He had the odd feeling he had been there before. The sense of recognition was everywhere: from the stale air to the ornate furnishings, from the feeling of stagnating misery to the slowly crumbling garden wall. He reached out, lightly fingering a silver shield hanging on the wall. He blew off the dust and sneezed, peering at the inscription carved around the rim: Reathaí Meán Oíche is ea an Bás What did it all mean? And why was he here? There had to be some meaning behind it. He searched his mind for some clue; there was nothing, only the flash of a face. A voice of a child could be heard floating through the air, as if it were calling to him. "Sir? Sir?" He smiled. Yes, my child. I am here. Now leave me be. The voice continued speaking, becoming clearer and clearer as if the speaker was drawing nearer. I'm busy, child.

"Professor!"

Severus Snape's head snapped up and he groaned as the lamplight shone right into his eyes. He shut them promptly and began to rub the bridge of his nose. "What?" he growled, embarrassed at being caught napping.

"Sir, it's nine-thirty. You said you had somewhere to be at ten fifteen."

Snape opened his eyes, glaring at the child in front of him. He sneered at him and said, "Thank you, but if you had been more attentive you could have told me earlier. Am I right?"

The child shuffled. "Yes sir," he said, looking down at his feet.

"Good thing you understand that. Now good night to you, Mr. Weasley."

Snape stood, grabbing his traveling cloak from where it sat on the arm of his chair. He swirled it onto his back and stalked out the door, pulling the door closed behind him. How could he have fallen asleep? He just wanted to sit in front of the fire to chase the evening chill from his body, and he must have drifted off. But what bothered him wasn't the fact that Weasley had caught him napping; it was that horrid dream. That same dream had been haunting him for a week and a half now. Every night he would fall asleep only to be awakened a few hours later by the sudden flash of a woman's naked back, horribly scarred and disfigured. He couldn't figure out if this vision had any significance, or if it was the product of his overworked and tormented mind. He was preoccupied with his mission for the Order: to worm himself back into Voldemort's inner circle in order to find out what he was doing with his Death Eaters. In the year and a half since Voldemort had returned to his physical body, Snape had been forced to endure all types of indignities as a part of his cover, and the strain was beginning to show on his features. He had black circles underneath his eyes; his eyes themselves were glassy. His neck ached. His skin seemed paler than usual, as though he had gone through something that had scared him witless.

Snape shoved his hands into the pockets of his traveling cloak and continued to walk down the street. Suddenly he spun on his heels, checking behind him to make sure he was not being followed. He didn't want to deal with that now. He had more important things to do than deal with people trailing him. Nothing. Snape snorted and continued along his way. He could almost swear he could hear footfalls behind him…

No matter. He was probably imagining it. That seemed to happen quite frequently now. He heard voices and footsteps tracking him almost all the time, and he had learned to pay it no mind. However, one could never be too careful. Snape stopped for a moment, and hearing nothing he commenced walking again. It was pointless really. Voldemort did not know of his involvement in the Order of the Phoenix, so why would he have reason to have his "faithful servant" followed? Like I told myself, thought Snape, it's all in my head.

The London air was chilly, even though it was the end of August. The drought of last year was no more; it rained fiercely at least twice a week. Tonight was not one of those nights. A slight dampness hung in the air, coating the stone streets with a slick film of water. Snape eyed a gutter cautiously as he stepped into the street, careful not to slip. His eyes glanced right and left as he disappeared down an alleyway, avoiding puddles and scanning doorways. The alleyway led into a wider street lined with old decrepit buildings. Very few people lined the street, but nonetheless Snape checked all around him before disappearing through a narrow door into a dimly lit tavern. The sign was illegible, but for those members of the wizarding world it was a very important place. The tavern was called The Leaky Cauldron, and it provided the gateway into Diagon Alley, the wizarding area of London. Snape ignored the crowd inside and forced his way into the back room. He found it deserted. Many of the shops closed at nine, but the one particular tavern he desired stayed open until the wee hours of the morning. Snape sighed as he tapped his wand on four separate bricks and stood back as the wall began to fold outward. A doorway of sorts was formed, revealing a narrow alley filled with storefronts. A few people nodded at him as they hurried hither and thither, fulfilling last minute orders or locking up. Snape pretended not to notice them and hurried on, his cloak billowing out behind him.

He paused at the entrance to another alleyway. He glanced left and right, and when he was sure no one was watching he ducked into it, emerging on the other side. He turned left quickly and ducked into a tavern. If it was his choice he wouldn't come here at all, but he had an appointment with a Death Eater at ten fifteen. How much longer could he keep of this charade? Could he continue to live a double life? He settled himself into a table in the corner, staring at the faces around him, trying to figure out which one was meeting him. The crowd parted, and a tall, heavyset man made his way towards him.

"Goyle." Snape nodded to him and rose, grasping his hand. "What brings you here?"

Goyle paused a moment, as if thinking about the question. "I was, uh, supposed to meet you here."

Snape raised an eyebrow and sat himself down again, beckoning for Goyle to do the same. "You are so like your son."

The man beamed at this. Snape smiled inwardly. Point one for me.

Snape folded his hands in front of him. "So…"

"Ah, uh, yes. I was, uh, sent here by the Boss to tell you to keep your eye out this year. Something's going on at that school you teach at." Goyle paused, thinking hard. "Uh, that's it I think."

Snape tried not to show the repugnance on his face. "The Dark Lord sent you out here at ten thirty just to tell me that?" he asked incredulously. He watched Goyle's stupid face contort. He nodded and Snape sighed. "Thank you, Goyle."

Snape rose, nodded his head to his thick associate and billowed out the door. No one was in the streets as Snape turned back into the dark alleyway and was met by a strange sight. A group of young wizards were huddled together, passing around a cigarette they had obviously stolen from a man passed out on the corner. Snape skirted the youths and hurried out into the main road of Diagon Alley. Obviously something was going on tonight…

People were standing around outside of an old building. Light spilled out from the open doorway and the windows, and loud music issued from inside. Snape couldn't make out the lyrics, but the tune was fast and filled with fury. His curiosity got the better of him and he pushed his way through to the entrance. A group of people will arranged on a stage at the front of the building, clutching various instruments and screaming out their words. One particular creature caught his eye. It was a woman playing the hell out of an electric guitar and crooning to the audience. She was so familiar, so horribly familiar… Snape couldn't bear to look at her any longer. The music was deafening, her voice pounded in his ears. He turned on his heel and hurried away from the building and into the back doorway of The Leaky Cauldron.

"I wonder where he goes when he says he has an appointment." Hermione was lying on Ron's bed in number twelve Grimmauld Place, watching Ron and Harry across the room.

"Dunno," Ron answered, staring at her over his latest copy of Which Broomstick? "Why are you smiling like that, Hermione?"

Hermione was indeed smiling a Cheshire cat grin that had spread itself all across her features. "No reason, Ron," she simpered, "I just have a bit of an idea."

Harry Potter, who had been silent for the majority of the afternoon, finally spoke. "When Hermione has a plan you better watch your back. So tell us, oh mighty mistress of plans, what's your idea."

Hermione began to outline her plan. "Well, Snape has to be somewhere at ten fifteen, right? Well, last time I was downstairs he had fallen asleep in front of the fire. So, Ron you get to wake him up at about nine thirty. And then we follow him to wherever he's going."

"There's only one problem Hermione. How are we going to follow him without being seen?"

Hermione sneered at the speaker. "Are you really that daft, Ron? Harry has his invisibility cloak!" Harry nodded. He was more than happy to get out of this house, the house that reminded him so much of his godfather. He didn't want to think about Sirius or this house, but here he was, stuck here.

"I agree with Hermione. At least we wouldn't be so bored." Harry sighed. He really didn't want to be here. However he hadn't been able to get out for fear an agent of Voldemort would find him first. He was kept in the house under lock and key, never allowed out. So this presented a nice prospect.

At nine thirty Ron's footsteps could be heard on the stairs as he descended to wake Snape up. Harry and Hermione waited at the top of the stairs, their breaths held in anticipation. "So, how was it?" asked Harry as Ron ascended the steps about five minutes later.

"He was rather personable for Snape. I mean, I didn't sit there and talk to him, but at least he didn't insult my intelligence too much." Ron shrugged, a look of indifference on his face.

Harry pulled out his invisibility cloak and draped it around the three of them. "Okay, we're ready let's go."

Going down the stairs was difficult for three people trying to stay unseen, but somehow they managed it. Soon they were hot on the trail of Snape, watching the familiar billowing of his robes as he turned down street after street. Several times they were forced to stop abruptly as Snape peered into the darkness behind him, checking for people who might be following him.

"He's up to something, no doubt," whispered Hermione, quickening her pace as Snape entered The Leaky Cauldron.

They followed close behind him through the twists of Diagon Alley, careful not to lose him in the late night shadows of an alley. Suddenly, Ron stopped. "It's Knockturn Alley. I'm not going there."

Harry could see what he was talking about. A sign pointed into another narrow passage, designating it as the premier Dark Arts area of London. Anyone who went in there was definitely up to no good. "It's no good to follow him any further. I don't want to go back in there," Harry shook his head. "No way."

Ron sighed. "Okay, we don't have to go there, but can we at least see what's going on there?" He pointed to a dingy building where a group of wizards were gathered. Yellow light shone from the windows and music poured from the doors.

"I don't know, Ron. It might not be safe." Hermione shot a reproaching look at the venue. "Honestly. It can't be good; it's so close to Knockturn Alley?"

Suddenly Harry threw off the cloak. "It can't be too bad. See, there's Oliver Wood." He pointed and waved. "Hey! Oliver! It's me, Harry!"

Oliver waved and Harry hurried over to him, with Ron and Hermione close behind. "What is this place?" asked Ron, staring through the windows at the crowd inside.

"Oh, this place? It's fairly new, only been here a few months. It's a club of sorts. Nothing special. A bar and club where you can just go to have fun. I've been coming here every weekend. The only problem is they open late so if you still live at home you'll have a devil of a time trying to convince your mum to let you go. But, since I've moved out I've been able to come. It has live music every night. This is a new band playing here; they're rather popular in Muggle London."

Harry gazed at him. "Muggle London! They're Muggles?"

Oliver laughed. "No, of course not, they're wizards. It's just that they've somehow managed to gain success in both communities." He paused, as if contemplating what that meant. "D'you want to come inside? Cover's free."

"Cover?" asked Harry.

"You know, there's no fee to get it."

Harry nodded and followed Oliver inside. The light was coming from lanterns suspended over every table, giving the giant room a warm glow that suffused through the windows and onto the cobblestone street outside. The smell of cigarette smoke bit through Harry's faculties, making him sneeze. The building was fairly crowded, with youngish wizards milling about the room or gathered at the bar. One was sitting in the corner, his head lolling to the side, gazing at the swelling crowd with a look of utter indifference. "What's wrong with him?" asked Harry, pointing to the wizard.

"Him?" answered Oliver. "He's ruddy drunk, it seems." Oliver chuckled and headed to the bar himself, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione facing the crowd alone.

"Look!" Two pairs of eyes followed Ron's finger pointing to the front of the room, where the band was clustered on a stage. All the faces were unfamiliar to them, but they couldn't expect to know every face out there. A muscular, shirtless wizard sat behind a drum set, pounding away at the instrument as if beating demons out of it. His arms were heavily tattooed, and the markings on his chest surged as he tensed his muscles. The bassist was a thin, wiry man with a shaved head. He kept his eyes downcast and a cigarette firmly anchored between his lips. But the guitarist, the guitarist was a sight to behold. It was a woman, fairly young, playing the bejeezus out of a battered electric guitar. Two tattoo bands of Celtic knots wrapped around her sinewy forearms, but for some reason her shirt was high necked, covering all of her torso and shoulders. Maybe it was the appearance that mattered. She did evoke quite an air of mystery as she leered at the crowd with crazy green eyes, her black hair pulled up off her shoulders in a ponytail. It was almost as if she was gazing through you, rather than at you.

"She's really creepy," murmured Hermione as she eyed the tattoos on her arms. "I mean, look at those eyes. They're huge."

Ron disagreed. "I think it's wicked. It's about time we had a wizard music scene."

Harry merely looked at the woman, staring right into her eyes. "She's angry. You can feel it. She wants revenge, but on who I don't know."

Hermione and Ron looked at Harry quizzically. "How d'you know that, mate?" asked Ron.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know, really. It's almost like she's projecting her mood to the crowd, daring anyone to guess what she's feeling. But I agree with Hermione. She's scary."

Their conversation was cut off as the woman began to speak. Her voice was rough, deep, and sultry with a very pronounced Irish accent. "Awright and thanks fehr comin' oot tonigh'. 'S great an' glahrious ter see aw yeer faces, drunk or sober. We call this song Paper Airplanes, an' I want ter see all ye out on this floor, kickin' each other's arses!" She grinned and threw her head back, screaming a raucous "One Two Three Four."

"Raise high monolithic structures so fragile. As they fall, I am ever enthralled. Gaze, lie, and smirk in time. Your arrogance will suit you well until fashion is dispelled. As waves of plastic fame go out of fashion, you're ever unknown. These waves of plastic fame are drying up, and I smile because you're dying to be forever unknown. "

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were forced to move as a surge of people rushed onto the expanse of free space before the stage and began to throw themselves against one another, punching, hitting, and kicking. "Is this fun for them?" wondered Hermione out loud.

"From above a rain of ashes descends. Anathema I will remain, forever will remain. From below in my seclusion, look up to the sky to see paper wings and watch them burn. Without habitation. You'll never find a soul inside, no life, but nothing's died."

Harry found himself carried away by the layers of music. The lyrics were so poignant, so true… The misery encased in these words had been so close to him in the past few weeks. Even after leaving the Dursley's his mind was troubled. He thought being with his friends would ease his anxiousness, but it didn't help that they were staying at Sirius' house. His godfather, whom he had loved so much, was gone, and now there were only the memories to taunt him.

"No lights, but quite the show, just as long as no one knows all the motion is pantomime. Dancing in the rain of descending ash, dancing on your grave I'll see you falling. Dancing in the rain of descending ash, dancing in your dust. I'll see you all falling. I'd stop it, had you a heart."

Harry was sad to hear the song end. He was beginning to enjoy the sound of the band and the emotion the lyrics evoked. It was a sad song, but the sadness was hidden by the rich musical quality. Both Ron and Hermione seemed enthralled as well. However, Hermione could shrug it off, and shrug it off she did. "Come on, let's get back to Grimmauld Place. I don't want anyone to know we've been gone."

Reluctantly Ron and Harry pulled themselves away from the stage. They kept glancing longingly at the venue as the strains of music swelled into the sky.

"…Of late it's been harder to go outside…"

They walked in silence under the invisibility cloak all the way back to Grimmauld Place. Many thoughts were stirring in their heads: who was that woman? What magic allowed her to personify that grief, that anger? Harry in particular felt very close to her, even though he didn't even know her name. She had been strong. She had been angry and seeking revenge, much like he was. Maybe she had lost someone close to her as well.

"We reek!" said Hermione as soon as they were safely closeted in Ron's room. "We smell like nasty cigarette smoke!"

"Just go to bed, Hermione. I'm tired. We'll see you in the morning."

Hermione left, and Ron and Harry changed quickly into their pajamas and climbed in their beds. Soon they were snoring, dreams of wide-eyed women and drunken wizards floating in their heads.