Chapter Text
1998
The Dark Mark pulsed twice, sending a throbbing pain across Severus’s forearm. In answer, he rose from his seat.
“So it begins,” he muttered, each word landing like a stone on dry ground.
The boy anointed for slaughter had arrived. And it was Severus’s job to ensure he sacrificed himself willingly.
“Is it Harry?” asked Dumbledore from a nearby portrait, his tone perfectly collected.
“It would seem so.” Severus gathered his wand and fixed his robes. “I must go.”
As he stepped toward the door, Dumbledore called out, “Severus,” with a near-plea. “Did you remember to take the necklace with you?”
“I’m wearing it, sir.”
Dumbledore gave a relieved smile before his expression returned to indifference. “That’s good... I’ll see you when it’s over.”
1997
The headmaster placed a gilded phial in Severus’s hand, exquisitely engraved with feathers and accompanied by a golden chain.
“You’ve served me well, Severus,” he said. “Though, while these years have had purpose, I fear contentment has evaded you... and peace has been an awfully elusive stranger.”
Rolling his eyes, Severus asked, “Am I to presume this substance offers a satisfaction I’ve yet to produce for myself?”
It was the length of his forefinger, though the pendant felt lighter than a pinch of fluff, noticeable only for how cold it was against his palm.
“In this,” Dumbledore dropped his chin, meeting Severus’s gaze from above his spectacles, “are phoenix tears… After they’re expended, a single pearl will appear inside.”
Severus furrowed his brow. Phoenix tears were not usually collected and stored for personal use; they were meant to be offerings, given only by the supernal birds themselves.
He narrowed his eyes. “A pearl?”
“A time-key... first of its kind.”
“Explain,” Severus demanded.
“It works like a portkey, though it pulls its travellers through time instead of distance.”
“No. Explain why you’re giving it to me.”
It was a strange gift from a man who had, until then, rarely shown him any kindness. Stranger still that it gave him the chance to flee.
“It’s a token of my appreciation,” Dumbledore said, a blush rising in his cheeks, “something I’ve neglected to give you all these years. A fresh start, perhaps, for the both of us.”
The declaration was well-crafted, though verging on theatrical. Perhaps Dumbledore realised that winning the war was, for Severus, a dead end, and he didn't want to die with the guilt of having used him so shamelessly.
“To which time is it anchored?” Severus asked.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, then quietly said, “1919... It should be noted, however, the spellwork dissolves upon arrival.”
1998
Blood spilt from Severus’s neck as he gazed into Lily’s green eyes, knowing it would be the last time he found comfort in them.
The boathouse blurred in dusty shades of grey and blue…
Until everything went black.
And there was no one left to say goodbye to.
But before what should have been his final breath, his body jerked with renewed vigour. A stinging chill pressed against his chest—a reminder of what was clasped around his neck.
His arm trembled as he uncorked the phial and aimed its brim above his wound, tipping it carefully, until drops of milky liquid met the angry gash in a haze of opalescent smoke.
The moment his muscles and skin knit back together, red and raw, the phial ran dry. There had only been enough to ensure his survival. His throat remained sore and swollen, his limbs pinned by fatigue.
Severus stared at the bottom of the bottle, his breathing softly whistling like a ticking clock, marking the extra time he had stolen.
It wasn't long before the time-key appeared—a pearl, satin in colour, bearing an odd streak of purple.
It promised escape. To somewhere he wasn’t a traitor, or a spy, or a servant to the cruel schemes of self-entitled men.
Somewhere he would not be tried for the murder of Albus Dumbledore, the man he had served reluctantly, but loyally, with a faithless devotion.
Here, he had nothing left. The people he once loved were dead. His tasks were completed. And he could do nothing to ensure the boy survived the Dark Lord a second time. By morning, if all went to plan, he would be imprisoned—at best.
It felt less like a choice and more like a last-ditch effort to survive... when he tipped the pearl into his hand and held on for dear death, of a kind.
1919
Consciousness took hold of Severus in bursts. Like a child struggling to pull a man to shore, it kept losing its tenuous grip.
In a moment of clarity, he heard the sound of water—clunk, clunk—as it crashed against a stone wall...
Then the call of a young girl, “Professor! Professor! There’s a man in the boathouse!”
Quick feet and heavy shoes—bum, bum, bum, bum—rushed toward them.
“Miriam, you did well to let me know,” a man said, his voice warm and reassuring. “Now go on to the castle. I hear the elves are preparing an especially large feast. There’s no need to worry anyone else.”
Severus’s hand was pried open roughly, quickly, not as gently as the words that had been spoken. And the pearl—its purpose spent, now just a pretty gem—was pulled from his grasp.
Strong, steady fingers checked his pulse. Loosened his robes. And carried him away.
*
When Severus came to, he was lying on a single bed, tucked inside layers of sheets. By the light of a fire, he glanced around a large room. It held a breakfast table, a kitchenette, and walls of shelves, neatly crammed with books.
Close to where he lay sat a man at a writing desk, reading a tome. He had a lean frame and short hair—waves that faded along his sides, then arose like foam in wiry curls across his cheeks and jaw.
“With a bit more rest, your throat will fully recover,” the man said, his profile in shadow.
When he shifted in his seat toward the bed, half of his face glowed in the firelight, his hair like polished copper.
“However, you’ll have a scar,” he continued. “Had you been in the Forbidden Forest?”
“Where am I?” asked Severus, his voice hoarse.
“My cottage, in Hogsmeade. I’m a professor at Hogwarts.”
Severus recognised the voice—its subtle dips and leaps—and he’d seen photographs of the man—his younger self—in newspapers, on book covers, in frames atop an office shelf.
"Of course," he sneered, accented by the grit in his throat, "You're Albus Dumbledore."
But it wasn’t the man he knew. The man he admired and loathed in equal measure. The man he missed, even as bitterness blazed at the thought of him. The man who betrayed him—only, to then save him.
This Albus chuckled nervously. “Have I previously offended you? If so, I do apologise. Though, if it’s my papers you disagree with, I’d be most delighted to hear your thoughts.”
Severus took a moment to sit up, leaning against the headboard. “How long have I been here?”
“A couple of hours... How did you find yourself in the boathouse?”
Over the past year, Severus had considered the story he might recite if he ever used the time-key. He entertained taking a new identity—one that would allow him to live by the sea, tend a small garden, and have only books for company.
But as the moment came, he went off script. “I can’t recall.”
“I suppose it’s normal for horrible events to cloud your memory. Could you tell me your name?”
Severus grimaced. “I doubt it’s of any importance.”
“Hm.” Albus gave him a polite smile, tight at the edges. “Well, I have to say, I disagree, Mr. Servius Spane... I hope you don’t mind, but I took it upon myself to glance at your Ministry records, using your wand signature. When I saw you didn’t have a next of kin, I decided you could rest here.”
Servius Spane. The name made Severus’s lips twitch, but it also made his gut clench.
It figured—that Dumbledore would think of everything, going so far as to forge an identity for him. Thoughtful, yes. Cunning, certainly. But presumptuous all the same.
“You know,” Albus continued, “it’s rather peculiar I don’t remember you, Servius. Surely I would have met you at Hogwarts, given we attended together.”
“Yes, indeed—how peculiar.”
Severus wondered what other nonsense Dumbledore wrote in his records.
He slipped out from under the covers and swung his legs off the bed, noticing his shoes conveniently waiting by his feet.
“Well then, as a fellow Gryffindor,” said Albus, “I hope you can forgive my negligence.”
A fellow Gryffindor. The words drew a huff from Severus. The idea of having ever been sorted into Gryffindor was too ridiculous to consider. Was he being taunted?
But then he recalled something Dumbledore had once told him: I sometimes think we Sort too soon. The man had clearly seen what he wanted to see: a reflection of the parts he fancied in himself.
“Perhaps I failed to do anything foolish enough to catch your attention,” Severus drawled.
A corner of Albus’s mouth lifted in amusement.
Then his brows rose. “I know!” He lifted a finger in the air. “Hogwarts is in need of a Herbology professor. Perhaps that’s what brought you to the castle this afternoon.”
Slipping on his loafers, Severus ignored the comment. Instead, he asked, “Where are the rest of my belongings?”
“They’re on the table.” Albus pointed to a sack near a stack of papers.
Severus crossed the room and collected his things, pocketing his wand, his watch, and the necklace Dumbledore had given him. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I’ll be going now.”
“Wait,” Albus called as Severus neared the door. “The pearl—I have one just like it. It’s fascinating, isn’t it, with its streak of lavender? From where did you get yours?”
Severus stopped with his hand on the knob. He tilted his chin toward his shoulder. “It was a gift,” he said, then left before Albus could continue his interrogation.
*
The crisp autumn air chilled Severus’s face and hands as he collected sprigs of dittany. The herb garden was a maze of raised beds, tall enough for him to stand as he worked.
“You decided to teach Herbology after all,” called Albus as he strolled down the pavement.
Severus waited until the man drew nearer, refusing to raise his voice when he muttered, “It provides me with the means to do the work I enjoy.”
“Herbology? Or do you mean teaching?” Albus stood by the edge of the dittany, resting one hand on its wooden frame.
Severus snorted. “Neither. I’m a potioneer. Growing my own ingredients saves me from having to negate the careless mistakes of others.”
“Ah, you’re the type to start at the roots.” Albus smirked.
Severus bundled the herbs and set them in a wicker basket. Then he moved several rows down toward the fluxweed and drew out a knife.
Albus followed. He stood nearby, watching Severus as though searching for something to say—or perhaps the right way to say it. A smudge of pink crept across his cheeks and under his beard as his expression grew increasingly serious.
While Severus collected the freshly bloomed flowers, he couldn’t help glancing up at Albus from the corner of his eye. He noticed when Albus drew a golden chain from beneath his robes and held up a pearl.
Catching Severus’s gaze, Albus said, “My mother gave this to me before she died. It was the first gift my father could afford her: a simple white pearl.
“She used to say I possessed ‘a streak of lavender.’ So, before presenting it to me, she gave it a similar mark—something she said made it ‘just as unique.’
“I was quite surprised when I saw the same pearl in your hand the day I found you. At first, I thought you had stolen mine... before I realised, more peculiarly, it was a copy.”
This time, it was Severus who struggled with words. He gave the man a long look, spotting confusion and longing.
“I had not lied when I told you it was a gift.”
“No, I hadn’t thought so. I’m just having trouble understanding—”
“Some matters aren’t for you to understand.” The finality of Severus’s words echoed in the space between them.
Preferring to focus on the task at hand, Severus offered, “I have another knife, if you want to make yourself useful.”
Albus raised a brow. “You’d trust me with your ingredients?”
“I’ve never once doubted your competence.” Severus quipped, holding out the spare instrument.
Taking it, Albus said, “Fine. Then answer me this—”
“Cut directly above the leaves,” Severus instructed, “and drop the flowers in here.” He pointed to the basket.
Albus continued, “What about me, exactly, causes you doubt?”
Severus sighed heavily. “It’s simple. I’ve watched you long enough to know you hide behind a collection of facades, even with those closest to you. I’ve yet to parse out what, or whom, you’ve ever cared for.”
At this, a look of sadness crossed Albus’s face, but it was there and gone in a snip.
“You’re right, Servius Spane. It isn't easy for me to let people in... which you seem to be rather brilliant at, obviously.”
Severus pursed his lips.
“However—and let me be utterly clear, here,” said Albus, “I would like the chance to get to know you. Have you considered I may not be the man you once knew?" He paused before adding, “At the very least, one should keep their enemies close, don’t you agree?”
“Seeing as you don’t remember me from our school days…” Severus’s voice trailed off as he cut into a thicker stem, “I suspect you’ll once again find my nature unremarkable.”
Albus let out a soft huff. “Perhaps we’ve both changed.”
They fell silent as they worked, the plant's faint medicinal scent emerging, sweet and tangy, as the push and pull between them eased.
When they were finished, Albus asked, “What’s next?”
“Coincidentally, the lavender,” drawled Severus, picking up the basket. They strolled toward the greenhouses, past the knotgrass and wolfsbane, leaving behind their friction. “My predecessor allowed their roots to rot. I’ll have to replace them all.”
“It’s a good thing you arrived when you did,” Albus said. “As a representative of the previous staff, I'll help... Take it as a sincere apology.”
“And what of the wilted wormwood?” Severus smirked. “Will you grovel on account of that, too?”
Albus grinned, a playful twinkle in his eye. “I suppose, if absolutely necessary, I’ll do whatever it takes for the staff to have proper wormwood.”
While they strode into a sanctuary of preserved summer warmth, Severus wondered how often Albus made such reckless pledges to men he barely knew—and whether the Dumbledore he first met had similarly offered them in his youth.