Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - Harry Potter - The boy who brings death
Severus Snape’s life had been miserable in ways most people could not imagine.
Love had never been part of it. As far back as his memory reached, there had only been his father’s fists and laughter, drunk, cruel, and loud. Tobias Snape enjoyed breaking things: plates, doors, and eventually his own son. Eileen Prince endured it for years, shrinking further into herself until there was nowhere left to go. When Severus was nine, she chose death over another day beside her husband.
No one came to save him.
Hogwarts, when it finally arrived, was meant to be an escape. It wasn’t.
He was poor, awkward, and forgettable in all the ways that mattered to children. He did not shine in Quidditch or charm people with easy smiles. He was clever, dangerously so, but clever did not earn friendship. By thirteen, Severus turned inward, burying himself in books on curses and obscure branches of magic. Darkness answered him readily. It did not reject him or laugh.
He imagined death often then. Not his own, but others’. New spells formed in his mind, elegant and cruel. Detentions followed, but they were meaningless. Horace Slughorn barely noticed him, and his father was too drunk to care. Summers meant returning to Spinner’s End, to scrubbing floors, mending broken things, and enduring silence thick with resentment. There was never money, never travel, never relief. For seventeen years, Severus’ world consisted of Cokeworth, King’s Cross, Hogwarts, and Hogsmeade.
His clothes were old and ill-fitting, patched beyond repair. He kept them clean out of sheer Slytherin pride. He despised his reflection: the sallow skin, the sharp angles, the nose that made him look older and uglier than he was. His hair, long and black, was the one thing he refused to surrender. It hid him. Shielded him from mockery and pity alike.
The Marauders found him anyway.
Years of humiliation blurred together, and Severus was never sure which hurt more, their laughter or the knowledge that teachers saw and did nothing. Sometimes he wondered whether he hated them more than his father.
The only light in those years had been Lily Evans.
She defended him fiercely, standing between him and his tormentors, much to his irritation. Vulnerability was a weakness, and Lily saw too much. Still, she was kind to him. She believed in him. When that friendship ended, destroyed by a single word born of anger and cowardice, something inside him fractured beyond repair.
After Hogwarts, the Dark Lord welcomed him.
The Death Eaters valued his brilliance, his potions, his spells. For the first time, Severus felt powerful. Necessary. He shared everything he created, every improvement, every innovation. It never occurred to him to hold anything back.
Books remained his refuge. When he read, he did not think about tomorrow or the rot of his own soul. But the Dark Lord’s plans crept closer to him, and when Severus overheard part of a prophecy meant for another, he rushed to report it, eager to prove his worth.
He never imagined it would point to Lily.
When he learned her life was in danger, panic stripped him bare. Lily was the only person who had ever truly cared for him. She had anchored him to the light, however tenuously. Watching her die shattered what little remained.
Holding her body, sobbing like a child, Severus Snape made a vow he would spend the rest of his life paying for the pain he caused. He would serve the light. He would protect her son. He would obey Dumbledore, no matter the cost.
That was his punishment and his redemption.
There was one tiny secret Severus guarded more fiercely than any spy’s mission.
He had never been touched.
No kisses. No lovers. Nothing beyond one disastrous attempt with a Ravenclaw boy two years older than him, which ended in laughter and rumors that spread like wildfire. After that, the insults escalated, and the teachers still looked away.
By the time Hogwarts ended, no one wanted the poor, ugly, queer boy.
Later, there was no time for desire. Brewing, spying, surviving consumed him. Romance became an abstract concept, something meant for other people.
Protecting Lily’s child became his entire existence.
At thirty-one, Severus Snape was still the youngest professor at Hogwarts. He cultivated his reputation carefully, relishing his role as the students’ nightmare. When he saw Harry Potter for the first time, small and defiant, something twisted painfully in his chest.
James Potter’s face. Lily’s eyes.
He despised the boy instantly.
Five years later, he sat alone in the dungeons, cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. The clock read half past six. Another year was beginning.
The corridors were blissfully empty. Silence was a rare luxury. It vanished as he neared the Great Hall.
Children.
He swept to his seat, ignoring the stares. First years whispered, eyes wide. He welcomed their fear.
“You are brooding again, Severus,” Minerva McGonagall murmured.
“I assure you,” he replied coldly, “I am not plotting the torture of your precious Gryffindors.”
She laughed softly, then her gaze shifted to a thin, pale sixth-year student. Her expression darkened. “At least spare him.”
Severus followed her gaze. Potter.
“Perhaps it’s time to let go of the past,” Minerva said quietly. “He’s suffered enough.”
“Mutt’s death is tragic,” Severus sneered. “Truly.”
They did not speak of Sirius Black again.
“Harry, eat something. Please.”
Hermione’s voice reached him as if from underwater. The Great Hall felt too loud, too bright, and far too full. Plates clattered, students laughed, and somewhere down the table someone was already arguing about Quidditch. None of it felt real.
Harry stared at his food until it blurred. His stomach twisted sharply, but not with hunger. He had not eaten properly in weeks. At Privet Drive, meals had been weapons. Sometimes they were withheld, sometimes pushed toward him with mocking smiles, sometimes used as proof that he was lying when he said he was starving. After Sirius died, the Dursleys stopped pretending altogether. They knew no one was watching closely anymore.
He pushed his plate away.
Ron noticed at once. “You’re going to pass out if you keep this up.”
Harry forced a shrug. He did not trust his voice. If he spoke too much, something ugly might spill out. The truth, maybe. That he could still hear the laughter in the Department of Mysteries. That he replayed Sirius falling again and again until sleep finally dragged him under. That Remus’ face, pale and furious, haunted him just as badly.
He had deserved every word Remus said. Deserved the way his voice cracked when he spoke Harry’s name.
The guilt sat in his chest like a weight. It pressed down on his lungs until breathing felt like work. Sirius was dead because Harry had been arrogant enough to believe a vision. Because he had dragged everyone with him. Because people trusted him, and he had failed them all.
Sometimes he wondered how many more people would die before they finally understood what he was.
He stood abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes, and walked away before they could stop him.
The bathroom was mercifully empty. He barely reached a stall before retching, his whole body shaking with it. There was nothing left to bring up, just bitter acid and a burning throat. When it was over, he slid down to the cold stone floor and stayed there, knees pulled to his chest.
“Harry?” Ron’s voice came from outside. “Mate, are you okay?”
Harry closed his eyes. He hated the concern. It felt undeserved.
“I’m fine,” he said after a moment. “Just something I ate at the Dursleys’. You know how they feed me.”
That was enough. It always was.
He listened to Ron’s footsteps fade away and let his head rest against the wall. Hogwarts used to feel safe. Now it only reminded him of everything he had ruined. Faces he loved. Corridors where laughter used to follow him.
Something inside him had gone quiet over the summer. Not healed. Not numb. Just hollow.
Harry Potter, the boy who brings death.
He lay awake long after the castle slept, staring at the canopy above his bed and wondering how much longer everyone would pretend he was worth saving.
The dungeon classroom was colder than Harry remembered. Or maybe that was just him.
Professor Snape stood at the front, robes billowing slightly as he turned, black eyes already scanning the room with open disdain. The silence settled instantly. Even the Slytherins stopped whispering.
“I will remind you,” Snape began smoothly, “that this is Advanced Potions. That means accidents are not amusing, and mistakes are not forgiven.”
His gaze moved deliberately from face to face, lingering where fear was strongest. When it reached Harry, it sharpened.
“I find it endlessly fascinating,” Snape continued, “that some of you are still here at all.”
A few students shifted uncomfortably. Hermione sat perfectly straight, quill ready. Harry felt his shoulders tense. He already knew how this year would go. Snape would watch him like a hawk, waiting for him to slip. Waiting for proof that he was still the same reckless idiot.
“You will work alone,” Snape said. “Each of you has a desk and a locker. Inside, you will find today’s ingredients. Some are deliberately flawed. Choose poorly, and your potion will fail. Possibly explosively.”
That did not help Harry’s nerves.
When Snape announced the potion, a complex sleeping draught with precise timing and temperature requirements, Harry felt his stomach drop. He was terrible at Potions. Always had been. His hands already felt unsteady.
Then he remembered.
“I haven’t bought my book yet, sir.”
The words tasted like a mistake the moment they left his mouth. Snape’s head snapped toward him.
“Of course you haven’t,” Snape said softly. A few students snickered. “On the left. The cupboard. Take one of the old texts and sit down before you embarrass yourself further.”
Harry did not argue. He crossed the room quickly, grateful for the chance to avoid Snape’s stare. The cupboard smelled of dust and old paper. He grabbed the first book that did not look like it would disintegrate in his hands and returned to his desk.
The pages were yellowed and worn, the spine cracked.
This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.
Harry paused.
That was strange. More strange were the notes scribbled in the margins, precise and confident, written in dark ink.
Crush the sopophorous bean after heating, not before.
Stir counterclockwise. Slowly.
Harry hesitated only a second before following the instructions.
The difference was immediate.
His potion did not clump or darken incorrectly. The fumes stayed light, almost silvery. His hands stopped shaking as the steps began to make sense, each movement flowing naturally into the next. For the first time, he felt like the potion was responding to him rather than resisting.
He lost track of time.
When Snape finally called the end of class, Harry looked down in disbelief. The potion in his cauldron was smooth, perfectly colored, and steady.
He bottled it carefully, heart pounding as he carried it forward. Snape took the vial without comment. For a brief moment, something flickered across his face. Surprise, quickly smothered.
Harry caught it anyway.
The smile that spread across his face felt unfamiliar, fragile, but real.
Later, long after the students had gone, Severus Snape sat alone at his desk, staring at the vial marked Harry Potter.
The potion was nearly perfect.
That was impossible.
Potter was careless. Impulsive. Incapable of subtlety. And yet this brew was refined, intelligent, and deliberate. It bore the marks of a skilled hand.
Someone had helped him.
Snape’s fingers tightened around the glass.
Very well.
He would find out who. And when he did, Potter would learn that nothing stayed hidden in his classroom for long.