Second Chance
Severus Snape’s eyes fluttered open, revealing the familiar shadows of his childhood home. The air was thick with dust, stagnant and suffocating, wrapping around him like a shroud. He inhaled sharply, unsettled by the strange pulse of life—a pulse he’d once taken for granted. As the weight of his surroundings settled over him, Death's cryptic words echoed in his mind: he had a task to complete, and at its heart lay the boy.
Adjusting to the dim light filtering through the grimy window of his bedroom, his gaze fell upon the battered walls that had witnessed his worst memories. Faded wallpaper peeled in curling strips, revealing the crumbling plaster beneath, each tear whispering tales of a childhood cloaked in shadows. The silence was oppressive, a stark contrast to the ethereal white of Death’s domain. He was back in the past, and he had a mission. This place felt like a twisted sanctuary—a space to gather his thoughts amid the ghosts of his past.
Yet, as the weight of his surroundings pressed down on him, old regrets whispered through the peeling walls, reminding him of his failures. Death had cast him back into the world, but it came with a price. This second chance was fraught with complications.
He sat up, the bed creaking beneath him, a sound that felt like a protest against the memories that suffocated him. Urgency jolted him into action. What day was it? He needed to establish a timeline, a framework for the memories flooding back with the sharpness of a dagger.
Moving to the small desk where he had spent countless hours poring over potions, he found a crumpled edition of the Daily Prophet. The top left corner read: August 25th, 1992. A mere week before the start of the boy’s second year. Damn it. Death had been deliberate. He left Snape no room to redefine his dynamic with Potter from the start. A familiar pang of frustration rose within him, a bitter reflection of his own shortcomings. How could he have done this? Was he referring to himself or to Death—perhaps both? Potter was insufferable, yet he couldn’t ignore the truth: if he wanted to avoid purgatory, he had to change.
With a flick of his wand, he summoned parchment and a quill, swiftly listing everything of importance he could recall: the wars, the Death Eaters, Dumbledore’s cryptic warnings, and the Order of the Phoenix. Each name and date held significance, a potential minefield in the path ahead. Finally, he scribbled the name he’d long despised: Harry Potter. It was strange to think of the boy as anything other than a brat with a hero complex. But now, every detail mattered—all of his escapades, all of his flaws.
As the ink flowed, the memory of their first potions lesson resurfaced with painful clarity. He had walked into that classroom with a sneer, eager to assert his dominance, and unleashed a torrent of disdain upon the boy. Harry had barely opened his mouth before Snape had derided him, making him the object of ridicule before his peers. “You think you’re special, don’t you? The famous Harry Potter. But here, you’re just another incompetent student.” The scathing words had slipped from his lips like venom, unprovoked and merciless.
Snape clenched his jaw, disgusted with himself. How could he have been so cruel to a child? In that moment, he had not merely struck at Harry; he had condemned him to a life of scorn. The boy had looked at him, bewildered and wounded, and Snape had reveled in his own power, the thrill of humiliation blinding him to the deeper truths of his own existence. The memory twisted like a knife in his gut—one that he now understood reflected his own insecurities more than anything else.
Potter’s quirks, his reckless bravery, the irritating lack of self-preservation that bordered on sheer foolishness… They had been nothing but irritants in the past. Yet, as he wrote, he saw them differently. Harry's years at the Dursleys, he would have to look into the abuse allegation. His first year at Hogwarts, where he had faced the world with no real understanding of the dangers lurking in the shadows. The weight of fame had molded a child unprepared for danger. How could he expect the boy to protect himself when he barely valued his own life? The thought nagged at him, stirring a sense of responsibility he had long resisted.
Hunger gnawed at him. He forced himself into the kitchen, where memories flooded back—too many, too painful. The scent of stale bread and overcooked vegetables lingered in the air, a reminder of the warmth he had never known. He recalled arguments echoing through these walls, the loud sound of his father’s sharp tongue and his mother’s heavy silence. After a few minutes, he snapped out of it and prepared a meal, letting the repetitive actions of chopping and stirring settle his mind. The familiar routine grounded him, though he despised its familiarity. Each slice of the knife felt like a step backward, reminding him of the path he’d walked—each step leading back to Potter.
Back at his desk, memories tangled like a web. Would he manage this second chance, or was he doomed to repeat his mistakes? As he continued to scribble, his mind wandered to Harry—Harry, with his unruly hair and the scar marking him as both special and cursed. He had never considered the weight of that burden, the expectations thrust upon the boy. The more he wrote, the clearer it became: Harry needed guidance, not derision.
As dusk fell, shadows stretched across the room, and the only sound was the scratch of his quill. His thoughts drifted, piecing together a plan—an outline of how he might approach Harry, both in and out of the classroom. He could no longer mock. No more sneering. The habit ran deep, but he had to change. It was too easy to see James Potter when the boy looked at him.
“What fresh trouble will you find today, Potter?” he imagined saying, his voice thick with mock disdain. “Are you planning another reckless escapade that might earn you a spot in the hospital wing?”
“Relax, Professor! I’m just trying to see how high I can fly!” the imagined Harry would respond, brimming with naive confidence.
“Flying high, with no thought for the ground below. As if gravity would ever intervene,” Snape quipped, resentment leaking into his tone.
Self-deprecation clawed at him like a persistent thorn, a reminder of every time he’d failed. Had their relationship truly devolved into this mockery? He grimaced, knowing he needed to break free from this cycle of ridicule. What kind of mentor could he be if all he offered was derision? This was not the way to guide Harry toward a better understanding of himself or his potential.
“Perhaps I should reintroduce myself as ‘Severus, the Snarky,’” he mused bitterly.
The plan had to be subtle, buried beneath layers of contempt and harsh instruction that the rest of the world had to continue seeing. He clenched his jaw, disgusted with himself. He had spent years sneering at the boy for his impulsive courage, for his lack of caution and reverence. Yet now, he recognized that same rash bravery as something honed not out of stupidity, but perhaps necessity. Potter had survived long enough to be marked by Death once, a feat not even Severus could ignore. Would the boy ever understand what he needed to do to preserve that life? Could Severus even teach him how?
As the afternoon wore on, Severus sketched out several strategies, including moments he might "incidentally" guide Potter through these life lessons. But as he did, another feeling surfaced—an instinct that had been his lodestar throughout his tenure as a spy: trust no one.
He tapped the quill against the parchment, considering his next move. The spy’s instinct had never led him astray, but now, he questioned his own judgment. Could he trust his efforts? Or was his self-loathing destined to sabotage everything again? What role had he played in driving the boy toward danger? Had his contempt been the invisible hand pushing Potter to prove himself, to take risks in defiance of the life he was expected to survive?
The days that followed bled into each other as he lost himself in planning and reflection. Each morning, the Daily Prophet greeted him with news of the wizarding world, a reminder of the dark days that lay ahead. Each night, he filled pages with strategies for his precarious second chance. The task was daunting, and the bitterness lingered—an unwelcome companion that echoed through his thoughts.
When he could no longer bear the tight confines of the house, he took to the streets of Spinner’s End, a silent figure in black amidst the gray, working through scenarios in his mind. I will teach him to defend himself, he resolved silently, imagining ways to instill confidence and self-worth without appearing to care.
The start of term drew closer, and each passing day steeled his determination. He imagined his path forward. The classroom would be their battlefield. If he was fortunate, they might both emerge alive.
With that thought anchored firmly in his mind, he continued down the cracked pavement, a glimmer of something akin to hope sparking within him—one that felt dangerously close to the emotion he’d always associated with Lily. Perhaps, if he approached this correctly, he could salvage not only Harry’s future but his own as well.
The shadows of Spinner’s End loomed large as he ventured deeper into his thoughts, wrestling with the darkness that had become his second skin. The burden of what he had done weighed heavily, yet he felt a flicker of resolve. He was ready to confront his past and guide Harry toward a brighter future—one where he would no longer be a mere caricature of his former self, a specter haunting the boy.