Disclaimer: I don't own any character in the Harry Potter series. I don't own Hogsmeade, I don't own Bertie Botts, I don't own Aragog, I don't even have a wand. I'm just a student procrastinating writing her essays. It's all owned by J K Rowling, I swear!11!

Basically, something bad happens somewhere. It's quite bad. - I wanted to put that as my summary but then I thought, no! It needs to be at least a little bit writey. So that's the reason we have the ridiculous summary. This is my first published fic and I'm rather excitedly nervously anxious about it so please - sit down, get comfy and enjoy. The next part will most likely be up tomorrow when my flatmates think I'm doing work.

Prologue

In the jolly old country of England, there are many streets and roads which to the unacquainted eye appear to be alike in every way imaginable. And in all honesty, these unacquainted eyes are not far from wrong in the conclusions they draw. For these streets are in fact remarkably similar at first glance. They are normally home to a score or so of neat and tidy detached houses, with freshly mowed grass proceeding them and a little white fence surrounding that. Sometimes you might find a tiny little Yorkshire terrier with a tiny little pink bow in their neatly trimmed hair, running around with their puffy tails wagging merrily. There might even be a cat; a little black cat, with a sparkling silver collar with a bell on, prowling around or snoozing beneath the shade of a neatly parked car. Yes, they're very similar neighbourhoods indeed. Exteriorly.

However, what one cannot possibly know from first glance alone, unless they're telepathic of course, is how greatly the owners of each of these pristinely pruned dwellings differ from one another. Now, I'm not one to gossip, but Mr and Mrs Pritchard of number 17 Thornbush Lane won the lottery once. The whole jackpot, and it was rumoured to be a rather large amount. But they never spent even a penny of it. Not even a penny. They cashed in the check and withdrew the money back out straight away and kept it in a little blue velvet box underneath their bed and Mrs Pritchard checked on it every morning when she awoke and every night before she went to sleep. And Mr Turner of 25 Leckonfield Close killed a man with an axe, in an act of pure spontaneous insanity. No one but he knew that he had done so, but he had done it all the same. And Mr and Mrs Dursley of number 4 Privet Drive reluctantly held guardianship over their nephew, whose parents were killed when he was merely an infant in his cot. And they detested him. Everything about him; the way he looked, the way he sassed them, the way he didn't do his chores on time. But mostly they hated the fact that he was a wizard. And it is outside of this house that I shall begin my story.

For in the very early hours of a sticky summer's day in the July of 1995, two men stood outside of this Dursley dwelling. Seen by no one thanks to two helpful disillusionment charms, they had remained standing outside of Number 4 Privet Drive throughout the night. They did not move their glances from this house, they simply watched it all night long. They did not speak to each other, not even one word.

Though do not hasten to misunderstand me. They were perfectly aware of each other's presence, oh yes for they both belonged to the Magical Resistance group "The Order of the Phoenix", led by one Albus Dumbledore. But who the other person actually was, was a complete enigma to both of them. It was probably possible to decipher the identity of the other person by process of elimination, of course. If one knew how. And that was what one of these men was currently trying to do, in an attempt to eliminate his boredom.

This man's name was Severus Snape, a tall thin man of 35 with shoulder length black hair hanging limply from his head. He was… rather contemptuous, to say the least, and he was not adored by many. He stood stock still in front of the house, with his feet slightly apart and his hands clasped behind his back. His feet ached slightly, not that he would show it, for even in the shadow of his disillusionment charm he would not appear weak. It was simply not his way.

However, while not taking his eyes from the house, the man moved for perhaps the first time in 3 hours. He slowly reached into the pocket of his thick black robe and retrieved a small blue packet of cigarettes. He removed one, put it into his mouth and returned the packet to his pocket. His wand slipped down from the sleeve of his robe and into his hand and he lit the cigarette noiselessly and replaced his wand in his sleeve. It was not an addiction, he would tell himself. It was simply… dedication. His father's mother had given them to him, from time to time when he was younger, and he had gladly accepted. He had enjoyed the feeling with which each cigarette presented him: a feeling of serenity; a feeling of peace; a feeling of solitude. He did not however, enjoy the fact that they stained his teeth an ugly shade of yellow, but then one must make certain sacrifices to gain the things they needed. No! The things they wanted. He wanted to feel calm – his teeth would have to be discoloured and he would have to live with that. As he continued to smoke his cigarette, his thoughts turned back to the other person watching over Harry Potter's house.

He knew for certain that it was not Black. He was not permitted to leave his house, even on a leash, for fear that he might be intercepted by authorities and/or do something reckless. Both of which, Severus felt were really rather likely. He considered that it wasn't Dumbledore either – for he would have undoubtedly heard the click-click sound of knitting needles by this point. So that had narrowed it down by two. He doubted very much that the other person was Molly Weasley. She had her ginger litter to care for and he knew she wasn't the type to leave them to their own devices. She enjoyed a good fuss, that woman – he found it difficult to understand how her husband, whose name he had forgotten, could find the patience to cope with her.

He couldn't imagine the other person being her husband either. What was it? Alan? Argus? Geoff? He could not remember. But he did remember that whatever his name was, he worked at the Ministry and therefore could not afford to be spending his nights watching over the house of the Boy Who Lived when he needed to be up for work the next morning. Unfortunately for Severus, when Potter was not in school, neither was he. And there was no viable excuse he could forge to avoid this lacklustre duty. And so here he was.

Sometimes Severus wished that he worked at the Ministry. Maybe if he hadn't been so much of a massive shit when he was a teenager and joined the forces of the Dark Lord when he had turned 18 he might have made something of himself and got a job there. He could have been the bloody Minister for all he knew. Not that he thought he would have particularly liked being the Minister of Magic any more than he particularly liked teaching snot nosed children. He imagined it was quite stressful. It wasn't that he liked Fudge, as much as he loathed him and his multitude of inadequacies, but he could understand that there was most likely quite a lot hanging from his shoulders. What with the inevitable rise of the Dark Lord and, well that was enough for anyone, really. Hell, it was why his smoking had increased. Not that he needed to smoke, of course. He could have thrown the whole packet away right there and then if he had wanted. But he digressed. It was, he contemplated, a highly stressful situation for a man who probably couldn't even name the 12 uses for Dragon's Blood. No wonder he had so vehemently denied it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of apparition nearby. His wand once again slipped from the sleeve of his robe and into his hand and he looked around, slightly bewildered. He could not see anything or anyone in the vicinity. Perhaps he had imagined it. He was rather sleep deprived after all. How long had it been now? Forty hours? There abouts, most likely. Maybe the other Order Member had disapparated. If this was the case then the other Order member could only have been Fletcher. He was a cowardly bastard at the best of times. It would be no one else but him. But as he had previously thought, the noise had most likely been his mind playing tricks on him. He'd go to bed when he was finished here. And he'd be finished in three hours, anyway. He'd be fine. For the next couple of minutes or so he continued, distractedly to watch the house, when an invisible voice, shrouded by darkness whispered "Severus Snape?" Surely he hadn't imagined that? He hesitated for a moment, looking around him for the source of the whisper and unsurprisingly seeing nothing.

"Show yourself" He whispered back, before his brain could consent. He internally berated himself for his foolish lack of aforethought. Oh bravo, Severus – let them know you're here. Brilliant. If you die, I'll laugh.

Suddenly an invisible force hit right into Severus' abdomen, causing him to double over and drop his wand to the floor in surprise. Had someone punched him? Why would someone punch him? He straightened up slowly and reached up with his left hand to support himself on the erected turret of a nearby garden wall while his right hand swam blindly through the air of the night trying to locate his attacker. He might not have been the strongest man in the world but he knew that he could hit just as well as anyone - even when it was a cowardly, invisible victim. Finally his hand found what felt like a shoulder and Severus reached the same hand back, making a fist with it when a white hot pain erupted in his gut; a sickening, relentlessly twisting pain that made his body tense up and his hand cling on to the turret so tightly he thought he might crush the bricks between his fingers.

The horrible twisting pain quickly stopped and was replaced by the feeling of something being ripped out of his stomach. A low, gruff chuckle was given by his attacker before Severus heard a crack of disapparation. He couldn't quite work out what had just happened. He turned his head and looked back at the Dursley dwelling. The house was still in darkness; the doors and windows showed no signs of use. It was strange, he thought, how the Death Eater, it had to have been a Death Eater, had attacked him but had failed to force possession over Harry Potter.

If he had still been a true alleged follower of the Dark Lord he would have sauntered in, bold as brass in his entire Death Eater garb, removed the disillusionment charm hiding the traitor and bound him down somehow – a stunning spell would have been the best option as the simplest ones often were. He would have then got Potter's attention – perhaps used sonorous, and declared to him the traitor's true allegiance. From there it would have played right into his hands: Potter would have come running out onto the street in a clumsy display of his arrogant hero-complex, and as soon as he stepped past the blood wards he, the Dark Lord's most faithful servant, would have killed the traitor with a quick and tidy Avada Kedavra. Potter would have been his for the taking and he would have been rewarded plentifully by his master.

Of course, there was the fact that another member of the Order of the Phoenix was standing merely a few metres away and they, if they weren't Mundungus Fletcher, would have been the best back-up that a dead traitor could hope for in saving The Boy Who Lived, but he wouldn't have known that – the dead traitor would have neglected to tell him about that second Order Member. Naturally.

He grimaced inconceivably as the pain in his abdomen flared up. He still couldn't work out what had happened. Someone had punched him in the gut and left, which was weird in itself, really - a bit short lived. But what had been truly strange about the attack was the twisting and ripping he had felt inside of his stomach. Severus reached one of his hands down and tentatively placed his palm onto his abdomen. There was a rip in his robes – a large one, and surrounding that, the robes were soaking wet. His eyes widened and he held his hand up to his face, studying it, to find it stained with bright red. Fuck. He'd been stabbed. That wasn't good. Where was his wand? He should conjure a patronus – tell someone what had happened. No, that idea was moronic. What would the Muggle inhabitants of this street say if they saw a bright silver doe wandering down the street at three in the morning? Good God he would not die on a shitty Muggle suburban street. He would not die in front of Harry Potter's house.

He had to leave – that much was obvious. He truly did not want to have to put up with the Order's complaining and Molly Weasley's incessant weeping because the idiot boy had decided to abscond the safety of his relatives and he hadn't been there to get the little brat back into his throne room, but what could he do? He needed his wand. He couldn't do much without that. He was proficient enough at wandless magic, but having his wand at hand made him complete. It helped him to think. He stood as straight as his body would allow and opened his palm at his side. It would take some energy, he knew, but it was necessary. He closed his eyes and focused on the words "accio wand" inside of his mind.

In a matter of seconds, his fingers clasped around the soft cool wood of his wand and he felt himself droop with both relief and wear. He had correctly prophesized. The performance of a silent and wandless spell had tired him greatly. And it had not been helped at all by his dwindling health. As if on cue, the wound on his abdomen flared up again with a piercing, burning, white-hot pain that seemed to envelope his entire being. He was forced to let go of the turret in favour of clutching at his abdomen. He was slumping now, he realised. If someone had been able to see him they'd have believed he were a decrepit, the way he was slumping, he thought. He once again tried to evaluate his options of action. He was starting to panic slightly now. He could feel blood running out of the hole in his robe and through his fingers. He closed them in an attempt to stem the blood flow and breathed slowly through the agonising pain.

He needed to alert someone of his predicament. That was the first priority. The other Order member on watch duty was the most obvious candidate for this. Dumbledore had given them a word which they could utter – in emergencies only of course, to alert the other Order member that they were in need of help. That word was "bubble-gum". Oh how he loathed Dumbledore and his grotesquely annoying obsession with Muggle sweets. The other members of the Order of the Phoenix hadn't understood what bubble-gum was, when they'd learned of the Emergency Word and Severus had not explained, either. He'd chewed it as a boy. His father's mother would give it to him from time to time and he had gladly accepted it. He'd quite enjoyed it. No longer though. He did not have the time nor the patience for such idiocies now.

"Bubble-gum" he said as strongly as he could manage. His voice was strained he noticed with a slight ire, and the other Order member probably wouldn't have even recognised it as belonging to him. That didn't matter though, they just needed to understand the intent. There was a pause, and Severus found himself nervous with anticipation as he waited for a reaction. He shivered against the cold that was suddenly trying to intimidate him. It was brisk and cutting, and his hand felt frozen against the warm throb of his blood. He could feel his head beginning to get lighter and the houses swarmed and swam before his very eyes.

"Reveal yourself" came his reply. Before any particular thought had entered his mind, Severus had heaved up his wand-holding arm and removed the disillusionment charm which had previously hidden him. Now, fully visible he allowed his arm to drop down by his side luckily not dropping the wand again and felt himself sway as the wind pushed him backwards and forwards. Every limb was growing heavier; he could hardly even hold himself upright and his shivering had seemed to increase tenfold. When had it become so cold? The hand which had been, up to now, so adequately keeping the blood from spilling out of him like a tap seemed to slip away from his abdomen. The world moved in slow motion, and his eyes stared blindly into the night and his legs struggled to hold him no longer and he sank down gracelessly onto his knees. A man was running up to him, calling his name and Severus looked on as he slid to his knees in front of him on the pavement, panic lining his weary face, and took off his cloak, bundling it up and pressing it against Severus' stomach while keeping one hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady. Severus could feel his eyes threatening to close and he worried that the man would not understand what had happened to him.

"I think I've been stabbed." He said, hoping beyond hope that the words had been said aloud and not just inside of his own head. He closed his eyes briefly and held his breath against the excruciating pain emanating in his gut. He could hear words coming from the man's mouth – "Don't worry Severus, it's okay. Just stay with me," Being repeated over and over and over again like a chant, and he tried to concentrate on it, but failing that tried to identify the man in front of him. His head was turned away from him but his hair was brown – light brown and his clothes were patched in places. He turned his head back to Severus and regarded him with golden eyes full of concern. There was a moustache sitting above his lips and he continued to utter those words to him. He was certain that he recognised the man in front of him, but the fog in his mind would not allow him to identify him.

He opened his mouth to say something else, anything else, but all that passed his lips was a thick bubble of blood which dribbled down his chin and onto his robes. The man moved his arm around Severus' back, in order to hold him more securely. He kept repeatedly looking back at the house but all the while continued to talk to him, "it's alright, Severus it's alright," and it was soothing and calming. Severus was relaxed, really relaxed and he closed his eyes. He felt like he was falling. Sinking further and further into oblivion until the man and the house and the attack seemed like they were all a world away. He could feel a hand gently patting his cheek and the voice of the man calling his name. Unconsciousness was beckoning him, but not before Severus could remember with a start, who the other man was.