The Task of Severus Snape

Darkness enveloped Severus Snape, heavy and absolute, like a thick cloak suffocating his senses. The last moments of his life replayed in his mind—a tragic tapestry woven from pain and regret, each thread a memory he wished he could unravel. He recalled the searing agony in his throat, the sharp bite of Nagini, her venom coursing through him, and the dull, creeping numbness overtaking his limbs. In his years as a Potions Master, he had always kept antidotes close at hand—especially for snake venom. Yet, in that fateful moment, with the weight of his past pressing down on him and his body succumbing to the numbing effects of the venom, the thought of administering the antidote evaporated like mist in the morning sun. All that remained was a singular focus—to deliver the memories to Harry before it was too late. The weight of those green eyes—so full of defiance—haunted him. As the shadowy world of the Shrieking Shack faded, he was pulled into a yawning chasm of nothing. Peace at last, he thought—a final escape from the burdens he had carried for so long, from the tangled web of loyalty and betrayal, from the echoes of lost love and unfulfilled dreams.

But then, Snape’s eyes snapped open, blinking against the unexpected brightness. It was not the blinding glare of the Killing Curse nor the dim glow of flickering candlelight. Instead, he found himself enveloped in a cool, hazy white, stretching infinitely in all directions—a luminous void that embraced him in its serene warmth. Disoriented, he stood in a pristine, deserted train station, a gentle heat washing over him, starkly contrasting the cold grip of death that had claimed him moments before. The air was still, punctuated only by the distant echo of a clock—a rhythmic reminder of time’s relentless march. Polished tiles gleamed beneath his feet, their surfaces unblemished—a stark reminder of the shadows of his past. Dust and age hung in the atmosphere, a sharp contrast to the vividness of his last memories.

“King’s Cross?” he murmured, brow furrowing in confusion. Why was he here? His heart raced with uncertainty. This white train station was not what he expected death to be—if indeed he was dead.

“Well, well, Severus Snape.” The voice that cut through the silence was chilling and ancient, resonating with an otherworldly power. It held none of Dumbledore’s soft wisdom or Voldemort’s cruel authority, yet radiated an intensity that made Snape tense with apprehension. He turned sharply, narrowing his black eyes at the figure cloaked in shadows. Though indistinct, the figure’s presence was overwhelming, demanding respect and attention.

“Who… are you?” Snape demanded, his voice taut with defiance, barely concealing the tremor of fear. His hand instinctively reached for his wand—only to grasp empty air as he faced the apparition.

The figure chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. “I am Death.” The simple truth filled the air with a solemn weight. The revelation hung like a shroud, enveloping Snape in disbelief and resignation. Here he was, at the mercy of the very forces he had spent his life resisting.

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line, a bitter understanding dawning within him. He had long accepted that his actions would one day lead him to an early death. Yet he had never expected it to feel... so disappointing. Death was supposed to be an end—a release from the tangled loyalties and endless cycles of bitterness and regret that had consumed his life. Yet here he was—not freed into oblivion but facing a reckoning for his failures, drawn into the presence of this powerful being.

“Why am I here?” he asked, unable to suppress the edge of anger creeping into his voice, betraying the tumultuous emotions roiling within him.

“Because I am not pleased with you, Severus,” Death said, its voice echoing with disapproval that reverberated through the station, pressing down on his chest. “Not with your life, nor with how you have treated my master.”

Snape's brow furrowed, a mix of confusion and indignation flickering across his face. “Your master?”

“Yes. Harry James Potter. The master of the Deathly Hallows. A boy you despised because you saw only his father’s shadow and nothing of his true self.”

Snape let out a derisive scoff, shaking his head slightly, as if to dismiss the very idea. "How delightful that even in death, I cannot escape Potter," he muttered.

The figure seemed to consider him, a faint glimmer of amusement flickering in the depths of its form. “Of course Potter would be your so-called master,” he sneered. “How can that boy be a master of anything? If he were worthy of such a title, I would have known. But the spoiled brat has everything else, doesn’t he? Fame, fortune, adoration—why not add dominion over death itself to his list of unearned titles?” His disdain poured forth, a shield against the creeping dread that twisted in his gut.

Death’s eyes narrowed, and a wave of something fierce and unyielding pulsed from the shadowy figure, silencing Snape’s resentment in an instant. “Would you?” Death’s voice cut through him. “Your petty grievances and narrow view blinded you to what lay before you. You had the chance to protect him, yet you seized every opportunity to berate and belittle him, begrudging him his very existence. Perhaps that is why you failed to see him for who he truly is.”

A flare of indignation rose within him. Snape’s shoulders stiffened at the accusation, his mind immediately conjuring an image of Potter—a copy of his insufferable father, just as arrogant and reckless. Always flouting rules, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, and strutting about as if the world revolved around him. Even his clothes—ill-fitting and disheveled—were proof of his lack of discipline and care. Typical, he thought. “The boy,” he replied with an air of disdain, “is a walking disaster, a mirror of his father’s worst traits.”

Death’s gaze pierced him, making Snape feel stripped of all his defenses, naked before the judgment of a higher power. “But he did not have his father’s upbringing, nor his father’s love. The life you resented was never his to begin with.”

A flicker of doubt nagged at him, but he pushed it down, as if shoving aside an unwelcome guest. He had long since convinced himself that his hatred for the child was justified.

“Tell me, Severus,” Death continued, a hint of scorn in its tone, “did you ever once stop to wonder how a child raised by Petunia Dursley would turn out?”

Snape’s expression faltered. Petunia? He had known, of course, that Lily’s sister had taken the boy, but he hadn’t really imagined—well, he hadn’t given it much thought, dismissing it as irrelevant to his own anguish.

Death’s words cut through Snape’s defenses like a blade. The insufferable image of Harry Potter, now marred by memories of Petunia and her horrid brood, made Snape’s mind balk at the thought. Petunia, of all people, had raised him? The idea felt absurd, yet... a flicker of doubt crept in, unsettling him. “What did I truly know about him?” he thought, irritation prickling at the edges of his carefully controlled indifference. Snape brushed the thought aside, unwilling to entertain any notion of pity for a boy he had spent years resenting. No. It would be just like Potter to exaggerate his woes, he reasoned, though even to himself, the justification felt thin. Still, the notion lingered, unwelcome, like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

“They despised him,” Death said with a quiet fury that resonated in the very air around them. “He was never told of magic. Never knew his parents were heroes in the eyes of the wizarding world, that he was a hero. He believed himself worthless, unwanted—a freak. By the time he entered Hogwarts, he saw himself as less than nothing. His kindness, his courage—these were traits born not of privilege, but of survival.”

The weight of Death’s words pressed down on Snape, crushing the carefully built walls of his hatred. “Why tell me this now?” he whispered, struggling to maintain his composure, to keep the flood of emotions at bay. “What do you want?”

“I want you to understand the harm you inflicted. Your bitterness blinded you to the reality of the child you scorned. You transformed from the abused into the abuser, Severus.”

Snape’s face twisted, a flash of anger and denial sparking in his dark eyes. “I am not an abuser,” he retorted sharply, his voice filled with fierce defensiveness. “My role was not to coddle the boy but to keep him alive. I did what was necessary to shield him from the Dark Lord’s interest, what was required to keep him—”

“Safe?” Death cut in, its voice a cold blade slicing through his defiance. “Or to punish him for the sins of his father? Your hatred did not protect him, Severus. It harmed him. You ignored his suffering. You saw only what you wanted to see, never reaching for the truths that lay beneath the surface.”

A tumult of conflicting emotions swirled within Snape, echoing in the depths of his memories. Had he truly failed Harry? Each interaction, each sneer—had it all been for naught? He took a breath. It was a desperate attempt to quell the rising tide of regret that threatened to overwhelm him.

“I may have failed in certain respects, but it was my loyalty to the cause—to Dumbledore—that drove my actions.” Snape replied, his voice taut with an edge of something unacknowledged.

“Ah, Dumbledore,” Death said, a hint of contempt threading through its tone. “Even you know that his motives were never purely selfless. He used you as a tool, Severus, knowing that your hatred would blind you to your own purpose. And now, you must bear the consequences of that allegiance.”

Snape’s expression darkened. He had dedicated everything to Dumbledore’s mission, to the endless charade of spying, to maintaining a balance that had nearly broken him. “I fulfilled my duty. My loyalty was to the greater good.”

“The greater good,” Death repeated, its voice mocking. “And yet, in serving it, you lost yourself. You became a man so consumed by hatred that you could no longer see beyond it. Even when that hatred stood before you, a mere child who had known nothing but cruelty.”

The words resonated more deeply than Snape wished. Memories he’d tried to bury flashed in his mind: the boy’s skinny frame, the oversized clothes, the flicker of hesitation that always followed his bold defiance. He dismissed these signs as Potter’s attempts to gain sympathy, never considering what they truly meant.

“You would have me pity him?” he scoffed, though the anger in his voice felt hollow. “He was spoiled by everyone he met. He had more than enough support.”

Death’s gaze remained fixed on him, implacable and unforgiving. “You saw only what you wished to see, Severus. You chose not to understand. But now, you will be given no choice.”

Snape bristled. “What do you mean by that?”

“You are being granted a singular opportunity for atonement.” Death continued, a note of gravity underscoring its words.

“Atonement?” Snape echoed, wary, his heart pounding as uncertainty flickered within him.

“Yes.” Death’s eyes gleamed with an eerie light. “I will send you back. Your task, Severus, will be to ensure that Harry Potter—my master—receives the life he deserved. From here onward, you must strive to see him as he is, not as the shadow of a dead man.”

The words hung in the air. Snape took a sharp breath, his fists clenching at his sides. After years spent nurturing hatred and bitterness, the thought of pandering to the brat was as daunting as facing Voldemort himself.

The prospect was both infuriating and terrifying. To return and confront Potter—again, to become entangled in the boy’s life. Snape’s mind rebelled against it, yet something deeper, something long-buried, stirred at the thought.

“When... When am I to be sent? What exactly do you want me to do?” he asked, grasping for as many details as he could, desperate to find some sense of direction amid the chaos.

Death’s gaze intensified, a storm brewing in its depths. “That, I will not tell you. Your path must be one you forge for yourself. Severus.”

“Then you leave me without guidance,” he spat, panic clawing at his insides.

“Consider it a lesson,” Death replied coolly.

Snape narrowed his eyes, incredulity rising. “You are not here to avoid pain, Severus,” Death added, with a steely edge to its voice. “You are here to learn from it. To guide a child who has already suffered enough.”

“I cannot follow him around like a shadow,” Snape shot back, a flash of anxiety piercing his stoic demeanor. “Aside from still having to act as Dumbledore’s spy, people on all sides report back on anything I say or do—my Slytherins to their parents, and on to Voldemort, or portraits and teachers to Dumbledore. I refuse to suddenly become a Gryffindor-loving idiot. I will not mollycoddle him or praise his every move as if he walks on water. You expect too much.”

Death’s expression softened, showing an odd understanding that pulled at Snape’s chest. “You do not have to follow him like a shadow. Simply be there when it matters. You may not succeed in everything, but you can give him guidance. Knowledge. You can become a protector, not a tormentor.”

Snape’s heart pounded, dread and determination swirling within him. “Surely I must know when I am expected to begin. What specific changes in the timeline do you want me to make?” The thought of being thrust back without exact details, forced to navigate without certainty—it was almost too much to bear. He hated the very idea of being left to flounder in uncertainty.

“A chance, but no directions? Just my luck,” he grumbled, irritation flaring.

“That is for you to discover,” Death replied, inscrutable. “The only certainty is that you must follow the path of your own actions, your own will. This is your chance to change his life, but yours as well. You will not have another opportunity.”

Severus’s gut twisted with unease. “A journey of self-discovery—how very cliché,” he quipped, his instinctive desire for control rising.

Death remained silent, an enigmatic figure shrouded in shadows, leaving Snape with a gnawing sense of unease.

“And if I refuse?” Snape asked, a trace of defiance in his voice, bracing for the worst.

“Then you will remain here, forever reliving your failure of a life until the end of time. Do you understand?” Death pressed, its gaze unrelenting.

Snape flinched and nodded, the weight of those words settling heavily in his chest. There was no escape, no freedom in death. Only this endless purgatory or the chance to appease Death with its absurd demand.

Death’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, low and compelling. “Your arrogance will be your downfall if you allow it to lead you. I am offering you the chance to change the course of your life, but you must first shed the burdens of your history—if you can look beyond your hatred and biases. The weight of your past will only hold you down if you permit it. Your task is not merely to survive, but to transform. You will learn what it means to be the master of your own choices.”

Snape stood silent, his mind racing with possibilities. The intricacies of the magical world stretched before him, and he would need to tread carefully to affect any change. He would have to be cautious, navigating his words and actions in ways that did not draw attention or incite suspicion.

“If you fail,” Death added, its tone darkening, “there will be no second chances. You will return to this realm, and your fate will be sealed.”

The weight of that ultimatum hung heavily between them. Snape took a deep breath, steeling himself against the rising tide of fear and determination.

"What choice do I have?" he snarled, more to himself than to Death. “Very well,” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper, carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. “I accept. But know this—I will not pamper the boy.”

Death inclined its head slightly, acknowledging his decision. “Then go, Severus Snape. And remember: this time, there is no room for mistakes.”

With a sudden rush of cold air, the light around him blazed and faded, an explosion of brilliance consuming him. As the world shimmered and blurred, Snape felt an odd sense of anticipation creeping in, a blend of fear and determination surging through him. For the first time in years, he was faced with a choice—a chance to reshape the narrative, to challenge the darkness that had clung to him for so long. I will not fail, he thought to himself.

With a final flicker of light, the station dissolved around him, pulling him into the unknown, into a destiny he could not yet comprehend. Snape felt himself falling, an endless descent through darkness, a spiral of thoughts and memories tumbling. Just as his mind began to unravel in the chaos, he opened his eyes to find himself... back.