Mizumono

It was fair to say that, from the moment he was plucked from the icy depths of death, the magic that inhabited him had been transformed into an indomitable beast, a ferocious, shapeless whirlwind, like sand blown by wild winds in all directions. It was a brutal, unsettling force that he could only compare to a storm roaring to escape its prison. He understood, in his cautious introspection, that the persistent whispers came from the very essence of this contained power, seducing him to release what he deeply feared. But he didn't dare. Not because he lacked the courage, but because the mere thought of what it could unleash caused him unspeakable dread.

This magical restlessness, however, wasn't just eating away at him in secret. It was contaminating his academic life in an alarming way. His usual efforts to go unnoticed had been reduced to ashes; the spells that had once been meticulous and precise were now slipping out of his control, too intense, crooked, dangerously unpredictable. There was one episode in particular, when an oversight in a spell had almost caused him to explode completely. Only his wand had broken on that occasion — but the fracture was no less symbolic than it was devastating.

Even so, he refused to seek help. He would never bring his weakness to the attention of his teachers, let alone to the astute gaze of Albus Dumbledore. The last thing he wanted was to attract the calculating gaze of that old phoenix, always probing, always one step ahead. He knew enough about Dumbledore not to fully trust that man with the twinkling eyes and unfathomable intentions.

As for Sirius Black... Ah, Black was a separate torment, a storm personified who seemed to live to stir up his shadows. It was fascinating, yet deeply exasperating, the way Black exuded madness - in his feverish eyes, his cruel smile, his hands that always seemed about to engage in violence. And yet there was something darkly satisfying about testing him, about scratching the veneer of his patience. From the days of the Order of the Phoenix meetings to the most trivial moments, Black remained a flame ready to explode - and Severus couldn't resist fanning it. Perhaps it was a reflection of his own darkness, a game of mirrors that he would never openly admit.

James Potter, on the other hand, was a case of bitter resignation. The fervent hatred she had once harbored for the man had dissipated, replaced by an apathetic tolerance. Not because of Potter's childish antics or his unbearable charisma, but because of the simple fact that that idiot would be Lily Evans' husband and Harry Potter's father. Lily... She had never been his, never would be, and accepting that was a wound that would never heal. And yet, for her, he would do anything. Even destroy the disgusting rat that was Peter Pettigrew earlier, if it meant avoiding the inevitable.

He took a deep breath, feeling anxiety squeeze his chest like an invisible, cruel hand. The memories came back like vultures: the black mark burning into his arm, Nagini's teeth digging into his neck, the crushing weight of guilt that followed him like a living shadow. 

He had to change the course of history. He needed to destroy the Horcruxes. He had to stop Voldemort.

The weight of an entire world seemed to have been placed upon his unstable shoulders, crushing him under a suffocating pressure. Somewhere in the distance, he heard his name being called, but the voice sounded muffled, like an echo lost in an unfathomable void. He remained still, enveloped by the darkness that had suddenly invaded the room—a dense and oppressive presence that contrasted disturbingly with the brightness of the third floor under the morning light. The darkness felt alive, a mantle of shadows surrounding him like a predator. His body trembled as he felt touches on both sides of his face, pulling him back, if only partially, to the present.

"Severus... Please..."

The tone was urgent but laden with deep fear. He blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the vision emerging from the fog in his mind. There was a face before him, hazel eyes fixed on his, filled with concern. Jude. It was Jude Scamander.

"Pay attention to your surroundings..."

The words sounded distant, almost as if spoken underwater. But gradually, his awareness returned. Severus finally saw what surrounded him. It wasn’t natural darkness. It was a black mist, thick, pulsating, charged with magical energy—his own magic. He looked at his hands and arms, horrified to see them flickering, almost intangible for a moment, as if they were part of the mist, before solidifying again. His heart raced, pounding violently against his ribcage as terror seeped into every fiber of his being.

Dark magic. His magic. This would summon Him.

No, no, no, no, no.

The thoughts repeated themselves like a disordered mantra, a desperate prayer to ward off the inevitable. But the spiral was broken by a firmer, sharper call:

"Severus!"

He looked up, his brain still feeling overloaded. Scamander stood in front of him, his expression equally tense, but now with a determination that forced Severus to anchor himself in reality. Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear his mind. Following the Lufan's soothing whispers, he allowed himself to sink into the cold stone wall, letting the weight of his body give way as he slid to the floor. His back pressed against the rough texture, and he felt the cold of the surface offer an almost painful contrast to the feverish heat emanating from his uncontrolled magic.

The black mist began to dissipate slowly, as if yielding to fatigue, allowing sunlight to break through.

"Jude..." he murmured, his voice hoarse, barely audible. He saw his friend sit down beside him, his expression carefully restrained.

"We need to tell Dumbledore—"

"No."

The word cut through the air like a blade, swift and sharp. He raised his eyes, now shadowed with exhaustion but still carrying an unyielding determination.

"Severus, this could be dangerous... It is dangerous! If it’s not controlled, it could—"

"No." He repeated, more firmly this time. "I know Dumbledore. It wouldn’t end well."

Jude hesitated, the worry evident in the crease between his brows, but he didn’t press immediately. Instead, he observed Severus for a moment before asking, almost in a whisper:

"Do you know what this is?"

Severus remained silent for a moment, the gears of his mind finally beginning to turn, albeit painfully slowly. He gathered fragments of knowledge accumulated over years of studying both dark magic and preparing for a role as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

"I... I'm not sure," Jude admitted hesitantly. "But... usually, people in this situation don’t live much past childhood."

The words struck like a blow. Severus felt his heart sink. He knew the stories, the whispers about children whose lives were consumed by the magic they couldn’t control. Magic that manifested as a devouring shadow, an entity that destroyed both its host and everything around them.

"Obscurial..." he murmured, the word barely escaping his lips. He curled into himself, arms wrapping around his knees as his mind spiraled in turmoil.

What had he become? And what could he do to survive this?

It made sense. Oh, it made so much sense that the revelation hit him like a silent thunderclap, resonating in his mind with painful clarity. A bitter wave of shame surged as he thought of all the years spent repressing his own magic, trying to cage a force that, he now realized, should never have been stifled. The memory of his awakening resurfaced—the first moment when his senses were scattered fragments, his body intangible, lost between shadow and substance—vivid and unsettling. He hadn’t known how much time had passed before he regained full consciousness, but now, everything seemed to align, making sense in a way that only amplified his dread.

Thoughts swirled like merciless winds in his mind, but were interrupted by the firm touch of hands on his shoulders. He looked up to find Jude, whose expression, though grave, carried a reassuring warmth.

"Hey, hey... We can't be sure of anything yet," said Jude, his voice calm but with a hint of urgency. "I'm here. I'll send a letter to my grandfather. I won't mention his name, I promise. Just... keep your mind on it."

The words, simple as they were, sounded like an anchor dropped in the middle of a raging sea. Severus nodded slowly, his neck muscles rigid, as if even that gesture was a monumental effort. He could do this. He had to do it. There was no room for weakness - he had lived years and years building walls around himself, protecting himself against the world. But deep down, he knew that those barriers were worn down, the foundations weakened. Everything seemed so malleable now, so dangerously unstable, that he feared the inevitable moment when it would all come crashing down at once.

"Right," he muttered, his voice low, almost unrecognizable to himself.

Jude watched him for a moment, as if pondering his next words. "Do you want me to take you down to the dungeons?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.

Severus hesitated, the weight of the proposal hanging in the air. 

"I want to go to the Hufflepuff common room."

"Really?" Jude Scamander replied with a genuine smile, an expression almost childlike in its sweetness. "Of course! All right, no problem, we'll go. You'll love it."

And, to his surprise, he did.

The Hufflepuff common room was a world apart, so far from the austere dungeons and elegant rigor of Slytherin that he could hardly believe he was in the same castle. There was a charming simplicity to the space, but it wasn't understated - it was a simplicity that exuded warmth and comfort, like a hug on a cold night.

The room had a rustic but deeply welcoming feel, with soft lighting that danced between gold and amber, emanating from antique lamps and lampshades adorned with delicate details. The walls and rounded ceiling, made of light stone, were interspersed with arches and carvings so well crafted that they seemed to have been lovingly sculpted. Plants adorned the space, their leaves hanging gracefully from shelves and small supports, bringing life to the room.

The furniture contributed to the feeling of refuge. Sofas and armchairs, all upholstered and seemingly shaped to envelop whoever occupied them, were arranged in a way that promoted conviviality and coziness. However, what most caught Severus' eye was the mess that was there. Books were scattered here and there, along with interrupted games of chess and cups of tea abandoned on silver trays. It was almost poetic, a manifestation of liveliness.

On the second floor of the common room, accessible through balconies seamlessly connected to the main hall, he found a spot by a wide window that allowed soft natural light to stream in. There, seated on a plush sofa, Severus experienced something unexpected: comfort. He had been given a blanket, and a cup of hot chocolate had been gently pressed into his hands. He accepted it all in silence, feeling the warmth of the drink spread through his chest, offering a temporary reprieve from the chaos in his mind.

And then, there was the creature.

A small Niffler, sitting on the sofa beside him—clearly smuggled into the castle by Jude with the calm audacity of someone unfamiliar with fear—was now nestled in his lap. The little creature was chewing on a few golden necklaces, emitting soft grunts of satisfaction as it rolled from side to side, entirely unbothered by its surroundings. It was a funny animal.

Jude was taking his time writing the letter meant for his grandfather. Snape felt a twinge of impatience in his absence, wondering for a brief moment how all this might affect the distant future.

He averted his gaze from the Niffler for a few moments. He had his own matters to attend to; tomorrow, before dawn, he needed to be in Hogsmeade. Black, fulfilling his part of the agreement, had arranged for a carriage to take Snape out of Hogwarts without arousing suspicion. A handful of Galleons had been added at the Slytherin’s request, enough to cover immediate necessities. He brought the cup of hot chocolate to his lips as he gazed at the castle beyond the window.

Not much ever changed here. Hogwarts seemed unaltered, immutable, like a fortress that had withstood the passage of time and the horrors he had witnessed. Except during the war. During the war, the ancient stones had groaned under the weight of pain and sacrifice.

But he was certain Harry had succeeded—there was no doubt about that. The boy had survived, even when all signs pointed to the contrary. Snape knew—with bitter clarity—that Dumbledore, for all his schemes and manipulations, hadn’t merely used him as a sacrificial pawn. There was something resilient about that fool and his friends. Something that, even in the darkest moments, refused to be snuffed out.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hot drink’s steam warm his face.

—

The next morning, Severus dressed as usual - an impeccable black suit whose sobriety was as natural to him as breathing. His long cloak swayed dramatically with each step, an extension of his taciturn presence as he walked down Diagon Alley. It didn't attract attention; in that community, a wizard shrouded in shadows was as common as the very stones that paved the way. When he reached the entrance to Ollivanders, a faint bell sounded as he opened the door, announcing his arrival. The air was impregnated with the characteristic smell of aged wood and dust, evoking long-buried memories of his youth.

He waited patiently for the old wand master to emerge from between the shelves.

"Oh, sir... Snape, correct?" Ollivander finally appeared, his eyes shining with that peculiar curiosity that seemed to probe even the soul of its beholder. "Shouldn't you be at school, young man?"

"Yes, but Dumbledore released me. I had an accident with my wand." Severus answered, his voice firm, almost indifferent. There was a precision in his words that made them seem irrefutable. "I'd like to get a new one."

"Of course, of course. Your dominant hand, please."

Without hesitation, Severus held out his hand. With meticulous movements, the old craftsman began to measure it. For a brief moment, Ollivander observed the long fingers, the tips marked in a dark color, but said nothing, just looked away to his shelves. After a few moments, he returned with a selection of wands similar to the one Severus had lost, carefully placing the boxes on the counter.

The tests began, but none of the results were satisfactory. Each attempt ended in a small disaster: objects flew off the shelves, boxes fell, and even one or two wands ended up useless in the process. Severus, already accustomed to the chaotic nature of his life, sighed slightly, keeping his expression unchanged, while internally counting the galleons he would have to pay.

"Very well, Mr. Snape," Ollivander said, a flicker of determination in his voice. "I have one last option."

The wizard disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving Severus momentarily alone. He took the opportunity to adjust the folds of his cloak and reflect on the expense. When Ollivander returned, he carried an old box, worn by time but emanating a certain gravity.

"This wand," Ollivander began, his tone reverent, "was the last crafted by my father, Gervaise Ollivander. Pine, with a Thestral tail hair core. Twenty-five centimeters, rigid. Only a wizard capable of accepting death can wield it. Try it, Mr. Snape."

Accepting death. The words hung in the air like a verdict. Severus took a deep breath, feeling the weight of them resonate within. Accepting death. In a way, he already had. He was dead, killed by Lord Voldemort.

With trembling hands, he took the wand. The wood felt alive beneath his fingers, almost pulsing, and with a simple gesture, a thread of shimmering white light emerged from the tip. He observed the glow with restrained apprehension, as one might greet an old acquaintance, but without any real surprise.

"Good," he finally said, his tone firm yet understated. "How much do I owe you, Mr. Ollivander?"