A slender, black-haired man lay sobbing disconsolately on the floor. Unable to hear, and shell-shocked from the explosion of the house around him, some passed before he realized he was able to move, and something, in the back of his mind, told him something was very, very wrong.

There . . . there was a sound. It’s a bad sound. He had to do something about that sound, fix it . . . what WAS that?

Realisation slowly dawned on him.

It was a crying child.

Instinctively, he made his way to the sound, still covered by the Invisibility Cloak. Still in shock, he was unable to figure out why he was suddenly sifting through rubble. Damn, he had to get to that child. But why? He didn’t have any children . . . did he? No . . . he had lots of children. He had nearly two hundred and fifty of them.

No, no, no, that couldn’t be right. Nobody had two hundred and fifty of their own children. Why then, did those faces swim before him . . . faces of children he knew were, somehow, his responsibility?

He stumbled. There was a woman’s body there . . . she had flaming red hair. He looked at it blankly. Was that the mother of the child? Was she his wife? That couldn’t be right, he didn’t have a wife. So where was he? For that matter, WHO was he? And why was there a dead woman on the floor next to a crying child?

Crying child, right. Get to the crying child. It might be hurt. He shuffled through some more debris, and lifted part of a wooden panel off a basinet.

A child he didn’t recognize . . . definitely not his, then. He frowned. Somehow, that child reminded him of someone, which was a considerable feat, since he didn’t remember anything, including his own name. He didn’t like it . . . or didn’t like the child. Now that was stupid, how could he not like the child, he’d never seen it before? No . . . he didn’t like the person the child reminded him of. Well damn. Who was that, anyway? He realised it was someone who’d fallen downstairs.

The child continued to cry, the hysterical cry of a child emotionally overwhelmed. He had to do something . . . nobody else was around. He rubbed his face, trying to get his bearings . . . and paused, because he couldn’t see himself. . . . the hell?

Now . . . that wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure why he knew that, but it wasn’t right. He was covered, by some sort of fabric, which suddenly felt overwhelmingly claustrophobic to him. He whipped it off, and dropped it in fluid silver folds at his feet. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he realized he could now see himself . . . save for his shoe, which was covered by the fabric. He was able to wiggle his foot and feel it move, and saw the fabric jump accordingly. Huh. That did it, then . . . that made him not visible. How strange.

Right. Crying child.

What the hell had happened here, that a wooden panel had fallen on the child’s bed, there was a red-haired woman behind him on the floor, and he had some sort of invisibility inducing material? And why was he holding this stick in his right hand?

He looked at it suspiciously. Hm. It was polished ebony wood . . . rather nice looking at that. It seemed familiar to him somehow . . . safe. He thought of tossing it aside but that thought filled him with an unaccountable amount of dread, so he stuffed it in his waistband. His body didn’t object; he shrugged. Apparently that’s where that stick went.

Hm. That kid was bleeding from his head, he should probably do something about that. He instinctively reached for that stick . . . then paused . . . why would a stick help him with some strange kid’s bleeding forehead?

Deal with the screaming child you sanctimonious, greasy git, before the Muggle authorities arrive! A voice he thought he recognized hissed viciously at him. His voice, he thought. Wow, did he sound like that? No, wait, that wasn’t his voice . . . it was the voice of someone else . . . someone who looked like him . . . someone he hated. Wait a minute, what the hell was a Muggle, and why would he care if their “authorities� were called?

He reached out to the child, and saw a rather nasty looking mark on his own left forearm, which greatly upset him for some reason, but there was no time for that. He grasped the child by the shoulders, and the boy looked up at him, with brilliant green eyes . . . and the eyes, and the Dark Mark, and Lily dead on the floor behind him . . . it all came flooding back.

He choked back his own sob, grabbed his wand and muttered a healing spell over young mister Harry Potter’s bleeding head.

“Mu-mu-mummy?� the child stuttered.

Snape closed his eyes, and shook his head. “Your mother’s gone. I’m sorry,� he said softly, not at all sure how much the child would understand.

“Daddy?� He apparently understood quite well.

“No . . . your father is gone as well.� Snape felt like he’d been kicked in the chest as the meaning of that sunk into him.

“Sea-wuz?� the toddler question, sounded hurt and confused.

Snape’s heart lurched. Only natural, of course, that the child would ask for his godfather. Ugh . . . how horrible to have such a legacy.

Snape said softly, “Sirius is not here,� then realised that was true. Last time Snape knew . . . such a ridiculously short time ago – why did it seem so long? - Black had been betraying his best friend to the Dark Lord, and asking for the man’s wife. But that clearly hadn’t been Black with the Dark Lord. . . . the hell?

Snape snapped himself out of his reverie and returned his attention to the child. “Nor do I know where Lupin . . . Remus, is,� he managed to choke out in a hateful sneer for both men.

The toddler pointed down at Snape’s bared left forearm. “Pier!�

“Hm? No . . . I am not Peter . . . I do not know where Peter is either.�

“Pier!� the toddler said, jabbing his arm insistently. Snape glanced down at his arm and groaned in what could only be described as despair.

His Dark Mark was still there. Faded, but still there. Whatever had happened that this child had survived an Avada Kedavra] curse and the Dark Lord had disappeared, it was temporary. The Dark Lord was not gone. Not permanently. Damn, damn, damn!

The child screwed up his face as if to start wailing again. Well no wonder; the house had collapsed around him, some scary looking ugly stranger he’d never seen had come and grabbed him, and wouldn’t tell him where his caretakers were. Snape KNEW what was going on and felt like crying; he could only imagine how traumatized the child was. “Shhshshsh! Don’t cry, everything will be fine. I will take you to someone who will take good care of you, all right?�

Covering them both with the cloak at his feet, he Apparated them both back to Hogwarts.