Summary: AU. In 1980, the course of history was altered when Severus Snape heard the full contents of the prophecy, thus Voldemort never met his downfall. How will this turn of events affect the wizarding world and the lives of countless people who might not have survived otherwise?

Disclaimer: I, of course, own nothing. I am merely bending characters and situations created by J.K. Rowling to my will.

Chapter One: Whispers in the Dark

Pain.

Of course, he was used to pain, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable.

He did not know whether it was night or day; he had lost track of all time. His world seemed to be full of just darkness and suffering. But he had a reason to keep going, to fight his way through this. He knew he would survive, because he had to. There was no other way.

He drew some sort of bizarre courage from the knowledge that he had brought this on himself. This was his own choice, and he was glad to do it, for there was no one else who could have made it look convincing, no one else who possessed the tools that would keep him alive now that he was here … and if he didn't make it out, he was the only one who didn't have a family that would miss him. This was his job, and he was perfect for it.

The Death Eater standing over him cast his spell again and again, causing his body to convulse with the sting of it; he could barely breathe, and each breath he managed to take seemed to get stuck in his throat and only made his agony ten times worse.

'I think that's enough, Yaxley,' said a disdainful voice. 'You don't want our latest captive to perish before he even makes it before the Dark Lord, do you? Any more and we may as well have never have caught him, he'll be good for nothing, and our plans will never reach fruition.'

Yaxley lowered his wand, albeit reluctantly.

'Yes, I suppose you're right,' he said softly. He bent over the captive man and rolled him on to his back, getting a good look at his face. The prisoner could barely see out his swollen and bloody eyes, but he was able to make out the dark shape that was Yaxley's fist being brought back, then suddenly hammered into the captive's abdomen. Yaxley laughed as the prisoner doubled up, winded, cowering on the floor.

'I said that's enough, Yaxley!' the second Death Eater reminded him, his voice harsh and severe. Yaxley stood up and moved away, his face dark and sullen.

If the prisoner had thought that the second Death Eater would be more compassionate towards his well-being, he was sadly mistaken. The Death Eater kicked the prisoner hard in the mouth, and laughed loudly, a horrible, gloating, callous laugh, that rang around the prisoner's ears as he spat out blood and teeth, as he was bound by tight ropes conjured from a wand, and as he was dragged away from this room.

His captors now were not Death Eaters. They were some other cronies of the Dark Lord's, less powerful and not important enough to reach the Inner Circle. They were the Pickets, and it was in their control that the Death Eaters placed their latest detainee. They warned the Pickets that they would be back for him, and that the Dark Lord was sure to want an audience with him.

And now he was being dragged down many stone steps. His body was so battered and bruised that each step felt as though is might kill him, yet on some level he was strangely detached from the pain, detached from his body.

They were about to enter the deepest depths of the castle, where few were taken and where none returned. The air smelt stagnant and stale, and the atmosphere became instantly as cold as ice.

'Wait a minute would ya Croxford, I got another one 'ere! They can go down together!'

The voice rang through the silence, and the Picket holding the prisoner stopped and waited for the owner of the voice to catch up. It was accompanied by the jangling sound of chains

'This one's just come out of solitary,' said the newcomer, giving his own prisoner a kick behind the knees for good measure. The man buckled and fell to his knees, but immediately picked himself back up again; the shackles around his wrists and ankles making that a harder job than it would otherwise be. 'Ooo, whatcha got there, Croxford? Fresh meat?'

'Yeah,' said Croxford, nudging his bound prisoner with his foot. 'He's already been here a couple o' days though, they only just finished with 'im! Don't he look a state? Still, best get 'em back down where they belong! Scum!' Croxford spat on the floor. Together the two men dragged and pushed their captives down steep stone steps in near total darkness; it was impossible for the prisoners to look at each others faces. When they had reached as far down as they could go they proceeded along a labyrinth of narrow corridors, freezing and dirty and soulless. There were no windows here. It was hard to tell whether this was because they were so deep inside, at the furthest point from the outer walls, or whether it was because they had descended so far that they must surely be in the dungeons, or even in the rock beneath them. There was no sound available to the human ear except for the scuffling of the feet of the Pickets and their prisoners. Every surface seemed to be coated with dust and grime, and the smell of the air was even worse down here; it was almost like rotting flesh … like death.

With the jangling of keys and the scraping of a heavy door it seemed they had reached their destination. The silence that had been so deafening a few moments before was suddenly punctuated every few seconds by a strangled cry, a whispering voice, and, somewhat oddly, loud snores. This must be where the other prisoners are kept, thought the bound prisoner. They were taken down a long corridor lined with doors on either side. Cells. The unknown guard deposited his prisoner in a cell on the left side of the corridor and it was only after the door was securely locked shut that the Picket waved his wand through the small square of bars, set at head height into the solid door, so that the mans shackles disappeared.

'Where should I put this one, Scabior?' asked Croxford, indicating the bound and gagged man at his feet.

'Ah I dunno, this one's free, just shove 'im in there! It don't really matter,' replied the other Picket, Scabior. He indicated a cell on the right side of the corridor, directly opposite the one where they had left their other prisoner.

He was dragged into the middle of the cell, and again only after they had locked the door did the Pickets release him from his bonds. His limbs fell limply at his sides, and only now did he realise how much the ropes had been restricting his ribcage, although of course the pain still racked his body when he breathed. He could now hear the retreating footsteps of his captors, their voices raised in cruel laughter at the two men they had just left behind. The initial moment of shock had passed, and it was only now that, amongst the rest of his pain, he felt his heart sink like a deadened weight.

It took a moment to realise that someone was speaking to him.

'Hello? Hello? Are you alright over there?'

It was the other prisoner, calling to him from the cell across the corridor.

'Can you hear me?'

With a great effort, the injured prisoner rolled himself onto his chest, and slowly, half crawling, half pulling himself along the floor, made his way to the door, where a row of bars ran from one side of the door to the other, about a foot tall in height. Lying on the floor, he peered out, but could not make out anything in the total darkness that engulfed them both.

'Yes,' he replied, his voice hoarse. 'Yes I can hear you.'

'Good, I was worried you were unconscious or something,' came the reply. The voice sounded young, but unfamiliar. 'Are you badly hurt?'

'I'll live,' he replied grimly. The pain was still there, sharp and unyielding, but he knew he'd been through worse; this wasn't about to kill him. There was a slight pause, then he asked, 'who are you? Where am I?' The second question was quite unnecessary; he already knew where he was but it seemed … almost rude … to bluntly ask the identity of a fellow prisoner.

'My name is Bill Weasley,' said the voice. He did not answer the second question, but instead asked urgently 'who are you? Do you know me? Do you know my family? Are they alright?'

Bill Weasley. 'Yes, I know your family, but not you. I worked as a teacher at Hogwarts a couple of years ago, I taught your brothers and sister. To the best of my knowledge, they are all fine, your parents too.'

The relief was evident in Bill's voice as he enquired 'you worked at Hogwarts? What did you teach?'

'Defence Against the Dark Arts. Only for a year, obviously, but definitely a memorable one. Your brothers give everyone quite the run-around, you know.'

Bill sighed softly, 'yes, yes they always have done. But what other news is there from the outside world? What's it like now?'

'Well, it has deteriorated quite badly over the past couple of years. Ireland and Western Europe are becoming more and more unstable as well. We barely have a hold over the Ministry of Magic anymore, and it is only because of Dumbledore that Hogwarts is still safe. Security measures aren't working, and people keep asking when there will be a blow against Voldemort, yet most are too afraid to help those of us still working hard to bring him down.'

'You're working to bring him down? You must be in Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix! Who are you, what's your name? How did you come to be in here?' asked Bill excitedly.

'There … was a fight. We tried to ambush a group of Death Eaters at a secret meeting point, but unfortunately, I was taken prisoner.' He was impressed at how fast Bill was keeping up. 'My name…' he paused, 'is Remus Lupin.'

There was a sharp intake of breath.

'Are you really?'

Bill didn't know what to say. It wasn't that Remus was anyone famous or important, it was … something entirely unexpected.

'Yes, I am. Why does that shock you?'

'It's … well, I'm not really sure I have the right to tell you. I've heard all the stories about you - I mean,' Bill sighed; he was doing this all wrong. 'Not bad stories, its just … well it's going to be a bit of a shock for you …'His voice drifted off. 'I can't tell you. You'll find out in the morning.'

Remus was frowning. What stories? What was going to be a shock? 'Bill,' he began fiercely, but before he could say another word, he was cut off.

'No, it would take too long, and I'm not the right person to explain everything to you. You should get some sleep now while you can. We'll have to be up in a few hours and then we won't get the chance to rest all day I should imagine. Those bloody Pickets work us hard.' Bill's voice became more muffled as he moved away from the bars on his door, signalling the conversation was over.

And so Remus was left to his confused and tired thoughts. He could make neither head nor tail of what Bill had just told him, and he was obviously not going to get any answers tonight. He struggled to pick himself up off the hard, cold stone and felt his way around his cell. It was tiny, probably only six square feet in size, completely enclosed and pitch black. There was a narrow wooden bench at the back that was clearly supposed to act as a bed, although there were, of course, no blankets or covers. It was with a heavy heart that Remus sat himself down, curled into a tight ball and shut his eyes tight, wishing he were anywhere else in the world, as far away from this pain and misery as possible. What was he doing here? Nothing could be worth this, nothing. This and other thoughts rolled round and round his very disturbed mind. But just before he succumbed to the crushing darkness and the pull of sleep that had been threatening him for hours, maybe even days, he heard a distant voice whisper:

'Welcome to Azkaban, Remus Lupin.'

Authors Note: Congratulations to any readers who made it this far. This is the first chapter to a little story I have had running around my head for a while now. I expect it to go on for quite a while, until I run out of storyline or I get bored, whichever comes first! I would of course appreciate it if you could review, let me know what you thought. Any mistakes I made? Any ways in which I could improve this? Any ideas as to what's coming next, or what should come next? Always glad to have feedback. I think I'm going to rate this quite highly for the use of language and violence that's yet to come, probably the equivalent of a UK rating of 15. Stay tuned for the next chapter, which I hopefully might start writing tomorrow!