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Chapter Text

Marquas Wilson had always imagined his death would involve something dignified. Perhaps a heroic sacrifice saving a child from a burning building, or peacefully passing in his sleep at the ripe old age of ninety-two after a life well-lived. At the very least, he'd expected it to involve something cooler than a Prius.

And yet here he was, sprawled across wet asphalt on a rainy Tuesday, his laptop bag flung halfway down the street, watching as the hybrid vehicle that had just introduced itself to his ribcage at forty miles per hour idled innocently nearby. Its driver, a teenager frantically texting into a phone, hadn't even looked up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Marquas wheezed, though he wasn't sure if any sound actually came out. Blood trickled warmly from the corner of his mouth, which seemed like a bad sign. "A Prius? Not even a Tesla or a Mustang?"

His vision dimmed around the edges. Someone was screaming for an ambulance. Too late, he thought distantly. He could feel himself slipping away, consciousness fading like the battery life on the coding project he'd never finish now.

What a stupid way to die.

His last thought before darkness claimed him was that his code would remain uncommitted on his laptop. His team lead was going to be pissed.

Consciousness returned like a slow server response, lagging, buffering, and finally loading with a splitting headache. Marquas groaned and rolled over, burying his face into a pillow that smelled faintly of herbs and something less pleasant. Had he survived? This didn't feel like a hospital bed, too narrow, too firm.

Wait.

Herbs?

He sat bolt upright, instantly regretting it as his head spun viciously. The room around him was dark, lit only by a single candle flickering on a nearby desk. Stone walls. A small window showing nothing but night sky. Bookshelves crammed with leather-bound tomes and... were those glass jars filled with floating things?

"What the actual hell?" he muttered, his voice coming out deeper and raspier than expected. "Did I get airlifted to some medieval hospital?"

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood unsteadily. The nightshirt he wore was black, flowing to his ankles, and made of some rough-spun material that definitely wasn't hospital issue. Looking down, he noticed his hands pale, long-fingered, with neatly trimmed nails stained slightly yellow.

Those weren't his hands.

His hands were broader, with a writer's callus on the middle finger and a small scar across the left palm from a childhood bike accident. These hands belonged to someone else entirely.

Heart hammering, Marquas stumbled across the room, searching frantically for a mirror. He found one hanging on the far wall small, slightly tarnished around the edges, but functional enough to reflect the face that was definitely not his.

Sallow skin. Hooked nose. Thin lips pressed into a line of shock. And the hair, shoulder-length, black as midnight, and greasy enough to lubricate machinery.

"No," he whispered, watching those unfamiliar lips form the word. "This is impossible."

But the face staring back at him was unmistakable. He'd seen it in eight movies, countless memes, and one very specific series of books that he'd devoured as a teenager.

He was looking at Severus Snape.

"I'm having a coma dream," he declared to the empty room. "Or this is some bizarre purgatory where I'm being punished for pirating Adobe software."

He pinched himself hard. Nothing changed.

Panic rising, Marquas began pacing the small room, bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. His mind raced with questions, each more impossible than the last. How could he be in the body of a fictional character? Why this character specifically? Was he in the books, the movies, or some alternate universe altogether?

His eyes fell on a calendar pinned beside the door. September 1979.

"Oh shit," he breathed.

If this was real and the throbbing pain in his head suggested it might be then he wasn't just Severus Snape. He was pre-Harry Potter Severus Snape. Death Eater Severus Snape. The Snape who was probably still obsessing over Lily Evans even as she married James Potter.

The Snape who would eventually die a horrible death by snake venom after a life of misery, manipulation, and unrequited love.

"Nope. No thank you," Marquas said firmly. He began rifling through drawers, finding robes, potion ingredients, and ah, there it was. A wand. Sleek, black, and humming with an energy he could feel even without touching it.

Hesitantly, he picked it up. Warmth spread through his fingers, up his arm, settling in his chest like a second heartbeat.

"Lumos," he whispered, half-expecting nothing to happen.

The tip of the wand burst into bright white light, illuminating the room and nearly blinding him. Marquas yelped and almost dropped it, hastily muttering, "Nox," which thankfully extinguished the glow.

As the light faded, something strange happened. Images flashed behind his eyes, a classroom with bubbling cauldrons, precise wand movements rehearsed until fingers cramped, Latin incantations practiced in the dead of night. Knowledge that wasn't his own flooded his consciousness: potion recipes, spell theories, the exact angle at which to hold a wand for a defensive charm.

Marquas gasped, steadying himself against the desk as Snape's memories washed over him in fragments. Not everything, there were still vast empty spaces but enough that he understood how he'd just performed magic without training. The knowledge was there, stored in this body's muscle memory and neural pathways, waiting to be accessed.

"Interesting," he murmured, flexing his fingers around the wand. "The body remembers even if I don't."

He tried again, focusing harder. "Wingardium Leviosa."

A nearby quill floated effortlessly into the air, and with it came another flash of memory, a younger Snape practicing in a dingy room, determination etched on his adolescent face. The sensation was disorienting, like watching a movie while simultaneously being in it.

"Holy shit," he said, staring at the wand. "I'm actually... I can do..."

He looked back at the mirror, at Snape's face wearing an expression of wonder that probably hadn't graced those features in years, if ever.

"Magic is real. I'm Severus Snape. Which means..." His expression darkened. "Voldemort is real too. And in this timeline, he's very much alive."

Marquas sank back onto the bed, head in his hands. As a software developer, he was accustomed to fixing bugs, not dealing with dark lords. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

His mind flashed to Snape's fate in the books. Decades of pining after a dead woman. Being a double agent. Getting his throat ripped out by a magical snake. Dying alone in a dirty shack.

"Yeah, that's gonna be a hard pass from me," he muttered. "If I'm stuck here, I'm rewriting this damn story."

He stood up again, newfound determination pushing through the panic. First things first he needed information. Where exactly was he? What day was it? Was he already a Death Eater? Was Lily already dead?

Rifling through papers on the desk, he found his answer, a half-written letter addressed to "My Lord," detailing some potion research. So he was already in Voldemort's service. Great.

But another document, a copy of the Daily Prophet confirmed that it was indeed September 1979. Which meant Lily and James were alive. Harry wasn't born yet. The prophecy hadn't been made.

The entire tragedy that was Severus Snape's life hadn't fully unfolded.

"I have time," Marquas whispered. "Time to change things."

He moved to the small window, pushing it open to let in the cool night air. Somewhere in the distance, he could see lights of what might be a village. Spinner's End, perhaps?

Marquas took a deep breath, feeling the unfamiliar body respond lungs expanding, heart rate steadying. He was Severus Snape now, for better or worse. But he didn't have to follow the same path.

"First things first," he said decisively, turning back to the mirror and eyeing the greasy hair with distaste. "This whole aesthetic needs a serious upgrade. If I'm going to navigate magical politics and avoid getting murdered by the most dangerous dark wizard of all time, I refuse to do it looking like I wash my hair in cauldron residue."

He experimentally ran a hand through the lank strands, grimacing as they left an actual slick on his palm. "What the hell, Snape? Did you use motor oil as conditioner?"

Wiping his hand on the nightshirt, Marquas began mentally listing priorities:

1. Figure out how to de-grease this disaster of a hairstyle
2. Determine exact Death Eater status and obligations
3. Establish relationship with Dumbledore (but without the unhealthy codependence)
4. Find a way to navigate the war without dying horribly
5. Maybe save some lives along the way

He paused, adding one more to the list:

6. Resolve the Lily situation once and for all

Because no way in hell was he spending the next decades pining after someone else's wife. That train had sailed. Or ship had left the station. Whatever he was mixing metaphors because he was still processing the fact that he'd died and woken up as Severus freaking Snape.

"No way I'm dying for some kid's plotline," he declared to the empty room, voice firm despite the absurdity of it all. "I'm officially declaring this a Snape redemption arc that doesn't end in tragedy. The greasy bat of the dungeons is getting a makeover, inside and out."

He picked up the wand again, twirling it experimentally between his fingers. It felt right in his hand, like an extension of himself.

"Time to see what this magic thing is all about," he murmured. "And then... operation 'Don't Die Like a Chump' begins."

Marquas, now Severus, smiled. It felt strange on these unfamiliar features, but not unpleasant.

"Let's rewrite this story, shall we?"

Chapter Text

Marquas spent his first week as Severus Snape taking inventory of his new life, and frankly, it was worse than he expected. His home at Spinner's End was a depressing brick hovel that smelled perpetually of damp socks and regret. His wardrobe consisted exclusively of black robes that billowed dramatically but served no practical purpose beyond hiding stains. And his social calendar was a nightmare trifecta of Death Eater meetings, brewing sessions for the Dark Lord, and creepy fireside chats with Lucius Malfoy about "the purity of bloodlines."

"This is worse than my coding bootcamp," Marquas muttered as he scrubbed a cauldron that had been used to brew something that smelled suspiciously like fermented toad. "At least there I could order pizza."

The biggest immediate problem, however, was staring back at him from every reflective surface: the hair. Dear Merlin, the hair. It wasn't just greasy, it was an environmental hazard. Birds could potentially get stuck in it and die. The North Sea had less oil.

"Right," he declared to his reflection on the fifth morning. "Priority number one: fix this disaster before I accidentally cause another energy crisis."

He'd spent his nights poring through Snape's extensive collection of potions texts, looking for anything remotely related to hair care. Wizards, it seemed, were perfectly content to use their reality-defying powers to grow teeth in teacups but hadn't bothered developing decent shampoo.

"Typical," he snorted, flipping through Magical Hygienics Through the Ages. "They can brew liquid luck but can't figure out basic conditioner."

Fortunately, Marquas had two advantages: Snape's encyclopedic knowledge of ingredients (which came with the body, thank god, he hadn't fancied relearning potion-making from scratch) and his own 21st-century understanding of chemistry. Between them, he was going to science the hell out of this hair problem.

He set up a makeshift laboratory in what appeared to be Snape's bathroom, a room that looked like it had last been updated when Queen Victoria was still teething. The sink was permanently stained with something purple, and the mirror occasionally offered unsolicited opinions about his appearance.

"You could store potatoes in those eye bags, dearie," it commented as he laid out ingredients.

"And you could use a good Scourgify, but we all have our crosses to bear," Marquas retorted, levitating a small cauldron onto a hovering flame.

First, he identified the problem. This wasn't normal grease, no amount of regular washing seemed to affect it. After careful magical analysis (and several disgusting sample collections), he determined that young Snape had likely suffered a potions accident involving a permanent water-repelling charm. The charm had fused with his hair follicles, causing them to produce an excessive amount of magical oil that couldn't be removed by conventional means.

"So you essentially waterproofed your own head," Marquas told his reflection. "Genius move, Severus."

The solution required something that could break down magical oil compounds while simultaneously neutralizing the repelling charm. He started with unicorn root, freshly dried and finely shredded. Known for its purifying properties, it was commonly used in antidotes for magical contamination. Plus, it smelled way better than Snape's current hair situation.

The problem, however, was that unicorn root was extremely potent, it could potentially destroy his scalp along with the oil. He needed a buffer.

"Dittany," he murmured, reaching for a small bottle of extract. "For protection and healing."

Next came the truly innovative part. Marquas had found a Muggle chemistry textbook hidden deep within Snape's collection (carefully disguised as Pureblood Lineages of Eastern Europe). The principles of surfactants and chelating agents gave him an idea. He began to sketch out a formula that combined magical ingredients with the chemistry behind what Muggles called "clarifying shampoo."

"Let's not reinvent the wheel," he muttered, jotting down proportions. "Just... magic the wheel into a flaming chariot."

Three days, fourteen failed attempts, and one minor explosion later, Marquas stood over a cauldron of shimmering silver liquid. It didn't look like any potion he'd seen in Snape's memories, not murky green or bubbling purple, but elegant and gleaming, like liquid moonlight.

"Here goes nothing," he said, scooping some into a vial. "If this dissolves my scalp, at least I won't have to attend Lucius's dinner party tomorrow."

He cleared the bathroom of all flammable materials (a lesson learned from batch #7), applied a Shield Charm just in case, and poured the concoction over his head. The potion was cool against his scalp, tingling slightly as it worked its way through his hair. A faint minty scent filled the room, replacing the usual dungeon-master musk that followed Snape everywhere.

Now came the waiting. Twenty-three minutes, according to his calculations. Any less and it wouldn't fully neutralize the charm; any more and he risked damaging his hair follicles.

Marquas set a timer spell and sat on the edge of the bathtub, flipping through Snape's journal to pass the time. Most entries were bitter diatribes against James Potter or mournful odes to Lily Evans. Marquas rolled his eyes.

"Merlin's saggy Y-fronts, this is pathetic," he muttered. "Note to self: develop a personality beyond 'angry' and 'pining.'"

The timer chimed, startling him. With a deep breath, he approached the sink and performed the specialized rinsing charm he'd developed, a modified Aguamenti that produced perfectly pH-balanced water.

As he dried his hair with a gentle warming charm (no rough toweling for this delicate operation), he closed his eyes, afraid to look. What if he'd made it worse? What if he was now completely bald? Would Voldemort still respect a hairless Death Eater?

"Oh, stop being dramatic and look already," the mirror chided.

Marquas opened his eyes, turned, and froze.

His hair no, Snape's hair, fell in gentle waves around his face, black as midnight and soft as charmed silk. The grease was gone. Completely banished. The hair shone with natural health, not oil, and when he cautiously ran his fingers through it, they came away clean.

He looked... oddly regal. Still pale, still sharp-featured, but somehow transformed. Less "dungeon-dwelling potions gremlin" and more "mysterious dark wizard with excellent conditioner."

He raised an eyebrow, impressed with himself. "Lucius can eat his heart out."

The mirror actually whistled. "Well now, that's quite the improvement! You almost look like you don't hate sunshine and puppies."

"Don't push it," Marquas warned, but he couldn't keep the triumph from his voice. His first major project as Snape was a success. He carefully bottled the remaining potion, labeling it "Hair-Gloss Reversal Potion" in Snape's spiky handwriting.

But the hair was just the beginning. Now that he could see his reflection without wincing, the next horror became painfully apparent: the clothing.

Marquas pulled open Snape's wardrobe and stared at the sea of identical black robes. They were all designed to billow dramatically, an effect achieved through a combination of excessive fabric and what appeared to be a permanent Ventus charm woven into the hem.

"No wonder you're always cold and miserable," he muttered, fingering the thin, coarse material. "You're basically wearing a permanent draft."

He gathered every black cloak he owned, cursed them for dramatic effect (and because swearing as Snape felt wonderfully satisfying with that deep voice), and tossed them into the fireplace with the satisfaction of a man exorcising demons.

"If I'm going to be a dark wizard," he declared as the fabric caught fire, "I refuse to be a fashion disaster as well."

The next day, he visited a discreet magical tailor in a corner of Diagon Alley where people didn't ask questions about Dark Marks. The elderly wizard raised an eyebrow at Snape requesting anything other than "black, billowing, and depressing," but worked quickly.

The result was a set of custom-tailored robes in deep charcoal gray rather than pitch black. They were cut with sharp, clean lines that hinted at authority without screaming "I'm compensating for something." Each one had clever wand holsters stitched subtly into the lining and inner pockets charmed to hold potion vials, scrolls, and at least one sandwich (Marquas had learned that Snape often forgot to eat when brewing, which explained a lot about his temperament).

"If I'm gonna be dark," he muttered as he inspected the drape of the fabric in the mirror, "I'll be fashionably dark."

His final touch was a subtle warming charm woven into the fabric, because being perpetually cold seemed to be part of Snape's whole misery aesthetic, and Marquas refused to endure British dungeon winters without proper insulation.

Severus Snape’s appointment as Potions Master is often assumed to have happened soon after Voldemort’s fall in 1981. However, The next morning, he entered the Great Hall of Hogwarts for a pre-term staff meeting (apparently Snape had already arranged to become the new Potions Master, a detail Marquas discovered from a letter from Dumbledore). This moment suggests a delayed or more formally acknowledged appointment, possibly aligning with a different timeline or revealing a nuance previously unknown. 

He'd arranged his new hair into a neat half-ponytail, allowing some strands to frame his face while keeping it practical for brewing. The new robes whispered elegantly around his ankles rather than flapping like a distressed bat.

Minerva McGonagall actually stopped mid-sentence when he entered. Slughorn, who was retiring and showing Snape the ropes, nearly dropped his teacup.

"Severus?" Slughorn managed after a moment. "My dear boy, you look... different."

"I've made some improvements," Marquas replied smoothly, helping himself to tea.

"Well!" Slughorn recovered quickly, ever the social butterfly. "Most impressive! You almost look like you've spent time in sunlight!"

McGonagall was still staring suspiciously. "Are you feeling quite well, Severus?"

"Never better," Marquas assured her, allowing himself a small smirk. "I've simply decided that personal neglect isn't the virtue some believe it to be."

Professor Flitwick, tiny and cheerful as ever, beamed at him. "Excellent charm work on those robes, Severus! Is that a modified warming enchantment I detect?"

"Good eye," Marquas nodded. "With a stability matrix to prevent overheating during brewing."

"Ingenious!"

Dumbledore arrived last, sweeping in with his usual theatrical timing. He paused momentarily when he spotted Snape, those blue eyes twinkling with something between amusement and calculation.

"Ah, Severus. A new approach for a new position, I see."

Marquas inclined his head slightly. "Precisely, Headmaster."

As the meeting progressed, he could feel the other professors stealing glances at him. He pretended not to notice, but inwardly, he was cataloging their reactions. McGonagall: suspicious but not hostile. Flitwick: genuinely impressed. Slughorn: calculating the social implications. Dumbledore: inscrutable as always, but definitely intrigued.

This, Marquas realized, was power of a different sort than what Voldemort offered. Not fear or intimidation, but the subtle manipulation of people's expectations. They expected Snape to be greasy, bitter, and antisocial. By defying that expectation while maintaining his dignity, he'd thrown them off balance.

And off-balance people were easier to manage.

After the meeting, as he walked back toward the dungeons to inspect his new office and quarters, he felt oddly light. The hair potion had been more than just a cosmetic change, it was a declaration of intent. A statement that this Severus Snape would not be defined by his past mistakes or others' expectations.

Now he just had to figure out how to navigate being a double agent without getting killed. And deal with the whole Lily situation. And possibly prevent a wizarding war.

But one step at a time.

First, he had a laboratory to set up and lesson plans to prepare. If he was going to be the youngest Potions Master in Hogwarts history, he might as well revolutionize the curriculum while he was at it.

"Goodbye, greasy git of the dungeons," he murmured as he entered his new domain. "Hello, Professor Snape 2.0."

Chapter Text

It took precisely three days of living in Severus Snape's body for Marquas to understand the true horror of the situation: the man had been catastrophically down bad for Lily Evans. It wasn't just the occasional memory or fleeting regret, it was a full-blown, all-consuming obsession that permeated every aspect of his existence.

The evidence was everywhere. Hidden in a false bottom of his desk drawer was a collection of dried flowers that Lily had apparently given him during their school days. Several books contained notes in the margins where they'd carried out written conversations. Most disturbing was the enchanted journal that, when activated with a specific charm, displayed only entries about Lily, hundreds of pages chronicling every interaction, every smile, every casual touch from their first meeting until their falling out.

"This isn't devotion," Marquas muttered as he flipped through the pages. "This is a psychological disorder that needs a team of professionals and possibly some very strong potions."

What made it worse was that these weren't just Snape's memories, they were becoming his memories too. Every night, Marquas dreamed in snippets of Snape's past. Lily's laugh. The way sunlight caught her red hair. The devastation of her rejection. The gut-wrenching agony of learning she'd married James Potter. It was like experiencing a toxic relationship in fast-forward, and it was giving him emotional whiplash.

"This stops now," he declared one evening, after waking from a particularly intense dream about the day Snape had called Lily a Mudblood. "I refuse to spend the next twenty years pining over someone else's wife."

He was sitting in his new quarters at Hogwarts, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Term wouldn't start for another week, giving him time to settle in and, more importantly, deal with this Lily situation before he had to face hormonal teenagers.

The real problem, as Marquas saw it, wasn't just that Snape loved Lily, it was that he'd never properly processed losing her. Never moved on. Never accepted that she had made her choice, and it wasn't him.

"What you need," he told his reflection as he combed his now-silky hair, "is closure. And since this is my mind now, I'm the one who has to get it."

The solution came to him during breakfast the next morning. He was sitting at the staff table, nursing a cup of coffee (he'd introduced the house-elves to proper brewing techniques, much to their confusion), when an owl dropped the Daily Prophet in front of him. On page six was a small announcement: James and Lily Potter would be attending a Ministry charity gala that weekend.

Marquas stared at the words until they blurred. This was it, his chance to see her one last time and put this whole mess to bed.

There was just one small problem.

"I can't exactly waltz in there as Severus Snape, Death Eater extraordinaire," he muttered, pushing his plate away. The other professors were giving him concerned looks; apparently talking to oneself wasn't part of the Snape brand. He scowled at them for good measure.

Back in his quarters, he began to plan. The gala would be heavily attended, which meant security but also crowds to hide in. He couldn't use Polyjuice Potion, too risky if he needed to make a quick exit. But a glamour charm combined with a Notice-Me-Not spell might work...

"This is insane," he told himself as he worked out the details. "I'm planning to magically disguise myself to crash a party to see a woman who isn't even aware I'm not the same man who's been obsessed with her for years."

But insane or not, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was necessary. Not just for his own peace of mind, but for Snape's redemption. The path to becoming a better person started with letting go of toxic attachments.

Saturday evening found Marquas in Diagon Alley, carefully applying the last touches to his disguise in the bathroom of the Leaky Cauldron. The glamour charm altered his features subtly, softening the hook of his nose, changing his eye color to blue, adding a slight wave to his hair. Nothing dramatic enough to trigger magical alarms, but enough that no one would recognize him as Severus Snape.

"Showtime," he murmured, adjusting the collar of his dress robes, charcoal gray with subtle silver embroidery, a far cry from Snape's usual funeral attire.

The Ministry gala was being held in one of the grand ballrooms, a cavernous space enchanted to look like a nighttime garden, with stars twinkling above and rosebushes lining the walls. Magical musicians played in one corner, their instruments floating beside them. The elite of wizarding society mingled and preened, a sea of expensive robes and glittering jewelry.

Marquas slipped in with a group of late arrivals, his Notice-Me-Not charm ensuring that the security wizards' eyes slid past him without interest. Once inside, he snagged a glass of champagne from a floating tray and positioned himself near a large rosebush, surveying the crowd.

And then he saw her.

Lily Potter stood near the center of the room, laughing at something her husband had said. She wore emerald green robes that set off her hair, which fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Even from a distance, her eyes were striking, the same vivid green that Harry would inherit.

She was beautiful, yes. But as Marquas watched her, he felt something unexpected: objectivity.

These weren't just Snape's memories anymore. He could see what Snape never could, that Lily was just a woman. A bright, talented, kind woman, certainly, but not the goddess Snape had built in his mind. She had flaws. She made mistakes. She was human.

And more importantly, she looked genuinely happy with James Potter, who hadn't left her side, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back, his expression softening whenever he looked at her.

"They really do love each other," Marquas murmured, surprised by how little pain the observation caused. There was a twinge of something perhaps Snape's emotions echoing from deep within but it was distant, manageable.

He watched them for nearly an hour, noting the way they interacted with each other and their friends. Sirius Black was there too, handsome and louder than necessary, making Lily roll her eyes even as she smiled. Remus Lupin stood slightly apart, looking tired but content. Peter Pettigrew hovered at the edges, laughing too eagerly at jokes and constantly checking to see if the others were watching him.

Little rat, Marquas thought, eyeing Pettigrew with distaste. That was another problem to solve, but not tonight.

Finally, when James was pulled away by some Ministry official, Marquas saw his opportunity. He circled casually around the edge of the room until he was closer to Lily, who had stepped away from the main crowd to admire an enchanted ice sculpture.

"Beautiful work," he commented, standing beside her but not too close. "Though I think the charm is starting to fade on the left wing."

Lily turned, her green eyes curious. "You're right," she said, examining the slightly drooping wing of the ice phoenix. "Are you a charm specialist?"

"More of a potions man," Marquas replied with a small smile. "But I appreciate good spellwork."

They chatted easily for a few minutes about the gala, about the latest advancements in charm theory, about the ridiculous hat the Minister was wearing. Talking to her was... normal. Pleasant even, but not earth-shattering. Not worth destroying a life over.

"I should find my husband," she said eventually, glancing around the room. "He's hopeless at these events. Likely trapped by old Tiberius Ogden talking about firewhisky regulations."

"Before you go," Marquas said, surprising himself, "I wanted to say something."

Lily looked at him expectantly, head tilted slightly.

"You seem very happy," he said simply. "It's good to see."

Her expression softened into a genuine smile. "I am. Thank you..."

"Just an observer," he replied, stepping back with a slight bow. "Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Potter."

He turned and walked away before she could question him further, feeling strangely light. That small exchange had done more to exorcise Snape's ghost than years of obsessing ever could. Lily Evans Potter was a real person with her own life, not a fantasy to be worshipped or a prize to be won.

Marquas slipped out of the gala as unobtrusively as he'd entered, making his way back to Hogwarts through a series of Apparition points to avoid being tracked. By the time he reached his quarters, the glamour charm was fading, Snape's features reasserting themselves in the mirror.

But something was different. The pain that had lurked behind those dark eyes seemed diminished somehow, replaced by clarity.

That night, Marquas sat at Snape's desk and began to write. Not in the enchanted Lily-journal, but in a fresh one he'd purchased in Diagon Alley. At the top of the first page, he wrote: "The Lily Evans Resolution."

Dear Lily,

You'll never read this letter, which is precisely why I can be honest. I've loved you in the worst possible way selfishly, possessively, destructively. I've used that love as an excuse, as a shield, as a reason to avoid becoming a better person.

Tonight I saw you happy, truly happy, with a man who isn't me. And I realized something important: I need to let you go. Not because I don't care, but because caring means wanting your happiness more than my own.

You made your choice long ago. It's time I respected it.

This is goodbye, not in anger or bitterness, but in acceptance. You deserve love, but I'm done being sad. I have a life to live that doesn't revolve around you.

Be well, be happy, be safe.

Severus

He read it over once, then folded the parchment carefully and sealed it with wax. He wouldn't send it, of course. But the act of writing it felt important, a way of drawing a line between past and future.

Then he did something that would have been unthinkable to the original Snape. He gathered every memento, every dried flower, every note written in Lily's handwriting, and placed them in a small wooden box. He added the letter on top, then closed the lid and cast a sealing charm.

"Out of sight, out of mind," he murmured as he placed the box on the highest shelf in his quarters, behind a collection of advanced potions texts where he wouldn't accidentally glimpse it.

As a final step, he took out a small journal bound in plain black leather and wrote on the first page:

Day 1: Didn't simp today. Progress.

He chuckled at his own joke, but there was truth in it. The real Snape had spent years defining himself by his unrequited love. Marquas intended to define himself by something far more useful: action.

The next day, when an owl arrived bearing a message from Lucius Malfoy about an upcoming "gathering" (Death Eater code for "come kiss Voldemort's robes"), Marquas felt ready. The Lily situation wasn't completely resolved, years of obsession wouldn't disappear overnight but he'd taken the first crucial step.

He wasn't Snape pining after Lily anymore. He was Marquas in Snape's body, with a clear mind and a mission: survive this mess, maybe save some lives, and completely rewrite Severus Snape's tragic destiny.

"And step one," he muttered as he penned a response to Lucius, "is figuring out how to troll the Dark Lord without getting myself killed."

He glanced at his reflection as he sealed the letter. With his improved appearance and the weight of obsession lifting from his shoulders, he looked almost... formidable.

"Watch out, wizarding world," he said with a smirk. "Severus Snape is about to get an upgrade."

Chapter Text

Marquas discovered that preparing to meet the Dark Lord was much like preparing for a performance review with a particularly unstable boss, if that boss could read minds and kill you with a stick. The summons had come via Lucius Malfoy's elegant owl: a gathering at Malfoy Manor that evening. Black robes, masks required, existential dread optional.

"Well, this should be fun," Marquas muttered, examining Snape's Death Eater mask with distaste. The thing looked like it had been designed by someone who'd heard the concept "intimidating" described third-hand. All swooping lines and melodramatic contouring. "Nothing says 'I make good life choices' like showing up to a terrorist meeting in coordinated outfits."

Still, he had to admit there was a certain sick brilliance to Voldemort's branding. The masks, the tattoos, the ominous name that no one was allowed to say, it was cultish psychology 101. Create an in-group, develop secret symbols, foster fear both within and without.

"Minus the magic, this is basically a goth MLM scheme," he snorted, setting the mask aside.

Getting ready for the meeting required careful preparation. First, Marquas spent three hours practicing Occlumency, which thankfully came somewhat naturally with Snape's muscle memory, though it took conscious effort to maintain. He constructed mental walls around his true identity, creating a surface personality that was essentially "Snape Classic" bitter, servile to the Dark Lord, and obsessed with dark magic.

Behind those walls, he established a second layer of false memories, things Voldemort might go looking for if he was suspicious. Carefully crafted images of Marquas-as-Snape brewing potions for the cause, researching dark spells, and nursing his grudge against James Potter. All plausible, all consistent with what the real Snape would have been doing.

Only behind a third, heavily fortified mental barrier did he keep the truth: that he was Marquas Wilson, software developer from 2025, currently hijacking the body of fiction's most problematic potions professor.

"It's like nesting dolls, but with trauma," he murmured, massaging his temples. Mental compartmentalization was exhausting.

His second preparation involved potions, lots of them. He'd brewed several that might prove useful: a subtle strengthening solution, a mental acuity draught, and most importantly, an experimental concoction he'd developed himself, designed to minimize the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Because if there was one thing Marquas was certain of, it was that hanging around Voldemort eventually meant getting tortured.

"Just a typical Saturday night," he said grimly, tucking the vials into specially designed pockets in his robes. "Meet evil wizard, try not to die, make it home in time for a nightcap."

The final touch was his appearance. While he was tempted to show up with his newly improved hair and tailored robes, he recognized that suddenly looking fashionable might raise unwanted questions. Instead, he applied a temporary charm that made his hair appear slightly greasy again (though nowhere near the environmental hazard it had been), and wore one of the old billowing black robes he'd salvaged from the fire.

"Know your audience," he reminded himself. "Death Eaters aren't ready for style upgrades."

At precisely eight o'clock, Marquas Apparated to the designated arrival point outside Malfoy Manor. The grand house loomed against the darkening sky, all Gothic splendor and aristocratic menace. Peacocks strutted across the manicured lawns, their white feathers ghostly in the twilight.

"Of course Lucius has albino peacocks," Marquas muttered. "Probably magically engineered to match his hair."

Other black-robed figures were converging on the manor, their faces hidden behind silver masks. Marquas slipped his own mask on, adjusted his mental shields, and joined the procession, keeping his stride confident but not arrogant. In this circle, body language could mean the difference between favor and punishment.

Inside, Malfoy Manor was exactly as ostentatious as he'd expected. Crystal chandeliers, priceless artwork, antique furniture that probably cost more than most wizarding families earned in a decade. The gathering was being held in a grand ballroom, where house-elves scurried about with trays of drinks, looking terrified.

"Severus," a smooth voice greeted him. Lucius Malfoy, recognizable even with his mask by his distinctive white-blond hair, approached with two glasses of what appeared to be very expensive firewhisky. "Right on time, as always."

"Lucius," Marquas returned coolly, accepting the drink. "Charming venue. The house-elves look particularly miserable tonight. Special occasion?"

Lucius chuckled, a sound entirely devoid of genuine mirth. "Our Lord has been in excellent spirits lately. A successful raid in Cardiff has yielded valuable information."

Marquas made an appropriately impressed noise, mentally filing away the information about Cardiff. Something to pass to Dumbledore later.

"And how goes your work at Hogwarts?" Lucius inquired, his voice lowering. "Has the old fool suspected anything?"

"Dumbledore sees what he wishes to see," Marquas replied with just the right amount of disdain. "He's convinced of my... reformation. As if a few pretty words about redemption could sway true loyalty."

It was fascinating, really, how easily the lies flowed when necessary. Marquas had never considered himself a particularly good actor, but inhabiting Snape's body seemed to come with certain performative advantages. The deep voice, the sneer, the subtle inflections, all tools in crafting a convincing Death Eater persona.

"Excellent," Lucius murmured. "The Dark Lord will be pleased. He values your position greatly, Severus."

Before Marquas could respond, a hush fell over the room. The assembled Death Eaters turned as one toward the grand doorway, where a tall, thin figure had appeared.

Voldemort.

Marquas had prepared himself for this moment, but reality still hit differently. The Dark Lord wasn't yet the noseless, corpse-like creature he would become after his resurrection. In 1979, he still retained some vestige of Tom Riddle's handsome features, though distorted by dark magic, skin waxy pale, eyes already beginning to show a reddish tint, movements unnaturally fluid. He was terrifying not because he looked monstrous, but because he walked the uncanny valley between human and something else.

"My faithful followers," Voldemort said, his voice soft yet carrying effortlessly across the silent room. "How pleasing to see you all gathered here, united in our sacred purpose."

The Death Eaters sank to their knees in unison. Marquas followed suit, keeping his eyes downcast and his mind carefully shielded. This wasn't the time for heroics or clever plans. This was reconnaissance.

"Rise," Voldemort commanded after a moment of silent obeisance. "Tonight, we celebrate progress. Our influence grows. The Ministry weakens. Those who would stand against us cower in fear."

What followed was essentially a business meeting from hell. Reports were given. Assignments distributed. Failures punished, Marquas winced behind his mask as a Death Eater who had apparently bungled a simple intimidation mission writhed under the Cruciatus Curse, Voldemort's wand pointed lazily at him as though he were merely conducting an orchestra.

Throughout it all, Marquas observed. Not just Voldemort, but the dynamics among the Death Eaters. Who stood where. Who spoke up. Who remained silent. The hierarchy was complex and fluid, with Bellatrix Lestrange clearly vying for the position of favorite, while others like Lucius Malfoy maintained influence through more subtle means.

"And now," Voldemort said, his gaze sweeping the room, "Severus. Step forward."

Marquas felt a cold jolt of adrenaline but kept his external composure as he approached the Dark Lord and knelt again.

"My Lord," he murmured.

"How goes your work on the potions I requested?" Voldemort asked. "The enhancements to Veritaserum?"

Thankfully, Marquas had found detailed notes on this project in Snape's laboratory and had actually made some progress on it, though certainly not in the way Voldemort intended.

"It advances well, my Lord," he replied. "I've identified the binding agent that limits Veritaserum's effectiveness against strong-willed subjects. Another fortnight should yield a prototype for testing."

Voldemort made a soft humming sound of approval. "Excellent. Your intellect continues to serve our cause admirably, Severus." He paused, then added, "And your position at Hogwarts? The old fool suspects nothing?"

"He believes what he wishes to believe, my Lord," Marquas responded, echoing what he'd told Lucius. "Dumbledore sees redemption in everyone. It is both his greatest weakness and my greatest advantage."

Voldemort laughed, a chilling sound that raised goosebumps on Marquas's arms.

"Stand, Severus," the Dark Lord commanded.

Marquas rose, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered but not submissively downcast. A subtle balance.

"Look at me," Voldemort said softly.

Here we go, Marquas thought, bracing himself as he raised his gaze to meet Voldemort's. Immediately, he felt a pressure against his mental shields, not a brutal attack, but a subtle probing, like fingers testing the strength of fabric.

He allowed Voldemort to see carefully selected memories: brewing potions late into the night, reporting to Dumbledore with calculated misinformation, private moments of apparent devotion to the Dark Lord's cause. All fabricated or heavily modified from Snape's actual memories.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, Voldemort withdrew from his mind with a satisfied expression.

"Your loyalty is admirable, Severus," he said. Then, with a slight smirk, added, "Though I see you've finally discovered proper hair care potions. An unexpected development."

Several Death Eaters tittered nervously. Marquas felt his face warm slightly behind the mask. Of course Voldemort would notice that.

A test, then. How would he respond?

Marquas decided to go with honesty cloaked in subservience. "Appearances can be useful tools, my Lord. The more Dumbledore believes I've... reformed, the more he trusts me with his precious Order's secrets."

Voldemort studied him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "Indeed. Cunning, as befits a true Slytherin." He turned to address the wider group again. "Take note, all of you. Dedication to our cause takes many forms."

Marquas allowed himself to breathe again as Voldemort moved on to address another Death Eater. The interaction had gone better than expected. He hadn't been tortured, killed, or exposed as an imposter, a definite win in his book.

The meeting continued for another hour, during which Voldemort outlined his vision for the coming months. It was, Marquas had to admit, disturbingly coherent for a megalomaniacal dark wizard. Voldemort wasn't just powerful; he was strategic. He understood politics, psychology, and the art of incremental conquest. No wonder the wizarding world had nearly fallen to him.

As Voldemort droned on about pureblood superiority and the corruption of magical traditions, Marquas found his attention wandering slightly. The Dark Lord's monologue had all the hallmarks of a villain who loved the sound of his own voice: grandiose declarations, historical revisionism, and an impressive ability to reframe "I want unlimited power" as "I'm doing this for all of you."

Marquas began mentally counting logical fallacies, a game he used to play during particularly tedious corporate meetings. Ad hominem, false dichotomy, slippery slope, appeal to tradition...

He was up to seventeen when Voldemort suddenly paused mid-sentence and looked directly at him.

"Does something amuse you, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked softly.

Shit. Had his expression changed? Had Voldemort sensed his wandering attention?

The room went deadly silent. Every masked face turned toward him.

This was it. The moment of truth. Panic or strategize?

Marquas chose the latter, dropping smoothly to one knee again.

"Forgive me, my Lord," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I was merely reflecting on the elegant simplicity of your strategy. While others might employ brute force, you wield influence like a subtle poison, unseen until it's too late." He paused, then added with deliberate precision: "My loyalty is as pure as your soul is intact, my Lord."

For a terrifying moment, silence reigned. Then, unexpectedly, Voldemort laughed, a genuine sound of amusement that seemed to startle even the other Death Eaters.

"Well said, Severus," the Dark Lord remarked, a thin smile playing across his lipless mouth. "Your wit has always been among your more... valuable attributes."

Murmurs rippled through the assembled Death Eaters. Bellatrix looked murderous behind her mask, clearly displeased that someone else had earned the Dark Lord's approval.

Did I just successfully troll the most dangerous dark wizard in history? Marquas thought incredulously. And he... liked it?

The rest of the meeting passed without incident. When Voldemort finally departed in a swirl of black robes, the tension in the room visibly eased, though no one dared express relief openly.

"That was quite bold," Lucius commented as they collected their cloaks afterward. "Few would dare show such... verbal flourish in the Dark Lord's presence."

Marquas shrugged elegantly. "The Dark Lord appreciates intelligence, Lucius. Unlike some, he doesn't require constant simpering to recognize value."

As he Apparated back to the gates of Hogwarts, mask tucked safely away in an inner pocket, Marquas allowed himself a moment of genuine reflection. He had survived his first direct encounter with Voldemort. More than survived, he had navigated it successfully, establishing himself as valuable, loyal, and just interesting enough to be worth keeping around.

It was a precarious position, certainly. One misstep and he'd be Avada Kedavra'd faster than you could say "plot twist." But for now, he had established a foothold in this dangerous new reality.

Back in his quarters, Marquas poured himself a generous measure of firewhisky and pulled out the journal he'd been keeping since the Lily resolution.

Day 8: Attended Death Eater meeting. Didn't die. Trolled Voldemort with a Horcrux joke he didn't even get. Need better material for soulless audiences.

He smiled grimly as he sipped his drink. Tomorrow he would need to meet with Dumbledore, report what he'd learned, and begin the delicate dance of double agency in earnest. But tonight, he would celebrate the small victory of surviving his first encounter with the Dark Lord.

And maybe start planning how to sabotage Voldemort's plans without getting himself killed in the process. Because while trolling the Dark Lord had been unexpectedly satisfying, Marquas had no intention of becoming just another casualty in this war.

He was going to rewrite this story, one sarcastic comment at a time.

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Chapter Text

Marquas's head was still buzzing with adrenaline the next morning. Whether from the lingering effects of his mental gymnastics with Voldemort or the perhaps ill-advised third glass of firewhisky, he couldn't be sure. Either way, he found himself squinting balefully at the morning sunlight streaming through his dungeon windows, a charm he'd installed himself, since the original Snape apparently preferred to live like a cave-dwelling bat.

"Magical world, and no one's invented magical aspirin," he grumbled, downing a hangover relief potion that tasted like fermented gym socks but mercifully cleared the fog from his brain.

He was halfway through his morning coffee (another innovation he'd introduced to his quarters, the house-elves had been scandalized when he'd requested a proper coffee maker instead of the weak tea that seemed to be standard wizarding breakfast fare) when a familiar silver phoenix materialized through his wall.

Dumbledore's Patronus.

"Severus," it spoke in the Headmaster's calm voice. "I would appreciate your company in my office at your earliest convenience. The password is 'sugar quill.'"

The phoenix dissolved into silvery mist, leaving Marquas staring at the space it had occupied.

"Well, that was dramatically on cue," he muttered, setting down his coffee mug. "Almost like the old man was waiting for me to report back."

He'd been planning to approach Dumbledore anyway, but the summons suggested the Headmaster already knew about the Death Eater gathering. Unsurprising, really Dumbledore always seemed to know everything in the books, often in ways that stretched credulity. Whether it was his network of spies, enchanted monitoring devices, or simply the plot requiring him to be omniscient, the result was the same: Albus Too-Many-Middle-Names Dumbledore was always three steps ahead.

Unless, of course, the plot required him to be conveniently oblivious. Like missing the fact that his Defense professor had Voldemort sticking out the back of his head. Or hiring serial incompetents year after year. Or leaving a baby on a doorstep in November.

"Time to meet the chess master," Marquas sighed, pulling on his new charcoal gray teaching robes. For this meeting, he decided to fully embrace his upgraded appearance. Dumbledore had already seen him at the staff meeting anyway, and he wanted to establish a specific dynamic from the start.

The walk to Dumbledore's office gave Marquas time to plan his approach. This meeting was crucial, it would set the tone for their entire working relationship. In canon, Snape had been so blinded by grief and guilt over Lily that he'd essentially signed himself over to Dumbledore with minimal terms. A lifetime of servitude in exchange for attempting to protect Lily (which had failed) and later her son (which had succeeded, but at the cost of Snape's life).

"Not happening this time," Marquas murmured as he approached the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. "Sugar quill."

The gargoyle leapt aside, revealing the spiral staircase that would carry him upward. As he stepped onto it, Marquas mentally reviewed his strategy once more. He wasn't going into this as Snape the Remorseful, he was going in as Marquas the Pragmatist, with clear boundaries and expectations.

The office door swung open before he could knock, another of Dumbledore's little power plays, revealing the Headmaster seated behind his massive desk, surrounded by the usual assortment of whirring silver instruments and sleeping portraits of former headmasters.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said warmly, as though they were old friends meeting for tea rather than a spy reporting to his handler. "Thank you for coming so promptly. Please, sit down."

Marquas took the offered seat, noting that it was slightly lower than Dumbledore's own chair, another subtle power dynamic. Fawkes the phoenix watched from his perch, dark eyes inscrutable.

"You wished to see me, Headmaster?" Marquas began, keeping his tone neutral.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, studying him over half-moon spectacles. "I understand there was a gathering at Malfoy Manor last night."

Direct and to the point, then. Interesting.

"There was," Marquas confirmed. "The Dark Lord was present, along with his inner circle and several newer recruits."

"And the purpose of this gathering?"

Marquas paused, considering his words carefully. "Primarily to celebrate a successful raid in Cardiff. They obtained some kind of information, specifics weren't shared with the general assembly."

Dumbledore nodded, his expression giving nothing away. "And were you required to... participate in any activities?"

The question was delicately phrased but clear in its implication: had he been forced to torture or kill?

"No," Marquas replied. "The Dark Lord seems content to utilize my skills in potions research rather than field operations. Currently, I'm working on an enhanced Veritaserum variant for him."

"I see." Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "And will this enhanced Veritaserum be effective?"

Marquas allowed himself a small, tight smile. "It will appear to be. Initial tests will show promise. However, the final formula will contain a subtle flaw that causes it to degrade rapidly after brewing. By the time it's used in any significant interrogation, it will be barely more effective than standard Veritaserum."

"Clever," Dumbledore acknowledged, a twinkle appearing in his blue eyes. "Very clever indeed, Severus."

They continued this way for several minutes, Marquas providing details of the meeting, Dumbledore occasionally asking for clarification. It was all very civilized, almost routine which put Marquas on high alert. The Dumbledore of the books was never quite what he seemed, and neither were his conversations.

"I must say," Dumbledore commented casually as their official debriefing wound down, "you seem... different, Severus. There's a clarity about you that wasn't present when last we spoke."

And there it was, the transition from business to the real purpose of this meeting. Marquas had been expecting it.

"I've had cause to reassess certain aspects of my life," he replied carefully.

"Indeed? Any particular catalyst for this reassessment?"

Marquas met the Headmaster's gaze steadily. "Let's just say I've realized that living in the past serves no one, least of all myself."

"A wise realization," Dumbledore murmured. "And what of your feelings for Lily Potter?"

The question was delivered gently but landed like a hex. This, Marquas knew, was the crux of everything, Dumbledore's leverage, Snape's weakness, the foundation of their entire canonical relationship.

"I will always wish her well," Marquas said, choosing his words with precision. "But I've accepted that she made her choice long ago. My... obsession was neither healthy nor honorable."

Surprise flickered briefly across Dumbledore's face before his usual serene mask returned. "That is... an unexpected perspective, Severus."

"Growth often is," Marquas responded with a slight shrug. "I can protect her and others, without defining my existence by unrequited love." he continued, his tone shifting subtly from conversational to businesslike, "I believe it's time we discussed the parameters of our arrangement."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "Parameters?"

"Yes," Marquas said firmly. "If I'm to serve as your spy within the Dark Lord's circle, at considerable personal risk, I'd like certain assurances.You get a brilliant spy, someone positioned closer to Voldemort than any of your other sources. In return, I want full academic freedom in my teaching position and zero meddling in my personal affairs."

Dumbledore's expression remained pleasant, but a calculating look entered his eyes. "Academic freedom?"

"I want to teach Potions my way," Marquas clarified. "No interference in my curriculum, my grading standards, or my classroom management. Hogwarts' potions education has been stagnant for decades, I intend to change that."

"I see," Dumbledore said slowly. "And by 'zero meddling,' you mean...?"

"I mean that while I will report to you on Death Eater activities faithfully and completely, my personal life remains my own. No manipulation, no emotional leverage, no expectations beyond our explicit agreement." Marquas kept his gaze steady.

A long silence followed this declaration. Dumbledore studied him with an intensity that suggested he was trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. Fawkes shuffled on his perch, emitting a soft musical note that somehow diffused the tension in the room.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "You've changed indeed, Severus. "

"That man you're taking about was controlled by his worst impulses," Marquas replied quietly.

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Very well. You shall have your academic freedom, within reason, safety must always be our primary concern with students, of course."

"Naturally," Marquas agreed. "I have no intention of endangering children."

"And as for 'meddling,'" Dumbledore continued with a slight twinkle, "I shall endeavor to respect your personal boundaries, though I hope you'll permit an old man the occasional well-intentioned advice."

Marquas allowed himself a small smile. "Advice I can handle, Headmaster. It's the chess master treatment I'd prefer to avoid."

Dumbledore actually chuckled at that. "A fair assessment of my tendencies, perhaps. Very well, Severus. We have an agreement." He extended his hand across the desk.

Marquas shook it firmly, feeling as though he'd just negotiated a significantly better contract than the original Snape had managed. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Now, about your first classes," Dumbledore said, smoothly transitioning to school business. "Term begins next week. I understand from Horace that you've already been reviewing the curriculum?"

"Completely overhauling it, actually," Marquas replied, relaxing slightly now that the critical part of their meeting had concluded successfully. "The current textbooks are outdated, the practical exercises inefficient, and the safety protocols nearly nonexistent. It's a wonder there haven't been more serious accidents."

"I look forward to seeing your improvements," Dumbledore said with apparent sincerity. "Fresh perspectives can be invaluable in education."

They spent another fifteen minutes discussing school matters before Marquas rose to leave, satisfied with how the meeting had gone. He had established boundaries, secured autonomy, and positioned himself as a valuable but independent ally rather than a guilt-ridden pawn.

As he reached the door, Dumbledore called out one last question. "Severus? May I ask what prompted this remarkable change in your outlook?"

Marquas paused, hand on the doorknob. He turned slightly, offering the Headmaster a cryptic smile. "Let's just say I had a near-death experience that put things into perspective."

It wasn't even a lie.

Back in his quarters, Marquas immediately pulled out his journal and added a new entry:

Day 9: Negotiated with Dumbledore. Didn't let him manipulate me into lifetime servitude. Progress.

He tapped his quill against the parchment, considering his next steps. With both Voldemort and Dumbledore now established in his life, the real work could begin. The delicate balancing act of providing enough real information to both sides to maintain credibility, while strategically misdirecting when necessary to save lives.

But there was another element he needed to address: the prophecy. In the original timeline, Snape had overheard part of Trelawney's prediction about a child born at the end of July who would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. He'd reported it to Voldemort, who had eventually interpreted it to mean either Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom.

The prophecy has not yet been made, so he will do everything in his power to stop this war, to end Voldemort silently, without the Dark Lord ever realizing that someone knows all his secrets. He will destroy every Horcrux within a year, ensuring that Harry grows up without fear, without the weight of a dark destiny looming over him. No anxiety, no battles, just a peaceful future, the life he deserves

Marquas began jotting down notes for a very special potion one that would appear to enhance Voldemort's strength while subtly clouding his judgment regarding certain magical threats. If he could convince the Dark Lord to ingest it regularly, perhaps he could nudge him away from his obsession with the violence.

"Playing both sides against the middle," he murmured as he sketched out preliminary ingredients. "While trying not to get crushed in between."

It was going to be a challenging line to walk. Voldemort was paranoid and brilliant. Dumbledore was manipulative and equally brilliant. One misstep with either could mean death or worse.

But for the first time since arriving in this strange fictional world, Marquas felt like he had a fighting chance. He had established himself with both leaders as valuable but not entirely predictable. He had secured a position that allowed him to influence events while maintaining some degree of independence.

Most importantly, he was free from the crippling emotional baggage that had defined the original Snape's existence. No more pining after Lily. No more being driven solely by guilt and bitterness.

"New Snape, new rules," he declared to his empty laboratory as he began setting up cauldrons for his experimental potion. "And rule number one: survive long enough to rewrite this story."

Not bad for someone who'd been hit by a Prius less than two weeks ago.

Now he just had to figure out how to sabotage a magical terrorist organization from the inside without getting caught. Preferably while developing a revolutionary potions curriculum and maintaining his new hair care regimen.

"No pressure," he muttered, slicing dandelion roots with practiced precision. "

Chapter Text

The first rule of being a double agent, Marquas quickly discovered, was that timing was everything. Too eager to sabotage, and you'd be exposed. Too cautious, and you'd effectively become the very thing you were pretending to be. It was a constant dance on the edge of a blade or in this case, on the rim of a very precisely calibrated cauldron.

Three days after his meeting with Dumbledore, Marquas was putting the finishing touches on a potion that would mark his first deliberate act of sabotage against Voldemort's operations. The laboratory in his private quarters had become his sanctuary, the one place where he could be entirely himself without the constant performance of being either Death Eater Snape or Professor Snape.

"Balance is key," he murmured to himself as he added precisely three drops of hellebore essence to the shimmering liquid. "Too obvious and I'm dead. Too subtle and it's pointless."

The potion in question had been commissioned by Voldemort himself, a draught to temporarily enhance the magical abilities of newer Death Eater recruits during a planned kidnapping operation. The target was a Ministry official.

Marquas had promised the Dark Lord a potion that would sharpen reflexes, enhance spell casting precision, and temporarily boost magical stamina. What he was actually brewing was considerably more... creative.

The base of the potion was legitimate enough. It would indeed enhance certain magical abilities, providing just enough real effect to seem genuine. But Marquas had modified the formula with an ingenious twist: a delayed-release compound that would trigger specific cognitive effects approximately thirty minutes after consumption. Effects that included mild disorientation, a tendency toward literal interpretation of instructions, and his personal favorite, a subtle compulsion to focus on the most irrelevant details of any given situation.

"The perfect recipe for operational chaos," he said with a satisfied smirk, watching the potion turn from amber to a deep crimson as he stirred counterclockwise exactly seventeen times.

The beauty of it was that none of the effects would seem like sabotage. The enhanced abilities would be noticeable immediately, reinforcing trust in the potion. By the time the cognitive effects kicked in, they would manifest in ways that could be attributed to nerves, poor planning, or simple incompetence, all qualities that Voldemort already expected from his lower-ranking followers.

He carefully decanted the finished potion into twelve crystal vials, each labeled with precise dosage instructions. To any other Potions Master examining them, they would appear to be exactly what Voldemort had requested the additional ingredients were masterfully disguised using techniques that even Snape's considerable original knowledge hadn't included. That was pure Marquas innovation, combining magical brewing with principles of modern chemistry.

"Delivery day," he murmured the following evening, securing the case of potions inside his robes as he prepared to Apparate to Malfoy Manor, where he would hand them directly to Lucius for distribution to the operation team.

The manor was unusually quiet when he arrived, with only a handful of Death Eaters present in the drawing room that had become their unofficial headquarters. Lucius was seated in an ornate wingback chair, reviewing what appeared to be architectural plans spread across a low table. Bellatrix lounged nearby, idly twirling her wand and looking bored, always a dangerous state for someone of her particular brand of insanity.

"Ah, Severus," Lucius greeted him with practiced cordiality. "Right on schedule."

"Punctuality is the courtesy of kings, Lucius," Marquas replied smoothly, removing the case from his robes and placing it on the table. "And the necessity of poisoners."

Bellatrix snorted. "Always with the dramatic pronouncements, Snape. One might think you fancy yourself a poet instead of a brewer."

"And one might think you'd have better things to do than provide commentary on my conversational style, Bellatrix," Marquas returned coolly. "Yet here we are."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she could respond, Lucius intervened with practiced diplomacy. "The potions, Severus? They are as requested?"

"Precisely as the Dark Lord specified," Marquas confirmed, which was technically true, the potions did everything Voldemort had asked for. They just did a bit more as well. "One vial per recruit, to be consumed exactly twenty minutes before the operation begins."

Lucius nodded, examining one of the vials with an appreciative eye. "Excellent craftsmanship, as always. The Dark Lord will be pleased."

"Just make sure those idiots follow the dosage instructions," Marquas added with a contemptuous sneer. "These aren't pumpkin juice, exceeding the recommended amount could have... unpredictable effects."

Another technical truth. Overdosing would indeed have unpredictable effects, specifically, it would accelerate and intensify the cognitive sabotage elements. But it was also exactly the kind of warning the real Snape would give, simultaneously demonstrating his expertise and disdain for less talented wizards.

"I'll ensure they're properly instructed," Lucius assured him, closing the case. "Will you be joining us for the operation?"

"Unfortunately not," Marquas replied. "The Headmaster has called a staff meeting regarding the upcoming term. My absence would be... noted."

The excuse was perfect reasonable, verifiable, and highlighting his value as a spy within Hogwarts. Neither Lucius nor Bellatrix questioned it.

After a few more minutes of conversation, during which Marquas gleaned valuable details about the kidnapping plan (information he would later relay to Dumbledore), he departed with the satisfaction of a job well begun, if not yet completed.

Two days later, Marquas was grading summer assignments in his office when a house-elf appeared with a note delivered by Lucius's eagle owl. The message was brief, encoded in the innocent-seeming language that Death Eaters used for written communication:

Severus, The family gathering was a disappointment. Our relatives became confused about the arrangements and delivered birthday presents to the wrong address entirely. The celebration has been postponed indefinitely. —L

Marquas couldn't suppress a smile as he incinerated the note with a flick of his wand. Translated from Death Eater euphemism: the kidnapping operation had failed spectacularly, with the team somehow missing their target entirely.

His sabotage had worked and better yet, it had worked in a way that pointed to incompetence rather than interference. The beauty of it was that Voldemort would likely punish the team members, never suspecting that their failure had been chemically induced.

"First blood to the new improved Severus Snape," he murmured, returning to his grading with considerably lighter spirits.

The full details of the operation's failure emerged three days later at a hastily called Death Eater gathering. Marquas stood in the circle around Voldemort, face impassive behind his mask as the Dark Lord berated the mission leader.

"Explain to me," Voldemort said in the deadly soft voice that preceded his worst rages, "how twelve of my followers failed to capture a single, middle-aged Ministry official from his own home?"

The unfortunate team leader, a wizard named Travers, was visibly trembling. "My Lord, we followed the plan exactly. We arrived at the designated location at precisely nine o'clock as instructed"

"And found a house full of rubber ducks instead of our target," Voldemort finished, his red eyes gleaming with fury. "Yes, I am aware of that particular detail."

Marquas had to employ every ounce of his Occlumency skills to maintain his composure. Rubber ducks? That was even better than he'd anticipated.

"There must have been a mistake in the intelligence, My Lord," Travers continued desperately. "The address we were given—"

"Was correct," Voldemort cut him off. "As confirmed by our sources within the Ministry. Williamson has lived at 17 Blackthorn Lane for the past eleven years. You and your team went to 71 Blackthorn Lane—l, a storage facility for Muggle children's bath toys."

A ripple of tense murmurs went through the circle. Several Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably.

"We took the potions as instructed," Travers said, throwing a desperate glance toward Marquas. "They seemed to work at first, we all felt stronger, more focused. But then... things became confused. Mulciber insisted the address was 71, not 17. When we arrived and saw it wasn't a house, Rowle was convinced it was some kind of advanced disguise charm. By the time we realized the mistake, Ministry Aurors were already responding to reports of masked wizards breaking into a toy warehouse."

Voldemort's gaze shifted to Marquas, who tensed imperceptibly. "Severus. Your potions. Could they have caused this... confusion?"

It was the moment of truth. Marquas stepped forward and knelt briefly before rising to address the Dark Lord. "The potions performed exactly as designed, my Lord. They enhanced magical ability, reflexes, and stamina, effects that several members have confirmed they experienced initially."

He paused, then added with perfectly calculated disdain, "However, no potion can overcome fundamental incompetence. The ability to read a simple address correctly was not among the enhancements I was asked to provide."

There was a dangerous silence, during which Marquas maintained absolute control over his thoughts, showing Voldemort only genuine certainty in the quality of his work, and honest contempt for the failed team.

Then, unexpectedly, Voldemort laughed, a chilling sound devoid of genuine mirth. "Well said, Severus. Indeed, it seems I must be more selective in choosing who benefits from your valuable concoctions."

Relief washed through Marquas, though he allowed none of it to show. He had passed the test. His position was secure.

The meeting continued with Voldemort administering Cruciatus punishments to the failed team members. Throughout it all, Marquas observed silently, filing away information to report to Dumbledore while considering his next acts of subtle sabotage.

"Rubber ducks," Dumbledore repeated, blue eyes twinkling with barely suppressed amusement. "An entire warehouse of them."

"According to Travers," Marquas confirmed, allowing himself a small smile now that he was safely in the Headmaster's office. "The team spent fifteen minutes trying to determine which duck might be the transfigured Ministry official before the Aurors arrived."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Most fortuitous. And Williamson and his family?"

"Were never in danger," Marquas assured him. "By the time the Death Eaters realized their mistake, Auror response teams were already on site. Voldemort has postponed any further attempt indefinitely, he's furious about the failure."

"Thanks to your... intervention, we now have time to arrange it." Dumbledore studied him with that penetrating gaze. "May I ask how you managed to sabotage the operation so effectively without raising suspicion?"

Marquas considered how much to reveal. While he had established a working relationship with Dumbledore, he wasn't ready to share all his methods.

"Let's just say I made some creative adjustments to the enhancement potions," he replied. "Nothing detectable, nothing traceable. The effects appeared to be simple human error which Voldemort already expects from his lower ranks."

"Ingenious," Dumbledore murmured. "And quite elegant in its subtlety."

"The key is to never make it obvious," Marquas explained. "Small failures, misdirections, delays, individually insignificant, but collectively damaging to his operations. Voldemort expects grandiose opposition. He's less prepared for death by a thousand cuts."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "A strategy worth pursuing. Though I caution you to be extremely careful, Severus. Voldemort's trust, once lost, cannot be regained."

"I'm well aware of the risks," Marquas assured him. "But doing nothing is not an option."

"No," Dumbledore agreed solemnly. "It never is, in times like these."

As he left the Headmaster's office, Marquas felt a growing sense of confidence. His first major act of sabotage had succeeded beyond expectations. He had protected innocent lives, maintained his cover, and even strengthened his position in Voldemort's inner circle by appearing competent while others failed.

It was a good start. But only a start.

Back in his laboratory, Marquas turned his attention to his next project. With term beginning in just a few days, he would have less time for experimental brewing. He needed to develop potions that could be prepared in advance and deployed strategically.

His latest idea was something he called "Cognitive Dissonance Drops" a tasteless, odorless liquid that, when added to food or drink, would create a temporary but profound disconnect between a person's intentions and their actions. Not mind control exactly that would be too easily detected but rather a subtle manipulation of the pathways between thought and execution.

"Think of it as a magical Freudian slip inducer," he murmured as he jotted down potential ingredients. "Say 'torture the prisoner' but actually unlock their cell door."

The applications were endless. A few drops in the refreshments at a Death Eater strategy meeting could lead to leaked information, misunderstood orders, or compromised security protocols.

As he worked through the theoretical framework, Marquas realized he was genuinely enjoying himself. There was something deeply satisfying about applying his unique combination of magical knowledge and modern thinking to outwit some of the most dangerous wizards in Britain.

"Who knew dying and waking up as Severus Snape would be the career change I never knew I needed?" he chuckled to himself as he carefully labeled a test vial.

The laboratory clock chimed midnight, reminding him that the start-of-term feast was tomorrow, technically today and he should get some rest. As the new Potions Master, he would be formally introduced to the student body. First impressions mattered, especially since he intended to run his classroom very differently from both canon Snape and his predecessor Slughorn.

He cast preservation charms on his experimental potions and tidied his workspace with practiced efficiency. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of a new phase in his unexpected journey, balancing teaching responsibilities with his increasingly complex role as a double agent.

As he prepared for bed, Marquas glanced at the small journal on his nightstand, now filled with nearly two weeks' worth of daily entries tracking his progress in this strange new life.

Day 15: Successfully sabotaged Death Eater kidnapping operation. Target family safe. Voldemort suspects nothing. Also finalized lesson plans for first-year Potions. Productivity level: surprisingly high for someone who died recently.

He smiled as he closed the journal and extinguished the lights with a wave of his wand. The rubber duck incident was just the beginning. Voldemort and his Death Eaters had no idea what they were in for now that Severus Snape had been upgraded to include twenty-first century innovation and a distinct lack of soul-crushing obsession with Lily Evans.

The wizarding world was about to experience something entirely new: a Potions Master with both a plan and a sense of humor.

And in the darkness of his bedroom, as he drifted toward sleep, Marquas's mind was already buzzing with ideas for his next act of subtle sabotage. Perhaps something involving Lucius Malfoy's precious peacocks...

Chapter Text

Marquas's first month as Hogwarts' Potions Master had been, in a word, revolutionary. Students who had expected a terrifying dungeon bat instead found themselves facing a demanding but surprisingly engaging professor who seemed determined to drag potion-making into the modern era or at least out of the medieval one.

"The problem with traditional brewing," Marquas announced to his seventh-year NEWT class one crisp October morning, "is not the principles but the execution. We've been using the same techniques for centuries while ignoring obvious opportunities for improvement."

Several Ravenclaws were frantically taking notes, while the Slytherins looked varying degrees of intrigued and suspicious. As head of their house, Marquas had proven to be a puzzling contradiction, he favored them subtly but called out their entitlement mercilessly.

"For instance," he continued, gesturing to the cauldron before him, "why must a brewer physically stir a potion 394 times counterclockwise, risking repetitive stress injuries and inevitable human error, when the same effect could be achieved through enchanted implementation?"

A Ravenclaw girl raised her hand tentatively. "But Professor, wouldn't magic interfere with the potion's properties?"

"Five points to Ravenclaw for a pertinent question, Miss Chen," Marquas nodded approvingly. "Indeed, direct magic applied to an in-process potion often causes instability. However—" he paused dramatically, enjoying his audience's rapt attention, "—what if the magic were applied to the brewing apparatus rather than the potion itself?"

And with that, he unveiled his latest creation: a cauldron that gleamed with subtle enchantments, runes etched precisely around its rim.

"I call it the Auto-Brewing Cauldron," he announced with undisguised pride. "Capable of following complex brewing instructions without direct magical interference with the potion itself."

The students stared in genuine amazement as Marquas demonstrated. He placed ingredients in specific compartments, wrote out brewing instructions on a special parchment with enchanted ink, and then activated the cauldron with a tap of his wand. Immediately, the apparatus began working measuring, adding, stirring, and adjusting temperature with mechanical precision.

"This prototype can execute a standard Pepperup Potion without human intervention beyond the initial setup," Marquas explained as the students watched the cauldron methodically brewing. "For more complex potions, some manual steps remain necessary, but even advanced brewing becomes significantly more efficient."

By the end of the demonstration, even the most skeptical students looked impressed. The Pepperup Potion produced by the Auto-Brewing Cauldron was perfect better, in fact, than most manually brewed versions.

"I've applied for a patent under 'S. Prince Labs,'" Marquas informed them as they bottled samples of the potion for analysis. "By next year, I expect these to be commercially available for research and educational purposes."

"Prince Labs, sir?" a Slytherin boy inquired. "Not under your own name?"

Marquas allowed himself a slight smirk. "Let's just say I prefer to keep certain innovations separate from my... public persona, Mr. Rowle."

The truth, which he certainly wouldn't share with students, was more complex. Marquas had carefully considered the implications of patenting his inventions under "Severus Snape" a name that would eventually become notorious in the wizarding world if events unfolded anything like the original timeline. "S. Prince," referencing Snape's mother's maiden name, provided a useful pseudonym that was still technically his.

Plus, he rather enjoyed the subtle Prince-as-royalty connotation. A petty pleasure, perhaps, but Marquas had learned that in a world of potential death by megalomaniac wizard, one took one's enjoyments where one could find them

Later that evening, as Marquas refined the Auto-Brewing Cauldron's runic sequences in his private laboratory, a knock at his door interrupted his concentration.

"Enter," he called, hastily covering his more sensitive projects with concealment charms.

Minerva McGonagall swept in, her expression as crisp as her perfectly pressed tartan robes. "Good evening, Severus. I trust I'm not interrupting anything... explosive?"

"Nothing that would damage the castle's structural integrity," Marquas assured her with dry humor. "At least, not tonight."

The Transfiguration professor's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. Over the past month, they had developed an unexpected rapport. Initially suspicious of his reformed appearance and teaching methods, McGonagall had gradually warmed to him after observing his classes and noting the marked improvement in student engagement and results.

"I've been hearing rather extraordinary things about your latest classroom demonstration," she said, eyeing the Auto-Brewing Cauldron with professional curiosity. "An automated brewing apparatus? Most innovative."

"Merely practical," Marquas demurred, though he couldn't entirely suppress a flash of pride. "The traditional approach wastes time and introduces unnecessary variables."

"Nevertheless," McGonagall persisted, circling the cauldron with keen interest, "it represents a significant departure from established methods. Particularly coming from someone who was, until recently, rather... traditional in his outlook."

The observation contained a question, one of many that his colleagues had been delicately circling since his transformation. Why had bitter, greasy, conventional Severus Snape suddenly become an innovative, relatively well-adjusted Potions Master with revolutionary ideas and significantly better personal hygiene?

"People change, Minerva," Marquas replied simply. "Sometimes due to gradual evolution, sometimes due to... sudden insight."

"Indeed," she nodded, clearly unsatisfied with the vague explanation but too professional to press further. "Well, your 'sudden insight' appears to be benefiting our students. Even the Gryffindors report that your classes are challenging but fair, a notable departure from what I anticipated, given your history with my house."

Marquas suppressed a smile. The original Snape's pathological hatred of Gryffindor had been yet another aspect of his character that needed immediate correction. While Marquas maintained a slight bias toward Slytherin, house loyalty being expected of its Head, he had deliberately abandoned the vicious prejudice that had made canon Snape such a controversial teacher.

"I find that judging students on their actual performance rather than their house colors yields more accurate assessments," he said mildly. "Revolutionary concept, I know."

McGonagall actually snorted at that. "Cheeky. Well, I came to inform you that your proposed curriculum adjustments have been approved by the Board of Governors. Apparently, your demonstration cauldrons sent to key board members were quite persuasive."

Marquas nodded, concealing his satisfaction. He had strategically sent prototype Auto-Brewing Cauldrons to several influential board members, including Lucius Malfoy, knowing that pure-blood traditionalists wouldn't be swayed by pedagogical arguments alone. But a shiny new magical invention with practical applications and potential profit margins? That spoke a language they understood.

"Excellent. I'll implement the changes next week." He hesitated, then added, "Thank you for your support in this matter, Minerva. I know my methods are... unconventional."

"Unconventional does not mean incorrect," she replied with surprising warmth. "Hogwarts has perhaps been too resistant to change in recent decades. A little innovation might be precisely what we need." With a nod of farewell, she turned to leave but paused at the door. "Oh, and Severus? Do try to patent that cauldron quickly. I suspect it will be quite revolutionary."

After she left, Marquas returned to his work with renewed energy. The Auto-Brewing Cauldron represented more than just a convenient invention, it was a strategic move in his larger plan. Beyond the educational applications, it would establish "S. Prince" as a legitimate innovator in the potions field, providing both additional income and a professional identity separate from his roles as professor and spy.

Most importantly, it would give him credibility to introduce even more radical innovations in the future, innovations that could potentially change the course of the coming war.

"The McKinnons," Lucius continued, lowering his voice despite the privacy wards around his study. "They've become particularly troublesome. The Dark Lord desires a potion that can bypass their protective wards, something undetectable until activated."

The McKinnons. Marquas kept his expression impassive, but internally, alarm bells were ringing. In the original timeline, Marlene McKinnon and her entire family were murdered by Death Eaters, a particularly brutal killing that Sirius Black would later reference. But why are they being targeted now? Is this the butterfly effect of his transmigration, events meant for 1981 unraveling a year too soon?

"An interesting challenge," he remarked, stalling for time. "Ward-penetrating potions are notoriously unstable. What's the timeframe?"

"The Dark Lord anticipates action before Samhain," Lucius replied. "He feels a demonstration is needed to counter the Order's recent successes."

Less than two weeks. Marquas nodded thoughtfully, mind racing through potential options. This would require a masterful balancing act, appearing to comply while actually sabotaging the plan without exposing himself.

"I'll begin work immediately," he promised. "Though I'll need details on the specific wards they're using."

Lucius smiled thinly. "Already arranged. Rookwood has provided a complete analysis from Ministry records. I'll have it delivered to your quarters at Hogwarts."

As their conversation shifted to lighter topics, Ministry politics, Narcissa's plans for the Malfoy Yule celebration, complaints about Dumbledore's latest educational decrees, Marquas kept part of his mind focused on the McKinnon problem. This would be his biggest challenge yet as a double agent: how to appear to help Voldemort while actually saving his targets.

"The McKinnons?" Dumbledore looked genuinely alarmed, a rare expression for the typically serene Headmaster. "You're certain?"

"Absolutely," Marquas confirmed, pacing the circular office with barely contained tension. "Voldemort wants them eliminated before Samhain as a 'demonstration.' He's assigned me to create a potion that can bypass their protective wards."

It was well past midnight, but Marquas had gone straight to Dumbledore's office upon returning from Malfoy Manor, the urgency of the situation overriding normal protocol.

"This is most disturbing," Dumbledore murmured, absently stroking Fawkes's brilliant feathers as the phoenix crooned softly. "Marlene has been instrumental in our counter-intelligence efforts. Her loss would be devastating, both personally and strategically."

"Not to mention her entire family," Marquas added grimly. "Voldemort isn't known for leaving witnesses."

Dumbledore nodded, his usual twinkle entirely absent. "What do you propose, Severus? I assume you have a plan, given your recent successes in... redirecting Voldemort's operations."

Marquas paused his pacing, leaning against one of the office's many bookshelves. "Two parallel approaches. First, I'll develop a potion that appears to match Voldemort's requirements but actually contains a delayed-action beacon component. When activated, it will alert the Order to the Death Eaters' presence and temporarily strengthen the existing wards rather than weakening them."

"Ingenious," Dumbledore acknowledged. "And the second approach?"

"A contingency," Marquas replied. "We need to prepare for the possibility that Voldemort bypasses my potion entirely or suspects tampering. The McKinnons should be relocated temporarily, with convincing doubles left in their place."

"Polyjuice would be detected by the Death Eaters' counter-measures," Dumbledore pointed out.

"Not Polyjuice," Marquas shook his head. "Transfigured constructs, similar to advanced shop mannequins, but imbued with enough basic movement patterns and responsive charms to fool distant surveillance. Up close they wouldn't pass inspection, but they don't need to, they just need to maintain the illusion that the McKinnons are home while the family is actually secured elsewhere."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose appreciatively. "That would require exceptional transfiguration work. Perhaps Minerva—"

"No," Marquas cut in firmly. "The fewer people who know about this, the better. Voldemort has ways of extracting information even from the most well-intentioned allies. This operation needs to be completely compartmentalized."

The Headmaster studied him thoughtfully. "You've given this considerable thought in a very short time, Severus."

"Planning for contingencies keeps me alive," Marquas replied simply. "And in this case, it might keep the McKinnons alive too."

After discussing the technical details of both plans, they agreed on a timeline and division of responsibilities. Dumbledore would personally approach the McKinnons with the relocation proposal while ensuring that their absence remained undetected. Marquas would develop the decoy potion and coordinate the placement of the transfigured constructs.

As he finally returned to his quarters in the early hours of the morning, Marquas felt the weight of his dual role more heavily than ever before. Real lives depended on his ability to navigate between these worlds without faltering. One mistake, one moment of carelessness, and an entire family would be murdered.

He collapsed into his chair, summoning a glass and a bottle of Ogden's Finest with a tired wave of his wand. As the amber liquid poured itself, he pulled out his journal and added a new entry:

Day 45: Voldemort targeting the McKinnons. Developing counter-strategy. Auto-Brewing Cauldron patents filed. Lucius's peacock plan postponed due to more pressing homicidal maniac problems. Note to self: Being a double agent is significantly more exhausting than software development.

The next ten days would test his skills and nerve like nothing before. But as he sipped his firewhisky, Marquas felt an unfamiliar emotion beneath the anxiety and exhaustion, determination hardening into something like purpose.

He wasn't just surviving in this fictional world anymore. He was actively reshaping it, preventing tragedies, saving lives that had been mere background details in a book series. The McKinnons wouldn't be a sad reference in Sirius Black's reminiscences this time. They would survive.

And if Marquas had his way, they wouldn't be the last casualties of fate that he intended to rewrite.

Setting down his empty glass, he moved to his laboratory and began gathering ingredients. The Auto-Brewing Cauldron gleamed in the corner, ready for its most important task yet. Patent applications and teaching innovations were significant achievements, but they paled compared to what he was attempting now.

As he worked through the night, carefully balancing deception and functionality in his potion design, one thought kept him focused: in this new timeline, the story would have a different ending. Not because of destiny or prophecy, but because one person decided to change it.

"Let's see you predict this plot twist, Trelawney," he murmured as dawn began to break over the castle grounds. The first phase of his McKinnon rescue potion was complete, looking exactly like what Voldemort wanted while being precisely the opposite.

Now he just had to convince the most powerful dark wizard in Britain that he was a loyal servant while actively sabotaging his plans. All without getting caught, tortured, and killed.

"Just another day at the office," Marquas sighed, reaching for another batch of ingredients. "Better than dealing with JIRA tickets, at least."

Chapter Text

McKinnon operation had been Marquas's most nerve-wracking success to date. Through a combination of his decoy potion, Dumbledore's relocation efforts, and some truly inspired transfiguration work, the entire family had been evacuated just hours before Voldemort's strike team descended on their home. The Death Eaters had instead found themselves triggering a cascade of modified shield charms that reflected their own curses back at them, resulting in three incapacitated attackers and the rest fleeing in confusion.

The best part? Marquas's potion had performed exactly as promised from Voldemort's perspective, it had indeed bypassed the perimeter wards. The "failure" was attributed to unexpected secondary defenses rather than any flaw in Snape's work. Voldemort had been furious about the outcome that lasted for days, reportedly causing several Death Eaters to suddenly discover urgent family business abroad.

Marquas also can't just go around saving people, not without consequences. If he acts openly, Voldemort will sense the betrayal. The price of even a single misstep is his life. That's why the only way he can help… is by not helping directly. He must make his interventions look like coincidences, accidents of fate. A wrong turn avoided. A spell misfired and a delay that saves a life. He can only protect a few key individuals, and even then, only from the shadows.

There will be countless moments where he must hold himself back, forced to watch operations unfold without lifting a finger. Each time, it will tear at him. But until at least half the Horcruxes are destroyed, he can't afford to be exposed. Because the moment Voldemort suspects, It's over.

November descended upon Hogwarts with a vengeance, bringing biting winds and a perpetual half-light that made Marquas seriously reconsider his choice to haunt a drafty Scottish castle."Next time I possess someone," he muttered, "it'll be a wizard with a timeshare in the Bahamas." Even with his improved warming-charm-infused wardrobe, the dungeons maintained an impressive commitment to being absolutely miserable during the winter months.

"Clearly, insulation was not a priority for the Founders," he muttered, casting his third warming charm of the morning as he prepared for a day of teaching first-years how not to melt their cauldrons. "Magical geniuses who never heard of double-glazing. Probably thought frostbite built character."

The morning's Daily Prophet lay open on Marquas's desk, its headline grim: "DARK MARK SEEN OVER BRISTOL: FAMILY OF FOUR FOUND DEAD." Another murder, another escalation in a war that seemed to be accelerating faster than he remembered from the books. Voldemort was growing bolder, more public in his attacks, clearly attempting to sow widespread terror.

Marquas stared at the moving photograph of the Dark Mark hovering in the night sky, a sick feeling in his stomach. For every operation he managed to sabotage, there were three more that succeeded. He was making a difference, but not enough, not nearly enough.

His brooding was interrupted by a sharp knock at his office door. Strange, given that it was barely 6 AM and no student in their right mind would voluntarily seek out the Potions Master at this hour.

"Enter," he called, discretely sliding his wand into his palm beneath his desk.

The door opened to reveal Albus Dumbledore, looking unusually serious, the customary twinkle in his blue eyes notably absent. He wasn't even sucking on one of those infernal lemon drops truly, the apocalypse must be nigh.

"Headmaster," Marquas greeted him, immediately alert. Dumbledore rarely made personal visits, especially at this hour. "What's happened?"

"A delicate matter has arisen that requires your particular expertise, Severus," Dumbledore replied, casting several privacy charms with casual flicks of his wand. "Are you familiar with Regulus Black?"

Marquas stiffened. Regulus Black, Sirius's younger brother, Death Eater, and in the original timeline, doomed to die after discovering one of Voldemort's Horcruxes and attempting to destroy it. According to the books, he had been dragged to his death by Inferi in a hidden cave after ordering his house-elf, Kreacher, to leave with the locket Horcrux.

"Voldemort's youngest follower," Marquas answered carefully. "Joined immediately after leaving Hogwarts last year. Quiet, intelligent, from what I've observed at gatherings. Does a surprisingly good Dark Lord impression at Death Eater holiday parties, though nobody tells him that to his face."

"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "It seems young Mr. Black has had something of a crisis of conscience. Earlier this morning, he arrived at the Hog's Head, asking specifically for me. According to Aberforth, he appeared injured and in a state of considerable distress."

Marquas's mind raced. In the original timeline, no one knew about Regulus's change of heart or his attempt to destroy the Horcrux until years later. If he was seeking out Dumbledore now, something significant had changed.

"What did he want?" Marquas asked, already suspecting the answer.

"To defect," Dumbledore said simply. "And to share information about a magical artifact of great importance to Voldemort, one that Mr. Black believes is key to his power."

The locket Horcrux, Marquas thought with a jolt of excitement. If Regulus had already discovered the Horcrux but somehow escaped the cave...

"Where is he now?"

"That's the concerning part," Dumbledore frowned. "After providing Aberforth with basic details, he left to retrieve something, presumably this artifact, promising to return within the hour. That was four hours ago."

Marquas stood abruptly. "He's gone after a Horcrux."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise crossing his features. "You know about the Horcruxes?"

Shit. Marquas had slipped, the term hadn't been widely known, even among those fighting Voldemort. In the books, Dumbledore had spent years researching and confirming his suspicions about them.

"I've... heard rumors," he recovered smoothly. "Whispers among the inner circle about objects of great significance to the Dark Lord. Items he values beyond reason and has hidden with lethal protections. The term 'Horcrux' was mentioned once, though few seemed to understand its meaning. I personally thought it was a fancy name for his sock collection, but the level of security seemed excessive even for someone with his fashion sense."

Dumbledore studied him intently. "You continue to surprise me with the depth of your intelligence gathering, Severus. Yes, I believe what Regulus described is indeed a Horcrux, a container for a fragment of Voldemort's soul, split through the darkest of magic."

"And Regulus knows where one is," Marquas stated rather than asked. "But if he hasn't returned..."

"Then he may have encountered the very protections you mentioned," Dumbledore finished grimly. "Before he left, he told Aberforth something about a cave, a lake, and 'the dead ones in the water.' Does that mean anything to you?"

Marquas felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the dungeon's poor insulation. "Inferi. He's facing Inferi. Because apparently, regular corpses weren't creepy enough for the Dark Lord. He had to make them mobile."

"I feared as much," Dumbledore sighed. "Unfortunately, I cannot leave the school immediately, there's a delegation from the Wizengamot arriving within the hour that I cannot postpone without raising questions. By the time I could reach this cave..."

"It might be too late for Regulus," Marquas finished. "You want me to go."

It wasn't a question. And despite the obvious danger, Marquas didn't hesitate. This was a pivotal moment, a chance to save someone who, in the original timeline, had died a lonely, heroic death that went unrecognized for years.

And Dumbledore won't risk sending the entire Order of the Phoenix just to save one person, not when it could be a trap, a ploy orchestrated by the Dark Lord himself. The stakes are too high, and Dumbledore knows better than to gamble with so many lives on a hunch. But sending Snape… that's a risk worth taking.

Lately, Snape has grown bolder in his defiance against Voldemort, slipping deeper into the shadows with every passing day. Dumbledore's trust in him, once cautious, measured is steadily solidifying. He sees something in Snape. A resolve. A silent war and perhaps… the potential to tip the scales.

"Aberforth extracted the location from his memories," Dumbledore continued, producing a small vial of swirling silver liquid. "I've brought my Pensieve so you can view it directly. The cave appears to be along the southern coast."

Twenty minutes later, Marquas was striding toward Hogwarts' boundaries where he could Apparate, a bag of hastily gathered potions and equipment slung over his shoulder. The memory had shown a desolate stretch of coastline with towering cliffs and a narrow opening visible only at low tide, a location he recognized from Dumbledore's ill-fated expedition with Harry in the sixth book.

What wasn't in the books, however, was the exact nature of the protections beyond the basic blood sacrifice to enter. Marquas was flying blind into one of Voldemort's most heavily guarded Horcrux locations, with only fragmented knowledge to guide him.

"Just another Tuesday in the life of a transmigrated Potions Master," he muttered as he reached the apparition point. "Rescue mission to Inferi Central. Delightful. I should really start charging hazard pay for these little excursions. Or at least get frequent near-death experience points. "

With a crack, he disappeared, the cold November wind swallowing the sound of his departure.

Chapter Text

The coastal cliff face was even more forbidding in person than it had appeared in the memory. Jagged black rocks rose from a churning gray sea, waves crashing against them with violent force. The sky overhead was heavy with storm clouds, threatening imminent downpour. It was, Marquas thought wryly, exactly the sort of dramatic backdrop that would appeal to Voldemort's theatrical sensibilities.

Employing a Disillusionment Charm to blend with the rocky environment, he carefully made his way down the treacherous path toward where the cave entrance should be. The tide was higher than in Regulus's memory, making the approach even more dangerous.

"Couldn't have hidden it in a nice country garden," he grumbled, nearly slipping on the wet rocks. "Had to be the dramatic sea cave of doom."

After twenty tense minutes of careful climbing, he located the narrow crevice that served as the entrance. It was partially submerged now, requiring him to wade through chest-deep, frigid water to reach it. By the time he squeezed through the opening, Marquas was soaked and freezing, his warming charms struggling against the bone-deep chill.

"Excellent," he hissed through chattering teeth. "Just what every spy needs, pneumonia with a side of hypothermia. Very stealthy."

"Lumos Maxima," he intoned, his wand tip flaring with brilliant light that illuminated a vast cavern of smooth black stone. Unlike the rough exterior, this chamber showed signs of magical alteration, too perfectly formed to be natural.

At the far end, barely visible in the wandlight, was an archway inscribed with faintly glowing symbols. The entrance to the inner chamber, requiring a blood sacrifice to pass. Marquas approached cautiously, examining the runes without touching them.

"Typical dark wizard theatrics," he muttered, retrieving a small silver knife from his bag. "Nothing says 'evil lair' like demanding blood tribute. Would it kill them to install a doorbell?"

Rather than cutting his palm as Dumbledore had done in the books, an unnecessarily dramatic choice that would impair his wandwork, Marquas made a small, precise cut on his forearm, allowing several drops of blood to fall onto the stone archway.

The effect was immediate. The glowing symbols flared bright green, then faded as the solid rock of the archway dissolved into a misty opening. Beyond lay darkness and the unmistakable scent of stagnant water.

Marquas stepped through, his wand raised high, and found himself on the shore of a vast underground lake. The black water stretched into darkness, still as glass despite the churning sea outside. In the center of the lake was a small island, barely visible in the distance, with what appeared to be a faint greenish glow emanating from it.

But what immediately drew his attention were the signs of recent disturbance along the shoreline, footprints in the damp sand, a discarded robe, and most concerning, streaks of what looked like blood leading into the water.

"Regulus," he breathed, scanning the lake's surface for any sign of movement.

According to the books, the lake was filled with Inferi, reanimated corpses that would attack anyone who touched the water. But Regulus must have already triggered them if the blood trails were any indication. Which meant...

A splash from somewhere in the darkness made him freeze. Then another, closer. And another.

"Oh good, the welcoming committee is arriving. How thoughtful."

"Lumos Maxima Totalum," Marquas cast, channeling extra power into the spell. The entire cavern blazed with light, revealing a nightmarish scene.

Across the lake's surface, pale shapes were moving, dozens of them, corpse-white bodies with dead eyes and grasping hands, all converging toward a point about thirty yards from shore. In their midst, barely visible among the pressing bodies, was a dark-haired young man struggling desperately to keep his head above water while fending off his attackers.

Regulus Black was still alive, barely.

For a split second, Marquas hesitated. In the books, Dumbledore had used fire to repel the Inferi, specifically, a massive ring of enchanted flame that drove them back into the depths. But creating such a spell while simultaneously executing a water rescue would be nearly impossible, even for a wizard of his caliber.

He needed an alternative approach, and quickly.

Fortunately, Marquas had the advantage of both Snape's magical knowledge and his own modern problem-solving skills. He reached into his bag and withdrew two potions he'd grabbed specifically in case of encountering Inferi: Incendio Maxima Draught and a vial of his own creation that he called "Sunburst Solution."

Combining the two would be dangerous, potentially explosive, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Accio Regulus Black!" he shouted, directing his wand at the struggling figure in the water.

Nothing happened, as expected. Anti-summoning charms would be standard protection for a location this secure.

Plan B, then.

Marquas uncorked both vials and, with a practiced flick of his wand, levitated them high above the center of the lake where the highest concentration of Inferi surrounded Regulus.

"Confringo!" he cast sharply, targeting the hovering vials.

The explosion was spectacular. The combined potions detonated in a blinding flash of magical fire that spread outward like a miniature sun, illuminating every corner of the vast cavern. The Inferi nearest the blast were incinerated instantly, while those farther away shrieked and fled from the light, diving deep into the lake's black waters.

In the sudden open space created by the retreating Inferi, Marquas could now clearly see Regulus, pale, bloody, but definitely alive and struggling to stay afloat.

"Black!" he called. "Swim toward me! Now!"

Regulus's head turned weakly in his direction, recognition and confusion warring on his face. "S-Snape?" he gasped, choking on water.

"Less talking, more swimming!" Marquas snapped, maintaining a barrage of fire spells to keep the Inferi at bay. The initial blast was already fading, and the creatures would soon regroup.

With what appeared to be his last reserves of strength, Regulus struck out toward shore, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He made it perhaps ten yards before his head dipped below the surface, his strength clearly failing.

Damn it all, Marquas thought. There was no choice, he'd have to enter the water himself.

Quickly transfiguring his outer robe into a rope, he secured one end to a large rock formation and tied the other around his waist. Then, maintaining his wand aloft with a continuous stream of fire spells directed at the approaching Inferi, he waded into the freezing lake.

The moment he entered the water, he felt it, a bone-deep chill that went beyond physical cold, a sensation of dread and despair that clawed at his mind. The water itself seemed to resist him, becoming thicker, more viscous as he pushed forward.

"Magical resistance," he grunted, forcing himself deeper. "Because regular Inferi weren't challenge enough."

By the time he reached Regulus, the young man was barely conscious, his face ghostly pale beneath a mask of blood from a nasty gash across his forehead. Multiple wounds on his arms and torso suggested he'd been fighting the Inferi for some time before Marquas's arrival.

"I've got you," Marquas said, hooking an arm around Regulus's chest. "Try not to die dramatically on me now. I've filled my heroic rescue quota for the month. The paperwork is atrocious."

With one arm supporting Regulus and the other maintaining a continuous stream of flame spells to keep the increasingly bold Inferi at bay, Marquas began the arduous journey back to shore. The magical resistance of the water made every step feel like wading through cement, and the rope around his waist, their lifeline to the shore, seemed to grow heavier with each yard.

They were perhaps halfway to safety when Marquas's foot slipped on the underwater terrain, momentarily plunging them both beneath the surface. In that brief second of submersion, an Inferius lunged from the depths, its dead fingers closing around Regulus's ankle with unnatural strength.

Marquas barely managed to cast a severing charm, separating the creature's hand from its wrist, before hauling them both back above the waterline. "Sorry about the manicure, but your nail care routine was clearly lacking anyway," he spat at the retreating Inferius, water streaming from his face.

But the damage was done, the momentary lapse in his continuous fire barrier had given the Inferi an opening, and now they were closing in from all sides, pale shapes moving through the black water with terrible purpose.

"Change of plans," Marquas gasped, tightening his grip on the now unconscious Regulus. With his free hand, he pointed his wand at the shore and shouted, "Funiculus Retracto!"

The rope around his waist suddenly went taut, and they were yanked forward through the water with bruising force as the magically activated rope began retracting itself toward the anchor point on shore. The acceleration caught the Inferi by surprise, allowing Marquas and Regulus to slip through the closing circle of grasping hands.

They hit the rocky shore hard, Marquas twisting to take the brunt of the impact and protect his unconscious charge. Pain lanced through his shoulder as it connected with stone, but he had no time to assess the damage. The Inferi were already emerging from the water, dozens of them advancing with relentless, shambling steps.

"Incendio Totalum!" Marquas cast, creating a wall of flame between them and the advancing dead. It wouldn't hold forever, but it would buy them the time they needed to escape.

Quickly checking Regulus's condition, Marquas found a weak but steady pulse. The young man was alive but badly injured, with multiple lacerations, possible hypothermia, and who knew what magical contamination from prolonged exposure to the lake and its inhabitants.

"Regulus," he said sharply, lightly slapping the young man's face. "Wake up. We need to move."

Regulus's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dilated. "The... locket," he mumbled. "Got to destroy... the locket."

"Locket later, escape now," Marquas replied tersely, hauling Regulus to his feet and supporting most of his weight. "Can you walk at all? Or shall I conjure a wheelchair with flame-thrower attachments?"

"Try," Regulus managed, his legs buckling immediately. "Sorry... they were everywhere... couldn't swim fast enough..."

"Save your strength," Marquas instructed, noticing with alarm that the fire barrier was already weakening, the Inferi pressing against it with inhuman determination. "We're leaving. Now."

Half-carrying, half-dragging Regulus, Marquas made for the archway that led back to the outer cave. Behind them, the wall of fire sputtered and died in places, pale hands reaching through the gaps. Their escape window was closing fast.

As they reached the archway, Marquas felt Regulus fumbling at something inside his torn robes. "Wait," the young man gasped. "Take this... in case I don't..."

He pressed something cold and metal into Marquas's hand, a heavy gold locket with an ornate "S" inlaid with green stones on its front. Slytherin's locket. The Horcrux.

"You got it," Marquas said, genuine amazement in his voice as he quickly secured the locket in an inner pocket. "How did you—"

"House-elf," Regulus coughed, blood speckling his lips. "Kreacher... knew the protections. Helped me. Told him... to leave me if... something went wrong."

There was no time for further explanations. The Inferi had breached the fire barrier and were advancing rapidly. Marquas helped Regulus through the archway, which sealed itself behind them with a sound like rushing water, temporarily halting their pursuers.

But the outer cave was now nearly submerged in seawater, the tide having risen significantly during their time inside. The narrow exit crevice was completely underwater.

"We'll have to swim out," Marquas said grimly, assessing Regulus's condition with growing concern. The young man was barely conscious again, unlikely to manage an underwater swim in his current state.

Thinking quickly, Marquas retrieved his last prepared potion, a Bubble-Head solution that would allow underwater breathing. He forced half the contents down Regulus's throat, then consumed the remainder himself.

"Hold onto me," he instructed, creating a magical tether between them for good measure. "And try not to drown. It would really undermine my heroic rescue narrative."

With that, they plunged into the churning seawater, Marquas guiding them through the submerged exit and out into the open ocean beyond. The storm had arrived in full force, massive waves threatening to dash them against the rocky cliff face.

It took every ounce of Marquas's magical skill and physical strength to keep them both alive as he navigated the treacherous waters, eventually finding a small cove where they could safely Apparate without risk of splinching in their weakened condition.

With one last enormous effort, focusing on Hogwarts' gates with all his remaining mental discipline, Marquas turned into the crushing darkness of Apparition, dragging Regulus Black, and Voldemort's Horcrux, with him.

Chapter Text

Marquas awakened in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, the familiar scent of healing potions and clean linens confirming his location before he even opened his eyes. When he did, he found Albus Dumbledore seated beside his bed, looking both relieved and deeply curious.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Severus," the Headmaster said quietly. "You gave us quite a scare."

Marquas attempted to sit up, wincing as pain lanced through his shoulder and ribs. "Regulus?" he asked immediately. "Is he "

"Alive, thanks to your remarkably timely intervention," Dumbledore assured him. "Madam Pomfrey has been working tirelessly to heal his numerous injuries. He remains unconscious but stable."

Relief washed through Marquas. He'd done it, changed another fixed point in the timeline, saved someone who was supposed to die. The implications were enormous.

"And the locket?" he asked, keeping his voice low despite the privacy charms he was certain Dumbledore had already established.

Dumbledore's eyes sharpened with interest. "Secure in my office, under the strongest protections I can devise. It is, as you suspected, a Horcrux, a piece of Voldemort's fractured soul."

Rather tacky jewelry choice for immortality, but I suppose 'Dark Lord' and 'good taste' rarely go together. Marquas nodded wearily. "Regulus discovered what it was. He was trying to destroy it when the Inferi overwhelmed him."

"So I gathered from the fragments of explanation you provided before collapsing at the gates," Dumbledore said with a hint of gentle reproof. "A remarkable feat of magic, Apparating both yourself and Mr. Black in your condition, while maintaining enough presence of mind to send a Patronus message ahead."

Had he sent a Patronus? Marquas couldn't remember doing so, though the final moments after their escape were a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline crash.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Nearly thirty hours," Dumbledore replied. "It's now Thursday evening. Magical exhaustion, exposure, and several rather creative injuries, including what Poppy informs me appears to be an Inferius bite on your ankle."

Marquas grimaced. He had no memory of being bitten, though in the chaos of their escape, it wasn't surprising he'd missed it.

"Don't worry," Dumbledore added, seeing his expression. "While unpleasant, Inferius bites carry no dark contamination. They are, after all, merely animated corpses, not truly undead like vampires."

"Small mercies," Marquas muttered.

There was a moment of companionable silence before Dumbledore spoke again, his tone more serious. "Severus, what you've accomplished is extraordinary. Not only have you secured a piece of Voldemort's soul, a breakthrough in our fight against him but you've also saved a young man from a fate he did not deserve, despite his unfortunate choices."

Marquas nodded, uncomfortable with the praise. "Regulus made the crucial discovery. He's the one who figured out Voldemort's secret and tried to stop him. I just happened to arrive in time to help."

"Nevertheless," Dumbledore persisted, "your actions today reflect a courage and moral clarity that I confess I did not initially believe you possessed."

The original Snape had indeed been driven primarily by his obsession with Lily, his "redemption" fundamentally selfish in nature. Dumbledore was right to revise his assessment but for reasons he couldn't possibly understand.

"People can surprise you," Marquas said simply.

"Indeed they can," Dumbledore agreed with a thoughtful nod. "Now, I suggest you rest. There will be time to discuss the locket and its implications once you've recovered. Young Mr. Black will undoubtedly have valuable insights to share as well, when he awakens."

As Dumbledore rose to leave, Marquas caught his sleeve. "Headmaster. Regulus will need protection. When Voldemort discovers his betrayal..."

"Already arranged," Dumbledore assured him. "As far as the wizarding world is concerned, Regulus Black died in a tragic accident while exploring sea caves on the southern coast. His body was regrettably lost to the tide."

"And the reality?"

"Once he is well enough to travel, he will be relocated under a new identity, with the strongest protective enchantments we can provide. Perhaps abroad, where Voldemort's influence is less pervasive."

Marquas nodded, satisfied. Another life saved, another thread of fate rewoven.

After Dumbledore left, Marquas lay awake despite his exhaustion, contemplating the rapidly shifting timeline. The locket Horcrux, originally not discovered until much later, was now in Dumbledore's possession. Regulus Black, meant to die anonymously in that cave, was alive and could potentially share crucial information about Voldemort's operations.

Most importantly, they now had confirmed knowledge of Horcruxes years earlier than in the original timeline, giving them a significant head start in the hunt for Voldemort's remaining soul fragments.

"The butterfly effect in full force... Let's just hope this new timeline doesn't come with unexpected side effects." he murmured to the empty hospital wing. "Let's see how Voldemort handles a little timeline edit."

Three days later, deemed sufficiently recovered by a reluctant Madam Pomfrey, Marquas was allowed to visit Regulus in the private room that had been arranged for his convalescence. The young man was sitting up in bed, still pale but notably improved from the half-drowned state in which Marquas had found him.

"Snape," Regulus greeted him, his voice hoarse but steady. "I believe I owe you my life."

Marquas shrugged, taking the chair beside the bed. "Consider it professional courtesy. One disillusioned Death Eater to another."

A ghost of a smile touched Regulus's lips. "Is that what we are? I thought I was a dead man walking and you were... well, I'm not entirely sure what you are, Snape. Dumbledore's spy? Double agent? Secret revolutionary?"

"Let's just say I'm someone who recognized the Dark Lord's true nature before it was too late," Marquas replied carefully. "Much like yourself."

Regulus nodded, his expression darkening. "When I discovered what he'd done, splitting his soul, using Kreacher as a disposable tool, lying to all of us about his true agenda, I couldn't remain loyal. My family may support blood purity, but what he's become... it's an abomination against magic itself."

"A remarkably astute observation for someone your age," Marquas noted. "What gave him away?"

"Little things at first," Regulus said thoughtfully. "Comments about experiments, books missing from our family library on soul magic, the way he spoke about achieving immortality as if it were already accomplished. Then when he borrowed Kreacher and returned him half-dead after testing the cave defenses..." His face hardened. "He didn't think a house-elf mattered. Didn't think I'd care. But Kreacher told me everything, the cave, the potion, the locket."

"And you connected the dots to Horcruxes," Marquas finished, genuinely impressed. The original timeline had never detailed exactly how Regulus figured it out, but his deductive reasoning was clearly exceptional.

"Our family library has some very dark books," Regulus said with a grimace. "Once I knew what to look for, it wasn't difficult to identify. The real question was what to do about it."

"Most would have kept their head down and said nothing," Marquas pointed out. "Especially someone in your position."

Regulus met his gaze directly. "Would you have?"

"No," Marquas admitted. "But then, I'm not exactly a model Death Eater myself."

That earned him another faint smile from Regulus. "So I've gathered. Dumbledore mentioned you've been... selectively undermining operations for some time."

"Did he now?" Marquas raised an eyebrow, making a mental note to discuss operational security with the Headmaster. "And what else did he share about my activities?"

"Only that you and I might find we have more in common than expected," Regulus replied. "He suggested that when I'm recovered enough to relocate, you might have insights on how to... effectively disappear."

This was news to Marquas, but not unwelcome. Having Regulus as an ally could be invaluable, especially given the young man's knowledge of the Black family's dark artifacts and connections.

"I might have some thoughts on the matter," he acknowledged. "Though I expect Dumbledore already has a relocation plan in motion."

"To France, initially," Regulus confirmed. "But he mentioned you might have alternative suggestions for a more permanent arrangement."

An idea began forming in Marquas's mind, a dangerous one, certainly, but potentially game-changing if it worked.

"What would you say to remaining officially dead but unofficially very useful?" he asked slowly. "Not just hiding, but actively working against the Dark Lord from the shadows?"

Regulus's eyes lit with interest. "I'd say that sounds considerably more appealing than spending the next decade pretending to be a French expatriate with a fondness for cheese and surrender."

"Careful," Marquas warned with mock seriousness. "I'm developing a certain appreciation for their wines, if not their defensive strategies."

For the first time, Regulus laughed, a brief, rusty sound that suggested it had been some time since he'd found anything genuinely amusing. "So what did you have in mind? Some kind of secret resistance network?"

"Something like that," Marquas agreed, warming to the concept. "The Order of the Phoenix is effective but highly visible. We need a parallel operation working in the shadows, gathering intelligence, sabotaging from within, identifying and neutralizing threats before they materialize."

"Like the Horcruxes," Regulus nodded thoughtfully. "Dumbledore believes there are more of them."

"Almost certainly," Marquas confirmed. "And finding them will require skills and knowledge that most Order members don't possess."

"Dark artifacts, ancient curses, blood magic," Regulus continued, clearly following Marquas's thinking. "The kind of expertise found in old pureblood families like mine."

"Precisely."

"And what would you call this shadow operation?" Regulus asked, a spark of genuine enthusiasm in his eyes for the first time. "Every good resistance needs a proper name."

Marquas considered for a moment, then smiled. "How about 'The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion'?"

Regulus blinked, then snorted. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Only partially," Marquas admitted with a shrug. "It has a certain memorable quality, don't you think?"

"It has a certain quality of sounding like we're rebelling against fashion standards rather than the darkest wizard of our time," Regulus retorted, but there was amusement in his voice.

"Fine, we'll workshop the name," Marquas conceded. "The important part is the concept. A small, elite team operating independently but in coordination with the Order. People with the right skills and knowledge to target Voldemort's power base directly."

"And Dumbledore would approve this?" Regulus asked skeptically.

"Dumbledore doesn't need to know every detail, the man already acts omniscient enough without actual information." Marquas replied with a meaningful look. "He has his approach; we'll have ours. Sometimes parallel efforts are more effective than a single unified strategy."

Regulus studied him with newfound respect. "You're more Slytherin than I gave you credit for, Snape."

"High praise, coming from a Black," Marquas acknowledged. "So, are you interested?"

"In joining your nameless rebellion against the Dark Lord?" Regulus smiled thinly. "It beats dying in a cave full of Inferi. I'm in."

They shook hands, sealing what Marquas suspected might be one of the most consequential alliances in this rewritten timeline. Regulus Black,brilliant, resourceful, and now officially deceased, could become a powerful asset in the fight against Voldemort.

As he left the hospital wing, Marquas felt a growing sense of optimism. The timeline was changing, momentum shifting in their favor. With the locket Horcrux secured and Regulus alive and allied, they had advantages the original Order never possessed.

Of course, every change carried risks. Butterfly effects could cascade in unexpected ways. But standing still, allowing history to repeat its tragic course, was not an option.

Back in his quarters, Marquas pulled out his journal and made a new entry:

Day 78: Rescued Regulus Black from Inferi. Secured Horcrux #1. Established the foundation for a shadow resistance operation. Note to self: "The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion" needs rebranding, despite its objective accuracy.

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Chapter Text

December arrived at Hogwarts with theatrical flair, dumping nearly a foot of snow overnight and transforming the castle grounds into a winter wonderland that would have made a holiday card photographer weep with joy or possibly develop frostbite while trying to capture the perfect shot. Students bounced between exam anxiety and holiday excitement, while the staff maintained the delicate balance of keeping educational standards while not completely crushing festive spirits.

For Marquas, the month marked nearly a season since his unexpected transmigration into Severus Snape's body. Three months of double-agent espionage, revolutionary potions work, and gradually rewriting a timeline he wasn't supposed to know about. The irony wasn't lost on him that he'd achieved more of historical significance in three months as Snape than in twenty-nine years as Marquas Wilson, software developer and snark enthusiast.

"Makes one wonder about the concept of destiny," he mused as he adjusted the temperature on a simmering cauldron in his private lab. "Was I always meant to be hit by that Prius, or was some cosmic algorithm just desperate for a plot twist?"

Since the rescue of Regulus Black, Marquas had been dividing his time between teaching duties, Death Eater obligations (kept to an absolute minimum), and the development of what he had stubbornly continued to call "The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion" despite Regulus's ongoing objections.

Their shadow organization remained small by design, currently just the two of them, plus Kreacher the house-elf, whose loyalty to Regulus bordered on fanatical. The ancient elf had proven unexpectedly valuable, providing access to locations and information that would have been otherwise impossible to obtain not to mention his unique talent for delivering scathing insults in a mumble just quiet enough to maintain plausible deniability.

Regulus himself was officially dead, living in a magically expanded and heavily warded flat in Cokeworth that Marquas had acquired under a false identity. The irony of setting up their rebel headquarters in Snape's childhood town wasn't lost on either of them, but the depressed industrial area offered perfect anonymity, wizards rarely ventured there, and Muggles paid little attention to the seemingly abandoned factory building that housed their operation. Plus, the rent was ridiculously cheap, apparently "possible Death Eater hideout" wasn't a selling point that drove up property values.

Their primary focus was now the hunt for additional Horcruxes. Dumbledore had successfully destroyed the locket using Fiendfyre in a controlled setting, confirming that Voldemort's soul fragment had indeed been contained within it. The Headmaster was now pursuing his own research into Voldemort's past, while Marquas and Regulus worked their separate angle, tracking dark artifacts through old pureblood networks.

But today, Marquas was focused on a different project altogether, one that had nothing to do with Horcruxes, Death Eaters, or the fate of the wizarding world. Instead, he was brewing the final batch of what he had dubbed "Basic Living Improvement Potions," or BLIPs for short.

"Domestic magic," he murmured as he carefully added powdered moonstone to the blue-tinted mixture, "the most underrated branch of wizardry. Forget defeating dark lords, the real magic is not having to scrub toilets by hand."

The cauldron emitted a pleasant chime-like sound as the ingredient was absorbed, the liquid shifting to a soft lavender color. Perfect. This particular formulation, the Persistent Cleaning Solution, was the last in his series of household potions designed to make his living quarters significantly more comfortable than the average wizard's home.

Over the past months, Marquas had gradually upgraded his dungeon quarters from "depressing medieval cell" to "actually habitable living space" through a combination of transfiguration, charms, and his own specialized potions. Having grown up with modern conveniences, he found the wizarding world's bizarre neglect of basic quality-of-life improvements both frustrating and perplexing.

"They can apparate across countries but can't figure out decent plumbing," he'd complained to Regulus during one of their planning sessions. "It's like they collectively decided indoor sanitation was less important than self-stirring cauldrons."

His BLIPs series addressed these oversights systematically. Today's brew completed the set: a cleaning solution that, when applied to surfaces, would repel dirt and grime for months rather than requiring daily scouring charms. He'd already implemented self-warming floors (no more ice-cold stone underfoot on winter mornings), magically pressurized shower systems (goodbye communal bathing, hello actual water pressure), and his personal favorite, a coffee-brewing wand holster that could deliver the perfect cup of Italian roast with a simple wand movement, an invention he considered more valuable than most defensive spells, particularly before 8 AM.

As he decanted the completed potion into spray bottles, a knock at his laboratory door interrupted his domestic improvements.

"Enter," he called, setting aside the bottles and ensuring nothing overly suspicious was visible. While his quarters were heavily warded against intrusion, he maintained appearances of normalcy for expected visitors, which meant hastily shoving several "Voldemort's Secret Weaknesses" notes under a copy of "Advanced Cauldron Monthly."

Minerva McGonagall stepped in, eyebrows rising slightly at the lavender-colored potion and array of spray bottles. "Am I interrupting something, Severus? That doesn't look like your typical deadly concoction."

"Surprisingly, Minerva, not all my brewing involves toxins or explosives," Marquas replied dryly. "This is merely a cleaning solution with extended duration properties."

"Cleaning solution?" she repeated, sounding almost disappointed. "I must say, that seems rather... mundane for your talents."

"Were you expecting a potion to turn students into attentive listeners? Even I have limits to my magical abilities."Marquas couldn't resist a small smile. "Even potion masters occasionally tire of scrubbing cauldrons manually. This formulation maintains cleanliness for approximately three months with a single application."

McGonagall's expression shifted from disappointment to genuine interest. "Three months? That's rather impressive, actually. The standard household charms require weekly renewal at minimum."

"Precisely," Marquas nodded. "Wizarding domestic magic is strangely underdeveloped considering the potential applications. We can charm teapots to dance but haven't improved basic sanitation since the eighteenth century."

"A fair observation," McGonagall conceded, looking around his laboratory with new eyes. "Is that why your quarters always smell considerably better than Horace's did? I'd attributed it to personal habits, but perhaps there's more to it."

"A combination of factors," Marquas admitted. "I've made several adjustments to improve livability. The castle has charm, certainly, but medieval comfort standards leave much to be desired."

McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile. "Would you perhaps be willing to share some of these 'adjustments'? Hogwarts winters are particularly brutal in the north tower classrooms."

"I might be persuaded," Marquas replied, surprised but pleased by her interest. "Though I warn you, Minerva, once you experience magically pressurized hot water, regular bathing arrangements become rather disappointing."

"I'll risk the disappointment," she said with unexpected dryness. "After thirty years of Hogwarts bathing, my standards are already so low they're practically subterranean."

"Now, domestic innovations aside, I came to inform you that Albus wishes to see you before the holiday break begins. Something about 'shared research interests,' which I assume is code for matters relating to You-Know-Who."

"Indeed," Marquas nodded, instantly refocusing. "When?"

"This evening after dinner," she replied. "And Severus?"

"Yes?"

"I would be quite interested in that cleaning solution once it's perfected. The house-elves do their best, but some of those trophy cases haven't been truly clean since Godric Gryffindor's time."

With that surprisingly practical request, she departed, leaving Marquas amused at how quickly his "mundane" household improvements had caught the attention of Hogwarts' most practical professor. Perhaps there was a wider market for his BLIPs than he'd initially considered, another potential revenue stream for S. Prince Labs that could fund their more clandestine activities.

"The memory is fragmentary," Dumbledore explained as he carefully poured silvery wisps into his Pensieve, "but most illuminating nonetheless."

Marquas stood beside the Headmaster's desk, watching the swirling memories with concealed anticipation. Since their acquisition of the locket Horcrux, Dumbledore had been pursuing an investigation into Tom Riddle's past with renewed vigor, collecting memories from those who had known him before his transformation into Lord Voldemort.

"Whose memory is it?" Marquas asked, though he could guess from the timeline, this would be Hokey the house-elf's memory of Hepzibah Smith showing Riddle the Hufflepuff cup and Slytherin locket, both of which he subsequently stole after murdering her.

"A house-elf called Hokey," Dumbledore confirmed. "She served an elderly witch named Hepzibah Smith, a wealthy collector of magical antiquities who had several... shall we say, significant interactions with a young Tom Riddle during his employment at Borgin and Burke's."

"Let me guess, she thought she was getting a charming antiques expert, and instead got a homicidal megalomaniac with kleptomania? Dating profiles were clearly just as misleading then as they are now." Marquas nodded, maintaining his façade of learning this information for the first time. He had slowly come to realize that the old characters like Voldemort, McGonagall, and Dumbledore, barely reacted to his sarcasm.

In fact, he was willing to bet that if he told them he was a transmigrator and they were all fictional characters, they'd just nod and say, "Interesting theory, Severus." As if they were too mature, or too detached, to care. But that's exactly why he appreciated young Regulus Black. The boy didn't just laugh at his jokes, he actually built on them, adding wit and value of his own. "And you believe these interactions may reveal something about potential Horcruxes?"

"See for yourself," Dumbledore gestured to the Pensieve. "After you, Severus."

Together they plunged into the memory, emerging in the overstuffed, pink-dominated sitting room of Hepzibah Smith. The scene played out much as Marquas remembered from the books, the elderly witch preening for the handsome young Riddle, proudly revealing her greatest treasures: Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket, both items that Riddle coveted for their historical significance and connection to Hogwarts founders.

When they emerged from the memory, Dumbledore watched him expectantly, clearly waiting for his analysis.

Chapter Text

When they emerged from the memory, Dumbledore watched him expectantly, clearly waiting for his analysis.

"He wanted them," Marquas stated simply. "Not just as valuable artifacts, but as personal possessions. His expression when she revealed the locket, there was recognition there. And hunger. It was the same look I've seen first-years give the dessert table after being told pudding would be delayed."

"Precisely," Dumbledore nodded approvingly. "Two days after this memory took place, Hepzibah Smith was found dead, allegedly poisoned accidentally by her house-elf. Both artifacts disappeared, never to be seen again."

"Until now," Marquas pointed out. "We have the locket."

"Indeed, one has been recovered, thanks to young Mr. Black's discovery and your timely intervention," Dumbledore agreed. "But the cup remains missing, and I believe it likely serves the same purpose as the locket."

"Another Horcrux," Marquas stated rather than asked. "Which means we're looking for at least two more, assuming the traditional magical significance of the number seven. One soul fragment in his body, plus six external containers."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "You've been conducting your own research, I see."

"It seemed prudent," Marquas replied carefully. "If we're to defeat him permanently, we need to understand the full scope of his preparations."

"Quite so," Dumbledore murmured. "Though I confess I'm surprised by your insight. Most wizards, even those well-versed in the dark arts, would not immediately connect Horcruxes with the magical properties of the number seven."

Marquas realized he'd been slightly careless, revealing too much specific knowledge could raise uncomfortable questions. "The Black family library contains several obscure references to soul magic," he explained smoothly. "Regulus was quite thorough in his research before identifying the locket. We've discussed the theoretical implications at length."

Not entirely a lie, but not the full truth either. Since his rescue, Regulus had indeed shared extensive knowledge from the notoriously dark Black family collection, but Marquas's understanding of Horcruxes came primarily from the original Harry Potter books, knowledge he could never reveal to Dumbledore without sounding like he'd been hit with one too many Confundus charms.

"I see," Dumbledore nodded, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. "Well, it appears our investigations are proceeding along similar lines. The question now becomes: where would Voldemort hide these additional Horcruxes?"

"Locations of personal significance, most likely," Marquas suggested, carefully feeding information that would direct Dumbledore's search without revealing his foreknowledge. "The cave where he tortured fellow orphans as a child was clearly meaningful to him. Other possibilities might include Hogwarts itself, given his attachment to the school, or places connected to his ancestry. Though I'm ruling out anywhere with decent ambient lighting or comfortable seating, clearly not his aesthetic."

"My thoughts exactly," Dumbledore agreed, looking pleased. "I've been researching the Gaunt family history, Voldemort's maternal ancestors. There was a family home in Little Hangleton where his mother grew up. It may be worth investigating."

"The Gaunts were descended from Slytherin, weren't they?" Marquas asked, knowing full well they were. "That connection alone would make any family property significant to him."

"Precisely," Dumbledore beamed. "Your analytical skills continue to impress, Severus."

"Just connecting obvious dots," Marquas demurred. "Though if we're speculating about potential Horcruxes beyond the cup, I'd consider items connected to the other Hogwarts founders. He already had artifacts from Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw or Gryffindor might have completed his collection."

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A fascinating theory. Gryffindor's only known relic is the sword, which has been secure in this office for centuries. But Ravenclaw's diadem has been lost for nearly as long..."

Bingo, Marquas thought. He'd successfully planted the seed about the diadem without appearing to have impossible knowledge. Now to nudge Dumbledore toward the final Horcrux, Riddle's diary.

"There's also the possibility of personally significant items," he suggested carefully. "Not everything would necessarily be a priceless historical artifact. Something from his school days, perhaps, when he first began exploring dark magic."

"Another excellent point," Dumbledore nodded. "I shall review my memories of Tom as a student with fresh eyes. There may be clues I overlooked previously."

Their discussion continued for another hour, Marquas carefully balancing between being helpful and not revealing too much. By the end, he'd successfully guided Dumbledore toward investigating all the correct Horcrux locations without arousing suspicion about his inexplicable knowledge.

As he prepared to leave, Dumbledore asked an unexpected question.

"Severus, do you believe in redemption?"

Marquas paused, considering the loaded query. "That depends on what you mean by redemption, Headmaster."

"The possibility that one's future actions might balance the scales against past wrongs," Dumbledore clarified, studying him intently. "That a life can be fundamentally redirected toward good, despite beginning on a darker path."

Ah. Dumbledore was thinking about Snape's own redemption arc, the story of a Death Eater slowly turned spy.

"I believe our choices define us more than our circumstances," Marquas replied carefully. "The path one walks today matters more than the roads taken yesterday, though the past should never be forgotten or dismissed."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Eloquently put. I ask because I've observed a remarkable transformation in you these past months. Not merely in appearance or teaching methods, but in fundamental outlook. You seem... unburdened in ways I hadn't anticipated."

Because I'm not actually Severus Snape, Marquas thought wryly. But he couldn't say that.

"Perhaps I simply found better motivation than guilt and regret," he said instead. "Positive purpose drives more sustainable change than perpetual penance."

"A profound observation," Dumbledore murmured. "And one I shall contemplate at length. Good night, Severus."

The week before Christmas found Marquas in his Cokeworth hideout, working alongside Regulus Black on their parallel Horcrux investigation. The dingy Muggle factory building looked abandoned from the outside, but within, they had created a surprisingly comfortable headquarters for their two-man rebellion.

"I still think we need a better name," Regulus commented as he sorted through a pile of Black family documents that Kreacher had smuggled out of Grimmauld Place. "The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion sounds like a teen wizard band."

"You're just upset that it implies I'm the more handsome one," Marquas replied absently, focused on a complex locator spell he was modifying to detect soul fragments.

Regulus snorted. "In your dreams, Snape. Or have you forgotten which of us comes from the family known for its devastating good looks?"

"The same family known for its devastating cousin marriages?" Marquas countered with a raised eyebrow. "Besides, I've made significant aesthetic improvements since my unexpected makeover."

"Yes, achieving 'no longer terrifying small children' is quite the accomplishment. Do you want a medal?"

This friendly banter had become their normal working dynamic. Despite their very different backgrounds, Marquas and Regulus had developed an effective partnership based on shared goals and complementary skills. Regulus provided pureblood knowledge and connections, while Marquas contributed strategic thinking and his unique blend of magical and Muggle problem-solving approaches.

"Any progress with the cup detection spell?" Regulus asked, changing the subject to more serious matters.

Marquas sighed, setting down his wand. "Limited. The problem is specificity. I can modify standard detection charms to locate powerful dark magic, but distinguishing a Horcrux from other nasty artifacts requires a reference point."

"We had the locket for that," Regulus pointed out.

"Which is now destroyed," Marquas reminded him. "Without an existing Horcrux to analyze, we're working partially blind. We know generally what we're looking for but lack the magical signature to pinpoint it precisely."

Regulus frowned thoughtfully. "What about residual traces? When Dumbledore destroyed the locket, there must have been some magical aftermath. Could that be used?"

"Potentially," Marquas nodded, impressed by the suggestion. "I'd need access to the destruction site and samples of any residue. Not something I can request without raising questions about our little side operation here."

"Leave that to me," Regulus said with a cryptic smile. "Kreacher can access places most wizards can't, and he's remarkably stealthy when properly motivated."

The discussion shifted to their other ongoing projects, including tracking Death Eater movements through Regulus's old connections and developing new methods to counter Voldemort's expanding influence. Throughout it all, Marquas was continually impressed by the young Black heir's intelligence and resourcefulness.

In the original timeline, Regulus's death had been a tragic waste of potential, a redemptive moment but ultimately futile in the short term. This Regulus, alive and actively working against Voldemort, represented one of Marquas's most significant changes to the storyline.

"By the way," Regulus said as they were finishing up for the evening, "I've been meaning to ask about these." He gestured around the hideout at the various quality-of-life improvements Marquas had installed, magical lighting that mimicked natural sunlight, temperature-regulated floors, and the ever-present coffee station that would have made a Seattle barista jealous.

"What about them?" Marquas asked.

"They're brilliant," Regulus said simply. "I grew up in a magically enhanced home with generations of enchantments, but nothing this... practical. Most pureblood families are so focused on tradition they never consider innovation."

Let me guess," Marquas said dryly, "the Black family motto is something like 'Why improve when you can simply be superior while suffering unnecessarily?'"

Regulus let out a surprised laugh. "That's disturbingly accurate, actually. Though the official motto is 'Toujours Pur'—Always Pure."

"Same difference," Marquas shrugged. "Pure discomfort, purely inefficient, purely resistant to improvement."

Then again added. "Just common sense applications. Magic doesn't have to be all dramatic spellcasting and potions that explode. Sometimes the most valuable magic is the kind that makes everyday life better."

"You should market these," Regulus suggested. "Your S. Prince Labs already has the Auto-Brewing Cauldron gaining popularity. Why not expand into domestic enchantments?"

"I've considered it," Marquas admitted. "Though the timing is challenging with everything else we're managing."

"Think strategically," Regulus pressed. "Beyond the obvious commercial potential, a successful business provides excellent cover for our other activities. Plus, improved financial resources never hurt a rebellion, reasonably handsome or otherwise."

The young man had a point. S. Prince Labs could become more than just a side venture, it could provide legitimate funding for their covert operations.

"I'll develop a business plan," Marquas decided. "Starting with the cleaning solutions, they're straightforward to produce and meet an obvious need."

"Excellent," Regulus grinned. "We'll overthrow the Dark Lord and revolutionize magical housekeeping simultaneously. That should confuse both sides adequately."

As Marquas prepared to return to Hogwarts that evening, he reflected on how much his priorities had evolved since his arrival in this world. Three months ago, his focus had been simple survival and adaptation. Now he was juggling teaching responsibilities, espionage, Horcrux hunting, product development, and the mentorship of a young man who, by all rights, should have been dead.

But perhaps most surprising was how natural it all felt. He had slipped into this complex life with unexpected ease, finding purpose and even satisfaction in roles he could never have imagined for himself.

Back in his magically upgraded quarters, Marquas added a new entry to his steadily growing journal:

Day 90: Horcrux investigation advancing on multiple fronts. Regulus proving invaluable ally. Business expansion planned for S. Prince Labs, beginning with domestic enchantments line. Current aesthetic assessment: Significantly more handsome than original Snape baseline, though Regulus disputes relative ranking. His opinion noted and summarily dismissed.

He smiled as he closed the journal. The wizarding world was changing, one subtle improvement at a time. Both in the grand fight against Voldemort and in the simple quality of everyday magical life.

Better living through magic, indeed.

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January returned to Scotland with a vengeance, bringing with it the kind of bone-deep chill that made Marquas seriously reconsider his life choices or at least the ones that had resulted in him living in a drafty castle in the Scottish Highlands instead of, say, a nice villa in magical Tuscany. Even his improved quarters couldn't fully compensate for the fact that Hogwarts had been designed by people who apparently considered hypothermia character-building.

"Medieval architects," he muttered, casting his fourth warming charm of the morning as he prepared for the first Potions class of the new term. "Brilliant enough to create moving staircases but couldn't figure out central heating."

The Christmas break had been productively split between his official duties (a brief, tense appearance at Malfoy Manor's annual Yule celebration where he'd perfected the art of looking interested while mentally cataloging potion ingredients), his teaching preparations (revolutionizing the second-term curriculum for all seven years simultaneously), and his clandestine activities with Regulus (Horcrux hunting, Death Eater undermining, and arguing about their organization's name).

"The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion sounds like we're staging a coup against ugliness," Regulus had complained for the dozenth time. "Why not something properly intimidating?"

"Because 'Two Blokes, a House-Elf, and Some Wild Optimism' lacks gravitas," Marquas had replied.

On the business front, S. Prince Labs had officially launched its "Domestic Enchantment" line with considerable success. The Persistent Cleaning Solution had sold out its initial production run within two days of hitting the shelves at Diagon Alley's premier housewares shop, with backorders stretching into February. Apparently, the wizarding world had been desperate for practical household magic without realizing it.

But today marked a return to his most precarious role: active Death Eater espionage. Voldemort had summoned his inner circle for what Lucius had cryptically described as "strategic realignment in light of recent setbacks." Translation: someone was getting crucio'd into next week for the string of failed operations that Marquas had subtly orchestrated over the past months.

"Just what I needed," Marquas sighed, checking his Occlumency shields for the third time that morning. "A front-row seat to the Dark Lord's tantrum. At least the students won't seem so intimidating afterward. Nothing puts first-year potion disasters in perspective like watching a grown man with snake nostrils having a meltdown."

As if on cue, the first of his NEWT-level seventh years began filing into the classroom, looking appropriately apprehensive about returning to Potions after the holiday break. Marquas had developed a reputation as a demanding but surprisingly effective teacher, rigorous in his expectations but genuinely interested in student improvement, a far cry from canon Snape's reign of terror.

"Today," he announced once everyone was seated, "we'll be discussing detection and countering of covertly administered potions, a skill that might prove more practical than theoretical for many of you, given current societal trends."

The students exchanged uncomfortable glances. Everyone knew what "current societal trends" meant: the war was escalating, with reports of Imperius victims.

"The standard detection spells taught by Professor Flitwick are adequate for basic identification," Marquas continued, flicking his wand to reveal a series of diagrams on the blackboard. "But many modern potions are specifically designed to evade such detection. Which is why we'll be brewing this."

He indicated a cauldron of shimmering silver liquid on his desk. "The Revelation Draught. Considerably more comprehensive than standard detection methods, capable of identifying nearly any foreign substance in food or drink, including most known mind-altering potions.

A Ravenclaw girl raised her hand. "Professor, isn't that an Auror-restricted potion?"

"Five points to Ravenclaw for your detailed extracurricular reading, Miss Fawley," Marquas nodded. "It is indeed restricted, for commercial brewing and distribution. Educational use under qualified supervision is permitted, particularly given current circumstances."

He didn't mention that he'd personally lobbied Dumbledore to approve this lesson, arguing that preparing students to protect themselves was more important than Ministry technicalities. The Headmaster had agreed with surprising readiness, even helping secure the necessary permits.

"You'll work in pairs," Marquas instructed, waving his wand to display brewing instructions. "Focus particularly on the timing of the moonstone addition, too early, and the solution becomes useless; too late, and it becomes highly volatile. Much like dating, timing is everything, though unlike dating, this explosion will only singe your eyebrows, not your dignity."

As the students gathered their ingredients and began setting up workstations, Marquas moved through the classroom offering guidance and corrections. Teaching had become unexpectedly satisfying, seeing genuine understanding dawn on students' faces provided a different kind of fulfillment than his other activities.

"Sir," a Slytherin boy approached his desk while his partner prepared their cauldron, "is it true you've developed an advanced version of this potion for commercial release?"

News traveled fast. Marquas had indeed created an enhanced Revelation Draught as part of S. Prince Labs' security line, though it hadn't yet been officially announced.

"Product development discussions are not appropriate during class time, Mr. Rosier," he replied, maintaining his professional demeanor while mentally noting that Edgar Rosier's father was a known Death Eater and potential intelligence source. "Though I believe S. Prince Labs will be advertising new security products in next month's Potioneer's Quarterly."

The young Rosier nodded with undisguised interest before returning to his workstation. Interesting. Either the boy was collecting information for his Death Eater father, or he had genuine academic interest in innovative potions. Possibly both.

By the end of class, most student pairs had produced respectable attempts at the Revelation Draught, with three groups achieving nearly perfect results. Marquas dismissed them with assigned reading on advanced concealment potions and their counters, knowledge that might literally save lives in the coming months.

As the classroom emptied, his forearm began to burn with the unmistakable summons of the Dark Mark. Perfect timing, at least, his teaching schedule was clear for the remainder of the day.

Time to play the other role, he thought grimly, heading to his quarters to change into appropriate Death Eater attire before departing the castle grounds.

Malfoy Manor had become the de facto headquarters for Voldemort's operations, a development Lucius seemed simultaneously proud of and terrified by. The grand ballroom had been converted to a meeting chamber, with high-backed chairs arranged in a circle around a central space where unfortunate messengers or failed operatives often found themselves writhing under the Cruciatus Curse.

When Marquas arrived, most of the inner circle was already present: Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus, the Carrow siblings, Dolohov, Yaxley, and several others. Lucius stood near the entrance, greeting arrivals with the strained politeness of a man hosting a gathering he couldn't refuse.

"Severus," Lucius nodded as he approached. "I'm glad you were able to attend on such short notice."

"The Dark Lord's summons take priority over all else," Marquas replied smoothly, the expected response. "I gather recent events have necessitated reassessment?"

Lucius's expression tightened. "Several operations have yielded... suboptimal outcomes. The McKinnons remain elusive, the Ministry raid was compromised, and the Bristol cell was infiltrated by Aurors. The Dark Lord is... displeased."

"Understandably so," Marquas commented, maintaining a neutral expression despite the satisfaction he felt knowing his various sabotage efforts had contributed to all three "suboptimal outcomes."

Before Lucius could respond further, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, the telltale sign of Voldemort's arrival. The assembled Death Eaters fell immediately silent, turning toward the ornate doors at the far end of the chamber as they swung open to admit the Dark Lord.

Voldemort glided into the room with inhuman grace, his pale features set in an expression of cold fury that promised suffering for someone before the meeting concluded. Gone was any trace of the handsome Tom Riddle; magical corruption had transformed him into something increasingly serpentine and alien.

"My faithful servants," he began, his high, cold voice carrying effortlessly through the silent chamber. "We gather today to address certain... disappointments in our recent endeavors."

The tension in the room was palpable as Voldemort took his seat at the head of the circle, red eyes scanning each face as if searching for guilt or weakness. Marquas maintained perfect Occlumency shields, projecting nothing but calm attention and appropriate deference.

"For too long, we have suffered setbacks that cannot be attributed to mere chance," Voldemort continued. "Our plans leak like sieves, our targets receive warnings, our operations face unexpected resistance precisely when they should be most vulnerable."

Marquas kept his expression impassive, though internally his alertness heightened. This wasn't just the usual post-failure rage session, Voldemort was specifically suggesting coordinated opposition beyond normal Order activities.

"The obvious conclusion," the Dark Lord continued, "is that we face a traitor in our midst."

The chamber erupted in immediate denials and protestations of loyalty, each Death Eater trying to outdo the others in expressing their outrage at such a possibility. Marquas participated with calculated restraint, not so vehement as to draw attention, not so reserved as to appear suspicious.

"Silence," Voldemort commanded softly, instantly hushing the room. "I do not make this accusation lightly. Nor do I yet know the identity of this... disloyal element. But I intend to find out."

He stood, beginning to pace the circle with predatory grace. "Each of you will be investigated. Your recent activities examined, your communications scrutinized, your loyalties tested. Those with nothing to hide have nothing to fear."

Except your paranoia and sadistic tendencies, Marquas thought behind his mental shields. This development was concerning but not unexpected. Sooner or later, Voldemort was bound to suspect internal sabotage.

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"Severus," Voldemort suddenly turned to him. "You have been unusually quiet. Your thoughts?"

All eyes turned to Marquas, who met Voldemort's gaze with careful deference but not submission. "I believe your assessment is logical, my Lord. The pattern of failures suggests more than coincidence. However, I would caution that the traitor may not be within this room."

"Explain," Voldemort commanded, appearing genuinely interested in his perspective.

"The inner circle is not the only group with access to operational details," Marquas elaborated smoothly. "Information passes through multiple layers, couriers, lower-ranked supporters, even house-elves. Perhaps the leak originates from these peripheral sources rather than your most trusted followers."

It was a calculated deflection, redirect suspicion away from the inner circle (and himself) toward the easier targets of underlings and servants. From Voldemort's thoughtful expression, the suggestion had merit in his eyes.

"An interesting theory," the Dark Lord acknowledged. "And one worth exploring. Nevertheless, I will leave no possibility uninvestigated. Severus, given your analytical skills, I am assigning you a special task."

Here we go, Marquas thought, maintaining his outward composure.

"You will investigate the suspected traitor among our ranks," Voldemort declared. "Your position at Hogwarts gives you a certain... distance from our daily operations, providing objectivity. Furthermore, your skills in Legilimency and potion-craft offer unique advantages for such an inquiry."

The irony was almost too perfect, tasking the actual saboteur with finding the saboteur. It was either a stroke of extreme bad luck or, more worryingly, a clever trap. Either way, Marquas would need to tread very carefully.

"I am honored by your trust, my Lord," he replied, inclining his head. "How would you like me to proceed?"

"You will interview each of the inner circle privately," Voldemort instructed. "Assess their recent activities, their potential motives for betrayal, their psychological weaknesses. Report directly to me with your findings, to me alone."

Bellatrix made a noise of protest. "My Lord, surely I would be better suited "

"Silence, Bella," Voldemort cut her off without even looking in her direction. "Your loyalty is unquestioned, but your objectivity is not. Severus will handle this task."

Marquas managed to keep his face perfectly neutral, though internally he was picturing Bellatrix's expression as a meme captioned: When your crush picks someone else for the group project.

The meeting continued with operational updates and reassignment of responsibilities, but Marquas was only partially listening, his mind racing to evaluate this new development and its implications. Being tasked with investigating himself created both danger and opportunity. On one hand, he could potentially direct suspicion away from his own activities; on the other, closer scrutiny from Voldemort was the last thing he needed.

After the formal meeting concluded, Voldemort summoned Marquas for a private conversation in Lucius's study, a rare honor that felt more threatening than rewarding under the circumstances.

"You seem troubled, Severus," Voldemort observed as they stood before the ornate fireplace, the flames casting eerie shadows across his snake-like features.

"Merely contemplating the complexity of the task you've assigned me, my Lord," Marquas replied carefully. "Uncovering deception among skilled Occlumens presents unique challenges."

"Indeed," Voldemort agreed. "Which is why I've selected you. Your own Occlumency shields are... impressive. Few can maintain such discipline in my presence."

There was something probing in that statement, a test, perhaps, or a veiled warning. Marquas maintained his mental defenses while keeping his expression appropriately flattered.

"You honor me with your recognition, my Lord. I have worked to develop my mental disciplines specifically to better serve your cause."

Voldemort studied him for a long moment, red eyes seemingly attempting to pierce through to his very thoughts. "There is something different about you, Severus. Something changed. You are not the same wizard who first came to me seeking power and recognition."

The observation sent a chill down Marquas's spine, though he allowed none of it to show. "We all evolve in service to greater purpose, my Lord. My time at Hogwarts has necessitated certain... adaptations in presentation and approach."

And the whole being replaced by a transmigrated software developer from another dimension" thing probably contributed too, he added mentally. Minor detail, hardly worth mentioning.

"Hmm," Voldemort murmured, clearly not entirely satisfied with this explanation but not pressing further. "Begin your investigation with Avery. His recent failures in Bristol suggest either incompetence or something more sinister. I expect your preliminary report in one week."

"It will be done, my Lord."

As Marquas departed Malfoy Manor, his mind was already racing with strategies. This assignment was both a crisis and an opportunity. If handled correctly, he could potentially frame someone else for his own sabotage activities, perhaps Avery, who Voldemort already suspected. It was morally questionable, certainly, but in this war, sometimes the only choices were bad and worse.

The key would be in the implementation. He would need to conduct legitimate investigations, identifying actual security weaknesses that could have led to operational failures. Then subtly guide the evidence toward his chosen scapegoat while ensuring his own activities remained undetected.

"Sometimes," he muttered to himself as he apparated back to Hogsmeade, "chaos is the best cover."

"He wants you to do what?" Regulus exclaimed when they met at their Cokeworth headquarters later that evening. "Find the traitor who's been sabotaging Death Eater operations, which is actually you?"

"With a side order of reporting directly to him on everyone's potential disloyalty," Marquas confirmed, pouring himself a generous serving of firewhisky. "It's either cosmic irony or the universe has developed a particularly twisted sense of humor."

Regulus looked both amused and concerned. "This could be an elaborate trap. Voldemort might already suspect you and is watching how you handle this assignment."

"That possibility has occurred to me," Marquas acknowledged grimly. "Though if he truly suspected me specifically, I think my interrogation would involve considerably more screaming and significantly less delegation."

"Fair point," Regulus conceded. "So what's your plan? Besides drinking yourself into a state where this all seems less terrifying?"

Marquas set down his glass with a wry smile. "Counterintuitive though it may seem, I'm going to conduct a legitimate investigation, identify actual security weaknesses, document real vulnerabilities in their operational procedures, and present authentic findings."

"With the minor omission that you're the one exploiting those weaknesses," Regulus finished, catching on quickly.

"Precisely. Then, with regret, I'll present convincing evidence that Avery has been compromised, possibly under Imperius or blackmail, leading to the Bristol operation's failure."

"Why Avery specifically?" Regulus asked, though his tone suggested he already understood the strategy.

"Voldemort has already marked him for suspicion. He's politically weaker than most inner circle members, with fewer powerful connections. And most importantly, he was genuinely sloppy in his handling of the Bristol operation, not because of treachery but simple incompetence."

"Sacrificing one Death Eater to protect your cover," Regulus mused. "Ruthless but effective."

Marquas frowned, disliking the characterization though he couldn't deny its accuracy. "I'm not particularly proud of the strategy, but the alternatives are worse. If my cover is blown, we lose our most valuable intelligence source and any chance of systematically undermining Voldemort's operations."

"Not to mention you'd lose your shot at 'Employee of the Month' at both Hogwarts and Death Eater headquarters. Those commemorative mugs are quite the collector's items."

Regulus chuckled slightly then held up his hands. "I'm not judging. In this war, clean hands are a luxury none of us can afford. Besides, Avery joined the Death Eaters willingly and has participated in multiple attacks on innocent families. If anyone deserves to face Voldemort's wrath, it's him."

The pragmatic assessment didn't fully ease Marquas's moral discomfort, but it did reinforce the necessity of their approach. This wasn't the clean, simplified heroism of children's stories. It was war, messy, morally compromised, and requiring difficult choices for the greater good.

"We'll need to accelerate our other projects," he said, changing the subject slightly. "If Voldemort is becoming suspicious of internal sabotage, our window for certain operations may be closing."

"The Horcrux hunt in particular," Regulus agreed. "Kreacher returned this morning with samples from the locket destruction site. The residual magic is... distinctive. I think we can use it to create a detection spell specific to Horcruxes."

"That's excellent progress," Marquas nodded, genuinely impressed. "How soon can we test it?"

"A few days for the initial version, perhaps a week for something reliable enough for field use," Regulus estimated. "The question then becomes where to look first."

"Based on my conversation with Dumbledore, he's focusing on the Gaunt shack in Little Hangleton," Marquas informed him. "We should prioritize locations he's not yet investigating, specifically Hogwarts itself."

Regulus looked surprised. "You think Voldemort hid a Horcrux at Hogwarts? Right under Dumbledore's nose?"

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"It would appeal to his sense of irony and his connection to the school," Marquas explained, navigating the delicate balance between informed speculation and revealing his foreknowledge. "Plus, there's the Room of Requirement, a chamber that can transform itself based on the seeker's needs, including becoming the perfect hiding place. Like keeping your embarrassing teenage poetry journal in the school library, nobody would think to look there because it's too obvious."

"Speaking from personal experience?" Regulus chuckled, his gray eyes momentarily brightening with amusement before returning to the serious matter at hand. "If there is a Horcrux at Hogwarts, where specifically would he hide it?"

"Based on my analysis of Voldemort's psychology," Marquas said, catching himself before mentioning the books, "somewhere significant to him personally, connected to the founders if possible. The Room of Requirement seems the most logical location, specifically in its storage room configuration."

"The what room?" Regulus looked confused, his brow furrowing as he leaned forward in his chair.

"Ah, right," Marquas realized this wasn't common knowledge. "The Come and Go Room," he explained, watching recognition flicker in Regulus' eyes. "Hidden on the seventh floor behind a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Walk past it three times focusing on what you need, and the castle responds... quite ingeniously. One of its forms is essentially a vast storage room where objects have been hidden for centuries."

"How do you know about this?" Regulus asked suspiciously, his fingers tightening around his glass of firewhisky, the amber liquid catching the dim light.

"I was a Hogwarts student too, you know," Marquas replied smoothly, "Some of us spent our school years exploring the castle rather than practicing family-approved sneering techniques in the mirror."

Regulus looked offended for a moment before a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Fair enough. I did spend an inordinate amount of time perfecting the proper aristocratic disdain." His expression softened with the memory. "Mother insisted it was as important as table manners." He swirled the remaining firewhisky in his glass, watching the golden liquid coat the sides. "I've heard rumors of such a room, though I never found it myself during my time at Hogwarts."

"It exists," Marquas confirmed. "And given your official 'deceased' status, smuggling you into Hogwarts for an investigation presents certain logistical challenges, but nothing insurmountable with proper planning."

The fire crackled in the hearth as they spent the next several hours developing dual strategies: Marquas's approach to the Death Eater investigation and their joint plan for searching Hogwarts for the diadem Horcrux. The air grew heavy with pipe smoke and the sharp tang of firewhisky as diagrams were drawn and contingencies mapped. By the time they concluded, it was well past midnight, the bottle considerably emptier than when they'd started, and a comfortable warmth had settled over the room despite the winter chill seeping through the ancient windowpanes.

"One thing I don't understand," Regulus said as they prepared to depart, shrugging into his heavy traveling cloak. "If you're going to frame Avery anyway, why bother with a genuine investigation? Why not just fabricate everything?"

"Because Voldemort isn't stupid," Marquas explained, summoning his own cloak from a hook across the room. "He'll verify any evidence I present. The security weaknesses need to be real, the operational failures accurately documented. I'll identify how information is leaking, perhaps through poorly secured meeting locations or indiscreet conversations in public venues, while directing suspicion toward Avery's known associates. Only the final conclusion, who exploited those weaknesses, contains the deception."

"Elegant," Regulus acknowledged, a newfound respect evident in his voice. "A lie wrapped in layers of truth is always more convincing."

"A principle that applies to espionage and teaching teenagers equally well," Marquas observed dryly. "Speaking of which, I should return to Hogwarts before my absence raises questions."

As he prepared to Apparate, Regulus hesitated, uncharacteristic vulnerability crossing his aristocratic features. "Do you ever wonder if we're actually making a difference? Or just delaying the inevitable?"

Marquas paused, studying the younger man whose haunted eyes revealed the burden of his choices. "I believe we're rewriting the story," he said finally, choosing his words with care. "The original ending was tragic for too many people, yourself included. Every change we make creates possibilities that didn't exist before. The path may be uncertain, but it's one worth taking."

"Rewriting the story," Regulus repeated, the phrase settling over him like a comforting cloak but he didn't understand the meaning behind it. His shoulders straightened slightly. "I like that framing. It gives purpose to all this risk."

Marquas Apparated to the edge of Hogwarts grounds, the sharp report of his arrival startling a nearby thestral into flight. The creature's leathery wings beat against the night air as he began the long walk up to the castle, using the solitary journey to shift mentally from conspirator back to professor. The crunch of frozen grass beneath his boots and the distant hooting of owls from the forest accompanied his thoughts as they turned to practical matters, lesson plans, grading, and maintaining his precarious balancing act. By the time the castle's great doors came into view, illuminated by moonlight against the dark stone, he had carefully tucked away Regulus' information into the compartmentalized sections of his mind where he stored his most dangerous secrets.

Back in his quarters, he wrote:

Day 110: Voldemort suspects a traitor in his ranks. Ironic development: I've been tasked with identifying this traitor, myself. Beginning thorough inquiry while preparing to redirect suspicion toward Avery. Morally questionable but strategically necessary. Horcrux detection spell progressing. Planning Hogwarts search for diadem with R.A.B. He continues objecting to organization name despite obvious accuracy of descriptor.

He closed the journal with a sigh that seemed to come from deep within, the weight of his increasingly complex deception heavy on his mind. The coming weeks would test his abilities as never before, conducting a counter-intelligence operation while maintaining his cover as a loyal Death Eater, continuing to teach effectively, advancing their Horcrux hunt, and overseeing the rapid expansion of S. Prince Labs.

Running his fingers through his hair, Marquas poured a small measure of firewhisky into a crystal glass, not for the intoxication but for the grounding effect of the burn. He stood before the fire, watching the flames dance and cast shifting shadows across the stone walls. Despite the exhaustion that settled into his bones, there was an undeniable clarity that came with having chosen this path. The software developer he had once been would never have imagined standing here, a key player in a magical war, making decisions that could alter the course of history.

As the last of the whisky warmed his throat, a soft chime resonated from his wand, alerting him to someone approaching his quarters. But this time, he didn't bother drawing his wand, his dungeon-like cave had become far too frequented lately, even attracting some of the most powerful wizards in hogwards. He moved silently to the door, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps as he cast a discreet revealing spell to identify the visitor.

The magical signature was unmistakable, Albus Dumbledore stood outside, his magical aura distinctive even through the heavy oak door. More concerning was the unusual tension Marquas could sense in that aura, suggesting urgency.

Marquas opened the door immediately, schooling his features into the composed mask of Severus Snape. "Headmaster? What's happened?"

"I apologize for the late hour, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, the usual twinkle in his blue eyes dimmed by concern. The scent of lemon and something indefinably ancient accompanied him as he entered. "But I've just received troubling news that concerns us both. May I come in?"

Stepping aside, Marquas admitted the elderly wizard, quickly casting additional privacy charms around his quarters. The subtle shimmer of protective magic settled over the room like a fine mist before fading from view. "What news?"

Dumbledore settled into a chair, his normally immaculate robes slightly rumpled, a tell-tale sign of a long evening. The firelight cast deep shadows beneath his eyes as he stroked his silver beard thoughtfully. "I've received intelligence that Voldemort has initiated an internal investigation into possible treachery among his followers. Given your position, this places you in considerable danger."

"Actually," Marquas replied with grim humor, offering the Headmaster a cup of tea from the service that appeared with a snap of his fingers, "I've been assigned to conduct that investigation myself."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in surprise, his hand pausing midway to accepting the tea. "Indeed? That is... unexpected."

"Apparently, my 'analytical skills' and relative distance from daily operations make me ideal for the task," Marquas explained, unable to keep a hint of irony from his voice as he took the opposite chair. "Voldemort wants me to identify weaknesses in their security protocols and determine who might be exploiting them."

"Fascinating," Dumbledore murmured, "This could be either an extraordinary opportunity or a carefully laid trap."

"My assessment exactly," Marquas nodded, "I intend to proceed with caution, providing real insights into their operational vulnerabilities while misdirecting attention away from my own activities."

"A delicate balance," Dumbledore acknowledged, his eyes studying Marquas with that penetrating gaze that always seemed to see more than was comfortable. "Is there anything I can do to assist?"

Marquas considered the offer carefully, weighing vulnerabilities against advantages. "Actually, yes. I need believable intelligence to feed Voldemort, information that appears valuable but won't actually endanger Order operations. Controlled leaks that will reinforce my cover without causing real damage."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his long fingers steepled before him. "I can arrange that. Authentic but outdated information, perhaps, or details of operations that exist only on paper."

"Exactly," Marquas confirmed. "And in return, I'll have unprecedented access to Death Eater personnel files and operational procedures, intelligence that could prove invaluable to the Order."

They discussed the parameters of this arrangement for some time, the clock on the mantle marking the deepening night with soft chimes, with Dumbledore eventually agreeing to provide carefully curated intelligence that Marquas could "discover" during his investigation. It was a dangerous game they were playing, but one with potentially enormous benefits if executed correctly.

As Dumbledore prepared to leave, he paused at the door, his hand resting on the ancient wood. The momentary hesitation was so uncharacteristic of the normally decisive Headmaster that Marquas found himself instantly alert.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice softer than usual, "I feel compelled to ask, are you certain you wish to continue in this role? The risks increase exponentially with each passing month. No one would think less of you if you chose to step back to a position of lesser danger."

The question caught Marquas off guard. Canon Snape had never been given a choice, his path of atonement allowed no exit ramps. That Dumbledore would even offer the possibility of withdrawal suggested a fundamental shift in their relationship, a respect that had never existed in the original timeline where Snape was viewed as a tool of penance rather than a valued ally.

"I'm certain," Marquas replied after a moment's reflection, meeting the older wizard's gaze steadily. "This is where I can make the greatest difference. Besides," he added with the faintest hint of a smile, "I've always had a knack for impossible situations."

Dumbledore studied him with those penetrating blue eyes that seemed to contain galaxies of knowledge. "You continue to surprise me, Severus.

Damn it, did I just sell myself out again? Foolish. This old man's getting harder to fool by the day, Marquas thought bitterly. Whenever Dumbledore said, 'You've surprised me,' it was never a compliment. It meant he'd seen through something, and that was deeply unsettling.

After the Headmaster departed, the lingering scent of lemon drops and aged parchment slowly fading, Marquas stood for a long time at his window, gazing out over the moonlit grounds of Hogwarts. Snowflakes drifted past the frosted glass, each crystal catching moonlight before joining its brethren on the grounds below. He pressed his palm against the cold window, watching his breath fog the glass as an owl swooped silently across the lake, its reflection rippling in the dark water.

The stakes were rising, the game becoming increasingly dangerous. One misstep in his complex performance could mean disaster not just for himself, but for everything they were working toward. Yet despite the danger, or perhaps because of it, he felt a strange clarity of purpose that had eluded him in his previous life.

"Deception within deception," he murmured to his reflection in the window glass, his voice barely audible even to himself. "Let's see how you handle this plot twist, Tom."

Outside, the snow transformed Hogwarts into something deceptively serene, much like his carefully constructed persona, beautiful on the surface while concealing dangerous secrets beneath. He turned away from the window, mind already calculating his next moves in this deadly chess match where the pieces were people and the stakes were measured in lives.

Chapter Text

Interviewing Death Eaters about their potential treachery, Marquas discovered, was rather like performing dental work on a dragon, technically possible, but fraught with the constant risk of being incinerated for your troubles. Over the past two weeks, he had conducted "loyalty assessments" with eight of Voldemort's inner circle, each session more precarious than the last.

Bellatrix had spent their entire interview alternating between professing fanatical devotion to "her Lord" and thinly veiled threats about what would happen to anyone who questioned said devotion. She'd recited poetry she'd written about Voldemort's "glorious vision", three excruciating hours of verses that made teenage love sonnets sound like Shakespeare. Marquas had filed this under "psychological torture techniques to study later."

Dolohov had maintained stoic silence punctuated by cryptic statements about "necessary sacrifices." The Carrow siblings had competed to out-creep each other with detailed descriptions of their favorite torture techniques,apparently meant to demonstrate their commitment to the cause, but mostly succeeding in making Marquas reconsider his lunch choices.

"I'm starting to think Evil Villain Monthly needs to publish an article on conversation topics beyond torture and world domination," he'd muttered to himself after that particularly disturbing session. "Perhaps 'Ten Dark Hobbies That Don't Involve Screaming.'"

Today's subject was Fenrir Greyback, which presented its own unique challenges. The notorious werewolf wasn't technically part of the inner circle, but his control over the werewolf packs made him a valuable enough ally for Voldemort to include him in the investigation.

"I still don't understand why I'm being questioned," Greyback growled, his yellow eyes fixed on Marquas with predatory intensity. They were meeting in a secluded cabin in the Forbidden Forest, neutral territory that offered privacy while minimizing the risk of either party feeling trapped. "I'm not even marked."

"This isn't an accusation, merely standard procedure," Marquas replied smoothly, maintaining eye contact despite the werewolf's intimidation tactics. "The Dark Lord values your contribution too highly to exclude you from any aspect of our operations, including security protocols."

The flattery was calculated. Greyback, like most of Voldemort's allies, harbored resentment about his secondary status. Implying that he was considered equal to the marked Death Eaters soothed that particular insecurity.

"Fine," Greyback muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Ask your questions, then. But make it quick. Full moon's tomorrow, and I've got preparations to make."

Yes, I'm sure selecting children to attack requires extensive planning, Marquas thought darkly, but kept his expression neutral as he proceeded with the interview.

Unlike his sessions with the marked Death Eaters, this meeting had a secondary purpose beyond gathering intelligence or maintaining his cover. Marquas had specifically scheduled Greyback's interview for the day before the full moon for a very particular reason, one that sat in a small vial in his pocket, waiting for the right moment.

That moment came when Greyback, growing increasingly agitated with the questioning, demanded refreshment. "If you're going to keep me here answering your tedious questions, Snape, the least you could offer is a drink."

"Of course," Marquas agreed, summoning the bottle of firewhisky and glasses he'd prepared in advance. "My apologies for the oversight."

As he poured the amber liquid, Marquas performed a wandless, nonverbal switching spell, a technique he'd been practicing extensively for just such an occasion. The contents of the small vial in his pocket seamlessly replaced a portion of the whisky in Greyback's glass, the difference imperceptible to the eye. Even if Greyback had been watching for sleight-of-hand, Marquas's execution was flawless, the result of countless hours practicing on increasingly suspicious house-elves who eventually refused to accept any beverages from him whatsoever.

"To clarity," Marquas proposed, raising his own glass in a toast.

Greyback snorted but drank deeply, draining half the glass in one swallow. "Fine. Let's get this over with. No, I'm not your traitor. No, I don't know who is. And no, I don't particularly care as long as it doesn't affect my arrangement with the Dark Lord."

"Refreshingly direct," Marquas commented. "Most Death Eaters take at least forty-five minutes to reach that level of candor, usually after exhausting their entire vocabulary of sinister euphemisms."

The interview continued for another twenty minutes, during which Greyback consumed the remainder of his doctored whisky and provided surprisingly useful intelligence about werewolf movements and Ministry patrol patterns. Throughout, Marquas watched for signs that his special additive was taking effect.

The potion was his own creation, an experimental variation on the Wolfsbane Potion, which wouldn't be widely available for years in the original timeline. But where traditional Wolfsbane allowed a werewolf to maintain human consciousness during transformation, Marquas's version included a powerful mood-altering component designed specifically for Greyback.

The first sign of its effectiveness came when Greyback, mid-rant about his plans to "teach the Ministry's lapdogs a lesson tomorrow night," suddenly paused and frowned, as if losing his train of thought.

"You were saying?" Marquas prompted, carefully maintaining his impassive expression.

"I... hmm." Greyback rubbed his forehead. "What was I... oh, yes. Tomorrow's hunt. But perhaps..." A confused look passed over his face. "Perhaps we should consider a different approach."

"Different how?" Marquas asked, feigning casual interest while internally celebrating the potion's apparent success.

"Well," Greyback said slowly, looking almost bewildered by his own thoughts, "violence isn't always the answer, is it? Maybe a more... diplomatic approach? Show wizards that werewolves can be... civilized?"

It was all Marquas could do to keep from smirking. The potion was working perfectly, subtly altering Greyback's aggressive tendencies without being so dramatic as to alert him that he'd been drugged. By tomorrow night, the infamous werewolf would approach the full moon with unprecedented calmness and introspection rather than his usual bloodlust.

"An interesting perspective," Marquas commented neutrally. "The Dark Lord values strategic thinking as well as strength."

"Yes, strategy," Greyback nodded, seeming relieved to have his uncharacteristic thoughts framed this way. "That's it exactly. Strategic... restraint."

By the time they concluded the interview, Greyback appeared noticeably disoriented not enough to suspect magical interference, but enough that his typical aggressive exit was replaced by an almost thoughtful departure, complete with a puzzlingly polite "thank you for the whisky."

As soon as the werewolf was beyond the wards, Marquas allowed himself a satisfied smile. If his calculations were correct, Greyback and his pack would spend tomorrow night's full moon engaged in uncharacteristically peaceful activities, a welcome respite for the communities that typically lived in terror of their monthly attacks.

It wasn't a permanent solution to the Greyback problem, but it would save lives tomorrow night. And that was enough for now.

"You did what?" Regulus asked incredulously when they met later that evening at their Cokeworth headquarters. "Drugged Fenrir Greyback the night before a full moon? Are you actively trying to get yourself murdered in creative ways?"

"It was a calculated risk," Marquas replied, sorting through the notes from his Death Eater interviews. "The potion is subtle enough that he'll attribute any behavioral changes to his own decision-making. By the time he realizes something unusual happened, the evidence will be long gone from his system."

"And what exactly will this potion make him do?" Regulus pressed, still looking concerned despite his evident fascination with the plan.

Marquas allowed himself a small smile. "Nothing dramatic. He'll simply find himself more interested in contemplative activities than hunting children. The mood-altering component creates a temporary preference for calmness over aggression, while the modified Wolfsbane elements help maintain that human consciousness during transformation."

"So instead of terrorizing villages, he'll do what, read poetry and contemplate the meaning of life?"

"Something like that," Marquas nodded. "I expect he'll find himself drawn to quiet, peaceful environments. Perhaps enjoying a cup of tea while leafing through intellectual literature."

The mental image of Fenrir Greyback, notorious child-biter and self-proclaimed "monster among monsters" sitting calmly with a cup of tea and a copy of "Witch Weekly" was apparently too much for Regulus, who burst into laughter.

"A werewolf tea party," he managed between chuckles. "Merlin's beard, Snape, you have the strangest methods of fighting dark wizards I've ever encountered."

"Unconventional problems require unconventional solutions," Marquas replied with a shrug, though he couldn't help sharing in Regulus's amusement. "Besides, can you imagine Voldemort's reaction when he hears his attack dog spent the full moon discussing philosophy instead of spreading terror?"

"He'll be furious," Regulus nodded, sobering slightly. "Which could be dangerous for Greyback and potentially for you if he suspects interference."

"Hence the subtlety of the potion," Marquas explained. "It mimics natural mood fluctuations rather than obvious magical control. Greyback will experience the change as his own choice, not external influence. By the time anyone questions it, there will be no magical signature to trace."

They moved on to discussing the progress of their Horcrux detection spell, which was showing promising results in laboratory testing. Using the residual magic from the destroyed locket, Regulus had created a modified version of a standard dark object detector that resonated specifically with the unique magical signature of soul fragments. The Horcrux detection spell is crucial to him, what if the events unfolded differently from the original canon? Then, it could become the key to tracing the remaining Horcruxes’ locations.

"It still has limited range," Regulus explained, demonstrating the wand movement required to activate the spell. "About thirty feet maximum. But it should be enough for targeted searches of specific locations."

"Perfect for our Hogwarts expedition," Marquas nodded. "Which brings me to the logistics. Getting you into the castle undetected won't be simple, but I believe I've found a solution."

He outlined his plan: using the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend as cover, Regulus would enter Hogwarts through the secret passage from Honeydukes' cellar, disguised with both Polyjuice Potion and additional glamour charms as extra security. Marquas would ensure the seventh-floor corridor was clear, allowing them access to the Room of Requirement to search for Ravenclaw's diadem.

"Assuming we find it, how do we destroy it?" Regulus asked. "Fiendfyre is effective but notoriously difficult to control, and basilisk venom isn't exactly available at the apothecary."

"I've been working on that," Marquas replied, retrieving a small wooden box from his work table. Inside, nestled in protective silk, lay a silver dagger with runes etched along its blade. "This is still experimental, but the theory is sound. I've infused the blade with a potion that replicates some properties of basilisk venom, not as powerful as the genuine article, but potentially strong enough to damage a Horcrux beyond magical repair."

Regulus examined the dagger with professional appreciation. "Impressive spellwork. The runic sequences are... Albanian? Interesting choice."

"Albanian magical traditions have a particularly relevant approach to soul magic," Marquas explained, carefully navigating around his foreknowledge that Voldemort would eventually hide in Albanian forests. "Their concept of binding and severance aligns well with our purpose."

They spent the next hour finalizing details for the Hogwarts infiltration, scheduled for the following weekend. As they worked, Marquas couldn't help noticing how naturally they had fallen into this partnership, Regulus's pureblood magical knowledge complementing his own strategic thinking and innovative approach.

"By the way," Regulus said as they were concluding, "any progress on your Death Eater investigation? Beyond drugging werewolves into philosophical contemplation, that is."

"Actually, yes," Marquas replied, retrieving a sealed folder from his cloak. "I've compiled enough evidence to present Avery as our likely leak. Documented inconsistencies in his reports, unexplained absences around compromised operations, and suspicious financial transactions that could indicate Ministry payoffs."

"Is any of it true?" Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow.

"About sixty percent," Marquas admitted. "The financial irregularities are genuine, though likely due to gambling debts rather than bribes. The timeline inconsistencies are factual but have innocent explanations. I've simply... recontextualized the facts to suggest a pattern of betrayal."

Regulus frowned slightly. "And you're comfortable with this? Essentially condemning a man for crimes he didn't commit?"

It was a fair question, one that Marquas had struggled with himself. "Comfortable? No. But Avery has committed plenty of actual crimes for which he'll never face justice. His hands are far from clean in this war."

"True enough," Regulus acknowledged. "I suppose in a conflict like this, traditional morality becomes something of a luxury."

"I prefer to think of it as triage," Marquas replied quietly. "Sacrificing one Death Eater's welfare may save dozens of innocent lives. It's not a choice I make lightly, but it's one I can defend, even to myself."

The conversation left Marquas in a contemplative mood as he returned to Hogwarts that night. He was a simple man living quietly in Europe, carrying out his duties with calm precision. The only blood he'd ever seen was in hospitals. Deception wasn't his skill, nor could he imagine taking a life. His modest existence had one purpose: to give Snape the peaceful life and recognition he deserved after years of suffering. Yet somehow, he found himself becoming central to the approaching war. Defeating Voldemort was never his responsibility. If life had granted him a second chance, why should he fight others' battles? And yet he did, so Harry Potter's generation might know peace.

He never sought the Philosopher's Stone to extend his life, nor chased the Deathly Hallows to conquer death. In this world, only two things truly mattered to him: the diary that held his secrets, and perhaps, in a quiet corner of his heart, Regulus Black. Perhaps he saw a reflection of his younger brother in Regulus, the brother he lost long ago to the ocean tides.

He wasn't this world's hero. this was reality, not some tale. He understood a fundamental truth: pursuing power, love, and fame only led to conflict and bloodshed. He made no claims to heroism, he was simply someone who understood the cost and chose a different path.

The moral complexities of his position grew more challenging with each passing week. Where did one draw the line between necessary compromise and corrupting expediency? How many ethical concessions could be made in service to a greater good before that good itself became compromised?

These were questions without easy answers, questions that the simplified morality of the original books had never fully explored.

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Chapter Text

The following evening found Marquas in his dimly lit office, the scratching of his quill against parchment providing a rhythmic counterpoint to the occasional crackle from the small fire warding off the dungeon's perpetual chill. The scent of sandalwood incense, chosen specifically to mask any unusual potion ingredients he might be working with, hung in the air as he graded third-year essays with half his attention while the other half monitored the specialized tracking charm he'd placed on Fenrir Greyback during their interview. The charm was minimal, designed only to provide general location and basic activity level rather than detailed surveillance that might be detected but sufficient to confirm whether his potion had achieved the desired effect.

As the full moon rose over the Scottish Highlands, painting Marquas's office window with silvery light that seemed to make the potion bottles gleam ominously on their shelves, the tracking charm indicated that Greyback remained stationary in what appeared to be a remote cabin, not prowling forest edges or approaching settlements as was his usual pattern. Activity levels showed calm, measured movements rather than the frenzied aggression typical of his transformed state.

"Werewolf tea party indeed," Marquas murmured with satisfaction, a rare hint of genuine accomplishment warming his typically guarded expression as he made a final notation in his observation journal before removing the tracking charm entirely to eliminate any evidence of his interference.

The next day, a sharp knock at his office door startled Marquas from his concentration. With practiced efficiency, he closed the journal and swept his desk clear of anything suspicious, composing his features into their customary impassivity before calling, "Enter."

Minerva McGonagall swept into the room, her emerald robes rustling softly against the stone floor. The tight lines around her mouth betrayed a curious blend of confusion and what appeared to be, most unusually for her, cautious relief.

"Severus, have you seen the morning edition of the Prophet?" The faint scent of Scottish breakfast tea and ginger biscuits accompanied her words.

She handed him the newspaper without waiting for a response. The headline immediately caught his attention, the bold black letters seeming to leap from the page:

WEREWOLF ATTACKS FAIL TO MATERIALIZE: MINISTRY PUZZLED BY PEACEFUL FULL MOON

The article went on to report that despite intelligence suggesting planned werewolf activity in three different regions, no attacks had occurred. Ministry officials were quoted expressing cautious optimism while acknowledging they had no explanation for the unexpected reprieve.

"Most curious," Marquas commented, keeping his expression neutral despite the inner satisfaction that coursed through him like a warming draught. "Perhaps the werewolf packs are changing tactics."

"Perhaps," McGonagall replied, her Scottish brogue becoming more pronounced as it always did when she was skeptical. She peered at him over her square spectacles, clearly not entirely convinced. "Though it seems a rather dramatic change, doesn't it? Fenrir Greyback has never missed an opportunity to cause suffering during a full moon. Not once in all these years."

"People can surprise you," Marquas offered with a delicate arch of his eyebrow, returning the newspaper. "Even monsters occasionally reconsider their methods. Or perhaps something... interfered with their usual activities."

McGonagall studied him with that shrewd, penetrating gaze that had intimidated generations of students. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft bubbling of a cauldron in the corner where a mild Calming Draught simmered for the hospital wing.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this unexpected development, would you, Severus?" she asked finally, her tone suggesting she already suspected the answer.

"Me?" Marquas raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocence though his obsidian eyes glittered with the slightest hint of amusement. "I'm merely a Potions Master and professor, Minerva. My influence on werewolf social behavior is regrettably limited. Though I will admit, the timing is... fortuitous."

"Hmm," she responded, the sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. She adjusted her spectacles, clearly unconvinced but apparently deciding not to press the issue. "Well, whatever the cause, or whoever might have caused it, it's a welcome respite for the communities that live in fear of these monthly attacks. Particularly the children."

"Indeed," Marquas agreed sincerely, his mask slipping just enough to show genuine sentiment. "A night without innocent victims is always worth celebrating, regardless of how it came about. Some battles must be fought quietly, with subtle weapons rather than grand gestures."

McGonagall's eyes widened fractionally at this unusual glimpse of sincerity from her typically guarded colleague. She opened her mouth as if to pursue this rare opening, then seemed to think better of it, nodding instead with something like respect in her gaze.

After McGonagall departed, her footsteps fading into the dungeon's ambient dripping and creaking, Marquas allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. His intervention had worked precisely as intended, lives had been saved without compromising his cover or leaving evidence that could be traced back to him. It was a small victory in the greater scheme of the war, but sometimes those small victories were what kept one going through the darker moments.

The pleasant warmth of accomplishment was a rare visitor to his chambers. Savoring it briefly, he made a mental note to refine the potion formula for future use. A more stable version with longer-lasting effects could potentially neutralize Greyback as a threat for extended periods, significantly reducing Voldemort's influence over the werewolf communities.

The momentary satisfaction of his werewolf intervention was short-lived. Three days later, Marquas stood before Voldemort in Malfoy Manor's study, the cloying scent of magical incense doing little to mask the underlying smell of fear that permeated any space the Dark Lord occupied for long. The ornate room, with its heavy velvet drapes and ancient tomes, felt suffocating as Marquas presented the results of his investigation into the suspected Death Eater traitor.

The Dark Lord listened with unnerving stillness as Marquas methodically outlined the evidence against Avery, the timeline discrepancies, the financial irregularities, the pattern of "coincidences" that collectively painted a damning picture. Only the slight movement of Voldemort's pale fingers against the armrest and the occasional flicker in his crimson eyes indicated he was absorbing every calculated word.

"Most concerning is his unexplained absence during the Bristol planning session," Marquas concluded, indicating the relevant documentation in his report with a precise gesture. "He claimed illness, yet was seen at Gringotts that same afternoon, appearing perfectly healthy. The next day, Aurors somehow knew precisely when and where our team would emerge from the designated apparition point."

Voldemort's red eyes narrowed slightly as he absorbed this information, the temperature in the room seeming to drop several degrees.

"You are certain of these findings, Severus?" Voldemort asked, his high, cold voice barely above a whisper. "Avery has been among my followers since the beginning. His family has served my cause for generations."

"I have verified each element personally, my Lord," Marquas confirmed, maintaining eye contact despite the unsettling sensation of Voldemort's passive Legilimency brushing against his mental shields. "While any single inconsistency might be explained away, the pattern is difficult to dismiss. If not deliberate betrayal, it indicates at minimum a concerning level of carelessness and indiscretion."

"Indeed," Voldemort murmured, his long, pale fingers tracing the edge of the financial records Marquas had compiled. The soft rasping sound was somehow more menacing than any shouted threat. "And these transactions? You believe they represent Ministry payments?"

"It's one possibility," Marquas replied with calculated precision, the weight of his words measured precisely. "The timing aligns suspiciously with several compromised operations. However, I've also uncovered evidence suggesting gambling debts to certain goblins, which could provide an alternative explanation, one that might make him vulnerable to blackmail or coercion rather than indicating willing treachery."

This strategic approach was deliberately crafted. Presenting Avery as potentially compromised rather than willfully traitorous gave Voldemort options in how to respond, options that might not necessarily end with Avery's immediate execution, though his future would certainly be unpleasant regardless.

Voldemort fell silent, his serpentine features unnervingly still as he considered the information.

"Interesting," Voldemort said softly after what seemed an eternity, his expression unreadable though a calculating gleam had entered his crimson gaze. "You've been most thorough, Severus. I am... pleased with your diligence in this matter."

"Thank you, my Lord." Marquas inclined his head, keeping his relief carefully hidden behind his Occlumency shields.

"There remains the question of how to address this situation," Voldemort continued, rising from his chair to pace the study with predatory grace, his bare feet making no sound against the expensive carpet. "A public example would discourage others from similar weakness, yet might alert our enemies that we've identified their source."

Marquas remained perfectly still, knowing that any movement during Voldemort's deliberation could be interpreted as nervousness or impatience, potentially fatal mistakes.

"If I may suggest an alternative approach, my Lord?" he ventured carefully when Voldemort's pacing brought him near again. When Voldemort nodded permission, the slight tilt of his hairless head almost gracious, Marquas continued, "Perhaps Avery could be more valuable as an unwitting conduit for misinformation. If he is indeed passing intelligence to our enemies, controlling what information he has access to would allow us to mislead them strategically."

Voldemort paused in his pacing, his lipless mouth curving in what might have been appreciation. The expression was more terrifying than his anger, somehow. "Clever, Severus," he said, the sibilant quality of his voice more pronounced. "Using their own tool against them... Yes, I find that approach elegant in its irony."

He returned to his seat with fluid grace, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he expanded on the concept. "We could feed him information about planned attacks that will never materialize, drawing Auror resources away from our actual targets. Perhaps even create the impression that certain Order members have been compromised, sowing distrust within their ranks."

Voldemort's eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure at the prospect of such manipulation. "Avery will be kept within our ranks but fed carefully curated information. When the moment is right, this deception will cost our enemies dearly. And when his usefulness has ended..." He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

"As you wish, my Lord."

The meeting concluded with Voldemort assigning Marquas a new task, developing the framework for this misinformation campaign while promising to "address Avery's carelessness personally."

It was, Marquas reflected as he strode away from Malfoy Manor, the gravel crunching beneath his boots and the evening air a blessed relief after the stifling atmosphere inside, about the best outcome he could have hoped for. Avery would suffer, certainly, but would likely survive and more importantly, Voldemort's suspicions about internal treachery had been redirected away from other potential targets, including Marquas himself.

The moral calculus remained uncomfortable, settling in his chest like a cold weight. He had effectively framed an innocent man (or at least innocent of this specific betrayal) to protect his own cover. Yet that cover allowed him to continue working against Voldemort from within, potentially saving many more lives than would be lost if his true allegiance were discovered.

"The lesser evil," he murmured to himself as he apparated back to Hogsmeade, the familiar discomfort of magical compression a momentary distraction from the ethical compromise. "Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless."

Chapter Text

That weekend brought the next phase of their operation: the infiltration of Hogwarts to search for Ravenclaw's diadem. As planned, Regulus, disguised via Polyjuice as an unremarkable Ministry educational inspector, entered the castle through the Honeydukes passage, meeting Marquas in a secluded corridor near the Room of Requirement.

The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across their faces as they conferred in hushed tones, the distant sounds of students enjoying their weekend freedom echoing from far corridors.

"Any complications?" Marquas asked quietly as they made their way toward the seventh floor, their footsteps muffled by a subtle silencing charm.

"None," Regulus replied, his borrowed face showing subtle signs of strain from maintaining the additional glamour charms layered over the Polyjuice disguise. A bead of sweat traced his temple despite the castle's perpetual coolness. "Though this double-layered concealment is magically taxing. I wouldn't want to maintain it for more than a few hours. The drain is... considerable."

We'll be efficient," Marquas said coolly, eyes flicking to the Marauder's Map he’d lifted from a few unsuspecting students, a knowing smirk curling on his lips, the same kind Severus Snape wore whenever he cornered Harry Potter. The magical parchment showed the seventh-floor corridor was currently deserted, the tiny labeled footprints of students and faculty all safely distant from their location. "The room should be accessible without interference."

They reached the appropriate corridor, the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet providing the bizarre landmark needed. Marquas paced three times before the blank wall, his footsteps measured and deliberate as he concentrated intently: I need the place where everything is hidden... I need the place where everything is hidden... I need the place where everything is hidden...

On the third pass, an ornate door materialized in the previously blank stone wall, its ancient wood seeming to grow organically from the surrounding stone. With a quick glance to ensure they remained unobserved, Marquas opened the door, wincing slightly at the faint creak of hinges that hadn't moved in months, and they slipped inside.

The Room of Hidden Things was exactly as Marquas remembered from the books' descriptions, a cathedral-sized space filled with towering piles of objects discarded or concealed by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. The musty scent of old books mingled with the metallic tang of forgotten magical artifacts, while the air itself seemed to hum with the residual magic of thousands of objects. Dust motes danced in shafts of light from unseen windows, and the occasional creak or rustle suggested that not all the room's contents were inanimate.

Furniture, books, contraband, clothing, magical artifacts, a chaotic museum of the forbidden, forgotten, and lost stretched before them in towering, precarious piles that seemed to defy both gravity and logic.

"Impressive," Regulus murmured, his eyes widening as he took in the vast collection, his voice echoing slightly despite its softness. "How are we supposed to find one small diadem in... this? It's like searching for a specific grain of sand on a beach."

"That's where your detection spell comes in," Marquas replied, drawing his wand from his sleeve with practiced precision. The ebony wood seemed to drink in what little light reached them. "Let's start with a systematic grid search, beginning from this entrance point and working our way deeper. Concentrate on objects that might have been here since the founding era."

They began casting the specialized Horcrux detection charm in overlapping patterns, methodically covering sections of the enormous room. The magic was exhausting, requiring intense concentration to distinguish between the background magical noise of thousands of enchanted objects and the specific dark signature of a Horcrux.

"This is like trying to hear a whisper in a thunderstorm," Regulus muttered after forty minutes of fruitless searching. His borrowed face was pale with strain, sweat now freely running down his temples from maintaining both the disguise and the complex detection magic. His wand hand trembled slightly with the ongoing effort.

Marquas nodded grimly, wiping dust from his brow with his sleeve. "The interference is worse than I anticipated. We may need to modify the detection parameters."

They paused to adjust their approach, Marquas drawing on his extensive theoretical knowledge while Regulus contributed practical insight from his family's dark artifacts collection. After recalibrating the spell to filter out common magical signatures, they resumed their search, moving deeper into the labyrinthine collection.

Another half hour passed with nothing but false alarms, a cursed music box that played when they approached, its melody haunting and discordant; a book of forbidden hexes that whispered enticements when Regulus passed too close; a necklace that had once strangled its owner, the tarnished silver still seeming to twist with malevolent purpose. Each required careful inspection before being ruled out, precious minutes ticking away as Regulus's Polyjuice disguise gradually approached its time limit.

"We should consider retreating and returning another day," Marquas suggested, noting the increasing frequency with which Regulus had to renew the stability charms on his disguise. The younger man's breathing had become labored, his magical reserves clearly depleting rapidly. "Your disguise won't hold much longer at this rate."

"One more section," Regulus insisted, his determination evident despite his fatigue. His eyes, though set in a borrowed face, burned with the characteristic Black family stubbornness. "I felt something... different... just beyond that collapsed wardrobe. Something that resonates differently from these other dark objects. Colder, somehow."

They carefully navigated around a precariously balanced tower of chairs, Marquas steadying a wobbling stack of books with a quick stabilizing charm as Regulus's robes caught the corner. The dust they disturbed swirled in the air, causing them both to stifle coughs that might disrupt their detection spells.

Just as they were about to give up, Regulus's spell suddenly emitted a soft, discordant chime like cracked glass being struck. The sound raised the hair on Marquas's arms, his body instinctively recognizing the proximity of something fundamentally wrong.

"I've got something," Regulus said tersely, following the magical resonance like a divining rod, his wand hand extended before him. His face had taken on an almost feverish intensity. "This direction, approximately twenty feet ahead. It's... pulsing, somehow. Like a heartbeat, but wrong."

They navigated through more precariously balanced towers of discarded objects, following the strengthening signal. Twice they had to backtrack when paths were blocked, and once Regulus nearly lost the signal entirely when a shifting pile of enchanted clothing temporarily interfered with the detection charm.

Finally, they reached a tarnished cabinet with serpentine legs. Atop it sat a discolored bust of an old warlock wearing an expression of perpetual disdain, and perched on the bust's head, almost innocuous in its tarnished state, was an ancient tiara.

"Ravenclaw's diadem," Marquas confirmed softly, careful not to touch it directly. The object radiated a subtle wrongness that made his skin crawl even from several feet away, like standing too close to a fire that burned with cold rather than heat. "Just as the legends described it."

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," Regulus quoted the Ravenclaw motto, staring at the corrupted artifact with a mixture of academic fascination and visceral disgust. His face had drained of what little color remained. "Though I doubt it offers much wisdom in its current state. The corruption is... profound."

Using a specialized containment bag lined with protective enchantments, they carefully secured the diadem without direct contact. The Horcrux seemed to pulse with malevolent awareness inside its prison, like a captured venomous creature seeking escape. Even through the layers of protective magic, Marquas could feel it searching for weaknesses, probing for minds it could influence.

"Two down," Marquas murmured as they prepared to leave the Room of Requirement, the weight of the contained Horcrux seeming far greater than its physical size would suggest. "Four to go, assuming our theory about the total number is correct."

Regulus nodded, some of his strength returning now that the demanding detection spell could be discontinued.

"We'll find them," Marquas assured him with quiet confidence. "Piece by piece, we'll dismantle his immortality. The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion may be small, but we're effective."

They had almost reached the exit when disaster struck. The door to the room suddenly swung open with a heavy groan of ancient hinges. The corridor's cooler air rushed in, carrying with it the distinctive scent of lemon drops that always seemed to accompany Albus Dumbledore, who stood framed in the doorway, his bright blue eyes widening in surprise behind half-moon spectacles at the unexpected encounter.

"Ah," the Headmaster said mildly, though his wand hand shifted subtly to a ready position, the ancient yew wood appearing in his fingers seemingly from nowhere. "I thought I sensed unusual magic in this vicinity. Professor Snape, would you care to introduce your... guest?"

Marquas and Regulus exchanged a quick glance, tension crackling between them like static electricity. This was an unforeseen complication, one that could potentially expose their entire operation if handled poorly.

"Headmaster," Marquas began carefully, mind racing for a plausible explanation that wouldn't reveal Regulus's true identity or their Horcrux hunt. "Allow me to present "

Before he could continue, the Polyjuice disguise chose that precise moment to begin wearing off, Regulus's borrowed features starting to shift and melt like wax under heat. His nondescript brown hair darkened to the characteristic Black family raven hue, his unremarkable features sharpening into the aristocratic lines of his true face.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose dramatically as he observed the transformation, but rather than alarm, his eyes showed a glimmer of what might have been, most troublingly, amusement. "Most interesting," he commented, his wand now fully raised, though his posture remained deceptively relaxed. "Perhaps this discussion would be better continued in my office? "

And with that simple statement, the carefully constructed secrecy of their "Reasonably Handsome Rebellion" faced its greatest challenge yet. Their unauthorized Horcrux hunt, Regulus's continued existence, and Marquas's independent operations were all suddenly at risk of exposure to the one wizard whose cooperation they needed but whose control they had deliberately avoided.

"Well," Regulus muttered under his breath as his true features continued to emerge, the last vestiges of his disguise melting away like morning mist, "this complicates matters."

Marquas could only nod in grim agreement as they followed Dumbledore toward his office, the captured Horcrux still concealed in its protective bag and their carefully laid plans crumbling around them. The weight of the diadem in his pocket seemed to increase with every step, as though the soul fragment inside understood that its capture might soon be known to the greatest wizard of the age.

Sometimes, even the best strategic minds couldn't account for simple bad timing.

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Chapter Text

Dumbledore's office hummed with the soft whirring of delicate silver instruments, their surfaces catching the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the high windows. The familiar scent of old books and lemon drops hung in the air, nearly, but not quite, masking the faint aura of corruption emanating from the lead container before them. As Marquas sat there in his role as both Death Eater spy and newly minted member of "The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion," he couldn't help but appreciate how this meeting ranked among the most unusual in the chamber's storied history.

To his left sat Regulus Black, a man officially dead for months, now fully restored to his own appearance as the Polyjuice had completely worn off, his aristocratic features tight with tension. Between them on Dumbledore's desk, inside a hastily conjured lead container, sat Ravenclaw's diadem, a priceless historical artifact corrupted by the darkest magic imaginable. Even contained within lead, its presence felt like a persistent whisper against their minds, the magical equivalent of a foul taste that couldn't be washed away.

And across from them, Albus Dumbledore stroked his beard with deliberate thoughtfulness, his blue eyes twinkling with what might have been amusement, curiosity, or the early stages of a carefully controlled fury. With Dumbledore, it was often difficult to tell the difference. The man could announce impending doom with the same cheerful expression he used when offering lemon drops.

"Well," the Headmaster said finally, breaking the tense silence that had stretched between them like an unplayed string. "This is, I must say, an unexpected development."

Understatement of the century, Marquas thought, but kept his expression as neutral as the bitter potion he'd perfected in his laboratory.

Dumbledore turned his attention to Marquas, the weight of his gaze almost tangible. "While I was certainly aware of your rescue mission to retrieve Mr. Black, I was under the distinct impression that you had delivered him to a secure location abroad. Not that you were collaborating on unauthorized Horcrux hunts within the very walls of Hogwarts."

There it was, the core issue. Not just Regulus's continued existence, but the fact that they had been operating independently, pursuing Horcruxes without Dumbledore's knowledge or direction.

Working with Dumbledore was like playing chess with a grandmaster who insisted on using pieces you couldn't see, the old wizard orchestrated everything from the shadows, a habit that made Marquas's skin crawl. Control was a currency he had no intention of surrendering, not again. While it was easy to deceive someone like Regulus due to his youth and inexperience, Dumbledore was an entirely different matter. He was a formidable opponent, and Marquas couldn't afford to act openly with his canon knowledge in the presence of someone so perceptive. It was said that Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort ever truly feared. And the most dangerous part? Dumbledore would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, even if it meant sacrificing himself or those closest to him.

Marquas chose his words carefully, weighing each one like a volatile potion ingredient. "We saw an opportunity to contribute to the effort against Voldemort in a way that minimized risk to the Order while leveraging our unique positions and knowledge."

"How considerate," Dumbledore remarked dryly, the words accompanied by the smallest arch of one silvery eyebrow. "And naturally, you felt no need to inform me of these contributions."

"With respect, Headmaster," Marquas countered, meeting those penetrating blue eyes without flinching, "compartmentalization of information is standard practice in espionage. The fewer people aware of Regulus's involvement, the safer he remains, particularly given his knowledge of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

"A reasonable precaution," Dumbledore acknowledged, his long fingers tracing the edge of the desk absently. "Though it does raise the question of trust specifically, your apparent lack thereof in me."

"It's not about trust," Regulus interjected unexpectedly, his voice stronger than before. "It's about operational security and independent capability. The Order of the Phoenix, while effective, is also a known quantity to Voldemort. He has spent years studying your methods, anticipating your moves. We offer something he doesn't expect, a shadow operation with different approaches and priorities."

Dumbledore studied them both for a long moment before his gaze settled on the lead container. The subtle lines around his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. "And this," he gestured toward it, "is the product of your shadow initiative? You've found another Horcrux?"

"Ravenclaw's diadem," Marquas confirmed with a nod. "Hidden in the Room of Requirement for decades, presumably since Voldemort's time as a student or during his visit to apply for the Defense position."

"Most impressive," Dumbledore murmured, genuine admiration briefly overriding his concern about their unauthorized activities. "I have been researching possible Horcrux locations for months without considering Hogwarts itself as a potential hiding place. An oversight on my part, and an insight on yours."

As Dumbledore considered their explanation, a flash of crimson caught Marquas's eye. Fawkes, who had been watching them with unnerving intelligence, glided from his perch to the edge of Dumbledore's desk, golden talons settling inches from the lead container. The phoenix tilted his head toward the container, emitting a soft, mournful trill that made the hair on Marquas's neck stand up.

"Indeed, old friend," Dumbledore agreed, as if understanding perfectly. "A terrible perversion of magic." He returned his attention to Marquas and Regulus. "So," Dumbledore steepled his fingers, eyes moving from the lead box to their faces, "we have two problems on our hands, don't we? This rather corrupted historical artifact, and your... extracurricular activities."

Marquas tensed slightly, his fingertips brushing against his concealed wand. This was the crucial moment, would Dumbledore attempt to shut down their operation or find a way to accommodate it within his larger strategy?

"The Horcrux should be destroyed immediately," Regulus stated firmly, sweat beading almost imperceptibly at his temples. "We've developed a method that might work, though we haven't tested it yet."

"Oh?" Dumbledore's eyebrows rose with interest, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening.

"A specially enchanted dagger," Regulus explained, leaning forward slightly, "infused with a complex potion that Marquas developed by reverse-engineering the principles of basilisk venom. It took three months of testing on dark objects of increasing complexity, each failure leaving scorch marks we're still cleaning off the ceiling, but the theory is sound. The potion replicates certain properties of basilisk venom, theoretically capable of destroying a Horcrux without requiring Fiendfyre or actual venom, both of which present significant handling risks."

"We briefly considered other methods," Marquas added, his voice perfectly deadpan. "But 'asking it nicely to stop being evil' and 'putting it in the lost and found' both seemed unlikely to yield satisfactory results. The third option involved interpretive dance, but Regulus vetoed that immediately."

A surprised chuckle escaped Dumbledore before he could suppress it. "A most ingenious approach," he commented, looking genuinely impressed. "Though I would suggest an alternative, if I may. Fiendfyre, while dangerous, can be controlled in a proper containment environment. I have access to such facilities, and experience with the precise application required."

The implication was clear, Dumbledore was offering to handle the destruction personally, maintaining some control over the process while acknowledging their discovery. A mutual concession.

"That would be acceptable," Marquas conceded after exchanging a glance with Regulus. "Assuming we receive confirmation of its destruction."

"Naturally," Dumbledore nodded, his beard catching the late afternoon sunlight. "Which brings us to the second question, your continued operations outside official Order channels."

Here it came, the attempt to bring them under control, to fold their independent work into his master plan. Marquas braced himself for the diplomatic battle ahead, muscles tensing beneath his black robes.

But Dumbledore surprised him. "I propose a compromise," the Headmaster said mildly. "Your... what did you call it again?"

"The Reasonably Handsome Rebellion," Regulus supplied with the faintest hint of embarrassment, a flush creeping up his neck.

Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly. "Ah yes, a most distinctive name. Your organization may continue its independent operations with my blessing, provided we establish certain parameters for information sharing and coordination."

Marquas blinked, momentarily thrown by the unexpected reasonableness of this proposal. "What sort of parameters?" he asked, voice carefully neutral despite his surprise.

"Regular progress reports on your Horcrux investigations, not detailed enough to compromise security if intercepted, but sufficient to prevent duplicate efforts or accidental interference with each other's operations," Dumbledore explained, conjuring a tea service with a casual flick of his wand. The scent of Earl Grey filled the air as he continued. "Coordination on major actions that might affect broader Order strategy. And a mutual understanding that while your methods may differ from mine, our ultimate goal remains the same."

Marquas turned the proposal over in his mind. It was... reasonable. Shockingly so. Support without subjugation, legitimacy without loss of freedom. He'd expected a chess move; this felt more like an invitation to play as equals.

"There's also the matter of Mr. Black's continued 'deceased' status," Dumbledore added, passing cups of tea that neither of them had requested but both accepted automatically. "Which I assume you wish to maintain?"

"Absolutely," Regulus confirmed, his fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain. "My effectiveness, and survival, depends on Voldemort believing I died in that cave."

"Quite understandable," Dumbledore agreed, stirring a spoonful of honey into his own cup. "In that case, I suggest we formalize your role as a ghost operative, known only to myself and Professor Snape within the Order. Your contributions can be anonymized in any reports shared with the broader resistance."

After discussing additional details and establishing secure communication protocols over tea that grew gradually cold, they reached an accord that satisfied all parties, a remarkable achievement given the potentially explosive nature of their unauthorized activities being discovered.

As they prepared to leave, Dumbledore posed one final question that caught them both off guard: "I am curious, what inspired you to check the Room of Requirement specifically? It's not a location commonly associated with Voldemort or widely known among students."

Marquas hesitated, unsure how to explain his foreknowledge without raising impossible questions. Fortunately, Regulus stepped in smoothly.

"Family research," he explained, adjusting his robes with practiced nonchalance. "The Black library contains obscure references to Hogwarts' hidden spaces. Given Voldemort's obsession with the school and its founders, it seemed a logical possibility worth exploring."

Dumbledore studied them both for a moment. Marquas recognized that careful, calculating look, the Headmaster accepted the explanation for now, but suspicion lingered behind those twinkling eyes.

"Well then," he said, rising from his chair with a rustle of embroidered robes, "I believe our business is concluded for today. Mr. Black, I suggest you depart through my private Floo connection rather than risking the corridors again. Professor Snape, a moment more of your time, if you please."

After Regulus had disappeared through the emerald flames, Dumbledore turned to Marquas with a more serious expression. "Severus, while I appreciate your initiative in this matter, I must caution you about the risks of operating too independently. Voldemort's suspicions are easily aroused, and your position as a spy is precarious enough without additional complications."

"I understand the risks," Marquas replied evenly, the familiar weight of his double life settling once more across his shoulders. "But sometimes unconventional approaches yield results that traditional methods cannot."

"Indeed they do," Dumbledore acknowledged, a note of genuine warmth entering his voice. "Your success with the diadem proves as much. Just... be careful, Severus. There are few wizards I would trust with such delicate and dangerous work. I would hate to lose one of them to preventable miscalculation."

The statement, delivered with genuine concern, caught Marquas off guard. It was easy to view Dumbledore primarily as a master strategist, someone who saw people as pieces on a chessboard. Moments like this reminded him that beneath the tactical brilliance and occasionally manipulative methods was a man who genuinely cared about those who fought alongside him.

"I appreciate your concern, Headmaster," Marquas responded, more sincerely than he had intended. "Rest assured, caution remains a priority in all our operations."

Chapter Text

The goblin's name was Nagrok, and he had the most calculating gaze Marquas had ever encountered, which was saying something, given that he regularly looked into the eyes of both Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort. They were meeting in a private room above the Hog's Head Inn, a location chosen for its disreputable character and lax approach to privacy. The sort of establishment where people minded their own business if they knew what was good for them.

"You understand," Nagrok said, his long fingers steepled before him, "that what you're proposing constitutes a serious breach of Gringotts security protocols."

"We understand completely," Regulus replied smoothly. He was disguised via Polyjuice as a nondescript middle-aged wizard with forgettable features, while Marquas had adopted the appearance of a gruff, heavily scarred man who looked like he'd seen the wrong end of several curses. "Which is why we're prepared to offer compensation commensurate with the risk."

Marquas observed the negotiation silently, allowing Regulus to take the lead. The young Black heir had a natural talent for these delicate interactions, his pureblood upbringing had included extensive training in negotiation and diplomatic maneuvering, skills that proved valuable in entirely different contexts than his family had intended.

"Compensation," Nagrok repeated, showing teeth that looked unnervingly sharp. "Gold is the traditional offering, of course. But I find myself... unpersuaded that mere gold balances the scales for what you're requesting."

"We anticipated as much," Regulus nodded, reaching into his robes to withdraw a small wooden box. He placed it on the table between them but didn't open it. "Which is why we're prepared to offer something significantly more valuable than gold."

The goblin's eyes fixed on the box with evident curiosity. "And that would be?"

"Information," Regulus stated simply. "Specifically, the detailed alchemy formula for S. Prince Labs' Perpetual Strengthening Solution for precious metals."

Marquas kept his expression neutral despite his surprise. They hadn't discussed offering this particular piece of intellectual property, one of his most valuable commercial innovations, allowing goblin-forged metals to maintain their properties without the traditional requirement for regular reapplication of strengthening charms. It was a trade secret worth a small fortune, one that S. Prince Labs had specifically not patented to prevent the formula from becoming public record.

Nagrok's eyes widened slightly, the only visible reaction, but from a goblin, equivalent to a human gasping in shock. "That formula is... closely guarded."

"Indeed it is," Regulus confirmed. "But my associate here is authorized to provide it in exchange for the information and limited assistance we require."

All eyes turned to Marquas, who gave a controlled nod of agreement, mentally reworking their negotiation strategy. It was a bold move on Regulus's part, but potentially effective, goblins valued craftsmanship and metalworking innovations far above wizard gold.

"I would need to verify the formula's authenticity before providing any assistance," Nagrok stated, caution reasserting itself.

"Of course," Marquas spoke for the first time, his voice deliberately roughened to match his disguise. "The box contains the formula's first three steps, enough to demonstrate authenticity without revealing the complete process. The remaining steps will be provided upon successful completion of our arrangement."

It was a bluff, the box actually contained a list of rare potions ingredients they were prepared to supply, but a calculated one. Marquas could hastily prepare a partial version of the formula if needed, revealing enough to prove its value without compromising the full secret until their objectives were met.

Nagrok considered this for a long moment before opening the box and examining its contents. His expression remained unreadable as he studied the parchment inside, but when he looked up, there was a new sharpness to his gaze.

"The Lestrange vault, that's your target, I cannot provide direct access," Nagrok stated firmly. "The security measures preventing unauthorized entry are beyond even my authority to circumvent. However..." he hesitated, evidently weighing his options. "I could potentially provide a detailed accounting of those security measures, and perhaps a limited window of... reduced vigilance during a specific timeframe."

"That would be most helpful," Regulus acknowledged. "Particularly if accompanied by architectural details of the deep vault levels."

The negotiation continued for another hour, the terms gradually taking shape. Nagrok would provide comprehensive information about the Lestrange vault's defenses, a time window when security patrols would be minimized, and a special token that would temporarily suppress certain magical detection measures. In exchange, he would receive the complete Perpetual Strengthening Solution formula, but only after their mission was completed successfully.

"Three days," Nagrok concluded as they finalized the arrangement. "I will have the information and token prepared by then. We meet again here, same time."

After the goblin departed, Regulus turned to Marquas with a slightly apologetic expression. "I hope I didn't overstep with the formula offer. It seemed the most valuable thing we could provide that wouldn't compromise broader security concerns."

"It was the right call," Marquas assured him, impressed by the young man's quick thinking. "Though we'll need to adjust the formula slightly, effective enough to be valuable, but perhaps with a deliberate limitation that keeps our commercial advantage."

"Slytherin to the core," Regulus grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. "I knew there was a reason we worked well together."

They spent the remainder of their meeting planning the Gringotts operation in detail, accounting for various contingencies and establishing clear parameters for success. The clock was striking midnight by the time they concluded, both mentally exhausted but satisfied with their progress.

"One Horcrux at a time," Regulus murmured as they prepared to leave separately. "We're actually doing this."

"We are," Marquas confirmed, feeling the weight of their mission. "Though the cup may prove our most challenging acquisition yet."

"Challenging but not impossible," Regulus countered with the confidence of youth. "Between your innovative approach and my family knowledge of the old protections, we have advantages others wouldn't."

As Marquas made his way back to Hogwarts through the bitter February night, he reflected on how much had changed in the months since his arrival in this world. Their "Reasonably Handsome Rebellion" had evolved from a desperate improvisation into a surprisingly effective operation, complete with secure communication protocols, strategic resource allocation, and now goblin informants.

More importantly, they were making tangible progress against Voldemort, progress that had taken years longer in the original timeline. The locket and diadem were already destroyed, the ring likely soon to follow once Dumbledore located it, and now they had a viable approach for the cup.

Success brought its own challenges, however. The more they accomplished, the greater the risk that Voldemort might sense the systematic destruction of his soul anchors. In the original story, he had remained oblivious until very late in the process, but that was with Horcruxes being destroyed over a much longer timeline. Their accelerated approach might alert him sooner.

"A calculated risk," Marquas muttered to himself as he reached the castle gates. "Like everything else in this impossible situation."

The following morning, Marquas stood before the third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts class, (temporarily taking over on Dumbledore's request. Professor Quirrell had been called away to attend to urgent matters and would be absent for the week), with only half his attention, the remainder focused on mentally designing the modified strengthening formula they would provide to Nagrok. The students were practicing basic shield charms, a foundational skill he'd insisted they master before moving to more advanced techniques.

"No, Miss Henderson," he corrected automatically as a student's shield flickered erratically. "You're allowing your wand to drift downward during the second motion. Maintain a consistent height throughout."

The young Hufflepuff adjusted her technique, her shield immediately stabilizing into a shimmering half-dome before her.

"Better," Marquas acknowledged with a nod.

His teaching style had evolved over the past months, still demanding and occasionally caustic, but with clear instruction and constructive feedback rather than the bitter mockery that had characterized the original Snape's approach. Students still approached him with caution, but it was the wariness afforded to a strict but fair professor rather than terror of a bullying tyrant.

As the class practiced, a piece of enchanted parchment in his pocket vibrated gently, the notification system he'd established for priority communications from either Dumbledore or Regulus. Given that he'd just seen Regulus the previous night, it was likely Dumbledore.

After dismissing the class with assigned reading on shield variants, Marquas retreated to his office and activated the concealed message. Dumbledore's elegant handwriting appeared on the previously blank parchment:

Success at the old house. Item secured but with complications. Meet in my office at your earliest convenience. Password: Acid Pops.

The ring Horcrux had been found, a significant development, albeit with ominous "complications." In the original timeline, Dumbledore had been cursed while destroying the ring, a injury that eventually contributed to his decision to arrange his own death at Snape's hands. If similar events had transpired in this altered timeline...

Marquas wasted no time, canceling his afternoon office hours and heading directly to the Headmaster's tower. The gargoyle guarding the entrance stepped aside at the password, allowing him to ascend the spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office.

What he found there sent a chill through him despite his mental preparation.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking significantly more haggard than he had just days earlier. His right hand was blackened and withered, wrapped in magical bandages that glowed with containing spells. The curse had indeed struck, just as in the original story.

Shit… this old man again. I thought he'd finally share the knowledge, maybe even tell us he found the ring. But no, he went and destroyed it himself. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Hey, man, don't forget, you're my only plot armor against the Dark Lord, Marquas thought grimly.

"Ah, Severus," the Headmaster greeted him with forced cheer that did nothing to mask his obvious pain. "Thank you for coming so promptly."

"What happened?" Marquas asked sharply, moving closer to examine the damaged hand.

"A momentary lapse in judgment," Dumbledore admitted, wincing slightly as Marquas carefully unwrapped the bandages to assess the damage. "The ring contained not only a Horcrux but another enchantment, a compulsion to wear it. I... resisted, but not quickly enough to avoid contact entirely."

The curse was exactly as Marquas had feared, a withering darkness that had already consumed most of the hand and was spreading slowly up the arm despite the containment spells. In the original timeline, Snape had managed to temporarily contain this curse, but it had been a delaying action at best, giving Dumbledore perhaps a year of life rather than weeks.

"I need to know exactly what you touched and how," Marquas demanded, his mind racing through potential counter-curses. Having foreknowledge of this situation should give him an advantage the original Snape hadn't possessed, if he could just identify the precise nature of the curse.

As Dumbledore explained the encounter in the Gaunt shack, the discovery of the ring hidden beneath the floorboards, the moment of temptation, his partial success in destroying the Horcrux with Gryffindor's sword before the curse struck, Marquas began assembling the components for a diagnostic spell more advanced than anything the original Snape had likely attempted.

Drawing on both Snape's considerable knowledge of dark magic and his own innovative approach to magical problem-solving, Marquas cast a complex detection charm that revealed the curse's structure as a three-dimensional magical construct hovering over Dumbledore's hand, a vindictive piece of spellcraft designed not just to kill but to cause maximum suffering in the process.

"Sophisticated," Marquas murmured, studying the magical signature. "A modified withering curse with self-perpetuating elements. Standard containment won't stop it, it's designed to adapt around barriers."

"Can it be countered?" Dumbledore asked, his voice steady despite the evident pain he was experiencing.

Marquas didn't answer immediately, his mind working through various approaches and dismissing each as inadequate. The original Snape had only managed to slow the curse, not cure it. But the original Snape hadn't had access to some of the experimental techniques Marquas had been developing...

***

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Chapter Text

"I believe so," he said finally. "Not with conventional counter-curses, but with a hybrid approach combining potion therapy and specialized containment wards. It will require custom formulations I'll need to brew immediately."

Hope flickered briefly in Dumbledore's eyes. "You sound more confident than I expected, given the darkness of this magic."

"The curse is indeed advanced," Marquas acknowledged, "but it follows certain fundamental principles that can be exploited. I'll need to work quickly, though. The longer it progresses, the more difficult containment becomes."

He spent the next hour applying temporary containment charms to slow the curse's spread while taking magical samples for his experimental counter-measures. Throughout the procedure, Dumbledore remained remarkably stoic, asking occasional questions about the technical aspects as if they were discussing an interesting academic problem rather than his potential death sentence.

"I find it curious," the Headmaster commented as Marquas completed the temporary treatment, "that you seem unusually prepared for this specific scenario. Almost as if you anticipated the possibility."

It was a probing question, veiled in casual observation, typical Dumbledore. Marquas chose his response carefully.

"Cursed artifacts are a standard risk when hunting dark wizards' possessions," he replied neutrally. "I've been researching countermeasures for various scenarios since we identified the Horcruxes as targets. This particular curse family was among those I considered likely, given Voldemort's preferences."

Not the complete truth, but close enough to be believable without revealing his impossible foreknowledge.

"Impressively thorough preparation," Dumbledore remarked, studying him with those penetrating blue eyes. "You continue to demonstrate foresight that exceeds my expectations. Sometimes, a thought crosses my mind, what if you're not even the Snape I grew up watching, the one I thought I knew? But then, I quickly push the thought away, not wanting to face what it might mean."

As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on Marquas’s, searching for the slightest flicker of doubt or hesitation.

"I prefer to be prepared for worst-case scenarios," Marquas stated simply and tried to avios the topic. "Which brings me to our immediate plan: I'll need to return to my private laboratory to begin brewing the counter-curse potions. The first treatment should be administered within six hours for optimal effectiveness."

"Very well," Dumbledore nodded. "I shall make myself available whenever you're ready. And Severus, thank you."

Dumbledore choose not to press the matter further. The genuine gratitude in the old wizard's voice was something the original Snape had rarely experienced, at least not so directly expressed. It created an odd moment of dissonance for Marquas, a reminder that this wasn't just a story he was rewriting, but a reality with actual people whose lives and well-being now partially depended on his actions.

"Save your thanks until we see results," he replied gruffly, gathering his diagnostic equipment. "And in the meantime, perhaps consider wearing protective gloves when handling artifacts belonging to the darkest wizard of our time."

Dumbledore's surprised laugh followed him out of the office leaving him alone in his circular office, or nearly alone. The ancient Sorting Hat sat on its shelf, its creased leather face now animated with unusual attentiveness.

Dumbledore remained standing for a long moment, stroking his silver beard thoughtfully before turning to him.

"Did you notice something in him?" Dumbledore asked quietly, his blue eyes lacking their usual twinkle.

The Sorting Hat remained silent, its wrinkled folds shifting slightly as if deep in contemplation. The portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses pretended to sleep, though several cracked their painted eyelids to observe the exchange.

"Nothing definitive," the Hat finally replied, its voice like old parchment rustling. "But if you were to let me sit upon his head properly, mind you, not just for a moment's greeting, perhaps I could find something of interest."

The Hat shifted on its shelf, its point curling with what appeared to be concern. "However, there is something unusual that has been occurring these past few months. I've been hearing whispers, voices that should not be. The voice of an old friend who should have long departed this world."

Dumbledore's silver eyebrows rose sharply at these words. He moved closer to the Hat, lowering his voice though they were alone.

"Which one?" he asked, a rare note of genuine curiosity in his tone. After all, the Sorting Hat had witnessed the passing of countless wizards over its thousand-year existence.

The Hat seemed to hesitate before answering, its leather creasing into what might have been a frown.

"Herpo the Foul," it finally said, the name hanging ominously in the air. "Whispers from the Chamber of Death, from behind the Veil itself." The Hat's voice became almost accusatory. "Don't you find it curious, Albus? All this happening in concert with the changes we've observed in Severus. There's been a disturbance, something significant that has created a tear in the Veil of Death itself."

Fawkes let out a soft, mournful trill from his perch, sensing the gravity of the conversation.

Dumbledore turned away, moving to the window where he could see the grounds of Hogwarts bathed in moonlight. His reflection in the glass appeared suddenly older, more burdened.

"Herpo the Foul," Dumbledore repeated softly, almost to himself. The name was rarely spoken, a dark wizard of such ancient infamy that most modern texts mentioned him only in footnotes. The pioneer who had first delved into the blackest arts, creating both the first Horcrux and breeding the first Basilisk.

The implications chilled him to his core. If the changes in Severus somehow connected to Herpo's whispers from beyond the Veil... this was far more troubling than he had initially anticipated.

Dumbledore turned back to face the Hat, his face grave. "You're certain of this connection? Between Severus and these... disturbances in the Veil?"

"I cannot be certain of anything without more direct contact," the Hat replied. "But I have existed in this castle since the Founders walked these halls, Albus. I have felt magic of all kinds, witnessed the rise and fall of countless dark wizards. This feels... familiar. Dangerous. Old magic stirring once more."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his mind racing through possibilities, each more troubling than the last.

As he turned to his desk to draft an urgent owl, he knew that what he had initially dismissed as peculiar behavior in his Potions Master now held far graver implications. There was indeed more drama unfolding than he had anticipated, a dangerous play whose script was written in ancient and forbidden magic.

The next seventy-two hours passed in a blur of intense work, divided between teaching obligations that couldn't be canceled without raising questions, preparation for the Gringotts operation with Regulus, and the development of an experimental treatment for Dumbledore's cursed hand.

It was the last of these that consumed most of Marquas's energy and focus. Drawing on both Snape's extensive knowledge of dark curses and his own innovative approach to magical problem-solving, he created a three-part treatment protocol:

First, a potion designed to isolate and contain the curse within the already-affected tissue, preventing further spread. This built upon the temporary containment the original Snape had achieved but incorporated magical binding agents that adapted to the curse's attempts to bypass barriers.

Second, a localized stasis field that essentially removed the affected hand from normal temporal progression, freezing the curse in its current state rather than merely slowing its advance. This was perhaps the most experimental element, combining concepts from time-manipulation charms and preservation enchantments.

Finally, a restorative draft that would gradually regenerate healthy tissue around the contained curse, essentially walling it off permanently within a magically reinforced structure of new cellular growth.

"It won't restore full functionality to the hand," Marquas explained to Dumbledore as he administered the final component of the treatment. "The curse is too deeply embedded for complete reversal. But this approach should permanently prevent its spread and preserve your life without the degenerative effects you would otherwise experience."

Dumbledore examined his blackened hand with academic interest as the stasis field settled into place, visible as a subtle shimmer when caught in the right light. "Remarkable spellwork, Severus. I don't believe I've seen this particular combination of techniques before."

"It's an original approach," Marquas acknowledged. "Conventional wisdom holds that such curses can only be slowed, not stopped. But conventional wisdom often fails to consider interdisciplinary solutions."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, flexing his damaged fingers experimentally. The movement was limited but more controlled than before the treatment. "How long until we know if it's successful?"

"The containment should be immediately effective, you'll notice the pain has already diminished," Marquas replied. "The long-term stability will become apparent over the next several weeks as the restorative elements take hold. You'll need regular monitoring and potential adjustments to the stasis field."

What he didn't say, because it would raise too many questions, was that this treatment represented a significant deviation from the original timeline. In the books, Dumbledore had been essentially given a death sentence by the curse, with Snape only able to contain it temporarily. This new approach, if successful, might extend Dumbledore's life considerably beyond that year limit, with profound implications for the war's progression.

"I remain in your debt," Dumbledore said quietly. "Both for this intervention and for your continued efforts against Voldemort's Horcruxes. Speaking of which, what is your assessment of our progress?"

Marquas provided a carefully curated update, sharing information about their Gringotts plans without revealing the extent of Regulus's direct involvement or their goblin contact. "With the ring now secured and destroyed, we've eliminated three of the six suspected Horcruxes. The cup likely remains in the Lestrange vault, while the diary's location is still unknown."

Their discussion continued briefly, establishing next steps and coordination protocols, Dumbledore never shared anything about the fool with Severus unless he had confirmed it himself. Both men guarded secrets, secrets that could alter the course of the coming war, yet neither was willing to confide in the other.

Marquas excused himself to prepare for his final class of the day, seventh-year Defense, where they would be covering advanced counter-curse techniques. The irony of teaching this subject immediately after developing an experimental counter-curse for Dumbledore wasn't lost on him.

The Gringotts operation was scheduled for two days hence, barely enough time to finalize preparations and coordinate with Regulus, especially given his teaching obligations and the need to monitor Dumbledore's treatment progress. But the timeline was dictated by Nagrok's information about security patrol schedules and optimal entry windows.

As he worked late into the night, preparing both lesson plans and infiltration strategies, Marquas found himself oddly energized despite the physical exhaustion. There was something undeniably satisfying about applying his unique blend of knowledge and skills to problems that had seemed insurmountable in the original story.

The cursed hand that had effectively killed Dumbledore? Potentially neutralized with innovative magical medicine. The seemingly impossible Gringotts break-in that had required a dragon escape in the books? Approaching it with goblin cooperation and strategic planning rather than desperate improvisation.

Of course, success was far from guaranteed. The Gringotts operation remained extraordinarily dangerous, and his treatment for Dumbledore was experimental at best. But the mere fact that he was finding new approaches to these challenges, rather than following the predetermined tragic path of the original timeline, provided a sense of agency and purpose that transcended mere survival.

"Rewriting the story," he reminded himself as he finally prepared for a few hours of much-needed sleep. "One impossible problem at a time."

---

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Chapter Text

Next day, while Marquas was deep in his potion experiments, a shimmering message materialized, circled his head twice, and hovered before him. Dumbledore's handwriting was visible on one wing: Urgent matter requires immediate attention. My office.

"Duty calls," Marquas sighed, plucking the memo from the air.

What he found upon entering Dumbledore's office, he was greeted by the sight of Minerva McGonagall and Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody engaged in what appeared to be a heated argument with the Headmaster.

" absolutely unacceptable security risk," Moody was growling, his magical eye swiveling to fix on Marquas the moment he entered. "And here's the risk himself. Convenient timing, Snape."

"Always a pleasure, Alastor," Marquas replied dryly. "I see your paranoia remains in excellent health."

"Not paranoia when they're really out to get you," Moody retorted, his scarred face twisting into something between a grimace and a smirk.

"Gentlemen, please," Dumbledore intervened, gesturing Marquas toward an empty chair. "Severus, thank you for coming so quickly. We have a situation that requires your particular expertise."

McGonagall's expression was uncharacteristically troubled. "Albus has shared certain... developments regarding You-Know-Who's methods of ensuring immortality."

Ah, Marquas thought. The Horcrux discussion has expanded to include others in the Order. Interesting timing.

"Specifically," Moody interjected, "that you're supposedly hunting these soul containers while simultaneously attending Death Eater tea parties. Forgive me if I find that arrangement a tad suspicious."

"Your suspicion is noted," Marquas replied evenly. "Though I'm curious why this particular aspect of my role has suddenly become a topic of concern, given that I've been functioning as a double agent for some time."

"Because," McGonagall explained, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual, a tell that she was under stress, "according to Albus, the next phase of this Horcrux hunt involves breaking into Gringotts. Specifically, the Lestrange vault."

That explained the urgency. Dumbledore had apparently decided to bring additional Order members into the Horcrux operation, specifically for the Gringotts mission, which admittedly would benefit from more support than just himself and Regulus.

"That's one way of putting it," Moody snorted. "Another would be that you now have witnesses who might notice if you're actually retrieving these Horcruxes for Voldemort rather than destroying them."

"Alastor!" McGonagall exclaimed, looking scandalized.

"It's a fair concern," Marquas said, surprising them all with his calm acceptance of the accusation. "From a strategic perspective, having multiple participants provides accountability in both directions, I can verify your actions aren't compromising my cover, you can verify my loyalty to the objective. Mutual insurance, if you will."

Moody studied him with both eyes now, his magical eye surprisingly still. "That's... not the defensive response I expected."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do understand the concept of trust-building in high-risk operations," Marquas replied. "And breaking into Gringotts to steal from Bellatrix Lestrange's vault certainly qualifies as high-risk."

"Well then," Dumbledore interjected with evident satisfaction, "it seems we're in agreement about expanding our operational team for this particular mission. Excellent."

Marquas had several reservations about this development, particularly regarding Regulus's continued anonymity, but those would need to be addressed privately with Dumbledore. For now, establishing a working relationship with McGonagall and Moody took priority.

"I assume you've been briefed on the overall objective?" he asked, turning to McGonagall.

"Hufflepuff's cup," she confirmed. "Transformed into a... container for a soul fragment through murder and dark magic. Albus explained the basic concept, though I confess the details exceed even my considerable tolerance for magical abomination."

"A reasonable summary," Marquas nodded. "The cup is almost certainly in the Lestrange vault, based on intelligence from multiple sources. However, retrieving it presents exceptional challenges, even by the standards of our usual impossible tasks."

Over the next hour, they discussed the practical aspects of the Gringotts operation: security measures, approach strategies, contingency plans, and escape routes. Moody, despite his suspicion of Marquas personally, proved invaluable in identifying potential weaknesses in their initial plan, while McGonagall's expertise in transfiguration opened new possibilities for disguise and transportation.

Notably absent from the discussion was any mention of their goblin contact or Regulus's involvement, Dumbledore had apparently maintained those particular secrets, at least for now. Instead, they focused on how to leverage the expanded team's capabilities within the accelerated timeline.

"Tomorrow night," Moody confirmed as they finalized the plan. "Full moon provides additional cover for certain aspects, and the goblin shift change at midnight creates our opportunity window."

"Assuming your intelligence is accurate," he added, fixing Marquas with a pointed stare.

"It is," Marquas assured him. "Though I should note that this timeline acceleration comes with additional risks. The original plan allowed for more thorough preparation."

"Wars are rarely won by those who wait for perfect conditions," McGonagall observed with surprising pragmatism. "Sometimes one must simply act with the resources available."

As the meeting concluded, Dumbledore held Marquas back while McGonagall and Moody departed to make their own preparations. Once they were alone, Marquas raised the obvious question.

"Regulus?"

"Will remain our confidential asset," Dumbledore assured him. "I've adjusted the operational details to incorporate our new colleagues without exposing his involvement. He will function as our advance intelligence and emergency extraction option, but not participate in the main vault team."

"A reasonable compromise," Marquas acknowledged. "Though Moody's suspicion presents potential complications."

"Alastor suspects everyone," Dumbledore chuckled. "Including me, on occasion. It's his nature. But beneath the paranoia lies one of our most capable operators. His involvement significantly improves our chances of success."

Marquas nodded, conceding the point. "And my treatment for your hand? Any changes to report?"

Dumbledore extended the blackened appendage for inspection. "The pain has reduced considerably, and the spread appears halted, just as you predicted. Most encouraging."

Examination confirmed this assessment, the curse remained contained within the stasis field, and the restorative elements were beginning to establish the permanent barrier that would isolate it indefinitely. Not a complete cure, but a vast improvement over the death sentence it had represented in the original timeline.

"Continue the supplementary potion regimen as prescribed," Marquas instructed. "And minimal magical use through that hand for at least another week. The containment is stable but still establishing its permanent structure."

"I shall exercise appropriate caution," Dumbledore promised, though something in his tone suggested he defined "appropriate caution" rather differently than most would.

As Marquas finally returned to his quarters that evening, he found a message waiting from Regulus through their secure communication channel:

Goblin confirms security upgrade scheduled for two days hence. Tomorrow night represents a good opportunity before new measures implemented. Proceed as planned?

Proceed with adjustments, Marquas replied. Additional Order personnel now involved, McGonagall and Moody. Your role adjusted to remote support. Details at usual meeting point, one hour.

He needed to update Regulus immediately about the expanded operation, then finalize his own preparations, all while maintaining his teaching schedule and Death Eater cover.

"Sleep is for the weak," he muttered, downing a Pepper-Up Potion from his personal stores. "Or for people who don't have to prevent a magical apocalypse while grading essays."

The morning of Operation Gringotts Heist (as Regulus had insisted on calling it, despite Marquas's objections to naming covert missions like Muggle action films) dawned cold and clear, with no outward indication that by nightfall, they would be attempting one of the most audacious thefts in wizarding history.

Marquas taught his scheduled classes with mechanical efficiency, his mind primarily occupied with final operational details. His students noticed the distraction, several exchanging confused glances when he assigned homework on a topic they'd covered the previous week, and a particularly brave Gryffindor actually pointing out the error.

"It appears," Marquas acknowledged stiffly, "that I'm operating on insufficient caffeine today. The correct assignment is twelve inches on nonverbal defensive countermeasures, not shield charm variations."

"Are you feeling alright, Professor?" the Gryffindor girl, McKinnon, he realized, likely related to the family they'd helped evacuate months earlier, asked with what appeared to be genuine concern.

"Perfectly fine, Miss McKinnon," he replied, hiding his surprise at the question. "Though I appreciate your concern for my cognitive functions. "

The collective gasp that greeted this unprecedented award of points to Gryffindor in a non-emergency situation nearly made him smirk. His reputation as a Slytherin partisan remained intact despite his efforts at fairness, making such moments of acknowledged merit particularly shocking to his students.

The afternoon brought a required appearance at a staff meeting where Marquas maintained the appearance of normal engagement while mentally rehearsing vault security countermeasures. When Flitwick directly asked his opinion on the proposed adjustment to OWL practical examinations, he was forced to improvise based on context clues alone.

"While I see merit in Filius's suggestion," he managed smoothly, "I would caution that additional practical components require additional supervision resources, which are already stretched thin during examination periods."

It was apparently a reasonable enough response, as discussion continued without anyone noting his mental absence. Minerva McGonagall, however, shot him a knowing look, she, at least, recognized his distraction for what it was: preparation for their evening operation.

When the meeting finally concluded, Dumbledore casually mentioned, "Severus, a moment regarding that special project we discussed yesterday?"

The other professors filed out, leaving them alone in the staff room.

"All preparations are complete," Dumbledore informed him quietly. "Minerva and Alastor will meet you at the designated location at eleven. The... other participant... has confirmed all intelligence remains current."

"Good," Marquas nodded. "I've made arrangements to explain my absence should any... previous associates... attempt to contact me this evening."

"Excellent foresight," Dumbledore approved. "Though I trust this operation will conclude quickly enough to avoid complications on that front."

A nice way of saying 'don't get caught or killed,' Marquas thought wryly. Always appreciate the optimism, Albus.

The hours until departure passed with excruciating slowness. Marquas used the time to prepare specialized potions they might need for the operation: Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder (his improved version that allowed the user to see through the darkness), a modified Disillusionment solution that worked on objects as well as people, and several emergency medical preparations should things go catastrophically wrong.

At precisely 10:30 PM, he left his quarters under the pretense of scheduled patrol duty, carried a Disillusioned bag of equipment to the edge of Hogwarts grounds, and Apparated to their meeting point, an abandoned warehouse in magical London, securely warded and untraceable.

McGonagall and Moody were already there, as was Regulus, though he remained Disillusioned in a corner, observable only through the specialized detection charm Marquas had established for this purpose. They would maintain the fiction that their intelligence came from "an anonymous source" rather than revealing Regulus's survival and involvement.

"Right on time," Moody growled approvingly. "At least your punctuality isn't in question, whatever else might be."

"Your continued suspicion is noted and ignored," Marquas replied dryly, unpacking his equipment. "Shall we proceed with final preparations?"

These included McGonagall's transfiguration of their appearances, subtle changes that wouldn't trigger Gringotts' anti-Polyjuice measures but would prevent casual identification. Moody applied additional enchantments to their clothing that would partially disrupt magical detection systems, while Marquas distributed his specialized potions with instructions for each.

"The goblin contact will meet us at the employee entrance," he explained, careful not to reference Nagrok by name. "We'll have approximately twenty minutes to reach the vault, retrieve the item, and begin extraction before security patrols change rotation."

"And if we encounter resistance?" McGonagall asked practically.

"Nonlethal neutralization only," Marquas emphasized. "This operation is theft, not assault. Our objective is to enter and exit without alerting the broader bank security system."

"Or triggering the bloody dragon," Moody added grimly.

"Precisely," Marquas nodded. "Though contingencies exist should that occur."

What he didn't mention was that their primary contingency, Regulus with a specialized extraction portkey, wasn't officially part of the plan known to McGonagall and Moody. Some secrets remained necessary, even among allies.

At 11:45, they moved to their final position near the employee entrance of Gringotts, Disillusioned and silent. As promised, Nagrok appeared precisely at midnight, ostensibly taking a scheduled break but actually creating their access window.

"Credentials and intent?" the goblin asked quietly, appearing to address the empty air where they stood.

"Prince, Queen, Moody," Marquas replied, using their agreed-upon code names. "Retrieval operation as arranged."

Nagrok nodded once, then tapped a specific pattern on the unmarked stone beside the employee door. "Security rotation commences in three minutes. You have the token?"

Marquas produced the small metal disc Nagrok had provided during their previous meeting, a goblin-made security override that would temporarily suppress certain detection wards within the bank.

"Activate it only when you reach the main vault corridor," Nagrok instructed. "Effects last fifteen minutes maximum. Beyond that, standard security resumes regardless of your position."

With that ominous reminder, he opened the door and gestured them inside, his expression betraying nothing as they slipped past him, still Disillusioned.

The back corridors of Gringotts were markedly different from the opulent public halls, utilitarian stone passages lit by magical lamps that cast just enough light for navigation without eliminating shadows that might conceal movement. They followed the memorized route toward the deep vault access, moving silently and remaining close to the walls.

Their first challenge came at the cart transfer station, where a goblin security officer sat monitoring a complex array of magical instruments that presumably tracked activity throughout the vault network. According to their intelligence, this station was never left unattended, requiring a distraction rather than simple avoidance.

McGonagall implemented their solution with impressive precision. From their concealed position, she transfigured a small stone into a mechanical beetle that scuttled across the far side of the chamber, creating just enough noise to draw the guard's attention. As he investigated, they slipped past to the unattended cart dock where Moody quickly disabled the tracking charms on a maintenance cart.

The descent into the depths of Gringotts was both faster and more unsettling than Marquas had anticipated. The cart moved with near-silent efficiency, plunging them into ever-deeper levels where the air grew colder and the magical ambiance more oppressive. Ancient security enchantments brushed against them like cobwebs, sensing their presence but not yet triggering alerts thanks to Nagrok's token.

"Approaching target level," Moody murmured, his magical eye rotating in continuous surveillance. "Waterfall ahead, Thief's Downfall. Countermeasures ready."

The Thief's Downfall, one of Gringotts' most effective security measures, washed away all magical concealment and enchantment. Their plan for this obstacle was perhaps their most audacious: rather than trying to bypass it, they would simply pass through it, allowing their disguises to be stripped, and then immediately reapply them on the other side before detection systems could process the brief exposure.

***

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"Three, two, one" Marquas counted down as they approached the magical waterfall, then: "Now!"

They passed through the enchanted water, momentarily revealed in their true forms as all magical concealment washed away. The instant they emerged on the other side, McGonagall cast a rapid series of transfigurations restoring their appearance alterations while Marquas deployed his specialized Disillusionment solution. Moody, meanwhile, cast a disruption charm that created magical interference in the detection grid, buying them precious seconds to complete their disguise restoration.

It worked, barely. The detection system registered a momentary anomaly but not a clear security breach, resulting in a notation in the monitoring logs rather than a full alarm.

"Cutting it fine," McGonagall observed tersely, her Scottish accent more pronounced under stress.

"But effective," Marquas countered as they continued toward the high-security vault corridor. "Activate the token now."

Moody pressed the goblin-made metal disc against a specific point on the cart track, causing it to glow briefly before seeming to melt into the metal. Immediately, the oppressive weight of the security enchantments around them lightened, not disappeared entirely, but reduced to a level that would allow them to approach the Lestrange vault without triggering immediate alerts.

***

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"Fifteen minutes starting now," Moody reminded them grimly. "Not a second more."

They abandoned the cart at a maintenance siding and proceeded on foot through the final corridor leading to the oldest, most secure vaults. The Lestrange vault was identifiable by the family crest discreetly engraved beside the massive door, a sinister design featuring ravens and daggers that seemed entirely appropriate for a family with their reputation.

"Standard Gringotts high-security measures," Marquas observed, examining the door without touching it. "Plus additional family enchantments. The goblin intelligence suggests a specific approach point, there."

He indicated a small indentation near the center of the door that was barely visible unless you knew to look for it. According to Nagrok, this was the access point where vault custodians could perform maintenance on the security systems, a vulnerability known only to senior Gringotts staff.

Moody approached cautiously, his magical eye examining the door in ways normal vision couldn't. "Nasty piece of work, this. Multiple curses layered with intent-detection charms. Gemino and Flagrante curses on everything inside, I'd wager."

"As expected," Marquas nodded. "The maintenance access should bypass the primary defense grid, though not the internal protections."

Using a specialized tool provided by Nagrok, essentially a goblin-made skeleton key designed for security maintenance, Moody carefully engaged the hidden mechanism. The door responded with a series of nearly silent clicks as ancient tumblers shifted and magical wards temporarily reconfigured.

"Ready yourselves," McGonagall warned as the massive door began to swing open. "We'll have seconds before secondary security activates."

The vault interior gradually came into view, a cavernous space filled with mountains of gold, jewels, and artifacts collected by generations of Lestranges. The wealth was impressive but secondary to their purpose; somewhere among these treasures lay Hufflepuff's cup, transformed into a Horcrux by Voldemort himself.

"Detection charm now," Marquas instructed, drawing his wand. Together with Moody, he cast the specialized Horcrux-finding spell they had developed using residual magic from the destroyed locket. The spell manifested as a subtle golden mist that drifted through the vault, seeking the unique magical signature of a soul fragment.

"Remember, don't touch anything directly," McGonagall reminded them. "Levitation charms only, and maintain precise control."

The detection mist suddenly concentrated toward the rear of the vault, swirling around a high shelf where numerous golden objects gleamed in the dim light.

"There," Moody indicated with his wand. "Upper shelf, behind what looks like a ceremonial mask."

Using carefully controlled levitation charms, McGonagall cleared a path through the packed treasures, creating a narrow corridor of space they could navigate without brushing against curse-laden artifacts. Marquas followed, maintaining the detection spell's focus, while Moody kept watch on their magical perimeter and remaining time.

"Eight minutes," he warned as they approached the indicated shelf.

The cup itself was smaller than Marquas had imagined, a beautifully crafted golden chalice with two delicately wrought handles and Hufflepuff's badger emblem engraved on its side. Despite its innocuous appearance, it radiated a subtle wrongness that made the detection mist swirl around it like moths to a flame.

"Containment ready," McGonagall stated, producing a specialized bag designed to hold dark objects without direct contact. Using precise levitation, Marquas carefully maneuvered the cup from its shelf and into the waiting container, which McGonagall immediately sealed with both physical and magical barriers.

"Surprisingly straightforward," she commented, securing the container inside her enchanted cloak.

"Don't," Moody growled. "Never say that during an operation. Practically begging for complications."

As if summoned by his words, a faint tremor ran through the vault floor, followed by a distant sound that might have been stone grinding against stone.

"What was that?" McGonagall asked sharply.

"Secondary security system," Marquas realized, mentally reviewing Nagrok's warnings. "The vault recognizes unauthorized removal of an object. We need to move, now."

They retreated with controlled urgency, retracing their path through the precarious treasure mountains toward the door. The tremors intensified, and the distant grinding sound grew louder, seemingly coming from beyond the vault rather than within it.

"Five minutes remaining on the token," Moody reported as they reached the vault entrance. "Should be enough if we move quickly and don't encounter"

He never finished the sentence. As they emerged from the Lestrange vault into the corridor, they found themselves facing a security response they hadn't anticipated: a squad of armored goblins led by a senior security officer, all looking extremely displeased at their presence.

"Intruder containment protocol engaged," the lead goblin announced in coldly professional tones. "Surrender immediately or face lethal response."

So much for the clean extraction, Marquas thought grimly, mentally shifting to contingency planning. They couldn't fight their way past a goblin security team without causing exactly the kind of incident they'd been trying to avoid, one that would alert Voldemort immediately to the theft of his Horcrux.

"Suggestions?" McGonagall murmured, her wand hand steady despite the tension.

Before either Marquas or Moody could respond, the situation escalated dramatically. The grinding sound they'd heard earlier crescendoed, and around the corner of the vault corridor emerged the source: an enormous, pale dragon, its eyes milky with partial blindness and its scales bearing the scars of long imprisonment. Heavy chains connected to a metal collar around its neck were held by goblin handlers who prodded it forward with sharp, glowing tools.

"The bloody dragon," Moody muttered. "Right on cue."

For a suspended moment, everyone, human thieves and goblin security alike, seemed frozen by the dragon's appearance at close quarters. Then multiple things happened simultaneously:

The goblin security leader shouted commands in their native language. Moody cast a blinding flash that disoriented the front line of guards. McGonagall transfigured the stone floor beneath the dragon handlers into quicksand. And Marquas, drawing on one of his most experimental potions, threw a vial directly at the dragon's restraint mechanism.

The potion, designed to neutralize magical bindings, struck the enchanted chains with a sizzling hiss. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen, and Marquas feared his formula had failed. Then, with a sound like shattering glass, the magical reinforcement within the chains collapsed, leaving only mundane metal restraining a very angry, very powerful magical creature.

The dragon, sensing its opportunity, reared back with unexpected speed for such a large creature. With one powerful motion, it snapped the weakened chains and released a roar that shook dust from the ancient ceiling. The goblin handlers scattered, their control implements useless against an unrestrained dragon.

"Well," McGonagall observed with remarkable composure, "I believe we've found our distraction."

"And our escape route," Marquas added, eyeing the dragon calculatingly. "If we can guide it toward the surface tunnels..."

"You're not suggesting " Moody began incredulously.

"Unless you prefer attempting to fight through multiple security checkpoints while carrying a Horcrux?" Marquas countered.

The decision was effectively made for them as the dragon, disoriented and angry after years of captivity, charged down the corridor, fortunately away from the deepest vaults and toward the main transport shafts that eventually led to the surface.

"Follow it!" Marquas commanded, casting a Disillusionment charm over all three of them as they ran in the dragon's wake. The creature's rampage created exactly the chaos they needed, goblin security forces were far more concerned with containing a rampaging dragon than tracking down vault thieves, especially when the immediate threat was breathing fire and destroying ancient infrastructure.

They followed the dragon's path of destruction through increasingly wide tunnels, occasionally helping guide its direction with strategically placed noise or light spells when it hesitated at intersections. The beast seemed to have an instinctive sense for the route to freedom, following air currents and the gradually lightening color of the stone toward the surface levels.

"Token effect expires in thirty seconds," Moody warned as they approached what appeared to be a major junction chamber. "Full security lockdown will engage immediately after."

"Then we stay with our scaly escort," Marquas decided, casting another disorientation charm toward a group of security goblins attempting to establish a containment perimeter ahead.

The dragon, seemingly energized by the gradually freshening air, redoubled its efforts toward freedom. It crashed through a massive set of metal doors that apparently led to some kind of cargo receiving area, setting off multiple alarm charms that were largely redundant given the obvious nature of the breach.

"We're approaching the service entrance to the main hall," McGonagall realized, recognition dawning as they entered a larger, more finished chamber. "If it continues this direction"

The dragon answered her unfinished question by lowering its head and charging directly toward what appeared to be a solid wall but was, according to their intelligence, a concealed barrier between the secure areas and the ornate public hall of Gringotts.

"Brace yourselves," Moody advised grimly as the dragon gathered itself for impact.

The collision was spectacular. The concealed barrier, despite substantial magical reinforcement, shattered under the dragon's determined assault, showering the elegant marble hall beyond with debris and dust. Amid screams of alarm from customers and staff alike, the dragon emerged into Gringotts' main hall, spreading its wings for the first time in what was likely years.

"Now or never," Marquas urged, maintaining their Disillusionment as they followed in the dragon's wake.

The scene in the bank's public area was one of complete chaos, witches and wizards diving for cover, goblins attempting to maintain some semblance of order while simultaneously activating emergency protocols, and in the center of it all, a partially blind dragon sensing freedom and determined to reach it.

With a roar that rattled the enchanted windows, the dragon launched itself upward, crashing through the domed skylight of Gringotts in a shower of glass and magic. The night air beyond seemed to energize it further, its wings spreading fully as it climbed into the cloudy London sky.

"Exit strategy?" McGonagall shouted over the continuing chaos.

"This way," Marquas directed, leading them toward a side corridor where emergency exits had automatically opened during the security breach. They slipped through unnoticed amidst the general confusion, emerging into a back alley of Diagon Alley where pre-positioned emergency Portkeys waited, courtesy of Regulus's advance preparations.

Moments later, they materialized in the secure warehouse where they had begun the evening, mission accomplished, Horcrux in hand, and with a spectacular distraction covering their tracks. Regulus was waiting, visible now that they were in secured space, his expression a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

"A dragon?" he demanded as they regained their bearings. "Your subtlety knows no bounds, I see."

"Improvisation became necessary," Marquas explained, helping McGonagall secure their prize in additional protective layers. "The secondary vault security activated despite the maintenance access."

"Likely an update since our informant's intelligence was gathered," Moody suggested, already working to remove all traces of their identities from equipment and clothing. "Fortunate we had a backup distraction available, even if unplanned."

McGonagall, who had been examining the secured Horcrux through multiple detection charms, looked up with an expression of grim satisfaction. "Confirmed, this matches the magical signature you described, Albus," she stated, addressing Dumbledore who had apparently arrived during their operation.

"Excellent work," the Headmaster acknowledged, stepping from the shadows. "Though I gather from your rather dramatic arrival that the extraction didn't proceed entirely according to plan?"

"The phrase 'unleashing a dragon on Diagon Alley' comes to mind," Regulus commented dryly.

"A calculated adjustment to circumstances," Marquas corrected. "The dragon was seeking escape regardless of our intervention. We merely... facilitated its exit in a direction that served our purposes."

"Speaking of which," Moody interjected, "what's our timeline for destroying this abomination? Every minute it exists is another minute He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might sense its compromise."

"Immediate destruction," Dumbledore confirmed. "I've prepared the containment chamber used for the previous Horcrux. Fiendfyre, carefully controlled, remains our most reliable method of destruction,"

Chapter Text

Dumbledore continued. "The procedure can begin immediately, now that we have the cup secured."

"What about the vault security alert?" Marquas asked, turning to Regulus. "Will our goblin contact face suspicion?"

"Unlikely," Regulus replied. "Nagrok's involvement was carefully compartmentalized, his role ended once we gained initial access. The only problem was that some goblins saw us, but not our true faces."

"And our agreement with him?"

"Already arranged," Regulus confirmed. "A modified version of the formula will be delivered through our established dead drop within forty-eight hours. Valuable enough to satisfy our arrangement without compromising S. Prince Labs' commercial advantage."

Marquas nodded with satisfaction. Even amid the chaos of their operation, the practical details remained managed with typical Slytherin efficiency.

"The more pressing concern," McGonagall interjected, "is how quickly Voldemort will realize his Horcrux is missing. Dragon or no dragon, a breach of the Lestrange vault will eventually be discovered."

"Which is why immediate destruction is essential," Dumbledore agreed. "Once the soul fragment is eliminated, the connection to Voldemort is severed. He may sense its destruction, but will no longer be able to trace its location."

"And the real cup?" Moody asked. "Historically significant artifact, after all. Shame to destroy Hufflepuff's relic along with the dark magic."

"An interesting point," Dumbledore mused. "In previous cases, the container remained intact after the Horcrux was destroyed, though damaged. Perhaps with sufficient care during the destruction process..."

"I have a suggestion," Marquas offered. "My experimental work with magical containment fields might allow us to focus the Fiendfyre specifically on the soul fragment while minimizing damage to the cup itself. Not guaranteed, but worth attempting."

Decision made, they prepared to transport the secured Horcrux to Dumbledore's containment facility, a carefully warded chamber beneath an unplottable property owned by the Order. Marquas and Dumbledore would handle the actual destruction, while McGonagall and Moody established additional security perimeters in case the process attracted unwanted attention.

As they made final preparations, Regulus drew Marquas aside for a private word.

"A dragon," he repeated, shaking his head with a mixture of disbelief and admiration. "When you commit to 'distraction,' you certainly don't do things halfway."

"Adaptation to circumstances," Marquas shrugged. "Though I admit, riding a dragon out of Gringotts wasn't in our original operational flowchart."

"Well, it worked," Regulus acknowledged. "And created enough chaos that no one's looking for specific vault thieves. But it also means we need to accelerate our timeline for the remaining Horcruxes. Tonight's events will eventually reach Voldemort, raising his suspicions."

"Agreed," Marquas nodded grimly. "The diary becomes our priority target once the cup is destroyed. Any progress on locating it?"

"Possibly," Regulus replied, lowering his voice further. "Kreacher has been monitoring conversations at Malfoy Manor during their gatherings. The Dark Lord apparently entrusted Lucius with a 'precious artifact' for safekeeping, described only as an old book of particular significance."

Marquas felt a surge of excitement. "That matches what we suspect, Riddle's diary, containing his younger self's memories and soul fragment. If it's at Malfoy Manor..."

"Then we have our next target," Regulus finished. "Though infiltrating Malfoy Manor presents different challenges than Gringotts. Lucius has significantly enhanced security since becoming Voldemort's lieutenant."

"We'll develop an approach," Marquas assured him. "Preferably one that doesn't involve releasing any more magical creatures as distractions."

Regulus grinned. "No promises. Our 'Reasonably Handsome Rebellion' is developing quite the flair for dramatic operations."

Before Marquas could deliver his customary retort about the ridiculous name, Dumbledore called them to begin the transportation sequence. The conversation would have to continue later, after they destroyed their third Horcrux and took another critical step toward rendering Voldemort mortal.

The Horcrux destruction proceeded more smoothly than their Gringotts heist, though not without its tense moments. Marquas's specialized containment field successfully focused the Fiendfyre's destructive power on the dark magic while preserving much of the cup's physical structure, though it emerged blackened and partially melted, it remained recognizably Hufflepuff's artifact.

More importantly, the soul fragment was eliminated with a characteristic shriek of otherworldly agony that confirmed complete destruction. Another piece of Voldemort's fractured soul consigned to oblivion.

"Four down," Dumbledore observed as they secured the damaged cup in a warded container for eventual restoration and safekeeping. "The locket, the diadem, the ring and now the cup. "

"Don't celebrate yet," Moody growled, his magical eye swiveling constantly as if expecting attack even within their secure facility. "The remaining targets will only be more difficult now that he's likely to suspect something. And that's assuming he hasn't created additional Horcruxes we don't know about."

It was a sobering thought, one that had occurred to Marquas as well. The original books had confirmed six Horcruxes plus the soul fragment in Voldemort's body, but this altered timeline might have changed his actions or accelerated his plans.

"We proceed with what we know," McGonagall stated practically. "And remain vigilant for any indication of additional horrors."

As they concluded the operation and prepared to return to their respective positions, maintaining the appearance of normal routines being crucial to their cover, Dumbledore held Marquas back for a private word.

"Your innovative approach to containing the Fiendfyre saved a priceless historical artifact," the Headmaster observed. "Much like your treatment for my cursed hand preserved function that would otherwise have been lost. These are not small achievements, Severus."

"Practical applications of theoretical principles," Marquas demurred, uncomfortable with direct praise. "The experimental work was already in progress for other purposes."

"Nevertheless," Dumbledore persisted, "you continue to demonstrate capabilities that exceed my expectations and I considered my expectations of you quite high to begin with."

There was something probing in his gaze as he added, "One might almost think you possess knowledge or perspectives unavailable to the rest of us."

Without warning, Dumbledore's wand flicked upward. "Legilimens!"

A silvery tendril of magic shot toward Marquas, aiming to pierce through the veil of his thoughts.

Marquas's reaction was instantaneous. His wand slashed through the air as he spun sideways. "Protego Mentis!" The shield erupted between them, a shimmering blue barrier that scattered Dumbledore's spell into fragments of light.

"You dare?" Marquas hissed, his knuckles white around his wand. "You would violate our agreement by intruding into my affairs?" His free hand moved in a complex pattern, strengthening his mental defenses. "Occlumens Totalum!"

Dumbledore lowered his wand, but his gaze remained steady. "The circumstances have changed, Severus," Dumbledore said gravely. "You're in serious trouble. The Sorting Hat has warned me that you're somehow connected with the Veil of Death."

The accusation hung in the air between them. Marquas lowered his wand slowly, his expression shifting from anger to concern. Despite his indignation, he knew Dumbledore was a respected Headmaster of Hogwarts. If he had reached the point of attempting to breach his mental thoughts, the situation must truly be alarming.

"Do you care to tell me in detail?" Marquas asked, his voice carefully measured. "By lowering your wand."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement, slowly tucking his wand into the folds of his robes. He began to speak of the Sorting Hat's warning, mysterious whispers from veil of death, and most disturbing of all, mentions of Herpo the Foul.

Each word from Dumbledore astonished Marquas more. Though he wasn't aware of everything in the wizarding world, the name Herpo the Foul sent a chill through him that he couldn't explain. The ancient dark wizard's reputation preceded him, even across the boundaries of Marquas's knowledge.

"I need to—" Marquas didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't afford to spend any more time with Dumbledore, not with this revelation hanging in the air. Without another word, he turned sharply and strode away, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor as he headed urgently toward his office.

Dumbledore watched him go, his blue eyes following Marquas's retreating figure. The abrupt departure only deepened his suspicions, leaving him alone in the corridor with more questions than answers about the wizard who now hurried away from him.

When Marquas reached his office, he sealed the door with a series of complex charms. "Colloportus Maxima. Muffliato. Protego Totalum." The spells layered one upon another, ensuring complete privacy. Only then did he sink into his chair, his mind reeling.

Herpo the Foul. The name echoed in his thoughts like a mocking whisper.

"Why is that name appearing now?" he muttered, pacing the length of his office. "It wasn't in the original timeline, not connected to me, not connected to Snape."

He moved to a concealed Pensieve in the corner of his office and extracted silvery threads of memory from his temple with his wand. One by one, he reviewed the events of the previous months, searching for clues, for patterns he might have missed.

Hours later, a chilling realization began to crystallize in his mind.

"What if..." he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "What if my transmigration occurred through the Veil of Death itself?"

The theory was both terrifying and elegant in its simplicity. He had died on Earth, his soul crossing some unfathomable boundary( moved from land of death towards living world through veil of death), and somehow, whether by cosmic accident or design, he had torn the Veil between worlds and possessed the body of Severus Snape.

"Was it because I was obsessed with this character?" He ran his fingers through his hair, recalling his former life where Harry Potter had been nothing but fiction, where Severus Snape had been a character he had analyzed endlessly, perhaps even identified with.

"How naive I was," Marquas murmured bitterly. "I thought I could simply destroy Voldemort using my knowledge of Horcruxes and character weaknesses, and that would be the end of it."

He conjured a glass of firewhisky with a flick of his wand and took a deep swallow, letting the burning sensation ground him in the present reality.

"Herpo the Foul is not just connected to this, he may be the cause and effect of my very transmigration."

The room seemed to darken around him as the implications settled in. The wizard world operated on principles of magical balance, fundamental laws that couldn't be circumvented without consequences. His very presence was disrupting that balance, creating ripples across the tapestry of fate.

"Thank Merlin for my instincts," he breathed, feeling a small measure of relief. "At least I've only edited the timeline through subtle manipulations, not completely altering the destiny of multiple characters."

But the question remained: what if he had done more? What if he had hunted all the Horcruxes himself alone? What if he had protected Regulus Black with his own plan, rather than allowing events to unfold naturally with only minor adjustments?

"A greater paradox might have formed," he concluded, his voice barely audible. "It might have hunted me, might still hunt me."

He looked down at his hands, Snape's hands, yet now his own, and clenched them into fists.

"Whatever this is, it's clearly a warning." Marquas rose from his seat, determination hardening his features. "Every step forward must be calculated, every interference measured. The Veil of Death is not to be trifled with, and neither is the balance of this world."

He moved to the window, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of Hogwarts. The castle had stood for centuries, weathering dark wizards and magical wars. It would continue to stand, but his role in its future, and the future of the wizarding world, would need to be more careful than ever before.

***

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