Chapter 3
When Severus left the Headmaster’s office, he felt a little… well, manipulated, if he were being honest. That should probably bother him more, but truthfully, the meeting had gone far better than he could have imagined and mostly in his favour. For now, he decided to let that particular offence slide.
Popping another lemon drop into his mouth—a small reward for himself for not completely blowing up in the office despite being forced to endure the company of all the Marauders—he descended the spiral staircase. As he stepped into the hallway, he noticed Avery waiting for him. Huh. So Albus had sent a prefect to escort him.
“Took you long enough, Snape. What’s with that thing around your neck?” sneered Avery, his voice cutting through the quiet corridor as Severus approached.
Severus gave the gargoyle one final glare before replying, his voice still hoarse from the injury and muffled slightly by the two lemon drops—well, one and a half—rolling around in his mouth. “Got mauled by a wild animal. Surprised you bothered showing up for me.”
Avery’s gaze dropped briefly to the bandage around Severus’s neck, then back up to his dark eyes. “Yeah, sure. And I bloody had to. Sluggy was basically watching me go down the hall,” he grumbled, glancing over his shoulder as if Slughorn were actually trailing him. “It’s a request from Dumbledore, and our oh-so-gracious Head of House wants us to look agreeable and all that rubbish.” He shook his head and started down the corridor without bothering to check if Severus was following.
Severus snorted under his breath. “Guess that hasn’t changed much,” he muttered to himself, falling into step behind Avery.
“Did you have to pick last night to get mauled?” Avery asked, his tone halfway between irritated and bored. “Mulciber’s been fuming because you promised to show him some curses you’ve been working on. I don’t get why he’s so pissed, though. Honestly, I always figured your kind wasn’t serious about being one of us anyway.”
Oh.
Shit.
Severus had almost forgotten what a little bastard he’d been in his fifth year. His desperate need to prove himself—not just as a half-blood but as someone worthy of recognition—had driven him to ridiculous lengths. Showing off half-baked curses to impress his housemates had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Was it his fault they’d started thinking he had potential as a dark wizard? Well… yes. Yes, it absolutely was. Especially after he’d demonstrated the toenail curse he’d developed back in third year. Watching someone’s toenails grow uncontrollably might have been ridiculous, but it had also been undeniably impressive. Too bad the line between cleverness and recklessness had always been thin for his younger self.
Severus sighed, shaking his head at the memory. Fifteen-year-old him was an idiot. And unfortunately, he was stuck living with the consequences of that idiocy for now.
Severus followed Avery down the corridor, chewing on a lemon drop like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. Avery’s voice droned on ahead of him, a mix of complaints and insults that barely registered anymore. Once, Severus might have cared enough to bite back, to defend himself, or to throw out a snide remark that would leave Avery sputtering. But now? Now, the only thing on his mind was how much he regretted not grabbing more lemon drops from Dumbledore’s desk.
“So,” Avery said, throwing a glance over his shoulder, “what’s the deal, Snape? Did you finally realize you’re too much of a freak to fit in with us, or are you just trying to piss off Mulciber for sport?”
Severus rolled his eyes so hard he half-expected them to get stuck. “Yes, Avery. That’s exactly it. I’ve dedicated my entire life to irritating Mulciber. It’s my sole purpose for existing.”
Avery smirked, clearly too dense to pick up on the sarcasm. “Figured as much. You’re not exactly subtle.”
Severus stopped walking, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. He was too tired to deal with this. Too tired, too injured, and honestly too old—mentally, at least—for this nonsense.
“Look, Avery,” Severus began, his tone laced with mock seriousness, “I know this might be hard for you to believe, but not everything revolves around Mulciber and his delicate little feelings. Some of us have actual lives outside of being his personal entertainment.”
Avery blinked at him like a confused goldfish. “You mean… you don’t care what he thinks?”
“No, Avery,” Severus said dryly. “In fact, I lie awake every night, weeping into my pillow over the thought of disappointing him. Truly, it’s a tragedy.”
Avery frowned, clearly unsure if he was being mocked. “You’re a real piece of work, Snape.”
“Thank you,” Severus said with a mock bow.
They continued in silence for a moment, Avery apparently having run out of insults—which was a minor miracle in itself. As they neared the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Avery suddenly stopped and turned to face him, his expression smug.
“You know, Mulciber thinks you’re all talk,” Avery said. “Says you’re just a half-blood poser trying to act like you’re one of us. Can’t say I disagree.”
Severus stared at him for a long moment, his expression blank. Then, very slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out another lemon drop, and popped it into his mouth.
“You’re right, Avery,” Severus said after a moment, his voice deadpan. “I’ve been exposed. My entire identity is a sham. How will I ever recover?”
Avery scowled. “You’re such a freak, Snape.”
“And yet, here you are, walking me to my dorm like a good little lapdog,” Severus shot back, voice still deadpanned and uninterested in talking more.
Avery opened his mouth to retort but apparently thought better of it, shaking his head instead. “Whatever. Don’t expect me to babysit you again.”
“Don’t worry,” Severus said as he pushed past him into the common room. “The experience was equally unpleasant for me.”
As Severus stepped into the familiar, dimly lit space, the chill of the dungeons wrapped around him like an old, unwelcome blanket. He immediately felt the itch to yell at the rowdy students in the common room to settle down and behave like civilized individuals. Several were screaming over a particularly heated game of Gobstones, and one third-year boy screeched something about unfair rules in a tone that struck Severus as alarmingly similar to Draco's future tantrums. For a moment, his head of house instincts almost kicked in, but he held himself back.
Right. He wasn’t their professor anymore. He was one of them now—again. Merlin help him.
Before he could lose his composure entirely, Severus abandoned Avery mid-conversation—if you could call Avery’s incessant talking “conversation”—and made a direct line for the sanctuary of his dorm.
The fifth-year boys’ dormitory hadn’t changed much. It was still a cluttered mess of ostentatious wealth. Ornate trunks, personalized monogrammed linens, and various magical gadgets decorated the room like some sort of Slytherin aristocrat’s yard sale. Compared to the others, Severus’s bed and surrounding area were barren, a visual representation of his standing within their little hierarchy. His trunk sat at the foot of his bed, a shabby, battered relic with the initials E.P. carved into the side—a leftover from his mother’s school days.
Severus made his way to the trunk and knelt beside it, flipping the lid open. Inside was the familiar collection of worn robes, threadbare sweaters, and other meager possessions he had once been content with. He started packing, pulling out a tattered gray sweater that looked like it had been chewed on by some ancient creature and left to decay.
He had just folded the sweater when the dormitory door swung open, and in walked Mulciber and Rosier. Severus suppressed the groan rising in his throat. So much for a moment of peace.
Rosier looked completely uninterested in whatever Mulciber was about to say and immediately made his way to his bed—unfortunately, the one beside Severus’s—where he flopped down with the air of someone who planned to contribute absolutely nothing to the conversation. Mulciber, however, leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his expression that of someone ready to deliver a grand speech.
“Snape,” Mulciber said, staring at him like Severus had personally set his cauldron on fire. “You’ve got some nerve.”
Severus didn’t bother looking up, busy folding another sweater. “Yes, Mulciber, nerve is one of my many talents. Along with potion-making and tolerating your existence.”
Rosier snorted from his bed, burying his face in a pillow to hide his amusement. Mulciber, however, ignored him and took a step closer.
“I’m serious,” Mulciber pressed, his voice tinged with irritation. “You’ve been gone all day. And don’t think we didn’t notice you didn’t even come back to the dorm last night. Which, by the way, meant you skipped out on our curses session. Again.”
Severus finally glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing with all the patience of someone forced to explain the obvious. “In case you missed the glaringly obvious white bandage around my neck, I couldn’t exactly make it. Something about possibly dying in the infirmary tends to derail one’s schedule. I am totally fine, though—thank you so much for asking.”
Mulciber frowned, clearly unimpressed. “What, you got into another fight? You’re always getting into something.”
“Mulciber,” Severus said, his voice dripping with exasperation, “You really don't pick up on social cues all that well, do you? I’m clearly very busy and very uninterested in keeping this ridiculous conversation going. Now, if you don’t mind, I have packing to do.”
Rosier let out another muffled laugh, earning a glare from Mulciber. “Whatever,” Mulciber muttered, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to win this one. “Just don’t forget whose side you’re on, Snape.”
Severus returned his gaze to his trunk, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Oh, don’t worry, Mulciber. I could never forget.”
Satisfied that Mulciber wasn’t going to push the matter any further, Severus returned to his packing, silently wondering how he had ever tolerated these people in the first place. One week. Just one week away from this madness, and maybe—just maybe—he’d regain a sliver of his sanity.
Apparently, Mulciber wasn’t finished with his grand performance. “Me and Malfoy have big plans for you, Snape,” he said, puffing up his chest like some self-important peacock. “We believe you can overcome your unfortunate blood status and actually become something in the wizarding world—unlike your mother, who threw her life and status away for some useless Muggle. I mean, being the heiress to such a powerful family wasn’t enough for her? How can someone be that dumb?” He finished with a chuckle, as if he’d just delivered the punchline of the century.
Severus froze, his mind grinding to a halt. Normally, his ill-tempered nature would manifest in carefully chosen words—daggers disguised as sentences that would cut so deeply the victim might never recover. And, on occasion, particularly with the marauders, he’d escalate to his wand, casting whatever stinging, non-dark curse came to mind.
But right now? Right now, he couldn’t even be bothered.
No one—no one—spoke about his mother like that. His father? Fair game. The man was a drunk and an abusive waste of space. But his mother? She was the only person who had ever made him feel safe, who had taught him magic, who had given him everything.
That was it.
Severus closed his trunk with a decisive snap, lifted it off the floor, and mustered every ounce of physical strength his malnourished, gangly, 15-year-old body could manage. Then, with a ferocity born of pure, unfiltered rage, he swung the trunk and hit Mulciber with it. Hard.
The impact sent Mulciber sprawling to the floor in a heap, the air leaving his lungs in an audible oof. For a brief moment, the room was silent, save for the creak of Rosier’s bed as he sat up to get a better view of the chaos.
Standing over Mulciber's rumpled body, Severus felt his chest heave and his veins pulse with adrenaline. There was no guilt, no grief, no profound sadness—emotions he typically associated with life-or-death situations—in that moment.
No. Severus felt nothing but pure, unbridled happiness at the moment.
Mulciber groaned, rolling onto his side. “What the hell, Snape?” he croaked, clutching his ribs.
“What’s the matter?” Severus said, his tone dangerously calm. “I thought you said I could overcome my blood status. Consider this step one.”
From his bed, Rosier started laughing, the sound muffled but unmistakable. “Merlin’s beard, Snape. I didn’t think you had it in you!”
Severus ignored him, brushing off his robes and adjusting the strap of his bag. “For the record,” he said, turning to leave the dorm, “if you ever speak about my mother again, I’ll make sure next time it’s not the trunk I hit you with—it’ll be the bedside table.”
With that, he walked out of the dorm -definitely not escaping by walking as fast as he could, leaving Rosier laughing, Mulciber groaning, and his own pulse thrumming with exhilaration.
The laughing began to rise as Severus emerged from the Slytherin common room, pulling his battered trunk with him. Initially, it was merely a chuckle—a tiny, disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. But the more he contemplated it, the more difficult it was to resist. Before he knew it, he was laughing so hard that he had to lean against the wall to catch his breath halfway up the stairs.
Severus Snape, a grown man who had previously been a feared war hero, a skilled potioneer, and a double agent, had been brought back to life and sent hurtling through time, most likely for some great cosmic purpose. It had all come to him at once. A second chance to live without drowning in guilt or chasing redemption like a dog chasing its tail. And one of his first acts of note? Smacking Mulciber square in the ribs with his trunk. Muggle style.
The absurdity of it only made him laugh harder, his sides aching as he doubled over. All those years spent honing his magic, all those intricate plans and elaborate schemes, and here he was, taking down his problems with pure, brute force. “Oh, Merlin,” he gasped between fits of laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. “I didn’t even use a wand.”
“Holy shit, I think Snivvy has completely lost it,” came a voice from up ahead. Severus looked up, still catching his breath, and found himself face-to-face with the Marauders as they exited the headmaster’s office.
Huh. He hadn’t even realized he’d made it up the stairs so quickly. Judging by their expressions, they’d clearly caught sight of him mid-breakdown: leaning against the wall, dragging a shabby trunk, laughing so hard he had tears streaming down his face. Did he look like a madman? Absolutely. Did he care? Not in the slightest.
Pettigrew had been the one to speak, his beady eyes darting nervously between Severus and his fellow marauders. The other three, however, stood rooted to the spot, their expressions a mix of shock and incredulity, as if they were witnessing something utterly unexpected.
"What did I say about uttering a syllable in my presence, rat?" Severus said, wiping the lingering tears from his eyes, a chuckle slipping through his words. "I've got a trunk, and I'm not afraid to use it—apparently," he added, before another wave of laughter overtook him, his body shaking as he leaned against the wall for support.
The marauders exchanged uneasy glances. Even Black, who usually had a snarky remark locked and loaded, was uncharacteristically quiet. Potter, ever the self-proclaimed leader, finally stepped forward, his brows furrowed in a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
“What the hell happened to you, Snivellus?” Potter asked, eyeing Severus like he was a particularly confusing puzzle.
Severus took a deep breath, finally reigning in his laughter enough to stand upright, though the grin on his face didn’t waver. “Oh, nothing much, Potter. Just a little self-reflection and a reminder that some people deserve a good, old-fashioned muggle-style reality check. You should try it sometime.”
“That’s... disturbingly vague,” said Lupin, his brow furrowing as he studied Severus. “Are you... alright?”
“Alright?” Severus echoed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, Lupin, I’m positively radiant. Never better. I mean, it’s not every day you solve two problems with one trunk, now is it?” He gestured toward the trunk he’d been dragging behind him, which, upon closer inspection, had a suspicious dent on one side.
Black finally found his voice, stepping forward with his arms crossed and an incredulous look on his face. “Wait—are you telling me you... hit someone with your trunk?”
“Oh, do take the higher moral ground here, mutt,” Severus drawled, still slightly breathless from the aftershocks of his laughter. He leaned casually against the wall, his smirk firmly in place. “I mean, it’s not like you didn’t just try to kill me last night or anything.”
“Oh, you absolute insufferable bast—” Black started, his voice rising, but Severus was officially done with this conversation. Without even sparing him a glance, Severus stepped forward, heading for the door.
He stopped short, though, when that grating, smug voice of the gargoyle interrupted him yet again.
“Password?” it croaked, sounding far too self-satisfied for a chunk of enchanted stone.
“Oh, fuck me, not this again,” Severus muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I was just here!”
He glared at the gargoyle as if it were personally conspiring against him. Honestly, after decades of striding in and out of the office freely as a professor, not to mention that short-lived, utterly exhausting stint as headmaster, dealing with this nonsense felt like a personal insult.
“Pumpkin Pasties,” Lupin offered helpfully from behind him.
Severus turned to give him a look that could curdle milk. “I know the bloody password,” he snapped. “I was just lamenting the indignity of having to actually say it.”
Lupin shrugged, a faint smile twitching at his lips. “Thought you might appreciate the help. Seemed like you were struggling.”
“Struggling?” Severus scoffed, turning back to the gargoyle. “The only thing I’m struggling with is resisting the urge to reduce this abomination to rubble.”
“Password,” the gargoyle repeated, unfazed.
Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Pumpkin Pasties,” he grumbled.
With an almost gleeful creak, the gargoyle sprang aside, revealing the spiral staircase. Severus gave it a final withering glare before stepping forward.