Cosily nestled amongst the snowy-capped peaks of North Wales, magically carved into the ancient rock of Snowdonia, there lay a building better protected than, perhaps, any other in the country. Only bearers of the mark could enter, apparating into the lone entryway; a lobby constantly watched and guarded by some of the most powerful wizards under the Dark Lord's command. Those who passed through the lobby would find themselves in a corridor, subjected to a rigorous magical screening process that scanned the magical signature of those who wished to enter the room beyond. Those who weren't recognised were killed. Many would argue, if only they dared, that such security was redundant as no one in their right mind would wish to pass uninvited into that room, as in that room sat the most powerful dark wizard the world had ever seen. This was the headquarters of Lord Voldemort.

The room was dark and dirty, the atmosphere nervous and foreboding as a musty smell hung thick in the air. There was a constant chill and those who entered found that any trace of happiness was sucked from them like air into a vacuum and they would shiver uncontrollably, forgetting themselves, forgetting everything but their subservience to this man, this deity. This being who could summon the aura of a dementor, who could bend the minds and wills of powerful wizards and witches alike; their master. It was a room of ragged stone; walls, floor and ceiling, with only a filthy rug and a single high-backed chair against the far wall in sympathy to human comfort. Of course, he preferred it this way. Like a vampire, he loathed the light and everything it stood for, he derided luxury and scorned comfort. Why should they be comfortable? They were nothing but slaves, a means to an end, and they needed to be reminded of that from time to time.

A crowd of seven masked figures stood to attention around the chair, formed in a semi-circle as they listened obediently in fear and awe as their master began to speak. Lord Voldemort spoke quietly but commandingly, making no attempt to raise his voice; his Death Eaters would listen.

"What progress have you made in locating the object, Bella? Your Lord tires of waiting, surely you need not be reminded of the consequences of failure?"

"No my Lord," Bellatrix replied shakily, a trace of fear tinging her earnest deference. "As yet, my lord, we have been unable to locate the object. We have tracked down the last owner, but they died over two hundred years ago and the location of the object remains a mystery. However..." she added, seeing the look of fury that flashed across the Dark lord's face and knowing the rest of her sentence held her life in the balance, "I managed to find an obscure manuscript that tells of a small, unplottable island in the North Sea. That is where it is rumoured to be."

"Good, you have done well Bella," the Dark Lord hissed. "I will finish this myself. Once I have broken the unplottable wards, the object will be mine and we will move onto the final phase of the plan. You are all dismissed, except you Severus."

The Death eaters all gave a small bow before turning away from their master and filing out, all looking relieved to have escaped the room relatively unharmed.

"Oh and Bella?" Voldemort said, prompting the witch to pause by the door. "Crucio! Try to be more prompt with your information next time."

He laughed softly, warmth spreading through him, as Bellatrix's screams echoed through the chamber and she writhed on the floor in agony. When the torture finally came to an end, she picked herself off the floor and dragged herself out of the room. A dark smirk on his face, the Dark Lord then turned to address his spy.

"Severus, tell me what information you have from Dumbledore?" Voldemort questioned.

"There is…nothing new, my lord," came Snape's reply and even his usually unflappable nerve quaked at having to deliver such new. "Either he is unaware of the object's existence or is keeping it for himself."

"No, Dumbledore would never sully his hands with such a dark, evil object; his biggest weakness of many. However, he will be aware of it; that muggle loving fool has an unfortunate habit of busying himself in matters that are none of his concern. The next time we meet, you will have that information will you not, Severus?"

"Of course my lord," came Snape's reply.

"Yes you will Snape, Crucio!"

Snape fell to the floor, his limbs twisting in pain. He tried not to scream and succeeded but for a low, strained moan, a terrible, animal thing from deep within his gut. Voldemort allowed himself a smile; how he loved it when they tried to resist, the joy was so much more exquisite when they finally capitulated to his power. It was a good few seconds before Severus screamed but, when he did, it was almost orgasmic for his master, who had allowed the expectation to fill him. He laughed.

"Your lord is merciful to spare you, isn't he Severus?"

Snape hauled himself up so that he was on his hands and knees, his head limp and sagging as he tried to remain conscious. He coughed up a fine spray of blood but forced himself to speak.

"Y-yes, my lord. Thank you my lord."

"He will not be so merciful if you disappoint him again. The next time I call you Severus, you will have information to give me."

Snape nodded, gingerly clambered to his feet and stalked out the room, leaving Voldemort alone to lean back in his throne, his hands clasped together in thought and a small smirk adorning his features. Soon the object would be his and Dumbledore's days would be numbered, so too Potter's and their band of muggle-loving traitors.

Suddenly, the scene distorted and started to shift. It was Voldmort's lair no longer but a confusing whirl of shape and colour, before it slowly came to rest on an all too familiar scene. It was the scene of a man, handsome but scarred, a man with long, dark hair being struck by a deadly curse to the chest. That man was his Godfather, the last of his family, those who didn't hate him anyway, and he felt that blow like it had been he who took it. Time slowed as Sirius Black froze before falling, horrifically yet gracefully through the dais that stood in the Department of Mysteries, a look of surprise on his face as his cousin looked on, cackling in delight. Harry fought desperately as he tried to reach his Godfather, but Remus' strong arms held him back. Eventually, the awful realisation dawned that Sirius was not coming back and Harry fell limp, supported only by his old Defence against the Dark arts teacher as his heart grew heavy and he felt tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

And in a small village in Surrey, hundreds of miles away from the mountains of Wales, a sixteen year old boy with jet black hair and startling emerald green eyes sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat pouring from every pore. Panting heavily, he looked wildly around his room, before slowly collapsing back onto his cool pillow. The dream played again before his eyes. The Department of Mysteries he was used to, by now that horror had been forever scorched into the cornea of his mind's eye, but the bit before, with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, that was different. That was real and now and something told him it was important.

"I have to tell Dumbledore about this."

A/N: This is a story that I wrote years ago when I was but a whippersnapper of a boy of fifteen. The story itself and some of the writing, I still like so I've decided to go through it and tidy it up. If you were reading this or its sequel before I took it down, I apologise but I haven't noticed any reviews or any other action on here for some time so I don't think there were many of you and it'll be much better once I have it up again.

Anyway, thank you for reading and please do leave a review to tell me what you think.