Cut and Captured

There had been a most unusual glitch.

At least, that was how it had appeared to everyone in the cheering crowd of eager witches and wizards on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch that night.

Well, not everyone.

Severus Snape, neither cheering nor particularly eager about anything but the end of this tedious, tumultuous tournament himself, was not so naïve as to believe that a transparency charm—which he knew to have been placed on the labyrinth by Minerva McGonagall for the public’s viewing pleasure—could simply be ‘rendered opaque by a mere glitch in the spell.’ Moreover, he was quite certain that anyone who believed that the thick, timely, impenetrable fog which had settled over the arena—at that very same time, mind you—were ‘nothing but a rather unfortunate spot of weather’ should be immediately taken to St. Mungo’s to have his or her head examined for Bilingard’s Blockhead Syndrome, a relatively serious malady which slowly turns the sufferer’s mind and inner eye sockets into a pungent Roquefort.

It had taken thirty restless minutes for the fog, which had proved impervious to everything from torches to cries of Lumos, to clear on its own, and then another ten for the news to circulate through the crowd that both Hogwarts champions, Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory, were no longer present in the maze. Moreover, the cup itself was gone, and the winner of the Triwizard Tournament yet to be determined.

Surprisingly enough, it was curiosity which broke out in waves amongst those in attendance, not pandemonium as should have been the response given the unexpected breach in the patrol. Such disregard for the system of magical security which had been put in place to assure the safety of the tournament revealed a weakness in the design, albeit one which was nevertheless far less serious and extensive in scope than what had occurred at the Quidditch World Cup the previous summer, seeing as there was a distinctive lack of Death Eaters setting fires, torturing muggles and running amok, wreaking havoc.

Still, someone had tampered with the maze, and whoever it was had planned the action most meticulously, managing to work around or wear down the intricate web of protective spells and counterspells put into place by some of the most adequate witches and wizards of the modern day. The feat was too clever and too well-orchestrated to have been the work of any old simpleton simply wishing to conjure up some cheap smoke and mirrors trick in order to cause a scene and wind up on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Not even Fred and George Weasley would have dared to attempt to pull such a stunt, lest their mother transfigure them into yarn and knit them into a jumper fit to warm Gilderoy Lockhart in the Janus Thickey Ward of St. Mungo’s, which she had threatened to do a fair few times more than once before.

But to what purpose someone would risk breaching the bylaws of national magical security for thirty minutes of fame and a lifetime of Ministry prosecution remained a mystery. Until Fleur Delacour, the teary-eyed Beauxbatons champion, finally managed to hiccup out what she had seen in the centre of the maze to the swarm of professors and tournament officials around her, that is.

‘Cedric and ‘Arry, they were … with their hands out to … take the Cup,’ she blubbered, gesturing emphatically with her right arm as her left shoulder dangled quite jarringly out of its socket—a flock of pixies had roughly seized the girl and tried to pull her back to the start of the maze once the darkness had already descended. ‘And then pouf—’ she waved her hand with a graceful flutter ‘—I am seeing they are gone, the Cup is gone—all has disappeared!’

Someone who might have been Professor McGonagall gasped audibly, while others began to whisper rapidly amongst themselves. Meanwhile, Severus Snape’s expression only hardened at the champion’s words, his mind already at work.

If what the girl said was true, it spoke of a more serious security breach than he had initially imagined. Indeed, someone had reached the Triwizard Cup at the same time the ‘glitch’ had occurred. That alone was clear from the crackling sound of the fireworks which had automatically been set off, signalling the Cup’s capture and the end of the Third Task; the sound was quickly overpowered by the excited and confused murmurs of the crowd at the fog which had pervaded the whole area, rendering it unseen and unheard to all but those who knew to expect it. What’s more, the platform upon which the Cup had been placed had raised 25 feet in the air, just five feet higher than the maze itself. It was meant to reveal the jubilant, if not thoroughly exhausted victor in all their glory to the expectant witches and wizards in attendance, but was found to be empty upon the clearing of the fog.

Then again, it had all happened so suddenly, so simultaneously. It would be hard to tell without the use of a Pensive whether or not the Delacour girl had seen—or merely thought she had seen—what she saw.

The black fog had filled the maze itself, not only hovered about it, blocking the view from the Quidditch stands, so in all likelihood the Beauxbatons champion would have been just as blind to the proceedings as anyone else on the pitch. Well, unless the girl’s vision had remained partially or wholly unobscured, perhaps relating in some way to her quarter-Veela status. But that was a niche of magical creature with which Severus Snape was not entirely familiar, and so he remained unsure.

‘And you’re certain that’s what you saw? Potter and Diggory just vanished into thin air?’ said Alastor Moody, the sharp, gruff voice of the Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor causing Fleur Delacour to sniffle and nod her head furiously. The older man let out a low scowl, almost growling as he cast a wary glance around the Quidditch stadium with his mad eye, his demeanour resembling that of a guard dog on the prowl.

‘That just—it can’t be,’ said Hagrid, the glossy sheen of his great black beard shimmering in the torchlight as he shook his head. ‘Harry, Cedric … to just disappear like that—'

‘I’m afraid the girl’s right, Hagrid,’ said Professor McGonagall, adjusting her glasses as she caught his eye, one eyebrow raised. ‘Neither Potter nor Diggory have responded to—'

‘It will have been Harry who seized the cup first though, wasn’t it?’ interrupted a voice which sounded as though its speaker could use a firewhiskey on the double. It was Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Every other second he glanced over towards Rita Skeeter and the other members of the press who were eyeing him impatiently in return, waiting for the winner of the tournament to be announced.

‘Pardonnez-moi, I do not know,’ said Fleur, shaking her head sadly, her sleek blonde hair swaying side to side like a silk scarf blowing in the breeze, but already Madame Pomfrey had arrived to whisk her to the hospital wing where she would promptly get to sorting out the champion’s arm.

‘Now is not the time to talk of what if’s, but actions,’ said Albus Dumbledore, who until the very moment the Beauxbaton champion was escorted away had been stroking his long white beard contemplatively, listening to her account of all she had witnessed. ‘Minerva, Alastor, you will dismantle the maze and search quite thoroughly for both of our Hogwarts champions in the hedges.’

‘Professor,’ growled Moody, ‘What of the culprit? Some mischievous miscreant has tampered with the—’

But Dumbledore merely raised his hand slowly, before saying in a calm voice, ‘I am sure the culprit will be discovered and dealt with in good time. For now, there are more pressing matters. Where was I? Ah yes, Professor Flitwick, I would ask that you and Hagrid guide our guests to the Great Hall. They are, I am sure, famished from the nights events and the feast has already been prepared.’

‘It’s already done,’ said Flitwick, his voice cheery as always even though his face appeared decidedly serious given the sudden turn in the night’s events.

‘And Severus,’ Dumbledore said, lowering his chin to gaze directly at the Potions master over the rim of his half-moon glasses, ‘you will round up any … curious visitors who mean to sneak off onto the castle grounds in all the excitement. It would be most unfortunate for Miss Delacour to need to share the hospital wing with some poor witch or wizard who wandered too close to the Womping Willow. As for me, I shall have an impromptu meeting with our own Minister for Magic.’

Rumours quickly began to fly—as they are wont to do in the wizarding world—that Harry Potter, the youngest champion ever to have competed in the Triwizard Tournament, had turned the Triwizard Cup into a Portkey.

Severus Snape barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The notion that Potter or Diggory, competent though the latter may have been in many of his studies, could have possibly produced a Portkey, let alone have turned the heavily warded Triwizard Cup into one and used it to venture—unseen and unhindered—outside the Hogwarts grounds in front of a crowd of 5,000 of the world’s most avidly attentive witches and wizards was a laughable notion indeed.

If someone had indeed made a Portkey of the Cup, they would have required knowledge of a magic more advanced than Potter could ever hope to comprehend, one which could work around both the Ministry’s regulations and the wards of the castle. In order to make a Portkey that would work inside the bounds of Hogwarts, it would require nothing less than a team of the most well-trained magicians or the hand of Albus Dumbledore himself.

The mind of Severus Snape was not easily led astray by preposterous notions. On the contrary, the man had a natural propensity for practicality, and there was nothing but implausibility where Hogwarts, a Portkey and Harry Potter were concerned.

Who was to say that the two Hogwarts champions had truly disappeared from the school, as seemed to be the word of the hour?

Potter could have easily taken that ludicrous invisibility cloak he had inherited from his obnoxious father and thrown it over the Hufflepuff, the Cup and himself right in front of Miss Delacour’s eyes. The girl, having been distraught and in pain from being attacked by pixies, could have forgivably missed the flourish of the cloak in the air as the pain surged in her dislocated shoulder, even more so considering that the magical fog had engulfed the pitch at the same time. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence for Potter’s prank—yes, it must have been—to have coincided with someone else’s tampering with the maze.

There was still a chance Potter might be found drinking firewhiskey from the Cup in the headmaster’s chair, the unfortunate Diggory goaded into joining him at Potter’s arrogant prodding.

Then again, there was a niggling feeling at the back of the Potions master’s mind, reminding him that coincidences were quite rare, even in the wizarding world, and that this was not the first time that someone had interfered with the course of the Triwizard Tournament. Someone had, after all, confounded the Goblet of Fire and submitted Potter’s name as champion.

What was it the boy often said? Trouble usually finds me.

And there it was: the exception. Implausible, but not impossible—the Potions master could not prevent the thought from coming to him. The slight possibility existed that a highly skilled witch or wizard could arrange such a powerful Portkey using dark, forgotten magic; but to risk doing so at Hogwarts, under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore and who knew how many security agents from the Ministry of Magic was unthinkable.

And it was just after warning a giggling group of Australian witches for the third time not to wander aimlessly in the direction of the lake, that Severus Snape clenched his jaw, fingers curling into a fist around his wand, his face unreadable as the Dark Mark on his inner left forearm seared with a sharp pain.

In an instant everything changed. The call of the Dark Mark had borne the Dark Lord’s signature, was sent by his own wand; the Potions master was sure of this. They were ignorant fools, all of them—laughing, preparing to celebrate in the Great Hall or in the Hogsmeade taverns without the faintest idea that the peace the wizarding world had experienced for the last thirteen years was now over.

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

And implausibility opened up an entire world of new possibilities which Severus Snape could now see more clearly.

His exterior features remained calm and collected, even as a certain fluttery feeling settled in his stomach. Whether out of fear—or excitation—it was irrelevant and remained imperceptable. It would do him no good now to attract unnecessary attention, and he knew that the ever-suspicious Mad-Eye would be watching him closely in the wake of Potter’s disappearance.

The ex-auror more than disliked anyone who had formerly served the Dark Lord, yet his particular brand of hostility towards the Hogwarts Potions master was more akin to a deep and personal loathing given the man’s close proximity to Albus Dumbledore. Alastor Moody viewed him quite plainly as a traitor twice over, one who could serve neither the headmaster nor the Dark Lord faithfully.

He would need to speak to Dumbledore without any further delay, and then go to answer the call.

In all likelihood Potter was already dead. Or he would be by the time Snape arrived. Diggory momentarily forgotten, the Potions master understood that the Dark Lord would have wanted the Boy Who Lived to witness his resurrection, no matter how long it was in the making. Surely that was the motive behind all of this—the glitch in the maze, the impenetrable fog, even—his eyes darkened ever so slightly as the thought came to him—Potter’s presence in the tournament.

If that was the case, then someone who served the Dark Lord was present at Hogwarts that night. A secret Death Eater was in their midst, and likely had been for some time.

And then he felt hands clutching maddly at the front of his robes, and a frazzled-looking man came into his vision.

‘Unhand me, Karkaroff,’ Snape said, immediately pointing his wand at the foreign wizard’s chest.

Igor Karkaroff reluctantly let go of the Potions master, wringing his hands together around his wand. The head of Durmstrang appeared jittery, not angry as he had been when attempting to meet with Snape in secret at the Yule Ball, his ridiculous hat nearly fallen off his head, probably from the wild way in which he kept turning this way and that, as though expecting Lord Voldemort himself to appear outside the school at any moment.

‘But surely, you felt it!’ he rasped out, wide-eyed, his thick black eyebrows jumping up to meet his hairline.

‘You would do well to choose your words carefully,’ Snape chided in a bored, yet nevertheless threatening monotone. ‘Or shall I remind you of where it is you find yourself at present.’

Snape let his eyes drift past Karkaroff’s shoulder to where Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge were in deep conversation outside of the champion’s tent. Around them, pretending not to eavesdrop, were a handful of noteable Ministry officials, several of them aurors. Despite the Ministry’s lack of competency in many areas, one thing was quite plain: Once it had been discovered that Dark Magic lay behind the disappearance of the two Hogwarts champions, their fingers would immediately point in the direction of the former Death Eaters who were present at the Third Task. Perhaps they would even make work easier for themselves and blame either Snape or Karkaroff for the grim shenannegans which had occurred at the Quidditch World Cup.

‘You are a convincing man, Snape. Very convincing,’ Karkaroff said shortly. ‘Well then, I must see to my champion. Viktor has performed well, and it should be celebrated. Good night.’

‘Karkaroff,’ Snape said dismissively. He did not fail to notice how the man himself slipped through the sparse crowd which was still lingering outside the castle, but not in the direction of Viktor Krum, who was arguing heatedly with Ludo Bagman that the Hogwarts champions had clearly forefitted the tournament.

No, Igor Karkaroff slipped past the crowd and under the cover of the Dark Forest, where the former Death Eater would cross the outer boundary of the castle’s protection and disapparate into the night.

As to whether he would answer Lord Voldemort’s call or flee to some hovel in the Carpathians, Severus Snape was quite sure he knew.