Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cold. That was the first thing he felt. A deep, biting cold that sank into his bones—or rather, what bones he had left in this frail, undersized body. His eyes flew open to darkness and damp air thick with the scent of rot and metal. Something dripped nearby, echoing in rhythmic taps against stone.

He didn’t remember falling asleep here. Hell, he didn’t remember being alive.

For a long, paralyzed moment, Severus Snape simply lay there, listening to the wet sounds of the alley, his mind sluggishly grasping for reason. The last memory—sharp as glass—was of Nagini’s fangs piercing his neck. Blood spilling. The world dimming. Potter’s face above him, wide-eyed.

And then—nothing. Oblivion.

So why in Merlin’s name was he breathing again?

He sat up too fast, dizziness seizing him. The world tilted and swayed before settling into focus: crooked brick walls, rubbish piled high, a cat slinking away into shadow. He looked down—and froze. His hands. Too small. The fingers narrow, skin pale and underfed, nails bitten to the quick. He flexed them once, twice, disbelieving.

“Bloody—hell,” he muttered under his breath, his voice young, high-pitched. Not his own.

He scrambled to his feet—or tried to. His knees shook, and the body protested, unaccustomed to movement, thin limbs quivering with exhaustion. It was as if he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. The body felt foreign, unsteady, but his instincts—older, sharper—guided him to balance.

The memories came like a flood, unbidden and chaotic. Streets. Hunger. A cold cot in an orphanage. Running. Surviving. Hiding.

Cadmus. The name cut through his skull like a curse. Cadmus Snape.

No. No, that was impossible. He had died. He had paid his debt. This—this was something else entirely.

His chest tightened, a flash of panic that didn’t belong to the man he used to be. It was too visceral, too raw—the panic of a child who had known too many empty nights and too much fear. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress the trembling that threatened to betray him.

A sharp crack split the silence.

His instincts flared instantly—adrenaline surging through the young veins. That sound. He knew that sound. Apparition. Someone had just arrived.

The air shimmered and a faint glow bloomed at the far end of the alley. Snape’s—Cadmus’s—hands clenched into fists. The body reacted on its own, slipping into a clumsy imitation of a boxing stance.

“Stay back!” he barked, the child’s voice cracking but his tone sharp.

The light grew until it shaped itself into a woman. She stepped closer, her face half-shadowed, half-lit by the golden orb hovering beside her. Dirty blonde hair fell to her shoulders; her robes—robes, definitely—were travel-worn but neat.

“Cadmus,” she said softly, her voice warm, cautious. “I’m glad to finally find you.”

He stiffened. His mind raced. She knew his name. This name.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, trying to sound braver than he felt.

“My name is Charity Burbage,” she replied.

Something twisted in his chest at that name. It was familiar in a way that made his stomach turn, but he pushed it aside. Her face was different—softer, perhaps younger, than the one he remembered from another lifetime.

“What do you want?” he shot back. “Why—why were you looking for me?”

Her expression softened further, almost pitying. “I’ve been searching for you for quite some time, Cadmus. You’ve made yourself very hard to find.”

He took a half-step back, eyes darting toward the alley mouth. The body’s instinct screamed run. His adult mind held it still.

“I don’t know you,” he said flatly. “And I don’t like strangers showing up out of nowhere. Especially not ones who know my name.”

Charity smiled faintly, though the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You have every right to be cautious. But I assure you, I mean you no harm. I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” he repeated. “About what?”

She glanced around the alley, wrinkling her nose. “Not here, perhaps. It’s hardly a safe place for conversation.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he said sharply.

Her gaze lingered on him—steady, calm, assessing. “Cadmus, I know you’ve had a difficult life. The orphanage, the streets—”

“Don’t talk about that,” he snapped before he could stop himself. The words tumbled out, harsh, defensive. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Her eyes flickered with quiet understanding. “I know enough to understand why you’d be wary. But please, hear me out.”

He crossed his arms, every muscle taut. “Fine. Talk.”

For a long moment, she studied him. Then, with deliberate care, she said, “Have you ever experienced something… unusual? Things you couldn’t explain?”

He stared at her, unblinking. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said gently. “Objects moving without being touched. Lights flickering when you’re angry. Accidents that don’t feel quite like accidents.”

His stomach dropped. A slow, sinking dread crept up his spine.

Of course.

He knew exactly what she was implying.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied easily.

Charity tilted her head, her smile turning knowing. “You’re a very clever boy, Cadmus. But I think you do.”

He glared at her, though the glare lacked the force his adult self once commanded. “You’re crazy,” he muttered. “You sound bloody mental.”

Unfazed, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a small, worn envelope. She held it delicately between two fingers, the seal catching the faint glow of her light.

“I think this might explain better than I can.”

He didn’t move. “What is it?”

“A letter,” she said. “For you.”

He hesitated, suspicion gnawing at him. Every instinct screamed trap. Still, curiosity—the same dangerous flaw that had once driven him toward the Dark Arts—itched at the edges of his mind.

He stepped forward slowly, ready to bolt at the slightest movement. When she extended her hand, he snatched the envelope and leapt back, eyes darting between her and the letter.

The parchment felt real. The seal—an ornate H—looked disgustingly familiar.

Hogwarts.

His throat tightened.

He turned the envelope over, his name scrawled across it in neat, black ink:

Mr. Cadmus Snape.

For a heartbeat, he simply stared. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he demanded.

“No joke,” Charity said softly. “You’ve been invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

The words hit him like a curse. His vision swam. Hogwarts. Witchcraft. Wizardry.

Impossible.

He swallowed, fighting the rush of conflicting memories—the ancient castle, candlelight, laughter echoing through stone halls. The dungeons. His classroom. The war.

But this was different. He was different.

He forced himself to meet her gaze. “You expect me to believe there’s a school for magic?” he asked, injecting disbelief into his tone. “That’s ridiculous.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “It’s true. And I think you already know that.”

He scowled, half in genuine irritation, half to cover the turmoil inside. “You’ve got the wrong boy.”

“I don’t think I do.”

She took a step closer. He tensed, ready to lash out or flee. But her presence wasn’t threatening—merely steady, calm, patient in a way that made him uncomfortable.

“I know this is frightening,” she said softly. “But Cadmus… you’re not alone in being different.”

He stared at her, breathing uneven. The child’s heart pounded wildly, drowning out rational thought.

Different. The word echoed in his skull.

He had spent his entire miserable youth being different. Hated for it. Mocked. Feared. And now, after everything, fate had tossed him back into a world that wanted to define him again?

The irony was almost cruel enough to make him laugh.

Instead, he straightened, forcing his voice into something calm, cold, adult. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t want your school, or your letter.”

Charity regarded him for a long moment, then nodded slowly—as if she had expected that answer. “That’s fair. But I’ll be here tomorrow, at the same time. If you change your mind.”

With that, she turned slightly, her hand flicking through the air in a motion so achingly familiar it sent a shock through him. The glow brightened.

“Wait,” he said before he could stop himself.

She paused.

He hesitated, then asked, quietly, “Why me?”

Her eyes softened. “Because you’re meant for more than this alley.”

The light flared—and she was gone.

The darkness rushed back in, thick and heavy. Snape—Cadmus—stood frozen, the letter clutched tightly in his trembling hand.

The seal gleamed faintly in the dimness, mocking him.

He stared at it for a long time before whispering, “Fuck.”

The sound of the word echoed down the empty alley, swallowed by the night.

Chapter Text

The morning came far too early.

The cold crept into his bones long before dawn, and Cadmus Snape or Severus bloody Snape, no matter what name this cursed world had given him, had found himself sitting against the damp brick wall, knees drawn to his chest, watching the first streaks of sunlight crawl across the alley mouth.

He hadn’t slept much. Old habits died hard, especially when sleep was a risk rather than a luxury. His back ached from the stone beneath him, and his stomach grumbled faintly despite the meagre meal Charity had brought the night before.

Kindness. That was the real trouble.

She had appeared again just after he’d sworn under his breath, her expression exasperated but not unkind. Do you believe in magic, Cadmus? she had asked him, her voice soft as a lullaby.

Of course he believed in magic. He’d bled for it. Killed for it. Died for it.

But he had played the part, wide-eyed and hesitant, and that had seemed to satisfy her. She’d left him food—warm, hearty, far better than anything his current body had eaten in months—and offered to take him home.

He’d refused.

He wasn’t ready for warmth. Not yet. Not when it came from her.

Charity Burbage had once begged for his help, voice shaking with terror as the Dark Lord’s serpentine eyes gleamed. He’d turned away, cold and efficient. There had been no other choice. He had been too deep, too far gone.

Now, she was alive. Smiling. Feeding him. And that—bloody hell—that was the worst punishment he could imagine.

He rubbed his hands together, trying to fight the chill. The air smelled faintly of bread and soot; somewhere nearby, London was waking.

When Charity had reappeared that morning—true to her word, punctual as ever. He almost hadn’t been surprised. He’d been expecting her. Dreading her, if he was honest.

And now, here they were.

Standing before the Leaky Cauldron.

The pub looked the same as it always had—dingy, unassuming, squeezed between a bookshop and a record store like it had been forgotten by time. The brick was chipped, the sign faded. To any Muggle, it was invisible. To him, it was nostalgia wrapped in dust.

“So,” he muttered, folding his arms. “This is it, then?”

Charity smiled faintly. “You’ll get used to it. Come on, Cadmus.”

He made a face. “Do we really have to use that name?”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

He bit back a retort. He had slipped for a moment. He had to get used to that name, he thought grimly.

Charity, thankfully, didn’t press. She gave him a once-over—her gaze lingering disapprovingly on his thin frame—and said, “You look a bit peaky. Are you sure you slept at all?”

“I’ve slept worse,” he said, shrugging.

That earned him a small frown. “That’s not exactly reassuring, love.”

He bristled at the word love—so casual, so affectionate. It felt strange, directed at him. He hadn’t been anyone’s “love” in… well, ever.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, the morning bustle of Charing Cross Road faint in the background.

“So,” he began, eyes flicking toward the dark doorway, “what now? You drag me into a pub, tell me I’m some sort of wizard, and then what? Hand me a broomstick and call it a day?”

Charity huffed a soft laugh. “Not quite. We need to get your school things. And it’s easier to show you than explain.”

“Convenient,” he muttered.

She turned toward the door, pausing only when she realised he hadn’t moved. “Coming?”

He hesitated. The Leaky Cauldron meant familiarity—faces, history, ghosts of the past he’d rather not revisit. Even if this was a different world, the echoes might still hurt.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his threadbare trousers and followed.

Inside, the pub was warm, dimly lit, and filled with the faint hum of chatter. The smell of ale and old wood hit him instantly. It was… comforting, in a way he didn’t want to admit.

A few patrons glanced up at them—mostly older witches and wizards nursing early drinks, but no one paid much attention. Charity guided him through with the ease of someone who’d done it countless times before.

She leaned down slightly as they passed the bar. “Don’t stare too much, all right? You’ll stick out.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, because I’m not already the picture of subtlety.”

“Cheeky,” she said under her breath, smiling despite herself.

He smirked faintly. The exchange almost felt normal. Almost.

They stopped near the back wall, where a small courtyard opened up behind the pub. The air was cooler here, cleaner. A battered bin sat beside the bricks, and weeds grew between the stones.

“This,” Charity said softly, “is where your world begins.”

He crossed his arms again. “You make it sound like some grand prophecy.”

“Maybe it is,” she replied lightly.

He studied her face. The subtle differences still unsettled him. The slight curve of her nose, the younger glow to her skin—but her eyes held the same earnestness. It was disarming. He hated that it was disarming.

“Charity,” he said quietly, “why’d you come back for me?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Because you needed help.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

She gave him a look. “You didn’t need to.”

He looked away. “You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But I know what it’s like to feel alone.”

The words landed harder than he wanted them to. For a moment, he couldn’t think of a single clever retort. Instead, he muttered, “You’ve got a bloody soft spot, you know that?”

“Occupational hazard,” she said dryly.

He almost smiled. Almost.

Then, as if to remind him that fate had no intention of giving him peace, she said, “Cadmus, there’s something I need to tell you.”

His stomach tightened. “That sounds ominous.”

“Don’t tell anyone your surname. Not to anyone here, all right?”

He frowned. “Why the hell not?”

“I’ll explain later,” she said quickly. “Just—trust me on this.”

Trust. That was rich.

He studied her face—the slight tension around her eyes, the hesitation she tried to mask, and sighed. “Let me guess. My father was a right bastard.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Something like that.”

That told him everything he needed to know.

So, the Severus Snape of this world had managed to cock things up thoroughly enough that even his name was poison. Typical.

He filed that away. Another puzzle for later.

For now, he had to keep playing the part of a wary, sceptical boy. He could manage that. Merlin knew he’d spent half his life pretending to be someone else.

Charity raised her wand. “Ready?”

He forced a smile. “Not bloody likely.”

She chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

She tapped a specific brick—three up, two across. The familiar rasp of shifting stone filled the air, and the wall began to move, bricks folding and twisting back until a narrow archway appeared.

And there it was.

Diagon Alley.

Bustling, noisy, chaotic, alive. The smell of parchment and potion ingredients mingled with the sound of chattering witches and the flutter of owl wings overhead. Shop signs swung lazily in the breeze, and the golden morning light spilled over cobblestones that looked exactly as he remembered them.

For a moment, Severus Snape forgot to breathe.

He’d walked this street countless times, as a boy and as a man. He’d haunted its shops, bought his first wand here, sipped tea in corners to avoid old students. And now, he was here again—smaller, weaker, but still himself.

Fate’s twisted joke indeed.

Charity placed a hand on his shoulder, mistaking his silence for awe. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Something.”

As they stepped through the archway, the wall sealed behind them with a soft click, closing him off from the Muggle world once more.

He sure didn’t look back.

“Right then,” Charity said briskly as they stepped out into the morning crowd of Diagon Alley. “First stop, Gringotts.”

Cadmus nodded absently. The cobbled street stretched ahead, filled with bright shopfronts and noisy chatter, but his eyes went straight to the tall white building at the far end. Gringotts. The same marble monstrosity he remembered, guarded by those sharp-toothed little misers who ran it.

Charity’s voice broke his thoughts. “You’ll need a few galleons to get started. Since you’re… well, an orphan, we’ll be using the Hogwarts Relief Fund.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Relief fund?”

“It’s money the school keeps aside for students who don’t have families to provide for them,” she explained gently. “It’s not much, I’m afraid. We might have to buy some of your supplies second-hand. Robes, cauldron, that sort of thing.”

He gave a careless shrug. “I’m accustomed to being poor.”

Her eyes softened again in that way that made his stomach twist. Pity. He could live without it.

Inside, he was already thinking ahead. He’d survived poverty once, but this time would be different. Once he got into Hogwarts, there were a dozen ways to make a tidy sum—potions, enchantments, maybe even a bit of subtle black-market dealing if this world’s professors were as blind as the ones he remembered.

But first, information. He needed to know how far this world had diverged from his own.

“Come on, let’s get some money,” Charity said cheerfully, mistaking his silence for nerves.

He followed her, slipping into the steady rhythm of the crowd. Witches bustled past carrying parcels and parchment rolls, a gaggle of children pressed their faces against the window of a broom shop, and somewhere a street vendor shouted about self-stirring cauldrons.

As they approached the marble steps of Gringotts, the sunlight gleamed off the gold-lettered sign above the doors. Two goblins in scarlet uniforms stood guard, long fingers resting on polished spearheads. Their small eyes tracked the pair as they entered.

Snape could practically feel their disdain.

Inside, the bank smelled of metal and ink. The high ceiling arched above them, chandeliers glinting off pale stone. A line of goblins sat behind tall counters, quills scratching furiously, counting coins with the greed of dragons in miniature.

Cadmus’s lips twitched. Still the same greedy little bastards.

They waited in line until a teller gestured them forward—a thin goblin with sharp spectacles perched on the end of his nose. His long fingers drummed the desk impatiently.

“Yes?” he drawled.

Charity stepped up politely. “Good morning. I’d like to access the Hogwarts Relief Fund for Orphans, please. Young Cadmus will be starting at Hogwarts this term.”

The goblin gave them both a once-over, sneer almost hidden behind professional courtesy. “Identification?”

Charity produced a small brass key stamped with the Hogwarts crest. The goblin took it delicately, examining it under the light before grunting.

As the creature turned to fetch a ledger, Cadmus seized his chance.

“Mr Goblin,” he said, voice steady, pitched with the curiosity of a clever eleven-year-old. “The lady told me my father was a wizard. Would it be possible that he might’ve had a vault here? And if so… could I access it?”

The teller froze. Charity’s head snapped round, surprise flickering in her eyes.

The goblin turned slowly back to him, expression unreadable. “And what is your father’s name?”

Charity hesitated, her voice catching. “Severus Snape,” she said quietly.

The reaction was immediate. The goblin’s quill stilled in mid-air. His eyes went wide. All around them, murmurs rippled through the nearby queues. A witch actually gasped, and one wizard in a bowler hat took a discreet step away, as if the very name might bite.

Snape fought down the urge to smirk. Well then. It seemed his alternate self had managed to make quite the impression in this world.

The teller cleared his throat and took a look at the register infront of him. “Records do show that a vault under that name exists,” he said slowly. “However, its access is restricted.”

Cadmus leaned forward slightly. “Restricted to whom?”

“To the account holder,” the goblin said pointedly.

“Ah,” Cadmus said with a touch of mock innocence. “Then it’s mine now, isn’t it?”

The goblin’s expression soured. Charity looked as though she might faint.

“I beg your pardon?” the goblin snapped.

“Well, if he’s dead,” Cadmus said matter-of-factly, “someone has to inherit it. Might as well be me.”

The goblin glared. “Inheritance requires proof of lineage. A blood test.”

Cadmus smiled. The little goblin had taken the hook. “Then by all means, let’s do that.”

Charity turned to him, whispering urgently, “Cadmus, maybe we shouldn’t—”

He ignored her. The hook was set.

The goblin muttered something under his breath and disappeared behind the counter. When he returned, he held a thin silver blade and a tiny vial etched with runes. “If you insist,” he said grudgingly. “One drop of blood.”

Cadmus extended his hand without hesitation. The blade nicked his finger, sharp and clean, and a bead of red fell into the vial. The liquid shimmered faintly, glowing gold for a moment before settling.

The goblin’s eyes narrowed as he examined it, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through his professional mask.

“Well?” Cadmus asked.

After a pause, the goblin nodded stiffly. “The test confirms relation. You are indeed the heir to Vault 1267- B.”

Charity stared surprised at the whole thing. 

Cadmus allowed himself a small, satisfied hum. “Told you.”

The goblin, clearly displeased, snapped his ledger shut. “Making a new key to the vault will cost two galleons."

"Make it." Cadmus replied as he eyed the goblin back. 

Chapter Text

“That was quite brave of you,” Charity said as they stepped out of Gringotts, blinking into the sunlight. She still looked faintly shell-shocked, her fingers clutching the pouch of coins like it might vanish if she loosened her grip.

Cadmus smirked faintly. “No, it’s just common sense. If wizards need money, then my old man probably had a vault for his own use. Logical guess, that’s all.”

“Well,” she admitted, recovering a bit o.f her cheer, “put that way, it’s quite right—logically.”

“Glad we agree,” he said, tone dry.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Where d’you want to go next?”

“I don’t know,” he said, deadpan. “I’m a first timer. You tell me.”

Charity chuckled good naturedly. “Right. We’ll get your supplies first, then.”

They spent the next hour in and out of shops—robes, books, quills, cauldron, potion ingredients. She handled the payments, he handled the carrying. The more he observed, the more he confirmed that this Diagon Alley was remarkably similar to his own world’s. The same crooked charm of the streets, the same overexcited children, the same shopkeepers fussing over customers like overfed hens.

By the time they reached the final stop on their list, he’d learned enough. Witches were still gossiping, wizards were still arrogant, and prices had not improved. Some things, apparently, transcended worlds.

When they stopped before the familiar narrow shop with its peeling sign—Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.—he couldn't help but pause.

The door was ajar, and he could hear voices inside.

Charity gestured for him to enter. “Go on, it’s not that bad.”

He slowly muttered under his breath, “That’s debatable,” and stepped inside. A wand was a necessity at the end of the day. Though, at the end, he had a plan B too. 

The smell hit him first, then the sound of the bell. The scent of polished wood, dust, and a faint metallic tang of magic. Shelves climbed to the ceiling, stacked with narrow boxes that seemed to hum faintly in the air.

They weren’t alone.

A man and woman stood near the counter, both elegantly dressed, the kind of people who carried their wealth like a weapon. The man was tall, fair-haired, with the polished arrogance of old blood. The woman beside him, brunette and poised, had the same air of cool superiority.

And then there were the girls. Two of them. One blonde, about his age, the other younger with the same brown hair as her mother. The blonde held a wand, and old Garrick Ollivander himself was fluttering around her, muttering about balance and flexibility.

Cadmus instinctively catalogued them. The parents’ composure, the quality of their clothes, the faint sneer in the father’s expression when his eyes landed on Cadmus’s threadbare shirt. Old family, without question. Slytherin stock. Probably Sacred 28. He could be wrong though. There was still so much that he didn't know of this world. 

“Professor Burbage!” Ollivander greeted, spotting them. “A pleasure as always.” His pale eyes then flicked to Cadmus, and for a brief moment, surprise crossed his features. A surprise and a bit of fear. Though, he schooled it perfectly. “Ah… and you must be young Mr Snape.”

The name hung in the air like a spark.

Every head turned.

The blonde man’s polite indifference cracked into something sharper—alarm? Nervousness? Disgust? The woman’s lips thinned. Even the girls stared in little fear.

Cadmus stared back blandly, offering a small shrug. “I guess,” he said, feigning confusion.

Charity opened her mouth, likely to soothe the tension, but he spoke first. “How long will it take to get mine?”

Ollivander blinked. “Pardon?”

He gestured at the girl with the wand. “The lady’s getting hers, right? How long until I get mine?”

It was deliberately rude, cutting into the other girl’s moment. But he needed to build a mask—one of childish impatience and arrogance. It helped to hide the calculating mind beneath. No child could be that cold and calculating and it will provide only further probes into his past.

“Patience, young man,” Ollivander said mildly, though his tone was a touch frosty. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

“Then get me two,” Cadmus replied flatly.

Ollivander’s brows shot up in surprise. “Two?”

“Yes, two. Magic or not, it’s just a bit of wood at the end of the day. Wood breaks, doesn’t it?”

A scandalised silence followed.

The older man gave a faint snort of disbelief; his wife looked outright offended. Charity blinked, caught between embarrassment and amusement.

Ollivander’s eyes narrowed, though his voice remained polite. “You don’t break your wand, Mr Snape. It’s. UNWIZARDLIKE.”

“Says who?” Cadmus shot back. “If I use it to poke someone, it’ll break, because it’s wood. Now, if it were steel, that’d be another matter. Would make it rather like a knife, wouldn’t it?”

The father coughed, stepping forward slightly. “Mr Ollivander,” he said, voice smooth but strained, “perhaps we might continue with my daughter’s wand before this discussion degenerates further?”

“Of course, Mr Greengrass,” Ollivander said automatically.

Called it, Cadmus thought. He kept his expression innocently blank, though the name sparked recognition in his mind. Greengrass. Daphne and Astoria, then.

Daphne, the blonde—was holding a sleek black wand. Ollivander took a step back, murmured something about trying a flick, and gestured for her to go ahead.

The moment she waved it, there was

There was a whoosh and the rack nearest Cadmus burst into flame.

So did his hair.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, smacking at his fringe as the smell of singed hair filled the shop. Ollivander jumped, Charity gasped, and the Greengrasses all drew back as sparks danced dangerously in the air.

Before Ollivander could react with his wand, Cadmus lifted his hand slightly, focused, and willed the fire out.

The magic obeyed.

The flames vanished instantly, leaving nothing but the faint sizzle of scorched wood and the acrid smell of burnt hair.

Ollivander froze, wand halfway raised. His pale eyes darted between Cadmus’s hand and the extinguished rack.

“You have,” he said slowly, “a rather fine control of your magic, Mr Snape.”

Cadmus rubbed his head, scowling. “Don’t need a wand to set fire to things. Got that perfect over a year ago.” This was just another piece of the long act. Better pose himself as gifted and nefarious for self interest. 

Charity shot him a warning look, but he ignored it.

The Greengrasses, for their part, were staring openly now. The father’s expression had shifted from disdain to wariness. The mother whispered something under her breath, and Daphne looked mortified.

“Fascinating,” Ollivander murmured, still studying him. “Raw, instinctive magic at that level… most unusual.”

Cadmus shrugged. “If you say so.”

He touched his hair again. It was badly burnt at the front, and every instinct screamed to fix it with a charm. But revealing his other secret was out of the question. He’d play the part of a half-feral street boy, not a prodigy.

He sighed. “Brilliant. I’ll smell like a bonfire for a week.”

Charity winced. “We’ll get you some essence later. It’ll help.”

“Grand,” he muttered.

Meanwhile, Ollivander had regained his composure. “Miss Greengrass,” he said, turning back to Daphne as if nothing had happened, “perhaps another try with this one.”

He handed her a slimmer, lighter wand—pale ash wood with a faint sheen. Daphne bit her lip, gave it a hesitant wave, and this time, soft golden light shimmered around her hand instead of flames.

The old wandmaker’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Eleven inches, ash, dragon heartstring core. Well done, Miss Greengrass.”

Daphne smiled shyly, relief clear on her face. Her mother exhaled, her father nodded approvingly, and the tension in the room eased at last.

Cadmus watched it all silently, eyes sharp despite the casual slouch. His burnt fringe hung over his brow, making him look properly scruff. Different faces, familiar names. Same tangled web.

The Greengrasses left. The door clicked shut, and the dusty quiet of Ollivanders settled once again.

Cadmus stood in the middle of the shop, shoulders squared, hands in his pockets, burnt hair and all. Charity hovered near the doorway, still a bit uneasy after the earlier chaos.

“Well then,” Ollivander said softly, turning to face him. “Let’s see what we can find for you, shall we?”

Cadmus nodded once, a small flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Ollivander hummed, moving toward the wall of boxes. He muttered under his breath—measurements, woods, cores, something about temperament, and plucked a narrow, black box from the shelf.

“Try this one,” he said, handing it over.

Cadmus took it, feeling the weight, the subtle vibration of magic beneath the polished wood. He gave it a careful wave.

The moment the tip moved, the entire front window of the shop exploded outward with a deafening crash.

Glass rained onto the street, and Charity let out a startled yelp. Outside, a wizard shouted something about Ollivanders going on it again.

Ollivander didn’t even blink. “Ah. Not that one.”

He calmly retrieved the wand, set it aside, and picked up another. “Let’s try elm and phoenix feather, then.”

Cadmus rolled his eyes. “If you insist.”

The next wand ended with a cabinet toppling over and a glass orb shattering into a thousand glimmering fragments.

Ollivander sighed, muttering something about “overreactive resonance.”

A third wand produced a shockwave that sent parchment flying. A fourth set a candle ablaze. A fifth simply refused to do anything at all until it snapped nearly in half in his grip.

After the tenth attempt, Charity looked as though she might start apologising to the furniture.

Ollivander, for his part, was visibly intrigued. “Fascinating,” he murmured as he moved along the shelves, long fingers tracing labels. “I haven’t seen this level of magical discordance since…” He trailed off, eyes gleaming faintly.

Cadmus crossed his arms. “Since when?”

The wandmaker looked back at him with that peculiar light of excitement only true craftsmen possessed. “Since a boy whose magic refused to be bound by anything ordinary.”

“Sounds like trouble,” Cadmus muttered.

“Oh, it was,” Ollivander said absently, and handed him another wand.

This one was different. Cadmus froze. He knew that wood. Of course he knew it. Yew. 

He took it reluctantly, the memory of another wand flickering behind his eyes. It had been yew too. 

The weight felt familiar, intimate, wrong.

Still, he lifted it. The hum of magic was there, but distant, like a ghost of a connection rather than a bond.

The shelves shivered but didn’t break. A spark flared weakly and died.

Ollivander tilted his head, murmured, “Closer… but not quite.”

He turned, scanning the shelves again. His long fingers hesitated before reaching for a different box, this one smaller, older, the wood of the box itself darker, worn smooth by generations.

He opened it with reverence.

Inside lay a wand of warm brown wood, unassuming at first glance, until Cadmus reached out.

The moment his fingers touched it, something surged through him—like recognition, like memory, like a heartbeat long forgotten returning to rhythm.

The air shimmered faintly.

Gold and silver sparks burst from the wand tip, curling upward in a delicate spiral. The hum of connection wasn’t just felt; it sang through him, bright and alive and startlingly right.

Cadmus exhaled, a sharp sound that was half relief, half wonder. For a brief, unguarded moment, his expression softened into something almost boyish.

“Marvellous!” Ollivander clapped, eyes wide with delight. “Simply marvellous!”

Even Charity smiled, her tension melting at the sight of his rare, genuine awe.

Severus stood still. Under the dirt and rags, he let himself feel it. The magic. The connection. The wild thrill that came when a wand truly chose him. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it until that instant.

Merlin, it felt good.

“Finally,” he whispered under his breath. “Another wand.”

He turned it in his hand, admiring the way the faint lines along its length seemed to catch the light. His wand. Again.

Ollivander, however, was staring at him strangely.

The wandmaker’s voice, when he spoke, was hushed with awe. “Thirteen inches. Elder wood… with a thestral tail hair core.”

Cadmus went utterly still.

His heart gave a sharp, instinctive jolt—cold, deep, old.

Elder wood.

The words echoed like a curse.

For a moment, the world around him flickered. The shattered window, the smell of dust, the faint buzzing hum of magic—all drowned beneath the memories that came rushing, unbidden and unwanted.

Elder meant one thing in his world. Power. Death. The Hallows.

And he’d seen what that kind of power did.

Dumbledore’s calm, tired eyes. The duel in the tower. The years of manipulation. The boy with the scar.

The wand that killed.

His fingers tightened around the handle before he forced himself to loosen them.

It wasn’t that wand. It couldn’t be. Just Elder wood, not the Elder Wand. Ollivander was babbling about the wand to Charity as if he didn't exist. 

He forced a breath out, quiet and controlled. “You said it was made by your… what? Great-great-great-grandfather?”

Ollivander blinked, then nodded. “Indeed. One of his more experimental pieces. It’s very old—though remarkably preserved. I can’t say I’m surprised it chose you.”

Cadmus frowned. “It’s old, then.”

“Yes. And rare. Each generation of Ollivanders develops their own craft, their own research, their own understanding of magic. That’s why no two wands from our family are ever quite the same.”

Cadmus turned the wand in his fingers. The Elder wood gleamed faintly in the light. “So it’s… unique.”

“Utterly,” Ollivander said with a proud smile. “As are you, it seems, Mr Snape. A fearless child, I hope you remain so.”

Cadmus’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable. Fearless. He’d been called worse—and better. But the word fearless tasted strange. Once, perhaps, it had fit. Before dying. Before waking up again.

He slid the wand into his sleeve with casual care. “How much for it?”

“Seven galleons,” Ollivander said, still watching him curiously. “And I’m afraid that will have to be your only wand for now. None of the other cores seem to harmonise with your magic. Quite remarkable, really.”

Cadmus raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me I’m stuck with one?”

“For the moment,” the wandmaker said, eyes twinkling faintly. “But if you return next year, I’ll see about crafting another. Something…..exotic.”

Cadmus gave a short nod. “You’d better do that, Mr Ollivander.”

The old man chuckled. “I like your spirit, young man.”

Charity stepped forward, still smiling faintly, though her eyes darted toward the broken window and the scorch marks on the floor. “We’ll be going, then, before he decides to redecorate your shop.”

Ollivander inclined his head graciously. “Do take care, Professor Burbage. And you, Mr Snape. Try not to explode anything on your way out.”

Cadmus smirked faintly, pushing the door open. “No promises.”

They stepped out into the street again, sunlight spilling over the cobblestones.

The wand in his sleeve pulsed softly, alive with quiet energy.

Elder. Thestral hair. The hum of death and memory in every inch of it.

He flexed his fingers, forcing the tension from them. It wasn’t that wand. It couldn’t be. Just coincidence, just another relic of a family’s long, obsessive craft.

Still… he could feel its pull. Subtle. Familiar. Tempting.

A shadow from his past or perhaps this new world’s way of mocking him.

Either way, he’d make use of it.

He always did.

Chapter Text

The sound of the station was faint beyond the closed window. Perhaps it was because he was the first one to arrive at the platform and actually sit inside the train without waiting about anything or anyone.

Cadmus Snape sat by the window looking at the other empty platform which never had any visitors 

A month. He’d spent a full month here by now. Thirty days of reading, experimenting, sneering, and trying not to punch the wall when the universe’s cruel humour came back to bite him.

This world was bizarre.

The first few days after Diagon Alley had been… educational. Once Charity Burbage had insisted on taking him “home”—the bloody orphanage he’d legged it from—he’d used every scrap of Slytherin cunning he had to twist her concern into an opportunity. “No, Professor, I’ve got somewhere to go. My father’s house. You said I was his son, didn’t you? Well, I might as well live there.”

It had worked better than expected. Charity had blinked, hesitated, and then nodded. She had been hard to convince considering he was still 11. But he had used his childish whining to fullest. Granted she visited him once every twice a day to see if he was okay or not?

The Knight Bus had taken him to Spinner’s End. It was still the same cramped, damp, miserable corner of the Muggle world he remembered. The house was warded and surprisingly the wards were still good. It felt a little strange that he was able to enter the house in its first place. An event which he couldn't make heads or tails on, considering the wards should repel him. 

Still, after that he’d used the Severus Snape vault properly. Inside the vault, he’d found notes, letters, old tomes, and an uncomfortable amount of correspondence between this world’s Snape and a few names that made him freeze.

Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. Evan Rosier. Bellatrix Lestrange. 

All of them who still remained free.

No Azkaban sentences, no disappearances, no trials. Just living, breathing reminders that this world hadn’t gone the same way as his own.

And the more he read from correspondences and old newspapers, the stranger it became.

Apparently, the Severus Snape of this universe had indeed passed information to Voldemort—about the prophecy—but not the one that had led to Lily and James’s deaths. Oh no. That particular prophecy had doomed Fleamont and Euphemia Potter.

That had made him stop cold.

The boy who lived wasn’t an orphan here.

James Potter lived. So did Lily Evans.

And together, they had a son who had grown up famous. The Boy Who Lived.

Raised in the wizarding world, adored, and—no doubt—a self-absorbed, preening little prick.

He’d also learned, to his reluctant amusement, that the Potters had produced another child in 1982. A girl. A year younger than the so-called saviour.

Another Potter. Merlin help them all.

Severus had laughed the first time he’d read it. It was so absurd, so cosmically wrong, that all he could do was laugh. Of all the universes he could have been dropped into, fate had tossed him into one where James Potter strutted around alive, Lily Evans smiled as she remained alive, and he, the late, unlamented Severus Snape was remembered as Voldemort’s best man and the most dangerous death eater. 

He’d even been killed in an auror raid, apparently. “A ruthless, loyal Death Eater, killed in the line of Dark service.” That was how the Prophet described him.

The irony was delicious.

But it also explained the way people had reacted to his name in Diagon Alley. The whispers. The looks. The hesitation in Charity’s voice.

The whole wizarding world thought Severus Snape had been the snake who whispered doom into Voldemort’s ear and killed every muggleborn and halfblood whom he saw. Perhaps, he inwardly guessed that most of them were rumours peddled by the purebloods who framed him as the scapegoat and fueled his infamy so that their actions couldn't come out. Afterall, the major Death Eaters were free and out of Azkaban. The ones who were caught were mainly low levelers and insignificant ones.

And now his son—his bastard son, if the gossip columns were to be believed—was about to walk into Hogwarts.

Bloody marvellous.

He turned the wand between his fingers, watching the faint shimmer of light run along the Elder wood. It still unnerved him. The way it pulsed faintly, the strange whisper of power in its grain. Not the Elder Wand, no, but enough to rattle him all the same. Every time he touched it, memories came back unbidden: a tower, a wand aimed at him, Dumbledore’s voice, Harry Potter’s horrified eyes as he thrashed the boy magically after killing Dumbledore. 

He forced those thoughts away. This world didn’t need that ghost haunting him again.

There were other ghosts to contend with.

For instance, Regulus Black was alive.

That had nearly made him choke on his tea when he’d discovered it. Regulus bloody Black—dead at eighteen in his world—was alive, well, and apparently running part of the family estate. And his elder brother, Sirius, was not only not in Azkaban but married to Marlene McKinnon, who was alive somehow. And they’d had a son.

Another generation of Marauders, he’d muttered to himself when he’d read that one.

Just what he needed—more prancing Gryffindor brats to ruin his peace.

But if that wasn’t enough to ruin his appetite, there was more.

Bellatrix Lestrange, who had been rightfully incarcerated in his world, had somehow survived that and reproduced. A son and a daughter apparently, and both were being tutored privately for Hogwarts entry.

The universe, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humour.

Still, amidst the madness, he had one small mercy: information.

The other Snape—his counterpart, he supposed—had been meticulous, obsessive even. His notes on potion design were extraordinary. Complex beyond expectation, elegant in structure, with insights that even Severus had to admit outpaced some of his own work from the same age.

It had stung, a little, to realise that without Dumbledore, double agency, or years spent pretending to be something he wasn’t, this version of him had achieved more. Free from politics, free from the Order, free from guilt.

He’d had space to create.

Lucky bastard.

It was that thought that brought the familiar bitterness crawling back up his throat. He’d been so damn consumed by the war in his own world, by Lily, by Voldemort, by Dumbledore—that he’d forgotten what it was to simply be. To research. To learn without masks.

And now, here he was again—forced into a mask, but this time the face of a child.

He looked down at his hands. Slim, pale. The hands of someone who hadn’t brewed for decades or held a wand in a war.

It was almost insulting.

He turned back to the window, watching a smudge of steam rise faintly in the distance from the direction of the station.

Hogwarts.

The name still brought a strange ache to his chest. He’d spent most of his life there—first as a boy desperate for belonging, then as a man chained to duty. It had been his prison and his home, his battlefield and his refuge.

Now he was going back again. Eleven years old, alone, and wearing the face of a ghost the world loathed.

He still couldn’t quite decide whether it was an opportunity or a curse.

He’d done what he could this past month to prepare. The house was clean again, thanks to the elf, he had brought for cooking and cleaning. He’d eaten properly for the first time in years—well, lifetimes, technically. He’d even taken a few strolls through the town, half to reacquaint himself with Muggle life, half to remember what anonymity felt like.

He’d also learned, through whispered rumours in the Daily Prophet and the odd conversation at the apothecary, just how deep his predecessor’s infamy ran.

Severus Snape, the Death Eater who had betrayed the Potters. The spy who gave the Dark Lord the prophecy that started it all. The “half-blood prince of monsters,” one headline had called him.

A few of the older wizards had even suggested that his soul was “too tainted to rest.”

If only they knew how right they were.

He smiled bitterly, stood, and straightened his robes. The wand tucked neatly into his sleeve gave a small, reassuring weight against his wrist.

It felt strange to be both a man and boy.

---

Hermione Jean Granger prided herself on being logical.

She liked things that made sense — rules, instructions, order. The world, in her view, was built on structure, and if you followed it carefully enough, everything could be understood. Well, the magical world was new to her. So she expected something different considering magic defied reality. 

That belief began to tremble slightly the moment she saw the poster.

It was stuck perfectly to one of the compartment doors halfway down the train corridors. The lettering was bold and black

Here sits Cadmus Snape, the future Dark Lord, the Promised Saviour of the Wizarding World.

Only enter if you wish to pledge your allegiance — or if you are a beautiful girl who wishes to become a future member of the Dark Lord’s eventual harem.

Any other person with other intentions will face severe consequences. 

Hermione’s face went scarlet almost immediately. She was caught between outrage and disbelief. “Who would write something like that?”

Beside her, Neville Longbottom tugged urgently at her sleeve. “Hermione — let’s not go in there,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s— it’s him.”

“Him?” Hermione turned, frowning.

Neville’s round face paled further. “Cadmus Snape. You know — that Snape. The son of the Death Eater. Everyone’s been talking about it since we got on.”

Hermione blinked, her brain quickly connecting the name. “Snape… Severus Snape’s son?”

Neville nodded quickly, glancing nervously around as though saying the name might summon the boy himself. “The same one."

He gestured at the door.

Hermione couldn’t blame him. The whole thing looked like a prank. A tasteless, stupid prank.

But the handwriting looked… confident. Almost mocking.

Neville nodded again. “Let's not interrupt him! What if he— I don’t know— curses us?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her heart gave a small, nervous flutter. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t just curse people on the train. It’s against the rules.”

But even as she said it, the name Snape echoed uncomfortably in her head.

Everyone knew the story — the whispers had been impossible to miss even before she’d boarded. Severus Snape, the feared Death Eater, the one who had betrayed the Potters’ grandparents to You-Know-Who. The man killed in an Auror raid, leaving behind an illegitimate son who was now, somehow, going to Hogwarts.

And that son was sitting right there, behind that door, advertising himself as a future Dark Lord.

It was absurd.

It was also… unsettling.

Hermione straightened, trying to brush off the feeling. “He probably didn’t even write it himself,” she said quickly, her tone too sharp to be convincing. “Someone’s playing a joke. It’s childish.”

Neville’s eyes darted back to the parchment. “Then why hasn’t he taken it down?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again.

That was… a fair question.

Hermione’s spine stiffened. “Come on, Neville,” she said briskly. “We have better things to do. We still need to find your toad.”

Neville looked extremely relieved. “Right. Yes. Let’s go.”

 _____

The countryside blurred past in a wash of green and gold. Cadmus Snape sat in silence, elbow resting on the windowsill, chin propped against his hand. His dark eyes followed the line of trees whipping by, though his mind was elsewhere, always elsewhere.

The rhythmic clatter of the train was almost soothing. Almost.

It was strange, watching England roll by through the eyes of a child again. The sensation of height, the energy in his limbs, all of it unfamiliar and infuriating in equal measure. He’d forgotten what it was like to have so much… restless vitality. The old him would have killed for this excitement again.

Still, there was something oddly peaceful about it. He’d taken the corner seat, far enough from the door to observe without being approached. The infamous poster still hung proudly on the outside of his compartment — his little test of the world’s courage. So far, the results were predictable. Not one student had dared enter.

Until the door slid open now.

He didn’t even look up at first, assuming it was some brave gawker come to sneak a glance at “the Snape boy.”

Then the voice spoke.

“So you’re aiming for the Dark Lord, Snape?”

The tone was pompous, cutting, exactly the kind of swaggering arrogance that triggered something deep in his muscle memory.

He looked up slowly.

Three boys stood in the doorway. The first, who had spoken, wore plain unsorted Hogwarts robes and an expression that screamed unearned confidence. Black hair, messy, naturally — green eyes bright with challenge, and there, right on his forehead, the infamous lightning bolt scar.

Well, Cadmus thought dryly, that answers that question.

Harry bloody Potter.

Only, not his Harry Potter. This one was smug. Confident. Entirely too aware of his fame.

The second boy was another dark-haired child, though neater, yet anxious, eyes darting between them like a spectator at a Quidditch match he didn’t want to see. The third was a ginger, lanky and uncertain, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else but was too afraid to say so.

The redhead shifted awkwardly, but the scarred boy stood his ground.

Potter.

There was something cosmically satisfying about it. The universe had handed him a second chance, another meeting, another iteration of the same cursed name — and this time, the boy had come to him.

He stared for a moment, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. Then, very slowly, a smile began to curl at the corners of his mouth.

It wasn’t a kind smile.

“You don’t know,” he said quietly, his voice even, “how long I’ve waited to do this, Potter.”

Confusion flickered across the boy’s face. Not enough time for it to form into realisation.

And then he stood. Quick as thought. Controlled. Precise. And the crack echoed.

Over the years, Harry Potter would claim that he never saw Cadmus Snape's right hook coming within the first minute of their meeting.