Chapter Text
“I didn’t know death was so cozy.”
The words slip out of Severus Snape before consciousness fully claims him, murmured into red upholstery warm from the late-summer sun. For a moment, he does not move.
The sensation is…pleasant. Too pleasant. No blood in his throat. No cold stone beneath his cheek. No final, calculating gaze weighing his worth. Instead, there is fabric.
The faint smell of soot and sweets. And motion—gentle, deliberate. The train lurches. This is steel on rail. The Hogwarts Express easing itself forward, as though the world has decided to continue without consulting him.
Severus’s eyes open. Red seats. A narrow compartment. Sunlight flickering past the window as the platform begins to slide away. Children’s voices—too loud, too unguarded—spill through the corridor. Someone laughs without fear.
This is wrong.
He straightens slowly, expecting pain. There is none. His body responds with the lightness of youth, joints unprotested, lungs drawing breath without effort. His left sleeve shifts. Pale skin meets his gaze. No Dark Mark. His mouth thins. He closes his eyes, briefly, and listens.
The magic in the air is unlayered, unsharpened. No wards straining under siege. No anticipation of battle. This is a beginning, not an ending. Severus exhales. Very well. A hallucination, then. A kindness, perhaps. Death offering comfort before— The compartment door slides open without invitation.
“Oi, Snivellus.” The voice is unmistakable. Too bright. Too young. Too alive. Severus opens his eyes. James Potter leans in the doorway, all careless confidence and untamed hair. Sirius Black lounges just behind him, grinning with the reckless delight of someone who has never paid for his mistakes. Remus Lupin stands slightly apart, expression already apologetic. Peter Pettigrew hovers, eager and small. Severus stares. Not echoes. Not memory. Not the softened edges of grief. They are solid. Present. Seventeen and insufferable.
“Well?” Sirius drawls. “Cat got your tongue, Snape?” The train rattles on, steady and inexorable, carrying them toward a castle that should not exist yet. Toward a year that should be long over. Toward a war that has not begun.
Reality settles into place with ruthless precision.
This is not death. This is 1971.
Severus’s fingers curl slowly against the seat, nails biting into fabric. His heart beats—young, strong, infuriatingly alive.
He lifts his gaze, eyes flat and assessing, and allows himself the smallest, most dangerous thought.
Oh.
This is going to be interesting.