Chapter Text
Severus Snape was done.
He could finally say that.
He was done with everything.
Sure, he was lying on the grimy floor of the Shrieking Shack. Sure, he was bleeding out in the same place he once thought he’d die at fifteen, staring down a werewolf. How utterly ironic. If he could muster the strength, he’d have chuckled at the pathetic coincidence. Sure, he’d fulfilled his duty, handing the Potter brat his memories to bring this cursed war to an end. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been cheated. He didn’t know why—or maybe he did. Perhaps it was the cruel reality that the last face he’d see was a carbon copy of his childhood tormentor. Or maybe it was the solace of seeing Lily’s eyes one final time before he departed to an afterlife of endless atonement.
No, it was the snake bite. That damned, agonizing wound taking its sweet time killing him.
Yes, definitely that.
The last thing he wanted was to survive, to be found, to be forced into recovery. Severus did not want to live. He vehemently did not want that.
He had waited too long for this—to die, to be free of it all.
Returning to teaching snot-nosed children how to avoid blowing up their cauldrons with improperly used dragon blood? No, thank you. Or, worse, teaching them to tie their shoes before entering his classroom to avoid yet another preventable explosion. He had wasted too many years ensuring his classroom didn’t turn to rubble. A tragic misuse of his time—and his life. The thought of enduring more of it made him shudder. Knowing his luck, his afterlife would be more of the same: teaching children. Or worse, being taught by them.
Great. Now he was imagining his torturous afterlife. Not the Dark Lord. Not Lily hating him and replaying his worst mistakes. No, those were too merciful. His hell would be a classroom full of students.
His only saving grace was the shallowness of his breath and the dimming of his senses. At last, it was ending.
He isn’t hoping for anything good to happen when he gets to the other side. He didn’t expect forgiveness or redemption. He isn’t hoping that he will show his genuine remorse to Lily for being stupid enough to join a group that wanted and had her dead. He isn’t even hoping Dumbledore will meet him to bestow unsolicited advice that he should listen to. He just wants to not be Severus Snape anymore. That includes Professor Snape, Snivellus, or that awful boy. He just longed to cease his existence once and for all.
So, when he takes his final breath he is nothing but grateful. Hoping that his information helped the Potter prat save a world that has done nothing but ridicule him for every aspect of his person the moment he entered it.
He opened his eyes.
Bitterness flooded him. Pain too, but bitterness more than anything.
Why were his eyes open? Why could he feel his body? Why was his existence continuing? And why, for Merlin’s sake, was Albus Dumbledore standing over him with that infuriating look?
Severus tried to speak, but his throat betrayed him, producing only a hoarse rasp.
“Best not to strain yourself, Mr. Snape,” Madam Pomfrey said, bustling over to fluff his pillows. “Your throat has been through quite the ordeal.”
Overwhelmed, Severus barely registered her words. He was too busy processing his surroundings. Not just Dumbledore and younger Madam Pomfrey. His own body was younger, different. He could hardly believe it.
He tried to speak again. Pomfrey moved to scold him, but Dumbledore silenced her with a raised hand.
“Let the boy speak, Poppy. He seems quite determined,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.
After several attempts, Severus finally forced out the only question that mattered.
“What the actual fuck?”
Severus Snape was confused.
Severus Snape was very, very confused.
Both adults looked surprised by Severus’s choice of words. The boy they knew might have always been wild and quick to lash out when cornered by fellow students, but he was usually careful—meticulously so—when addressing authority. His words were deliberate, calculated, designed to elevate himself above his upbringing in the eyes of his professors and housemates.
Dumbledore’s demeanour shifted, his tone growing serious as he addressed the young man before him. “My boy, I understand that what you endured last night has taken its toll, but—”
Severus cut him off, his voice sharp despite the hoarseness. “Last night? What the fuck do you mean by last night? What I want to know is how you’re standing here in front of me. Is this my hell? Oh, Merlin, it is my hell, isn’t it?” The last sentence was more to himself than anyone else.
“Mr. Snape, do you not remember what happened in the Shrieking Shack?” Dumbledore asked, his voice calm but probing.
“Yes, I remember! I died. Or at least, I think I did,” Severus replied, his confusion mounting.
“No, Mr. Snape, you did not die,” Dumbledore said, his tone gentle but firm. “James Potter saved you before anything serious could happen. The only injury you suffered came as a result of his quick thinking.”
“James Potter?” Severus repeated, his confusion deepening. He replayed the words in his head, each one more absurd than the last. Were he not so disoriented, he’d have corrected the old man’s apparent mistakes.
“Yes,” Dumbledore said, nodding as though this revelation were not utterly ridiculous. “I know it’s a surprise, but James Potter saved you from what could have been a tragic encounter with a werewolf.”
Okay, this was definitely hell. Severus almost wished he was back in the classroom, tortured by students. Anything would be better than reliving his fifth year with this rotten twist.
Still, he couldn’t help but be morbidly curious: how was this delusion—or whatever it was—going to make his worst year even worse?
“I understand you need time to process this,” Dumbledore said, standing. “Please, rest for now. Come to my office after lunch, and we can discuss this further.” He offered a faint smile. “I’m glad to see you’re physically well, Mr. Snape.”
With that, he left, leaving Severus to process what had just transpired.
He turned to Madam Pomfrey, who had been quiet throughout the exchange.
“What?” was all he managed to croak.
“I understand your confusion, Mr. Snape, but please try not to speak too much,” she said gently. “You’ll only strain your throat further.”
Deciding not to antagonize what might very well be a hellish manifestation of the school nurse, Severus simply tilted his head and gestured toward his injury, silently demanding an explanation.
“Yes, the injury is to your throat,” she explained. “You sustained it during Mr. Potter’s efforts to rescue you. For some reason, magic won’t fully heal it, so we’ve had to resort to Muggle methods. That’s why it’s bandaged. I’m afraid it may scar.”
Severus resisted the urge to laugh at her apparent concern over a scar. For a manifestation in his personal hell, Madam Pomfrey was remarkably kind.
“Please rest before meeting with the Headmaster,” she said softly, adjusting his bandages. “If you need anything, touch the disc on your nightstand, and I’ll be alerted.” With that, she left him alone.
Now, the big question: did he trust this bizarre delusion enough to sleep and rest? He decided no. No, he didn’t trust it at all. He needed to stay awake, alert, and ready—wand in hand, just in case.
When he awoke for the second time that day, it was to Madam Pomfrey gently shaking him awake, reminding him to prepare for his meeting with the Headmaster.