Severus Snape marched swiftly up the gravel lane, heeled boots clicking against the pebbles. The sun dipped just below the horizon and a red glaze settled over the landscape. The trees blew slightly, leaves rustling in the summer evening breeze. The warm air should have been comforting, and though the village in the background sat snugly nestled, a low hum of activity drifting up the hill from the lit windows, Snape had no time to appreciate it. His mask hung hidden beneath his traveling cloak and he gripped his wand tightly, his sense on high alert. Pain lingered in the mark on his left arm, pulling him towards the manor towering above the village.

Another cloaked figure appeared next to him, and with a twitch of his wand and sideways glance, he continued walking. Yaxley. Snape swallowed down the wave of disgust that rose in the pit of his stomach.

“This must be something big,” Yaxley said stiffly without turning his head.

“Indeed.”

“I haven’t felt a pull like this since his rebirth.”

Snape agreed with a rough sound in his throat and a nod and picked up his pace. The two reached the gates of the manor and Yaxley pressed a hand to the spiral lock holding it closed. The lock twitched for a moment and glowed orange. Snape smirked as a snake head poked out from the keyhole and bit Yaxley’s palm, which appeared to be stuck fast to the glowing metal. Yaxley let out a muffled noise of protest as the snake sniffed at the two blooming pools of blood on his palm. Slowly, the lock and snake dissolved and the gates creaked open. Yaxley spun to face Snape.

“You knew that would happen, didn’t you?” he demanded.

“Perhaps,” Snape said, pushing past Yaxley into the courtyard before them. With a swipe of his wand, his mask jumped to cover his face and his hood slid up over his greasy hair. The large wooden doors of the manor silently slid open and a trail of blue flame ran along the stone walls within, beckoning them inside and into the main sitting room. The room was dimly lit by a few flickering candles. A slightly red glow peeked around the edges of the dark velvet curtains that blocked the windows. The walls were covered in trophies: phoenix feathers, the gnarled leg of a long-dead diricawl, a collection of preserved eyes, swiveling slightly in individual glass cases filled with a greenish liquid. Along the back wall, a man with slits for eyes, a flat nose, and pearly white skin sat in a high-backed armchair twirling a wand between two slim fingers. A dozen other cloaked figures stood at attention in a semi circle facing the armchair, a few spaces left empty. As Yaxley and Snape entered, every masked faced turned to watch the newcomers, but Voldemort’s attention remained fixed on the length of wood spinning between his fingers. The two Death Eaters took their respective places in the formation, filling in the last two gaps. The whole room held a tense breath, and then Voldemort turned and seemed to notice his followers for the first time. A rubbery smile took over his face and with a wave of his wand, a table and fourteen chairs appeared.

“Please, my friends, be seated,” Voldemort purred, settling further into his chair as a massive snake curled its way up the leg. There was a rustling of cloaks as everyone sat, but the room remained otherwise silent. The moments passed slowly as Voldemort continued to smile and stroke Nagini.

“My lord-” Yaxley began, but cut off as his lips began to stitch together as if by an invisible seamstress, leaving a red criss-cross across his face where his mouth used to be.

“Patience, Yaxley,” Voldemort barked, his wand still pointed at the source of the outburst. The rest of the occupants sat stiffly, trying not to look at the bloody mess Yaxley’s mouth had become.

“My friends,” Voldemort shook his head slightly and seemed to correct himself, “My servants, we have been bested.”

A murmur ran around the table, but Voldemort held up a hand for silence.

“Yes, we have been bested in the past, but that ends tonight. Dumbledore has sealed off every access to the Potter boy during each summer and you- whom I thought were my most faithful and devoted servants- have failed me. You have failed to penetrate his protection, and you have allowed Dumbledore, that old fool, to best us.”

A shiver ran through the room as Voldemort’s accusing stare slid from face to face.

“I, however, have been able to penetrate these forces,” Voldemort allowed the significance of this statement to sink in, and even allowed a murmur of appreciation to filter through the room.

“Being a merciful lord, I will not punish you for your failures. On one condition.”

Here, Voldemort turned his attention directly to Severus Snape, who sat erect on his right.

“Severus, how is it that you have been unable to capture Harry Potter until now?”

Snape froze, unsure of where this question was leading.

“My Lord, I have failed you.”

“Yes, I have already made that clear, Severus. I want you to explain how it is that Dumbledore believes he has been able to keep young Harry from us each summer.”  

“Love, my lord,” Snape managed to say through the lump the formed in his throat, forcing a sneer to sweep across his face, “Dumbledore claims that Lily Potter’s love for her son has kept him safe in his relatives’ home.”

“Love,” Voldemort repeated thoughtfully, before allowing a high laugh to slip from his thin mouth. The figures around the table followed suit and chuckled darkly.

“Love- Dumbledore says- has saved him so far,” Voldemort drew his wand in a circle along the tabletop and a silver line followed the outline. From the outline, a silver-black bubble rose slowly. It remained calm for a moment, but soon the murky contents within began to spin and tumble rapidly, changing colors and whirring and hissing slightly, before settling on the image of a thin boy with a shock of black hair working in a small but well-pruned garden.

“This, my servants, is proof of the uselessness of Dumbledore’s love. I have penetrated that flimsy protection and have found Harry Potter’s home.”

The Death Eaters closest to the pearly bubble leaned in slightly as Potter picked up a pair of large Muggle pruning shears and began clipping at a hedge. Yaxley moaned pitifully as blood dripped down his neck and began to soak into the collar of his cloak.

“I will not punish you if successfully collect Potter,” Voldemort whispers slowly, “I have made it pathetically easy. Your marks will lead you. Failure is not an option.”

Toothy grins appeared and wands were pulled from sleeves. Yaxley’s mouth unstitched itself with a vaguely liquid sound.

“Go.”

With a swish of cloaks, the room emptied.

~*~

This swish of a cloak was all Albus Dumbledore heard before Severus Snape barged into his office slightly rumpled, out of breath, with his Death Eater mask hanging limply from his hand.

“Potter- Voldemort-muggles- past the wards-” The appearance of Dumbledore’s silver phoenix patronus cut Snape off. It hovered in front of Dumbledore for moment as he thought, gathered the names of those he needed in his head, and then it flew off through the solid wall.

“How many, Severus?” Dumbledore asked as Snape collected himself.

“Thirteen. There will be thirteen there to take Potter.”

Dumbledore’s heart clenched painfully. It was a bigger attack than he’d ever imagined, and he was not sure there were enough Order members available at the moment to rush to Harry’s aid. He stood up quickly, moving towards the fireplace.

“Let Poppy know that there may be injuries.”

“What-?” Snape sputtered, “If I don’t show up, the Dark Lord will be suspicious. He’s already suspicious!”

“Severus! I haven’t time to argue this with you. I may already be too late. Stay here and help Poppy.”

With that, the Headmaster disappeared in a haze of green flames. Snape looked on as the flames die down, and then sank heavily in a chair in front of the great oak desk. His hands shook as he realized that this may be the moment he has been dreading. He understood what the Headmaster did not say; if he joined the attack, he may be forced to fully play his part and fight Order members. But when he does not show up at all, the Dark Lord will be furious. The Dark Lord had hinted that he knew something incriminating about Snape at the last few meetings, and he made it clear earlier that those who failed today would be punished. Surely those who did not even participate would be punished severely.

Snape stood up quickly, striding towards the fireplace. If he left now, he might get there in time to be accounted for, to reduce suspicion. Yet, even as he reached for the floo powder on the mantle, he realized that even if he went now, there would still be suspicion. The others would ask why he hadn’t apparated directly to Potter’s along with then and the Dark Lord would want to know where he’d been in the interim. There would be no acceptable answer, and he would face the Dark Lord’s torture. Again. But thus is the life of a double agent.

~*~

Harry peered curiously around the corner of the house at number 4 Privet Drive, sure he’d heard the sound of a swishing cloak. With a sad shake of his head, he went back to watering the flower in the box outside the kitchen window. It had been so long since he’d heard any news from the Wizarding world that he began imagining the sounds of whizzing spells and trailing cloaks and the scraping of a moving staircase. What he wouldn’t do for just one letter, the hint of a whisper of the world outside of gardening and wandering the bleached Muggle neighborhood...

He may have grown up there, but Harry definitely did not feel that Privet Drive was his home. He missed Hogwarts. He felt itchy without magic and irritable without his friends, and he felt like he was sinking further into a vat of something foul and sticky every time he returned to his bedroom to find Hedwig still gone and no news. He desperately wanted to be able to talk to Sirius again, to ask him about the war that he knew was going on around him and to just sit and laugh with him again. His stomach churned painfully every time he thought about his Godfather’s untimely death. He’d spent most of his time alone this summer imagining different yet equally gruesome methods of death for Bellatrix Lestrange, and he wasn’t sure if he was more upset by the fact that he’d been able to think of some of the more extreme methods of torture, or by the fact that he knew he’d never have the gall the actually hurt another human being like that, even one as questionably human as Bellatrix.

As he picked up a pair of trimming shears to start on the hedges, he felt an odd tingling sensation creep up his spine. He felt like he was being watched. Harry spun around, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He moved quietly towards the garden shed and, feeling ridiculous, he whipped the door open and jabbed the shears in, hoping, perhaps foolishly, to surprise and spear any potential intruder lurking amongst the pots and trowels. He stabbed into air, and scratched the back of his head ruefully as he stared into the empty shed. This was getting absurd. Not only was this the fourth time this week that he felt like someone was watching his, but it was the third time he had attempted to assault his imaginary stalker.

“The heat must be getting to me,” Harry muttered.

Turning around, Harry took a step back towards the hedges and the world exploded into light.