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Severus Snape stepped into the household, twenty-one and knowing already what fate becometh the Potters. He pleaded with Lord Voldemort—begged and pleaded... Yet…

Harry cries from his nursery, one year old. Severus steps over James' slack body, venturing up the stairs. Blood is spilled and sticking to his boots. He makes his way into the nursery and the sight of Lily Evans suffering the same fate causes the man to drop to his knees and hug her body close. 

He wails.

Between Harry's crying and his own, Severus feels a pulse at her ballooned midsection. A kick. The baby that young Lily and James were expecting to follow their son is still alive. A miracle Harry is alive, let alone the fetus too. So, despite himself, Severus performs a set of spells to free the infant from its mother.

It is bloody.

It is crying.

It is a girl.

Severus swaddles the newborn in a nearby blanket and unlike himself, he just begins soothing through his own grief. He is no father, but he is no monster either.

Albus Dumbledore calls out into the deathly-silent Godric's Hollow. Lord Voldemort’s Mark is still in the sky above the home. Severus does not answer—he simply cannot. He is overwhelmed. Minerva McGonagall will follow Albus into the ruined home, their eyes finding James on the landing of the stairs first. A perpetual expression of betrayal is etched into his features, his eyes reflecting the chill of absence.

Maneuvering up the stairs, stepping over a face that had not left Hogwarts so long ago, the mumbling of a child can be heard. Young Harry Potter is heard. Albus will approach the room first, the door partially opened. He sees Severus, yet he does not call his name. Severus’ attention is still on the newborn in his arms. Entering the room, Albus sees the blood around Lily.

“She had the child,” Albus quietly states, as though he needs to say it to believe it himself. Severus finally looks up, a broken man who has died tonight. The newborn sleeps. Albus will reach for the child and Severus will hand her to him. The old man adjusts the infant in his grip as Severus stands. His legs feel weak; blood rushes back into his lower limbs. Minerva steps through the room to pluck Harry from his crib. Supporting the boy, she turns around for solemn truth. Severus admits, “I… delivered her.” His gaze is upon the child as he says it, his arms reaching for her before his mind allows it. Albus obliges in the wordless request.

After moments of just standing there, Albus reaches for the door to hold it open. Minerva exits the room with Harry first, then Severus with the infant, and finally, Albus himself. The door will not shut. Rather, it will drift to the halfway point of closing. The infant will wake in Severus' arms just as they reach the stairs to head down. For now, until he gets her out of this ruin, she will go ignored. Harry's eyes are wide and unassuming of the man cloaked in shadow. Severus does not return the year-old's green gaze.

Once out of the home, Albus’ hand reaches to the infant in Severus’ arms. Severus refuses to hand her over once more. “I—” Severus starts, his own tongue failing to convey for him. But his eyes are enough.

I want to keep her.

“Why?” Albus’ question is loaded—he knows what he's asking of Severus.

Because Voldemort wouldn't know the child lived. Because he would think he killed three Potters tonight instead of two. Because while the Dark Lord knows of Harry, he hasn't mentioned a second child.

“Because she has her eyes.”

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Platform 9¾ is busy around this time. It is the first of September, 1992. A Tuesday. Your father stands idly by. He had assisted you in acquiring everything you would need, including a new wand—though he stood outside Ollivander's and waited for you. 

You were nervous whilst waiting in line. Another girl your age, red-headed and laughing with whom you could only assume were her brothers stood in the line before you. And when it was finally your turn, the first set of wands sputtered or just didn't react to you. “Interesting,” Ollivander muttered to himself. He trailed behind the counter and into the back. Unbearable seconds that feel like minutes passed until eventually, Ollivander crossed the store to you. He held two boxes. Two wands.

The first wand answered to you hesitantly—though it answered nonetheless. Ollivander explained, “Thirteen inches of spruce—a fickle wood. Unyielding, to add. And a core of dragon heartstring… Such wands are very particular about their wielder.” He placed it back into its box and handed you the other wand. “Here is eleven inches of yew… slightly rigid with a core of unicorn hair. Try this one,” the old wand maker held the box out to you. You took the wand and gave it a swish. It responded instantly, the tip glowing a pure white. All was well, and he was ready to let the wand go with a new owner until… The light from the wand flickered into a black smoke that traveled down the shaft and zapped your hand. You jumped, the wand having sprung free from your hand and left a welt on your palm. Ollivander caught the wand before it hit the ground and placed it back into its box. “No good then. Try the spruce again.” He handed the first wand to you and it responded better than your first attempt. The light at its tip glowed a fiery yellow, as though it were a candle lit by your will.

A match.

“Marvellous,” Ollivander remarked. You handed him seven galleons and exited the shop. Your father found you outside and directed you to the platform. Obtaining a wand was the last task you needed to complete.

Your father makes sure you board the Hogwarts Express safely. Then, he heads his own way. You found many compartments already full of students and you passed by all of them until finding one that was empty. So, you choose the empty one.

Minutes pass. You draw your new wand and run your thumb over the designs in the grain. The wood is rather ashen in color, a muted brown of what spruce normally is. The handle is a dark marble sabre lined by blackened silver. The shaft of the wand is a spiral, its edges softened. Your father told you to treat it well, as you'll have it for the rest of your life.

The door to the compartment slides open and a boy a year older than you peeks in, “Is there room to sit in here?” You nod. You're very quiet. The boy steps into the compartment wearing a black cloak with an inner lining of scarlet. His clothes are like yours—minus the lack of color in yours, plus the skirt you wear. His tie is a combination of that same scarlet with gold stripes. He sits down across from you, next to the window. Nervously, he introduces himself, “Hi, I'm Neville.” You hesitate on replying. Meeting new people is not your forté. But you do reply after a beat, “Y/N.” The two of you, both shy, leave it at that.

Until the compartment opens again and a girl with platinum-blonde hair and sweet eyes asks if there's room to sit in here. You and Neville nod, eyes not leaving the door until it closes after her. But it doesn't close after her. She has another first-year in-tow behind her. A boy as equally sheepish as you and Neville. The girl introduces herself as, “Luna.” And she introduces the boy on his behalf, “And this is Wesley.” Like you, Wesley's robes are uncolored. Luna's robes are a royal blue, her tie that same blue with bronze stripes. There is very little conversation, the bulk of it led by Luna. The rest of you welcome it, preferring not to talk. 

When the Hogwarts Express gets moving, a trolley of sweets stops in the aisle outside your compartment and an older witch opens the door to offer. Luna, Wesley, and even Neville will partake, but when you are asked, you reply, “Father said I should wait until the Feast.” Wesley looks at you and remarks, “Surely your father wouldn't know if you had one.” You shake your head. He would know. He knows many things. He somehow even knows your thoughts. “He would know,” you say. The others shrug and order from the trolley. Once getting their sweets, the trolley witch shuts the door and moves onwards. You will watch them eat their treats, the things varying from mundane tarts to animated frogs made of chocolate.

Neville will see how you stare and ask, “Are you sure you don't want any?” You recite your practiced line, “Father would know.” It is Wesley who asks, “Who is your father anyways?” You hesitate, knowing your father isn't perhaps very popular where you're headed. “He's a professor,” you reply. Neville goes cold. Luna stills a fraction, herself. Wesley says nothing, not knowing the professor they know. The cabin stills into an awkward silence and you decide to keep to yourself for the rest of the ride.

—

After the train stops at the Hogsmeade station, you follow the others out. Your wand is in your pocket and you're called over by a large, burly man, “First-years! First-years o-er here! With me!” You follow Wesley. And Wesley follows the other first-years. And the first-years follow the large man, who identifies himself as Rubeus Hagrid. 

Hagrid leads the first-years down a path from Hogsmeade station to the shore of the Black Lake. It takes some time, but he manages to get all first-years into boats. You and Wesley get separated. You find yourself in a boat with the red-headed girl from Ollivander's and two other first-years. You sit in the back of the boat, with the red-headed girl. She introduces herself to you, “Hi, I'm Ginny.” You nod in acknowledgment, “Y/N.” She doesn't say it, but you kind of look like someone she rode on the train with. One of the other two on the boat turns around, oar still moving in-sync with the rest of you, and she asks, “What houses do you think you'll be in? I want to be Gryffindor.” Ginny answers first, “Definitely Gryffindor! All my brothers are in Gryffindor.” The other first-year on the boat asks which houses there are, to which Ginny answers before anyone else can, “Well, there's Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—” there's almost a hint of disgust to her tone, “—and Gryffindor. That's the house Harry Potter is in.” The first-year who had asked then makes his decision, “I want to be in Gryffindor, then!” 

A beat passes before the collective group turns to you. “I… I don't know.” That's a lie, but with how they all seem to agree that Gryffindor is the best house—a house you feel you likely won't be in—you concede into indecision. They all stare at you for a second before Ginny says, “Maybe we'll all be in Gryffindor together, just like Harry!” The others agree, but you're not even sure. Who even is Harry Potter? And so, you ask, “Who even is he?”

They all stare at you. Students from other boats stare at you as well. Hagrid is blissfully unaware, going on about the creatures he takes care of. Within seconds, everyone gradually gets back to rowing.

“Who even is he?” Ginny echoes back at you. It's almost mocking and pitying. She continues, “How do you not know about Harry Potter?!” “I—” you start, but you don't have anything to defend yourself with. No excuses ready. The first-year who declared he wanted to be in Gryffindor after simply hearing someone apparently famous was in that house remarks, “Surely you must be joking, he's The Boy Who Lived!” The other first-year cuts in, “He's not the only celebrity, too. I heard we're going to be taught by Gilderoy Lockhart!” Now his name—you have heard. She asks you if you've read any of his books. You shake your head, “Father only allows me fiction he approves of.” Once again, offense ripples out across all boats, including your own. Excluded are a small few who quietly agree and one blissfully-unaware Rubeus Hagrid.

The rest of the boat ride is relatively quiet for you. Well, because you're not really included in the conversations on your boat anymore. The trek up to the castle itself is similar. The stride to the Great Hall led by Deputy Headmistress [Professor] Minerva McGonagall is different. You're silent in utter awe of the architecture. The statues, the suits of armor, the moving portraits—all of it.

Halting just before the doors to the Great Hall where chatter among the older students is alight, Professor McGonagall addresses your group, “Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses.” The skin of all of you hums with nervous excitement. “The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall says. The others around you whisper about which houses they'll get. She continues, “You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.”

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.” You're somewhere in the middle of this gaggle of ten and eleven-year-olds, gripping your wand through the fabric of your pocket. "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you straighten yourselves up while you wait.” There’s plenty of awkward and nervous movement around you. You try stepping towards the back of the crowd, which will work, though Professor McGonagall eyes you before she enters the Hall. “I will return when we are ready for you,” she says. “Please wait quietly.”

—

The sorting itself is rather… magical. You really have no better word for it at the moment. Banners of each house and statues of each mascot loom overhead. Just under them floats an enchanted array of candles within an enchanting man-made sky. 

You stand with your first-year peers between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, in the middle of the Hall. You're in no exact line, really. The Sorting Hat, sat upon a wooden stool upon a dais, sings a song,

"In times of old when I was new  

And Hogwarts barely started,  

The founders of our noble school  

Thought never to be parted:  

United by a common goal,  

They had the selfsame yearning,  

To make the world's best magic school  

And pass along their learning.

'Together we will build and teach!'  

The four good friends decided  

And never did they dream that they  

Might someday be divided,  

For were there such friends anywhere  

As Slytherin and Gryffindor?  

Unless it was the second pair  

Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?  

So how could it have gone so wrong?  

How could such friendships fail?  

Why, I was there and so can tell  

The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, 'We'll teach just those  

Whose ancestry is purest.'  

Said Ravenclaw, 'We'll teach those whose  

Intelligence is surest.'  

Said Gryffindor, 'We'll teach all those  

With brave deeds to their name.'  

Said Hufflepuff, 'I'll teach the lot,  

And treat them just the same.'

These differences caused little strife  

When first they came to light,  

For each of the four founders had  

A House in which they might  

Take only those they wanted, so,  

For instance, Slytherin  

Took only pure-blood wizards  

Of great cunning, just like him,  

And only those of sharpest mind  

Were taught by Ravenclaw  

While the bravest and the boldest  

Went to daring Gryffindor.  

Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest,  

And taught them all she knew.  

Thus the Houses and their founders  

Retained friendships firm and true.

So Hogwarts worked in harmony  

For several happy years,  

But then discord crept among us  

Feeding on our faults and fears.  

The Houses that, like pillars four,  

Had once held up our school,  

Now turned upon each other and,  

Divided, sought to rule.  

And for a while it seemed the school  

Must meet an early end,  

What with duelling and with fighting  

And the clash of friend on friend.

And at last there came a morning  

When old Slytherin departed  

And though the fighting then died out  

He left us quite downhearted.  

And never since the founders four  

Were whittled down to three  

Have the Houses been united  

As they once were meant to be.

And now the Sorting Hat is here  

And you all know the score:  

I sort you into Houses  

Because that is what I'm for,  

But this year I'll go further,  

Listen closely to my song:  

Though condemned I am to split you  

Still I worry that it's wrong,  

Though I must fulfill my duty  

And must quarter every year  

Still I wonder whether Sorting  

May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,  

The warning history shows,  

For our Hogwarts is in danger  

From external, deadly foes  

And we must unite inside her  

Or we'll crumble from within.  

I have told you, I have warned you…  

Let the Sorting now begin."

When the sorting begins, names are called alphabetically by Professor McGonagall. “Abington, Wesley,” and so on, and so forth. The boy you were on the train with gets sorted into Ravenclaw. There are several more students before you, including the two you were on the boat with—the girl gets sorted into Gryffindor while the boy is placed in Hufflepuff. After around twenty—nearly thirty—students, you finally get called up. “Snape, Y/N.” The whole Hall goes deathly silent. You keep your head down, focused on where you're stepping, making your way from the dwindling crowd and onto the stool. Your father's eyes are on you.

He expects Gryffindor. He expects the daughter of Lily and James Potter to be placed into the same house as her brother. What he doesn't expect is how much time the house takes to deliberate with you.

“My, my… you're a change of pace,” the Hat muses. “You have no expectations for your next seven years, though I gather a sense of… ambition, a need to impress.” You avoid all of the eyes from the Hall, your hands on your knees. “Yet I also find that you want legacy. You want your name to last in the minds of others, whether they doubt you or not. …Perhaps you belong in Ravenclaw.” Why is it taking so long? You'd rather not be under all of this scrutiny. You'd rather hide away and be done with all of these eyes and all of these unflinching gazes. “Or maybe the shadows will serve you better. The cold and dark seem to suit you. Hmmm…” The hat will stall for two minutes before declaring aloud, “BETTER BE… SLYTHERIN!”

Your father did not expect that. At least, he didn't put much thought into the possibility that you would be sorted into his own house. The Slytherin table itself claps sparingly as Professor McGonagall transfigures your robes to the same green the rest of the house wears and sends you off. You sit down with the other few first-years who were sorted into Slytherin as she continues calling names. Your father's eyes finally let go of you. The other tables eventually drift away from you too. Except for the Gryffindor table, where a condensed group of the scarlet-wearing students stare and mumble about you. “I didn't know Snape had a kid,” one boy with a mop of bright-red hair exclaims in his whispering tone. 

The rest of the Sorting goes on without interruption. Ginny Weasley, the girl you were on the boat with, of course, gets sorted into Gryffindor.

Before the Feast can commence, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore addresses the school for a speech, "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

"And now," said Dumbledore, "I think it is time for bed. Off you go!"

And then the Feast, itself, appears. The amount of food is like nothing you've ever experienced before. Even when your father would return to Spinner's End for the summer, you never even had this much on your plate. The students across from you engage with themselves and those around you. You're alright with that. You simply keep your head down and eat.

At the High Table, Minerva turns to Albus, “I must say, she does look quite like her.” Albus hums, his gaze lightly sweeping over to Severus. Severus eats mechanically, his attention on you more than anything. “Severus,” Albus prods, getting no answer beyond a glance of acknowledgement.

When the Feast ends, each table is emptied uniformly, prefects corralling first-years from each one to lead them to their respective common rooms separately from the rest of the house. The Slytherin first-years are led from the Hall, past the Grand Staircase and house point hourglasses into the Main Entrance Hall, taking a left at the stairs and entering the dungeons via a spiral staircase that leads down. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw first years are led through the Grand Staircase, while the Hufflepuff first-years are met with the spiral staircase down to their common room just before the Grand Staircase.

The Slytherin common room has no portrait. Rather, a snake slithers from the floor, across the wall, and back into the floor and a double-door magically appears. This happens after the prefects announce the password to you all. Once entering the common room, you admit that you must halt and take in how beautiful it actually is. The architecture itself is gothic and feels aristocratic without being condescending—your housemates will have that base covered. When being separated by the Head Girl to be shown the girls’ dormitory, you find yourself in awe of how cool it is down here. Water runs under the metal bridge, the corridor like its own viaduct. When shown into your dormitory, you realize you'll be sharing with four other girls. The lavatories exist within the middle of each floor, as the dormitory corridors themselves wrap around the common room. After the tour is over, you'll make your way to one of those and change into your night clothes. Keeping up your hygiene is a given.

—

In the morning, you wake early for your classes. You gather your uniform from your trunk and make your way to the lavatory to get dressed. You had brought your tooth and hairbrush with you. There's a line for it, and you try not to take too long when it's your turn to change. 

Breakfast is a different ordeal from the Feast. You are called over to sit with a few older children by a blonde boy with a scrutinizing expression, “Oi! Snape! With me.” So, you sit with the group, across from the boy, next to a second-year who identifies herself as Pansy Parkinson. You all get your timetables before breakfast begins, and your schedule looks like:

Monday

9:00 - 10:30 – Transfiguration (w/ Ravenclaw)

10:45 - 12:15 – Charms (w/ Hufflepuff)

12:30 – Lunch

1:30 - 3:00 – History of Magic

3:15 - 4:45 – Potions (Double) (w/ Gryffindor, Dungeon Classroom 5)

6:00 – Dinner

Tuesday

9:00 - 10:30 – Herbology (with Hufflepuff, Greenhouses)

10:45 - 12:15 – Defense Against the Dark Arts (paired Houses)

12:30 – Lunch

1:30 - 3:00 – Charms

3:15 - 4:45 – Study Hour / Library Session (open, monitored by Prefects or Filch)

6:00 – Dinner

Wednesday

9:00 - 10:30 – Potions (Double) (with Gryffindor)

10:45 - 12:15 – Transfiguration

12:30 – Lunch

1:30 - 3:00 – Herbology (Greenhouses, outdoor block)

3:15 - 4:45 – Defense Against the Dark Arts

6:00 – Dinner

Midnight (bi-weekly) – Astronomy (Astronomy Tower, all Houses)

Thursday

9:00 - 10:30 – History of Magic

10:45 - 12:15 – Charms (Double) (Flitwick, Great Hall or Charms Corridor)

12:30 – Lunch

1:30 - 3:00 – Potions (Single) (Dungeon 5)

3:15 - 4:45 – Flying Lessons (Madam Hooch, with Gryffindor, on the lawns)

6:00 – Dinner

Friday

9:00 - 10:30 – Defense Against the Dark Arts (Double)

10:45 - 12:15 – Herbology

12:30 – Lunch

1:30 - 3:00 – Transfiguration

3:15 - 4:45 – Study Period / Detention Block (variable)

6:00 – Dinner

Nothing is scheduled for Saturday or Sunday, though there is a note in your father's hand requesting your presence in his office tonight, at 5:05 PM. Pansy, folding her schedule, looks over at yours and sees the note in your father's handwriting. She says nothing. If it were any other professor, she would most certainly have something to say. But she doesn't. Additionally, your father watches from the High Table, even as breakfast lays itself upon the tables.

Speaking of Severus, he's still quietly hung up on the fact that you weren't placed in Gryffindor like your mother. That you're… more of a mirror to himself. To others, it would look like you are currently making friends, but he knows how the hierarchy works in Slytherin. And others who think they know sit two tables away.

Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger still watch the back of your head as they did last night. Ron still can't believe Professor Snape—of all people—could raise a child. But moreso, they had been told by Ginny that you had never even heard of Harry before the boat ride yesterday. And now, at breakfast, Hermione is arguing with the two boys that they should feel bad for you—obviously you had a very sheltered childhood. Ron scoffs, “Why should I feel bad for her?! She's a Slytherin, ‘Mione. She's already hanging out with Malfoy and she's a Snape. A Snape!” Hermione rebuts, “But we don't know what she's like, Ronald.” Harry joins in quietly, although he's aware they're currently being watched by Professor Snape, “Exactly, we don't know what she's like, Hermione.” 

Back at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy introduces himself and his comrades, “Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” He gestures to his left, “Crabbe,” then his right, “Goyle.” The two boys offer you small nods of acknowledgement, which you return, “Y/N.”

After the hour of breakfast, you follow another first-year, Ginny, from a distance to your first class—Potions. Your first class of the school year is taught by your father. Though you won't be calling him Father in front of others. Merlin, it's going to be awkward. She doesn't even realize you're following her. The portraits do, however. There's always one every year stalking behind others instead of asking for directions.

The classroom itself is dark, damp, and mildewy. You wouldn't want to tell that to your father, he would consider it an insult to his capability of keeping his classroom clean. Though, then again, the castle is roughly nine-hundred years old, so the smell is likely just a part of the stones at this point. You take your seat at a workstation near the front, though it is the farthest from his desk. He is currently nowhere in the classroom. As you set your things down, Ginny fills in the workstation next to yours. She does get looks from her fellow Gryffindors, but believes herself clever in sitting next to the daughter of the professor who teaches this class.

Professor Snape will stride into the classroom and slam the door behind himself, his eyes already raking over this new class of Gryffindors and Slytherins—”There will be no foolish wand waving or silly incantations in this class.” Once reaching the head of the classroom—near his desk, but more importantly, in front of the blackboards—he spins around with dramatic and intimidating flair. “As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few who possess the predisposition, I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.” The professor paces, hands folded behind his back. It feels as though he's already seeing forward in time—as he had often during the times you would brew with him over the summer and holidays he was home for. “Potions-making is not a pursuit for the inattentive or the impulsive. A single error can be catastrophic. I will not tolerate carelessness or imprecision.” He glances at you, exacting and expectant. 

“Today, we will be brewing a simple Cure for Boils. Open your books to page 12. Do not speak.” You do as told, exactly as told. 

Professor Snape allows five minutes for silent reading about the recipe and properties of Cure for Boils. And when the time is up, he begins asking questions. He never asks you—he knows you already know. He expects you to already know. “Weasley—” Ginny's head lifts to his command, “—what will occur when the horned slugs are now stewed beforehand?” “The brew will curdle, Professor,” she answers. Professor Snape does not offer praise. But he does not humiliate, either—which is a praise of its own. 

“For today's assignment, you will work in pairs.” And that's his go-ahead to get to work. Ginny claims you as her partner at a near-instant. You just go along with it, not exactly wanting to say no. 

For the brew itself, she preps the workstation while you grab the ingredients—dried nettles, snake fangs, horned slugs, and porcupine quills. When you return, she agrees to use her cauldron for stewing the horned slugs while you set up the potion itself. It's less that she agreed on the spot and more that you insisted it be done this way. 

You set her to crushing the snake fangs while the horned slugs stew. Your cauldron currently heats up, bringing your water to a gentle simmer. Once it's there, you add the dried nettles and stir counterclockwise three times. You then check on the horned slugs and the crushed snake fangs. To be sure they're an even, fine powder, you redo the process of crushing them. Next, you take a small pinch in a spoon and sprinkle some in. It will be a gradual process. Once the slugs are stewed, you stop the flame from underneath Ginny's cauldron. For now, you leave the slugs in the cauldron. Don't want them drying up. You maintain the temperature of your cauldron to be just below boiling. When the snake fangs activate the brew properly, you hand a spider strainer to Ginny to fetch the slugs while you gather the porcupine quills. She adds the horned slugs one at a time until the potion darkens to a murky green. The next step is to remove the heat from the cauldron entirely. Then, you add the porcupine quills and stir twice clockwise.

The potion turns a soft, light shade of teal, the scent over the cauldron faintly of herbs. Behind you, a potion turns to sludge. A couple of desks off to your side, a potion explodes. Professor Snape will stand and move over to that station first. He scolds and humiliates the pair of Gryffindors. Non-verbally casting a cleaning spell, Professor Snape moves onwards to the next station. He takes one glance at the cauldron, “Acceptable.” Then, he moves onto yours and Ginny's. He's not going to offer praise because you're his daughter. In fact, for you, his expectations are higher than what he holds for his Slytherins. You, unfortunately, happen to be both. But, unlike your classmates, you have been under his teachings for your entire life, which shows when he grades yours and Ginny's brew, “Adequate.”

The rest of the class from that point is bottling the successful potions—only one other pair got it as right as you two. Although, to be fair, you controlled almost every variable that, if gone wrong, could call upon your father's ire and his disappointment. You were controlling, to Ginny's dismay, but the results speak for themselves.

When the class is dismissed, you follow your fellow Slytherin first-years to Transfiguration. This time, you don't have to stalk another student to figure out where to go. It's a long walk from the dungeons. The Transfiguration courtyard is so bright after stepping from the castle. You wait outside the door to the classroom with your peers and eventually, it opens.

Professor McGonagall is already at her desk. She paces to the center of the room once all of you take your seats. “Welcome to Transfiguration,” she begins. “In this class, you will learn that Transfiguration is one of the most complex subjects taught at Hogwarts. Any attempts to perform it without proper concentration or respect will find themselves in the Hospital Wing—or worse.” She halts in front of the desk of a pureblood student whose attention is divided. “It requires precision, patience, and a sharp mind. If you wish to excel in my class, you will approach the course with the attention of a scholar, not the bravado of a showman.” Professor McGonagall gives that student a look and then continues, walking past them. “Transfiguration requires the act of command. You are not asking—you are instructing. She returns to the center of the classroom, ending her introductory speech, “Remember, magic that alters the world must also respect it. The greater your skill, the greater your responsibility.” She turns and heads back towards her desk. She stands in front of it, facing the class. “Now—take out your wands.”

At that, before each student appears a single matchstick. Professor McGonagall instructs you all to transfigure your matchsticks into needles, using the incantation Acus Fieri. When she gives the class the go-ahead, you raise your wand and point it down to the matchstick. “Acus Fieri,” you pronounce, along with your peers, but not in-sync. Your matchstick does turn into a needle, first try. However, it's not silver. It's red. It's a red needle. McGonagall strides over and scrutinizes your attempt. The only thing that's off is its color. She transfigures it back and instructs you to try again. So, you do, and you get a silver needle, but instead of a sewing needle, it's an injection needle. She squints her eyes and transfigures it back. “Again.” So, you do it a third time. This time, you get a sewing pin instead of a needle. She transfigures it back to a matchstick and insists, “Again, Miss Snape.” On the fourth attempt, you succeed. She then moves on to correct your peers.

—

Lunch is a meal you're not used to. Once a day, sometimes twice. You grew up in Cokeworth, within a population of addicts and grungy types. Never allowed outside unless under your father's explicit supervision. So, sitting down again with Draco's circle, you look like a starved Victorian child holding food for the first time in ten years.

Meanwhile, at the High Table, the professors are asking one another how their first classes of the term have gone. Severus doesn't speak about his first class. He's not the openly-sentimental type. It is Albus who ropes him into conversation by mentioning you, “Minerva, you were telling me about Miss Snape's curious results in your class?” Severus looks up from his plate. Minerva nods, “Yes, Albus. The girl's first attempt at transfiguration yielded textbook results… minus the color.” “Oh?” Albus perhaps shows too much interest to not be trying to provoke an interjection from Severus. “And how many attempts did it take for Miss Snape?” “Four.” Severus finally looks over, his expression bored. Minerva continues, “Her second attempt was an injection needle.” “Oh, how curious,” Albus muses. He adds, “I take it that her third and fourth attempts were successful?” Minerva replies, “Her fourth, yes. Her third, not quite. Certainly makes one wonder about education before attendance.” That evokes a response from Severus. That right there. His eyes narrow as he looks to his fellow professor. Excuse me? “For your information—” Albus cuts in with that annoyingly-calm smile, “Now, now, Severus, I'm certain Minerva wasn't critiquing your abilities.” Severus rolls his eyes and ignores their conversation. His eyes return to his plate, occasionally glancing down the Slytherin table.

At the Gryffindor table, Ginny is already telling the trio what you're like. “She's kind of like Neville,” which is not a compliment nor an insult. Their conversation goes on a little bit, mainly comparing you to the Head of Slytherin, but it all slows down when Ginny says, “But her eyes look like yours, Harry.” “What?” “Yeah,” Ginny says, “she has your eyes, Harry.” Weird.

At the Slytherin table, you're eating a sandwich maybe too quickly. Someone down the table jests, “Hungry, Snape?” You slow your chewing at that. There's some light teasing from the circle around you, and you do not speak or defend yourself.

—

Herbology takes place in a humid greenhouse. You stand with your fellow Slytherins and the class itself is rather mundane. Introductory, as were your other classes today—for the most part. You learn about Dittany, Flitterbloom, and Honking Daffodils today. You are disappointed you don't get to see a mandrake or even Devil's Snare, but you suppose that since it is your first day…

Defense Against the Dark Arts though—that class will be its own kind of monster. Monstrously disappointing. You don't even really listen to what Professor Lockhart says. It's all vanity and ego. Disgusting. You only remember when he addresses you in the middle of his self-absorbed speech, “Listening, Miss Snape?” You look up from your parchment—already working on an essay of the properties of Dittany for Herbology. “Of course, Professor Lockhart.” You lie with a straight face. The man doesn't believe you outright, but he masks that to talk about his new book. You roll your eyes and continue with your homework.

After class, you begin to wander back down to the dungeons, using portraits displayed in the Grand Staircase to give you directions on how to get to your father's classroom and by proxy, his office. The school is quite large, Some are helpful and others are mocking. Some just refuse to speak to you. There is one rather helpful portrait towards the bottom of the stairs of a man in a brown suit with a gravelly voice. He gives you exact directions. And after that, he asks, “Do you happen to be the Potions Master's daughter.” You nod. “I've heard great things from the other portraits,” he says. You offer a sheepish thank you and head on your way.

When getting to the classroom, you find your father still there. He's holding his office door open and lightly nudges you in. Once you sit down where he gestures, he closes the door and strides behind his desk, taking a seat. “How were your classes?” “I liked them.” You are quiet and your voice holds an uncertainty he immediately picks up on. “You don't sound so sure, were there issues?” You shake your head, “No sir, I just expected more.” You don't mean his class and he knows that. “Were you disappointed with Defense Against the Dark Arts?” His question is pointed and knowing. You reply, “Professor Lockhart's supposed to be a Ravenclaw, right?” Your father's expression shifts nearly imperceptibly to allow a smirk. He doesn't answer you back. Instead, he tells you to begin working on your homework. He doesn't ask when you pull out your half-finished essay on Dittany.

Dinner will follow soon, so he has you pack your things and leave five minutes before him, as per his instruction, at 5:45 PM.

Dinner itself in the Great Hall is similar to lunch and breakfast, though on the way to sit with Draco's circle as you had been all day, you begin to feel watched. And not the observant kind. From the Gryffindor table, you are scrutinized by the gaggle of second-years closest to Harry Potter, including the boy himself. They whisper and talk, but you can't tell what they're saying as your back is to them and they're two tables away. You don't really talk with Draco's lot either. You just exist, as you always have. 

When dinner ends, you follow your peers to the common room and soon, you follow them to bed. Your first day of classes at Hogwarts was interesting, if not disorienting. 

She's quiet.