Under a pale, struggling morning sun, the two figures arrived at Spinner's End—a street defined by its industrial gloom and the pervasive scent of stagnant water and decaying refuse. The environment itself seemed to actively repel cheerfulness. Sebastian, tall and elegantly clad in robes that somehow repelled the grime, walked ahead, while Harry, shorter and nervous, trailed him closely, his hand gripping his holly wand inside his pocket for invisible comfort.
The house at the very end of the street was darker than its neighbors, its windows like vacant, bruised eyes.
Thump, thump—
The sound of Sebastian's confident knock echoed unnervingly in the oppressive silence.
The door opened instantly, revealing the silhouette of Severus Snape. His expression was a flawless mask of cold annoyance, his black robes hanging about him like a curtain of shadow.
"Sebastian. I had specifically requested that our correspondence be handled through secure, encrypted owls. I believed my letter was clear about my desire for undisturbed solitude during the academic recess," Snape drawled, his voice low, controlled, and dripping with thinly veiled irritation. "You should understand that not all of us enjoy the vast, inexhaustible free time afforded to… corporate executives."
Snape's complaint died instantly in his throat. His lifeless eyes, which had been fixed on Sebastian's arrogant face, drifted downward and locked onto the boy standing half-hidden behind him.
Suddenly, the cold, vacant blackness of his pupils seemed to implode. His breathing hitched, becoming a shallow, painful struggle. It was not the face—which was, maddeningly, a poor replica of James Potter's—but the eyes. Those intense, impossibly bright, familiar green eyes that stared back at him, pulling the air from his lungs and the stability from his world.
"Good morning, Severus! You didn't even have to ask me for new students; I brought the perfect candidate right to your doorstep!" Sebastian announced with a beaming, triumphant smile that radiated from his carefully planned victory.
The surprise is working, Sebastian thought, his eyes twinkling. No more endless complaining? No more posturing? Excellent.
Without waiting for an invitation, Sebastian casually nudged Snape aside and propelled Harry into the cramped living room, disrupting the carefully constructed peace of Snape's sanctum.
"I was gravely concerned you might perish of boredom during the long break, Severus, so I secured the ideal companion and research assistant for you," Sebastian declared, raising a triumphant eyebrow at the reeling Potions Master. "Am I not, in fact, the most exceptionally thoughtful friend you possess?"
Sebastian clapped Snape roughly on the shoulder. "This is Harry Potter. He has a rather spectacular, innate curiosity regarding Potions, and I assure you, he will provide all the intellectual stimulation your reclusive habits currently deny you."
He turned to Harry. "And Harry, do not stand there looking like an anxious Niffler. This is Professor Snape, one of the most brilliant minds in our world. Greet him properly."
Harry, sensing the electric tension and the sheer seriousness of the situation, quickly stepped forward, executing a small, formal, slightly stiff bow he had seen in an old painting.
"Hello, Professor Snape! It is an honour to meet you," Harry said carefully, his voice respectful but tight with nerves.
Snape's mind was still reeling, caught in the devastating internal conflict. Those eyes, those infuriating, heartbreaking green eyes. He was vividly flung back to that dreadful night, the darkness, the broken wards. Now, in the harsh morning light, every detail was clear. This was Lily's son, a living, breathing accusation wrapped in the detestable features of James Potter.
This resemblance is an affront to the natural order! Snape's gorge tightened. He forcibly suppressed the visceral repulsion and the tidal wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm him.
With a superhuman effort, Snape clamped down on his jaw, the silent grinding of his teeth audible only to himself. "Sebastian, come with me immediately." The command was a low snarl, thick with cold fury.
"Harry, take a seat and relax," Sebastian instructed, giving Harry a reassuring pat. "I simply need to confer with Professor Snape regarding the specific academic syllabus. Rest assured, Professor Snape already adores you."
Harry watched the two men exit the living room and disappear into a workshop beyond. He glanced briefly into the open doorway, catching sight of a vast, disorganized bench covered with copper instruments, arcane glassware, and bubbling, smoking vials. The door closed with a heavy, definitive thud.
Harry slowly began to examine the living room. It was a space of oppressive darkness and unforgiving utility. A few pieces of furniture—a sagging, ancient sofa and a scarred coffee table—were scattered around. The only point of interest was a large, central table, completely covered in thick, dark-spined spellbooks and brittle scrolls that looked centuries old. The room was perpetually dim, illuminated only faintly by a dusty window and a sputtering oil lamp that seemed to emit a reluctant, jaundiced yellow glow.
The air was heavy, thick with an almost caustic mixture of dried herbs, industrial sulfur, and a metallic, unidentifiable tang. This is definitely the lair of a Potions Master, Harry realized.
His heart sank. Sebastian was always smiling, always teaching with encouragement and lightness. This professor, however, seemed carved from cold granite. Harry was desperate to learn the art of Potions—Lily's favorite subject—but he was instantly filled with the crushing fear that he would be judged, found wanting, and summarily dismissed by this intimidating, severe man. His anxiety mounted rapidly.
In the adjoining workshop, Snape wasted no time. He slammed the heavy door shut, pointed his wand at the living room, and cast the highest grade of Muffling Charm he knew, ensuring no sound could escape. He finally let his expression crack, his face contorting with rage.
"You absolute bastard, Sebastian! How dare you bring him here?!" Snape's voice was no longer flat; it was a guttural, wounded shout that rattled the glassware on the shelves.
"And what, pray tell, is the actual emergency?" Sebastian asked coolly, adjusting his cufflink. "That you had to resort to shouting at your oldest ally? It's just a boy, Severus. A new student."
Snape immediately tore back the sleeve of his black robe, revealing the Dark Mark—the hideous, coiled serpent and skull—burnt into the skin of his forearm. The movement was sharp and desperate, a final, definitive declaration of his status.
"I am a Death Eater, Sebastian! Do not pretend you have forgotten my rank! If any of the remaining faithful saw the Boy-Who-Lived walk through my door—here, in my lair—they would immediately suspect my loyalty. The Dark Lord will return. And what then? What is my fate when I am exposed as a traitor for the sake of your reckless games?!"
"Your fate?" Sebastian's eyes narrowed, his casual demeanor evaporating, replaced by the intensity of the man who ran a multi-national empire. "Your fate should be to join me in the sunlight, Severus. Why endure this agonizing, treacherous life of a double agent, clinging to the shadows and the whims of an old man?"
Sebastian took a step closer, his voice dropping to a seductive, persuasive pitch. "We have the resources, the influence, and the political capital to build a counter-force now. Abandon Dumbledore's service. Stand on the side of justice and wealth. Fight the Dark Lord fair and square, in the open, alongside those who will actually survive this war!"
"I am an operative! I cannot simply step out of the shadows!" Snape hissed, the pain of his servitude evident in his strained voice. "It was a vow I made! A promise to Dumbledore—a price for his silence and protection!"
"To hell with Dumbledore and his ancient promises! Resign! Tell him to find another bloody spy!" Sebastian retorted, losing patience. "I am not afraid to tell you, Severus, that I am merely waiting for the opportune moment. We are building a formidable alliance. When the time comes, even Lucius will be forced to choose the side that guarantees his family's survival. We do not need another secret agent like you—we need a brilliant Potions Master standing proudly at Hogwarts, untainted by the Dark Mark!"
Snape staggered back a step, the sheer political weight of Sebastian's declaration hitting him. Sebastian was proposing not just defection, but a massive political pivot involving the most powerful families—a move that could fracture the very foundations of the Ministry.
But Snape's expression hardened, reverting to the familiar, cold mask. His motivations were personal, tied not to politics, but to penance.
"Becoming an operative was my choice, Sebastian," Snape said flatly, his voice empty again. "You must accept my loyalty, even if you despise my methods. I must exact my revenge on the Dark Lord on my own terms, in the deepest shadow, for the one person who mattered."
Snape then glanced deliberately towards the ceiling, a silent acknowledgement of the ghost that haunted them both. "Besides, Harry is waiting. Lily may well be watching, and I will not risk upsetting her further."
Snape turned, his hand already on the doorknob. "Since your reckless abandonment has now made his presence here a reality—and since Lily was, admittedly, profoundly talented with Potions—I refuse to let her son waste that innate magical gift. I will teach him. But this is for her, not for you, and certainly not for him."
With that, he flung the door open and walked back into the living room.
Snape stopped dead in the living room doorway. He suddenly noticed the sheer, oppressive mess he was about to subject the Boy-Who-Lived to. The dusty floor, the untidy scattering of dark texts, the lingering scent of unwashed cauldrons.
That cursed, flamboyant Swan! He didn't even give me a chance to cast a single cleaning charm!
Sebastian, however, was already bidding Harry farewell, his smile wide and unconcerned.
"Harry, I must depart now; important business calls me to Hogwarts. Professor Snape will take excellent care of you. If you require sustenance or drink, simply inform the Professor—do not be shy!"
"Goodbye." Sebastian gave Harry a conspiratorial wink and vanished through the door, leaving Snape and Harry staring awkwardly at each other across the cluttered, dim room.
Snape finally crossed the room, stopping directly in front of Harry. He made no movement to tidy the space. His focus was solely on the boy's green eyes.
"Mr. Potter," Snape began, his voice a slow, deliberate cadence that instantly felt like the ominous tolling of a great bell. "We will immediately assess your foundational knowledge. What, pray tell, is the result of adding powdered moonstone to a common Sleeping Draught?"
Harry's heart hammered against his ribs. He shook his head nervously. "I… I don't know, Professor. I haven't read the advanced books yet."
Snape did not blink. "Indeed. Very well. Define a Bezoar. Where, precisely, is it sourced, and what is its primary, most potent application?"
"I don't know either, Professor." Harry's voice was barely a whisper now, shame burning in his cheeks.
Snape leaned in, his black hair falling forward, shadowing his severe features. "My next question, Mr. Potter, is essential: What is the precise, chemical distinction—the specific molecular difference—between the poisons derived from Aconitum carmichaelii and the nearly identical Aconitum davidii?"
Harry completely bowed his head, defeated. It's over, he thought bitterly. I failed. He's going to throw me out. How will I ever get back to Sebastian? The anxiety of rejection was a cold knot in his stomach.
Just as Harry was bracing for the inevitable, scathing dismissal, Snape's expression, remarkably, did not change. His voice, however, held a new, chilling tone of approval.
"Very good, Potter."
Harry snapped his head up, utterly bewildered.
Snape continued, his gaze intense. "If you had arrived here with all the textbook clichés and superficial knowledge of the common students, I would be forced to un-teach you first. Your ignorance, Mr. Potter, is a clean slate. It means your talent is yet to be corrupted by the incompetent, inaccurate teachings of your school books. You are a block of raw marble, ready for the sculptor's blade."
Snape swept his hand towards the large, messy table. "I will not waste time forcing you to take notes by hand, as I am nothing if not efficient."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a long, elegant Quill crafted from polished black metal.
"This is an Automatic Scribing Quill. It will record every word, every instruction, and every formula of our lessons into a separate folio, allowing you to focus solely on the intricacies of the process. Do not ever lose it."
Snape's lips twitched slightly, a motion that might have been a grimace or, perhaps, a rare, reluctant smile.
"Now, Mr. Potter, this is your mother's specialty. You will not disrespect her legacy by failing. Take a stool by the bench. Your education in true magical alchemy begins now."
"Let the lesson begin."