Hello, dear readers. This is going to be a planned, multi-chapter, AU fanfiction. No, I haven't discontinued Lukewarm Coffee, for those still interested. I shouldn't be writing this. But I am.

This prologue is going to be uncomfortably poetic and tell-not-show, but bear with me.

Oh, and every 100th review gets a one-shot! I am also in need of a beta.

This is just the prologue, and I apologize for the length. Generally, my chapters tend to be 6k-10k, so this isn't going to be key length.

PROLOGUE:

They once said that he came into Hogwarts knowing more curses than a seventh year. That, in itself, should have been a recognized warning sign. How he wished that he realized it had been.

But. He was just so…weak. Fragile. Eager to learn. Socially inept. Skirting in and out of teachers' good books, dancing around them, like a spider - seemingly innocent and harmless, all the while luring them into a web to be eaten. All boney limbs and hiding behind hair and big eyes, never seen without a book, Severus Snape had been the picture of insecurity and undiscovered genius.

His plan was rather genius, actually. He wasn't overly charismatic to the point that you're suspecting, like that boy who got himself locked in an asylum - Tim? Thomas? What was his name? Dumbledore couldn't remember - or too high-strung and arrogant, flaunting knowledge, to the point that everyone's looking out for you, and everyone knows you're Dark - like Grindelwald, who was rotting away in prison - or even obviously making connections, seeking power - like that potion's professor he'd fired decades ago (Slughorn, wasn't it?) - that people realize you're bad news.

No. Severus Snape wasn't charismatic, or popular, or arrogant, or even connecting with his peers - but all the while, he was doing exactly that, in such a non-Slytherin manner nobody would ever expect anything from him. His blushes at the right time when anyone praised him, his quiet, stuttering voice coming from the first row, center seat, answering questions, his small smiles and times when he'd get carried away in a theory and simply radiate excitement - that, that, was what made people like him. Love him, even. It was all fake. But nobody knew - maybe nobody wanted to let themselves know.

And, most of all, nobody, nobody, not even, he, Dumbledore, defeater of Grindelwald, vanquisher of the Dark, had expected little Snapey, the boy who took his NEWTs three years early and went on to become a Potions Master, to become the next Dark Lord.

He was, though. The next Dark Lord, that is. He had overrun the Muggle economy, reproducing expensive items, lowering the price until the other businesses couldn't keep up, and then buying ministry's support and blackmailing others with pure, hard, cash. There was no more laws, there was no more human rights, and there wasn't a day that went by without news of some family or another getting brutally murdered or thrown in Azkaban for seemingly no reason.

Ministry Officials and Minister naught but puppets in his hands, he'd ended up showing his true colors, and committing mass genocide to Muggles and mundane.

He'd wanted the world. And he'd gotten it.

And now, he was here, in Dumbledore's office, proud, tall, and grossly thin, robes billowing out dramatically behind him, his entire frame radiating power. He had come to eliminate the very last person that stood in his way - Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore himself.

Dumbledore turned towards him. "Snape," he greeted and tipped his head. One mustn't forget basic manners, after all. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Dumbledore." His voice was like him - deep, dark, and commanding respect. "We have much to, ah, discuss."

"Do we now, Mr. Snape?" he asked.

"I believe we do, Master Dumbledore." Unwillingly, a shiver ran down Dumbledore's spine. It was just the cold, he told himself.

"Well then," Dumbledore said, "let us begin." He knew what was to come. As powerful as he was, he was old, weak, and the world was already on fire - nothing he could do could stop that. It was too bad that wizards weren't like Phoenix, he mused.

Snape removed his wand from his sleeve and caressed it with shadows of fingers. Dumbledore had forgotten his own wand. He would swear, but he didn't want his last words to be dirty ones.

"Master Dumbledore."

For a minute, Dumbledore thought that time froze. Don't do it, my boy, he pleaded in his mind, hoping, praying, that someone, somewhere, could hear it. Dumbledore sighed. Yes, Dumbledore thought, he would do it. He would be killed, and Snape would be the one to kill him. Such is the way of war; such are the ways of psychopaths.

Why?

The unanswered question floated in the air, tension between them palpable.

Why, my boy?

Onyx met Lapis Lazuli. Dumbledore turned his eyes away, and slumped.

That was all that Snape needed to see. He was facing un unarmed, unprepared man.

"Avada Kedavra."

On October 31st, 1988, Dumbledore died. Yet, on October 31st, 1968, Dumbledore was startled into life.