Chapter 9 A Very Snape Adventure Part-1
Severus Snape stood before the heavy oak door, his black robes brushing against the stone walls as he raised a pale hand to knock. The hallway outside Professor McGonagall's office was quiet, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight along the walls. His black boots, polished but worn from years of use, made no sound as he shifted slightly, fingers curling in impatience at his sides. It had to be something serious—Minerva rarely summoned him without reason.
With a sharp rap of his knuckles, he knocked.
"Come in," came McGonagall's voice, brisk and clear through the door.
Snape pushed the door open and stepped inside, his dark eyes immediately adjusting to the warm, soft lighting of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines neat and orderly, interrupted only by the occasional magical artifact—a silver hourglass, a self-writing quill, a Foe-Glass glimmering in the corner. The scent of parchment and ink mingled faintly with the smell of morning rain drifting in through a cracked window. A small fireplace crackled to life on the far side, giving the room a cozy warmth despite the grey chill lingering outside the castle walls.
McGonagall sat at her desk, dressed in a dark green tartan cloak draped over her black teaching robes. Her square spectacles rested on the bridge of her nose, framing her sharp, intelligent gaze. She gestured toward the chair opposite her, though Snape didn't sit.
"You wanted to see me, Professor?" he asked, his voice low, smooth, and edged with curiosity.
McGonagall didn't respond immediately. Instead, she slid a letter across the polished wood of her desk. The parchment was folded neatly, the ink crisp and clear. Snape's black eyes flicked downward, his thin lips pursed in mild suspicion as he read the names scrawled neatly at the bottom of the letter: Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley, and Harry Potter.
Snape's jaw tightened subtly, his brow furrowing. The Dursleys rarely involved themselves with Hogwarts affairs. They were, in this world at least, not the brutish Muggles he had expected—Vernon, a Physics professor; Petunia, an IT consultant who worked remotely—but even so, their polite distance from the magical world had remained intact for most of Harry's time at school. That they had reached out now was… unusual.
McGonagall folded her hands on the desk, watching him closely. "It's a rather polite letter," she said. Her lips pursed, as if unwilling to acknowledge the oddity aloud. "It seems there's an urgent issue that requires immediate attention."
Snape raised an eyebrow, scanning the letter quickly. The wording was, indeed, courteous and composed, without any trace of panic. Still, the careful politeness only made him more suspicious. The Dursleys' owl had arrived just an hour ago, and they wouldn't have sent it unless something serious had occurred.
Snape handed the letter back, his face impassive but his mind already racing. What could have happened? His grip on the letter had been light, yet it was enough for his long fingers to curl just slightly, as if grasping at the edges of possibility.
He met McGonagall's gaze again, his voice soft but sharp. "Do you think someone recognized Potter in Diagon Alley? Were they attacked?"
McGonagall shook her head, though the worry didn't leave her features. "If it were something like that," she mused, "I imagine the tone of the letter would have been... graver. There would have been more urgency."
Snape inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her reasoning. His mind leapt to the next possibility. "Do you think—" He paused, briefly weighing the gravity of his words before continuing in a quieter tone. "Do you think they've learned something about the deaths of Lily and James Potter?"
The name Lily hovered in the air between them like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest. Snape's expression didn't change, but a flicker of something—pain, guilt, or perhaps something else—crossed his eyes for a fleeting moment.
McGonagall exhaled softly through her nose, and the lines around her mouth deepened. She shook her head, the motion slow, measured. "We can only hope it's nothing so dire," she said quietly, though the weight of uncertainty hung between them.
Snape nodded, though his mind remained restless. His hands, folded loosely behind his back, tightened briefly. The thought that something new—something dangerous—might have surfaced about Lily's death made his stomach twist. He wouldn't allow anyone to harm the boy, not if he could prevent it. Not again.
McGonagall's eyes softened, ever so slightly, as if sensing his unspoken thoughts. "Go and see what they want, Severus," she said gently, though there was a note of finality in her tone.
Snape gave a curt nod, his gaze already distant, as if mentally stepping into the task ahead. "I will."
With a swirl of his black robes, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. The fabric whispered against the stone floor, the familiar weight of his wand pressing lightly against his side as he walked. He didn't bother with pleasantries; his mind was already halfway to the Dursleys' had no idea what awaited him—but whatever it was, it had to be dealt with swiftly.
As he pulled the heavy door closed behind him, the flickering torches in the corridor cast long shadows against the stone walls. Outside, the rain had begun to fall more heavily, its soft patter against the windows oddly 's expression remained impassive, but his thoughts churned beneath the surface. It had better be nothing.
And if it was something? His grip on the handle tightened, just for a moment. Then he let go and disappeared down the hall, his black robes trailing like a shadow behind him.
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The sky hung low with summer clouds, casting a hazy light across the neat rows of houses. Snape's dark figure appeared on the neatly trimmed lawn of Number 4, his black robes billowing in the warm breeze. With a glance down the street—making sure no curious Muggle eyes were watching—he raised his hand and knocked.
The sound of the knocking echoed faintly through the quiet suburban street. Snape stood with his usual rigid posture, fingers tapping impatiently against his arm, the gesture small but betraying his growing irritation. He loathed being here, among meticulously polished doors and spotless driveways—places that reeked of artificial calm and perfectly orchestrated routines.
A moment later, the door Dursley stood there, thin and sharp-featured as ever, her blond hair neatly pinned back. She wore a simple blue blouse and pressed trousers, her expression a careful mixture of politeness and wariness. Upon recognizing him, she pressed her lips into a thin line—a habit Snape recalled from years ago.
"Professor Snape," she greeted, her voice clipped but civil.
"Mrs. Dursley," Snape replied curtly, the word like a sour taste on his tongue.
She stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Please, come in."
Snape hesitated for a fraction of a second. "I'd rather stand," he said coolly, scanning the pristine hallway beyond. "I won't be staying long."
Petunia's lips tightened further, but she said nothing. Instead, she called over her shoulder, "Vernon! Harry! Come down to the living room."
The interior of the Dursley home was every bit as spotless and organized as Snape had imagined: framed family photos lined the walls, all showing smiling faces, and the faint smell of lavender hung in the air. A ticking wall clock was the only sound as Petunia led him into the living room, where a sofa, armchairs, and a glass-topped coffee table sat in perfect arrangement.
Vernon Dursley entered first, a large, broad man with a bushy mustache. He wore a short-sleeved shirt tucked into khaki trousers, his demeanor calm and collected, though his gaze carried a hint of cautious determination. Harry followed close behind, his green eyes—so much like his mother's—bright with curiosity but shadowed by something more serious.
Vernon gave Snape a nod, then gently placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder before both sat down on the sofa. Petunia perched beside them, looking tense but composed.
Snape remained standing, arms folded across his chest. "You sent an urgent letter," he said without preamble, his voice flat and edged with impatience. "What is the matter?"
Petunia inclined her head toward her husband, and Vernon cleared his throat. "We've been going through some old history books and newspaper archives," Vernon began, his tone careful but earnest. "We wanted to better understand... what Harry will be walking into when he starts Hogwarts." He gave Harry a brief, supportive glance before continuing. "And, frankly, what we found was far worse than what we expected."
Snape narrowed his eyes, the air around him growing colder. His gaze flicked to Petunia, who folded her hands tightly in her lap, her knuckles pale.
Vernon sighed, picking up a glass of water from the coffee table and taking a sip before setting it down with a soft clink. "You downplayed the situation, Professor Snape," he said, his voice firm. "The political fallout from the events surrounding the death of James and Lily Potter was... significant. More so than you led us to believe. We found that their deaths didn't simply mark the end of some war—" He paused briefly, his expression grave. "—they were labeled as terrorists. It seems their names are still surrounded by controversy, suspicion... and worse."
Snape's face darkened, but he gave nothing away. His jaw clenched slightly as he considered the implications.
"And Harry..." Vernon looked toward his nephew with a mixture of concern and affection. "From what Petunia could gather, the Potter name is not just unwelcome but heavily disreputed in magical Britain right now. Any association with it could make him a target—socially, politically, even physically."
Snape's expression remained hard, his black eyes narrowing. "Come to the point," he said coldly. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
Vernon glanced at Petunia, who gave a small, encouraging nod. Then, turning back to Snape, he took a breath. "We've been talking, as a family, for the past few weeks. And we've come to a conclusion. It would be better for Harry to enroll at Hogwarts under a different name—our name. As a Muggle-born. He'll start as Harry Dursley to keep his anonymity."
For the first time, Snape's expression faltered. His black eyes flickered with surprise, a rare break in his usual mask of stoicism. He stared at Vernon, then shifted his sharp gaze to Harry, studying the boy intently as if searching for any hint of reluctance or confusion.
Harry, however, sat up a little straighter under Snape's scrutiny. There was no hesitation in his expression. His green eyes shone with quiet pride as he said, "I've always been a Dursley."
The boy's words landed with more weight than Snape expected. It was as if Harry had not merely accepted the idea but embraced it fully, without bitterness or second thoughts. Vernon gave Harry's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and the boy leaned slightly toward him, comforted by the familiar gesture.
Snape's eyes flicked between the three of them, trying to suppress the turmoil of thoughts swirling in his mind. A Potter rejecting his name... for Muggle anonymity. He hadn't expected this—hadn't even considered it as a possibility. And yet, there it was, laid out plainly before him.
For a moment, the silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock.
Finally, Snape straightened, forcing his thoughts back into order. "I will... see what can be arranged," he said stiffly. His voice was unusually quiet, but the cold edge remained. "I'll speak with the Deputy Headmistress."
Without another word, Snape turned sharply on his heel, black robes swirling around him as he strode toward the door. He pulled it open, the hinges giving a soft creak, and stepped outside into the warm summer afternoon.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. He barely registered the quiet suburban sounds—distant lawnmowers, birds chirping, a dog barking somewhere down the street. His mind was still reeling from what he had just idea of Harry Potter—Lily's son—hiding under a Muggle name, denying his magical heritage, stirred something complicated and unpleasant deep within him.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he pulled out his , with a loud pop, Severus Snape disappeared from Privet Drive, leaving only the faintest ripple in the humid summer air.
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Snape's footsteps echoed softly in the stone corridor, each step deliberate yet unusually burdened with thought. A Potter willing to abandon his name for anonymity... it was both ludicrous and strangely practical. His long black robes trailed behind him, shifting like shadows in the dim light cast by floating candles. He folded his arms beneath the heavy fabric, his fingers tracing absent patterns on his sleeve as he walked, lost in thought.
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A Potter, one of the most illustrious and insufferable wizarding families in Britain, choosing to erase his identity. Snape's lip curled slightly at the irony. Life certainly has a way of twisting things in the most unexpected ways, he mused bitterly. The arrogance he had once associated with James Potter seemed almost laughable now. Instead of flaunting his legacy, Potter's son was prepared to bury it, hiding behind the anonymity of a common Muggle surname.
There was a faint pang somewhere deep within him—a mixture of disbelief, unease, and, though he wouldn't admit it aloud, grudging respect. It was a clever solution, one he hadn't seen coming. But the thought of Harry—Lily's child—wearing the name Dursley made his mood twist further into something sharp and uncomfortable.
How strange life can be, Snape thought, allowing the complexity of the situation to gnaw at him as he reached the door to the Deputy Headmistress's office. Raising a hand, he knocked.
"Come in," called McGonagall from inside.
Snape pushed the door open and stepped in, his black robes whispering softly as he crossed the threshold. Minerva McGonagall looked up from her desk, brows raised in mild surprise.
"That was quick," she remarked, adjusting her spectacles.
Snape gave a curt nod, his dark eyes unreadable. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down with the ease of a man prepared to stay a while. This action made McGonagall's eyebrows shoot up in surprise—Snape rarely, if ever, sat unless told. She folded her hands on the desk, waiting expectantly.
"Well?" she prompted. "What was the matter?"
Snape leaned back slightly in the chair, his expression darkly amused. "Take this," he said with a dry sneer. "The boy and the Dursleys want to change Harry's name to Dursley and have him enroll as a Muggle-born, all to maintain anonymity."
McGonagall's mouth fell open, her lips moving wordlessly for a moment as she processed what she had just heard. "They want to—" she began, but words seemed to fail her.
Snape inclined his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a fleeting smirk. "Yes. A Potter, hiding under a Muggle surname."
McGonagall shook her head, looking more shocked than Snape had seen her in years. "They're out of their minds," she muttered, as if trying to convince herself that the words she was saying were real. "Giving up the Potter name? Do they even understand what that name represents?"
Her voice rose with a rare intensity. "The Potters were one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain! James could have apprenticed in Transfiguration under me—he was considering it! I had plans—" She stopped abruptly, realizing she was ranting, and pressed her lips together in frustration.
Snape remained silent through her outburst, watching her coolly. The fire in her eyes was something he remembered from years past—James Potter and Lily Evans had been two of her brightest students, after all. But there was no room for sentiment here, and he cut her off with a cold, measured tone.
"The Dursleys are not entirely wrong," he said quietly. "Right now, carrying the Potter name will do Harry more harm than good."
McGonagall pursed her lips again, clearly struggling to accept the logic of it. "But the prestige—the history—"
"Will mean nothing," Snape interrupted, his voice serious now, "if the boy is rejected or targeted before he even has the chance to make something of himself."
She looked unconvinced but didn't argue further.
Snape leaned forward, his black eyes sharp. "Besides, it's not as if he can't reclaim the name later. Once the boy establishes a reputation of his own—proves himself worthy—he can take back the Potter name when the time is right."
McGonagall exhaled slowly through her nose, still visibly reluctant, but her shoulders softened slightly. "I suppose," she muttered, though her tone remained stiff with disapproval.
Snape gave her a short, satisfied nod. "What would be required to make this... arrangement happen?"
McGonagall tapped a finger thoughtfully on the desk. "It would require proof—something irrefutable. Blood, hair, or some tissue from both parents, for starters. The Ministry will need a formal record."
Snape's expression darkened immediately, his lips pressing into a tight line. "The Ministry is out of the question," he said sharply. "And their graves are empty. James and Lily's bodies were... eradicated in the conflict that claimed them."
McGonagall's eyes glinted with something mischievous. "Which means," she said slyly, "you'll need to visit the Greengrass Manor and ask Seraphina Greengrass for permission to access the Potter estate."
Snape's expression became carefully blank. His cold exterior betrayed none of the distaste he felt at the thought. He stood abruptly, his black robes flowing behind him as he moved toward the door.
"I'll take my leave, then," he said flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion.
He was halfway out the door when McGonagall's voice followed him, carrying an amused undertone. "There's more to life than potions, guilt, and burdens, Severus."
He stiffened but didn't look back. The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving McGonagall smiling to herself in the cozy warmth of her office.
As Snape strode through the dim corridors, his mind was already shifting gears, considering his next steps. The Greengrass Manor... How he loathed the idea. Seraphina Greengrass was shrewd, sharp, and never gave anything without extracting something in return.
His boots echoed on the stone floors as he turned a corner, his mind now fully occupied by the task at hand. But somewhere, buried beneath all the calculations and frustrations, a thought lingered: Perhaps McGonagall is right... There is more to life than potions and burdens.
He sneered slightly at the idea and quickened his pace. He would deal with Seraphina—and with the boy's absurd new identity. There was no time for sentiment.
Severus Snape had a job to do.
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Snape adjusted the collar of his best black robes, inspecting his reflection in the mirror with his usual mixture of disdain and indifference. "Utterly ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, lips curling in a sarcastic sneer. As if this will change anything. With a sharp twist of his wand, he apparated, the world folding inward in a blink—only to reappear outside the wrought-iron gate of Greengrass Manor, nestled deep in the countryside of North Wales.
The rolling green hills stretched into the distance, mist clinging stubbornly to the ground, with the distant city of St. Asaph barely visible on the horizon. A faint breeze stirred the morning air, carrying the scent of damp grass and blooming wildflowers. Snape raised a pale hand, intending to push the gate open—
Pop!
A house-elf appeared, wearing a snug green toga embroidered with tiny silver leaves. The elf bowed low, his large ears flopping forward. "Logi welcomes Master Snape," the elf said in a high-pitched but polite tone. "Mistress Greengrass will be in the living room shortly. Please follow Logi."
Snape exhaled through his nose, steeling himself. He hated how the Greengrass household managed to feel both overly warm and slightly unsettling. But there was no avoiding this.
"Very well," he muttered, stepping through the gate as the elf led the way.
The living room was grand but oddly intimate, decorated with soft colors and warm lighting that made it feel more like a comfortable retreat than a manor's formal parlor. The walls were lined with exquisite magical paintings—depictions of fantastical creatures and strange flora swaying gently inside their gilded frames. Snape's dark gaze swept across the collection, recognizing rare magical plants, including some that only appeared in the dead of night.
Logi reappeared with a tray, offering him tea. Snape took it out of habit, though he never felt entirely at ease drinking in other people's homes. As the soft clink of the porcelain cup met the saucer, he took a small sip, using the motion as a pretext to study his surroundings more closely.
Of course Seraphina would surround herself with whimsical nonsense like this.
Before his thoughts could stray further, he heard the distinct click of heels on polished wood. He looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing just as Seraphina Greengrass swept gracefully into the room.
Her open blonde hair fell lazily over one shoulder, shimmering gold under the morning light, while her vivid blue eyes sparkled with an uncontainable cheer. She wore a fitted periwinkle-blue robe that accentuated her slim figure, making her appear both elegant and effortlessly radiant. Despite the years that had passed since they were schoolmates, her face remained unmarked by age, her smile as warm and disarming as it had ever been.
Trailing behind her was a teenage girl—fifteen, Snape guessed—clutching an open book. That must be Daphne, Snape thought, eyeing the girl briefly as she flopped onto a nearby chair, nose buried in her reading.
"Severus!" Seraphina greeted him brightly, her voice carrying that distinct, light-hearted lilt that made him simultaneously wary and unsettled. "How wonderful to see you again!"
He inclined his head, keeping his expression carefully neutral. "Miss Greengrass."
Daphne looked up briefly from her book, gave Snape a polite nod, and then promptly returned to reading, clearly uninterested in the proceedings.
Seraphina, meanwhile, clasped her hands together. "You've been avoiding me for ages! What took you so long to visit?" she teased, a playful glint in her eye. "And what brings you here today, of all days?"
Snape's face remained impassive. "I require some potion ingredients," he said in his usual smooth, detached tone, hoping to steer the conversation away from anything personal.
Seraphina's eyes lit up, and before Snape could react, her warm hand brushed over his own. "Of course! Just tell me what you need, Severus."
Snape felt his throat dry up at the unexpected touch, his body stiffening. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he managed, "I need Gomas Barbadensis."
Seraphina tilted her head, her smile widening. "Gomas Barbadensis... Hmm. Isn't that used in Sleekeazy's Hair Potion?"
Snape nodded, grateful to have a focus for his thoughts. "Yes. I require it for some... experiments."
Her hand remained firmly atop his, sending an uncomfortable warmth crawling up his arm. His throat tightened again, and he cleared it once more, feeling uncharacteristically flustered.
"Unfortunately," he continued, "the only known supply in Britain is stored at Potter Manor. I need your permission to access it."
Her expression brightened even more, if that was possible. "Anything for you, Severus," she said warmly, giving his hand a soft squeeze.
A dramatic cough came from Daphne's direction, the sound far too deliberate to be genuine. Snape snatched his hand back as though burned, his expression snapping back into one of rigid professionalism.
Seraphina gave an amused laugh, lightly smacking her forehead. "Ah, where are my manners? Severus, since you're here... could I ask a favor?"
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly. "What sort of favor?"
She gestured toward Daphne, who still hadn't looked up from her book. "My dear Daphne will be starting at Hogwarts this year. Would you mind giving her a bit of extra guidance once she's there? Just... keep an eye on her, perhaps?"
Snape inclined his head curtly. "I will do what I can."
Seizing the opportunity to escape, he stood abruptly, his black robes swaying as he moved toward the door. He had had more than enough of Seraphina's relentless cheer for one morning, especially with Daphne's knowing smirks adding to his discomfort.
"Logi!" Seraphina called sweetly. "Bring the portkey, please."
In an instant, the elf appeared, holding out a small, ornate object—a brass key on a frayed ribbon. Seraphina handed it to Snape with a radiant smile.
"Take care, Severus," she said, waving as though they were old friends parting ways. "Do come again soon, my dear Severus."
Snape's jaw tightened at the familiar endearment, but he gave a sharp nod. As he turned toward the gate, he caught a glimpse of Daphne out of the corner of his eye, shaking her head with a bemused smile. Clearly, she was well-accustomed to her mother's antics.
Snape pushed open the gate, his robes trailing behind him as he stepped outside. With the portkey clutched in hand, he activated it, feeling the familiar, unpleasant sensation of being jerked forward by a hook behind his navel.
In a blink, the manor and its relentless warmth disappeared, and Snape was gone.
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Snape materialized with a quiet pop, standing just outside the main gate of Potter Manor, nestled deep within a sprawling forest. The trees surrounding the manor were ancient and tall, their branches tangled together like gnarled fingers blocking out most of the morning sunlight. It was eerily silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves as the wind stirred the dense undergrowth. The forest seemed to encroach upon the estate itself, as if reclaiming what had long been abandoned.
The iron gate before him was rusted, its once-grand design now pocked with age and neglect. Vines twisted around the bars, their thorny tendrils giving the gate the appearance of a thing imprisoned. When Snape pushed it open, it resisted stubbornly before giving way with a loud, creaking groan that echoed into the quiet surroundings.
As he stepped through, his boots crunched over a carpet of dried leaves and detritus. What had once been meticulously tended gardens were now a chaotic tangle of wildflowers, overgrown shrubs, and towering weeds. A few bushes still bore the remnants of cultivated roses, their withered petals clinging desperately to brittle stems. Even the gravel path leading to the manor's entrance was choked with moss, making every step uneven and deliberate.
The Potter Manor itself loomed at the end of the path, an imposing structure of stone and ivy. Its windows were clouded with grime, and the façade was cracked in places, as if time had chipped away at its once-proud appearance. There was no cheerful house-elf to greet him at the door; no warm firelight glowing from the windows. The entire estate seemed abandoned—not just physically, but emotionally, as if the world had moved on without it.
Snape reached the double oak doors, which sagged slightly on their hinges. When he pushed one open, the wood groaned and creaked like an old man waking from a long slumber.
The moment Snape stepped inside, a layer of dust stirred, floating lazily through the air like pale ghosts. The grand entry hall, which had once gleamed with polished floors and bright chandeliers, was now coated in a film of neglect. Dust coated the banisters of the winding staircase, and every step he took sent soft puffs of debris into the still air. The chandelier above him was draped with cobwebs, and faded portraits hung crookedly on the walls.
He stood still for a moment, surveying the scene before him with a mixture of disdain and something resembling dark amusement.
"How the mighty have fallen," he thought coldly. The illustrious House of Potter, reduced to this ruin.
The sight before him was a bitter reminder of how quickly prestige and wealth could crumble. Even the beloved estate that James Potter had once prided himself on was now a husk of its former grandeur, surrendered as reparations to the Greengrass family.
Snape shook his head, lips curling in mild contempt. James and Lily's legacy was not only tainted in name but now lay in ruins—reduced to dust and disrepair, handed off like an afterthought.
Gathering himself, Snape made his way towards the staircase at the far end of the hall. He knew from his visits to Lily that the potion lab was hidden underground—a place where she had once kept supplies for her personal experiments.
The stairs leading downward were old and steep, and he moved slowly, testing each step before putting his weight on it. The wooden steps groaned beneath his boots, but they held, despite the years of neglect. The further down he went, the cooler the air became, and the scent of damp stone and stale air filled his nostrils.
At last, he reached the door to the lab, which opened with a soft creak. Inside, the underground space was surprisingly well-preserved—likely thanks to Lily's obsession with order and arrangement. Despite the years of abandonment, the shelves were neatly lined with jars and vials, each carefully labeled in Lily's precise handwriting.
Snape took a moment to scan the room, his dark eyes sweeping over the familiar space. Even in death, Lily's meticulous nature was evident. Every bottle, every tool was in its proper place, just as it had been all those years ago.
It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. On a narrow shelf in the corner, two jars sat side by side. The first contained a few strands of black hair, the label in neat script reading:
"James Potter"
The second jar held a delicate tangle of vibrant red hair, the label beneath it simply reading:
"Lily Evans-Potter"
Snape stood still for a moment, gazing at the contents. His face remained impassive, but something heavy stirred in his chest—a complicated knot of emotion that he quickly suppressed. He knew better than to linger on old memories, not when there was still work to be done.
"Well, that was easier than I expected," he thought with grim satisfaction, picking up both jars and tucking them carefully into his robes.
With a final glance around the lab, he turned on his heel and made his way back toward the stairs, each step measured and deliberate, as if the crumbling manor might fall apart at any moment. The sooner he left this place behind, the better.
"There is nothing left for anyone here," he thought, as he ascended the steps and prepared to leave Potter Manor—and everything it symbolized—behind once more.