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Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore was attempting to escape his own castle. 

He was attempting this  with the determination of a man who had endured one too many staff meetings and would rather commit light treason than attend another.

Ordinarily, an ancient wizard slipping out of a window with a carpetbag of dubious provenance would draw questions, but Hogwarts had seen far stranger things. Besides, Albus had timed his getaway carefully: most of the staff were corralling students to the End-of-Year Feast, and Minerva was trapped beneath a mountain of administrative forms that had been mysteriously deposited onto her desk.

He glided down the corridor with his carpetbag tucked under his arm, robes fluttering behind him like they were also trying to resign. His expression was serene in the way only an elderly menace could manage - distracted, faintly amused, and one unguarded remark away from being deeply insulting.

Students passed.
He ignored them.
They ignored him right back. He congratulated himself, thinking he was executing a flawless escape.

Everyone knew the Headmaster occasionally wandered the corridors looking travel-ready, smelling like gin-soaked citrus and muttering about “urgent Ministry obligations.”

He was two corridors from freedom when Minerva caught him.

“Albus.”

He slowed. Turned. Smiled like a man delighted to see someone he intended to abandon immediately. The pinched voice was housed, as expected, by Minerva McGonagall - hair pinned so tightly it might have been holding her skull together, marching toward him, eyes glittering with the hard shine of a woman who had not slept since 1958.

“Minerva, my dear! How lovely. I was just thinking about leaving you a note.”

“That sounds ominous,” she said flatly.

“Well, it wasn’t a very long note,” he admitted. “Just the word ‘sorry’ and an arrow pointing vaguely toward Scotland.”

Minerva thrust a fat stack of parchments at him.
“You signed none of these.”

He peered at the stack. “I most certainly did. I remember because it was unutterably dull. I nearly fell asleep on page two.”

“That was the cover page, Albus.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “I suppose that explains my sudden burst of efficiency.”

She closed her eyes for a moment - praying, perhaps, for calm… or for lightning to strike him.
It was unclear.

“You are the Headmaster. You cannot simply scrawl your name across blank sheets and then vanish for days.”

Albus gave her a sympathetic look. “I can, Minerva. I simply shouldn’t. Important distinction.”

“Albus - ”

“And besides,” he continued, examining his nails, “the school practically runs itself. Mostly because you run it. Exceptionally well. Tirelessly. I have every faith in you. Boundless faith. In fact, far more faith in you than in me. Which is -”
He glanced at her tired face. “Which is… admirable. Truly. Though a touch alarming.”

She stared at him.

He attempted a reassuring smile. It came out vaguely patronising.

“Here,” she said stiffly, “are the summer welfare forms. Each student flagged as ‘potential risk’ must be evaluated individually. Eyes open, Albus. Yours, specifically.”

He sighed theatrically, plucked the first parchment from the stack, and skimmed it with the interest of a man glancing at a grocery list.
“Severus Snape,” he murmured. “Ah yes, the gloomy one.”

“Albus!”

“What? He is gloomy. If gloom were taxable, the boy would be bankrolling the Ministry single-handedly.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Just- read -”

Too late.
He’d already signed it.

With flourish. With confidence. With absolutely no comprehension whatsoever.

The parchment lit in gold.

Deep in the bowels of the castle, something ancient and administratively vengeful awakened:

“The Mandatory Muggle Home Extraction Decree of 1892.”

Still magically binding. Still absolutely as ridiculous and inflexible as the first day it was penned.

Minerva froze.

“…Albus,” she whispered, “what did you just do?”

He beamed at her. “Whatever it was, it felt wonderfully conclusive.”

“You just triggered a full protective extraction. Severus is now legally assigned to an alternative magical guardian for the entire summer.”

Albus blinked, then brightened.  “Splendid. See? This is why delegation works.”

“ALBUS!”

“My dear Minerva,” he said, sweeping up his carpetbag with a surprisingly nimble twirl,
“you really must learn to enjoy the unexpected. It keeps the arteries young.”

“YOU HAVE ALTERED A CHILD’S ENTIRE FUTURE.”

“So dramatic,” he muttered, already halfway to the exit. “Honestly, you Gryffindors and your feelings. I’m late for the educational - ah - conference.”

“You’re going to a gin festival!”

He turned, walking backwards. “Semantics! Now, I’ve solved the problems, signed the forms - I’ll be off now.”

And then he was gone in a fit of apparition that only the headmaster was capable of within the walls of Hogwarts, leaving behind a glowing piece of parchment, an incensed deputy headmistress, and a future that had just been violently rerouted.

*** 

The castle felt off.

Not in a catastrophic “the castle is screaming” sort of way, nor in a “Peeves has eaten something experimental” sort of way. More like a “Hogwarts has decided to be deliberately inconvenient” sort of way.

Torches sputtered at him.
Portraits whispered behind their hands.
Even the suits of armour clanked judgmentally when he passed.

Severus Snape scowled back at all of it.

A summons, he thought sourly. Lovely. Exactly how I hoped to spend the last afternoon of term. Being dragged to the Headmaster’s office like some criminal. Again.

He stalked through a drafty corridor, cloak swishing with as much indignation as a fabric could muster. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and teen despair.

Potter probably got a special award again. For breathing. Or existing. Or managing to walk down a corridor without tripping over his own ego.

He muttered, “May he choke on his own popularity.”

A passing statue coughed politely.

Severus ignored it.

He reached the gargoyle.

It looked down at him with a stone expression he interpreted as arrogant disdain.

“Password?” he said.

The gargoyle tilted its head and matched Severus scowl-for-scowl. “That’s not how this works.”

Severus glowered. “Well, I don’t know the password do I?!.”

“Well,” the gargoyle sniffed, “that sounds suspiciously like a you problem.”

He opened his mouth to insult a literal rock - 

“Fizzing Whizbee,” McGonagall snapped behind him.

The gargoyle vaulted aside so quickly it nearly tripped over its own tail.

McGonagall looked… rumpled. A rare and terrifying thing. Her bun was lopsided, there was chalk on her sleeve, and her glasses were slightly askew in a way that suggested she had removed them to rub her face more than once.

She gestured him forward with the same energy one uses to gesture toward a guillotine.

“Up you go.”

Severus followed obediently behind her. Perfect he thought. She looked ready to kill someone. And he was being summoned.

Excellent.
Wonderful.
This was how he would die: last day of term, murdered by paperwork-related rage.
A fitting end.

On the staircase, he risked a glance at McGonagall’s tight expression.

“Professor,” he began cautiously, “have I - ”

“No.”

“Have I been - ”

“No.”

“…Am I about to be - ”

She groaned. “Mr. Snape, please. I have had a very long day. Let us not add hypotheticals to the pile.”

He shut his mouth. That tone meant: "This is Albus’ fault, and I don’t have the strength to explain yet."

Which was… disquieting.

Even for Hogwarts.

She paused at the office door and took a slow, steadying breath. Not calm.
Resigned.
Like someone preparing to introduce a child to the concept of taxes.

“Before we go in,” she said, “I want you to understand that none of this was intentional.”

Severus blinked. “None of what was intentional?”

She did not answer.

She just opened the door.

The door swung open.

And there was Albus Dumbledore.

Standing on his desk.

Not beside it. Not leaning over it.
On top of it, as if gravity were merely a suggestion.

He held a parchment that glowed an ominous, bureaucratic gold. His beard was tucked into his belt “for safety,” and he peered at the document with the intensity of a man trying to decode ancient runes while slightly tipsy.

“Well now,” Albus muttered, “isn’t that interesting. That shouldn’t glow. Or… hum. Or… oh dear, is it smoking?”

It was.

Severus took one look and thought: Nope. Absolutely not. Whatever this is, no.

McGonagall marched in behind him, looking ten minutes past her patience limit.

“Albus,” she snapped, “get off the furniture.”

“I’ll have you know,” Albus said without looking up, “this desk is a thousand-year-old artifact imbued with defensive enchantments. Far sturdier than I am.”

“Yes,” she said crisply, “and I need the sturdier one of you to explain this to the child.”

Albus blinked as if just remembering children existed.

“Oh! Severin!”

Merlin save me, Severus thought. He’s cheerful. This is a sign of doom. Also, how difficult is it to get my name right?

Albus hopped off the desk with a surprisingly nimble movement for a man who groaned when sitting down.

“Come in, come in! Don’t touch anything glowing, ticking, or humming. In fact, don’t touch anything at all.”

Severus remained on the threshold.

“Professor,” he said carefully, “why have I been summoned? I’ve done nothing - ”

“Precisely!” Albus beamed. “Which is part of the problem.”

Severus blinked. “I’m sorry… what?”

Albus unfurled the glowing parchment like a circus ringmaster revealing a tiger.

“Well, my boy, it appears I’ve enacted - entirely by accident - a little-known Hogwarts policy that applies to… ah… you.”

Severus felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

He should have known.

Hogwarts always found a way to make his life worse.

“Oh, do not look so alarmed,” Albus said cheerfully. “The parchment merely says you cannot return home because your guardians are ‘objectively unfit.’”

Severus froze.

McGonagall closed her eyes briefly, as if trying to shield herself from the incoming emotional explosion.

Albus continued, oblivious:

“Terribly judgmental language, really, but bureaucracy is cruel that way.”

Severus heard buzzing.
His heartbeat?
The torches?
His entire life crumbling?

He couldn’t tell.

“My home is fine,” he said reflexively.
Reflexively, because that’s what you say. Even when it’s a lie. Especially when it’s a lie.

Albus raised an eyebrow, not unkindly - but with the air of someone observing a chicken insisting it can, in fact, do long division.

“Well,” Albus said, “the magic disagrees. Quite loudly, I might add.”

Severus clenched his jaw. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Minerva stepped in, voice careful.

“Mr. Snape… the decree Albus activated is from the 1890s. Ancient child-protection magic. Once signed, it applies retroactively.”

Severus frowned. “Retroactively?”

Albus brightened. “Oh yes! To your very first day at Hogwarts.”

Severus waited.

Then: “…What does that mean exactly?”

Albus checked a pocket watch that had twelve hands and none of them pointed to numbers.

“It means, dear boy” he said lightly, “that Hogwarts is currently recalculating five years of mistreatment, slights, unjust punishments, and general miseries inflicted upon you.”

Severus stared.

McGonagall braced herself.

Somewhere far below, the castle gave a loud metallic clang.

Severus jumped.

Albus nodded sagely.

“Ah. That’ll be the first expulsion.”

“That’ll be what?!” Severus yelped.

Albus waved a hand dismissively. “Oh yes, it seems the Marauders are all being expelled. Retroactively. The Shrieking Shack incident alone was enough to catapult them into the Forbidden Forest.”

Another enormous BOOM echoed through the stone.

“And that,” Albus added, “is probably Lupin hitting a tree.”

Severus’s mind blanked. Then rebooted.

“Wait - expelled? All of them?”

“Yes,” Albus said cheerfully. “The decree is quite strict. It identified every incident where their behaviour created unnecessary danger or inflicted emotional distress upon a ‘protected ward of Hogwarts.’ Which, thanks to my signature, is you.”

Severus blinked rapidly.

I am a… what?

Another boom.

“And I believe that one,” Albus said, tapping his chin, “is the castle removing Sirius Black from the dormitory with excessive enthusiasm.”

Severus did not smile.

He felt very much like smiling. Instead he was chanting in his head:   I must not smile. This is wrong. This is morally questionable. …But Merlin, if justice were a drink, it would taste like this.

McGonagall cleared her throat but her voice sounded tired anyway (probably aware of the parent letters and howlers that were soon to grace her desk and ears), “Anyone from any other houses? ”

“Oh, half of the Slytherin upper years are apparently suspended for next year,” Albus said. “The ones who… “attempted to recruit you into the Dark Lord’s ranks,” he turned to Severus, “Did they really?”

Severus stiffened.

He hadn’t known anyone noticed.

Or cared.

Albus continued breezily, examining his glowing parchment.

“Some rather colourful threats from the castle itself, too. Apparently Hogwarts has very strong opinions about grooming teenagers for evil.”

Severus’s throat tightened.

McGonagall spoke quietly.

“You should have been protected, Severus. Long before now.”

He looked away.

Because hearing it hurt.
And letting it be true hurt more.

“So,” Severus said hoarsely, “what now? I’m… what? A ward of Hogwarts?”

“Precisely!” Albus chirped. “Congratulations. You are now magically obligated to enjoy a safe summer.”

“I don’t want anyone meddling in my - ”

“Oh hush,” Albus said, patting his shoulder. “Nobody wants what’s good for them at sixteen. It’s part of the developmental process.”

“Who,” Severus said through gritted teeth, “am I being sent to?”

Albus beamed.

“Horace of course!”

Severus’s internal organs attempted to exit his body.

“Slughorn?”

“Yes! He signed up decades ago as a volunteer guardian for promising students. Likely forgot. He’s preparing gooseberry fool and dusting off his photo albums.”

Severus looked halfway to fainting.

McGonagall stepped closer.

“Mr. Snape,’ she started, stopped and tried again, “Severus… it will be all right. Better than all right. I assure you.”

Albus nodded.

“Yes indeed. Proper meals! Soft bedding! Absolutely no murder attempts. Adult supervision. A delightful change of pace, I should think.”

Severus glared. “Even a child generally expects privacy, Headmaster.”

Albus considered this.

“Well, lower those expectations,” he said frankly. “Slughorn has already rearranged his guest room twice. Man’s a menace with cushions.”

“So,” Albus said, clapping once, “pack your things. Hogwarts requires that Slughorn collect you before supper. If you attempt to flee, the castle will assist.”

Severus blinked.

“Assist whom?”

“Horace, of course,” Albus said brightly. “It may drag you by the ear. Happens.”

McGonagall sighed and turned to Severus, “Please don’t force the castle to drag you by the ear.”

Severus didn’t trust himself to speak.

His whole life had just rearranged itself around him, like moving staircases reshuffling a path he didn’t choose.

Albus, oblivious and sparkling with unintended destiny, patted his arm.

“This will be good for you, Severin. Entirely accidental, but good nonetheless. Off you trot.”

Severus left the office in a daze -  as another distant BOOM signalled Hogwarts finalising five years’ worth of overdue justice.

***

The carriage that collected Severus looked perfectly ordinary from the outside - standard Ministry-issue, black lacquer, little lanterns swinging gently.

Inside?

Inside it was chaos.

Pots clattered in the tiny kitchenette.  Something burbled ominously on a stove that absolutely shouldn’t fit in a carriage. The scent of stewing fruit and brandy saturated the air.

And in the middle of it all, Horace Slughorn stood in an apron patterned with dancing geese.

“SEVERUS, MY BOY!”

He shouted it with the enthusiasm of a man greeting both a beloved grandson and the winner of a raffle.

Severus froze on the carriage step. This is how I die. In a moving kitchen.

Slughorn bustled forward, cheeks glowing, arms open, the apron swaying like a sentient floral curtain.

“Oh, look at you! Thin as a reed! Paler than parchment! Have you been eating at all? Don’t answer, I can see the answer, it’s written all over your bones.”

Severus stiffened so hard he nearly cracked.

“…I eat,” he muttered.

Slughorn snorted. “Not anything substantial, clearly! You look like a child raised on disappointment and North Sea wind.”

Severus’s eye twitched. “I’m fine.”

“You’re grey, my dear boy.”

“I’m pale.”

“That is the bloodless pallor of a child who has not been fed properly since infancy.”

Severus inhaled sharply.

Slughorn’s face softened. “Oh,” he said quietly, “oh, my boy… come in.”

Severus stepped inside.

The door shut magically behind him with a soft click, sealing him into a carriage that smelled of sugar, cinnamon, and unwanted affection.

Severus sat on a little velvet bench while the carriage rattled into the countryside. Outside, twilight deepened into a warm summer dusk.

Slughorn was everywhere - stirring, sweetening, chopping, tidying, narrating the process like a radio presenter whose audience was made of exactly one traumatised teen.

“Now, Severus, you must tell me if you have any allergies. I had a student once who flared up like a Hungarian Horntail whenever he so much as smelled walnuts. Remarkable sight. Entire room thought he was transforming.”

Severus stared at him.

Slughorn turned around with a spoon dripping purple goo.

“Open.”

“No.”

“It’s gooseberry fool.”

“I don’t want - ”

Slughorn stepped closer, spoon first, as if approaching a frightened animal.

“Severus, darling boy, humour an old man who spent the last two hours panicking over your arrival.”

Severus hesitated.

Panicking? Over me?

He opened his mouth despite himself.

Slughorn fed him the spoonful.

Severus blinked. Oh no. It’s good. Oh no no no. This is dangerous. Emotional vulnerability achieved through dessert is a trap.

Slughorn watched him with the eagerness of a mother kneazle.

“Well?”

“…It’s fine,” Severus said, which in Severus-language meant exceptionally good and deeply alarming.

Slughorn beamed.

“Marvelous!”

He returned to the stove, humming.

An hour later, the carriage rolled to a stop.

Severus expected a modest cottage.

What he got was…

A manor.

A sprawling Edwardian manor house, all warm stone and ivy, perched on a gentle hill and glowing with candlelight through dozens of windows. Smoke curled from four chimneys. Lanterns lined a curved drive. The garden was suspiciously symmetrical in a way that suggested either magic or a gardener with obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

Slughorn gestured grandly.

“Welcome to my humble abode!”

Severus blinked. This is not humble. This is a museum curated by a wealthy magpie.

Slughorn waddled forward, arms flung wide.

“Come, come! I’ve prepared a room for you upstairs. En-suite! Wardrobe! Lavender sachets! Probably too many lavender sachets, actually. I got a bit  carried away.”

Severus followed him inside.

The entrance hall was large enough to echo.

Portraits lined the walls - former Slug Club members, smiling artificially, waving, some whispering excitedly:

“Oh look! Horace has brought home a student!”
“Is this the new protégé?”
“Oh, he looks terribly severe. Delicious.”

“About time this old house had young ones in it for a change!”

A chandelier glowed overhead, dripping crystals.

Severus inhaled.

The house smelled like beeswax, roasting meat, old magic, and dusted sugar. A smell that whispered: safe.

He immediately distrusted it. This is too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too… happy. There must be a catch. I need to uncover the catch.

Slughorn gestured him into a grand dining room where a roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables, and three puddings sat steaming.

“Sit! Eat! I insist.”

Severus hovered at the threshold.

Slughorn frowned.

“You’re allowed to sit at the table, Severus. You’re not a servant.”

Severus swallowed.

Slowly, he sat.

Slughorn served him a mountain of food.

Severus stared at the plate. Merlin’s beard. That’s… that’s more than my entire household eats in a day. What does he expect me to do with this?

Slughorn beamed at him encouragingly.

“Eat, my boy, eat. You can always have seconds!”

Severus nearly dropped the fork.

He picked at the food at first. Then hunger - old, coiled, embarrassed - took over.

He ate.

Slughorn watched with a fond smile, quiet now. Let the boy eat.

Slughorn gave him a tour:

• A library that smelled of leather and magic
• A potions lab in the basement (far nicer than Hogwarts’)
• A greenhouse full of rare plants
• A drawing room with enchanted armchairs that purred when sat in
  
  

Severus kept saying:

“You don’t have to - ”  and  “I don’t need - ”

Slughorn kept replying:

“Nonsense.”

Finally, they reached the bedroom.

Canopy bed.
Soft cotton sheets.
A window overlooking the garden.
A wardrobe.
A reading nook.

And yes - lavender sachets. Way too many lavender sachets.

Slughorn cleared his throat, suddenly bashful.

“I know it’s a bit much, Severus, but I wanted you to have… well… something pleasant.”

Severus stood there, unable to speak. This is for me? He prepared this for me? Why? Why would he - What am I supposed - 

Slughorn laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You deserve somewhere safe.”

Severus swallowed hard.

Safe. Such a small word. Such an enormous ache.

He nodded once.

Slughorn smiled softly.

“I’ll leave you to rest, my boy. If you need anything - anything at all - my room is just down the hall or  you can call Topsy or Turvy to assist you.”

He left.

Severus stood alone.

In a quiet room. With warmth.  With softness.  With belonging, however temporary.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight - soft, warm, forgiving.

And for the first time in a very long time…

He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding for years.

***

Severus Snape settled into life at Slughorn Manor with the jittery caution of a feral alley cat learning that the hand offering food does not also carry a boot.

Days became a strange, unreal rhythm.

Breakfast at a table that didn’t wobble.
Lunch in the garden.
Afternoons in the library or the potion lab.
Evenings filled with Slughorn’s endless stories about students famed, infamous, and everything in-between.

And the food - Merlin, the food. Whenever he looked at a mirror lately he thought things like “I’m gaining weight. I can feel it. I’m becoming… soft. Round. A disgrace to my aesthetic brand.”

Slughorn insisted this was “healthy.” Severus insisted this was “bogus propaganda from the bourgeoisie.” Slughorn gave him an extra helping of pudding.

It wasn’t perfect.
Severus still flinched at sudden noise. Still woke with his heart hammering. Still expected kindness to rot into cruelty.

But something subtle was happening. He was… unwinding. Not completely. But enough. Enough to feel the absence of fear like a hollow space filling with warm light.

And then - 

Just when Severus dared to think the summer might pass quietly - 

the Potters arrived.

It was a blazing summer afternoon.
Slughorn had dragged Severus into the garden to identify flowers “with the brisk competence of a botanist and not the resignation of an undertaker.”

Which was when the wards chimed.

Slughorn perked up. “Oho! Visitors! Perhaps a neighbour with gifts!”

Slughorn lumbered toward the gate.

Severus followed - 

Then stopped dead.

Because standing in the manicured driveway were:

Mr. Fleamont Potter, distinguished, stern, moustache bristling with purpose

Mrs. Euphemia Potter, elegant, unyielding, wand at her hip

James Potter, looking like a condemned man marching to his execution

Severus made a small, strangled sound.

Slughorn whispered, “Oh dear.”

Mrs. Potter marched forward, sharing a polite greeting with Professor Slughorn before turning to Severus.

“Mr. Snape,” she said crisply, “your presence is required.”

Severus considered sprinting into the hedges. They were thick and promising.

Instead, he stood rooted.

Mr. Potter cleared his throat.

“James. Speak.”

James swallowed hard.

“Snape, I - I’m here because - well - my parents said that - well - I’m extremely sorry.”

It was painful. Like watching a kneazle cough up an entire pinecone.

“And,” James added quickly, “I was an absolute berk. For years.”

“That is correct,” Euphemia said primly.

James glared briefly at her, then back at Severus, sweating.

“I didn’t mean - well, I did mean some of it, but not - look, I was horrible, all right? There. I said it.”

Severus stared.  This was better than the Marauders being blasted into the sunset by Hogwarts magic.  Marginally.

Fleamont stepped forward then, producing a scroll sealed with thick, golden wax.

“We are not only here for an apology,” he said gravely. “We are here to restore the imbalance.”

Severus blinked. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Fleamont said.

He handed over the Rolled parchments.

Severus unrolled them. 

Inside, to Severus warring horror and confusion

A formal Apprenticeship Offer. Signed, sealed and guaranteed by the Potter Potions Company, with a stipend commencing immediately.
AND - oh Merlin -
James Fleamont Potter’s personal 25% stake in the business transferred to one Severus Tobias Snape “free and clear, without condition.”

Severus choked.

James looked vaguely ill.

“My - my father insisted,” he muttered. “He said heirs don’t get expelled without cost.”

“And,” Fleamont added, “the entire contents of James’ heir vault have been transferred to you. You will, of course, forgive our presumption in opening an account at Gringotts for you.”

Severus stared. Vault? The entire vault? Potter’s heir vault? That’s… that’s enough money to buy half of Cokeworth. Possibly the entire eastern end.

Severus croaked, “Why?”

Fleamont Potter bowed his head slightly.

“Because you were wronged. Because my son caused you harm, Mr. Snape. And because Potter men make amends with actions, not words.”

Horace Slughorn emitted a sound that read suspiciously like a sniff at this declaration.

James muttered, “Mum said if I didn’t apologise properly, she’d skin me.”

“That, too,” Euphemia said.

Severus said nothing.  He was too shocked even to be sarcastic.

Slughorn dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with peacocks.

“Oh, Severus, my boy… you’re wealthy!”

Severus nearly fainted.

The Potters left. James looked back once, miserable, then vanished after his parents.

There was no apology accepted.  Just a stunned silence.

Severus stood in the summer breeze, holding a scroll that felt heavier than destiny.

Three days later, the wards chimed again.

Slughorn opened the door to find two worried-looking parents and Remus Lupin standing behind them, pale as parchment.

The Lupins were gentle people - quiet, earnest, painfully apologetic. They looked at Severus as one might look at a boy whose fate had been tied to a monster.

Mrs. Lupin clasped her hands.

“Mr. Snape… we have come to apologise deeply for what happened.”

Her voice trembled.

Mr. Lupin nodded. “We will understand if you choose to press charges. Or report our son. We will - not oppose any actions you choose to take in that regard.”

Severus’ spine went rigid. He hadn’t even fully processed the Shack yet.

Remus looked like he wanted to sink into the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Truly. I know sorry isn’t enough. I know I should have told someone. I know I endangered you. I know - ”

Severus held up a hand.

“I’m not reporting anyone,” he said flatly. “I won’t forgive you. But I won’t pursue it any further.”

Remus nodded, eyes shining with something painful.

The Lupins left quietly.

Remus looked back, shame carved into every line of him.

Severus shut the door.

Slughorn gave him cocoa. Severus pretended to hate the gesture.

The next visitor wasn’t a visitor.

It was a Howler.

A thick, black envelope sealed with a silver serpent.

Severus stared at it. Slughorn dove for cover.

The Howler burst open and unleashed Walburga Black in glorious, aristocratic rage:

“YOU HALF-BLOOD UPSTART! HOW DARE YOU GET THE HEIR OF BLACK EXPELLED? DO YOU KNOW HOW DIFFICULT THIS MAKES MY SOCIAL CALENDAR?”

Severus groaned.

Walburga continued:

“AS IS TRADITION IN THIS NOBLE HOUSE, WE DO NOT OWE DEBTS. EVER. THEREFORE YOU WILL ACCEPT THE ENCLOSED CURATED SELECTION OF DARK ARTEFACTS AND BOOKS, OR I SHALL TAKE YOUR REFUSAL AS A DIRECT INSULT TO THE HONOUR OF THE HOUSE OF BLACK.”

A heavy thud rocked the foyer.

Slughorn squeaked. “Oh heavens, she sent actual artefacts!”

Walburga continued:

“AND DO NOT THINK THIS IS CHARITY. IT IS TRANSACTIONAL SPITE. GOOD DAY.”

The Howler combusted into ashes that smelled faintly of expensive perfume and rage.

Severus said nothing.

Slughorn whispered, “You’re frighteningly well-connected, my boy.”

Severus whispered back, “I want to die.”

The Pettigrews arrived last.

A small, anxious-looking couple. A very round, very red-eyed Peter Pettigrew.

He took one look at Severus, burst into tears, and flung himself into Severus’ lap.

Slughorn dropped his teacup in shock.

Peter sobbed,  “I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - I didn’t want them to hate me - I didn’t want anyone to hate me - I didn’t mean to hurt you - I didn’t mean anything - I’m just stupid - I’m so stupid - ”

Severus sat rigid, arms hovering helplessly. Why is he wet? Why is this happening? Why am I being waterboarded by another child? Why are none of the adults in this situation helping me!

Peter’s mother knelt beside them.  “He has been inconsolable, the poor dear. Weeks of crying.”

Peter hiccupped. “I don’t expect forgiveness - but I wanted to say - say - sorry - and if you ever need - if you want - if there’s anything - ”

“All right,” Severus said abruptly. “Fine. I forgive you.”

Peter blinked up through tears. “…truly?”

“Yes,” Severus said firmly. “Now - please - stop ruining my trousers.”

Peter sobbed harder, but this time in relief, before his parents hauled him away.

By the end of that week, Severus had received:

A fortune.

Employment offers.

Apologies both sincere and deranged.
A trunk of illegal Black-family artefacts.
A lap full of tears.
And an overwhelming, disorienting sense that the world had abruptly shifted in his favour.

Topsy and Turvy had been run ragged sorting through the artefacts and books, determining what was immediately to be thrown away as being too dangerous and what they thought their Young Master Sevvie could safely use now and later, when he was an actual adult.

Slughorn found him sitting in the garden that evening, staring at the sunset as if it owed him an explanation.

“Severus, my boy?” Slughorn said gently.  “How are you feeling?”

Severus considered this.

Then: “…I am experiencing too many emotions. Most of them unpleasant. Some of them confusing. All of them loud.”

Slughorn chuckled softly and sat beside him.

“Yes, well.. that’s what happens,” he said, “when life finally turns your way.”

Severus didn’t reply.

But he didn’t deny it either.

***

By the end of July, Severus Snape had undergone a transformation.

Not a dramatic one.  Not a montage-worthy one.  Certainly not the kind of transformation the House of Black would compose threatening poetry about.

It was subtler. Quieter.

His skin no longer had the grey, starved pallor of a child living on stress and whatever the kitchen could spare. His shoulders weren’t constantly braced for impact. His hair - still a disaster - was clean (Progress could only move so fast).

His clothes fit.  His face had colour. His voice, when he used it, occasionally carried something suspiciously like confidence.

Confidence, he thought darkly, the gateway sin.

Slughorn beamed at him constantly, like a proud, overfed walrus.

Morning meant breakfast in the sunny kitchen - Slughorn in a velvet dressing gown, Severus pretending he didn’t enjoy warm bread, honey, and actual conversation.

Afternoons meant potions work - real work, the kind Severus had only ever dreamed of. Slughorn had crates of rare ingredients, shelves of locked tomes, and the patience to explain things without dividing his attention amongst 20 students at a time.

Evenings meant reading in the library or walking the grounds.

Sometimes Slughorn would nudge him toward the greenhouse.

“Pick some mint for the roast, my boy!”

Severus grumbled.  He always picked it anyway.

His internal monologue was also shifting. This is… nice. Unhealthy. Dangerous. Bound to end abruptly. I should prepare emotionally by assuming nothing good lasts.

He tried very hard not to relax. But safety seeped into him anyway, like sunlight through thin curtains.

Beyond the parade of apologies, more letters arrived:

Polite invitations from potion masters.  A scholarship offer. A polite inquiry from someone in the Department of Mysteries that made Slughorn blanche and lock the letter “for later.”

Even Narcissa Black sent a brief, elegant note:

I never did approve of the actions taken against you. If you ever require an introduction to society circles, do inform me. Slytherin house should not lose its talent to poor management.
  -  Narcissa Black

Severus hid that letter carefully.  Not because it mattered.  But because it mattered.

***

He appeared on the back lawn one evening, halfway through August, wearing robes patterned with lemon slices and a hat shaped like a distillery kettle.

Slughorn yelped. Severus nearly dropped an entire tray of potion phials.

Albus smiled cheerfully.

“Wonderful! You’re both alive. One can never be entirely certain with summer holidays.”

Severus glared. Was this the moment everything he had gained this summer was to be taken away from him? The man could surely have waited until his return to Hogwarts.

“What do you want?”

“Why, Severin, how very direct. I’ve come to ensure you’re thriving.”

“No you haven’t,” Severus said flatly.

“No,” Albus admitted with a sigh, “I’ve come because Minerva insisted on a welfare check. Something about ‘responsibility’ and ‘follow-through.’ Very tedious.”

He walked toward Severus, eyes twinkling with that particular brand of mischief that suggested either a gift or deeply unwanted news.

Albus observed him closely.

“You look remarkably well,” he said. “Pink in the cheeks. Quite alarming.”

“I’m not pink,” Severus muttered.

Slughorn patted his shoulder. “You are, a little.”

Albus chuckled. “Tell me, Severin - do you feel… safe?”

Severus stiffened. Then - because lying would be an insult to everything Slughorn had given him - he nodded once.

Albus smiled gently. “I am glad of it. You should have had safety years ago.”

Severus looked away. “I didn’t need - ”

“Yes you did,” Albus said softly, with the kind of blunt kindness he rarely showed. “And you deserved it then as much as you do now.”

Severus hated that his eyes burned. So he changed the subject.  Aggressively.

“Why are you here really?”

Albus brightened immediately.

“Oh! To inform you that Hogwarts has recalculated House placements. Houses require balance, after all, and your situation caused a rather significant… recalibration.”

Severus froze.

“…What?”

Albus unfolded a scroll.

“Hufflepuff has been awarded seven hundred retroactive points for compassion. Gryffindor has lost - hold on - ah, three thousand, nine hundred seventy-two points for cumulative idiocy.”

Severus blinked but he was smiling inside. I knew it. Justice has flavour, and it tastes like honey.

“And Slytherin,” Albus continued, “will be entering the next school year with a positive point balance for the first time in - oh - decades.”

Slughorn made a sound of joy that shook the hedges.

“But,” Albus said delicately, “there is one more thing.”

He handed Severus a small envelope. Slughorn leaned over his shoulder, breath held.

Severus opened it.

Inside was a prefect badge, with his name engraved and a green ribbon tied neatly around it

Severus stared. “That… can’t be right,” he whispered.

“Oh, it’s absolutely right,” Albus said cheerfully. “All told, you’re the most qualified fifth-to-sixth year student in the entire school. Academically brilliant. Keen sense of justice. Terrifying stare. You’re perfect.”

Severus felt warmth bloom in his chest. Then horror. Then warmth again.

Slughorn flung his arms around him. “My boy! My boy! A prefect!”

Severus flailed. “Get off - Horace - get OFF - ”

Albus chuckled. “Excellent emotional progress,” he said. “Ten points to… well… you.”

Severus glared. “Is this what you call progress?”

“Indeed!” Albus said brightly. “You no longer look like you’re plotting my demise. Merely my inconvenience.”

Slughorn beamed. “I would say this summer has done wonders.”

Severus looked down at the badge in his hands.

He felt… pride.  Real pride.  Not stolen, not borrowed, not conditional.

He swallowed hard. “…Thank you,” he muttered.

Albus squinted.  “Was that directed at me?”

“No.”

“Ah. Slughorn then.”

“No.”

“Hmm,” Albus said, delighted. “A mysterious gratitude. Very Slytherin. Quite on brand for”

He clapped his hands.

“Well! My work here is done. If Minerva asks, I was here all morning, I stayed for tea and I went through your summer assignments in a very ‘dedicated mentorly’ manner.”

And with a crack of displaced air and citrus perfume - 

He vanished.

***

Later that night, Severus sat in the garden alone, badge in hand, summer wind in his hair.

Slughorn brought him tea, placed it beside him, and quietly left.

Severus breathed in the warm night air.

His internal monologue had completed its summer long revolt and now chanted quietly,  “Safe.  I am safe.  I am… allowed to be safe.”

It was unfamiliar. But for once, not unwelcome. This was the summer his life bent toward something better.

Not because of destiny.  Not because of luck.

But because one old wizard signed the wrong parchment. Entirely by accident.

***

Hogwarts in September was a different creature than Hogwarts in June.
Brighter. Louder. Determined to pretend she hadn’t expelled half a generation of Gryffindors over the summer.

The air buzzed with new energy.  New faces. New possibilities.

And Severus Snape - new prefect badge gleaming on his chest - walked through the entrance hall like a cat shoved unwillingly into a parade. His internal monologue had, entirely against his will yet again, looped back into Hogwarts mode: I hate this. I hate everything. Why is everyone looking at me? Why is the castle humming? Why am I humming? Stop that immediately.

Students whispered.

“Is that Snape?”
“ - The one Hogwarts protected - ”
“ - The one who bankrupted the Potters - ”
“ - The one who hexed the gargoyle? - ”
“That didn’t happen.”
“Were you there? It could have.”

Severus kept walking, jaw clenched. He had expected second-years to stare.  Maybe third-years to whisper. What he did not expect - 

 - was the first-years.

A tiny, curly-haired first-year froze when Severus walked past her.

Frozen.  Wide-eyed.  An awe-inspired look plastered on her face -  the way some people look at saints. Or dragons.

Severus stopped.  He wasn’t a monster.  Merely shaped like one. He refused to be feared on principle alone when he hadn't actually ever done anything to this tiny witch.

“What?” he asked, because that’s how he greeted people (and he wasn't willing to be introspective for long enough to grasp that that was part of why first years approached him with fear).

The girl squeaked and curtsied.

Full on curtsied.

Severus rolled his eyes. Oh no. What. No. Don’t do that. Why are you bending? Are you malfunctioning?

She stammered,  “S-sir Snape, sir!”

“I am not a knight.”

“You’re a prefect.”

“That is different.”

She curtsied again.

“Th-thank you for your service, sir.”

Severus blinked.

“What service? I’ve been here exactly seven minutes.”

But she scampered off before he could clarify.

Severus stood in the corridor, baffled.

Then a second first-year bowed at him on his way to the dorms.  Then a third.  Then a group of four attempted it simultaneously in front of the fire in the Slytherin common room and nearly collided. Severus got up to go to his room, entirely and thoroughly done with the day’s theatrics. 

This is a nightmare. I am awake. This is happening. Why is this happening?

The Sorting Feast had made everything worse.

Severus stood beside the first-year line, arms folded, expression aggressively unimpressed.

The Hat boomed: “Ah, Severus Snape! Back as a prefect, I see - AND UNDER PROTECTIVE CUSTODY, NO LESS!”

The Great Hall gasped.

Severus closed his eyes in a long, painful blink. I am going to set that Hat on fire.

The first-years stared at him with awe.

One whispered loudly,  “He’s Dumbledore’s secret weapon!”

Another:  “He’s the Chosen One but for child safety!”

A third: “Is that why his hair is like that?!”

Yet another (and he hoped to Merlin this one would sort Hufflepuff  if the universe had any kindness left in it) said, “My brother said he has the intelligence of a Ravenclaw, the cunning of a Sytherin and the bravery of a Griffindor. I want to be just like him when I grow up!”

Severus twitched. Regulus Black, across the table, snorted pumpkin juice through his nose.

“Shut up,” Severus mouthed at him.

Regulus winked.

It started two days later.

Severus turned a corner. Six first-years turned with him.

He stopped.  They stopped.

He narrowed his eyes.  They straightened their spines.

“Why are you following me?”

A tiny boy with a too-big Slytherin scarf squeaked, “Y-you’re our prefect, sir Snape.”

“So?”

“So… we thought you might… I don’t know… lead us?”

“Lead you where?”

“…Anywhere?”

Severus stared in absolute horror. I am become the Pied Piper, babysitter of first years.

He tried to walk faster.  They jogged.
He cut through secret passages.  They squeezed through, some sideways, one crying.

He tried going into the Prefects’ Bathroom. They waited outside.

Regulus found this hysterical and missed no opportunity to tell him so.

Regulus took to observing Severus with the gleeful fascination of a boy who had just discovered a rare magical creature.

“So,” Regulus said brightly one afternoon, leaning against a stair rail, “you’ve acquired followers.”

“They’re not followers.”

“They march behind you in rows.”

“I’ve told them to leave.”

“And yet,” Regulus said, glancing behind Severus.

Severus looked.

Three first-years bowed simultaneously.

“Sir Snape.”

“Sir.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Regulus clapped. “Oh this is brilliant. Bloody brilliant.”

Severus, for the first time in his young life, contemplated murder. He really only dismissed this notion, not out of some affection for Regulus, but because he knew Charity Burbage would be insufferable about it for the rest of his natural life. 

Two days later, three first-years approached Regulus privately in the library.

Severus watched from afar, suspicious. Regulus listened. Expression shifting from amusement to delight to absolute wickedness.

He stood, bowed solemnly, then declared loudly: “YES. I WILL TAKE UP THIS NOBLE ROLE.”

Severus cursed internally. Nothing good for him could follow such a declaration. He began to pack up his books when Regulus swaggered over.

“Congratulate me Severus,” he said. ““I am now the official c0-founder and faculty-liaison-in-training the Severus Morale Improvement & Lighthearted Engagement Scheme.”

Severus nearly dropped the book he was holding.

“The WHAT.”

“S.M.I.L.E.S” he replied, fighting a losing battle with laughter. Regulus handed him a parchment.

An official charter.

Hand-lettered.  Wax-sealed.  Signed by six first-years - from all different houses.

It read:

MISSION:
Bring joy to Sir Severus of Slytherin (unwilling leader, exemplary prefect, terrifying icon).

OBJECTIVES:

1. Smile inducement
2. Mood elevation
3. De-scowling
4. Daily compliment quota
   
   

RULES:

1. Do not startle Severus (he bites).

2. Do not hug Severus (he hexes).

3. Do not anger Severus (he withers plants with eye contact).

4. Regulus is in charge.

5. Severus’ feelings matter (even the angry ones).

Regulus beamed.

“It’s official. You’re adored.”

Severus stared at the parchment as though it were written in some ancient language of suffering.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I refuse.”

“They voted. Democratically. And also they fear you, which is ideal for a leader.”

“I AM NOT THEIR LEADER.”

Regulus ruffled his hair. “You are our angry prince.”

Severus shoved him.  Regulus laughed harder.

The next few weeks were… chaos.

Everywhere Severus went:

• Bowing
• Compliments
• A first-year gifting him a single daisy
• A second-year playing a lute when he entered a classroom
• One child crying because “Sir Severus frowned at me - does that mean I failed today?”
  
  

Regulus began organising “smile attempts” on a schedule.

Severus snarled.  Growled.  Scowled. But - 

But one afternoon, a tiny first-year nervously held out a drawing she’d done of him (very dramatic cape, very large eyes, very small smile).

Severus almost -  Almost - 

Smiled.

Regulus nearly passed out from joy.

***

One evening in November, Severus walked down to the dungeon corridor.

A small cluster of first-years trotted up.

“Goodnight, Sir Snape!”

“Sleep well, sir!”

“Thank you for helping with our schedules!”

And they looked… safe.

Because of him. …I did that? He wondered to himself. I made them feel safe? Me?

He stood still for a long moment, heart tight.

Regulus leaned on the wall, smirking softly - not mocking, not this time.

“You’re good at this,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Regulus said simply. “They trust you. They think you’re strong. And fair. And terrifying. Perfect combination.”

Severus didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

But something in him unclenched. Just a little.

By Halloween, Severus Snape had:

• A prefect badge
• Financial stability
• A mentor who fed him
• A House that respected him
• A gaggle of tiny ducklings who adored him
• A club dedicated to making him smile
• And a best friend who mocked him constantly but would hex anyone else who tried
  
  

It wasn’t fate.  It wasn’t destiny. It wasn’t prophecy.

Just one old wizard signing the wrong document.

Entirely by accident.

***

Years rolled on.

Severus Snape grew taller, sharper, more composed, and infinitely more terrifying when sleep-deprived.  He excelled in Potions, blew past the apprenticeship track, won two awards before twenty, and eventually - inevitably - returned to Hogwarts.

Not as a student. Not as a wayward youth under magical protection.

But as Professor Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House.

He arrived the first term with a refined scowl, immaculate robes, and the ironclad intent to maintain strict emotional distance from every student under his care.

It lasted approximately three days.

Then a nervous first-year bowed at him.

And another.

And another.

Slughorn nearly fainted from the nostalgia.

Regulus (alive, smug, wealthy, and still a menace) sent a letter reading:

Dear Sev,
I hear you’ve regained your cult. Congratulations.
Love, R.

Severus burned the letter.  Five first-years bowed at him while he did so. This is ridiculous. I am a professional educator. Why are they arrayed like a ceremonial guard? No one trained them in this. Did they train themselves?

The answer was yes.  They did.

Because over the years, Severus Snape had become a legend.

They whispered stories about him:

• How he forced the castle to expel all the bullies in the school in one afternoon
• How he had become the “Protector of Ducklings,” a name he loathed
• How he once saved a first-year from a badly enchanted broom and then grumbled for six days about it
• How he brought Slytherin from feared to respected
• How he smiled once during a Quidditch match and seventeen people fainted
  
  

None of these stories were entirely true.  None were entirely false.

He hated every single one.  Except the broom story - he secretly liked that one.

And the duckling thing was - well - accurate. He had a gift for mentoring.  He just pretended he didn’t.

***

One late winter evening, Severus sat alone in his office. The fire was low.  The castle was quiet.  Outside, snow drifted like pale feathers across the grounds.

On his desk sat:

• A half-marked essay
• A potions journal
• A mug of tea gone tepid
• And a very old, very worn envelope
  
  

He opened it carefully. Inside was his prefect badge - slightly tarnished, ribbon faded, charm cracked but still warm to the touch.

He stared at it, remembering - 

Slughorn’s manor, Lavender sachets,  Gooseberry fool,  The parade of apologies,  Regulus’ stupid club,  Ducklings,  Hogwarts justice detonating like fireworks
A life bending, not breaking

He touched the badge gently.

If one thing had gone differently - if Albus had read the damn form - if the castle had stayed silent - if Slughorn hadn’t cared -   …where would I be?

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

He closed the envelope, tucked it away, and leaned back in his chair.

***

Winter, 7th year of Severus Snape as Professor and Head of House

Winter settled softly over the castle, muffling sound and smoothing stone. Snow drifted past Severus Snape’s office windows like silent confetti.

It was late.  Quiet.  Peaceful. Or it was, until Severus heard the unmistakable sound of someone struggling with the door password for his quarters.

There was muttering.  Shuffling.  A faint clink of glass. Then - 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, BELLADONNA BRINE, open up you sulking barrel of magic!”

The door swung open.

Severus snapped upright so fast his neck cracked.

“Head - Headmaster?” he said, disbelief creeping into his voice.

Because standing in the doorway -  covered in snow, dust, quill ink, and optimism -
was Albus Dumbledore.

Holding a travel bag.

And wearing the expression of a man who had finally found the fire escape in a building he’d been trapped in for half a century.

“Severus!” Albus exclaimed, sweeping into the office. “Pack your things!”

Severus blinked.  “…Excuse me?” Severus was processing the fact that this was the first time, in all his years of knowing Albus too-many-names Dumbledore, that the man had actually said his name correctly. 

“Oh, not your things,” Albus said breezily, tossing his bag onto a chair. “Mine.”

Severus stared at the bulging carpetbag. “…Why?”

“I’m leaving!”

“Leaving where?”

“Yes!” Albus said cheerfully.

“That… was not an answer.”

“No need for details,” Albus said, waving a hand. “Let’s keep the mystery alive, hm?”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are you running from something? Have you acquired a dangerous artefact? Did you offend the goblins? Again?”

“Certainly not!”  Pause.  “Well, not all at once.”

Albus beamed, strode to the middle of the room, spun on one heel, and declared with unearned triumph: “I resign.”

Severus nearly inhaled his own tongue.

“You - what?!”

“Yes!” Albus said, delighted. “It’s been eighty-four years!”

“You’re eighty-three.”

“Exactly!”

He clapped his hands. Fawkes materialised with a burst of flame, preening like a creature aware something deeply theatrical was about to happen.

Severus backed up a step.

“I don’t understand what’s happening. Shouldn’t you tell Minerva? This ..” he gestured over the vicinity of Albus and his packed bags, “seems like something she should know about.”

“Oh, Severus,” Albus sighed, stepping forward, “she will be informed in due time, of course. On my part, I have waited years - nay! DECADES - to find someone capable, ruthless, sensible, administratively literate, and hopefully less annoying than everyone else combined.”

Severus blinked.

“…And you’ve decided that’s me?”

“Yes! You! Who else?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I am not Headmaster material.”

Albus scoffed.  “Neither am I. Look how long they let me run the place!”

Severus opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Opened it again.

“Is Minerva aware of this?”

“No no,” Albus said cheerfully. “She’ll find out when the castle tells her.”

“The WHAT - ”

“And speaking of,” Albus added, briskly pulling a glowing crystal from his sleeve,  “here is the formal transfer of control.”

Severus stared.

“That looks like a phial of essence of murtlap.”

“Yes well, the castle takes many forms,” Albus said. “Don’t question it.”

He shoved the glowing object into Severus’ hands.

Magic slammed into Severus like a tidal wave. Ancient. Intelligent.  Old as the foundation stones. The castle’s wards stirred.  Settled.  Shifted. And then a voice in Severus’ mind, warm and powerful:

HEADMASTER ACKNOWLEDGED.

Severus’s knees nearly buckled.

“Dumbledore, what have you - ”

“You’ll be brilliant,” Albus said, patting his shoulder. “And more importantly - you can’t give the job back. Ancient rule. Very binding. Very tragic.”

Severus made a strangled noise.

Albus snapped his fingers.

Fawkes landed on his shoulder.

“Oh! Before I go,” Albus said, rummaging in his pocket,  “a farewell gift.”

He handed Severus a single lemon drop.

Severus did not take it.

Albus shrugged and ate it himself.

“Right!” he said brightly. “Good luck! Try not to blow anything up before breakfast.”

“Dumbledore - WAIT - ”

Too late.

Albus threw one arm around Fawkes’ neck, lifted his carpetbag like an irresponsible Mary Poppins, and declared:

“I am finally FREEEEEEEE!”

Flames burst around him -  gold, red, orange -   lighting the entire dungeon corridor like sunrise.

When the smoke cleared, he was gone.

And Severus Snape, thirty-something, traumatised, highly competent, definitely kidnapped by a job he had NOT applied for,  stood alone in his office.

Holding the literal keys to Hogwarts.

 I am going to kill him.  Then resurrect him.  Then kill him again. Noone would fault me.

Meanwhile, in Minerva’s Quarters

Minerva McGonagall was settling into bed, preparing for another night of sleep measured in hours too short for human survival.

She had just closed her eyes when the castle spoke.

In a crisp, precise tone:

“HEADMASTER TRANSFER COMPLETE. NEW HEADMASTER: SEVERUS TOBIAS SNAPE.”

Minerva sat bolt upright.

“…WHAT?”

A pause.

“ALBUS DUMBLEDORE HAS LEFT THE PREMISES.”

She blinked rapidly.

“HE WHAT?”

A softer tone, almost apologetic:

“He left a note. It says: ‘Gone to pursue very important business. Do not look for me.’”

Minerva stared into darkness.

Then, slowly, for the first time in decades, she lay back down. She pulled the blankets up and relaxed every single muscle.

And she slept. Soundly. Peacefully. Happily. For ten hours straight.

The castle hummed contentedly.

And far below, in the dungeons, Severus Snape stood in silent disbelief, glowing crystal in hand, wondering how, exactly, his life had become the world’s longest series of unplanned promotions.

END