Snape stared, stunned, at the photo of Lily.
This—Lily Evans of their school years—was the Lily he knew best, far more than the later Mrs Potter. His hand lifted as if on instinct. His voice came out dry and small.
"Lily…"
The Lily in the photo giggled.
"Not only older—when did you get so dazed? Studying Dark Arts did that to you? I told you not to—but look at you now, a Potions Professor?"
"So you turned back from the brink. Good. Sev—no, ahem—Professor Severus Snape…"
"Pfft, I'll never get used to saying that."
Because he hadn't gone further down the road she'd feared, the Lily-in-the-frame looked genuinely pleased. Snape's long-practised Occlumency, those hollow black eyes, thawed like frost in early spring; something deep and human pushed through.
He turned to Harry, voice rough. "Where did you find this?"
"Seamus saw it while polishing the Trophy Room," Harry murmured. "Said she looked like me. The moment I saw it, I knew it was my mum."
Watching Snape drink the photo in, Harry ventured, "Professor, you were friends with my mother. You must have been close—"
Snape jerked as if burned. "Enough. You are here for detention, not gossip. Begin at once."
He waved vaguely. "Flobberworms in the pot; the mucus you squeeze out goes—er—dip the biscuits—no, biscuits in the phials—red tea in the cauldron—"
"Quickly. Don't dawdle."
Cradling the photo, he retreated to a small inner room.
Harry blinked at Theo. "What did he just say?"
Theo lifted a shoulder. The photo had rattled Snape hard—he was mixing sentences like mislaid ingredients. "I think he wants the Flobberworms processed and the mucus expressed into the cauldron."
Harry grimaced at the tub of glistening worms and, with heroic reluctance, began to squeeze.
After a long while, Snape returned, face composed to the old marble mask. His gaze swept the table: every worm processed, the slick transparent mucus measured cleanly—by-the-book technique, almost impossibly precise for first-years. Most of it bore Theo's tidy touch—honestly, even Snape would be hard-pressed to do cleaner work—but he made no comment. Instead he set several ingredients for a Colour-Changing Concoction before Theo.
"Prepare these."
Then he beckoned Harry to the larger practice space.
A measuring glance. "What spells do you actually know?"
Harry recited, frowning in thought. With every ordinary charm he listed, Snape's brows drew tighter. In his own first year, Snape had known more spells than most seventh-years—and even though he'd kept his distance, he'd understood the Unforgivables. By comparison, Densaugeo-tier classroom fluff made him feel as if the times had truly changed.
He cut Harry off. "From tonight on, you will report here weekly to learn potions and magic."
"Harry Potter, your clumsy spellwork is an insult to your mother's excellence."
Harry blinked, then brightened—so Professor Snape really was giving him extra lessons. The mention of Lily made him glow with pride.
"And my father?" he blurted. "Did you know him too, Professor?"
At the bench, Theo pinched his nose. Oh, Harry… straight into the minefield.
Snape's face changed. His wand flicked.
"Levicorpus."
The world flipped. An unseen hand snagged Harry by the ankle and hung him upside down, swaying.
"This," Snape said coolly, "is your first lesson. I don't expect a Gryffindor nitwit to learn quickly, so you may as well feel it properly. Half an hour should be fine for a 'little giant,' yes?"
Harry gaped. Why did mentioning his father trigger that? A thought struck him like a Bludger.
"Professor… did you—did you and my mum ever date?"
"Did something happen, and then she met my dad?"
"Or—am I—"
Snape's pupils snapped to pinpoints; he coughed so hard he nearly dropped the wand.
"Liberacorpus!"
Harry plummeted. Only Theo's quick Wingardium Leviosa stopped a face-first meeting with the flagstones.
Heart pounding, Harry stared. "Professor, why are you reacting like that? Don't tell me—"
"Be silent," Snape rasped, giving him a look somewhere between murderous and… complicated. "Stop thinking whatever it is you are thinking."
The question lingered anyway, tugging the corner of Snape's mouth despite himself. After a long breath:
"Enough foolishness. Practise Levicorpus."
Harry lifted his wand, oddly confident. "Professor, it's… not that hard. I think I've got it."
He swished toward a suit of armour. "Levicorpus."
The armour rattled. Harry flicked again—the whole suit flipped neatly upside down.
Snape's eyes narrowed—not at the form, which was fine, but at the pressure. The boy's magical intensity was outrageous for a first-year. It outstripped Snape's own at that age.
After a pause, Snape said quietly, "Then you are ready for something stronger."
He held Harry's gaze. "This spell is unlike anything you've learned. Hear me: do not use it on people unless your life is in danger. And you will not practise it idly in the castle."
Harry swallowed. "A Dark spell? But Professor Quirrell said Dark Magic warps the soul."
"Quirrell knows little of Dark Arts." A thin, scornful smile. "Yes, most Dark spells scar the soul. This one is my own creation. Used sparingly, it won't twist you."
He hesitated, something raw in his voice. "You've never had a moment when you were desperate—when you'd burn anything, even your own soul, to stop what was coming, to save what you could. When it comes, you'll understand. White or black won't matter. Only whether it works."
"Remember its name."
"Sectumsempra."
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 60 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/StrawHatStudios