"You're up to something," Lily said suddenly.
Her emerald-green eyes—so clear and vivid they might have been carved from freshwater jade—rested on Snape for a long time before she spoke, her tone firm, certain.
Sitting beside her, quietly waiting for Potions class to start, Snape rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to react.
After two years of being joined at the hip, both of them knew each other far too well.
Snape had come to understand Lily's nature completely—and Lily, in turn, had seen far deeper into the dark temperament of her closest friend than anyone else could imagine.
No matter how carefully Snape disguised it, traces of the rot beneath still surfaced from time to time.
A flash in his eyes, a subtle curl at the corner of his mouth—any number of small, terrifying reflections of what lurked inside him.
And each time, something icy would slither down Lily's spine, leaving her tossing and turning and sleepless well into the night.
When she first sensed the faint steel-cold indifference in Snape's words toward his roommates,
Lily had suddenly recalled scenes from movies—murder, disposal, shallow graves.
But this wasn't a childish girl's imagination.
It was a logical deduction, one made after glimpsing the inhuman chill that lurked behind those calm, detached eyes.
Unfortunately for her, Snape had long since realized exactly what she'd noticed.
After deciding that eliminating this dangerously perceptive girl would be a waste, he had instead categorized her as an *observation target*—a long-term project for subtle correction, with the goal of one day turning Lily completely to his side... turning her into an accomplice.
Thus, before she could even think of "slaying the dark lord," the so-called heroine had already begun—unknowingly—to tilt her morals under his quiet, invisible influence.
For now, Lily was still good. Truly good.
She was kind, brave, eager to help others, and already beautiful for her age.
But the saintliness that might one day have defined her had already been forever marred—by a single drop of darkness—leaving only one exception in her moral universe.
If she saw injustice on the street, she would intervene instantly, risking her life if necessary.
But if the person doing wrong was *him*?
She would grieve and fail to understand—but, in the end, she would still stand at his side, unwavering, as if Snape were the sun, the air—something essential she could never live without.
To Lily Evans, *Severus Snape* was indispensable.
She believed this wholeheartedly.
Who needed a love potion?
Didn't the bond that had been nurtured from childhood—watered slowly, painfully—create a devotion fiercer than any artificial enchantment could?
The greatest potion masters, after all, knew that the simplest brews were often the most powerful.
That was why Snape never worried she would repeat the mistake of choosing James Potter later on.
That possibility had died long ago—
The moment Juliet the raven let out her first mischievous cry, forcing Snape to truly *see* Lily for the first time.
Mercy toward an enemy was cruelty to oneself.
Having inserted himself into Lily's fate, Snape would wring from that choice the greatest possible profit.
Whether or not he ever genuinely cared for her didn't matter—who could resist a childhood companion who would *never* betray you?
Inside the body of Severus Snape lived someone else.
Eric Horn.
He had inherited *everything*—the life, the name, the destiny, and, most importantly, the future.
But he carried a soul far more mature and cold.
He would not lose himself to power.
He would not yield to love.
And he would not allow his story to curdle into tragedy for beauty's sake.
Tragic, yes. Poetic, yes.
But if one truly became the greasy-haired man from the original story—who would ever want to *live* that pain?
"Hey, hey—just tell me secretly! I won't tell anyone else!"
Lily was still pestering, trying to pry out what exactly her friend was hiding from her.
"We could trade secrets! Yesterday, in flying class, someone performed so well that Professor Patrick gave Gryffindor extra points!
If you tell me what you've been doing, I'll tell you who it was."
"Potter."
"How did you know?!"
Lily's eyes widened in genuine shock, her green irises shimmering even brighter in the sunlight.
"Because he's already bragging about it."
Snape tilted his head toward James, who was loudly boasting nearby, practically shouting his "heroics" just in case anyone had missed them earlier.
When he noticed his most hated rival looking over, James immediately lifted his chin in smug triumph—prompting Lily to groan and cover her face in embarrassment.
"Don't worry about it. You'll find out soon enough," Snape said lightly.
Before the professor arrived, he dug two pear-flavored candies from his pocket, handed one to Lily, and popped the other in his mouth.
Even the candy wrapper didn't go to waste.
A gentle tap of his wand—and a tiny armored knight appeared atop the desk, standing proud with a shield in one hand and the sweet scent of pear clinging faintly to his form.
Not to be outdone, Lily popped her candy into her mouth and eagerly waved her wand.
After two years of tutoring from Snape, small tricks like this were child's play.
A mounted knight materialized—a medieval rider brandishing a lance, circling the armored soldier in search of an opening.
Their lively little duel drew attention almost immediately.
Without need for announcement, students gathered around, crowding the desk tight.
Even the once-bustling space around James suddenly emptied, leaving him and his fellow Marauders blinking in confusion.
Meanwhile, on the desk.
After circling for some time, Lily's rider still found no flaw to exploit.
No matter how she commanded, the armored soldier's shield always turned perfectly to block the attack—like an impenetrable fortress.
At last, Lily ordered a direct charge.
The rider spurred his steed into a gallop.
The warhorse's neighs and the rider's heavy breathing made the illusion feel startlingly real, tightening the onlookers' hearts.
*Bang!*
A dull impact echoed.
Step by step, the armored soldier was pushed back—but held firm under the blow.
Then, with ruthless precision, he cast his shattered shield aside, drew his sword, closed the distance, and—cleanly severed the horse's head.
Under Snape's expert direction, the duel ended swiftly.
Gasps, laughter, applause, regret—all filled the air as the armored knight pinned the fallen rider, decapitated him neatly, and raised the head high for all to see, a silent testament to his victory.
"Impressive Transfiguration. If Professor McGonagall were here, she'd have awarded you both points."
A warm, deep voice spoke suddenly behind them.
All the students froze.
Then, realizing who had appeared, they scattered like startled birds, retreating from the new arrival.
Professor Slughorn.
His eyes, bright and full of enthusiasm, were locked on Snape—glowing as though he had discovered a rare and precious gem.
"If I'm not mistaken," Slughorn said, beaming,
"you must be *Severus Snape*, correct?"
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