AN: This was originally the introduction to a planed much longer fic. However, given I am unlikely to ever get around to writing it (my writing can't cope with the level of plot required) I thought to post this as a two-shot. If anyone feels inspired to write the rest of the story please go ahead; just acknowledge the source and send me a link.
Severus scowls as he looks around the Great Hall, the familiar room slightly distorted by his unfamiliar viewpoint.
It is all that Longbottom's fault. It is thanks to him that he has been forced into this situation; and the boy didn't even have a cauldron to blow up! No, that would be the influence of that werewolf, Lupin. The moment the Headmaster announced the new Defence teacher he had known there would be trouble. He just hadn't expected it to come in such a form.
Oh, the beginning was unsurprising. The wolf cosying up with the students, running a group seminar about boggarts, of all things. A feral grin briefly twists his lips. He is quite proud, in a way, that one of his students has himself as a boggart. He has worked hard to build his reputation, and Longbottom, with his atrocious Potions skills, is right to fear him. If only certain other students did the same. What he does not appreciate, is the reaction. Lupin was bad enough – the results of his suggestion to dress boggart-Severus in Augusta's clothes quickly becoming a school legend – but then came the discussion with McGonagall and Dumbledore. He grits his teeth at the memory.
"What have you done to the poor child?"
"Only what I must. The boy is hopeless, Minerva. No, worse. In my class he is positively a menace; a danger to himself and others, and especially my cauldrons!" There is a reason, after all, that he has cultivated the reputation he has. It is the only way to vaguely keep the dunderheads under control.
"While I admit that it can be frustrating, how do you expect him to improve when you've got him terrified out of his brain?"
"But it's Longbottom…"
"Yes, Severus. The boy whose parents were tortured to insanity. And yet, his boggart showed your face. His teacher. Even without the complaints I've received from literally every other one of my students, that is going too far! It has to change." He rolls his eyes. Every year she comes complaining to him about his teaching style. Every year, and he has yet to find sufficient reason to change.
"Albus, surely you…"
"I'm sorry, my boy, but she has a point. You might want to look at improving your antipathy towards young Harry while you are at it. You are both vital to the war we all know is coming, and must be able to work together. No, what I think you need is a change of perspective."
And, of course, once the Headmaster has made up his mind, there is nothing left to do but deal with it. He had tried refusing. He had tried arguing. He had tried threatening to quit his job. He had tried actually quitting his job. But Dumbledore would not be moved. And so here he is, back in 1991, waiting at the Hogwarts Welcome Feast.
"Prince, Toby."
A moment later he startles, finally remembering to respond to his new name, and steps forward to sit on the stool in front of the rest of the school.
And oh yes, he is eleven.