A New Different World

The room was dimly lit, the weak morning sunlight filtered through the grime-covered windows of the Leaky Cauldron, casting long shadows over the faded carpet. Severus sat in a rickety chair by the small wooden desk, its surface covered with an assortment of newspapers he had painstakingly acquired from both wizarding and Muggle sources. His fingers tapped absently against the edge of the table as his dark eyes scanned yet another headline of 14 years before.

DAMOCLES BELBY, POTIONS INNOVATOR, SLAIN BY DEATH EATERS

He let out a slow exhale, setting the paper down carefully, though the knot in his stomach tightened. Belby was dead. The inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, the man who had revolutionized the treatment of lycanthropy. He had been cut down before his work could truly make a difference.

Severus leaned back in the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as the implications unfolded in his mind. He remembered Belby from his own world. The man was somewhat pompous but undeniably brilliant potioneer. The man had been an irritant in the academic circles, full of grand ideas and even grander speeches, but his heart had been in the right place.

In his world, Belby had waited until the end of the First Wizarding War to announce his work, knowing that the Dark Lord's followers would see it as a threat. The Dark Lord's agenda had thrived on sowing chaos and recruiting marginalized groups like the werewolves, promising them power and acceptance. Wolfsbane had represented a glimmer of hope, a potential liberation from the curse of lycanthropy—and the Dark Lord could not abide such a thing.

But here, in this world, Belby had taken an even greater risk, pursuing his research openly during the height of Voldemort's power. Severus felt an unexpected pang of pity for the man. His idealism had been his undoing. The thought may have been noble, but it ultimately left him dead.

He sighed and pushed the newspaper aside, his fingers brushing against another headline. His eyes darted to the stack of discarded papers, the scattered stories that painted a picture of a world both familiar and alien. This world was not his own. That much was painfully clear.

One headline in particular caught his eye again. He picked up the paper and read it slowly, as if doing so might lessen the weight of its words.

LILY EVANS-POTTER, SURVIVOR OF WAR, RAISES TWO CHILDREN ALONE

His chest tightened involuntarily, and he set the paper down as if it had burned him. Lily had a daughter in this world. A daughter born after James Potter's death at the hands of the Dark Lord.

Severus stared at his hands. The thought twisted something deep inside him. Had it been possible in his world as well? Had Lily been pregnant when Voldemort came for them that fateful night? If so, he was complicit not only in the death of Lily and James but also in the death of their unborn child.

The guilt coiled around him like a serpent, squeezing until he could hardly breathe. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to push the thought away. His mind recalled Nagini attacking him as he fought his shallow breathing.

"This isn't my world," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "It's not my burden."

But it felt like his burden. The knowledge gnawed at him, a shadow of sins past and present.

He shifted in his seat, forcing his focus back to the papers. The differences between this world and his own continued to pile up, some small, others monumental. Deaths that he had prevented in his world, thanks to his reports as a spy, had occurred here without a countermeasure. Entire families, colleagues, and acquaintances had been wiped out.

There was no one in this world with his particular skill set, no one playing the delicate, deadly game of double agent. It seemed the only person who came close was Regulus Black.

He paused, considering the young Black. In his world, Regulus had been the surprise rebel—the pure-blood heir who had dared to betray Voldemort. His death had been a quiet tragedy, unrecognized by most, but Severus had learned the truth during the hunt for the Hocruxes. He still remembered Phineas Nigellus's smug tone as the portrait relayed everything overheard from Hermione Granger's conversations with that infernal house-elf, Kreacher.

Severus frowned. If Regulus was alive here, and potentially a spy, what would that mean for the war's outcome? Regulus had been brave, far braver than his elder brother, but also reckless. And he had been very, very young.

Setting the papers aside, Severus leaned back and stared at the ceiling. This world was like a puzzle with too many missing pieces. And yet, amidst the differences, there were echoes of familiarity, like the faint strains of a song half-forgotten.

This world had a Lily. But she wasn't the Lily he knew. There would be no use to beat his sadness upon her. She was another Lily. He didn't owe her anything. As a matter of fact, he didn't owe anything to anyone. He had fucking done everything what was asked of him. He had lived to tell the tale of death. What more could he do for anyone? He will live his own life for once. Fuck everyone. He wanted some rest and peace for himself. He deserved that. He had died for the cause already. It didn't matter to him now anymore.

___________________________________

The shadows of Knockturn Alley stretched long and menacing in the dim light of flickering lanterns. His dark robes blended into the night perfectly. The faint murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of glass broke the silence, but the place was mostly deserted—just the way he preferred it.

Knockturn Alley had never been safe, but safety wasn't a concern for him. He wasn't a safe man either. The years he had spent as a spy had forged him into someone who could handle himself in situations far more dire than this. It had given him a backbone and balls of steel.

As he reached a shop tucked into a crooked corner, its wooden sign creaking faintly in the night breeze, Severus paused. The name was unfamiliar, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of curiosity. This shop hadn't existed in his world—a minor deviation, but one he intended to explore.

Pushing open the heavy door, he was greeted by the sharp, acrid tang of brewing potions and the earthy aroma of dried herbs. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars, vials, and bundles of exotic ingredients, their labels written in a spidery script that suggested age and a certain disregard for legibility.

The shopkeeper, a wiry man with thinning hair and piercing gray eyes, looked up from behind the counter. He was grinding something in a mortar with quick movements but stopped the moment he saw Severus.

"Evening," the man greeted, his voice rough but not unfriendly to Severus. "You're out late."

Severus gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning the shelves and then went to the man. "I require ingredients."

The shopkeeper set down his mortar and pestle, wiping his hands on a stained apron. "You've come to the right place, lad. What're you after?"

Severus approached the counter. He knew what he wanted. He gave him a list. A list which showed powdered moonstone, crushed bezoar, dried asphodel root, and a few other items that weren't commonly found in apothecaries catering to the average Hogwarts student.

The shopkeeper's brows lifted as he began read the requested items. "You've got a sharp eye for quality. Most folks who come in here don't even know what half this stuff is for."

Severus hummed noncommittally, his gaze lingering on a jar labeled venomous tentacula sap.

The shopkeeper moved over and handed over a bundle of asphodel from the nearby shelf. He gave Severus a speculative look. "You studying under someone?"

"No," Severus replied, his tone clipped as he looked at the man before him.

The shopkeeper smirked, leaning slightly against the counter. "Could've fooled me. You've got the air of an apprentice—or someone who knows their way around a cauldron."

Severus ignored the comment, instead inspecting the bundle for signs of degradation. Satisfied, he placed it on the counter.

"You're not from around here, are you?" the man pressed, his curiosity apparently piqued. "Haven't seen you before."

"I travel," Severus said vaguely, his voice as cool as the air in the alley outside.

The shopkeeper chuckled. "Not much of a talker, are you? Don't blame you—this isn't exactly the friendliest part of town. Still, you don't look like someone who'd be easily bothered."

Severus arched a brow but said nothing.

As the shopkeeper added powdered moonstone to the growing pile of ingredients, he tilted his head. "You're an odd one, though. Barely look older than seventeen, but you've got more knowledge in that head of yours than most wizards twice your age."

Severus stiffened slightly at the remark but kept his expression neutral.

"Unless…" The man trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

"Unless?" Severus prompted, his tone icy.

The shopkeeper grinned, showing slightly yellowed teeth. "You a vampire?"

Severus blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Well," the man began, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you're pale as a ghost, you've got this… unnerving calm about you, and you clearly know your potions. Vampires live for centuries—they'd have plenty of time to study. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

Severus's lip curled faintly. "I assure you, I'm not a vampire."

The shopkeeper shrugged, unperturbed. "Fair enough. That leaves two possibilities, then: either you're apprenticed to some master potioneer, or you're a natural talent."

Severus regarded the man for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The shopkeeper grinned again. "You should. Not often you see someone your age with that kind of expertise."

Severus sighed. It seemed he have met a talkative shopkeeper of some sort.