Chapter Text
The morning mist spread across the future battlefield like a shroud destined to cover hundreds of corpses. Severus Snape, legate of the Tenth Legion, stood on an elevation, watching as the outlines of the barbarian host emerged from the milky haze. His black eyes, cold as the waters of the Styx, assessed the enemy’s position with the dispassion of a butcher calculating how best to carve a carcass. The barbarians made noise. They always made noise—beating their shields, howling like wolves, calling upon their bloodthirsty gods. Snape allowed a thin smile to touch his narrow lips. Let them howl. Roman discipline was worth a thousand barbarian war cries.
“Legate, they’re beginning their formation,” Centurion Lucius approached, his step measured with the precision honed through years of service. “Shall I give the order to advance?”
“Let them first exhaust their throats with their songs,” Snape adjusted the folds of his scarlet cloak, trimmed with purple—a mark of his high position. “Savages love to waste their strength before battle. We’ll wait until their fervor cools somewhat.”
The sun rose higher, dispersing the fog, and now individual figures could be discerned in the barbarian ranks. Half-naked despite the morning cold, painted with blue dye, with long matted hair—they seemed like spawn of primordial chaos that Rome had come to end.
And then Snape saw him.
The boy stood out even among this rabble. Short, scrawny, with black hair sticking out in all directions—he should have looked pathetic next to the tall warriors. But something in his movements, in the set of his shoulders, in how he gripped his battered sword, made Snape look more carefully.
The brat wasn’t standing still. He moved between the barbarian ranks like a young wolf—sharp, impulsive, as if barely restraining the desire to charge into attack right now. And the eyes… Even from this distance, Snape could see how they burned—two green embers in a dirty face.
“Interesting,” the legate murmured, not taking his gaze from the strange boy. “Whose pup are you, so eager for battle?”
The barbarians roared—their chiefs had given the signal to attack. The disorganized mob surged forward, and Snape gave the order for formation. Shields locked together with practiced precision, spears bristled with steel stingers. The Roman war machine set into motion.
The battle began as usual—the barbarians broke against the Roman formation like a wave against a cliff. But the boy… The boy was everywhere. Snape couldn’t take his eyes off him, watching from the height of his command post.
The youth fought like one possessed. No, not that—he fought like a beast with nothing to lose. Slipping under spears, striking from below, aiming for unprotected places. His sword, too large for thin hands, cut tendons, split bellies, found gaps between armor plates. Around him fell legionaries—experienced soldiers who had been through more than one campaign.
And he laughed.
Snape heard that laughter even through the din of battle—wild, primal, absolutely mad. The boy was covered in blood—it poured down his face from a split brow, soaked the pitiful remains of his tunic, dripped from his hands. Others’ blood, his own—he seemed not to care.
“Take him alive,” Snape ordered when it became clear the barbarians had broken. “That one, the black-haired pup. Alive and preferably intact.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow in surprise, but the legate’s orders were not to be questioned.
It took six. Six elite legionaries to bring down one scrawny adolescent. Even when they pinned him to the ground, he continued struggling, trying to bite, scratch, reach for any weapon. They bound him like a wild animal—hands behind his back, rope around his neck—and dragged him to the command tent.
Snape didn’t hurry. He walked the battlefield, gave necessary orders about the wounded and prisoners, and only then headed to his tent. Let the savage cool off a bit. Or at least tire of snarling—judging by the sounds, the boy hadn’t stopped trying to break free.
When Snape entered the tent, his gaze first found the prisoner. Two legionaries held the boy on his knees, but even so he managed not to look broken. The blood on his face had already dried into a brown crust, but his eyes… The eyes burned even brighter than on the battlefield.
Green. Bright green, like young leaves or snake venom—beautiful and deadly dangerous. And there wasn’t a drop of fear in them. Only hatred, rage, and something else… Contempt? Defiance?
Snape lowered himself into the curule chair, unhurriedly arranging the folds of his toga. The boy followed his every movement, like a cornered predator watching a hunter, waiting for the moment to strike.
“What is your name, barbarian?” Snape’s voice was even, almost bored. Latin flowed from his lips with a poet’s elegance, each word polished by years of rhetorical exercises.
Silence. Only heavy breathing and an unblinking stare from under his brow.
“You understand what I’m saying,” it was a statement, not a question. Snape saw—the boy understood. Recognition flickered in his eyes when the first words were spoken. “And you’re smart enough not to waste strength on useless pretense. That already makes you more interesting than most of your kind.”
The boy bared his teeth—white teeth stood out sharply against his dirty face. There was more wolf than human in that snarl.
“Though the name isn’t so important,” Snape leaned back in his chair, interlacing his long fingers. “I’m more interested in something else. You’re too young to be an experienced warrior, but you fight like a dozen demons. Where does such rage come from, pup? Who taught you to hate Rome with such force?”
Still silence, but something changed in the prisoner’s posture. Tension in the shoulders, a barely perceptible movement—he was preparing for something.
“Bring food and wine,” Snape ordered, not taking his gaze from the green eyes. “Our guest must be hungry after such an… impressive performance.”
Servants bustled about, and soon a tray with bread, cheese, cold meat, and a pitcher of watered wine was placed before the prisoner. The smell of food filled the tent, and Snape noticed how the Adam’s apple bobbed in the boy’s thin neck. Hungry. Of course, hungry—judging by the protruding ribs, he ate irregularly and little.
“Untie his hands,” ordered the legate.
“But, master…” one of the guards began.
“Do it.”
The ropes fell, and the boy rubbed his wrists, where bruises were already forming. He looked at the food, then at Snape, and something… calculating flickered in the green eyes.
And then he slowly gathered saliva and spat.
The spit flew true to its target—right into Snape’s face. A unanimous gasp of horror swept through the tent, the legionaries grabbed for their swords, but Snape merely raised his hand, stopping them.
Slowly, almost elegantly, he took the edge of his toga and wiped his face. A strange smile played on his thin lips—not angry, but almost… approving?
“Magnificent,” he said quietly, but in the silence of the tent the word sounded like thunder. “Absolutely wild. Untrained. Untamed. But with such fire…” Snape stood, approached closer, stopping out of reach of the prisoner’s bound legs. “Do you know what I see when I look at you, boy? I see a magnificent blade, covered in rust and dirt. But under that dirt—excellent steel. It just needs to be… properly forged.”
The boy growled—low, guttural, like a beast cornered.
“Oh yes, exactly so,” Snape returned to his chair. “Lucius, make arrangements. This one goes to Rome, to the Campus Martius. Let him learn what real discipline is.”
“Legate,” the centurion clearly hesitated, “he’s a barbarian. A savage. Can a legionary really be made from… this?”
Snape’s gaze swept over the prisoner’s thin figure—disheveled hair, dirt, blood, complete absence of civilization. And those eyes. Those impossible green eyes, in which danced a flame capable of either forging a hero or burning him to ash.
“A wolf pup can be raised into a dog, if the task is approached correctly,” the legate finally said. “Or one can leave it a wolf, simply teaching it to obey. Time will show what our little savage becomes. In any case, it will be… instructive.”