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Act I

Prologue

The leaves crackle underfoot—louder than I would prefer. A chill gnaws at my spine. Irritating. I counter it with another warming charm.

The full moon offers little assistance; its light is feeble at best, useless at worst. I ignite my wand with a wordless Lumos. Pale light floods my hand, carving a pocket of clarity from the dark. My gaze lingers on it—too long. A haunting reminiscence rises, unwanted. I smother it.

My robes snap as I turn, stepping past the threshold of trees. The night is not my enemy, though it conspires to dredge up ghosts. But I have work to do. And ghosts are of no use to me.

My gaze settles on a patch of shining moondew, the prize of tonight’s outing. My harvest is precise as I neatly snip the shimmering flowers, collecting them in my Flitterbloom-covered hand to be wrapped and stowed away in enchanted vials. Snip. Wrap. Store. Snip. Wrap. Store. The rhythm is simple, practiced. Requires no thought. Good. At the edge of my perception, pale eyes glimmer in the darkness—Mooncalves, watching from the shadows, their quiet presence a mere flicker in the periphery.

By the time I retire, the night has surrendered to dawn. My collection of moondew now rests on the shelves, a luminous archive of the hours spent beneath the trees.

———

My eyes burn upon waking from what little sleep I could manage. I glare at the ceiling before reluctantly getting up and dressing for the day.

Three owls sit upon my desk expectantly as I exit my private rooms into my office. A sigh escapes me. It’s too early for this.

I pay the owls their expected treats and fees and send them off. Left behind are two letters and today’s edition of the Daily Prophet. One letter is from the Ministry. Undoubtedly to update me on the progress of my impending yet unwanted Order of Merlin. Fucking Potter. Again. As if I feel any amount of heroism for my actions in the war. They want to award me for killing one of the greatest wizards since Merlin? For murdering and torturing innocents as a Death Eater? How dare they thank me for such horror? Snorting in derision, I cast the unopened letter aside.

My gaze lands on the second letter, delivered by Potter’s unmistakably overenthusiastic owl. That Potter had orchestrated this damned Order of Merlin nonsense was unsurprising, and the boy could fling himself into the nearest ravine for all I cared. The letter remained unopened. I have no use for his pathetic explanations.

With my mail firmly disregarded, I switch my attention to the Daily Prophet on my desk. My eyes skim over the front page, catching words such as “ministerial election” and candidates proclaiming themselves arbiters of “post-war reform” before losing interest entirely and casting it aside as well with a tired sneer. It was too damn early for any of this.

---

Chapter One

“If Mac follows through on his promises,” Vector says, spearing a grape, “we might finally see some real reform.”

“Promises are the currency of politicians,” Sinistra replies, sipping her tea with practiced disdain. “They spend them freely, but rarely deliver the product.”

“I think you’re being unfair,” Flitwick interjects, ever the peacemaker. “The post-war world is fragile. Moderates like Mac may be the only hope of holding it together.”

“Moderates,” Sinistra snorts. “I’ve never trusted those who call themselves that. It’s a word people use when they’re afraid to admit where they actually stand.”

The scent of scorched toast and weak tea permeates the high table. I stare at my oatmeal, unappetizing and lumpy. A fitting metaphor for the morning.

It seems tossing aside The Daily Prophet was a futile gesture. The political discourse still finds its way to me, slinking through the air like a noxious gas.

“Kingsley has good intentions,” Vector presses. “But intentions don’t enact policy. Mac has momentum, presence—charisma.”

I stir my spoon slowly, watching oatmeal swirl like beige sludge. “Charisma is a dangerous substitute for substance,” I murmur, just loud enough to be heard.

Flitwick looks up from his teacup. “You have an opinion, Severus?”

I set my spoon down. “Only that you’re all putting rather a lot of faith in a man whose most tangible accomplishment thus far is a clever slogan.”

Vector frowns. “He’s advocating for reconciliation, not division.”

“He’s advocating for appeasement,” I say coolly. “And dressing it in language palatable to both sides. That’s not leadership. That’s opportunism.”

Sinistra chuckles dryly. “At least someone else sees it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with trying to unify people,” Flitwick insists, though his voice lacks conviction now.

“Unity,” I echo softly. “But under whose terms? Whose history will be rewritten, whose grievances erased, to preserve the illusion of peace?”

The room goes still for a moment. Even the tea kettle hums a little quieter.

No one answers.

I return to my oatmeal. Cold. Thick. Inedible. Much like the politics they’re so eager to swallow.

The conversation dwindles. Voices return to their placid hum, as though nothing of consequence had passed between them. Teacups clink. Someone chuckles politely at a joke I don’t hear.

I excuse myself without ceremony.

The corridors are mercifully empty. Morning classes have begun, leaving only the echo of my footfalls and the soft billow of my robes behind me. I find small solace in the order of it—the symmetry of arches, the rhythmic flicker of sconces on stone. This castle, at least, keeps to its patterns.

I reach my office precisely one minute before the hour. As always.

The first task is the same as every morning: shelves. I run my hand along each spine, ensuring alignment. Not for appearance, but because they must be in order. Alphabetically, categorically, chronologically. One volume slightly out of place and the entire shelf buzzes beneath my skin like a nerve misfiring.

Second: the quills. Fine-tipped ones in the silver-rimmed jar. Broad-stroked ones to the left. Emergency reserves, angled precisely thirty degrees. The inkpots must be labeled, uncapped, full. If one is less than one-quarter, it is replaced.

Third: the classroom. I enter silently, flicking my wand once to realign the chairs. They were already straight. That’s irrelevant.

It must be done.

There is comfort in control. In routine. In precision. In the quiet tyranny of pattern.

Because the alternative—the memories, the fragments, the faces, the crimson stains that won’t vanish with any spell—wait just beneath the surface. And routine is the only thing standing between me and them.

———

My footsteps echo through the corridor, measured and sharp against the flagstones. I’m en route to the headmistress’s office—another weekly intrusion disguised as a planning period. Minerva seems to believe her updates are indispensable. They are not.

Just as I resign myself to the tedium ahead, a flicker of motion catches my eye. Three seventh-years round the corner at full tilt, eyes wide with panic.

Providence occasionally remembers me after all.

“Halt!” I bark, my voice snapping through the air. “Five points from each of you. Where do you think you’re going, sprinting through the halls like cursed goblins?”

They skid to a stop, nearly tripping over one another.

“S-sir,” one of them stammers, Mister Chase, Ravenclaw, “we—we’re going to the hospital wing—we were attacked!”

My eyes narrow. “Attacked? By whom?”

“It had eyes—black eyes—and it moved fast—too fast—”

The second boy, Mister Scofield, also Ravenclaw, begins scratching at his forearm with frantic intensity. My attention shifts immediately.

Black tendrils coil beneath his skin, crawling toward his neck like slow-moving frost.

I seize his wrist and lift the edge of his sleeve—beneath the frantic scratches, I find two puncture marks, inflamed and ringed with bruising.

A familiar scent hits me—bitter, vegetal, almost acidic. I inhale carefully.

Tentacula. Or something very near it.

“What were you doing before this?” I demand.

“We were near Greenhouse Three,” the third boy, Mister Bailey, Hufflepuff, manages, pale as parchment. “Didn’t even touch anything—it just—it just lashed out!”

Greenhouse Three. Naturally.

I step closer to the boy and locate a similar tear in his collar. Another set of puncture marks. The surrounding veins have already blackened slightly.

“Possibly venomous tentacula,” I say tightly. “Though this reaction is atypical.”

Mister Bailey crumples before I can question him further. I catch him with a flick of my wand and rise.

“Move,” I snap. “Now.”

They follow in silence, stumbling in my wake as I lead them to the hospital wing.

———

Poppy barely spares me a glance as I levitate the unconscious boy onto the nearest bed. She’s already rolling up her sleeves.

“What happened?” she asks curtly, flicking her wand over Bailey’s prone form.

“Venomous tentacula—presumably,” I reply. “Though the symptoms are irregular.”

She mutters under her breath, then jabs her wand at his chest. “Cardia Revelio.”

A faint golden glow pulses over his sternum—too fast, too erratic.

“Heart’s racing,” she says. “Not surprising. Let’s check oxygen levels.”

She passes her wand over his mouth. “Aeris Diagnos.”

A faint mist escapes his lips—sickly grey-green instead of the expected pale blue. Poppy’s mouth tightens.

“Diminished oxygen saturation,” she mutters. “Lungs are being affected.”

The two conscious students remain hunched in chairs, still wide-eyed. Mister Chase clutches his forearm, where the inky tendrils now creep toward his shoulder.

Poppy notices instantly.

“Let me see that,” she says, already reaching.

Chase flinches, but she grips his wrist firmly, rotating it beneath her wand. “Epidermis Revelio.”

A translucent projection of his arm materializes in the air, veins branching upward—not stopping at the shoulder, but curling toward the spine like roots seeking deeper ground.

Poppy clicks her tongue. “Nasty work.”

“The eyes,” Scofield murmurs, voice thin and hollow.

She glances back to the unconscious Mister Bailey. “Severus—lift his eyelids.”

I comply.

The whites of his eyes are gone—his sclerae now pitch black, gleaming like wet stone.

Poppy exhales through her nose. “Delightful.”

She straightens and snaps her fingers. A clipboard and self-writing quill glide into the air beside her.

“Heart rate elevated. Oxygen compromised. External symptoms progressing toward the spine. Pupils unresponsive.”

A flick of her wand over his chest. “Sanguis Revelio.”

A single droplet rises from his forearm, darkening into a sickly green threaded with thin black tendrils.

She makes a sound of displeasure. “Yes… tentacula venom, but reacting far more aggressively than standard strain. Either a mutation or a secondary agent is at play.”

She turns toward the storeroom. “I’ll need a concentrated antidote—standard formulation won’t suffice.”

Chase swallows hard. “H-how long does he have?”

Poppy doesn’t slow her stride. “If we’re lucky—hours.”

I remain silent.

She reemerges moments later, arms full of vials and diagnostic parchment. “I’ll begin stabilization procedures. But I need you to brew the antidote, Severus. High-potency. Targeted for neurological absorption.”

I nod once.

She doesn’t look at me when she adds, “We’ll lose him otherwise.”

———

The cauldron’s surface is mirror-smooth, reflecting the dim candlelight of my office. I stir, precise and measured, my movements dictated by discipline rather than thought. Twelve clockwise rotations.

Precision is everything. It is the barrier between control and ruin, between stability and collapse.

I grind mooncap root into a fine powder with steady hands, pressing the pestle in slow, deliberate circles. The mortar rasps against the stone countertop sharply, grounding me. My breathing matches the rhythm.

The boy’s veins had darkened rapidly. Far too rapidly. I flick my wand, watching the powdered mooncap disperse into the now bubbling solution. The fumes curl upwards, acrid and biting, but my mind remains fixed on the problem.

Greenhouse Three. The students had claimed they found the plant in Greenhouse Three.

Impossible.

Greenhouse Three contained standard venomous tentacula, yes, but nothing beyond Pomona’s carefully regulated stock. If one of them had mutated—no, that was ridiculous. This wasn’t a mere variation. This was something else.

I increase the flame beneath the cauldron with three flicks of my wand. The potion thickens, its surface rippling as the color deepens to the precise shade of viridian required. A fraction off, and the antidote would be useless. I exhale sharply, reaching for the final ingredient, a single drop of asphodel extract.

The boy’s hand had spasmed when I lifted his sleeve. That moment replayed, unbidden. The frantic scratching. The fear in his eyes. The unnatural black creeping beneath his skin, like roots hunting for purchase.

Enough. I tip the asphodel into the cauldron and extinguish the flame with a sharp flick of my wand.

The potion settles into stillness.

I decant it into a thin, amber-tinted vial, sealing it with a firm push of my thumb. The antidote was complete.

The real work has only just begun.

I wipe a stray trace of mooncap dust from my sleeve and stride toward the floo. I would deliver the antidote, ensure the boy survived. And then—then, I’m going to Greenhouse Three myself.

I’m approaching Greenhouse Three when I see it.

Even in the deep hush of night, its grotesque silhouette stands out—illuminated starkly in the pale glow of my wand. A cursed mutation of venomous tentacula, trailing low along the greenhouse wall. Its tendrils writhe languidly in place of leaves, and its paracress eyes tiny and glinting, follow my movements with unsettling precision. But the most disturbing detail by far is its behavior: docile. Silent. Watching.

That same specimen savaged three students just hours prior. Why this eerie calm in my presence?

I follow the vine, wand raised, as it slithers with uncanny intent toward the forest’s edge. There, it vanishes into a narrow crevice in the earth—just wide enough for a broad-shouldered man to descend. Suspiciously perfect in proportion. A trap, almost certainly.

With a flick of my wand, I send a Patronus streaking toward the castle for Poppy. “Inform Minerva of the situation if I am not heard from within twenty minutes. I’m investigating the tentacula,” I say coolly, my voice clipped and calm.

Then I descend.

The moment my boots brush the cave floor, a malignant force yanks me downward. I hit the stone hard, breath knocked from my lungs, pain shooting up my side. When I look up, the opening above is sealed in black miasma, roiling thickly like ink in water. My only exit, gone.

“Brilliant,” I mutter sourly. “Truly inspired.”

I sit up slowly, rubbing one elbow with a grimace. “Lumos,” I murmur, to no effect. Only when I cast Lumos Maxima does the darkness retreat enough to reveal the jagged stone walls surrounding me.

Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble.

Who? And why? The Death Eaters are imprisoned. My reputation, though recently rehabilitated, is hardly pristine; many still resent my name, my pardon, and that infernally looming Order of Merlin. Still, this…this feels personal.

I press forward.

The cave’s walls narrow into a tunnel, and through the thick, humid air comes a strange whispering interspersed with hissing static, like broken wireless transmissions. At the tunnel’s end, a second chamber opens up. And there, against all logic, stands a bookshelf, carved directly into the rock.

One book rests at its center.

It is an abomination—void-black, its surface writhing with etched eyes and coiling limbs. The moment I lay eyes on it, a low, sickly thrum begins to resonate in the air, vibrating not just in my ears but something behind my eyes. Something deeper.

I test it. Revelio. Homenum Revelio. Portus? Spell after spell returns only static, incoherent data. Impossible. Magic doesn’t fail me.

I step closer.

The book is not a Portkey. It did not explode or vanish. It simply was—and it waited.

The leather, if it could be called that, is slick and unyielding. The script on its cover shimmers with an unnatural, phosphorescent green when I touch it, echoing the symbols carved across the cave’s walls.

It is meant for me. Of that, I am now certain.

But by whom?

I weigh my options. I could wait. Perhaps Minerva would find a way to breach the barrier. But how long would that take? Days? Weeks? Would they even think to look here?

And the book…it calls to me.

I inhale slowly. Then, with a resigned flick of my wrist, I open it.

Nothing.

Relief and tension war inside me. I turn a page. Then another. My eyes narrow as I attempt to parse the sinuous script.

Then the pages ripple.

Tentacles—dozens—erupt from the book’s spine and binding, slithering forth with astonishing speed. They seize me by the limbs, chest, throat, and drag me—headfirst—into the abyss within the book’s pages.

And the book closes around me.

 

———

 

I awaken on a stone floor, my breath shallow and my limbs trembling. The air is bitterly cold—unnaturally so, as if leeching heat straight from the marrow. Disoriented, my first instinct is to reach for my wand. When my fingers close around it, I exhale a slow, shaken breath—relief tempered with suspicion. Why is it still with me?

The chill gnaws at my bones, persistent and intelligent. It takes three warming charms layered atop one another before I can feel my fingers again. Even then, the cold lingers in my chest like grief.

I rise to my feet and survey the alien realm around me. It is no mere library. This place…is alive. Oceans of black ink churn and roil beneath sickly green skies and spires of grotesquely spiraling towers, each forged from piles of tomes, some of which moan softly as their pages turn autonomously. The air pulses with arcane pressure, thick with the smell of mildew and sulfur.

As I move deeper into the shifting architecture, the silence becomes almost ritualistic; sacred, somehow.

Then I see it.

A figure—no, a presence—hovering between shelves like a priest of some old, forgotten order. It does not walk. It drifts, its lower half dissolving into shadow and smoke. Its form is pale, but not in any familiar way—slick and sickly, like yellowed parchment left to steep in brine. Long arms hang limp at its sides, boneless-seeming, ending in clawed fingers that twitch as if tasting the air.

Where its face ought to be, there is only a caved-in hollow surrounded by folds of quivering tissue. No eyes. No mouth. And yet I know, viscerally, that it sees me.

Its body trembles faintly, like it is vibrating just out of sync with reality, as though my eyes are failing to fully grasp it.

Then, slowly, it raises one arm and points. At me.

I hold its gaze, if it can be called that, for one suspended beat.

When I step forward, a dull, grating static begins to rise in my ears, like the whisper of parchment rubbed raw.

I press on.

Eventually, I reach the end of a corridor formed entirely of tomes—some bound in materials I’d rather not speculate upon. There, resting upon a pedestal, is a black book, much like the one that brought me here. Its surface shimmers like oil on water, and something about it feels alive. Not in the way a magical artifact pulses with enchantment, but in the way a Dementor resonates a grieving cold.

The instant my fingers graze the cover, a voice wet, ancient, and impossibly knowing floods my mind.

“Ah… at last. Severus Snape.”

My robes snap as I spin, wand raised high, eyes scanning the void.

“Who speaks?” I demand, my tone braver than I feel.

A low chuckle ripples through my consciousness—mocking, amused.

“You stand before Hermaeus Mora. Guardian of the unseen. Knower of the unknown. Master of fate’s currents.”

From the gloom, his form materializes: a grotesque corona of writhing tendrils and blinking eyes.

“I have been watching you, Severus Snape. And I am…impressed.”

My gut coils in protest. I meet his gaze coolly.

“Impressed?” I echo. “You must have a rather generous standard.”

He doesn’t laugh, not audibly. But something in the air contracts, as though laughter has occurred without sound.

“I do not know your name,” I say slowly, wand still trained, though its weight now feels woefully inadequate. “Nor your kind. What are you?”

“I am knowledge incarnate. Fate bound in ink. The truth behind illusion.”

“I asked what, not how you dress yourself in metaphors.” The words escape before I can stop them—a reflex, deflection. I am stalling. Learning.

Mora shifts. His eyes blink out of sync, their gaze worming through my thoughts. I grit my teeth. Occlumens. Anchor the self. Wall the mind. But my defenses bend. He is not reading, I realize with dread; he is absorbing. Harvesting.

“You are no stranger to mental fortresses,” he notes, almost idly. “Primitive…but not without merit.”

“If you have something to say,” I bite out, voice low and taut, “say it plainly. I’ve no taste for riddles in places I don’t yet understand.”

The pressure in my mind intensifies. I shove back, seizing the intrusion with brute force—a mistake.

My mind erupts. Visions, concepts—alien, ancient, esoteric—spill through, raw and indecipherable. I wrench myself free, reeling back, breath ragged. I swipe at my nose. Blood. Of course.

Words press in again, uninvited.

“How quaint. The last mortal to breach my defenses was Merlin. He too found curiosity a poor shield.”

I say nothing. Let the parasite monologue.

“What is it you sought here, Severus Snape? Redemption? Understanding? Or perhaps the answer to your favorite question—what could I have done differently?”

Visions slice through me—Lily’s dead eyes, the Dark Lord’s hiss, Albus’s weary smile. My skull throbs.

“Enough!” I snarl. “If you know me, then you know I’ve pondered such things into oblivion.”

His amusement is palpable. “Indeed. And now you stand in my realm of Oblivion.”

I stiffen. So it was him. The tentacula, the cave, the book— all orchestrated.

“You led me here,” I murmur, the realization sour on my tongue. “Why?”

The name—Oblivion—lingers. I don’t understand it. And that, more than anything, sets my teeth on edge.

Tendrils shudder—more laughter, perhaps. Mora ignores my question. “Do you crave power? Forbidden truths? What does my little pawn desire?”

I recoil at the word. “I am no one’s pawn.”

“Anymore,” he purrs.

I say nothing. Better silence than indulgence.

He shifts again. “Not even for the fruit of forgotten lore? The shadowed strength beyond mortal reach?”

My face remains a mask. I will not show how well he reads me.

“I am not that man anymore.”

A sigh rattles through the void. “It matters not. You will serve me—or join the others who linger here. Forever.”

His gaze shifts. I follow it. A heap of bones.

I swallow. The truth is inescapable. No path home. No tether to the world I knew.

“I see.”

I lower my wand, though I do not sheath it.

“What do you require of me?”

I will serve. For now.

“Ah. And now we begin,” Mora intones. “There are nine souls, scattered across Nirn. Dead in name, but not in essence. Each bears a shard of a greater design. I want them.”

“Souls.” Merlin preserve me if I must locate horcruxes.

“Dragon priests, Severus Snape. They rot in tombs. They wait in temples. And now, they wait for you.”

I narrow my eyes.

“And when I’ve collected these ‘shards’?”

“Then…the door will open.”

I hesitate. The door?

And what waits beyond the door…?

“I will not tell you now,” Mora answers my thoughts. “But I promise—it will be…instructional.”

One moment, I’m standing in that accursed void of a realm, glaring bitterly at Mora. Then I blink—and suddenly I’m in a snowbank, slimy tentacles slipping off me. My lip curls at the sensation as I wipe snow off myself before standing.

The blistering cold bites deep. I draw my wand and murmur a warming charm under my breath. The spell barely takes—its heat thin, fleeting, swallowed almost instantly by the relentless wind. I cast again to the same result—a third, fourth, fifth futile attempt.

This is no Scottish winter.

By the sixth attempt, the heat still fades like a match in a blizzard. My breath rasps out in clouds. I bite down hard against the urge to curse—not magically, but vulgarly. I pull my robes tighter, refusing to shiver in this ungodly cold.

I look around. Seeing what appears to be city walls in the distance through the dense trees, I start walking.

A guard clad in fur armor, marked by a blue sash, stands at the gate, barring my path.

“You seem lost, stranger. Necromancers aren’t welcome here in Windhelm.” His voice lands with a rhythmic cadence—gruff, deliberate, like each word was hammered into place. I am briefly surprised to hear him speak English. But it grates. I barely suppress the urge to roll my eyes.

“How astute. A man in black must clearly raise the dead.”

“So you do practice dark magic?”

My expression hardens. “No. But your witless accusations are rapidly testing my restraint.” I draw my cloak tighter about myself. “Now, unless this city bars entrance on the basis of wardrobe, I suggest you step aside.”

The guard snorts derisively. “In you get, then—before your dainty Imperial hide freezes solid. Wouldn’t want the Empire blaming us for your fragility.”

I narrow my eyes, noting the unfamiliar term. Imperial. I do not know what it means, nor why freezing is cause for amusement—but I’ll not betray my ignorance. I pass through the gates in silence.

Inside Windhelm, I shove my hands into my pockets and take in the foreign architecture. I begin to shiver—much to my irritation—and quickly head toward the nearest flaming brazier.

A beggar approaches as I’m warming my trembling hands. “Please, sir! Just one septim!”

She mistakes my blank confusion for cold indifference and presses again. “Please, sir! A single gold piece is all I ask!”

I retrieve a galleon from my pocket and hand it to her. She eyes it curiously.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“You could say that.”

She shrugs. “Blessings of Arkay upon you.”

A ripple of warmth travels up my spine, feather-light and faintly luminous. Curious.

I file the sensation away for later analysis.

I glance once more at the woman as she shuffles away, coin clutched in her fist. The presence of beggars here raises questions. This is not the wizarding world, but neither is it wholly Muggle. And yet even here, there are peasants. Poverty persists.

So much for even the fantasy of escape.

Wandering the city, teeth clenched against the cold, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of my robes once again, I decide to search for a bookstore sign. I pass by strange conversations held in stranger dialects. 

“Damn grey-skins. They ‘tink they run this city.”

“If you ask me, we should round up all the Dunmer and ship ‘em off somewhere.”

Dunmer. Grey-skins. How splendid, the first thing I learn of this new world is discriminatory language.

I find myself in a district occupied by the aforementioned dark-skinned elves and pass a man hurling spit and slurs at them. I purse my lips in disgust. Even across worlds, the inclination to spit on one’s neighbor persists.

A crooked sign reads Sadri’s Used Wares. Perhaps there will be research material.

I nod curtly to the shopkeeper and head for the shelves of used books. The best way to learn a new world is to read its history.

My fingers drift along the spines, pausing only when a title catches my eye. The Firmament?

Of course. The constellations here are foreign—this is not Earth. Not even the same skies. A new astral system entirely.

And with that, an inconvenient question: how many of my potions will become inert beneath the wrong stars?

I tuck the book under my arm and continue searching, now with a touch more urgency.

On Oblivion.

“And now you stand in my realm of Oblivion,” echoes in my mind. I pull out the book.

“It is improper, however customary, to refer to the denizens of the dimension of Oblivion as ‘demons.’”

…Noted.

I skim in search of a description of Oblivion.

“Apparently, Oblivion is a place composed of many lands -- thus the many names for which Oblivion is synonymous: Coldharbour, Quagmire, Moonshadow, etc. It may be correctly supposed that each land of Oblivion is ruled over by one prince. The Daedra princes whose names appear over and over in ancient records (though this is not an infallible test of their authenticity or explicit existence, to be sure) are the afore-mentioned Sanguine, Boethiah, Molag Bal, and Sheogorath, and in addition, Azura, Mephala, Clavicus Vile, Vaernima, Malacath, Hoermius (or Hermaeus or Hormaius or Herma -- there seems to be no one accepted spelling) Mora, Namira, Jyggalag, Nocturnal, Mehrunes Dagon, and Peryite.”

Must there be so many?

A piece falls into place in my mind. So Mora is no aberration, merely one face in a pantheon of malignancy. What are these Daedra, though?

I find my answer in another book, Aedra and Daedra.

“‘Aedra’ is usually translated as ‘ancestor,’ which is as close as Cyrodilic can come to this Elven concept. ‘Daedra’ means, roughly, ‘not our ancestors.’”

I read further. Aedra can be killed. Daedra can only be banished. Do these Daedra exist outside our dimension? Is that why they’re invincible?

That question remains unanswered.

I set the book aside and draw forth another volume—Beggar Prince. A cautionary tale cloaked in myth, or perhaps the precise opposite. A beggar gains the favor of Namira, Daedric Prince of repulsiveness and decay. In return, she grants him personal dominion over rot, filth, and pestilence everlasting.

These Princes…yes. Demon is far too kind a euphemism. Power granted always demands something in return. So what, then, will I owe Mora?

The thought festers. I push it aside, for now.

The next book I seize is The Monomyth, a tangled web of overlapping origin myths. Pagan cosmology meets academic excess. But one phrase halts my skimming:

“Man or mer.”

So, mer—not simply a word, but a category. Elven kind, separate from man. My curiosity stirs. Just how many categories does this world delight in?

Racial Phylogeny provides the answer: Mer, Man, Beastfolk—and things in between. The elves are subdivided: Dunmer, Altmer, Bosmer, Orsimer.

What a society. What an obsession with blood and name. Even here, there is pedigree and prejudice, neatly codified. The guard outside the gates had identified me as an Imperial…

“Oi. You planning to buy something? Or just loitering for free?”

Snapped from my reverie, I glance outside—it’s grown darker. I sigh, glaring tiredly as I gather the books that pique my interest and approach the counter, only to remember my foreign currency. It makes no difference to the man; gold is gold. I inquire about potion supplies and receive directions to an apothecary known as The White Phial.

I pass more loudly held conversations on my way. Complaints of the cold. Shouts from merchants of their fresh selections and fine wares. Casual mentions of murdered kin. These people have no tact.

The apothecary reeks of damp wood and something acrid—pickled ingredients, perhaps. Mismatched jars fill shelves in no apparent order: some cleanly labeled, others etched in unintelligible scrawl. Familiar herbs intermingle with grotesque curiosities: butterfly wings pinned to cork, translucent fungi pulsing faintly, what appears to be the toe of a giant suspended in brine.

A crude potions station squats in the corner like an afterthought. I eye it, unimpressed.

Then I spot the owner—Nurelion, if Sadri’s accent hadn’t butchered the name. He does not greet me. Nor do I offer a smile.

“What d’you need?” he grunts. “Cure disease? You’re looking pale. Rockjoint?”

A dull attempt at insult. I let the silence stretch until it grows uncomfortable. He doesn’t fill it.

I collect what I recognize—juniper berries, nightshade, a few dried mushrooms—and spare a glance at the more garish offerings: ash-caked roots, glinting insect wings, and a cluster of blue spores trapped in glass like a diseased snow globe. Ludicrous.

As I scan a recipe nailed to a shelf, Nurelion mutters, “If you’re here to answer the Aretino boy’s prayers, you’re doing a poor job of hiding it.”

I turn slowly, eyebrow raised. “I beg your pardon?”

“My apologies,” he says, managing neither tone nor posture to match the sentiment. “You look like a mage assassin, dressed like that. Figured you were with the Brotherhood. Happy to be wrong.”

I exhale a humorless snort. Necromancer, now murderer. A theme is forming.

“How charming. Do you assign guilt based on garment alone, or was there a citywide training course?”

“Only the deceptive wear black like that,” he shrugs. “Necromancers, dark wizards, Daedra cultists.” His gaze drops to the coin I place on the counter. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Your powers of deduction are staggering,” I reply, voice arid. “No. I am not.”

“Then a tip: buy some proper robes. That sack won’t stop a snowflake, let alone a storm.”

I bristle. “My robes are enchanted.”

“Against frost?” he presses, eyes narrowing. I say nothing. “Didn’t think so. You’ll freeze before the week’s out. Buy some robes.”

I collect my purchases with clipped precision. Skyrim, it seems, is as frigid socially as it is climatically.

Outside, the cold returns with a vengeance, clawing through the weak warming charm clinging to my robes.

I pull out Fire and Darkness from beneath my cloak. The tome is well-worn, its binding cracked, as if it’s passed through many dubious hands. I flip to the section I glimpsed earlier—on the Dark Brotherhood.

“The Dark Brotherhood is not considered a religious order by most, merely a secular organization, offering murder for gold.”

How dreadfully efficient.

A secret cult of assassins, known to the public by name? Either a mark of bravado or a calculated veil—one designed to make their true reach impossible to trace. I close the book, undecided. I’ll withhold judgment. For now.

From my satchel, I produce the map I purchased, its parchment stiff. I scan the districts until I find it: the Aretino residence, tucked in the Gray Quarter like a splinter.

I will investigate tomorrow.

For now, I require warmth, a locked door, and several uninterrupted hours to process this wretched day—an inn, then.

The walk to Candlehearth Hall is frigid, but the map shortens my search.

Warm smells of venison stew and mead greet me, followed by the soft strums of a lute. For once, the noise is tolerable.

I stand still for a moment, breathing in the warmth, before composing myself and approaching the innkeeper. I ask for a room and hand over ten galleons along with a request for the house special.

She eyes the currency but, like the others, accepts it.

I go straight to my room and lock the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, my stew abandoned on the table, I let the weight of the day settle upon my shoulders. In the silence, I close my eyes and begin to revisit the whirlwind of unfamiliarity and cold, of curiosity and quiet strangeness, that has unfolded since I arrived.

For the first time today, my shoulders begin to lower—then a voice trickles into my mind, thick as oil, slow as rot. 

“You adapt well, Severus Snape. I knew I was right to choose you.”

My eyes snap open. I glare at the ceiling, the boards above me no more capable of privacy than Apocrypha’s void.

I hate being chosen.

I didn’t choose you, I think in bitter resentment.

But the silence that follows is thick with satisfaction. Not mine.

A muscle in my jaw ticks. That voice—unwelcome, ever watching—is beginning to make its nest in my mind.

And I don’t take kindly to parasites.

In the small hours of the morning, the taste of venison returns with venom. I barely reach the basin in time, gasping and sputtering violently. When the heaving ends, I rest my forehead on the edge of the basin and stare at the cold stone floor.

Even the food here rebels.

I mutter Aguamenti, and water spills from my wand into my palm. I rinse my mouth, spit it out in the basin, then pause, frowning. It tastes…wrong.

Flat. Metallic. Not quite like lake water. Not quite like anything I’ve ever drunk.

I conjured it. It should be mine.

But it isn’t.

I swallow what little remains, despite the taste. My stomach clenches in protest. 

Dare I attempt breakfast?

I don my allegedly inferior robes with unsteady arms. I drag a hand through my limp hair, pulling it away from my face. A glance out the window tells me it’s still quite early. No matter. The night has already spat me out. 

I exit my room to find a different inn than the one I saw last night. Scarcely anyone is awake, save an old man in a white apron. 

“Can’t sleep?” the man asks without looking up, wiping down a counter with a cloth as worn as his voice.

“Didn’t plan on it,” I rasp, voice still raw.

He glances over and frowns. “You look paler than an ice wraith. Sit. I’ll get you something.”

I don’t argue. The room spins once when I sit. Lovely.

He returns with a crude mug of steaming liquid. “Blue mountain flower tea. Good for the gut. Tastes like a wet pelt.”

He’s not wrong.

It scalds my tongue, bitter and floral and unforgivably wild. But it settles something. The nausea ebbs. The headache thins. I take another sip, slower this time.

“Thank you,” I mutter, the words tasting as strange as the tea. 

He only shrugs as he returns to his tidying. “Don’t mention it.”

I retrieve the Herbalist’s Guide I’d purchased from Sadri’s and leaf through it, indulging in a bit of light research. The hours until dawn pass easily—sipping tea, absorbing unfamiliar alchemical theory, making quiet comparisons to Earth’s own.

Fascinating that they call potion-making alchemy here, as if the terms were interchangeable. What would they make of Nicholas Flamel’s philosopher’s stone? Would they scoff—or attempt to worship it? Too early to say.

When light finally begins to slip through the warped shutters of the inn, I cast a silent Tempus, half expecting the spell to fail in this strange world.

It doesn’t. Almost seven o’clock.

Satisfied, I tap the book with my wand, shrinking it to palm-size before slipping it into my pocket. I pass the cook on my way out and offer a single, silent nod in thanks.

 

———

 

“Sweet mother, sweet mother…” A boy’s voice drones, as if repeating lines long since stripped of meaning. “Ugh. How much longer is this going to take?”

The house groans beneath my feet, every step pressing the scent of mildew deeper into my nostrils. Up the stairs, the sound sharpens: metal on wood. A ritual’s heartbeat.

A boy kneels in a crooked circle of candles, muttering his plea to the floor.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother…”

With each word, he drives a dagger into a pile of wilted nightshade.

“…send your child unto me…”

The petals are already black—he seems determined to destroy them further.

“…for the sins of the unworthy…”

The smell of death reaches me before I see the skeleton.

“…must be baptized in blood and fear.”

My eyes widen minutely at the ghastly scene. Rotting flesh, a skeleton, and a circle of candles surround the boy. The smell alone nearly turns my stomach—but how in Merlin’s name did the boy even acquire this? Grave robbing? Or something worse?

The boy’s head snaps up at the creak of the floorboards beneath my boots. For a moment, his expression freezes in shock—then blooms into radiant joy.

“It worked! Finally! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!”

I suppress a sigh. Of course.

It seems I resemble exactly what he was hoping to summon. If I’m to learn anything useful, I’ll have to play the part. So I do.

Drawing on the scant knowledge I have of the Brotherhood, I craft my reply with care.

“Indeed, child. Your summons was heard. Now…who is it you wish dead?”

The boy’s excitement flickers, dimmed by memory.

“When…my mother died, they sent me to that awful orphanage in Riften. Honorhall.”

His small hands curl into fists. “It’s the headmistress. She’s evil. They call her Grelod the Kind, but she’s not kind—she’s cruel. To all of us.”

He shivers. “So I ran away. Came home. Did the Black Sacrament like the book said. And now you’re here! You can kill her!”

I hesitate.

The room still reeks of rot and candle wax, but it’s the boy’s smile that unsettles me most—bright and trusting, untouched by the gravity of what he’s asked.

I bury my judgment.

“So I am. And so I shall. This…‘Grelod the Kind’ will trouble you no longer.”

His grin splits wide—pure, uncorrupted triumph. 

 After Mora’s first task, then. I’ll see who this Grelod the Kind really is. 

The boy scurries to a drawer and pulls out a small item—an ornate dish, no doubt scavenged from the remnants of whatever life he once had.

“Here. You can have this. It’s the Aretino heirloom. Mother said it’s worth something.”

He holds it out with both hands, as though offering his heart.

I don’t move.

“Keep it.”

The boy blinks. “But…it’s for payment. For the assassination.”

“I am not a sellsword.” My voice is flat. “Nor do I take payment from children.”

He hesitates, confused, then slowly lowers the heirloom, clutching it to his chest. 

I eye the boy. “What’s your name, child?” Does it matter? 

“Aventus, sir.” 

Latin. Like a wizard’s name. The similarities between this world and mine are as innumerable as the differences. 

I turn for the door before the silence grows unbearable.

 

———

 

The cold is not a season here. It is a predator.

It hunts without haste, without mercy. By the time I realize how deep it has seeped—into my gloves, beneath my robes, up through the soles of my boots—it is far too late to drive it out.

I cast a flame into my palm and shield it from the wind, hunched like a common beggar. It gutters and hisses, threatening to die with every gust. The fire does not warm me so much as remind me that I am not yet dead.

Skyrim stretches before me like a wound—open, frostbitten, indifferent. The landscape lacks all rhythm or reason. Crags rise where plains should be. Rivers freeze mid-flow, jagged and glassy. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is kind.

I press forward, guided only by a map and the Point Me spell, which I cast with increasing frequency. Each time, the wand jerks in a direction—sometimes subtly, sometimes violently. North, always north. Until it doesn’t.

At first, I think it’s fatigue. Or a flaw in the charm. But no, my magic flickers. As if something in this land interferes with its function. It fails for only a moment, but the moment is enough. I do not trust it anymore.

Night falls early.

I conjure a bedroll beneath a stand of barren trees, their branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of hanged men. It vanishes with the dawn, as conjurations do. I wake to frozen limbs and a jaw clenched so tightly I feel it in my molars. Sleep had come in scraps, interrupted by the wind’s howling and a distant sound I still cannot place.

Too high to be human. Too long to be animal.

No tracks in the snow. Whatever made the sound did not come close. Or it did and left no trace.

I move on, because I must. Because there is no alternative. 

By the afternoon of the second day, the snow begins to recede, but the cold does not. The ice gives way to sludge, the ground sucking irritatingly at my boots with each step. Pine trees crowd in now, dark and close, the air thick with their resinous scent.

I am exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that settles in the joints and begs for sleep even as I walk. My muscles burn. My mind, sharpened for years by necessity, begins to blur at the edges.

I reach a narrow bridge just past midday, spanning a ravine too deep to cross without it. The wood creaks under my footfalls, warped by moisture and decay. And then—a voice.

“Hold there.”

Three of them. One to each side, and one blocking the path ahead. Fur armor. Blades visible. Their faces are half-covered by wraps of cloth, but I can see the twitch of amusement in the one who speaks. His accent is thick, his tone unyielding. 

“Toll road. Gold, or blood.”

I raise my wand. “Move.”

He laughs. It’s wet and stupid, and I feel something inside me tighten.

“You don’t look like you got much, anyway. But we’ll take a look.”

The second steps forward.

I don’t remember casting the first spell. Just a flick, a whisper of thought—and he drops with a flash of green, eyes wide with surprise he never gets to voice. The third draws his blade too slowly. He falls before it clears its sheath.

Only the leader remains. He has no clever words now. He lunges. I Disarm. He stumbles. I strike.

It is over in seconds.

They lie sprawled across the bridge, steaming slightly in the cold. The only sound is the wind, and the faint hiss of melting snow beneath a corpse’s cheek. My wand lowers.

I stare at the scattered bodies. Not in horror or triumph. In disbelief, at how little it took. How easily it returned. The instinct to kill. 

I feel nothing.

No—that isn’t true.

I feel ashamed.

Not because they didn’t deserve it. They did. They would’ve killed me if I’d hesitated. But because I didn’t hesitate. Because it had been…easy.

I search their bodies. I need shelter. Provisions. One carries dried meat. Another has a flask of something sharp enough to sting the nose. I find a bedroll that isn’t soaked through and unroll it several feet from the bridge, behind a bush of unidentifiable berries.

I sleep beside the dead.

The bedroll is scratchy. The furs stink of sweat. But they remain. They stay warm. I wrap myself in them like a man who no longer deserves better. 

 

———

 

By the third day, the world begins to change.

The cold thins first, gradually, like a fever breaking. The muddy sludge gives way to dirt, then grass. Trees change shape, tall birch and maple, their leaves clinging in vibrant reds and greens. The air tastes different here. Damp, but not bitter. Almost sweet.

I remove my warming charm once I’ve thawed out. The lack of pain in my extremities feels unnatural. A trick. A trap laid by nature itself.

Skyrim continues to surprise me.

Back home, the land obeys seasonal law—winter bleeds into spring, spring to summer. Predictable. Structured. Climate is not a cycle here; it is geography.

I should find the beauty here arresting. Should. The colors are brilliant in the afternoon light. The wind no longer howls; it sighs.

But none of it touches me.

“Where the Wall rests lies the gem. Fetch it. Harvest the essence of the undead with its magic. Use this spell.”

I can feel the spell he gave me nestled somewhere behind my eyes. I haven’t cast it. I don’t dare. But it’s there, waiting. Soul magic. Vile, detestable. I spent half a lifetime avoiding it. And now, it sits like a thorn in my mind, pulsing with foreign intent.

I clutch my wand tighter.

I am not that man anymore.

And yet…I am here. I came anyway.

I press on. The path narrows and slopes downward. A ruin waits ahead—Angarvunde, if the map is to be trusted—partially collapsed into the earth, its entrance gaping like a mouth. Vines and dead foliage cling to the surrounding fallen stonework, suggesting long abandonment. 

A figure waits at a camp set up just outside the cave entrance. 

A woman, clad in steel, sits against a lopsided column just outside the entrance. She sharpens her blade in slow, rhythmic strokes, the rasp of stone on steel slicing through the stillness. Her gaze lifts when I draw near.

“Step carefully,” she says without preamble. “This one’s a hungry place.”

I don’t stop. My robes drag through the dead leaves. She doesn’t block the path, nor does she rise.

“Been in there?” I ask, glancing toward the shadowed mouth.

“Far enough.” She doesn’t elaborate. Just one hand curled around her whetstone, the other steady on the blade.

“Lost your nerve?” I ask.

She snorts. “Lost two men. That was enough nerve for me.”

I study her. She doesn’t flinch under scrutiny. There’s no shame in her expression, only memory.

“You’re still here.”

“Someone has to warn the next fool. Not that it ever helps.”

I consider pressing further, but decide against it. I move past her, down the dirt path to the entrance to the cave.

“You don’t have to go in there,” she calls after me.

I don’t answer.

She doesn’t follow.

 

———

 

The ruin swallows me whole.

With each step, the air thickens. Moisture clings to the stone walls, and every sound—every step, every shift of weight—echoes back with a subtle distortion, as if the place resents the interruption. 

I enter what looks like an excavation site. Wooden platforms descend further into the cave, illuminated by sconces made of hollowed goat horns.

The light of the sconces fades quickly as I venture deeper. My wand glows dimly at its tip, but the shadows press in regardless, dense and oppressive. 

The faint light reveals a body among the rocks—a Dunmer woman, unarmed and unarmored. Foolish. Dried blood soaks her tattered dress, the tangy scent of iron permeating the air. 

Somewhere ahead, I hear it: the dragging scrape of steel, bare feet slapping on the moist stone. Who would go barefoot…?

I raise my wand, muscles tensed.

Peering around the corner, I see it—a large, pale figure, hunched but towering. Its armor is corroded, its sword rusted, its eyes glowing.

Avada Kedavra.

A flash of green. The sound of magic discharging.

Then nothing.

The thing stumbles, but it does not fall. It straightens. Its gaze finds mine. It is not stunned. It is not even slowed.

It is already dead.

A flicker of dread creeps up my spine. What in Merlin’s name is it? It doesn’t look like an Inferius. 

I shift. Incendio. Flames burst from my wand, striking the undead creature full in the chest. It lets out a shriek—a hollow, inhuman sound—and crumbles to ash.

I lower my wand slowly.

Fire works.

Another emerges. Then two more. They do not move quickly. They do not need to. Their confidence is unholy.

I meet them in silence. No hesitation now. Fire again. Then Expulso—a forceful blast that sends one crashing into a pillar, spine shattering like dry twigs.

They fall. One after another. The ruin trembles faintly with the impact of bodies collapsing under new violence.

The air is choked with the stench of burning flesh—rancid and bitter. The smoke clings to my robes, curls through my hair.

And yet…

My breath comes faster. My fingers are steady. My wand arm, unshaken.

I tell myself I feel nothing.

But my pulse tells a different story.

This is control—exacting and dominating control. After days of freezing, stumbling, and obeying a voice not my own, I am the master of something once again.

It means nothing.

It is necessary.

…And yet—

I cast again. Another undead screams as flame takes it whole. I watch it burn, just a moment longer than needed.

My heart pounds with something dangerously close to satisfaction.

 

———

 

At the heart of the ruin, I find it.

The stone wall rises from the cavern floor like the spine of some ancient beast—massive, carved with symbols that shimmer in the low torchlight. The carvings ripple faintly, impossibly, as if resisting comprehension. The air around them hums—a deep, tangible vibration that settles into my bones.

The symbols mean nothing to me.

And yet… they press.

Power radiates from the wall, thick as incense. Old magic. Magic that predates Hogwarts, predates the founders, predates parchment. This is pre-language magic—pre-human. It coils in silence, waiting to be grasped. 

A low resonance lingers at the edge of hearing. A faint, monotonous…chanting?

My feet move of their own accord. A step forward. Then another.

I stop myself.

Magic does not call to me. Not like this. Not since I was a child first holding a wand, trembling with the weight of it.

I wrench my gaze away and search. There—at the base of the wall, half-swallowed by rubble—a small iron-bound chest. With a swift unlocking charm, the chest pops open. Inside: a gem.

It is blackened, warped, wet-looking. It pulses faintly in time with nothing. Like a heart removed from the body, still trying to remember what life felt like. The moment my fingers close around it, cold bleeds through my palm, sharp and immediate. Not the cold of weather, but of magic turned rotten, defiled.

It should be examined. Studied. I resist. 

I wrap it in cloth, tuck it into my satchel, and stand. The tomb protests.

The silence shatters as a final wave of the undead rise, clawing their way from cracked sarcophagi. These are not the aimless dead. These ones shout. The first one bellows a word in that same deep resonance as the wall, and the air itself thrusts me backward. The sound is force.

I strike back with fire—but not before I’m thrown against a pillar, ribs screaming. Again. Again. Shouted down, knocked aside, scrambling to regain footing against sound made weapon.

I adapt. Shift my stance. Wait between the syllables. Find their rhythm.

Then I burn them. Without hesitation. Without mercy.

When the last one falls, the tomb falls still.

I climb the broken stairs, retrace my steps past scorched stone and smoldering armor. At the threshold, the cold greets me again, gentler than before.

Night has fallen. The moons loom overhead, dim crescents. The stars above Skyrim are sharper than they are in Britain.

I exhale.

It is done. And yet, the thrill in my blood remains. The heartbeat that surged in battle has not faded.

My hand twitches toward my wand without meaning to. Just a brief flicker of readiness.

That is the unsettling part.

Not the soul gem in my pack. Not the wall that beguiled me. Not even the voice that waits in Apocrypha. But this.

The part of me that liked it.

“Still it sings. Still it writhes behind your ribs.”

My eyes close in resignation. 

“That little thrill…the old hunger. Don’t be afraid of it, Severus Snape. It remembers you.”

A pause.

“So do you.”

I open my eyes. The cold feels thinner now. But it hasn’t left.

Neither has He.

The twin moons loom overhead, casting their pale light across the camp outside Angarvunde. My boots crunch softly against the ground as I make my way to a waiting bedroll. The woman I’d met earlier snores faintly in another bedroll, turned away, wrapped in furs.

I lower myself into the bedding, every joint protesting. The makeshift roof above me—slats of uneven timber bound by fraying rope—offers scant shelter. I stare at it anyway.

Sleep does not come easily. It never does.

As always, my thoughts return to the beginning of this descent—that book, that moment. The Black Book had pulsed with something vile the moment I touched it, and yet I opened it. Of course I did. Curiosity is my oldest flaw. My oldest excuse.

I thought myself a master of secrets. Now I am the servant of one.

My hand tightens against the pelt. I don’t want to imagine what they are saying at Hogwarts. Whether Pomona has taken my greenhouse key. Whether Minerva is writing me off as dead. Whether Potter is fretting over my “mysterious disappearance.”

For a moment, I almost hope they are worried. 

A branch snaps in the forest beyond. My breath stills. The snoring beside me ceases for half a beat before resuming.

Only a fox, perhaps. Or not.

I close my eyes. I am cold. I am far from home. And I have made a bargain with a god I cannot understand.

But I will survive. I have survived worse.

———

After a day’s journey through mercifully hospitable conditions, I approach the gates of Riften, the setting sun streaming through the trees. Weathered guards in purple sashes block my path. 

The guards cross their spears as I approach the northern gate. One is broad-shouldered and sleepy-eyed. The other narrow-faced, watchful. Both wear the same expression: bored contempt.

“Gate tax,” says the sleepy one. “Thirty septims.”

I halt a pace short of the spears, lifting my gaze without tilting my head. “There is no gate tax.”

“New policy,” the other mutters, smirking. “Out-of-towners pay extra.”

I regard them in silence, letting the air thicken.

“Shall I summon the Jarl?” I ask, voice quiet. “I am sure she would love to hear you’ve invented tariffs for her city.”

The smirk widens. “Is that so? And how exactly do you plan to summon the Jarl when you’re not allowed past the gate?”

I raise my wand—not pointing or threatening. Merely visible.

The smirk falters for a fraction of a second. Good.

Legilimens.

I wade through a sea of nonsense before something useful surfaces. A name. A face. Candlelight. Someone slender and dark-eyed, kissing him in a guard’s barracks. A flash of guilt, a gold band hidden under a tunic. Fear—not of discovery, but of the wrong people discovering.

I speak softly, but the syllables land like stones in still water.

“Does your wife know about Khalim?”

The guard goes stiff. The color drains from his face.

“Or Maven,” I murmur, stepping closer. “How do you think she’ll respond to news that one of her gatekeepers has been bedding a Redguard smuggler behind her back? One she explicitly warned you to keep away from the docks?”

“You—” he breathes, voice cracking.

“I?” I echo, tilting my head. “I haven’t said a word. Yet.”

The other guard scowls. “What the hell is he on about?”

A pause. 

“Let him in, Marrec.”

“What—?”

“Just let him in.”

The spears part. I pass through the gates without another word, the scent of fish and mildew hitting me at once.

Behind me, silence hangs like a noose. I try not to think about the gravity of what I just did, wielding a man’s closeted sexuality against him like that. It was necessary. Unavoidable.

Inside the city proper, I wrinkle my nose at the overpowering stench that permeates the cobblestone streets. The grime underfoot and the disheveled state of the surroundings paint a vivid picture of a place long forgotten by cleanliness and civility. Riften wears its dirt like a badge of honor.

In the market district, I wrap my robes tightly around myself to ward off pickpockets. I have read about the reputation of this city; I am not going to be caught unaware.

As I wander the streets of Riften, Honorhall Orphanage catches my eye. It looks withered by time and the elements. The windows are curtained up. I observe the wide berth and occasionally judgmental glances some of the residents give the building. Perhaps the Aretino boy was not lying.

Using my map to guide me, I make my way to the Bee and Barb inn. I order an ale and the house special from the Argonian woman who runs the inn and sit in a quiet corner alone. I let the foul beverage sit. Watch the room instead.

Half an hour passes. The ale remains untouched, mammoth steak consumed—and what a strange texture it has—before nearby talk turns to the orphanage. It is not how I expected it to.

“Grelod needs to get those little trolls under control. I heard screams last night from across the city.”

“Yeah? Heard one of ‘em bit a merchant for not handing over a sweetroll. Pack of little wolves, the lot of ‘em.”

I freeze minutely. No one rushes to defend the children—only to silence them. They likely have no safety net outside Grelod and whoever may work with her.

Evening falls before I finally rent a room—then leave at once to investigate the orphanage. Cloaked by a disillusionment charm, I drift toward a curtained window at the front of the building. A flick of my wand parts the fabric just enough to see inside.

The structure sags under the weight of its own neglect. Ramshackle beds crowd the floor—seven in all. Twelve children. Some play. Others clean.

Close to the window, a boy lines up chipped wooden animals—eight of them. He claps, delighted by his own pattern, grinning as though he’s discovered a secret.

A graying old woman clutches a broom like a cudgel. Beside her, a younger brunette wrings her hands and says nothing.

“Don’t know what you’re clapping for, you little freak.”

The broom crashes against the floor, knocking the aligned toys out of formation. The boy flinches, his smile vanishing. He doesn’t speak.

“Clean it up,” she snaps. “If you can’t play like a normal child. And you!”

She turns on a girl gripping her stained dress in trembling hands. “Standing there like a sack of mud. Move, girl, before I forget you exist when supper’s handed out.”

Grelod’s head snaps to the window, looking straight at me. She wrenches the curtain shut with a snarl.

I turn away.

Her voice echoes in my skull, warped by time. Acid on old wounds. My father’s belt slithering through its loops. The punishments. The habits. The shame. Still with me.

She will not see another dawn.

 

———

 

The bell above the door gives a half-hearted chime as someone enters.

I don’t turn. I continue scanning the apothecary shelves—half of them unfamiliar, most of them suspect. The proprietor snores audibly in the back room, and the air is thick with damp herbs. My cauldron from my travel potions kit softly simmers on the alchemy table. 

“I’d avoid the fire salts if I were you,” comes a voice behind me. Young. Playful. Drenched in amusement.

I turn, wand halfway drawn. The speaker grins wide enough to reveal her fangs. An uncontrollable shiver of repulsion sneaks down my spine. A vampire child.

“Oh, don’t be so tense,” she says, sauntering over like she owns the place. “I just came to watch.”

“Watch what?” I ask, tone low and clipped.

She shrugs. “Whatever you’re about to do with that bottle of mead you tucked away earlier.”

My eyes narrow. “You followed me.”

“Please. Your little invisibility trick doesn’t work on a vampire’s eyes.”

Of course not. I should have guessed. She looks twelve. She is probably two hundred.

“What do you want?” I demand in a hushed voice.

“I wanted to see how you’d do it. Poison? Curse? Good old-fashioned dagger?” She clasps her hands theatrically. “But now I think I’d rather help.”

“I do not need help.”

“You need ingredients.” Her grin widens. “And I have one you definitely don’t.”

She reaches into her cloak and withdraws a small cloth pouch. It reeks of something acrid even before she unties it.

“Jarrin root,” she says sweetly. “Ever heard of it?”

I don’t respond, but she sees the recognition in my eyes. It’s been mentioned, scarcely, in alchemical texts. Particularly its highly illegal status.

“Oh, you have. Good. Then you know a pinch of this’ll make the hag’s guts crawl out her throat.”

I draw a breath through my nose. “What is the price?”

“Tell me what you’re doing here. Really.”

I consider her. Her smugness. Her curiosity. The fact that she hasn’t tried to kill me yet.

I cast a stasis charm over my bubbling cauldron. Her eyes flicker with interest.

“Fancy. That a College trick?”

“I’m not from the College.”

“Ooh, even better. A foreigner.”

She is still smiling. I see the game she is playing.

“What do you know of Hermaeus Mora?” I ask.

The smile falters. For the first time, something passes behind her eyes that isn’t mockery.

“Messing with Daedra now, are we?” she mutters. “Bad habit.”

“Do you know him?”

She scoffs. “I know of him. Vampires hear enough from Molag Bal—I don’t need tentacled librarians adding to the noise.”

I mentally file that away. Another Daedric Prince to investigate another day. “I am…trapped. By Mora. I cannot leave until I am no longer of use to him.”

“So,” she says, holding out the pouch, “you’re being played by a god, and planning to murder a child abuser. Sounds like you’re having a week.”

I ignore her, slipping on my dragonhide gloves. She eyes the material, clearly intrigued. I take the pouch, measure a pinch, and fold it into the brew.

“Hm.” A moment. “You’re a cold bastard. I like it.”

I stir. And say nothing.

“I’m Babette, by the way. What’s your name?”

“…Severus.”

“Hm,” she hums again. “Fitting.”

 

———

 

The door groans open before I can even knock.

“What in the—” comes a bark. “You’d best have a damn good—oh.”

Grelod’s face transforms mid-sentence. Her jowls lift. Her mouth—cracked and pale—stretches into something resembling a smile. It does not suit her.

“My, my,” she coos, raking her eyes over me. “Now this is a surprise.”

My lip twitches. “Apologies for the late hour. I only just arrived in Riften.”

Grelod waves me inside like I am royalty. “Well, well. A proper man. Tall, brooding. You’ve the look of someone important.”

I step inside, Babette just behind me. The brunette woman I’d spotted earlier sweeps listlessly in the back, surrounded by children dusting or playing with toys. Grelod’s eyes flick to Babette but quickly return to me.

“And this is…?”

“My daughter,” I say smoothly. “She travels with me. I teach her everything I know.”

“A family man,” Grelod said, her voice thick with an emotion that might’ve been nostalgia if it hadn’t sounded so ravenous. “How lucky. How very lucky.”

I give a shallow nod, discomfort pooling in my stomach. “We’ve come to thank you.”

She blinks. “Thank me?”

“For your tireless work. Raising orphans… I cannot imagine the burden. Yet you shoulder it.”

Something wet glimmers in her eyes. “Well,” she chuckles, “someone has to. These little beasts—left behind by parents who can’t be bothered, or worse. I swear, half of them aren’t right in the head. Always doing strange things. Talking to themselves. Rocking back and forth. Won’t even look you in the eye, some of them.”

I go still. “Is that so.”

“Oh yes. It’s not natural. Not like when I was young. You could beat a child into sense back then. Not anymore. Now they just stare at you with those blank little faces, like animals.”

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial murmur.

“One of them—Dentius or Drinius or whatever he calls himself—he lines things up. Stones, toys, whatever he can get. Gets angry if you touch them. Just screams. Can’t take a proper joke.”

I do not react. But I recognize the signs. Obsessions mistaken for defiance. Precision mistaken for insolence. And the punishment that followed.

“You must be terribly patient,” I say.

“Oh, I am.” Grelod beams, stepping closer. “And what about you, stranger? What kind of man wanders into Riften dressed like that?”

I incline my head politely. “The kind that brings gifts.”

I remove the bottle from my satchel and hold it out. “Mead. From Black-Briar stock, if my supplier was honest. A token of appreciation.”

Her eyes light up. “You shouldn’t have.”

Babette shifts beside me, doing a fine impression of sullen obedience.

Grelod turns and busies herself with two mugs.

“Oh, I’ll drink alone then?” she teases, batting her eyelashes at me. Disgusting.

“I never drink in front of my daughter,” I say. “Bad precedent.”

“Mm. Suit yourself.” She pours a generous helping. The liquid shimmers faintly.

I watch her sip, then gulp. She exhales sharply. “Whew! That’s strong. Got a real bite to it.”

I fold my hands behind my back.

“A rare blend,” I murmur.

Moments pass. Grelod rambles on—about ill-mannered boys, filthy girls, lazy hands, eyes too wide and strange. I let her speak.

Then—silence.

Her breath snags. She coughs, once. Twice.

The woman sweeping freezes.

Grelod’s mug clatters on the wood floor. Her hand flies to her chest as she staggers.

“Are you all right?” Babette asks, not hiding her grin.

“I—what—”

The spasm seizes her before she can finish. She drops like a puppet with cut strings.

The children scream. One begins to cry.

“Grelod!” the other woman shouts, running to the hag’s side and pulling her up into her lap. Pale and trembling, she asks,“What—what did you—”

A child edges forward, pokes her shoulder. “Grelod?”

Grelod begins to seize. Her body contorts. Blood trickles from her nose, her ears. Her eyes roll back. A moan escapes her—gurgling and undignified. The other woman holds Grelod’s face as tears stream down her own.

My face reflects nothing beyond detached disdain. Babette is still grinning.

The crying stops.

There’s a long pause.

“She’s dead…?”

A beat.

“YES!”

“WE’RE FREE!”

“THANK YOU, AVENTUS!”

A boy grabs another’s hand and spins in a circle. A girl shrieks with laughter.

The woman’s wide eyes flick between the corpse and me.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

Without another word, she pushes Grelod’s body off of her and bolts for her quarters, skirts dragging behind her. The door slams. The lock clicks.

I sneer.

“Coward,” I mutter. Loud enough for her to hear, should she be listening through the door like a rat.

The room rings with joy. Innocent joy. Ugly, beautiful, primal. It echoes inside me like the memory of a wish I’d never spoken aloud.

A hand tugs at my sleeve. Babette. She looks up at me with gleaming eyes.

“Well?” she asks. “Feel better?”

I do not answer. I cannot. 

I only turn and walk out, the children’s laughter and cheers echoing behind me.

I keep to the shadows as I leave Honorhall, my robes absorbing the torchlight. The night air has a sharp, briny bite. I barely notice it. 

Riften feels quieter now, though I know it to be an illusion. Behind me, twelve children are adjusting to a new silence. A better one.

I make my way through the streets in silence, steps measured. Perhaps, in time, the orphans will sleep through the night. Perhaps they will learn to laugh without watching the door.

“So easily done.”

I freeze mid-step.

“No hesitation. Just… a bottle, a lie, and a dead woman.”

The voice seeps into every crevice of thought, smooth and smug.

“Did it thrill you, little mortal? Did it feel like power? Watching her die like the miserable wretch she was?”

I clench my jaw. Say nothing.

“That’s the beauty of you, Severus Snape. You chose this. You wanted this. That makes it… authentic.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softer, “Have you wondered why I placed you outside Windhelm? Why you were deposited so far from your first task?”

My breath stills.

“You think yourself cunning—but you wandered exactly where I knew you would. You murdered precisely whom I expected you to.”

A moment flashes behind my eyes—not one of my own choosing.

The boy with the lined-up toys. His smile, the broom, the crack, the flinch.

“Did you pity him? Or did you recognize him?”

I stagger back a half-step, as if the memory struck me physically.

The presence fades.

I walk.

Was there ever a choice? Or just the illusion of one—shaped to my flaws, timed to my indignation?

I reach the inn on unsteady feet, but I force my posture to remain straight. That much I can still control.

Upstairs, I shed my outer robe and collapse onto the bed. It is warm, soft, and smells only faintly musty. It is enough. My eyes close the moment they touch the pillow.

I sleep like a man in a trap. And I do not dream.

 

———

 

I wake several hours later, disoriented by comfort.

For a moment, I feel… good. Then I remember where I am. What I’ve done. I sigh.

My wand flicks once, and my robes smooth themselves. Again, and the stench of damp leaves and alchemical residue lifts. I can still feel grime at my collar and under my nails. Cleaning charms can only do so much. I need a proper wash.

Downstairs, I order a modest breakfast and count the coins left in my pouch.

Five galleons. Four sickles. A scattering of knuts.

I eat slowly, chewing over possibilities. I could sell potions. Brew for coin. It wouldn’t take much to outshine the apothecary’s sorry excuse for a stock.

I never imagined I would one day miss the paltry pay of Hogwarts educators. 

By late morning, my satchel packed and my boots cleaned of last night’s mud, I cross the bridge leading to Riften’s main gate. I am nearly past the market when a voice stops me.

“Leaving already?” it says, far too casual.

I turn.

A red-haired man lounges beside a market stall, arms folded. His armor is well-worn, his smirk even more so.

“You missed the news,” the man says. “Old Grelod dropped dead last night. Shame, that.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Mm. And wouldn’t you know it—a stranger blows into town, all dressed in black, and the next morning a wicked old crone conveniently expires? Funny how fate works.”

My eyes narrow. “Are you suggesting something?”

“Oh, not at all,” the man says, hands raised in mock innocence. “Just pointing out the timing. Must’ve been exhausting—carrying all that coincidence around.”

He steps closer.

“You’ve got a look about you, friend. Efficient. Unsentimental. The kind of man who gets things done without leaving a mess.”

“I’m not interested,” I say flatly.

“You haven’t heard the offer.”

“I do not need to.”

The man’s grin doesn’t waver. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, find the Ratway. Ask for Brynjolf.”

He winks. The gall.

I turn without a word and continue toward the gate.

Behind me, Brynjolf calls out, “There’s always work for people like you. The ones no one sees coming.”

I don’t break stride. But I feel the weight of the mead bottle in my satchel.

Outside the gates, I draw my map beside the road.

A faint glow spreads across it like mold—green, pulsing, sickly. Almost a dozen locations blink to life across the map. The names shimmer. Dragon priest locations.

My stomach knots when I catch sight of Angarvunde again. That ruin was my first assignment. And yet I began nowhere near it.

Of course.

Of course he meant for me to drift. To stumble into a murder and believe it mine. To test how far I’d go without needing to be told.

He’s studying me.

I close the map. Adjust my satchel. My grip tightens.

Behind me, the city is already forgetting I existed.

Ahead of me, my master waits.