The cold bit deep into Severus Snape's flesh as the venom coursed through his veins. He could feel life slipping away, hear Harry's desperate pleas, see Lily's eyes staring back at him through her son. The pain wasn't just physical—it was decades of regret, guilt, and unspoken love collapsing into silence.
And then—darkness.
But it didn't last.
He awoke to the rustle of a robe. A much lighter robe.
The familiar scent of stone, potion ingredients, and candle wax. He opened his eyes, expecting the afterlife. Instead, he was sitting in the staff room at Hogwarts, a steaming cup of tea before him.
A voice rang out in the corridor beyond: "Firs'-years, this way! Come on now, firs'-years!"
Snape's breath caught in his throat.
He stood up and rushed to the window. There they were—children stepping off boats, approaching Hogwarts for the first time. And at the front, unmistakable: a small boy with unruly hair and glasses, holding back beside a redhead and a bushy-haired girl.
Harry Potter.
Snape's hands trembled. What trick is this?
He spun to the mirror on the wall—his face was younger. His eyes more alive. The lines from years of war and pain were gone.
"This is the year he started..." Snape whispered. "My first time meeting the boy."
And yet he remembered everything. Voldemort's rise. Dumbledore's death. His own sacrifice. The boy's tears as he died. The way he had protected Harry for Lily's sake—and how, over time, it became more than just duty.
Snape's knees buckled. He fell into the chair, mind racing. Why me? Why now? Was it a second chance? A punishment?
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
Minerva McGonagall peeked in. "Severus, they're arriving in the Hall soon. You'll want to be present when the Sorting begins."
He stood, nodded stiffly. "Of course."
As he made his way to the Great Hall, he felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
This time… I won't fail her.
And when the doors opened and young Harry Potter stepped into Hogwarts for the first time, Severus Snape stood watching not with hatred or bitterness… but with a fierce, silent determination.
Severus Snape sat at the staff table, his black eyes shadowed with thought.
It felt surreal.
The enchanted ceiling above the Great Hall shimmered with starlight. Candles floated peacefully overhead. The Sorting Hat had just finished its song—unusually chipper this year—and Professor McGonagall was calling out names from the long scroll in her hands.
But Severus only had eyes for one boy.
Potter.
Not James Potter's spawn, not the Boy-Who-Lived—but Harry. A child who had known nothing but pain, loss, and abuse, even before stepping into the wizarding world. A child who would one day suffer burdens no eleven-year-old should ever bear.
Snape's jaw tightened as he watched Harry whisper something to the redheaded Weasley boy beside him. He didn't know yet. Didn't know the fame, the expectation, the danger that would be dropped onto his small shoulders.
Snape's fingers curled around the goblet in front of him. The very sight of Harry used to ignite bitterness—James's smirk lived in that boy's face. But now, all Severus could see was Lily in his eyes. That haunted loneliness. That quiet hunger for love.
He barely heard the names being called out.
"Granger, Hermione!"
The bushy-haired girl trotted up, nervous and eager. The hat took a moment before declaring: "GRYFFINDOR!"
Polite applause.
Then: "Longbottom, Neville!"
Snape swallowed. Another name stained by fate.
More names passed, then—
"Potter, Harry!"
A hush fell. Every head turned. Whispers broke out like wildfire.
Snape's chest tightened. Harry walked to the stool slowly, his eyes flickering across the teachers' table.
Their eyes met.
And for a second, Snape forgot how to breathe.
Harry didn't look afraid—just curious. Hopeful, even. He had no idea who Snape was yet. No idea that this man, in another time, would glare at him with cold contempt and cruel words.
Snape broke eye contact first.
The hat took longer this time. As always, considering Slytherin. But soon:
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Cheers erupted. Harry ran to join his house, grinning wide, face flushed with excitement.
Snape didn't smile. But there was a flicker of something else in his expression—resolve.
He knew how this story went. How he had poisoned it before it even began. The first Potions class, the sarcastic jabs, the humiliation. He had done everything wrong. He had taken out years of hate on a child who didn't deserve it.
This time, he thought, I will be better. Even if it kills me again.