He doesn't know how long he cries for. It could have been minutes, hours, even days. Time had fallen away, a meaningless contrivance to the man hunched amidst the rubble his entire world has been reduced to.

'Lily. Oh sweet Lily.'

The body is cold and broken and lifeless in his arms, but he clutches her so fiercely to his chest that she is perhaps now the only tether he has to reality.

How could it have come to this? How could he have failed her so spectacularly? Self-condemnation seeps like acid into his every thought, the insidious green glow bathing the nursery further proof of his untenable guilt.

Severus Snape killed the only woman he ever loved.

He knew it the moment he staggered into Godric's Hollow; knew the moment he spotted the Dark Mark seething in the sky the price his sins had wrought. He may not have said the words, may not have cast the Unforgivable, but he did set them all on this collision course to damnation the night he relayed Voldemort the prophecy.

'The prophecy...'

With a hollow sort of awareness, Severus registers that while his wails of grief have petered off, the only other living occupant in the room's have not. He looks with clouded eyes to the crib off to his right.

To Harry.

'That was his name, right?'

Harry Potter, son of Lily and spawn of James, his best friend and most hated enemy all rolled into one.

Harry Potter, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord.

Harry Potter, who - for all intents and purposes - appears to have done just that.

It seems incredible - 'absolutely ludicrous,' Severus wants to scoff - to think that a mere child could have brought down the most powerful dark wizard of the age. Yet here he is, the "Chosen One": wearing nothing but a nightie as he raises hell behind a prison of charred wooden bars. Severus can see the curse scar now - the strange lightning mark imprinted onto Harry's forehead, evidence that he was touched by dark magic. It is jagged and red and looks very raw. Severus watches, sickened, as a bead of blood bubbles then bursts, trickling grotesquely out the open wound. The child doesn't seem to notice. His chubby little arms are reaching through the slits, hands grasping, fists opening and closing and opening once more. The abject desperation is discernible even on his very puerile features.

Harry wants his mother, he seeks to capture her attention, but his mother will never respond to his summons again.

The shudder that races through Severus is violent. Why does this boy live? Why does he draw breath, while Lily does not?

The lanky young Slytherin moans, burying his crooked nose in Lily's soft hair. He is hardly aware that he has begun rocking again, lips moving with soundless pleas. Hardly aware that Harry has at last transitioned from sobs to snuffles, exhaustion taking its toll. Hardly aware of the imminent and precipitous danger they find themselves in -

Until three loud cracks of Apparition resound in the distance.

'No.'

Severus snaps alert. His heart decides to take up residence somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

'Oh no no no no.'

He doesn't even have to look, he knows what lurks beyond the window, but he goes anyway. He lays Lily back down to her final resting place with all the reverence of a priest to his deity, then hurries over to the seeing glass, parting the curtains just enough to peek surreptitiously out.

Severus sucks in a sharp breath. His suspicions are correct (not that it is any surprise - his powers of deduction have always been astoundingly acute). The disturbance is due to the arrival of three tall figures swathed in robes of blackest night. Even from this distance, the unholy masks gleaming pure moonlight are unmistakable.

Death Eaters.

They've come to revel, to wreak havoc on poor unsuspecting civilians, or perhaps just to check in on their master, terminally late to his own victory party.

'Fools, the lot of them.'

Only the most inner of circles amongst the Dark Lord's ranks had been clued in about the intended assault on Godric's Hollow, Severus included, but clearly some in their midst should not be deemed quite so trustworthy. 'Rather ironic,' the bona fide spy for the light thought, given that he himself had snuck off to waylay Lord Voldemort, even as the Death Eaters began launching raucous celebrations without the necessary approbation of their master.

'All of us, fools, in the end.'

None of this is Severus' concern any longer. If all went well, Voldemort's sanctum would soon be swarming with aurors, most of those rejoicing fools bedding in Azkaban by sunrise. No, what is his concern is the trio slinking right down the Potters' cobbled drive, wands lit and aloft as they approach the scene of destruction, and the front door that he knows to be unwarded - blown out from its very hinges.

Severus lets the curtain fall. He swears vociferously under his breath. His brain is still a bit of a pain-stricken jumble, but in spite of this mental maelstrom, one thought reigns strong:

He needs to get the hell out. The Dark Lord may very well have been cast into the great proverbial ether, but it is far from safe here.

'Safehouse. Get to the safehouse.'

Severus grasps his wand and gives it a perfunctory sweep over his disheveled form, robes transfiguring themselves into a mirror look-a-like of their intruders'. It will do no good if he is caught looking like the beaten young penitent that he is; he must blend in. Another wave, and Severus dons the infamous mask, but the cloying feeling of *wrongness* it evokes nearly floors him once more. He can't wear this abominable face - not here, not with *her*, not with the knowledge of all the untold and unspeakable acts this false veneer has played witness to. Partaken in, even.

He will never rub shoulders with the angels.

Oh, he had hope, once. In dazzlingly green eyes, so full of life and laughter and love, he had seen laid out the promise of redemption.

But he has betrayed the only sliver of divinity graced to him in this wretched cesspit of a life, and those green eyes dazzle nevermore. Their awful dead gaze is a reminder -

That there was never any hope, not really. Not for him.

He is like Judas Iscariot - his love is the Kiss of Death.

Severus growls, shoving away roughly at both the Death Eater sigil and his maudlin brooding. He leaves the former to tangle atop his ebony skullcap, out of mind and out of face, and the latter to resume upon acquisition of the wizarding world's most potent Firewhiskey. He refuses to look at the floor, already tucking Lily's death into a deep dark corner in the very distant recesses of his brain. Occluding is second nature to him; it's like breathing. He is quite used to having to compartmentalize under pressure. The man's first priority right now is to slip past his fellow Death Eaters; keep them off his tail until he's beyond the anti-apparition shields protecting this once unplottable house. It's a simple enough task, for Severus has always prided himself on being a skillful strategist, and an adept duelist should it come to that. "Simple", until he's ready to escape out the door, disillusionment charm half-formed, only to be struck dumb in his tracks by a sudden plaintive mew.

'Oh hell...'

TBC

The greasy-haired Slytherin pivots. His eyes alight on the crib, at the rustling of fabric from small hands and feet within. A grimace overtakes his facial muscles, and Severus can feel it growing by the second.

That dratted boy. He had almost forgotten about the unwitting little witness to his most agonizing hour in living memory, but now there is no circumventing cold hard truth -

Harry will die if he is not taken away from here. *Lily's* Harry. Her sacrifice, all for naught.

Severus strides back the way he came. He grabs a blanket off the rocking chair in passing, some god awful Chudley Cannon orange color no doubt in spirit of the current holiday.

Severus bloody hates Halloween.

He stops just short of the crib as he remembers another thing - he bloody hates children, too. They're vapid, cruel, dirty little creatures, and not even the great Albus Dumbledore can convince him otherwise (no matter how many times the wily old coot attempts to offer him a teaching position). He's even more unnerved by their infantile counterparts, never having had the "pleasure" of squalling siblings while growing up Snape. But there's nothing for it now; no time left to waste. The Dark Lord's followers have entered the house, so Severus puts aside his reservations and snatches up the child, swaddling it loosely into the bright neon eyesore.

'How to proceed?' Severus hesitates, the bundle in his arms warm and entirely too real all of a sudden. There's a wave of discomfiture as he realizes - this is another human being. A completely defenseless human being, wholly dependent upon him for survival. *Him*. Severus T. Snape, double-dealing Death Eater extraordinaire!

The idea is risible. Absolutely bonkers.

Harry nuzzles closer and Severus immediately wants to drop him, but of course, must resist that knee jerk reaction. He *will* do this. For her.

Always for her.

The way forward is much less of a sure bet, now. He'll have to be doubly as careful. Severus shoulders his burden with one arm and uses the other to complete his disillusionment, this time including Harry under the spell as well. His footfalls are like leaves sailing on the coattails of a stiff October breeze. He maneuvers swiftly and silently, only faltering once, and that was over the prone form - still where he left her, still achingly and sempiternally beautiful, even in death.

They escape the oppressive nursery to an even more distressing scene of destruction in the hall beyond. There are craters forged into the floor, the walls, the ceiling. A thin layer of dust and drywall blankets everything like freshly fallen snow. There is much more, too, that Severus missed during his initial mad dash. A banister, buckled directly in its center. Photographs, torn asunder much like the family they depicted, scattered pieces of color and glass littering the mauve carpet. The orange calico, trembling behind a torn tapestry. It bolts like a skittish colt when Severus draws near.

And then they come upon him. He who would have been impossible to miss, crumpled as he was at the base of the stairs like some macabre puppet with strings cut short. Severus didn't linger the first pass through, but a sick sort of fascination steals over him this second time, and he stares unashamedly into the vacant face of James Potter.

It's strange not to be immediately met with vile rebukes and a derisive sneer.

'Oy, Snivellus!' the pompous bastard would shout. 'Stare a little harder, I might just feel charitable enough to correct that pelican beak nose of yours!'

What's even stranger, is not to feel the surge of bitterness and spite that usually accompanies all thoughts of his schoolyard tormentor.

Severus isn't sure how exactly he feels, looking upon the splayed figure. No vindication, even though once upon a time he would have thought this man got what he deserved. No shock. No sorrow. There is just... nothing.

Well. Perhaps it does feel a bit unsettling, to be cradling James' son while gazing at his dead body.

Severus shakes himself from reverie and begins walking once more. He shouldn't waste time on a man so insignificant, he scolds himself. 'You have a mission! Don't get distracted!'

Of course, that's when it happens.

The cat from earlier appears out of nowhere, bumping headlong into Severus' disillusioned leg. It rears back, yowling like a banshee. Severus swears, which is probably a new record for him in this short a span of time, and kicks out at the infernal feline. It doesn't run; in fact, it just gets louder. Fur bristling, eyes bulging, the cat looks positively manic, and it is gearing up as if for a fight when the three Death Eaters round the corner.

Severus tries to sink into the shadows, praying his disillusionment is strong enough to cloak he and the boy, and that the cat's cacophonic howls will continue to keep the Death Eaters' attention.

"Aw, look, it's a wee puss," a thick Scottish brogue issues from the largest man, whom Severus knows to be the brutal Rodolphus Lestrange. He curls his lip in disgust. He does not like to be in Lestrange's company - *either* of the Lestranges, for that matter - if he can avoid it.

"Just leave it alone, Rodolph," the second intruder protests, and there is an irked undertone to his words. Severus can't quite place the voice - Avery? Whoever it is, they are young.

"You don't want to 'ave a spot of fun?" Rodolphus leers, flicking his wand so that the cat finds itself trapped within a Jelly-Legs Jinx. He jerks the stick once more, and begins to viciously knock the poor creature into a wall, over and over. The piteous noises it makes are incredibly hard for Severus to block.

"I'm saying we have other reasons for being here than to play with goddamn cats!" Maybe-Avery hisses, and the lurid smile that stretches Lestrange's face taut is truly despicable.

"'ave it your way," he shrugs, raising the wand. The baby in Severus' arms suddenly shifts and comes to life, right at that most inopportune moment. There is pure horror in Severus' chest as he hears the child release a soft whimper.

Rodolphus pauses.

"What is it?" the third Death Eater asks, nowhere near as burly as his companions but with the similarly defining feature of sounding like a brute. A *dumb* brute. Given his stature, Severus is pretty sure it's Crabbe.

Rodolphus narrows his eyes, and Severus knows he is listening intently. He hates himself for it, but he pulls Harry in closer, hoping to stifle any further cries. Mercifully, the boy remains silent.

"Rodolphus?"

"Nothing," the man spits, shaking his head as a couple locks of unkempt brown hair spill out from underneath the hood. He jabs his wand in a cruel arc. "Avada Kedavra!"

The cat falls to the floor, motionless as Lily and James Potter. Its eyes are still wide and pain-filled. Severus swallows harshly and looks away, the image still too close to home.

"C'mon," Lestrange growls, gesturing toward the stairs. He nudges James aside. "Let's check up there. Clearly, this one here was putting up quite the fight. Trying to guard something?"

The three move off and Severus exhales breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He also realizes he is still snuggling Harry Bloody Potter, and with a muffled exclamation, the former Death Eater disentangles himself from the baby, holding him at a rather more seemly distance because Severus Snape does not *snuggle*.

The man scoffs, feeling fairly ridiculous, that this whole damn thing is ridiculous. There is a terrible part of him that wants to leave Harry at the base of the stairs with his father; wash his hands of the whole mess and the child who brought it down upon them. But he owes Lily a debt, Lily who loved him where no one else did, and so he keeps going. He keeps pace with the shadows, re-positioning Harry in his hideous orange blanket so that the boy is back to being safely tucked beneath one arm, while his other holds the wand aloft.

They make it out the door without any further issues. Harry whimpers again - Snape shushes him. He glances both ways before gliding seamlessly down the front walk with his precious cargo. The night air is crisp; the kind that nips at one's extremities. Winter is definitely quick in coming; already, the sky looks like it could dump flurries at any given moment. This isn't the sort of weather to linger outdoors with a baby in.

'Where to now?' Severus deliberates for only a fraction of a second, then comes to a decision so swift, he wonders why his brain bothered to voice the question in the first place. 'Dumbledore.'

Of course. There is no feasible other option, really. Severus must bring the boy to Dumbledore. Though even as he thinks that, Severus recalls that his mentor, the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, is most probably otherwise occupied at the raid currently being leveled upon Voldemort's headquarters. He gnaws on the alternatives.

It would seem the best course of action is the same as before, the lanky young Slytherin concludes with grudging acceptance. 'The safehouse.' It's the only place, well, *safe* enough to shield both him and the newly minted savior of the wizarding world, until he can get word to Dumbledore.

With a plan forming in his brilliant mind, Severus skirts and darts to the other side of the street, and just in time, too. The Death Eaters, having found nothing besides the dead, exit the Potters' crumbling manor. Severus finds shelter in an alley between two brick houses, and peeks back around one last time to spy Rodolphus, Crabbe, and Avery making a vast sweep of the yard.

'Bloody vultures.' Severus grits his teeth, hoping to God they didn't desecrate Lily's body during their scavenge, or there'd be worse than incarceration in their future. As he fantasizes about retribution and murder, Harry gives another stir; a petulant low whine. Severus can feel a warm wetness leaking through the fabric of his robes, and he draws back, a bit startled.

Harry's face, barely visible from within the tight swaddle of the blanket, is covered in blood. His eyes are scrunched and his lips pursed as the child fusses, clearly in distress. Severus swears; one *more* thing to worry about, and they're not even out of the woods yet. Harry's forehead requires definite medical attention. The dark-headed double agent rummages around frantically, fingers scrambling for the key to their salvation within the heavy folds of his robes. His index catches against something small and smooth, and Severus breathes a sigh of relief, unclasping the object. He brings it out into the light, waxing rays from the moon revealing a minuscule metal pin, shaped like a flower -

A lily. Red, like the hair of the woman he left behind.

Severus taps the pin with his wand.

"Portus."

It glows fluorescent blue for a moment, then Severus begins the countdown.

"1..."

He squeezes the portkey fiercely in his fist, wishing they were Apparating instead - his preferred mode of transportation. But with Harry's condition, both as an infant and an invalid, Severus figures it best not to tempt fate. There's no point in further injuring the boy.

"2..."

He clamps his wand hand over Harry's forehead and the leaking scar, as if on second thought, in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. He grimaces upon coming into contact with the soft, slimy skin.

"3."

Severus takes one final look at the prowling Death Eaters, the ramshackle house, the foreboding Dark Mark. The window into the bedroom where she lays, a twenty-one year old for all eternity.

Then he closes his eyes as surely as his heart and lets the world fade away.

TBC 

He brings Harry to the bed set against the far wall and lays him out. It is easy to maneuver around the cabin gathering the supplies he needs, because there is only one room. Severus is a man of simple means; when he procured this safehouse, situated in an expertly warded glen along the River Thames, he was not looking for extravagant decor. He acquired only the most basic of furniture - primarily, shelves for his copious stock of potions ingredients, a table, two hard-backed chairs, a large brewing cauldron, and the twin-size bed Harry now slumbers upon. There is also a small fireplace, unconnected to the Floo Network, with another cauldron inset. It is meant for cooking, but Severus snatches the pot up - this will do just fine for essence of murtlap.

He cobbles together the necessary ingredients with hardly a thought to the process, having made this same concoction so many other times previous. As a Death Eater, he is lucky if he returns home with nary but a couple bumps and bruises. Usually he is a sad, beaten, bloody, barely conscious sack. But that is the hazard of the job; the price to pay for serving a sadistic megalomaniac, even if he is doing it for the side of the light. Which truly, just makes his position all the more precarious; all the more dangerous should he fail.

Severus finishes the salve in no time at all. He flicks his wand and sends the pickled tentacles back to the shelf from whence they came, then turns to the boy, pot in hand. He dabs a handkerchief into the slimy virescent mixture, and begins to apply it carefully to the seeping wound. This is the safest solution right now, the potions prodigy thinks, without risking using magic on top of fresh dark magic. He knows little about curse scars, and he is not alone in that. They are incredibly rare among the general wizarding populous. In fact, Severus is aware of only one other. Map of the London Underground on his left knee, wasn't it?

Remembering Dumbledore and his strange pieces of trivia brings Severus' mind careening back to the issue at hand. With Harry's forehead situation relatively under control, it's time to alert the Order.

Severus draws his wand again. He points it at an open patch of space.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A silvery doe slips free, and Severus has to swallow harshly against a thick mass of emotion that rises and roils inside his throat. The beautiful lady deer tosses her head and paws at the hearth rug, awaiting instruction.

It takes Severus a moment longer to compose himself. The doe has a gentle look in her eyes - he swears he can see the ghost of Lily smiling back at him.

"Message for Albus Dumbledore. Send help to the safehouse. I have the boy. Godric's Hollow destroyed. Lily and Potter are..." Severus' hoarse voice fails him then, and he cannot get the words out. So he just repeats, "Send help."

He could go into more detail - perhaps mention Voldemort's disappearance and apparent defeat - but Severus does not want that kind of sensitive information getting out, should his message be intercepted. Besides - knowing Dumbledore, the wizened old man is probably already two steps ahead.

The doe bows her magnificent pearly head and then races off into the night, nothing but a coruscating streak against the pitch black sky. Severus watches her go through the window and when there is nothing left but endless abyss, he turns and begins to pace.

The floor is surely worn by the time a reply arrives.

"Stay where you are," the phoenix with Dumbledore's voice rings out. It is reassuring and vexing, all at once. "Help is on its way. I am making preparations to leave Harry with his last remaining relatives. He will be safest there. Until then, do not let the child out of your sight. I will speak with you once things are more settled on our end. And Severus - thank you for the tip about their hide-out... it has proven most providential."

There is a pause, and then, as the bright specter fizzles into near inexistent wisps, "Good luck, my boy. Make her proud."

Severus lets out a loud scoffing noise, clenching his fists. How dare he? How dare he use her like that? Invoking her name like some carrot to be dangled on a stick until Severus rushes to do the old coot's bidding...

And yet, some small part of him stirs, deep within, and points out that perhaps Dumbledore is right. Perhaps he does owe her this...

The dour twenty-one year old is tested much sooner than he expects when the bundle on the bed releases a sudden squawking cry. Severus can feel the dread coiling in his stomach as he realizes what he must do. He reminds himself - 'for her!' - before screwing up his face into some semblance of resolve and approaching like a man to the executioner's block.

The swaddled babe is writhing back and forth upon the mattress, howling like a banshee, though Severus thinks he would probably prefer the banshee right now. He peels back the murtlap-soaked handkerchief he had let rest upon the boy's forehead. It appears to have done its job; the lightning-bolt shaped wound is still glistening but it is less inflamed than it was before. A couple more swipes and Severus sets the dirty cloth aside. He frowns as Harry continues to scream.

"What is it, boy?"

He checks the usuals with supreme distaste. The child's nappy is wet, so he banishes the excess moisture. The nutrient potions he usually keeps on hand for himself are carefully fed until the baby's tiny belly is full. He even performs a warming spell, just in case.

Nothing works. Harry is still a mess, all red-cheeked and scrunchy-eyed. Severus growls in frustration.

"What do you *want*? I have tended to all of your basic needs! You should require nothing further!"

As if in protest, Harry's fussing increases. His fists beat the air with visible contempt. And then, the twist of the knife - his yowls become more defined, morphing into a language Severus can understand. Piteous pleas in the form of a single word that leave Severus trembling on the verge of his own breakdown.

"Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma-ma! Mama!"

"She's gone," he whispers, unsure to whom.

"Maaamaaa!"

"She's GONE!" Severus shouts. He stands up from the bed so quickly he is positive he startles the child, but he doesn't care. He storms over to the table and drags out a chair. The noise in the cabin is so deafening, Severus can hardly bear it, and still Harry chants that one awful word. Like a mantra, it plays over and over in Severus' mind, a ruthless condemnation. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT *UP*!"

He sinks into the chair and buries his countenance in his palms. His breathing is heavy, as if he has just run a mile. The greasy-haired Slytherin tries very hard to ignore the way it hitches, every so often. He sits and sits until he is calm, and even then some. Harry is losing steam as well, but still he cries, with great sniffling hiccups interspersed throughout.

The wind batters the door, sneaking in through the cracks. It creates a low moaning sound, and Severus swears it is speaking to him in her voice.

/"Please."/

"I can't, Lily."

/"Please."/ More insistent.

Severus closes his eyes. He sighs, rubbing the aching synapses. There's no way around this, is there?

He returns slowly to Harry's side, more uncertainly than before. It is at that moment that Harry looks up at him, dead on, and for the first time Severus notices the exact color of this boy's eyes. They are a vivid green, pure and bright...

Green like summer grass, and two children giggling in an outcropping as they lay beside a gentle river.

Green like his house crest, as she holds it between her fingers and strokes the insignia, promising him this won't change a thing.

Green like the potions they study over into the wee hours, honing their skills and friendship alike; this strange, unlikely, unorthodox, *wonderful* friendship.

Green is happiness, the happiest he can ever remember being.

It is also pain, the worst pain of his entire life - and that includes being beaten senseless by his drunk bastard of a father.

Harry's eyes are a perfect replica of Lily's, and the gaze he now bestows upon Severus is enough to steal the man's breath away. It's exactly like looking at her - the fathomless depths so full of innocence, imploration, implicit trust...

Severus is hardly aware of his own actions as he reaches down.

TBC

"Come on, you infernal brat."

Severus turns and carries the boy to the chair. As if on second thought, the lanky Slytherin flicks his wand and transfigures it into a wooden rocker, which he then drags over to the fireplace. It takes him a moment to figure out the proper maneuvering, but Severus eventually settles himself with Harry lengthwise across his lap, tucked into the crook of one arm. It leaves his other free to gesture illustriously at the hearth until flames jump to life within. Their flickering tongues cast a warm glow upon the pair in the rocker, one of whom sighs as he prepares for the long haul.

Instead, something unexpected happens.

The moment Severus begins to rock, Harry's brilliant green eyes - 'her eyes,' the man thinks again with a thrill of something unexplainable - start to droop. The boy stops his cacophonous racket to yawn massively.

"That's right... sleep," Severus murmurs, tempted to enact the same spell he used earlier so that he might be free to lie Harry elsewhere.

...Even if this is not, perhaps, as terrible nor as uncomfortable as he first dreaded it would be.

The weight of this small savior shifts in his arms as Harry blinks blearily up at him. Severus frowns, an inexorably strange feeling passing over him as he stares back.

"Look at us," the former Death Eater ruminates aloud, surprisingly more at ease than he would normally be, sharing his introspections with another human being. It helps that Harry is a mostly vacuous sort of tot, the boy now sucking eagerly at three of his fingers. "The irony... if I am Judas, then you are surely the Messiah. You and I are doomed, child."

Severus chuckles darkly, knowing it to be true - the past always repeats itself, after all. That is the fickle nature of fate.

He is spared further reflection when what sounds like a motorbike's engine revs loudly outside his cabin. Severus leaps to his feet.

"What the hell!?"

Harry fusses for a minute after being unexpectedly jostled, but soon grows quiet as Severus strides to the window and they both peer curiously out. There is a monstrous shape moving in the yard beyond, but Severus is not alarmed - he recognizes the scraggly hair and beard immediately.

"He sends Hagrid, of all people? That bumbling oaf?" Severus grumbles, underneath his breath. Harry's hand grabs his collar suddenly, tiny wet fingers cool against Severus' neck. The twenty-one year old glances down, a bit startled. Harry is staring wide-eyed out at Hagrid, seemingly mesmerized, or maybe even a touch afraid. The sight makes Severus smirk.

"His bark is worse than his bite, I assure you," Severus says amusedly, before he catches himself. Why on earth is he pandering to this brat, son of the bane of his very existence? But Harry hears the voice being directed his way and looks up, a blinding smile in place. It throws Severus off entirely.

He is definitely not cut out for this.

"It's time to go," Severus announces, stiffly. He ignores the odd pang in his chest after that pronouncement, because he does *not* care, and so he marches to the door with a hardened air and methodical steps. But just at the threshold, the man falters.

"I suppose you can't go out looking like a bright bloody beacon, can you?" the ex-Death Eater says, gruffly, in reference to the neon eyesore Harry is still currently swaddled within. "No, that won't do."

He unwraps the orange blanket from around the child. Harry makes a noise of protest.

"Oh, it's just for a moment. You won't die," Severus snaps, but he can't seem to achieve his usual acerbic inflection, which is quite frustrating. When he finally extricates the boy, he looks at the blanket with supreme distaste, before chucking it disparagingly into the fireplace. It goes up in flames immediately. Severus watches the pyrotechnics for a moment, before a strange light dawns into his eyes. Some would call it madness - maybe it is. But Severus likes to believe he is thinking more clearly than he has in years. His hand reaches up almost of its own volition, and grabs the Death Eater mask still riding atop his head, from where he had pushed it earlier. The inhuman face, cold and cruel, glares back up at him. A reminder of all the wrongs he perpetrated while wearing this disguise. A puppeteer for evil. Severus sneers, crumpling the mask in his fist. 'No more.' He lobs the accursed face in with the blanket. There is a powerful satisfaction in watching the famed symbol of Voldemort's followers - the physical incarnation of his sins - shrivel and burn. He wishes he could do the same to the mark on his arm. Still - Severus has never felt more relieved; he can breathe easier than he has in a long time. A weight has lifted - there is one less millstone strung round his neck.

Harry wriggles in his grip, whining at his exposure to the cabin's chill. Severus glides back to the bed. He hesitates for the briefest moment, looking at Harry. The child hiccups, lower lip wobbling, and piercing green connects with beady onyx. Severus swears.

"Not like I need it anyway," he grouses to himself. The twenty-one year old bends over, taking care to keep Harry supported upon one hip, and yanks out a ratty school trunk from beneath the bed. He mumbles away various enchantments warding this sad relic from his childhood, and when the trunk is unlocked the man retrieves but one item.

He pulls out with tender hands an even more worn-looking quilt. Some of the patches are falling off, and the threads are long brittle, but it is still just as heavy and warm as ever. Perfect for a brisk night such as this.

Severus lays out Harry again. He makes short work of bundling the one year old up for his impending journey. Harry coos and gargles, limbs all akimbo.

"Stay still, would you?" Severus snags one flailing arm and gently restrains it against the child's chest so that he can tuck the blanket in securely. He does the same with all other appendages. Harry looks so content afterward that Severus feels little harm in telling him one last secret. It's not like he will remember anyway.

"That quilt was made by my mother. She was a talented seamstress, once," Severus recalls, throat tight. 'Until my father chased all her passions, all her joy for living, right out of her... until she was nothing but a broken shell.'

"This was my most prized possession as a child. *Try* not to spit up on it."

Harry coos again. It is the closest to affirmation he is going to get, Severus supposes.

Knocking resounds, the door fairly quivering on its hinges as it fights to withstand the assault. Severus rolls his eyes.

"A little harder, won't you? Our neighbors in the next county over might not be able to hear," the dark-haired Slytherin snarks. Then louder, "Good God, man. I'm coming!"

He eases the baby back into his arms. By now, the weight has become familiar. They cross the floor to the source of the ruckus and Severus whips open the door, to reveal one very anxious half-giant.

"Oh 'Arry!" Hagrid near-sobs, reaching out with both hands. Severus halts him with a strategic pull of his wand, aiming it for the jugular. Or, where he assumes the jugular to be. There's too much damn hair to see past.

"What is the location of the Order of the Phoenix?" Severus presses, keeping Harry hidden against him.

Hagrid, not wanting to appear recalcitrant, raises his hands in a show of acquiescence. "Snape... it's jus' me..."

"*Where*?"

"12 Grimmauld Place. London."

Severus relaxes.

"I just had to be certain you were who you said you were," he explains, pocketing his wand once more.

"Ah, no worries," Hagrid replies graciously. "Bit sad yer can't trust anyone now'erdays, though."

Severus doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't. He has never been able to just blindly trust people, not even before the war. Hagrid gives a great sniffle then, trying to peek in at Harry.

"Poor 'Arry. Poor James an' Lily. Oh, it's awful, jus' awful. The wee lad all alone!"

"Indeed," Severus intones, uncomfortably. He wishes Hagrid would go weep elsewhere. The overgrown man sweeps large hands over his eyes, wiping away the tidal wave of tears he had been parrying. His voice is markedly stronger as the gentle giant persuades,

"Alright, well, I'll take 'im off yer hands now, Snape. Got 'ter get goin'. Dumbledore'll be waitin' on me."

"Where are you going?" Severus inquires, still not passing the boy over yet. He's not sure why he's delaying the inevitable. It's definitely not to hold Harry for just that little bit longer.

"Little Whingin'n Surrey. Think Dumbledore said Lily's gotta sister there or summat-"

"A sister?" Severus interjects, sharply.

"Yeah," Hagrid nods. "S'funny... don't much 'member Lily mentioning her, but I reckon she's the last family little Harry 'ere's got."

Severus purses his lips, unconsciously bringing Harry closer to himself. Oh, he remembers Petunia Evans alright, and he also remembers how much disparity existed between Petunia and Lily. To say Lily's sister was a cruel, jealous, heartless shrew would've been putting it only too kindly. And Harry was going to live with *her*?

The rational part of Severus' brain comes to life then, harsh and biting. What does he care where the boy ends up? It's not like *he* wants that responsibility. And besides, even if he did volunteer, what the hell would he do with a baby anyway? The idea is risible. He is not father material (especially not to James Potter's son!). Petunia is a much better fit. No one remains the same selves they were at eleven; Severus is sure Lily's sister will have long matured by now. Better the boy live with people who will dote and fawn over his very existence, than with the one who will one day bring it to ruin.

Steeling himself, and still not quite sure why, Severus transfers the warm little bundle over to Hagrid. The half-giant with an affinity for all creatures great and small cuddles the boy close, an expression of soft wonderment settling on his countenance. Immediately, Severus perceives a strange sense of loss. He watches as Harry struggles and cranes within his fabric confines to look back at Severus, whimpering. Those green eyes bear a path straight to his soul. To Severus, it almost looks like a gaze of betrayal. He shivers, and takes a step back.

He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.

This must be done. He must entrust Lily's child to Dumbledore now. It is the best hope for the boy. There are ancient magicks, blood wards and the like, that Severus knows will keep the wizarding world's savior safe in a way he never could.

Not that he wants to, anyway.

Hagrid turns and Severus trails not far behind. Then he stops dead in his tracks.

"What the devil is *that*!?"

"Ahhh, this 'ere bike? T'was Sirius Black who lent me this little beauty. Bit funny he was. Told me he wouldn't need her anymore-"

Severus has to grit his teeth against a sudden headache, withholding his foul oath at the mention of James Potter's crony. He drowns out Hagrid's voice, inwardly decrying the unfairness that a person like Sirius Black should live while Lily does not. He would gladly trade all of the so-called 'Marauders' for her life's return.

Hagrid finally concludes his rambling about that contemptible ingrate, and makes to exit on the bike. Severus rushes forward.

"You're taking the boy *on there*!?"

"Well, yeah," Hagrid answers, nonplussed.

"Dumbledore condoned this?"

"Yep," Hagrid says, puffing out his chest proudly. Severus knows there's no arguing after that. Dumbledore's word is law. It would be very disingenuous of him to needle Hagrid about the powerful old mage's trust when he himself has only just recently earned it.

"And how do you propose to keep him on board?" Severus inquires tightly, as he tries to keep his features stoic.

He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. Why does he have to keep reminding himself of that fact?

"Well, like this," Hagrid replies patiently, and he eases Harry, quilt and all, into a sling hung around his neck. The baby's tuft of black hair barely peeks over the top. Then Hagrid looks up, and has the gall to give Severus a most annoyingly knowing smile. "Safe enough for ya, Snape?"

The twenty-one year old potions prodigy immediately grimaces.

"I could care less if the brat falls to his death. Do what you will."

The sparkle is still strong in Hagrid's eye. "Come say goodbye to 'im? Might be awhile 'afore ya see 'im again."

"No thank you," Severus sneers, with portentous grace.

Hagrid mumbles something about "denial" before kicking the engine into life. It roars like a ferocious lion. The gentle giant waves massively at his darkly adorned companion.

"Take care o'yourself, Snape!"

"Likewise," Severus bids, probably too quietly for Hagrid to hear, but it bothers him little. He glances to the sling and is discomfited to find two pinpoints of green staring directly at him. Harry is straining for one last look.

Severus watches those bright emerald depths blink owlishly as the bike begins to elevate. He watches as Hagrid brushes a trashcan lid-sized hand over the boy's head. He watches as the half-giant ascends into the low-hanging stratus clouds, taking with him the last bit of Lily Evans in this world.

There's a pang that Severus doesn't want to give name to as he observes the unlikely pair, until they are nothing but a dim speck against the eerie backdrop of night. Severus swallows thickly, those brilliant green eyes still burned into the forefront of his mind.

"Goodbye... Harry Potter."

He turns to amble slowly back into the cabin. There's an exhaustion stealing over him, unexpected and swift. It seems to seep into his very bones until Severus feels decades older than he actually is. He wonders if this is what Dumbledore deals with on a daily basis. But no, the leader of the side of the light has an unsuspecting spryness about him; a boundless energy, along with more bloody cheer than Severus will ever possess in two lifetimes let alone one.

He goes to the rocker and collapses into it like all the wind has been sapped from his sails. He waves his hand with listless abandon, and "Accio!"s for a bottle of Firewhiskey. He doesn't even have a chance to pop the cork before another ghostly phoenix is floating in front of him. Severus swears irately and tries to shoo it away so that he can finally drink in peace, but it is of course to no avail.

"I just received word from Hagrid of his success. I must express my immense gratitude to you, Severus. You have shown true loyalty to me and to our cause tonight, even despite the horrors you so recently endured. The Order will not soon forget your contributions to the take-down of Lord Voldemort and his base."

The aforementioned man snorts and raises his bottle in sardonic aplomb. The Order of the Phoenix, welcome him into their fold with open arms? 'Not bloody likely.'

"There is still much to be accomplished on our end, but I do wish to speak with you, Severus. Perhaps you can fill me in on the night's events this coming morning. I think 9:00 in my office will do."

The phoenix patronus starts to fade.

"You have done more than you can know, my boy," Dumbledore's voice issues forth, now in warmer, gentler tones than his previous business crispness. "Harry is very important. And not just because of the prophecy."

Upon that last, the spectral messenger disappears, leaving behind only the sight of crackling embers. Severus stares solemnly into the fire, a maudlin shadow curtaining half of his features. The other glows heavy and haunted.

"Do I really deserve extolations, Lily?" He grips at his grease-laden locks and croaks, "I killed you - I as good as killed you!"

A log shifts and sizzles, the low hiss like one word - /"Harry."/

Severus blinks. Yes... he did manage to rescue Harry. By some quirk of fate, they both made it out alive tonight. But that hardly feels like fulfillment of the debt he incurred the moment he passed word of the prophecy to Voldemort, thereby - in a way - signing Lily's death warrant.

He might be barmy. The likelihood has always been more probability than possibility. But Severus swears those viridescent depths accost him still, relentless phantoms stalking from the peripheries of his mind's eye.

Lily seems to be begging, and Severus finds himself as powerless to her whims as ever. Those green eyes have always been his one weakness. His Achilles heel.

"I know what you want."

He can't escape her. Can't scurry back into the darkness; that comforting absence of all. Not this time. The man jerks his wand and summons for a tumbler.

"And I suppose you will not let me rest until you have it."

He pours himself a gratuitous helping of the Firewhiskey and then toasts it into the air.

"Lily... on my oath as a wizard, I promise to protect him - for as long as I may live."

He's about to honor the vow with a drink, but pauses.

"I know what else you want," he whispers. "But that... that I just can't do. You know my past. You know my sins. You know whose son he is."

Severus grits his teeth in anguish.

"I am Judas and he is the Messiah. We are stuck in an age-old pattern of destruction. I will only ever cause him suffering. I *must* distance myself." He closes his eyes. "Others will step in where I cannot. He won't be alone. But I made this mistake once, Lily - I won't again. Love is for the fools."

Severus opens his eyes again, a cold resolve filling his system with every breath. He raises the cup to his lips and takes a deep swig, reveling in the hot liquid and the way it burns on the way down. He feels the edge falling away, and all pain with it.

"I failed you. I won't fail him."

~~~

The End