I have something to say about the nature of this story's feedback. Please know that I do not discourage criticism. Quite the contrary; I encourage it. I want to know your opinions of my work, no matter what they happen to be.

Be that as it may, certain reviews of this story have gone beyond the realm of critique. If these were merely constructive, I would not feel it necessary to mention them here. This is simply what I ask for, and expect. However, I feel some of this feedback to be rather rude, and that is why I bring it up.

If you have concerns about the way I am telling this story, by all means let me know. But please bear in mind that I am often busy, and use a great deal of my free time to work on these stories, for no other reason than to bring myself, and you, entertainment. I am doing my best to add to the enjoyment of this series, and strive to ensure that each chapter is as good as I can possibly make it.

Again, this is not to say that I discourage criticism. However, I must insist that any criticism be delivered in a civil, and polite, fashion. Thank you in advance for this consideration. It means a great deal to me.

Now that that business is out of the way, let us begin:

One.

Days passed. And in each of those days, more and more Death Eaters came out of the proverbial woodwork, attempting to proclaim innocence; some speeches and pleadings of mind control and general deceit were accepted, others denied, and all through the process the one question that resonated with every person was this: what next? Who next? How many of Voldemort's followers would turn tail now that he seemed dead, and seek protection from their fellows in the arms of the law?

And, indeed, protection from the persistent ghost of their master.

They all knew of ghosts, and why they remained tethered to the earth—indecisive, fearful things that they were, clinging to unfinished business with the fervency of zealots, unable to accept that their time in the world had ended, and thus spelling out an eternity of uncertainty. Who had more reason to remain a part of the world than the Dark Lord? Who better to represent a ghost's most horrid faults than he? Bitter, passionate, clearly unsatisfied with what life had handed him. And fearful. Of course, Voldemort had been seized by crippling terrors.

These things and more ran their way through Albus Dumbledore's mind as he tended to his school and directed his followers. He had not left his office in three days, nor had he slept. His was a quick, agile mind, yet even his considerable endurance could not match up with so many hours. It was truly remarkable that none of this sluggishness showed on his face.

Even his current company, shrewd and critical, did not detect anything.

"What do you think, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. "Might Lord Voldemort still live?"

Snape was studying the covered portion of one arm, where a clandestine tattoo lay sleeping beneath his black sleeve. "It would be folly to assume otherwise," he muttered. "When has good fortune smiled on anyone so fully? The Dark Lord lives. In what capacity, I do not presume to know. But he lives."

"Perhaps he is merely a ghost? Spirits we can deal with. It is much more concerning if he has a body."

"I would not think it beneath him," Snape conceded, glancing at his reluctant benefactor. "He always did fear death above all things. Although, I would think that he feared being forgotten, much more than the act of death itself. Self-serving and short-sighted as he always was, I think that if the Dark Lord were presented with the option of dying in such a way as to imprint himself eternally into wizarding history, he would take it."

"Do you think so?" Dumbledore asked thoughtfully. He was not so sure; though he couldn't determine whether this was due to honest conjecture or simple fatigue. He took a long drink of tea from the mug on his desk. "Selfish as it is, a gesture like that seems to possess a nobility that I have never seen in him."

"You should know better than anyone that the Dark Lord possesses attributes beyond what can be seen," Snape replied caustically. "Sight is the most arrogant of our senses. It seeks information from the others only to validate its own conclusions, blind to all contrary opinions. Not unlike people," the young spy added in a lower voice.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, offering a grin of staunch agreement. "How have your first days as an adjutant-professor gone, Severus?"

So used to the man changing subjects on a whim or fancy nobody else could detect, Snape didn't bother to comment on it. Rather, he simply said, "Well enough. Slughorn seems quite…pleased." Snape did not. He had never done well under Horace Slughorn's scrutiny, Dumbledore reflected. He thought that that had much to do with why Snape had never gone far in the Slug Club. His natural introversion had, of course, clashed with the other members; their leader in particular.

Severus Snape was a man most comfortable in quiet solitude and study. He was much more content in the company of bubbling cauldrons and pungent herbs than any breathing human. It had passed Dumbledore's thoughts more than once that if this man had found a friend or two in the latter, he might not have had to seek such solace in the former. And if that were true, he might well have become a much different—indeed, happier—man.

"I have received Horace's reports," Dumbledore mused. "He does seem impressed with you, Severus. I expected he would. However, he is also concerned about your conduct with some of the more…problematic students. He says that you have been quite short with them."

Snape scowled, seemed to swallow back some biting retort, and averted his eyes.

"You must remember, Severus, that not all students were born with your natural talent in the realm of potion-making. Many struggle with the art. It would be quite a problem if that were not true, wouldn't you agree? Your gifts would surely diminish in value."

"I will…work to remember that," Snape muttered, still not looking at his employer. Some color had visited his sallow cheeks. He did not sound repentant, nor even honest, but Dumbledore did note that there was a certain earnestness in the younger man's desire to teach. Perhaps he was hoping to repent? Perhaps he truly had learned something from the Potters' deaths? If that were so, it would almost justify the tragedy. It would be, at the very least, the silver lining of a very dark storm cloud.

"What of Peter?" Dumbledore asked slowly.

Snape's eyes finally rose again. "Nothing yet," he said. "Though I have come across news that I am sure your Order will find pertinent." Bitterness had returned in force to his voice and his general countenance. "More than one of them have set their sights on a pair of aurors by a name you will find familiar: Longbottom."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

"I do not know my…colleagues' plans for your puppets," Snape continued, "but I think you can guess that they are not likely to be pleasant. I would suggest…defensive measures. More apt, I hope, than previously employed. Else the Dark Lord's regime will produce yet another orphan."

"I appreciate the suggestion, Severus," Dumbledore said shortly. "Do you know more of this?"

"Only the shared name of its chief agents: Lestrange."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed. Snape seemed slightly taken aback for a fraction of a moment, then regained his composure. Dumbledore said, "How did you come to know this, Severus?"

"I deliver information, Dumbledore," Snape replied sharply, "not the manner by which I procure it." His eyes flashed right back at the elderly wizard, a mixture of fury and fear swirling in their depths. "Act quickly, if you wish to keep the family intact." Snape sneered, and rose to his feet. "I know how fond you are of them."

He turned and left without further preamble.

Two.

It quickly came to the attention of both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin that, accomplished wizards though they might be, the conflicts and mysteries that came with raising a baby were quite beyond them both. As they made their way from one hiding place to the next, a new trial seemed to meet them at each conceivable interval. Sirius glared daggers into Remus's heart whenever he dared chuckle at the memory of the man's first attempt to change his dear godson's diaper. Remus refused to discuss even partially the night when—upon being woken by a fit of infantile coughing and wailing—the young werewolf had been so distraught that tears had burst from his eyes.

Presently, Sirius was glaring at the boy as though holding him to task for some grave crime, as he wiped baby food from his coat and thrust the spoon he was currently holding like a weapon up into Harry's face. "You see this, boy?" he snarled, sounding not unlike the great dog that lurked within him. "You are going to use it, or by God I'll shove it—"

"Sirius," came Remus's voice as he entered the woebegone shack that was their current abode. "You might want to keep your voice down. The neighbors—" by which he meant the people who owned said woebegone shack "—are beginning to suspect there might be wild animals lurking on their land. I heard talk of shotguns."

Most wizards would have stared at the man, not knowing in the slightest what that word meant. Sirius, who knew better than anyone had a right to, went slightly pale. He pointed to Harry, who was laughing and reaching out his chubby hands for Remus, who he seemed to like now. "The brat started it. Look there. He's smirking. He knows full well what he's done."

Remus chuckled. Harry's blissful expression in no way resembled a smirk. "I'm sure."

Sirius grumbled and thrust the jar of food and spoon into Remus's hands. "You do it. He's more agreeable with you." Was there jealousy in Sirius's voice? Remus did not know. However, as he sat down in front of Harry and held out a spoonful of mashed peas, which Harry gulped down without so much as a gurgle of complaint, he did spy a certain kind of anger on his companion's face, quickly buried by restlessness.

Sirius turned his attention to the door of their current lodgings, which did little to shut out the elements. "Haven't heard word from the outside in a while," he said. "Wonder when it'll be safe enough to leave. If we're lucky, they'll all have been herded up and burnt alive soon."

"Burning at the stake is rather passé, don't you think?" Remus asked. "Why not tie stones to their ankles and toss them in a river?"

"Can't hear them scream," Sirius replied without hesitation.

"You're quite the romantic, Padfoot."

"It's a curse."

They both sometimes felt guilty, when fatigue had washed away their concerns—usually after Harry succumbed to sleep for the night—because even though James Potter was dead, and Lily Potter was dead, and Peter Pettigrew was missing, Sirius and Remus found themselves rather enjoying their lives; it had been a long while since they had been on an adventure together, and the presence of the boy, in spite of his innumerable annoyances, managed to add a sense of real accomplishment to their days. They smiled, both of them, more often than not. Much more.

It seemed a betrayal, though neither said so out loud.

Sirius seemed to be mulling on this, because his expression was dark. He glanced over at the far corner opposite him, where Harry's toy broom—the Potter heir's only possession besides the clothes on his back, lent to him by Molly Weasley—leaned against the wall. Sirius thought back to a letter he'd received from Lily, after he'd gotten Harry his first broom. Sirius remembered the photo she'd put into the envelope along with it.

Is this what you wanted for him, Evans? the last Black wondered. On the run, hidden from view in some Squib's storage shed? And what about you, Prongs? You used to tell me you hoped he'd grow up to play Quidditch. Do you think he'll play, still? After all that's happened? I can't teach him to play, any more than Moony can. Used to hang it over our heads, how helpless we were on the pitch.

Then he, by chance, turned his gaze back to Remus, who had green slop covering his face and a squalling, squirming child in his hands. "A bit of help might be in order!" he snarled, in spite of his warning for quiet moments ago.

Sirius laughed.

He realized that this was exactly what the Potters would have wanted for their boy.

The man called Padfoot's conscience eased up a bit as he moved to help his old friend extricate himself from his tormentor.

Three.

When Dumbledore found them a day later, Sirius was perhaps the least surprised man on the planet. He watched his fearless leader approach with a sardonic expression on his face. Harry was riding his broom beside his two guardians—they were in a field in the midst of nowhere in particular, and Sirius had aims to explain the presence of a flying broom to any passersby by asking, in thoroughly disapproving tones, how much they'd had to drink, and before noon, no less! Shameful!—and didn't seem to have noticed the old wizard yet.

"At attention, men," Sirius said, halting. "The king-general approaches."

Dumbledore seemed thoroughly amused by Harry's mode of transportation, and was chuckling as they approached each other. "Quite spirited. Excellent. You three seem to be getting on well."

"We manage," Sirius said.

"What news, sir?" Remus asked.

Dumbledore's face turned grave in an instant, as though a switch had been thrown. Remus flinched. "That of a serious nature, I am afraid," he said in a low voice. "I have received intelligence to the effect that an attack is planned, by a number of the remaining Death Eaters, upon three of our own."

"The Longbottoms, sir?" Remus guessed, going pale.

Dumbledore nodded.

"When?" Sirius growled. "Who?"

Harry, listless because his fellows had stopped moving, amused himself by flying in circles; this seemed to be a favorite pastime of his. Dumbledore watched the boy for a long moment as he pondered. Finally he said, "As for when, I do not know. As to whom…that is why I am here."

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "…Go on," he coaxed, in a rumbling hiss.

"I have reason to believe that speed is of the essence," Dumbledore said, "and so I must ask that you do not delay in performing what I ask of you. I will arrange for young Harry to be looked after while you do this. If the need arises, I shall watch him myself. You two are nearest to their current location, I understand. There is but one more thing I would tell you, before I entreat you to search."

"And that is…?" Remus prompted.

"One of the attackers," Dumbledore replied, "is a woman you know uncomfortably well, Sirius, who goes by the name of Bellatrix Lastrange."

He might have said more, in fact looked quite prepared to say more, but he was interrupted by a dry, echoing crack in the morning air.

Sirius Black was gone.