Severus Snape stared at his reflection. A rather somber-looking young man stared back, nose prominent as always, hair infuriatingly greasy despite everything he'd done to it, including tying it back. His best feature, his eyes, were somehow — miraculously — young, despite everything he'd seen and done in the past four years. His skin was thankfully devoid of anything resembling that of his father — either the drunken red or the maggot-riddled remains Tobias was left with as of his demise two years ago. Unfortunate, that. Severus smirked, the dark humor setting off the Slytherin green robes which were as unfamiliar to the former apprentice as his current title: Master of Potions, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He chuckled, feeling suddenly like a boy dressing up in adult clothes. Here he was, only twenty-one years old, and teaching Potions at Hogwarts. Sure, he'd been sub-teaching under Slughorn since he graduated four years ago, but he was now the youngest Potions Master on record. Lily would get a kick out of it, when he could get away long enough to laugh about it with her. Hell, even Potter would have to admit he'd earned it. Severus closed his eyes, savoring a vision of the young couple laughing with him as he "pretended" he'd poisoned Black's tea, and smiled—

No.

Dumbledore had been clear. He could not trust his Occlumency to protect such a personal memory, especially one tied to such emotions. He could not jeopardize his position within the Death Eaters for something so trivial as a joke with his oldest friend. He hated the thought of calling his friendship with Lily 'trivial', but compared with the war, he knew Dumbledore was right.

He'd send a letter after the Welcoming Feast, he decided with a sharp nod. He gave himself one more look-over — his cravat was crooked and he adjusted it, admiring the intricate silver edging — and turned on his heel, robes flaring out behind him.

Suppressing a grin, Severus left his rooms and strode for the Great Hall.

His footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, the familiar sound comforting in the midst of so much chaos. He let his mind settle, thoughts of the war drifting beneath thoughts of his failed attempt to get whatever Dumbledore had wanted from Slughorn before he retired, those sinking beneath 7th year Lucius Malfoy's early lessons on absorbing everything in his first year, which faded under his determination to make Potions less a class of collecting the future famous and more a class of scholarly discovery, which soon subsided with memories of how distant Slughorn had become in the last few years, coupled with a renewed promise to himself to be the absolute best.

He found himself in the Entrance Hall out of habit, facing the double doors. He drew himself up, gathered his Occlumency shields, prepared himself for the Welcoming Feast and the goldmine of information it always presented, and wrapped his thoughts in the persona he'd created on the walk up.

With one last exhale, Professor Snape pushed open the door.

(He knew full well the impression he gave — young, determined, serious, robes purposefully Slytherin after four years of apprentice gray and the luxury of a teacher's choice, sweeping aside the main doors as though they were beneath him. An ambitious man, withdrawn from others though somehow always present.)

The Hall was empty. Only the Head Table was occupied, the four long House tables awaiting the second-years and above to arrive at the main gate. Severus made his way along the Slytherin table — habits die hard, after all, and the familiarity was comforting — automatically scanning the staff ahead for an idea of their mental state. Dumbledore was there, of course, speaking comfortably with Professor Vector — Septima, Severus told himself. She's your colleague now. To Septima's right was Bathsheda Babbling, then Pomona Sprout, talking animatedly with Mary McKinnon, who looked very much like her daughter. He knows Marlene associates with the Potters. Pay attention to the matriarch; learn what you can. Morpheus Ratigan was dozing in his chair, blissfully unaware of his new assistant, Irma Pince, glaring at her so-called "superior." The older woman caught Severus' eyes as he approached the table and he smiled with her.

Dumbledore coughed, and Severus remembered.

"You can't let them trust you, Severus. Voldemort has eyes everywhere, and he will know that you betray him daily. You cannot falter, not even now that Horace has gone. You must be the callous boy from Slytherin you pretended to be all those years ago."

The reminder of his role set Severus' teeth and allowed him to quickly scan the other seats — Minerva's empty seat, Madam Hooch, Filius Flitwick, Madam Pomphrey, Selvinus Kettleburn, Hagrid. They were taking their cues from Dumbledore and smiling as though nothing was wrong, Severus noted. The only exception would be Flitwick, whose expression was somewhere between uncontrollably excited and deeply suspicious. A Dueling champion, Severus remembered. He would be concerned by the general air of mistrust, out of anyone. It was odd that he seemed so excited, though. Probably ecstatic over this being Lockhart's last year, Severus grinned.

He ignored Sybil Trelawney, as he always did, though he couldn't help but overhear her informing Quirinus Quirrell of his approaching doom.

Only one face caught his attention: the man occupying the second-to-last seat at the table.

He was old, wearing green robes embroidered with black, with a grizzled face returning Severus' curious look with a piercing stare of his own. As Severus took the only seat available, which happened to be the chair next to the old man, he noticed the tip of the man's wand protruding from his sleeve.

"Valerius Aldbar," Severus greeted calmly. And, because he was playing to type and his every action would be reported and he knew what the Dark Lord would be looking for: "I'd no idea teaching an entire generation of students was less public than the Aurory."

He was referring, of course, to the man's infamous declaration of privacy following his devastating failure to stop a Death Eater attack two years before.

The previous Head Auror snorted. "Boy, I'm teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and I'm probably going to die at the end of the year, which with Slughorn's retirement leaves you as next year's Head of Slytherin. For the sake of time, don't pick a serpent's fight with me. I've got ten months to teach you how to take care of your House. Pay attention."

In order to give himself time to formulate a good response to such out-of-character boldness, Severus took a drink — the teachers do have wine, I owe Lucius a bottle of Ogden's. "The rumored jinx has never actually killed anyone," he said at last.

Aldbar sighed. "There's a first time for everything." He stared down at his cup. "You stop thinking you've seen the last, after enough of 'em keep coming."

The doors opened, stopping him from saying anything else. The prefects led the older students in by groups.

"First lesson," Aldbar said, leaning towards him, "though I assume you already know it."

Severus glanced at him then studied the Slytherin table. "Popularity is a matter of seating as much as heritage," he murmured, repeating what Lucius had told him in his first year.

"Aye, but that's dependent on the carriages the deviant little buggers rode up here, and that relies on grouping from the Express, which relies on faded memories of last year. What stood out enough to prevent an entire House from sitting with Lockhart?"

And indeed, there was a space of at least two seats on each side of young Gilderoy Lockhart, who at seventeen had not yet achieved the fame he desired, much less enough to have a retired Auror recognize him in a sea of black robes. You've done your homework, Auror. Severus answered mildly, "I believe it was his stunt of changing the Ravenclaw common room's tapestries to reflect his features."

Aldbar grunted. "Teachers must've been annoyed."

Too vague. What do you want to know? "Indeed. Flitwick actually—" Why is Dumbledore staring at Macklesburg? Does he think she'll fight the Dark Lord after she graduates? For the love of Merlin, she's—

Staring at Fortescue.

Albus, you old romantic.

"A bit obvious, my boy," Aldbar said, startling him. "Your eyes give so much away." The old man glanced away, sweeping the Great Hall.

Severus sat back in his chair, uneasy at not knowing what expressions he'd shown without realizing it. "I can hardly change my eyes."

"No?" Aldbar finally showed a hint of a grin. He shook his head slightly and his mussed hair fell down in a fringe around his forehead, shielding his eyes. "Windows to the soul they may be, but susceptible to curtains just the same."

Severus was unwilling to admit that his nose looked enormous when he let his hair hang around his face, and so remained silent. Aldbar's grin grew, though, so apparently that thought had leaked out as well.

Aldbar broke into his thoughts once again. "You going to use those sharp eyes to keep your students from ending up in the Hospital Wing?"

Severus' eyes flashed. "I'm not going to make Slughorn's mistakes."

Aldbar only looked at him steadily. "No," he murmured at last. "Your mistakes are different." His eyes fell to Severus' left arm.

And despite everything he had ever forced himself to learn about instinctive behaviors, Severus flinched and glanced quickly in Dumbledore's direction.

"Lesson two: Gryffindors don't like to get their hands dirty any more than Slytherins." Valerius Aldbar sounded faintly reprimanding.

On Aldbar's other side, Madam Pince spoke up. "Professor Aldbar? I noticed you have The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection on the course book list, and I wondered if you will be referring to Trimble's other books during the year. I could order in extras so the students have plenty."

Severus took the time while Aldbar was answering to compose himself. Aldbar couldn't possibly know of the Mark — of Dumbledore's arrangement with him. But what other 'mistake' could he be referring to? And why would joining the Order be a mistake?

The doors opened, halting all conversation at the Head Table. Minerva escorted the first years in and the Sorting Hat sang its maddeningly inane song as usual.

The Sorting felt quite a bit different from the Head Table. For one, all the staff apparently made bets on the first-years' Houses. Severus had been surprised, that first year apprenticing under Slughorn, then quietly amused, and now looked forward to it more than any other part of the Welcoming Feast.

Some students were Sorted quickly, leaving them little chance to speculate and testing Severus and Valerius' snap judgments:

"Fawley, Patrick!" "SLYTHERIN!"

Some were nearly Hatstalls, resulting in Flitwick and Minerva catching each others' eyes in some private joke while Rolanda and Poppy wagered expensive healing potions:

"Rosslyn, Teresa!" "HUFFLEPUFF!"

And some were in between, allowing a comfortable time to evaluate posture and bearing, reflecting on whether or not the name was Muggle, without a long wait tempting the staff to begin betting Hogsmeade weekend supervisions:

"Williams, Sarah!" "GRYFFINDOR!"

Minerva carried the Hat to the side of the Head Table while her newest cub stood up. The girl was frowning over at one of the Slytherins, who was oddly quiet as the rest of his House hissed the last firstie. An Avery, friends with a Selwyn, and they've already noticed her. You've your work cut out for you, Miss Williams.

Aldbar murmured, "They were in the same coach, the ride over. Poor lass doesn't even know what's waiting for her."

Severus was about to agree with him when he saw the same look pass over Fawley and Avery's face simultaneously. It was a look he'd had on his own face, fifteen years old and facing his OWLS, Black's insults ringing in his ears. It was a look that said, 'Damn their expectations. I'm going to do my best, and no one can stop me.'

Avery, despite his father and older brother's influence, still couldn't control all his expressions, and he leaned away from Selwyn with a look of disgust. Fawley glanced at him, surprised, and then across the Hall to the Gryffindor table and further to the Hufflepuff table on the far side. The two boys straightened. Their chins rose.

"Saints preserve us," Aldbar breathed.

"There's hope yet," Severus murmured quietly.

"And now we're teachers who can foster that hope. Help Slytherin win this year?" Aldbar's voice had gained a softly pleading tone.

Severus tore his eyes from the boys who'd just decided to abandon their family's legacy and he looked at the man convinced he would be dead in 10 months.

Help Slytherin win the House Cup. Give them something to strive for, something good, despite whatever madness would descend as the war drew ever closer to a bloody end. Teach his students, the children under his care, that they could be great without being evil.

"I will," Severus vowed.

(He meant it.)

("What's said is said.")

And Valerius relaxed.

A/N: So... I procrastinated on Vindicated Auror by posting this instead. But hey, at least I'm getting there! This is a scene I had in my head for a while, and I wanted to show Professor Snape's first day as a teacher from his perspective, but it didn't fit into Sarah's story. What did you think? (Too heavy-handed with the anti-Slytherin-bashing-for-the-love-of-sanity-they're-just-children?)

I may continue this as a series, separate moments from Severus' pov sprinkled throughout Sarah's journey. Yea? Nay?

(Jan 31, 2017)