INNOCENCE SUNDERED

It was a beautiful day in the middle of July, with the sun high in the sky and birds dancing in the limbs of the trees that surrounded the small house at Godric's Hollow. Anne Sullivan-Potter, her light brown hair pulled back into a sloppy bun, stood on the small stoop at the back door with a broom. James, three years old and precarious as only hyper little boys could be, watched the swishing strings of his mother's apron. Her back was turned and her attention was centred on her tasks. Perfect!

James silently clambered atop of one of the kitchen chairs and studied the small platter of cooling cookies. He tentatively reached for one, his eyes trained upon Anne's back as she hummed a merry tune and worked the bristles of the broom through a clogged crack.

When his hand enclosed around a still-warm cookie, James slid off the kitchen chair. He dived beneath the kitchen table to feast upon his ill-acquired goods. Only the slight movement of the floor-trailing tablecloth betrayed his position.

He stuffed his mouth with one bite and savoured the flavour as a few crumbs spilled down his shirt. The air beneath the table was comfortably warm, and above him, in the second story of the house, he could hear the creak of shifting timbers as his father roamed. James also heard a soft footfall and the swish of skirts before the kitchen door was closed. He paused a moment in his chewing and lifted the corner of the tablecloth, pressing his cheek against the tiling floor. He saw Anne's bare feet walk softly past to put away the broom, and then depart the kitchen.

James breathed a sigh of relief having not been caught, and finished the rest of his cookie. As he carefully brushed away any sign of deviance from his clothes, the tablecloth moved. He whirled around to see little Jonathan slip under the tablecloth and regard him with a finger pressed against his lips.

"Go 'way!" James whispered loudly, trying to push him out of his special hiding place. This was his – Jonathon didn't belong here! Jonathan whimpered and his lower lip trembled. Belatedly, James realized his mistake. If he was mean to Jonathan, then Jonathan would cry and Mum would discover them.

"Wait!" James threw his arms around his brother's shoulders and pulled him under. "I changed my mind. Don't cry! You can stay with me!" Jonathan sniffed and relaxed into James' embrace.

"I'm scared," Jonathan whispered.

"Why?"

"Dunno." He whimpered softly and pressed one nervous finger to his lower lip. "I see blood," he said with his eyes wide with horror. "Blood everywhere." He shivered with fright. James' arms tightened around him. For some inexplicable reason, Jonathan woken screaming from nightmares for the past three nights. He said it flowed like a river and pieces of something bobbed about like bath toys. He moaned and cried and screamed, because James cried the tears that formed the river of blood.

"Grandmother's coming," James said with the sincere belief in someone who knew would make things right. "She'll make it stop." That was what Oliver and Anne had told Jonathan to calm their hysterical two year old. No one knew what could have caused such horrific visions to emerge in the slumbering dreams of a child, but no one was going to discern it as nothing.

Oliver knew the family history; it was not hard to believe that his youngest son could be a Wanderer, and since Pandora was the only one familiar enough with the Mirror of Rebounds to understand its use and symbolism, she would visit and speak to Jonathon.

Jonathan sniffled, then stopped. He pulled away from James and sniffed again more deeply. He glared at James, who contrived to look shamed. "I wanna cookie!" Jonathan said loudly.

"Shhh!" James flinched and waited to see if Anne had heard them. Jonathan dropped his voice to a loud whisper.

"I wanna cookie or I'm tellin' Mum!"

"Fine, I'll get a cookie for you!" James huffed with indignation before lifting one corner of the tablecloth and peering around. Anne was nowhere near, so he crept out from beneath the table and onto the chair again. Jonathan followed closely at his heels, warily watching for their mother.

When James was on top of the chair and reaching for the platter, they both heard the kitchen door swing open. He snatched his hand back warily, caught in the act of absconding with forbidden food. They expected it to be their grandmother — she would sneak them cookies! — but it was not Pandora. It was instead a man they had never before seen. He was tall and dark, his facial muscles twisted and bunched together, and his eyes were filled with a terrible malevolence. James pressed back and Jonathon, crying softly in surprise and fear, hid behind the chair.

The man's power filled the kitchen like a tidal wave and crushed any good cheer that remained after his startling appearance. Clothed in black, the man was like a sinister shadow from depths of madness that could only exist in the realm of nightmares. His eyes seemed dead and lifeless, unless the cunning and the knowing in them constituted as life.

"What are you doing?" His voice was rich and melodious, a sharp contrast of beauty compared to his ugliness. Jonathon slowly drew away from James, a tentative smile on his face, and James suddenly thought of screaming.

"We're getting cookies!" Jonathan declared shyly. The man smiled. The twisted features became smooth for a moment, and the man seemed very handsome and kind then.

"The ones on the table?" he asked amusedly. "Are you allowed?" Jonathan shrunk down and shook his head no; the man's smile broadened. "I thought not," he said softly. He forward and rested his fingertips lightly beside the platter of cookies. He regarded the boys, and then picked up a single cookie. "Which one should I give this to?"

Jonathan watched the waving cookie eagerly until James reached down and viciously pinched him. The man's eyebrow twitched as James squared his shoulder and stared defiantly at him.

"Go 'way!" James said firmly with one tiny finger pointed at the door. The man sniggered and the human likeliness in his features disappeared.

"I believe I may like you," he said softly. "Such a lovely spirit. It soars like a bird, free and majestic in the sky." He smiled viciously. Jonathan pulled away from the twisted features with a soft cry and grabbed a fistful of James' trousers. "It would be a wonder," the dark man whispered as he bent over, "to break," one hand reached out to touch the line of Jonathan's neck, "your wings." His eyes peered into the depths of James' heart and soul. "You. Yes, you I think I would prefer continuing the Snape lineage. The one I need to assure Pandora's neutral stance. "

James jumped as the man's dark blue eyes flashed and burned a bright crimson. With a smile that could only be described as vicious and animalistic, the man stabbed his hand forward. Jonathan barely managed a squeak before his head, jaggedly torn free from his body, flew across the room and thumped against one of the cabinet doors. Blood spurted from his serrated neck and drenched James as if a bucket of it had been tipped over his head. It washed over James' stunned features and the body sagged against him before dropping to the floor.

The world suddenly narrowed down to two things: The burning bright crimson red eyes that filled his entire vision, and the blossoming pain in the middle of his chest.

From the other side of the house, James dimly heard his mother. "James? Jon? What are you two up to?"

"Do not say a word," the man hissed as he pressed one bloody finger to James' lips, the touch sucking away warmth and leaving only the feel of frost. James stared into the crimson depths and saw his reflection. He watched as the pupils curved slowly from circles to slits. "Do not make a sound." James heard his mother enter the kitchen at that moment, and slowly turned to face her.

"Boys? What are you do—" Her annoyance was silenced as Jonathan's head, propelled by an unseen force, rolled across the floor and bumped against her ankles. She stared wordlessly, too shocked to even breathe. Lifting her horror-filled eyes from Jonathan's head, she saw the dark man bent over her other son; saw James bathed from head to toe in blood. Trembling, she withdrew her wand from her apron pocket and rushed forward with her wand upraised and a scream ripping from her throat.

"Mmm." The man shook his head and lazily waved his hand. The cutlery set that had been a wedding gift to Oliver and Anne from Anastasia and Edwina rattled in its little shelf before flinging free through the air. Anne stiffened and stopped up short, her scream dying as a large knife buried itself to the hilt beneath her breast bone with a fleshy thud of sound. She tripped backwards as another knife sunk just above the first. In slow motion, she fell against the doorjamb, the hand in which she gripped her wand slowly sagging downward. One by one, a dozen knives slammed into her chest, throat, and stomach. Spots of red surrounded each polished hilt and the wand dropped onto the kitchen floor with a small tap of sound. Blood burbled from her mouth as she tried to speak to James. Her eyes glazed as her legs slid free from beneath.

The knives violently ripped free from her body. Side to side the knives rent across her flesh and tore it to ribbons. Hurled by an invisible force, the knives clattered against the walls and fell motionlessly and bloodstained to the otherwise pristine tile. Anne flopped forward, head dropping between her knees into a quickly-widening pool of blood.

James did not so much as gasp, unable to make a sound as the man commanded, all too aware of the crushing pain in his chest. James felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen, as if all of this was some faraway dream. In the living room entrance, cradling Jonathan's head gently in his arms, was Oliver. He had come running at the sound of his wife's scream, but stood silent and docile as James. A single tear rolled down his face.

The dark man cocked his head to the side. "Why do you not fight me?" he asked curiously as he dropped a hand onto James' head. "Your lovely wife did." Another tear rolled down Oliver's face. There was one thing that set Oliver apart from the rest of his family, and this was his complete lack of presence. He could not command the attention of anyone in a room, much less the attention of someone as arrogant as the man once known as Tom Riddle. Still, if for nothing else but what a heart-wrenching sight he made as he gently hugged his youngest son close to his heart, Oliver commanded.

"What good would it do?" Oliver asked softly. "You would kill me regardless of whether I fight or not and I'm too weak to harm you anyway." His gaze settled upon Anne's still body. More tears rolled down his face. "I know I shame my family with this pacifism. But when I see this, I remember blood at the top of stairs; my father's blood without a body." Oliver lifted one hand and stared at the blood smeared across it. "I hope you're happy," he said, "to have achieved your goal here." His expression was resigned, but in the quiet depths of his eyes smouldered a soul-consuming hatred. "Because you will never succeed. You have already lost; you lost the moment you killed my father."

"Shut up," the dark man said evenly and waved his hand once more. The invisible force from earlier lifted the cutlery upward, whipped it around in a half circle, and sunk into Oliver's back. He shuddered and gasped as several knife points protruded from his chest. He swayed unsteadily but clung to his dignity.

"That was the first step down the dark road," he whispered with a slurred voice, "and now you've been dragged so down far it you will never come back. You've lost anything that would ever truly mean anything to you." A dark drop of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. "In the end, you'll only receive what you create."

"Shut. Up." The knives split open Oliver's ribcage as they tore through. Oliver collapsed to his knees, one arm still stubbornly clinging to Jonathon. "A pox upon you," Oliver whispered, raising one bloody hand and pointing two level fingers at the dark man. "May the blood you spill be the very blood that destroys you. So this curse is created from innocent blood, and so the innocent blood curses you!" Oliver flung his bloody hand wide. Drops of blood flew about and a single drop landed on the back of the dark man's hand. It hissed as it ate through the dark man's skin like acid.

"Shut! Up!" The knives gutted Oliver. He flinched and gasped as his intestines spilled across the floor. The same hand that had flung his blood wide, red and trembling with pain, reached out to James.

"I love you," he whispered before his throat was slashed end-to-end. His arms dropped loosely to his sides and Jonathan's head rolled free. Oliver sighed once as his head tilted back, and he died upon his knees before Voldemort. But the Snape pride ran strong in his veins where blood should have even if he did not possess presence, so he expired with his head held high and his eyes open.

James remained silent through it all. With the silence ringing in his ears and the pain crushing his chest, the dark man drew close and cradled James close. "Come," the dark man as he stooped to wrap one strong hand around the leg of Jonathan's decapitated body. "This," he smiled coldly, "is no place for a child."

It was to this massacre that Pandora came only half an hour later. The stench of death was in the air, but not like that of the scent of blood, or even the underlying stink of the Dark Arts. She stared at the mindless slaughter before her, the basket of wooden play blocks and homemade candies falling free from her suddenly loose grip.

"No."

Blood was splattered on the furniture and walls, and the tiled floor was completely hidden beneath the mini lake of blood.

"Oh gods, no. No no no not again."

Pandora waded across the blood to her son and gingerly stepped around his intestines. His eyes stared upward at the ceiling. "Oliver? My love?" Pandora reached out to smooth her hands over his eyes. Rigor mortis had not fully set in, and she closed his eyes for the last time.

Pandora forced herself to retain some calm as she searched for survivors. Jonathan's head, a look of pain and fear still frozen upon his face, she found beneath the kitchen table, and it was the sight of this that made Pandora burst into tears. She roamed through the house, futilely searching for James. She searched in closets, beneath the beds, under furniture, and in the various nooks and crannies that she knew he liked to hide.

Unable to find anything of James, unable to stand the sight of her only son kneeling with his entrails spread before him and Anne laying face-down in the lake of blood, Pandora Apparated to her twin daughters' flat as she still desperately clutched Jonathan's head close.

Severus Snape would later describe the damage done to Anastasia and Edwina as being torn from limb to limb as if attacked by wild animals. It was too polite a description.

At Godric's Hollow, Pandora cried.

At the twins' flat, she screamed as Edwina, her body torn in half at the waist and one arm ending at a bloody stump just above the elbow, hair ripped away in bloody clumps, dragged a bloody trail across the floor to hopelessly clutch at Pandora's legs and beg her mother for death.

The dark man and James stayed together. "Not a word," he said often, "not a sound." He kept James and Jonathon together in the same dark room where only a large chair stood. Jonathan's body had been reverently laid across the threshold of before the large chair while James was gently held in the dark man's lap.

In those two days, neither moved from the chair and James stank of blood, faeces, and urine. His chest ached painfully. The scene of his family's gruesome slaughter played and replayed not just in James' mind but also in the shadows. The twisted bodies, the flashing cutlery, the blood splashing everywhere. He also saw Pandora backed into a corner, screaming hysterically as pieces of Edwina and Anastasia surrounded her, clinging and begging for a release from their cursed imprisonment of ruined flesh.

Mixed in with the shadows was a vision of bloody tears that formed a river.

In those two days, the dark man occasionally recited old legends, myths, and even a few fairy tales to James. His voice was soothing and hypnotic, too kind and too smooth to belong to someone capable of creating such horror. He petted James' wild hair and gently ran his hands comfortingly along the small length of the boy's back as he spoke.

On noon the second day, the dark man laid Jonathon's body in a fire and then hand-fed sizzling chunks of roasted flesh to James. He told James to devour his heritage, swallow his kindred, become one with his brother so they might both know immortality.

James did as he was told, and something within withered as he consumed Jonathon, as he inhaled his brother's floating ashes.

The pain in his chest magnified.

When dusk settled that second day, the dark man took James and brought them to the edge of a park. In the distance, James heard children's shrieks of laughter, but he buried himself deep within his own mind. The dark man strode to a bench where a woman, hair gone from raven-black to steel-grey in less than forty-eight hours, hunched in soul-deep misery.

"Pandora," he said softly. The woman stirred. The dark man smiled sweetly at her as he rested his cheek on the top of James' wild black hair. He brushed the back of his hand across James' face, sweeping away crusted blood. "This is the only remaining descendant of both the Potter name and the Snape bloodline. Should you ever wage a direct assault or lead an attack against me, I shall play with him as I play with nothing else, and he shall be as immortal as myself, never to die and escape that which I can inflict upon him. The Potter name will cease to exist, and the Snape blood will never flow in another's veins."

He gently held James out to Pandora, and she snatched him to her breast. With a low laugh, the dark man stooped low and cupped her face with his hands. "Pandora," he said, bending low so his lips brushed against the delicate shell of her ear, "withdraw and declare yourself neutral." She trembled at his touch, like a wild animal tensing for attack. "Not doing so will heighten the risk of destroying my sanctuary for James. Once he is gone, you will have nothing left. After what had taken place two days ago, the world will respect your decision." He planted a mocking kiss on the corner of her quivering lips.

He released her and Disapparated. Pandora sobbed and pressed her face to James' hair, and James would not respond. Not a word, not a sound, the dark man had told him, so he obeyed.

Knowing well that Tom Riddle said what he meant and meant what he said, Pandora withdrew and publicly announced that she would never fight against Voldemort. All who witnessed saw her cradling close her one immediate family member, still drenched in Jonathan's dried blood. It was the rude shock that awoke the entire wizarding world to the knowledge that another Dark Lord had risen so soon after Grindelwald, another who had been ruthlessly vicious.

For many years though, Voldemort remained somewhat inactive, and those who shunned wickedness by believing that such horribleness was best ignored soon forgot what happened.

The dark man had told James to be quiet. For a year and a half afterwards, James obeyed. His chest ached always, and no matter how far back into his mind he retreated, no matter how hard he tried to separate from those memories, he saw his parents die. He saw his aunts suffer. The taste of his brother's flesh remained bitterly on his tongue, tainting everything Pandora cooked.

Pandora pleaded and cajoled, prayed and cried for a response, any reaction or sign of life, and only after months of her tears did James finally realize that he would feel less alone if he emerged from his shell. This brought smiles to his grandmother's face, so he vowed to never make her cry again.

For Pandora, he began to live.

In that time, he slept in Pandora's bed. He never whimpered or cried out when the pain became too much, but only rubbed his head against Pandora's breast and buried himself further into her arms. He did not know what the dark man would do if James made a sound, but James could not stand the thought or idea of losing his grandmother in the same manner as he had the rest of his family. For all intents and purposes, she was the only person left in the world for him.

It was Sirius Black who let him believe otherwise. James was nearly six years old then, and had spent half of his life in silence.

The Black family had stopped by at Dinsmore to thank Pandora for allowing them to move into the woodcutter's cottage when they had sought sanctuary from the poisoned horror that was slowly seeping through the wizarding world. As the parents spoke with Pandora, Sirius, young upstart of a ruffian that he was (or, at least, would one day be), wandered off to explore. He met James, who covertly watched Pandora in the shadows of the drapes.

Sirius watched James as one finger pressed against the corner of his mouth watch Pandora. Finally, Sirius said, "I'm Sirius Black."

James' eyes flickered over at the boy, and then back to Pandora, whose attention was for the adults. Sirius studied Pandora for a moment, then decided she wasn't playmate material. "She's nice," he said finally, because something had to be said. James looked at Sirius. He studied him, and then nodded once.

"Can't you talk?"

James stared at Sirius. Sirius stared at James. Minutes ticked by. Sirius once again reached out to this silent boy.

"Well, we came here 'cause Mum and Dad said that Missus Potter is the only person that You-Know-Who isn't going to bother." James frowned thoughtfully. He could hear Mrs Black thanking his grandmother for protection. Did this mean that the dark man, this Voldemort, the person his grandmother called Tom Riddle, was not going to hurt Pandora if he spoke?

"She's very strong," Sirius added. "Mum and Dad said You-Know-Who wouldn't never attack Missus Potter because she's strong."

James felt a stirring deep in his chest. For the first time since his parents died, the pain in his chest eased, and he felt himself swelling with pride to know that this person, the one everyone said was so strong, belonged to him. And he would protect her, as a man was to protect his woman. "Of course she is," James said finally, voice almost too soft to hear. "She is my grandmother."

"You can speak. Good; come play with me now."

Pandora attested James' "awakening" from the frightfully silent, haunted little boy that he was after his family's deaths to Sirius Black. That day, she saw her grandson laugh for the first time in a year and a half as he and Sirius played together in front of Francis' portrait and Francis refereed their game. It was not a truly complete recovery though. James would not sleep unless she was home, even if she was gone for two days and left him in the care of the Blacks. Until his sixth birthday, he would only sleep with Pandora, curled against her side as she had one arm protectively wrapped around him.

Pandora could not discipline James. She could not find it in herself to punish him or speak harshly, lest it trigger whatever Voldemort had done. She allowed him to run free and wild, rambunctious in behaviour and naturally mischievous to the point of being obnoxious. He was alive and that was how she wanted it. James loved her dearly for such leniency.

Just a few months after the Blacks arrived, Remus Lupin came to Dinsmore with his family. Their original purpose was to seek Pandora's help for a cure. She was, after all, a master in the Defence of the Dark Arts, and Francis' name and genius was still remembered by scholars such as Remus' father, Favian Lupin. Pandora could not help and, loathed as she did to send them away without help, she allowed them to stay near Dinsmore and sealed off some passages of Dinsmore's catacombs for Remus' use during the full moon.

Remus and James quickly became playmates. Little more than a year passed after that, until the fateful day when Pandora took James to Diagon Alley for supplies. It was the second time James had been surrounded by so many people, but he went forth bravely with Remus and Sirius at his side, and he found that he enjoyed being surrounded by strangers and so much life.

There they met a little gutter rat, dark and dirty, underfed and naturally suspicious, who had been given the key of entry to Diagon Alley through Pandora's explanation to James.

James had not meant to insult the gutter rat. When he helped other boy to his feet and saw the gutter rat's eyes, it triggered a memory. Even if the gutter rat's black hair was matted and tangled, it hinted of curls. Even if the gutter rat's eyes were as black as his hair and they held a wary fear, James saw shattered innocence. As different as the gutter rat was, James was stunned speechless at the sudden reflection of Jonathon.

Perhaps it was the fear in the gutter rat's eyes, or perhaps it was his own dawning horror of realization. But for whatever reason, James saw Jonathan and the memory of little Jonathan's body sliding down against his own vividly played in his mind. In that moment, he felt blood wash over his features, the crushing pain in his chest, cooked flesh pressed into his mouth and ashes filling his lungs. He couldn't help but rub his hands against his clothes to feel for the warm stickiness of blood.

The little gutter rat fled, deeply hurt and offended though James could never say why. That, James supposed, was the last he would ever see of him anyway, but not so. A month later, late at night, James lay awake for Pandora to come home. He heard her arrive, but when she didn't come directly to bed as she always had before, he went searching for her.

They had company.

The gutter rat was so sullen and suspicious. How else was James to react but demand to know why he was here? Upon learning that Pandora had every intention of keeping him, James found he was not surprised. It made sense then, why this little gutter rat, now known as Severus, had reminded him of Jonathan. Surely Pandora saw Jonathon in the gutter rat as well.

That must have been why she brought him home.

Perhaps their meeting at Diagon Alley was meant to be; foreordained, if one cared to be philosophical of the matter. James was no stranger to the Snape family heritage. He knew about the Mirror of Rebounds, though he hated it. In his child's mind, he blamed the Mirror of Rebounds for his family's deaths. The Mirror had shown Jonathan of James crying a river of blood. If the Mirror of Rebounds had not shown Jonathan this dream, then his parents and Jonathon would surely be alive.

But for all of the boy's similarities to Jonathon, it was hard for James to accept this person.

James found it difficult to love this strange, black-eyed child who did not trust anyone but Pandora and portraits of dead persons. He found it harder to trust Severus, because Severus looked, moved, and acted as if the whole world was going to hurt him. He had a prickly bearing and a bitter wall hoisted between his heart and the rest of the world.

James tried, though. He tried, even when his chest ached and he tasted Jonathon in his mouth. By the time he and Severus were eight, an understanding seemed to have developed between them. Yes, James was troublesome and carefree while Severus was distant and serious, but they decided that what would be, would just have to be. James could be troublesome and carefree, but Severus had taken upon himself to make sure that James stayed out of trouble. He rarely succeeded, but at least the intent and attempts were there.

Their roles had switched. No longer was Severus, with his great mistrust and wariness towards gifts of kindness, like James' dead little brother. Suddenly, Severus was the older brother, the one who would try to keep the little ones from harm or, barring that, bandage the hurts and pains. How odd, because James had always before attested Severus to being the little brother, the one who had to be shown that the world was not what he thought it to be, yet still needed to be sheltered and protected.

It was then that James knew he loved Severus.

And yet . . .

And yet, for all their switched roles, James found he could not confide in Severus. Why? Why did he have such difficulty telling Severus things that he effortlessly told Sirius and Remus without worrying? Was it because Severus had a dark air about him that told of a horrid lifetime, of abandonment, of pain and abuse? Was it because Severus couldn't share or accept trust? The way Severus watched with his black eyes, the way he crossed his arms before himself or hid in the dark shadows of Dinsmore, the way he would flinch when a grownup besides Pandora touched him, testified to a lifetime of survival that would never have succeeded with faith or hope.

Perhaps because Severus would not extend trust to him, let alone anyone but the woman who gave him a new life, James could not trust Severus in return. Or perhaps the likeliest reason was, even if James could consider Severus the older brother, he would always remember being washed in blood, crushed in pain, and fed upon his brother.

For all of that, it never failed to amaze James what he could trust Severus with (his life), or to help him with little things. But secrets? He knew Severus could keep them, but he could not find it within himself to speak them. Perhaps because they trusted one another enough not to test the trust from time to time. It seemed to James that he and Severus did not need to do things to prove one another's dependability.

It just was. What lay between them existed like the sky existed, like Pandora's love existed, like they existed.

When they met Lily for the first time and played together in the sandbox, James and Severus trusted one another enough to lead each other on with insults, jests, and jibes without taking them to heart. On that level, James and Severus were not at all serious with one another, though on all other levels they treated each other with a high degree of sombreness. It was difficult for James to maintain such quiet dignity, so when Sirius would suggest a prank to be pulled on Severus, James readily agreed and went along.

After all, as much as he loved his brother, James felt that Severus truly needed to lighten up. If James, who had seen ugliness wrought upon the most precious people in his life at such a tender age, could laugh later in life, then so could Severus. As far as the pranks went, Severus tolerated them with a wounded air. He never tattled any more than he seemed to dwell on them, which led James to believe that Severus was willing to forget about such matters as soon as he finished snarling and lecturing James and Sirius.

It was a joyous time for James. He had family once more – a sometimes younger and sometimes older brother, and a grandmother who was also his mother – and wonderful friends. He actually looked forward to going to Hogwarts. While Pandora would not be there, it was an adventure waiting to take place, and Severus, Sirius, Remus, and Lily (all, of course, whom James considered part of his family) would all be there as well. James did not care which House he wound up in as long as he was together with everyone. His life was beginning anew, heading in a radically new direction.