Disclaimer: the characters belong to their respective authors, I do not own them
Author's Note: The story begins in late August of the Deathly Hallows, shortly after Voldemort gives Snape the position of Headmaster.
Prologue:
Severus Snape repeatedly banged his head against the desk which had only recently become his. Before long, he collapsed onto the desk, sobbing great heaving sobs. He punched the wall, attempting to stop the oncoming tears. It was his first moment alone in his new office, although one was never truly alone in the headmaster's office. The talking portraits of previous headmasters were always watching, always ready to give their input on a situation, always ready to criticize. Now was not an exception.
Snape had been trying to ignore them for some time, but abruptly looked up after another snide comment from Phineas Nigellus. Fuming, he stared at the portrait. Not acting like a Slytherin? His rage was boiling now.
"Calm yourself, Severus," the portrait of Albus Dumbledore kindly instructed. "What is the problem?"
"The problem?! Did you give much thought toward the task you assigned me? I have hardly any resources! How do you expect me to accomplish it?"
"Like I said, not acting his Slytherin part," Phineas sneered.
"Silence, Phineas!" Dumbledore admonished, giving the other portrait a stern look.
"My thoughts are obviously not wanted here, so I shall go where they are more cherished," Phineas muttered as he exited the frame.
Moving on from the incident, Dumbledore turned back to Snape. "Severus, Severus. Of course I gave thought towards it! The thought of all of the trouble you would have to go to, all that you would have to endure, has pained me greatly. But I know that you will succeed."
"How? I have nothing. Every moment I have to Occlude my mind, all day I have to lie! My life has become a complicated act. A sick game."
"A game which you will win. Do you regret your choice to join my side? You knew how dangerous it would be."
"No! I do not regret it, Dumbledore. I have just reached the end of my rope. Potter, even with the aid of Granger and that imbecile Weasley, is getting no where! I have no resources, and hardly even know what step to take next."
"Do you know what task has been given to Harry and his friends?" Dumbledore asked. Snape shook his head dejectedly. "Then you do not know if they have made any progress." Snape grunted in annoyance at this comment. Dumbledore ignored him and continued, "I know you want to know the nature of their task. But it is their task, not yours. Now, what is all this you have been saying about resources?"
"I have noting to work with. NOTHING!"
"Nonsense. You are in an opportune situation. You have been given the position of headmaster! You will be able to stop extreme actions within Hogwarts because of your closeness with Riddle, and do so without arousing too many suspicions. When you killed me, you gained more trust from your fellow Death Eaters-"
"Allies, Dumbledore!" Snape interrupted. "I have no allies!"
"A spy rarely has friends, Severus."
"I need more help than I have. Surely you would understand that?"
"I do. But I do not know how I can help you with that. You cannot go to any of the Order…"
"But you must know of someone!"
"Again, I do. A few someones, in fact. But they may not be what you are looking for. And the spell is quite complicated, and involves-"
"Tell me!" Snape interrupted again.
Edward Cullen landed, not with a splash into a pond, as he expected, but with a light thump into a cramped unknown room. It was some sort of study, he decided. Full of strange instruments and equally strange people, none of which he recognized. There was a Spaniard, covered in blood, with one hand blocking an open wound in his stomach, the other waving a magnificent sword; a young girl, wet, and calling out for someone named "Aslan"; a shirtless youth fingering his back and muttering something about the absence of a scar; a tall old man wearing shining white robes, with long, shining, white hair, and grasping what seemed to be a shining white staff; a very short man (or was he a boy? a midget?) covered in grime, sweat, and blood issuing from the stump of a finger; a hardened and travel-worn girl with wings; and a strong, tanned boy with shaggy black hair (wait! Edward knew him! What was that mongrel doing here?). All of these people were shouting at once, all of them utterly bewildered. Only one man, with greasy black hair and a hooked nose, seemed to know what was going on. He alone remained calm, and turned to talk to a picture on the wall. What was this madness? Edward knew one thing: he was more confused than he ever had been in his entire life.