Chapter Text
The summons came in the early afternoon, a cold flare beneath his skin, intense and insistent, pulsing through the Dark Mark like a brand remembering its purpose.
Severus straightened from his desk, the quill still dripping ink over the parchment before him. He had known this would come soon. There had been whispers, half-hints of “reform,” of Hogwarts being “put to rights.” Yet when the call finally came, it still carried the same old chill.
He left Spinner’s End without a word to Eileen or Harry, passing the wards before Apparating away.
The world righted itself on the gravel drive of Malfoy Manor, washed pale under a sunless sky. The hedgerows were clipped into shapes that looked suspiciously like skulls; the air smelled faintly of damp and ash. He was not the first to arrive. Two figures were already waiting before the open gates — the Carrow siblings, Amycus and Alecto, their faces pink with self-satisfaction.
“Professor,” Amycus said, smirking around the title. “Or should I say — Headmaster?”
Severus gave him a look as cutting as a drawn blade.
“You may say nothing until you are spoken to.”
Alecto tittered into her hand.
“Touchy, aren’t we? You’ll have to lighten up if you mean to lead a school, Severus.”
He said nothing. He simply crossed the threshold as the gates groaned open at their approach. Inside, the manor smelled of polished marble, cold stone, and the faint copper sting of blood. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs.
They were ushered to the drawing room.
The Dark Lord stood before the long window, pale fingers resting against the glass as though he could feel the tremor of the world through it. When he turned, his eyes caught the light like embers.
“Severus,” he said softly. “My most loyal.”
Severus bowed low, the tips of his hair brushing the marble floor.
“My Lord.”
The Dark Lord’s tone was almost conversational — almost.
“It has taken many months to cleanse this country of weakness. And now, we must cleanse its heart — the place where weakness begins.” A pause, deliberate. “You know of what I speak.”
“Hogwarts,” Severus murmured.
The Dark Lord smiled, serpent-thin.
“Yes. The castle that once nurtured rebellion. Dumbledore’s nest of sentimentality. It must be… remade.”
The Carrows stepped forward eagerly, their excitement vulgar against the room’s stillness.
“My Lord has been most generous,” Alecto said, her voice oily with devotion. “He’s allowing us to serve. I’ll be taking Muggle Studies — we’ll be teaching truth now, not lies. No more pretending those filths are our equals.”
Amycus’s grin split wide.
“And I’ll teach the real Defence. None of that ‘disarming’ nonsense. We’ll train them to strike first, as wizards should.”
Severus inclined his head, slow and measured.
“A necessary correction.”
His voice gave away nothing, though his stomach coiled tight.
The Dark Lord drifted closer.
“You will ensure it, Severus. You will ensure that Hogwarts reflects our new order. Its walls will no longer shield the disobedient. Its lessons will no longer feed hope.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The Dark Lord’s eyes flicked up and down his face, searching for something — fear, doubt, the faintest hesitation.
“You have shown… capacity for control,” he said, almost musingly. “This will be a test of it. To command, to inspire obedience — to root out defiance before it spreads. Do you believe yourself equal to that task?”
Severus met those red eyes and inclined his head again.
“I do.”
“Good.” The Dark Lord’s mouth curved into something like a smile, though the expression had no warmth, only the satisfaction of cruelty deferred.
“You will find the staff… resistant. They have grown soft. Sentimental. Dumbledore’s poison runs deep. You will correct them. And if correction fails, replacement is always an option.”
The Carrows laughed, a wet, eager sound.
The Dark Lord continued, as though discussing curriculum rather than conquest:
“Mudblood students will remain at Hogwarts for now. They are useful for contrast, as examples. But they must learn humility. Alecto will see to their re-education. Separate sessions. You will ensure attendance.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“And all students, regardless of lineage, will attend Muggle Studies. They will learn the truth of what it means to be magical. Propaganda is most effective when it masquerades as enlightenment.”
Severus’s lips thinned.
“Understood.”
“Good. The Prophet will announce your appointment in the morning,” the Dark Lord said, his voice soft but final. “A symbol of the new era — a Headmaster worthy of purity and discipline.”
A silence followed, long and edged. Severus felt the weight of eyes — the Carrows’, curious and cruel, the Dark Lord’s, fathomless and predatory. He inclined his head again.
“My loyalty remains unchanged.”
The Dark Lord’s expression softened into something worse than rage: approval.
“I know, Severus. That is why you are chosen.”
He turned away, his voice still carrying through the vast chamber.
“Do not disappoint me. The school must not merely obey — it must believe.”
When Severus left the manor, the air outside felt colder than when he had arrived. The gravel crunched beneath his boots, the sound crisp, too loud. The Carrows lingered by the gates, whispering and laughing softly, the way scavengers might when they smell blood.
He ignored them.
The world split apart with the crack of Apparition, and a heartbeat later, he stood again in the narrow lane by Spinner’s End. The familiar smell of soot and river mud pressed in around him, and for the first time that day, he exhaled.
Headmaster of Hogwarts. The title rang in his mind like mockery.
It was no triumph; it was a sentence. A position built on Dumbledore’s ashes and the Dark Lord’s expectations.
He drew his cloak tighter against the cold and turned toward home, already rehearsing how he would tell them — his mother and the boy who still, somehow, trusted him — that he had just been made warden of the Dark Lord’s school.
The sitting room was dim when he entered. Evening light pooled grey and cold against the windowpanes, and the smell of boiled tea and coal dust hung in the air, the scent of Spinner’s End at its most ordinary. He paused in the doorway a moment, letting the stillness settle over him. The narrow house had never felt so mercifully small.
Eileen looked up from her armchair first, a darning needle paused mid-stitch.
“Finally back,” she said, her tone mild, but the way her eyes travelled to his face told him she already sensed the shift in the air.
Harry was at the table, a book open before him, though he clearly hadn’t read a word. He sat straighter at Severus’s entrance, green eyes searching. There was something in them that had not been there months ago — not suspicion, but a cautious kind of care.
Severus closed the door behind him and drew off his gloves slowly, one finger at a time. He set them on the mantle as though arranging an artefact for inspection.
“The Dark Lord has appointed me Headmaster of Hogwarts.”
Neither spoke at once. The only sound was the faint hiss of the fire.
Eileen’s needle slipped and caught her thumb.
“Headmaster,” she repeated softly, almost in disbelief. “Well. That will look impressive in the Prophet, at least.”
Harry blinked once, as though the words had struck him bodily.
“You’re— you’re Headmaster? But Flitwick—”
He stopped himself, colour draining from his face.
“Was only filling in while the position was vacant,” Severus said evenly. “The vacancy has now been… rectified.”
Harry’s chair scraped back.
“That means—you’ll be in charge. Over everyone.”
“I will be expected to.” He removed his travelling cloak, hung it on the back of the door, and moved to the hearth. The warmth there did little to ease the chill in his hands. “Some of the Dark Lord’s inner circle will be joining the staff. One will teach Muggle Studies. The other will oversee Defence, which has been rechristened Defensive Dark Arts. ”
Eileen made a low sound, something between disgust and resignation.
“‘Rechristened,’” she echoed. “That’s one way of saying they’ve turned the school into a propaganda factory.”
Severus’s mouth twisted.
“Precisely.”
Harry’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“And you’ll have to let them teach that rubbish?”
“I will,” Severus said. His voice dropped, colder now. “Do you imagine I have been given this post as a reward? It is a leash. A test. I am expected to enforce discipline, obedience, and fear. The Dark Lord will measure my loyalty by how efficiently I command it.”
Harry looked stricken.
“Then, how can you protect anyone?”
“By surviving long enough to try.” He met the boy’s eyes deliberately. “Every gesture, every word spoken within those walls will have weight. I cannot afford recklessness, nor can you.”
Harry swallowed, understanding dawning slowly, painfully.
“You mean when we go back.”
“Yes.” The word landed like a stone. “You will return to Hogwarts as a student, and I as Headmaster. In public, you will behave as though you accept the new order. You will speak to me as any pupil would to a superior, and you will not question me in front of others. Do you understand?”
“I can’t just—pretend—”
“You will,” Severus cut across him, quiet but unyielding. “Because pretending is the only armour you have left. Defiance will make you a symbol again, and symbols burn quickly in this regime.”
Eileen set her sewing aside, eyes narrowing at her son.
“And what of you? How long before they turn on you? You think the rest will understand why you’re shielding him? They won’t care that it’s by order — they’ll call it weakness. ”
“They can call it weakness if they dare. So long as the Dark Lord calls it obedience, I remain alive, and so does Harry.”
“Some life that is,” Harry muttered. “Kept alive because he finds us useful. That’s not much of a life.”
“No,” Severus said, and the admission scraped raw in his throat. “But it is the only kind left to us.”
Silence pooled again. The clock ticked in the corner. The last streaks of evening light slid off the wallpaper, leaving the room steeped in shadow.
Eileen rose and crossed to the stove, her movements brisk.
“Then we eat,” she said simply. “We’ll need a lot of energy to survive in a world run by idiots.”
Severus almost smiled, a brief, bleak curve of his mouth.
Harry gave a small, shaky laugh, the sound quickly swallowed.
When they finally sat down for dinner, the air between them was heavy but steady — a shared, quiet defiance. The boy’s eyes met his once, full of uncertainty and something else beneath it — belief, perhaps, or the first glimmer of trust.
And for the first time since the Dark Lord’s summons, Severus allowed himself a breath that did not taste entirely of dread.
The morning post came later than usual. The tapping at the window was impatient — the Prophet owl, ruffled from rain. Eileen rose to take it, slipping a Knut into the bird’s pouch before it darted off again. She set the paper beside Severus’s plate as she sat back down.
He didn’t reach for it at once. His coffee steamed faintly, untouched. The paper lay folded, the Prophet’s seal catching the light like a threat. He already knew what would be on the front page.
When he finally unrolled it, the confirmation stared back at him in thick black type:
SEVERUS SNAPE APPOINTED HOGWARTS HEADMASTER
Ministry Announces Compulsory Attendance for All Students
Beneath the headline, a moving photograph showed him standing in the Great Hall. Taken years ago and repurposed for the occasion. His expression in it was the usual: cold, lifeless, and therefore convenient.
Eileen leaned forward to read over his arm.
“Headmaster,” she said dryly, as though tasting the word. “Imagine that. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Harry looked up from his porridge. His face was pale, with a hint of dread and resignation.
“So it’s official, then.”
“It was official the moment he willed it so,” Severus said, folding the paper once more. “The Prophet merely provides the illusion of process.”
He passed the paper across the table. Harry smoothed it flat, scanning the article. The second column was worse — bureaucratic language twisted to sound benevolent:
To ensure unity and security in these uncertain times, the Ministry of Magic decrees that all British magical youth are to resume their education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Attendance is mandatory.
Harry frowned.
“So everyone has to come back. Even if they don’t want to.”
“That,” Severus said, “is the point. The Ministry cannot afford a generation of children growing up unmonitored or unindoctrinated.”
Eileen gave a soft, derisive snort.
“And here I thought school was meant to educate, not to train soldiers.”
Severus didn’t answer immediately. He was still staring at the printed words, their shape far too familiar — Dumbledore’s title replaced by his own. Headmaster Severus Snape. He had spent half his life serving this school, and now it had been turned into a weapon.
“If attendance hadn’t been made compulsory,” Harry said quietly, “half the parents wouldn’t send their kids back.”
“More than half,” Severus murmured. “Those who can afford to disappear will do so. The rest will send their children because they fear what will happen if they do not.”
Harry looked up from the page, eyes dark.
“And you’ll be the one they blame for it.”
He met the boy’s gaze steadily.
“Yes.”
There was no point denying it. The Prophet had already chosen its villain. Dumbledore’s successor, the sullen half-blood who owed his title to the Dark Lord’s favour.
Eileen’s spoon clinked against her bowl, breaking the silence.
“So the castle’s yours,” she said, not unkindly. “I hope you know what you want to do with it.”
“I know what I must do,” Severus replied. “Which is not the same thing.”
Harry’s hand twitched, as though he meant to reach for something — words, reassurance, anything — but instead he pushed the newspaper aside.
“If everyone’s forced back, it means you’ll have to protect everyone, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Severus said, his tone deliberately even. “The Dark Lord intends to use Hogwarts as a mirror of his new society. I will… temper the reflection where I can.”
Eileen gave a low hum.
“You’ll have to walk a line so thin it might as well not exist.”
“I have done worse.”
He rose from the table, gathering the paper and folding it.
“Classes resume in two weeks. Preparations will begin today.”
Harry’s voice stopped him as he turned toward the door.
“Severus?”
He glanced back.
Harry hesitated, then said,
“I know this isn’t what you wanted. But I’m glad it’s you up there, not… someone else.”
Severus held his gaze for a long moment — long enough to see the sincerity in it, the edge of faith that still surprised him every time it appeared.
“Then you had better make certain I’m worth that sentiment,” he said quietly, and left the room.
Harry was still staring at the folded Prophet where Severus had left it, the headline half-hidden beneath his hand. The spoon in his bowl had gone cold.
“He’s going to eat himself alive,” Eileen said quietly, breaking the silence.
Harry startled a little, pulled from his thoughts.
“He already looks like he hasn’t slept.”
“That’s what duty does,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “It keeps you awake long after you’ve done all you can.”
Harry traced the corner of the paper with his thumb.
“Everyone’s going to hate him. They’ll think he’s proud of it.”
Eileen huffed, neither agreement nor denial.
“Let them think what they like. He’s survived on other people’s hatred before.” She leaned forward, fixing Harry with a steady look. “What matters is whether you can stomach it — the show you’ll have to put on beside him.”
Harry met her eyes.
“I can.” His voice was soft but certain. “I won’t let him stand there alone.”
Something in Eileen’s expression softened.
“Good,” she said, reaching for her tea again. “Then you’ll both get through this. I’ve seen my son dragged through worse storms than this one. But it helps, having someone on deck who won’t jump overboard at the first wave.”
Harry managed a small, crooked smile.
“That’s a lovely image, thanks.”
She smiled faintly back.
“It’ll be tough. You married a man who makes his living in tempests.”
Upstairs, faintly, a door creaked open and closed again. The familiar smell of brewing potion drifted faintly through the old house, curling around the two of them like a ward against what waited beyond the walls.
The gates of Hogwarts opened at his touch.
It should have felt grand, a culmination of decades clawing his way through suspicion and shadow, but as Severus stepped through them alone, the title of Headmaster sat on him like a manacle. He walked the sloping lawn in silence. The castle rose ahead, its turrets piercing the late-summer haze, but there was no welcome in the ancient stones. Hogwarts recognised ambition, authority, purpose. Today, it recognised none of those in him.
Only obligation.
His footsteps echoed far too loudly in the Entrance Hall. Filch had scrubbed the flagstones until they gleamed, but the silence carried a rawness he had not expected. He had stayed away since that night, the night Albus fell. He had thought the corridors would feel haunted. Instead, they felt hollow.
The gargoyle shifted aside without being asked, the wards woven into its granite form responding to the new Headmaster automatically. Severus mounted the spiral staircase, each upward turn drawing the air tighter in his chest. He reached the door that had once opened only for Albus Dumbledore.
It opened for him.
The office smelled faintly of dust and old lemon polish. His gaze skated over the room by instinct — over shelves, cabinets, the perch where Fawkes once stood — before stopping short of the tall frame on the wall.
He would not look.
Not yet.
Not today.
He felt the portrait’s presence — heavy, watchful — but there was no rustle, no clearing of a throat, no attempt to call his name. Albus’s painted form remained still, silent.
And somehow, that was worse.
Severus stepped around the desk, sitting in the chair that had once held a legend. He steepled his fingers against his mouth, staring hard at anything but the portrait. The desk was cluttered with letters, sealed envelopes, and the Ministry’s official packet confirming his appointment. A bureaucratic decree stamped with the Dark Mark in all but ink.
He skimmed it with a curl of distaste. The message in it was clear: he was not Headmaster by merit. He was a warden installed by a tyrant.
His eyes travelled around the office, over the collection of delicate silver instruments that whirred and puffed faint smoke, over the faded tartan throw on the chair, over the gaudy contraptions Albus had delighted in. He recognised every piece. Albus’s life, scattered across shelves.
He would have to remove them.
Not because he wished to, but because he must.
The new regime would notice if he displayed even a whisper of sentiment. Dumbledore was persona non grata. A dead traitor. If Severus kept his trinkets, that would be noted. Interpreted. Used.
He rose and crossed to the nearest shelf. A tiny puffing instrument wheezed its last breath as he picked it up. He held it a moment longer than he intended, the weight of it unexpectedly heavy in his chest, before setting it into a crate.
Trinket by trinket, he stripped the office of Albus — carefully, methodically, each placement into the crate a small, silent betrayal.
His hand stilled only once.
The Sword of Gryffindor gleamed beneath its glass case, red rubies catching the late afternoon light. He stared at it, at the immaculate metal, at the inscription Dumbledore had once run his old fingers over with quiet reverence.
He remembered the will.
The absurd, infuriating bequest.
To Harry Potter, I leave the Sword of Gryffindor.
Why give Harry this sword?
Severus stood before the case, arms folded, thoughts turning with cold precision. Albus meant something by it. He always did. The sword was valuable, goblin-made and pure. And the Dark Lord had already asked for it.
Demanded it.
Severus’s lip curled. He would not give the true sword to that monster. He would craft a replica — as flawless as magic allowed — and offer it before the Dark Lord lost patience. A fake could buy time. Time for Harry. For whatever plan Albus had attempted to set in motion.
He closed the case with a soft, decisive click.
That decision, at least, was clear.
With the office stripped bare, Severus left it behind and descended to his old quarters in the dungeons. The stones felt cooler here, the air familiar. He opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit room.
Everything was exactly where he had left it.
Books stacked meticulously by the hearth. His cauldron stand. A half-finished essay left by Harry on the coffee table. Eileen’s knitted throw draped over his favourite chair. The sight of it — the small, human disorder of an almost-home — struck him harder than he expected.
This room had held something fragile.
Something almost gentle.
He moved slowly through it, gathering what belonged to him with clinical care. Books first. Vials next. His spare cloak. His personal notes. Last, he picked up the book Harry had been reading — Ars Alchimica — and hesitated at the scribbled notes filling the margins.
Harry’s handwriting. Small and uneven.
He closed the book carefully, cradling it for a moment before placing it atop his stack.
By the time he was done, the quarters looked barren. Ready for a new occupant the moment the Ministry wished to place one here.
He stepped back and closed the door for the last time.
A clean severing.
A necessary one.
Back in the Headmaster’s office, he set to work. The crates of Dumbledore’s belongings were stacked and shrunk, ready to be hidden where no Ministry official would stumble upon them. Severus replaced the bright, whimsical chaos with dark oak shelves lined with austere tomes, heavy volumes on wardcraft, alchemy, and battle-magic. He draped the windows with deeper drapes, muted the light, removed any hint of comfort or welcome.
When he was done, the office looked nothing like Dumbledore’s.
Not like anyone’s home at all.
Austere.
Imposing.
Uninviting.
Perfect for the role he must play.
Only then did he cross into the Headmaster’s private quarters.
Here, he allowed differences.
He set Harry’s favourite quilt over the sofa. He placed the boy’s books by the low table, arranged the small stack of schoolwork he knew Harry would pretend he hadn’t forgotten. He charmed the gramophone into a corner, ready to play the vinyls Harry had gifted him last Christmas.
Soft touches.
Warm touches.
A home he could not make for himself, but could make for the boy.
He stepped back, surveying the quiet sitting room. It felt human in a way the office never would. The warmth here was not for him.
It was for Harry, in a few weeks’ time.
At last, Severus returned to the office, the air colder than before. He still refused to look at the portrait. Albus’s painted form remained still, silent, offering neither counsel nor comfort — perhaps knowing neither would be welcomed.
Severus stood before the glass case housing the Sword of Gryffindor.
He studied it long and hard, the rubies glinting like fresh blood.
A plan was already forming. It would require precision. Forgecraft. Spellwork. And secrecy.
But he would do it. He must.
For Harry. For the plan Albus had gambled his life upon. For whatever salvation remained to be carved out of ruin.
He rested his fingertips against the cool glass of the sword’s case, jaw tightening.
Tomorrow, the lies would begin anew.
Tonight, he prepared for war.
The smell of supper met him first — thyme, onion, and something faintly smoky. The sort of smell that made Spinner’s End feel less like a mausoleum and more like a home, however temporary.
Severus shut the door behind him, slid the bolts into place, and let the weight of the day settle into his shoulders.
Eileen looked up from the stove, ladle in hand, one brow arched.
“Well? You still have all your limbs, so I suppose it went well enough.”
He set his cloak on the peg and brushed soot from his sleeve.
“If by well you mean a day spent drowning in parchment and decrees, then yes. It was… efficient.”
Harry was already seated at the kitchen table, a quill lying forgotten across his open notes. The boy’s face was bright with curiosity — too bright for Severus’s taste.
“Did you see anyone? McGonagall? Flitwick?”
“No,” Severus said shortly, lowering himself into the chair opposite him. “Today was for bureaucracy, not pleasantries. I was expected to sign a dozen Ministry contracts and verify the new ward permissions.”
Eileen snorted softly and set the pot to simmer.
“Bureaucracy. That’s what they call tyranny when it’s neatly stamped.”
He didn’t rise to the remark. She was not wrong.
Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“Will you have to meet the others soon?”
“Tomorrow,” Severus said, reaching for the glass of water she had set down. “I have an appointment with the new Head of Slytherin. The following day, a full meeting with all Heads of House.”
That caught both their attention. Harry’s brow furrowed.
“You’re not staying Head of Slytherin?”
“I cannot hold both positions,” Severus replied. “Even the Dark Lord recognises that a Headmaster cannot also serve as House advocate. Appearances of impartiality must be maintained.”
Eileen hummed.
“Appearances. The backbone of every dictatorship.”
He ignored her again.
“Professor Sinistra will take the position.”
Harry blinked, clearly taken aback.
“Sinistra? Like, the Astronomy professor? This Sinistra?”
“Yes.”
A pause, then the faintest note of relief softened Harry’s expression.
“Well. That’s… good, isn’t it? She’s not—” he caught himself, glancing toward Eileen “—one of them.”
“No,” Severus said. “She is not.” He took a slow sip of water, the coolness grounding him. “Which means her position will be precarious. Every word she speaks, every mark she gives, will be weighed against her bloodline. She will need to tread carefully.”
Harry’s fingers worried the edge of his parchment.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You’ll have to… to act the part,” he said quietly. “In front of everyone.”
“I have been acting the part for nearly two decades,” Severus said. “I see no reason to forget my lines now.”
That earned him one of Eileen’s dry, sidelong looks.
“Lines or not, you’ll have half the country judging your performance. You’d better be convincing.”
He shot her a thin smile.
“I am many things, Mother. Unconvincing is not one of them.”
Harry’s mouth twitched, caught somewhere between a smile and a wince.
“Still— it can’t be easy, pretending to agree with all of… this.”
“No,” Severus said. His voice came quieter than he intended. “It will not be easy. But neither is war, and I have no intention of losing this one.”
That seemed to end the subject. Eileen set their meal on the table, ladled it into their bowls, and declared that even revolutions needed supper.
The conversation drifted to smaller things — the neighbour’s cat, the price of sugar, the weather — but Severus’s mind lingered elsewhere.
He saw the empty halls of Hogwarts, the cold marble of Dumbledore’s office, and the shadow of the serpent still coiled around the school’s future.
Across the table, Harry was eating quietly, his eyes distant but steady. There was steel there now — not the brash defiance of a boy, but the contained resolve of someone learning to bear the weight of what couldn’t be changed.
Severus found that oddly reassuring. He reached for the breadbasket and broke off a piece.
“You’ll need your strength before term starts,” he said, almost absently.
Harry glanced up, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“Yes, Headmaster.”
Eileen nearly choked on her stew laughing.
Severus sighed.
“Merlin help me.”