Mizumono

A blade of fierce, intangible pain tore through his core, like the touch of a vengeful serpent, when Nagini's fatal kiss marked his existence. His eyes, surprised by a silent storm, did not proclaim complaints or laments; silence was the elegy that echoed in his destiny. Dark magic and implacable poison conspired in perfect harmony, claiming every fiber of her being. His body, overcome by forces beyond mortal comprehension, yielded to gravity's inevitable embrace, resting motionless on the cold floor. There he lay, paralyzed, while agony, patient and relentless, undid the bonds that held him to his flesh and heart. And at the last gasp, when his heart, like an old gear, slowed down in protest, his eyes met a pair that had been pulsing in his heart for a long time: Lily Evans', green as the prairies of memories and as deep as the promises that time had made unattainable.

It was a farewell as sublime as it was cruel.

Death did not come like a scream or thunder, but like an icy blanket, a caress devoid of warmth and yet strangely inevitable. He closed his eyes, refusing to face the stranger who enveloped him, and retreated into the icy void that was offered to him, feeling diminutive, devoid of pain or joy. There, in the abyssal stillness, everything seemed like a threshold - dark, familiar, but impossible to describe. Was this death, then? A smile almost touched his lips; he wanted to laugh, but his limbs, now prisoners of the eternal, didn't obey the impulse.

Time, in that vastness without color or form, faded into insignificance. An instant? A century? There was no way of telling, nor did it matter. The world was dissolving into meaninglessness, and he longed to remain there, in that state where the ephemeral and the infinite coexisted in absolute silence.

But in the midst of that icy stillness, something disturbing rose up - a force, not his own, but one that had long inhabited his shadows. He recognized it immediately, although he refused to name it; it was a spectre of the magic that had marked his earthly days, an echo that he had spent years trying to silence. He would not give in to this dark call, no matter how much he insisted.

Then the pain returned, searing and stabbing, like the thorn of a forgotten martyrdom. It raced down his spine with an almost human fervor, eliciting a broken moan from him. When he opened his eyes, he didn't see the vastness beyond, but a painfully familiar space: damp, weathered walls and a ceiling that, despite its ruin, carried the weight of memories that crushed his spirit.

It was the house of his miserable childhood.

He tried to move, but his muscles, as if imprisoned by invisible chains of a brutal and merciless sorcery, refused to obey. Every fiber of his body seemed petrified, like a statue sculpted by pain and memory. He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to relive that scene of horrors so deeply rooted in his history: the incessant humiliations, the punishments that youth shouldn't know, and the suffering that even the walls of Hogwarts couldn't erase.

The icy corridors of his memory emerged like spectres; his pulse was still throbbing, as if Voldemort's black mark was stalking him in that limbo. The burden imposed by Dumbledore once again weighed on his shoulders, a load disguised as benevolence. But nothing, not even those scars, hurt as much as the name that echoed in his mind. Lily. Always Lily. That name was his salvation and his damnation. He knew, with a cruel certainty, that he couldn't bear to see her slip away again, couldn't bear to cross the same abyss a second time.

He felt the emptiness approaching like a cold mist, and his flesh seemed to dissolve into ethereality. But even so, the dark force within him persisted, an insistent whisper in the darkness, calling him back. With titanic effort, he tried to rise, but his exhausted and heavy body gave way almost immediately, crushed by a weight that was not only physical. He dragged himself towards the door, each movement a slow protest, as if the very ground was conspiring to hold him back. When he finally fell, the sound of his body against the floor reverberated, muffled, in the aged wood.

His head met a protruding nail and, for an instant, the darkness consumed him. But the emptiness didn't take him completely. There was still something. A spark. He knew that, in some cruel way, he was still breathing.

—

When he opened his eyes, the view around him slowly took shape, as if a veil had been unveiled. The rhythmic sound of wheels on rails filled the silence, and with it came the realization: he was on the move. The Slytherin uniform fitted perfectly to the young body he was wearing. The cloak hung over his shoulders with a disconcerting familiarity. The carriage was empty, but the silence brought no peace, only an echo of the emptiness in his own soul. He turned to the window, and the reflection he saw made him hesitate.

The nose that had so often been the target of Tobias' punches was not there. There were no marks of aggression, nor the deviation that so many insults had pointed out. Instead, the face that faced him was harmonious, that of a young man with long, defined features, as if time had erased the scars. He blinked, surprised. How was that possible? How was he back there, in the body of a teenager, perhaps in his fourth year?

He took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. The tips of his fingers were tinged with black, a striking contrast against his pale skin. Her heart hesitated, fearing it was a sign of dark magic. But then something deep inside him recognized the mark: it was the manifestation of an intimate magic, the remnant of having touched his essence so intensely that it had marked him. He sighed, wishing it wouldn't attract attention.

The past. He had returned to the past.

But he knew, with painful clarity, that he was no longer the same Severus Snape. He wasn't the boy subjugated by the weight of humiliation, the judgmental stares, or the suffocating atmosphere of that miserable house. Now, he carried within him the soul of a grown man, marked by dark choices, betrayals and irreparable losses. He was no longer that boy — he was anything but.

The carriage door slid open with a low creak, and he looked up. The first thing he saw was the glow of coal-red hair, followed by the green eyes that had become his obsession. Lily Evans.

She looked young, immature, like a flower that had not yet fully blossomed. Her presence radiated a vivacity so cruelly different from the memory he had of her. Her lips opened in a smile, but her eyes hesitated on him, capturing something - a tension, a weight - that they couldn't name.

Severus's heart squeezed. He was back, but he was also lost.

"Sev!" she called, in a voice that oozed warmth and familiarity, like the song of a bird on a spring morning. "I've been looking for you everywhere! I had to get away from that cabin; Potter wouldn't stop talking, and Black... God, he's unbearable!"

The mention of James was like a sudden blow, bringing Severus back to the present with the force of a bell ringing in an empty cathedral. The name echoed in his mind, an old wound that had never fully healed. He felt an almost imperceptible tremor, as if reality were squeezing him in an uncomfortable embrace.

"Hello, Lily..." he murmured, his voice hoarse, laden with a longing so dense and deep that she could never understand it.

"Are you all right, Sev? You're as pale as a vampire!"

Her exclamation, with a touch of sincere concern, drew a low, almost inaudible but genuine laugh from Severus, something that hadn't found a home on his lips for a long time. Lily was startled, her green eyes widening in surprise, as if she had witnessed a miracle. It had been so long since she had heard that sound. Infected, she laughed too, without even understanding why.

"I'm fine," he said, his tone controlled, almost indifferent, but with a hint of tenderness hidden in his words. His eyes lingered on her, capturing every detail of her face, as if he wanted to imprint that image in his memory. Then a sigh escaped his lips, light but full of meaning.

"That's great! I want you to keep that mood, Sev! Promise me you'll be like this when we go to Hogsmeade! I can't wait!”

Lily's joy was contagious, and each word seemed to dance in the air with the lightness of leaves in the wind. She began to chatter, her excitement running over her sentences like a stream overflowing its banks. Severus listened to her in silence, and an almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Here and there, he dropped a dry comment, enough to bring a slight blush to her cheeks, as if his words were embers that warmed her enthusiasm.

The scene was a glimpse into a past that he believed was lost forever. It was nostalgic, it was familiar... it was good.

But then came the guilt, merciless and heavy, like a chain tightening around his chest. Inside him, something stirred, a dark, uncontrollable force, pulsing like a chained beast struggling to break free. He suppressed this sensation with effort, realizing too late that even his breathing had been suspended. By the time he regained control, the world around him had changed. They were in the carriages.

Severus' eyes fell on the Testalians, majestic, skeletal creatures that he had only learned to see long after his youth, when death was already a constant companion. He watched them in silence, almost reverently, while the students' voices echoed around him, muffled and distant, like a whisper in a dream. Lily had already joined a group of Gryffindor girls, occupying a carriage bursting with laughter and youthful voices. She had left him alone, like so many times before.

But before she left, Lily looked back. Her eyes, as vibrant green as early spring, met Severus', and the smile on her lips faltered. She saw him standing there, lost in thought, with an expression she couldn't decipher. He seemed to touch the void - or something she couldn't see.

Severus's cloak moved slightly, as if touched by invisible hands. A brief, almost enigmatic smile crossed his face, as if he were sharing a secret with something or someone that only he could sense. Lily wanted to ask, wanted to unravel that mystery. But the moment slipped through the fingers of time, leaving only silence and the tremor of an unspoken doubt.

Severus was absorbed in the Thestrals, his black eyes following the contours of the creatures as if each bony curve told a story he didn't yet know. The words of Hagrid, the half-giant with the wild beard and the even vaster heart, echoed in his mind. The teacher of the Treatment of Magical Creatures used to describe the Thestrals as beings of great docility, despite their dark appearance. Severus, in the past, had dismissed such remarks as foolish sentimentality, but now, standing before those horses of death, he understood the truth in the man's words. They were not monsters, but bearers of a quiet, almost comforting melancholy. The irony of that revelation did not go unnoticed.

"Can you see them too?"

The voice, low and uncertain, cut through his thoughts like an unexpected breeze on a muggy day. He turned slowly, meeting the hesitant gaze of a young Hufflepuff. The boy was a few centimeters shorter, with light brown hair that fell in disarray and hazel eyes that reflected a nervous curiosity. A shy smile danced on his lips, as if the very idea of speaking was a calculated risk.

"Yes," Severus answered succinctly, his fingers still tracing the cold bones of the Testalian, who didn't seem to mind the touch.

The Hufflepuff relaxed, as if the answer had lifted an invisible weight from his shoulders. From a pocket, he pulled out small treats and offered them to one of the horses, which accepted with a satisfied snort.

"They're docile," commented the boy, almost in a whisper, as if he were sharing a secret with the creatures. "But anything to do with death tends to scare people."

Severus merely nodded, muttering after a moment: "Severus Snape, Slytherin."

"Jude Scamander, Hufflepuff."

The handshake was brief, but enough to seal a peculiar introduction.

"Scamander, huh? Ironic that you like... fantastic beasts."

Severus's attempt at dry humor left the other surprised, but not offended. A soft, genuine laugh escaped Jude's lips, lighting up the space between them with a lightness Severus hadn't expected. For a brief, ephemeral moment, he felt light, as if the weight of his thoughts had been blown away.

In that fleeting instant, Severus realized something: even in a place as full of painful memories as Hogwarts, there were people he had never noticed, fragments of humanity that went unnoticed until the right moment brought them to the surface.

—

Something had changed in Severus Snape, and the alterations in his behavior soon became the subject of whispers in the stone corridors of the school. Classmates and opponents alike noticed the transformation with equal perplexity. The most intriguing change was his unexpected closeness to a Lufan, an alliance so unlikely that it seemed to defy the rigid divisions between the Houses.

His posture had also changed: firmer, more haughty, shrouded in an aura of darkness that made him almost intimidating. His eyes, once closed windows, now glowed with a cutting intensity, and his sharp tongue had become an instrument of biting and shrewd responses, sharp as hidden blades in a verbal duel.

The Marauders, always eager to provoke him, soon noticed the difference. James Potter and Sirius Black, masters of cruel jokes, sensed something they couldn't ignore: an impenetrable coldness, a calculated disdain that seemed to deflate their attempts at intimidation. Still, they didn't let up, pursuing him with the zeal of hunters who can't bear to be challenged.

This time, however, Severus struck back. When Sirius ended up in the hospital wing after being hit by a Stupefy launched with almost clinical precision, the precarious balance between the two groups collapsed. The tension grew, heavy as storm clouds, while a renewed Severus positioned himself as never before, less as the target and more as the challenger.

One day, determined to avoid routine conflicts, Severus Snape stayed away, immersed in his usual introspection. However, fate, or perhaps Horace Slughorn's predilection for social experiments, placed him next to Sirius Black in Potions class. The decision, which could have been seen as the teacher's mere whim, seemed to Severus like a cruel cosmic joke. He inhaled deeply, suppressing his irritation, and fixed his attention on the ingredients in front of him, building a wall of silence and concentration around himself.

"So, Snivellus," began Sirius, his voice laden with a sarcasm that seemed to savor every syllable, "if you keep sticking so closely to that boy from the Hufflepuff, they'll start to think you're dating."

Severus, without lifting his eyes from his potion, replied with lethal coldness, each word dripping with the venom of a snake:

"And what makes you think that's any of your business, Black? Perhaps your family's madness has finally reached your brain?"

The reaction was immediate. Sirius's gray eyes narrowed, the glint of a contained fury emerging like a storm about to break out. He took a deep breath, as if struggling to maintain control, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the sharp blow Snape's comment had delivered.

"Shut up. You don't know anything, Snivellus," he muttered, his voice low but hesitant, like an echo of the vulnerability he was trying to hide.

"Oh, really? If that's what you believe, why do you seem so... altered?

“I'm not altered!" Sirius exploded, fury escaping in a restrained scream that caught the attention of some nearby students. "Fuck, you're insufferable."

"What a coincidence, Black. You're just as insufferable."

Severus gave him a look full of contempt, his dark eyes gleaming with a calm malice before returning to the task at hand. Sirius, still seething with anger, looked away, but couldn't help observing the sombrero's precise movements. There was an almost mesmerizing grace in the way he chopped and mixed the ingredients, his pale hands moving with the fluidity of an artist.

"What are you doing?" Snape asked suddenly, his voice interrupting the silence with a cutting tone that mixed curiosity and reproach.

"Cutting mandrake roots. Have you gone blind now?" 

"Cut them thinner," Snape ordered, impassive.

"The book says to cut them into thick cubes-"

Before he could finish, he felt a dry impact on the side of his head. The potions book hit him with surgical precision. Sirius widened his eyes in disbelief. Snape had hit him?—

"Thinner cut," Snape repeated, his voice unchanged, as if he were teaching the most basic of truths. "It makes dissolution easier. The book is didactic. Practice requires efficiency. Divide the cubes in half twice, then cut vertically. That way you'll get thinner slices."

Sirius blinked, surprised, before muttering a suspicious

“Huh? Right."

Severus impatiently took the knife from his hands, his nimble, experienced fingers demonstrating the process with a dexterity that bordered on the artistic. The movements were so fluid that, for a moment, Sirius almost forgot his irritation. He observed his colleague's long, slender fingers, the tips dyed black as if they carried a remnant of ancient magic. Something about that small and apparently insignificant detail caught his attention in a disturbing way.

For an absurd and involuntary moment, Sirius wondered what it would be like to hold those hands. If they were as soft as they looked, or if they hid roughness beneath their immaculate surface. He pushed the thought away as quickly as it had arisen, blaming the heavy atmosphere of the steaming cauldron for his mind wandering.

"Do you understand?" asked Snape, with the patience of someone who was already stretched to the limit.

"Yes... Thank you, Snivellus," replied Sirius, in an almost distracted tone, still caught up in thoughts he preferred not to acknowledge.

"Urgh." Severus rolled his eyes, the disgust explicit on his face, and went back to concentrating on the potion as if the conversation had never taken place.

The silence between them was almost tangible, charged with tension and unspoken uncertainty. Sirius watched from the corner of his eye as the liquid in the cauldron brightened and bubbled more efficiently under Snape's manipulation. He felt torn between irritation and an inexplicable reluctant respect.

Slughorn, always attentive to his precious potions, approached with light steps, his eyes shining with anticipation. He stopped beside them, watching their progress with a satisfied smile.

"Well done, Mr. Snape! And Mr. Black, you're doing surprisingly well. It looks like putting you two together was a better idea than I expected, doesn't it?"

Severus' reply was immediate, sharp as a dagger's edge:

"It was terrible."

The comment, said in that low, sharp voice, drew laughter from the nearby Slytherins. Even Slughorn let out a nervous laugh, clearly uncomfortable but trying to keep his composure.

"Ah, well... Always witty, Mr. Snape. Keep it up!" said the professor before hurrying away, probably in search of a less hostile environment.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at his tablemate, his expression a mixture of irritation and something he didn't want to name.

"You're a real snake now, you know that?" he commented, sarcasm dripping from his voice, but with a hint of respect that he couldn't completely hide.

"I appreciate the compliment," Snape replied, without taking his eyes off the potion. After a moment, he added, in an even more lethal tone: "You, on the other hand, look like a dog without a master. Have you ever been told that before?"

The answer was so precise and loaded with intent that Sirius felt the blow before he could even defend himself. The insult, delivered with the calm of someone who knew exactly where to hit, struck deep. But there was something in Snape's eyes that was even more disconcerting - that cold, penetrating gaze that seemed to see more than it should.

For a moment, Sirius remained motionless, trapped in that gaze. It was as if Severus could pierce through all the layers of sarcasm and bravado, seeing what he kept buried: the animagus he hid, the secrets he feared, the insecurities he would never admit to. The weight of that gaze left him tense, his breathing suspended, until the sound of the bell echoed through the room.

The end of class was a release. Sirius bottled the potion quickly, his movements almost too hasty, while he put the materials away with hands that trembled slightly. Without saying another word, he got up and left the room with quick steps, as if running away from something invisible.

In the corridor, when he finally stopped to take a breath, he muttered to himself, his voice low and full of confusion:

"Fuck.”