The Kidnapping

Prologue

The Vision

Severus Snape sat quietly in his office, reviewing his Potions inventory. Over the years, it had become an almost soothing ritual for Snape, systematically and meticulously organizing his materials. Oh, certainly the students, especially the Gryffindors, would be surprised if they knew that Snape did anything that gave him comfort, but Snape was still a human being, and a spy in Voldemort's camp at that.

This was one of the reasons he needed to go through the potion ingredients, beakers, and tools. Mere days after the disastrous June 24^th and the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament, he had gone off to return to the Death Eater fold on Dumbledore's behest. It had not been pleasant, to say the least.

In any case, for the past four years, three boys had given him additional reason to desire the soothing powers of time alone in his office, cataloguing and sorting through everything he would need for the coming academic year: Longbottom, Malfoy, and Potter.

Longbottom had been a walking disaster since he had first stepped into Snape's classroom. His requisition orders for ingredients and equipment had risen dramatically, and for a wizard who prided himself on his efficiency, the waste that Longbottom engendered grated on Snape's nerves. It was a true crime against wizardry that the boy somehow had just enough powers of retention to barely pass his Potions classes.

Then there was Malfoy, who had come to represent all the children of Death Eaters in Hogwarts, with the exception of his brutish and stupid cronies. Snape was well known for favouring Slytherin House, and especially Malfoy, but it was certainly not because he actually liked that spoiled, arrogant brat. Snape dreamed of cursing Lucius Malfoy into a fine powder, and the only reason he did not have to cleverly conceal a similar distaste for the younger Malfoy was simply because he was unsure if Draco had the same stomach for true evil as his father did. Lucius was totally capable of cold-blooded murder and torture. It remained to be seen if Draco had similarly disturbing tendencies. Still, Snape had to grind his teeth every time he flattered Draco or slightly inflated his grades. Granted, young Malfoy was skilled in Potions, possibly second in his year only to Granger in Snape's Potions class, but Snape wanted to make sure that he was in the boy's good books: it was a little bit of added insurance against his father and the other Death Eaters.

Snape carefully avoided thinking about his extended reunion with those... august personages and their... merciful master. Instead, he thought of the third student who had over the past four years given Snape much reason to find comfort in his ingredient sorting.

Harry Potter. Harry Potter. Harry Potter. Snape had too much pride and integrity as a teacher to flunk Potter out: in point of fact, the boy did reasonably well. But he had made it quite clear he would be happy to see Potter expelled at the drop of a hat. Snape's grudge against Harry Potter was mainly a carryover from his grudge against James and his old gang. After the events surrounding the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, Snape had considered, for the slightest instant, burying the hatchet with Potter: the boy had survived going toe-to-toe with Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters (the third time he had faced Voldemort in one form or another, for that matter), and had managed to bring back Diggory's body to boot. That was the sort of act that demanded respect.

Of course, Snape had quickly dismissed the idea. For starters, Potter wouldn't believe him, and secondly, it was that very bravery, that stubborn insistence to survive against all odds that had given rise to Snape's dislike for James. Snape didn't have to look too hard to find the source of his animosity towards the Potters... it was his own bitter jealousy. He'd been extraordinarily jealous of popular James Potter: Head Boy, champion Seeker, and he'd had the attentions of Lily. Granted, Snape had never really liked Lily in any meaningful fashion, but she had been the prettiest girl at Hogwarts for their final two years in school, and every boy had been jealous of James for getting her. For Snape, it was just another thing to heap on the pile of envy. That James and Sirius, in particular, had delighted in tormenting him also had to be factored into the equation.

And now, there was Harry Potter, who was very much like James in many ways, at least the important ones. Harry didn't have as good an academic record as James, and he'd yet to be as successful a prankster or a romantic as his father. But he did have deep friendships of the sort that Snape had only developed late in his life with Dumbledore, he was at least as good as his father was on a broomstick, and he outshone his father in one rather crucial area, given that he had stood up to a fully-rejuvenated Lord Voldemort and lived to tell the tale.

Snape's musings were interrupted suddenly, as a momentary vision flickered before his eyes. He jerked to his feet, startled, and dropped his quill to the ground. His wand was out in a heartbeat, and he looked around, wary.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing amiss.

Snape forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. He was getting too jumpy lately, but that was to be expected after what he'd had the privilege of enduring not too long ago. He tried to recall exactly what it was he had seen. He was glad now to have the memory he did, for the vision had happened so swiftly, a lesser wizard or witch would be unable to bring it to mind again.

All he could remember was fire... fire everywhere. And a singular, monstrous unblinking Eye. The recollection of it forced a shudder from Snape's body. Despite the temperature in the room and the fire he had going, Snape felt chilled to the bone.

Why am I being bombarded with a vision, anyway, he thought to himself in disgust. Trelawney's the one who's supposed to be the Seer around here.

He supposed a Muggle might dismiss what he had seen as the result of a lack of sleep combined with little food intake and recent trauma. But Snape was a wizard, and in the magical world you didn't take hallucinations lightly.

Snape decided he should go see Dumbledore.

= = = = =

Peter Pettigrew had not known anything remotely resembling happiness or even contentment since Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban. Granted, his years as the rat Scabbers in the Weasley family hadn't been all that satisfying, but at least he'd been safe and secure, something which he most definitely was not at present.

A small part of Pettigrew's mind kept intruding into his thoughts and reminding him that the best years of his life had been his Hogwarts days with Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and... and James Potter. Every time he caught himself thinking about that, he would hastily bury those memories deep. He had given up on that life now: he was a Death Eater, and while it was not accurate to say he was the favoured servant of Lord Voldemort, it was probably reasonable to conclude that he had become the least disliked and the most useful of the active Death Eaters, now that Bartemius Crouch Jr. had been dispossessed of his soul by the hideous Dementors.

After all, alone out of all of Voldemort's servants before the Dark Lord's fateful excursion to Godric's Hollow, Peter Pettigrew had successfully sought out the fallen wizard in the forested hills of Albania. Alone out of all the Death Eaters, he had watched over and cared for Voldemort's fragile and foul temporary body. And alone out of the servants of the Dark Mark, Peter had performed the ritual that had restored his master to his full power once more.

Pettigrew unconsciously flexed his silver hand. Oh, he wasn't popular among the other Death Eaters, that was for certain: in fact, they hated him more than they had during Voldemort's thirteen-year downfall. But now, he was under Voldemort's protection: he rarely left the old Riddle mansion, where Voldemort had remained in hiding while he quietly rebuilt his support base.

And so it was that Pettigrew, who was almost universally referred to by his old school nickname of Wormtail, was walking quietly through the halls of the old Riddle house when he had the vision.

He stopped, as for an instant, for the barest fraction of a second, he beheld only roaring flames across his entire field of vision, and in the centre of the flames, an enormous Eye. In that infinitesimal moment, it pierced his very being to the core and the vision left him with an uncontrollable terror. And though he didn't like the idea, he would have to ask Voldemort about it.

Pettigrew hurriedly moved through the Riddle house, though he kept his footfalls silent. After all, the villagers of Little Hangleton, where the house was located, had no idea the old house was currently inhabited, and he didn't want to be the one who let that crucial oversight end up being corrected with the arrival of the Ministry's finest Aurors, led perhaps by Albus Dumbledore...

He stepped into the old study, where Lord Voldemort spent much of his time directing the Death Eater's efforts, only a few short weeks since his semi-resurrection. Voldemort was sitting, facing the small windows. All that Pettigrew could see were his arms and hands, fingers set together, in a pose of contemplation.

"Did you see the vision, Wormtail?" Voldemort asked quietly, his cold, high voice little more than a whisper.

"Y-yes, my lord," Pettigrew said, his voice betraying his terror at having to be within ten feet of Voldemort.

He could imagine the cruel smile tracing the Dark Lord's lips. "Yes, indeed. An eye of flames. Would you care to guess what it might entail, Wormtail?"

"N-no, my lord. I don't know what it could possibly mean."

"You are in luck, Wormtail. I am at a loss as to its significance as well, though I seem to recall experiencing a similar vision once... a year and a half before I tried to kill Harry Potter, all those years ago."

Pettigrew didn't have a clue what Voldemort was talking about, but then he had often tried desperately to shove out most of his memories of his life before he'd come to serve the Dark Lord.

"We shall have to wait and see, Wormtail," the quiet voice seemed to fill up the entire room, commanding Pettigrew's attention even though he couldn't see Voldemort's always terrifying visage. "Does this herald some new threat on a distant horizon? Or is it simply a trick on the part of that fool Albus Dumbledore...?"

The fingers were lowered, the arms placed comfortably on the chair's armrests. "It will have to wait. We have work to do. It is time we tried to seek out information about the boy's foster family."

Pettigrew knew which boy Voldemort was referring to. Harry Potter had become the wizard's obsession, ever since he had managed to escape from the entirety of the assembled Death Eaters earlier in the summer.

"Perhaps we should get Severus Snape to help us," Voldemort was saying. "After all, he did have such a convincing alibi as to why he did not immediately answer my summons that night. He has made some amends, through the purification of pain. Now, he can further secure his precarious state by providing information."

The chair turned, and Voldemort looked Pettigrew straight in the eyes. "I think it is time you and I had a little discussion with Snape. Send word to him to meet us at Stonehenge in two nights hence."

= = = = =

Snape had made the journey from his office in the dungeons to the gargoyle that hid the passage into Dumbledore's office in almost record time.

"Candy cane," he said, and the gargoyle slid away. The password to Dumbledore's office was typically a Muggle treat of some form or another. Snape wondered how the old man had any teeth left.

He strode up the stairs, and had soon reached the Headmaster's office, where all the previous Headmasters were snoozing in their pictures. Snape wasn't surprised to see that Dumbledore was awake, though he was in his nightgown. He sat at his desk, his face furrowed in concentration. An enchanted phonograph was sitting on the desk, playing a mournful piece of string music Snape recalled hearing a couple of times before, but he couldn't place it.

"Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings," Dumbledore said quietly. Snape blinked. Albus almost seemed able to read minds, as usual. "It helps me concentrate when I'm trying to think."

Dumbledore looked up at Snape. "I know why you are here, Severus. Did you see the eye?"

"Yes, Albus, I did. I was wondering if you knew what it meant."

Dumbledore shifted his head from side to side. "No, I don't, Serverus," he said finally. "I suspect it may have something to do with Lord Voldemort. I remember seeing the same eye in a vision much like the one we both experienced a few moments ago, only many years ago, back in nineteen-eighty, if I'm not mistaken. In the spring, I do believe."

"Voldemort has always been tight-lipped about the enchantments he researches," Snape said grimly. "Still, if it's a sign of his growing power, if he cast some spell years ago that he's recast today, I doubt it can be that useful: it didn't protect him when he went to Godric's Hollow."

Dumbledore stroked his beard with a long finger. He looked pointedly at Snape. "Severus, how was your meeting with the Death Eaters?"

"You know how it went," Snape replied, suppressing a shudder. "I did spend a good two days in the Hospital Wing recuperating. They don't trust me, not a whit. I think the only reason I'm alive is because the Dark Lord found my plight and my excuses amusing."

Dumbledore leaned forward, concern evident in his expression and his tone of voice. "You're not required to keep this up, Severus. I don't want you to go to your death. If you think that they will kill you next time you meet with them, you can stay here and remain in safety."

Snape grimaced. "I probably should, but I suspect Voldemort will be giving me another shot at proving myself to him."

"He will want you to give him some substantial information," Dumbledore said. "We will have to be very careful what we let you pass on to him. If Lord Voldemort smells a rat, he will eliminate you on the spot. What sort of information will he want?"

Snape was lost in thought for a moment. He looked up at Dumbledore, his expression serious. "Potter. He wants to find Potter. He'll want me to give him information that can help lead him to the boy."

Dumbledore sat there, pensive, as the music played out its final chords.

He looked up again at Snape. "Tell him you know that Harry Potter is protected by a Fidelius charm. And tell him that I am his Secret Keeper."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Is that true, sir? And if it isn't, won't he be able to find out?"

"A very wise man once said that in war, the truth is so important that it must be surrounded by a bodyguard of lies. Still, Voldemort can sense dishonesty. Yes, it is true. I am Harry's Secret Keeper. I doubt, however, that Lord Voldemort will find that knowledge very comforting. If he wants to find Harry, he would be forced to confront me." At this, Dumbledore's eyes flashed, and Snape felt an aura of power emanating from his old friend. A direct meeting between Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort... that would be quite an event.

"I see," was all he said. "Will you be going through your Penseive to try and find out about that vision of the fiery eye?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I suspect that knowing if Voldemort is behind it or not will be of the utmost importance. Especially since if he is not responsible, then we must find out who is."

Snape had a feeling that he wouldn't want to find out.

= = = = =

The dream started as they all had the past week. He was standing there, his leg bloodied and battered by the nasty bite the giant spider - an Acromantula, perhaps? - had given him. Cedric was steps away from the Cup, obstinately turning away from the kind of glory Hufflepuff hadn't had in centuries.

Don't say it! Don't tell him we should both take it!

Nevertheless, he felt the words forming on his lips, and saw Cedric's reaction. They would take it together. A Hogwarts win was a Hogwarts win. They'd earned it, after all.

And so, on the count of three, they grasped the Triwizard Cup. And were quickly shunted off to their destination, to that inevitable confrontation...

He felt, in an abstracted way, the pain as he slammed to the ground when the Portkey reached its destination. Everything grew hazier, as it did at this point in the dream. He imagined, more than heard, Cedric's nervous assessment of "Wands out?"

The next part was always crystal clear... the hunched over figure, the searing pain in his scar, and the cold high voice...

"Kill the spare."

But this time the dream diverged from its normal course. Instead of the flash of green light that always accompanied the Avada Kedavra curse, the graveyard was immersed in flames, and staring down at him from the inferno was a horrifying vision of a terrible, lidless Eye -

- and Harry Potter awoke with a start, gasping. He sat in his bed, amid twisted and sweaty sheets, recovering his breath. His hands were pressed against his scar, in memory of the pain. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was totally dishevelled.

He looked over at the small alarm clock on his bedside table. It was just past four-thirty in the morning. Nevertheless, Harry never got any sleep after that dream, even if it was mutating into something else.

He thought about writing to Dumbledore, but decided to do that only if the fiery eye returned in another dream. Still, he needed to tell someone... the pent-up guilt and frustration were getting to be too much.

It was time to tell Sirius about his nightmares.