It was storming hard; icy rain fell from the sky with brutal force, numbing every part of his body it came in contact with. The wind whipped around him with equal harshness. It seemed to howl in his ears, almost completely blocking out the blood-curling screams coming from the center of the semi-circle he was standing in, along with twenty or so other men. Lightning flashed brightly in the dark night sky, which was void of any stars; of any beauty. It held only coldness, a coldness that spread throughout all who had the displeasure of standing beneath it. Himself included.

All in all, the weather reflected his mood perfectly; bitter and malicious. He did not want to be there; wasn’t looking forward to bowing and sniveling upon the muddy ground like a bloody house-elf, like filth. He did not want to be reminded of how he had efficiently ruined his life with his rash decisions; did not want to be associated with the fools who thought him to be an ally. In fact, he wished he could strike out at them for the crimes they had committed, and for the crimes they forced him to participate in. But he didn’t indulge upon his secret desire. He stood silently as the vicious rain pierced his skin; the revulsion he felt towards the situation he found himself in well concealed behind a white mask, only his black eyes visible through the two slits it donned. No one could see the sneer upon his face or the distasteful way his upper lip curled towards the heavens. No one knew of the treacherous thoughts running through his mind, buried deep beneath heavy layers of Occlemency.

They were all far too foolish for their own good; far too arrogant and presumptuous to see the traitor among their midst, listening to their secrets and memorizing their plans. After years and years of suspicion, they thought they finally had him all figured out; thought for sure that the man who murdered ‘The Great Albus Dumbledore’ couldn’t possibly be on any other side than the Dark Lords’. How wrong they were. He didn’t belong to the Dark Side—hadn’t in a very long time—and the fact that there were those who thought otherwise just proved to reinforce what a good spy he was. Too good, he often found himself thinking.

After he had murdered Dumbledore—the mere memory of which weighed heavily upon his conscience and often brought him up short of breath—the Dark Lord had embraced him with open arms, praising him above all of the other Death Eaters, and confiding in him like he had never done with anyone else. And all the while the Light Side, the side he had worked undercover for—for more than twenty years, and the side he was still willing to continue risking his life for—had cursed him and turned him away with no more than a contemptuous sneer. He had brought it upon himself, really. With his inability to see past his own pain he had efficiently gotten himself caught between two completely different worlds, stuck where he wished he had never gone to begin with, and dying to return to a place where his name was now spoken in scorn and hatred.

But that was how Dumbledore had wanted it, and despite how completely mad and pointless he had thought the plan was when he first heard it, he had followed through with Dumbledore’s orders. He had murdered his mentor—the only person he had ever had reason to depend on and respect—and in the process tricked the Dark Lord, all of his followers, and all of the Order into thinking he was the most devoted Death Eater alive. But Dumbledore’s plan went deeper than that. It was by far the biggest, most twisted, not to mention altogether dangerous, scheme he had ever put into practice; the most risky portion of it scheduled to take place that very night.

The kidnapping of Harry Potter.

It sounded ridiculous, even in his thoughts, but it was essential to the twisted plot Dumbledore had organized before his death. He had to make it seem like the boy had simply disappeared during the night, leaving no trace as to where he had gone, and leaving nothing to suggest that Potter hadn’t left on his own accord. Then he would hide the child in his house out in Spinner’s End, somewhere no one would ever think to look for him. That was where the ingeniousness of Dumbledore’s plan came to light. The Dark Lord and all of his the Death Eaters had no reason to distrust his loyalty, not after he had murdered the greatest light wizard the world had ever seen. It would never even cross their minds that he, Severus Snape, the Dark Lord’s favorite servant was hiding Harry Potter, Dumbledore’s number one fan. As for the Light side, not one of them knew his house in Spinners End even existed.

So away from prying eyes, where no one would ever think to look for them, he would do as Dumbledore had told him and teach the boy everything he knew about the Dark Arts as well as every skill he had picked up during his many years as a spy. He would prepare Potter for his inevitable battle with the Dark Lord and with the knowledge Dumbledore had left him; help the boy search for the last Horcruxes, so that Voldemort could finally be destroyed. And all the while he would be listening to the Death Eaters’ plots in the inner circle, waiting for a time when the Dark Lord finally forgot about The-Boy-Who-Lived and moved on to trying to rid the world of ‘dirty blood’. Only then, when the boy was finally ready and the Dark Lord wholly unprepared, would he let Potter come out of hiding and surprise the magical world with the power and skills he had gained during the time he had, as far as anyone knew, simply disappeared.

The plan seemed absolutely perfect; and yet, at the same time frighteningly risky. So many things could go wrong; there were so many times that he doubted his ability to pull the manipulation off. And that doubt made him nervous like he had never been before. If this scam wasn’t done precisely right; if he was caught as a spy, Dumbledore’s death would have been in vain and Potter would likely fail. So much responsibility was resting on his shoulders that he often found it surprising he could stand up straight.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t get the memory of Dumbledore’s death out of his head. He couldn’t help but remember the look of absolute desperation on the Headmaster’s face when he delivered the dreaded Killing Curse; couldn’t help but think of the way the man had pleaded with him, searching for mercy of some sort deep in his eyes, like he had changed his mind about the plan and was suddenly eager to live. But that was absurd. If Dumbledore had changed his mind and no longer wanted Severus to go through with the murder, he would have stopped him. But he just hovered there, in the Astronomy Tower, looking frail and tired. It had to have been an act, he had decided, to stop the all consuming guilt he had felt afterwards. Dumbledore was just making sure he had had Draco and the other Death Eaters fooled; he wanted them to think he really had been bested. He wanted them to have no doubt that Severus Snape was as evil a Death Eater as they came.

Unfortunately, if that was what Dumbledore had intended to portray he did it all too well, for somehow Harry Potter had discovered he had been the one to kill the Headmaster, and believed him to be as evil, if not more so, than the Dark Lord himself. That was not part of the plan. No one on the Light side was supposed to have suspected him of the murder and, quite frankly, he could not figure out how they had found out. No one was up there in the tower to see the act played out. No one should have known. But the fact that Potter did would make the rest of the plan much harder to complete.

The boy would no doubt put up a fight when he showed up at his Muggle relatives’ house to collect him, and later when they arrived at his house in Spinner’s End. He would have to get the boy to trust him, so he could train him for battle properly. Some techniques, such as occlemency, required a certain degree of trust between the teacher and student, which was most likely why the lessons they had had together two years earlier had gone so badly. He had no idea how he would go about collecting the boy’s trust, however, when their past history was as warped as theirs. And if that trust couldn’t be gathered, and he couldn’t convince the child that he wasn’t a demon hell-bent on burning Muggles alive, well then, the whole plan was shot. So, of course he was nervous and figured he had every right to be. Especially considering where he was at the moment and what he was watching happen.

He was at inner-circle Death Eater meeting, the third one that week, watching as Lucius Malfoy took his turn spelling repeated fire-charms onto a young muggle child whose screams had long since grown hoarse, and whose spilled blood had long ago turned a dirty reddish-brown color. He was beyond thankful that the white mask he was wearing hid the disgusted expression contorting his face as the smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and even gladder for the harsh wind that carried the smell away from him, despite the unbearable cold it was bringing to his completely soaked body. He was too far away from the magical water-repellent fire to gather any warmth from it and, frankly, found the thought of enjoying something that was causing another such great pain, an unbearable thought.

At least it would be over soon. He had seen enough of these types of tortures in the last week to be able to distinguish when they were coming to an end. The child’s screams—the Dark Lord always got some sadistic glee from watching children be tortured during these ‘meetings’—had become nearly non-existent, growing weaker and weaker every second. Shortly the young boy would lose the strength to yell all together and than it would only be a matter of minutes before his body burned completely to ash. It was a sickening thing to watch, he found, topped only by the horrifying feeling he got when he was forced to participate. He would rather be forced to watch the murder of just this one child though, than go out on a full raid to some random Muggle city. Those were always the worst; unbearable, indescribable worse, as well as entirely too long. Or maybe it just felt that way, after seeing a full night’s worth of terrors to horrible for words.

“Sseveruss,” came the Dark Lords cold, high-pitched voice, somehow both a hiss and a screech, simultaneously. It cut its way through the violent night storm to his ears with an ease only the Dark Lord could accomplish. “Take your turn.”

Damn. He had been hoping to avoid participating tonight; he had participated plenty the night before. It didn’t look like fate was on his side, however. He stepped forward from his spot in the semi-circle around the Dark Lord and the poor muggle boy as Lucius stepped back, and leveling his wand at the slumped figure glittering under the magical green flames, enchanted, “Aeternus Cremo”. The flames rose in height as more magical energy was added to the fire. He had to physically restrain himself from taking a step backyard, away from the flames, when a strong waft of whatever remained of the boys’ body reached his nose. He felt like he was going to be sick, and only by sheer will did he avoid it.

He hated doing this; hated having to act so vicious and heartless. He would surely have nightmares again tonight, this time of the little boy who was practically melting in front of him. It was awful and stomach churning and he couldn’t believe he had once condoned this behavior. He hated having to join in the ‘fun’ as the Dark Lord called it and during the first war had done a masterful job of avoiding it. But not now…this was the Dark Lord’s way of rewarding him for murdering Dumbledore. He got to participate more frequently in the raids and tortures, a privilege any loyal Death Eater would be honored to have. It was ironic—he thought sardonically, watching as the last of the boy’s remains turned to ash, and then watching as the ‘loyal’ inner-circle Death Eaters started to depart—that he would have to be the one blessed with such wonderful benefits.

Being sure to avoid the pile of residue that was left over from the poor Muggle child, he made his way to the Apparation point, glad that for once the Dark Lord hadn’t stopped him for a chat. He was in desperate need of several long showers and a stomach calming draught. And then he would be off to Little Surrey, eager to get the most difficult put of the plan over and done with, with as much ease as possible. He didn’t truly believe it would be effortless, however. For some reason he didn’t think Potter would be too happy to see him.