The storm outside raged against the castle, wind rattling the old windows as though it sought entry. Snape moved through the dimly lit corridors, robes trailing like a dark whisper across the cold flagstones. The hour was late, but his mind refused rest.
Sirius Black was near. He could feel it.
Every creak in the walls, every flicker of torchlight felt like a provocation. He'd been a boy in these halls once, hunted by shadows he hadn't understood. Now he was the shadow. He could afford no mistakes. Not this time.
As he rounded the corner by the Charms corridor, he froze.
Footsteps. Light, quick, familiar.
"Potter," he hissed.
---
Harry and the Map
Harry hadn't meant to be caught. He had been following the Marauder's Map again, Sirius Black's name flashing like a beacon near the castle's lower passageways. But now, standing under Snape's piercing gaze, his excuse died in his throat.
"What are you doing out of bed?" Snape's voice was a razor's edge, soft but deadly.
Harry straightened, gripping the folded parchment behind his back. "Just… walking."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Walking. At this hour." He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over Harry with unnerving precision. "What are you hiding?"
"Nothing," Harry shot back, though his heartbeat betrayed him.
Snape's lip curled faintly. He extended a hand. "Give it to me."
Harry hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he held out the parchment.
Snape unfurled it slowly. His dark eyes scanned the blank surface—until, with a whispered incantation born of old memory, words bloomed across it in curling ink.
The Marauder's Map revealed itself.
Snape's breath hitched. He knew it. He knew it too well.
"Where," he asked softly, "did you get this?"
Harry stiffened. "It's mine."
Snape's fingers tightened on the edges. Moony. Wormtail. Padfoot. Prongs. The names burned on the page, ghosts from his worst years.
"I know this magic," Snape said coldly. "I know the men who made it." His gaze cut to Harry. "And I know you don't have the skill to use it properly."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Then why—"
But before he could finish, Snape's attention snapped back to the map.
A name flickered. One that shouldn't exist.
Peter Pettigrew.
Alive.
---
Snape's Office
The fire crackled fiercely, but Snape barely felt its warmth. He set the map on his desk, staring at the impossible name etched on it. Pettigrew. The traitor who had sold James and Lily to Voldemort.
Alive.
He remembered holding Lily's lifeless body. The screams. The ruin.
His hands trembled—once—and then stilled. He hadn't come back just to watch history repeat itself.
He turned sharply to the shelves, pulling down texts of old binding charms and containment spells. If Pettigrew was here, if Sirius was stalking him, then everything he remembered of this timeline was fracturing.
He would not let it collapse.
---
Meanwhile – Draco in the Hallway
Draco Malfoy hadn't meant to overhear, but when Harry and Snape's voices carried down the corridor earlier, he'd lingered in the shadows. He saw Potter's pale face, the tense set of Snape's shoulders, and the look in both their eyes: fear, buried deep.
Potter's hiding something. And so is Snape.
He frowned, leaning back against the cold wall. A part of him itched to tell his father, but another part—the quieter, more dangerous one—kept him still.
He'd keep it to himself. For now.
---
Late That Night
Snape stood at the clocktower window again, staring out at the storm. His reflection in the glass looked older than his years—haunted, hollow-eyed.
"Severus," Dumbledore's voice came softly from behind, "you've seen something."
Snape didn't turn. "Pettigrew lives."
Silence.
When he finally faced Dumbledore, there was a steel in his voice that hadn't been there before.
"I don't care what game fate is playing, Albus. I won't lose her again. I will burn this school brick by brick if that's what it takes to stop him."
Dumbledore regarded him gravely, but in his eyes—just for a moment—there was no argument.