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Winter came and passed eventually, leaving only the cruel memory of its brutal storms and the promise that the coming Spring promised nothing.

Surely out of frustration, Voldemort sent out the orders to destroy the recently abandoned home of the Potters.

All who attended the Lupin wedding waited in vain. Remus seemed to be the only one who wasn't surprised that Sirius hadn't come as he said he would. Nevertheless, he promised himself that he wouldn't let Sirius Black's blind stupidity keep him from happiness.

Snape, however, was oblivious to the emotional issues of his fellow members of the Order. He was still in his own world of ignorance and denial – ignorance of the danger he was in, and denial of the shred of decency and kindness that had begun to grow within him.

The only times he seemed to realize how wrong he was, was when he saw Peter – someone who he'd once thought as meek and submissive, now growing to become nothing short of what he truly was now – a Death Eater.

Sly, cunning, and willing to go to any lengths to achieve his intent, Peter was beginning to show what seemed to be hidden Slytherin traits he must have bore all along as a Gryffindor.

Snape found that he, a Slytherin to the core, was beginning to prove to be someone Godric Gryffindor would smile upon. It was insulting, disgusting, and entirely his own fault. But what could he do about it? Turn around once again?

The Death Eater meeting was over, but Snape remained lost in thought – finding the cold and meandering gloom of the cave somewhat comforting.

He was broken from his reverie when he noticed someone shorter than him, hooded and hidden. Snape raised his eyebrows in question, and the Death Eater lowered their hood.

Snape found that it was Peter, smirking with his arms crossed. Yes, this little man had changed – that was for sure.

"What?" Snape growled, finding the knowing grin slightly unnerving if not incredibly annoying.

Peter laughed. "Heard what you did."

Snape scowled, his lip curling. "What could I do that you would find so amusing?"

Peter smiled, shaking his head – savoring the irony. But his face dropped before speaking. "That you saved the Potters while I organized their murder."

Snape felt his eye twitching. He couldn't stand this. "It wasn't noble at all, when you think about it. I ruined your plans simply because I don't like you."

Peter shook his head admonishingly, like an adult shaking their finger at a child. "No," he said. "I had nothing to do with it. It was them."

Snape's eyes were spitting fire.

"Remember James? You were supposed to be his enemy."

"Yes," Snape countered. "And you were supposed to be his friend."

Peter sighed in confession. "True, but a man must do what he can to survive."

"I'm not dead, either," Snape replied, disproving the inferiority that Peter was implying.

Peter's eyes widened with gravity. "Oh, but you're worse off than dead. You're soft."

Snape's jaw tightened, and he grew desperate for a reply just as insulting. "If I'm so soft," he began, racking his brain. "Then how is it I can handle two teaching jobs at once?"

Peter pondered briefly, then replied simply, "If Dumbledore trusts you that much, then you must be soft."

Snape slipped his hand into his pocket, gripping his wand tightly behind the folds of his cloak.

"But unfortunately, he doesn't trust you that much."

Snape's anger faltered only slightly, giving way to mild interest. "What makes you say that?"

Peter cherished the simple fact that he knew something Snape didn't. But it was childish to keep it from him, so he answered. "Haven't you heard? Dumbledore has Frank Longbottom set for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for September."

Snape's jaw dropped, and yet he found that he wasn't very surprised. His hand clenched into a tight fist around his wand, which threatened to snap at any moment.

"Go on," Peter said in challenge. "We both know what you're thinking. Go ahead and kill him."

Snape found himself almost shudder at the thought. His first reaction was shock. He was shocked at the suggestion of murder.

"You can't do it, can you?"

Biting his tongue so hard, it bled, Snape brought out his wand in one swift movement, and when the red beam from the spell perished in the depths of the cave's shadows, Peter fell – unconscious.

Satisfied, but only faintly in comparison to his damaged pride, Snape left Peter alone, face down on the cold earth, deep down beneath the hills of the countryside.

~~~~~~~~~~

"You do know you're out of milk, don't you?"

James turned to Lily, who sighed in frustration.

"If you want milk so badly, Sirius, get it yourself," she replied sharply.

Sirius frowned as he watched her storm from the kitchen. "Blimey," he said, with a look of incomprehension. "And I thought she'd be nicer once she had the baby."

His eyes widening, James shook his head emphatically.

Sirius shrugged. "But, really. You have no milk."

James opened his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, an owl flew in. His eyes followed the bird closely as it landed on the counter next to Sirius.

James stepped forward to retrieve the letter from the owl, but stepped back with a bitten finger. He made a scornful face at the bird, who hooted indignantly.

"I think he came for you, Padfoot."

Slowly at first, Sirius snatched the letter quickly from the messenger's beak, and opened it immediately – his eyes scanning across the paper. Satisfied, the owl took off with a sharp look at James, who attempted to mend his mangled fingers.

Sirius didn't say a thing, but only ripped the parchment in half, then quarters, and so on until it was beyond repair. James abandoned his injury to gaze ineptly at his friend.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sirius answered quickly, his eyes narrowing hatefully. His eyes burned not with tears, but with the cruel irony of the memories that were returning to him.

"Sirius?" James began, noticing his look – that look that was so reminiscent of a younger Sirius, a boy no older than sixteen turned up at his front doorstep.

This same boy scowled darkly at the wall. "Nothing important," he muttered. "Only that my brother's dead."

James paused to digest his words and his expression. Somehow it didn't fit. "I though it didn't matter to – "

"It doesn't matter to me," he snapped. "It's only... he died in September, almost seven months ago. It took my mother that long to remember me."

James exhaled heavily as comprehension dawned on him, even though he didn't understand how Sirius felt. He didn't know what it was like to hate people so deeply who had cared for you – given you life. Sirius could remember teaching his brother to tie his shoes, how to hold a wand, and how to ruin a perfectly good birthday cake with his face.

How could he forsake all those years with a simple shrug and a sigh? How could he hate him when he was long dead? And now his mother, that bitter old woman, sat at home alone – the memory of her children all but buried when she'd decided to write a letter.

"That's over now, mate," James said. "We're your family. Peter and Remus and I."

No, James. You have your family. And Remus? He's nothing but an animal. And Peter. Peter wasn't enough – not enough to fill the void that seemed to be growing by the day.

"I have no family," he said finally. Without another word, he left.

James sighed wearily. He stood still and blinked slowly like an old man ready to lay his head down forever and sleep.

This conflict, this hate, this pain – it hadn't always been there. James wondered if he was the only one who could remember at all what it was like to live inside protected walls, to live happily as a child should, to laugh in the face of the danger only because of the fact that there was a glass screen separating him from that outside harm.

Childhood was lost to them by now – but if only they could remember that feeling of content security. . . when there was no risk in friendship, only happiness.

"You'll remember before the end," James said to the air that had settled around his motionless body.

~~~~~~~~~~

James watched in rapturous awe as he saw himself step forward and walk for the first time. After that triumphant rise, and those victorious and exultant little steps, Harry stumbled again, crashing and burning into the soft carpet.

Lily was smiling in her own euphoria of watching her child succeed. "You think if he's walking so early, that means he's a wizard?"

James let his smile fade. It had never been a question to him – he'd always assumed his son would be a wizard. . . simply because. "It's too early to tell, isn't it?"

Lily grinned wickedly. "My fat nephew can't even crawl yet."

James snorted in surprise and amusement at his wife's sudden brutal honesty. "Aren't all babies fat?"

Lily shook her head gravely. "Not like Dudley."

James frowned, and Lily caught his eye. "You'd have to see it to believe it," she said grimly.

"Daddy."

"What do you want?"

"Daddy," Harry mumbled, repeating the word. For a lack of better words to express himself, he stuck to the small handful of words he knew.

"Appasaw."

"Huh?"

"Appasaw. Appa, appa, appa."

"You think he wants applesauce?" Lily asked quietly while Harry rambled on.

James shook his head in surrender. "For all we know, he could want an orange pony and we wouldn't know it."

Lily rolled her eyes impatiently.

"I don't think he wants anything," James assured her. "He looks happy to me."

Harry watched his Mummy and Daddy talk while he chewed on the end of a pillow.

"Can't we give him that Speech Potion?" James asked.

Harry turned his head. Mummy looked mad.

"Have you heard of the effects that potion could have on a child? He's too young for a potion like that."

"At least he'd be able to talk," James muttered.

Lily shook her head, smiling slightly. "You'd only get jealous that he was more eloquent than you."

Harry looked back at Daddy. He giggled his baby laugh.

Glaring playfully at Mummy, James reached forward to pick up Harry.

"So," he said. "What do you want for your birthday, now?"

"Appasaw."

"I see." James rubbed his chin, and Lily smiled, shaking her head.

~~~~~~~~~~

Snape frowned, shaking his head. This was not good.

And yet, who was he to object? Hadn't he been planning this all along?

"314 Chestnut Way, my Lord. It's in London."

"And they'll be home this time?" Voldemort replied coldly.

Peter narrowed his eyes determinedly, glancing roughly at Snape. "I'll make sure of it."

Who was he to object?