less."

The emotionless mask was back on the sallow face, though Snape's eyes still roiled with barely-surpressed anger. "And I suppose the fact that I will be indebted to you is a mere trifle," he sneered.

Harry frowned. "I don't see how you could possibly be indebted to me, considering the fact that you've saved my life more times than I can count, Professor, but that's besides the point. I have Dumbledore's Pensive, his portrait, and your own memories, along with mine. I've already signed a waiver that gives the Wizengamot permission to administer Veritaserum when I'm on the stand, but I need to know if there's anything the prosecution might bring up that I'm not already aware of, in at least a general sense. Anything they might be able to present evidence on that I won't be able to explain."

Snape smirked. "Any number of things, I'm sure. What you know could fit in a teaspoon, Potter," he drawled silkily. "There are details of revels that would give you nightmares, boy. You have no idea what you're defending."

The ex-Gryffindor shook his head. "You're wrong. I saw most of those revels, remember?" he pointed out. "And for someone who seems to be trying his level best to present himself as the embodiment of evil to me, I find it rather odd that I distinctly recall you doing as little as possible during aforementioned revels."

"Leave me."

"You're not going to scare me off, you know," Harry informed him calmly.

"Remove yourself from this room, Potter," the Potions master snarled, fists clenched.

"You're not guilty of murder, and I intend to prove it," the young man said quietly, green eyes meeting burning onyx unflinchingly.

"Get out!" Snape roared, shaking with the force of his rage.

Sighing, Harry canceled the privacy spell and opened the cell door, turning to regard his former professor over one shoulder. "I'll be back, Professor. You aren't going to be punished for something you had so little control over, regardless if you think you deserve it or not."

The Auror gave Harry a questioning look, but the young man refused to comment. There was a lot of work to do, and very little time to do it.

The next two weeks flew by for Harry in a haze of dirty nappies, appointments with barristers, burp cloths, appointments with Gringotts officials, hours of high-pitched shrieking, appointments with court officials, sleep broken every 45 minutes to an hour, and the ever-present threat of being pounced upon by reporters if he so much as peered out his window.

Well, metaphorically speaking on that last, as his house was Unplottable and under the Fidelius with himself as the Secret Keeper. Not that many of his adoring (read: rabid) fans would think to look for him in a Muggle neighborhood, anyway.

Still, he only thought he'd been exhausted by his schedule before.

As Ciaran began whimpering from within the confines of his basket, where Harry had laid him to fill out yet another form the Ministry needed for some reason or other, Harry fought the urge to run down the street screaming, taking a series of deep breaths before picking up the little bundle of squirming tears and shit-er, joy. Bundle of joy, that's it.

"Please, Ciaran. I'm gonna have a breakdown, and then who's going to feed you? Ever think about that?" the former Gryffindor pleaded as the infant began working himself up to a full-lung scream.

Closing his eyes in defeat, he did his best to block out the incessant wailing and bounced the irate baby gently, walking in circles. "Your Daddy's genes are evil," the dark haired young man told the baby tiredly, looking down into the furious, red face right before the tiny boy spit up all over the front of his shirt. "Definitely evil."

---

Having resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to last long without the proper supplies, not to mention help besides Winky, Harry made his way to Diagon Alley that evening determined to stock up on baby supplies and hopefully some kind of parenting books that would give him an idea of what he should be doing. Surely, babies didn't just scream for hours on end for no reason, right?

Besides, at some point, he was going to need the chair and shelves he'd transfigured into a small crib and changing table for Ciaran. Not to mention, he wasn't sure how long the transfigurations would last, and he didn't even want to think about what might happen if the shelves he was using for a crib suddenly resumed their true form while Ciaran was sleeping there. Certainly, it wouldn't be very pretty, or healthy.

Thankfully, since Hogwarts wasn't due to reopen for quite some time yet, it wasn't as crowded as it usually would be, even in the summer. Though, it probably still would've been a good idea to come up with some kind of disguise, Harry admitted, as he ignored a group of witches whispering, giggling and pointing at him. You'd think they'd find something else to gossip about by now.

Of course, once someone noticed the baby he had currently tucked close to his chest, covered by his cloak, things were bound to get really crazy. Harry sincerely hoped that he could get his shopping done and be home before that happened, though. But, given his luck, he wasn't counting on it.

"Harry!"

The voice startled him, and it was all he could do to bite back the curse on the tip of his tongue as he recognized Hermione an instant before she flung herself at him. Barely managing to turn to spare Ciaran the impact, Harry sputtered as a mouth full of Hermione's hair threatened to choke him. "Can't...breathe!" he gasped out.

"Oh, sorry!" the book-worm apologized, pulling back from her impromptu pounce and grinning at him. "I know it's only been a few weeks, but I've missed you," she said, looking him over from head to toe, as if he might have changed in the last fortnight.

"I've missed you, too," Harry replied, grinning himself. "It's been insane meeting with all the solicitors and court officials. And you wouldn't believe the ridiculous amount of paperwork I've had to fill out. You'd think that I was the one on trial," he told her, shaking his head.

"I can tell. You look exhausted, Harry," Hermione told him, frowning. "Please tell me you're not losing sleep and forgetting to eat over this."

"I'm not, I promise," he assured her. Nope. Snape's trial has nothing to do with the lost meals and sleep. That's totally Ciaran's fault.

"Good. You're no good to Professor Snape if you keel over from lack of rest and proper nutrition," the former lioness chided.

Harry grinned at her. "Yes, Mum," he joked. His smile froze before becoming devious. "Say, Hermione, what do you know about babies?"

Thank Merlin for Hermione, Harry thought to himself as he checked on Ciaran in the bassinette in what had once been a rather unused 'study'.

Being bookish, she hadn't known much more about babies- especially babies as young as Ciaran- than Harry, but after his rather odd question the day before, she had demanded a full explanation, which had led to them Apparating back to Harry's house before he'd had a chance to bring attention to himself as a purportedly single, famous, young man suddenly buying baby supplies for no discernable reason.

Thankfully, Hermione had reminded him of the joys of owl-order, and had helped him draft a letter to the Wizarding baby supply store regarding his need to set up a nursery for when his godson was visiting.

As it wasn't common knowledge who his godson was, or how old he was, Harry was able to order everything he needed for a newborn without any uncomfortable questions being raised.

Well, except by Hermione, of course.

He'd been a bit shocked at some of the language she'd used after reading the letter that had been left in Ciaran's basket, but after her outburst made the baby cry, she'd forced herself to calm down before refocusing her energy to helping Harry with the task he'd undertaken.

Unfortunately, Harry still had no idea how or when he was going to tell Snape that he had a son.

After all, their last meeting hadn't gone all that well, what with Snape demanding for him to leave without ever answering any of his questions.

Harry was fairly certain he had enough evidence to keep Snape out of Azkaban, but with the addition of Ciaran to the mix, and the type of things that his mother had alluded to but not outright stated in her letter, he was cautious and didn't really want to go to court and then have some new crime come up that would still sway the Wizengamot to throw Snape into the darkest hole they could find and promptly forget he existed.

Checking the time, Harry headed into the kitchen to spell one of the bottles he'd ordered to fill and warm itself for Ciaran as he would probably wake from his nap soon. He didn't make it any further than the living area, though, before the fireplace erupted in green flames and Hermione half-walked, half-fell out. Lunging forward to catch her, Harry frowned at the sight of her white, bloodless face.

"Hermione? What's wrong?"

Nearly gasping for breath, her eyes became glassy as they filled with tears. "Harry-" she stopped, her voice strangled as she handed him a copy of the Daily Prophet.

Well and truly worried, he accepted the paper distractedly as he helped his brunette friend to the couch. "What's going on?" he questioned.

Stifling a sob, she shook her head. "Just read it."

Brow furrowing, Harry turned his attention to the paper in his hand, and promptly had to sit down himself as a wave of vertigo struck him. "Oh, my God," he gasped disbelievingly.

"They're trying to make anyone who's had a baby within the last year or that has one a year from now register and testify under Veritaserum about the paternity to make sure that Voldemort's 'breeding' project is stricken from the population. The registry part is on page two," Hermione told him, her voice shaky.

Harry shook his head in utter disbelief. "They're murdering babies! This is...Merlin, Hermione, does the Order know about this?"

Clearing her throat, Hermione gave a weak shrug. "I don't know. I Flooed over as soon as I read it. From what I can tell, they're calling it a specialized division of Child Protective Services and claiming it's to protect Muggleborn children and other choice 'targets' of Death Eaters."

Still reeling with the horror of it, Harry felt nauseous. "They're no better than the Death Eaters! Nobody controls who their parents are, and they can't possibly believe that just because their fathers were Death Eaters that somehow all of the babies born because of that project are going to grow up to be just like them. It's madness!"

"I know," Hermione agreed softly. "And I'm afraid of what they're going to do next. What about the children of Death Eaters who are students at Hogwarts? Some of them will be First and Second Years when the school reopens, but what if they're targeted, too? They can't possibly be Death Eaters, but there's nothing remotely logical about this. What if they start hunting down everyone related to a Death Eater? They might even somehow justify going after Andromeda and Teddy because of Bellatrix. The whole Wizarding world has gone mad!"

Harry closed his eyes, shaking his head in denial. "They can't keep doing this...there's got to be some kind of outcry, or rebellion. Mothers aren't just going to hand over their babies to be murdered because they were the product of rape."

"Harry...some of the mothers did refuse. They...they were charged as sympathizers and executed, too," Hermione informed him.

"Merlin," Harry breathed, shocked anew.

From the back of the house, in the newly outfitted nursery, came a thin, plaintive wail.