Spider's End Alley, 1991.
Ethan trudged through the narrow doorway of his apartment, arms loaded down with his art supplies. In one hand, he clutched about a dozen sheets of yellowed sketch paper with edges so rough they'd probably give him a papercut if he wasn't careful. His other hand—small, perpetually smudged with charcoal no matter how hard he scrubbed—gripped several drawing pencils of different thicknesses like they were lifelines.
He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel. The ancient hinges let out a screech of protest that made him wince. One of these days, that whole door was just going to fall right off. Add it to the list of things he couldn't afford to fix.
Ethan carefully set down the greasy paper bag of food he'd been carrying on the rickety table—one of the few pieces of furniture in this dump that still had all its legs—then collapsed onto the sagging sofa with a grunt. The springs groaned under even his scrawny weight. He let out a long, exhausted sigh and tilted his head back, staring at the water-stained ceiling.
God, he was tired.
The room around him was... well, calling it "modest" would've been generous. "Depressing shithole" was more accurate, if he was being honest with himself.
The walls were covered in paint that might've been white once upon a time, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth or whatever. Now it was this weird grayish color, peeling off in long strips like diseased skin. The cabinet against the far wall was missing a door and held a collection of dented, rusted cans that Ethan kept meaning to throw out but never did. The chair in the corner was propped up on a stack of books because one of its legs had snapped off months ago—back when his biological father was still around, probably during one of his drunken rages.
In the opposite corner, shards of broken glass still glittered in the fading evening light streaming through the grimy window. Empty beer bottles, or what was left of them. Ethan had already sold off everything else that wasn't nailed down—and some things that were. When you were desperate enough, you'd be amazed what people would buy at a pawn shop.
His eyes—an unusual cobalt blue that stood out starkly against his pale, underfed face—drifted to the wall beside the window. There, tacked up with a single rusty nail, hung a sketch he'd done weeks ago.
It was a self-portrait. Or rather, a portrait of who he used to be.
The young man in the drawing had dark, messy hair and sharp black eyes that held a cynical, almost mocking glint. There was something fierce about the expression, something defiant. Like the person in that sketch was about to start yelling at the world and didn't give a damn who heard.
That was Ethan's previous life, frozen in charcoal and paper.
In that life—the one before this mess—he'd been an art student. A pretty good one, actually, if you asked anyone except the college entrance exam board. He'd failed that stupid test twice. Twice. And why? Because apparently "creativity" and "artistic vision" didn't matter when you were expected to draw exactly what they wanted, exactly how they wanted it.
Ethan had hated those exams with a burning passion. Still did, even now.
The last thing he remembered from that life was stepping off a curb in a daze after getting his second rejection letter. Then there'd been the blaring horn of a delivery truck—one of those big ones, he could still see the faded logo on the side if he closed his eyes—and then... nothing.
Lights out. Game over.
At least in that life, he'd had nobody to disappoint. No parents to let down, no family to mourn him. He'd been alone, which had its perks when it came to dying unexpectedly. No baggage, no guilt.
Just him and his art and his failures.
Then he'd woken up here. In this body. In this world.
Ethan still wasn't entirely sure what to make of that whole situation.
He'd found himself crammed into the body of an eleven-year-old kid living in one of the worst slums in Britain—Spider's End Alley, where hope went to die and the smell of industrial chemicals permanently hung in the air. The original owner of this body had been dealt a pretty crap hand in life, even by slum standards.
His birth mother had taken off years ago, run away with some new boyfriend, probably to somewhere that didn't smell like a chemical factory. Couldn't really blame her for that part, honestly. What Ethan could blame her for was abandoning her kid without a second thought.
The father? An alcoholic piece of work who'd spent more time with a bottle than with his son. When he was drunk—which was basically always—he'd fly into violent rages, throwing things, breaking things, and occasionally using his kid as a punching bag.
But hey, silver lining: the bastard hadn't been home in over a month.
Ethan's best guess? The guy had finally drunk himself to death in some gutter somewhere, and nobody had bothered to identify the body. Or maybe he'd just wandered off and collapsed in an alley, left to rot until he became fertilizer for whatever weeds managed to grow in this toxic wasteland.
Either way, good riddance.
The apartment had been a lot quieter without him.
"Gurgle~"
Ethan's stomach let out a loud, angry growl that echoed in the silent room.
Right. Food. That was a thing he needed.
He reached into his jacket pocket—the fabric was worn so thin he could almost see through it—and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Well, "sandwich" was a generous term. It was more like two slices of bread that had seen better days, with some wilted lettuce and what might've been cheese at some point smooshed between them.
He'd earned the money for this culinary masterpiece by doing what he did best: drawing portraits for people. Standing on the corner near the market with his sketch pad, offering to draw anyone who'd pay him a few dollars. Some days were good. Some days he went home with empty pockets and an emptier stomach.
Today had been... okay. Not great, not terrible.
Ethan unwrapped the sandwich, trying not to think too hard about the suspicious wet spots seeping through the bread. As he took a bite—immediately regretting it as the soggy, vaguely vegetable-flavored mush hit his tongue—a thought occurred to him.
Without really meaning to, his eyes lost focus, and suddenly a translucent pale blue screen materialized in front of his face.
It still freaked him out a little, even after a month of having it.
The screen displayed text in a clean, modern font that seemed wildly out of place in his decrepit apartment:
Ethan Vincent (11 years old)
[Soul Integration Level: 25%]
(You have not fully integrated into this world. Your magic will be unstable as a result.)
[Special Skill - Painting: Lifelike Imagination Lv1]
Your paintings may not be groundbreaking, but they certainly catch the eye.
[Gallery: None]
Magic.
That single word on the screen never failed to make Ethan's heart skip a beat.
He'd figured it out pretty quickly after waking up in this world. This wasn't just some random alternate reality or a different time period from his previous life.
This was that world.
The Harry Potter world.
Ethan had read all the books back in his previous life. He wasn't some obsessive superfan who could recite every line, but he knew the main plot beats, the major characters, the general vibe. It had been popular enough that even art students who failed their entrance exams twice had read it.
And Spider's End Alley? That was a dead giveaway. This was the same crappy neighborhood where Professor Snape had grown up. Where he'd lived before Hogwarts, and where he apparently still kept a house even as an adult.
If the system—because what else could he call this weird blue screen thing?—said he had magic, then theoretically, he should be able to get into Hogwarts.
He'd been doing the math in his head. If this was 1991, and Harry Potter would be starting Hogwarts in... 1991.
Holy shit.
He was the same age as Harry Potter. The same year. They'd be in the same class.
Ethan's mind raced with possibilities, fantasies spinning out faster than he could keep track of them. He'd spent the last month daydreaming about it constantly, imagining the moment an owl would show up with a letter sealed in wax, addressed to him in emerald green ink.
The past month had been rough, no point sugar-coating it. Living in grinding poverty, struggling to feed himself, constantly looking over his shoulder for the local thugs who liked to shake down vulnerable kids for whatever pocket change they had... it had worn him down.
The sharp edges of his personality from his previous life—that defiant, loud-mouthed art student who'd told his professors exactly what he thought of their "rigid institutional standards"—had been smoothed out by harsh reality. He'd learned to keep his head down, to watch what he said, to blend in.
To survive.
But he couldn't do this forever. He couldn't spend the rest of his life rotting away in Spider's End, scraping together pennies by sketching portraits of people who barely looked at him twice.
He had to get out.
He had to use his art to make something of himself, to show this world what he could do!
A small flame of determination flickered to life in Ethan's chest. Yeah. Yeah! He could do this. He'd get into Hogwarts, learn magic, and then—
"Click."
Ethan bit down on his sandwich again.
The bread had completely fallen apart now, turned to mush by whatever mystery liquid had soaked into it. Mixed with the rotting vegetable leaves—were those supposed to be lettuce? tomato?—it tasted like he was chewing on mud. Dirty, possibly toxic mud. His stomach churned in protest.
"Let's... let's figure out how to make rent first," Ethan muttered to himself, that little flame of ambition sputtering out like a candle in the wind.
Yeah. Rent. Food. Basic survival.
Baby steps.
BAM BAM BAM.
The sudden pounding on his door made Ethan nearly jump out of his skin.
He leapt up from the sofa, sandwich forgotten, his whole body instantly tense and alert. His eyes darted to the window—still light enough to see by, but the sun was setting fast.
This wasn't a normal time for visitors. Nobody in Spider's End went calling on people after dark unless they were up to no good.
Could it be those thugs? The ones who'd been hassling him last week, demanding "protection money"?
Ethan's mind raced. He started backing away from the door slowly, carefully, trying not to make the floorboards creak. His hand reached under the sagging sofa cushion and closed around the handle of a kitchen knife he'd stashed there for exactly this kind of situation.
The blade wasn't much—dull and rusty—but it was better than nothing.
This body was pathetically weak. Years of malnutrition and regular beatings had left him scrawny and fragile. In a real fight, he'd lose. Badly. His only advantage was that he had all his money—all four dollars and thirty-seven cents of it—stuffed in his pocket. If things went south, he could bolt through the window and run like hell.
Not a great plan, but it was what he had.
"I know you're home, Ethan Vincent."
The voice that came through the door was like ice water down his spine.
Deep. Slow. Drawn out. Each word pronounced with careful, almost menacing precision. It reminded Ethan of a snake—specifically, a snake that was wet and cold, slithering across stone in the dark.
"And don't even think about trying to run away through the window like some stupid troll."
Ethan froze mid-step, his hand still gripping the knife.
Troll.
That wasn't... that wasn't a normal insult. That wasn't something a regular person would say.
A face materialized in his mind. Greasy black hair. Hooked nose. Perpetual scowl.
Holy shit.
Holy SHIT.
Could it actually be—?
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Ethan could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, so loud he was surprised the person outside couldn't hear it.
He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. His hand was shaking slightly as he let go of the knife and moved away from the window.
Slowly, like he was in a dream—or maybe a nightmare, he couldn't quite decide yet—Ethan walked to the door.
His hand closed around the doorknob. It was cold.
He turned it and pulled.
The door swung open with a creak.
Standing on his doorstep, backlit by the dying light of the evening sun, was a man who looked like he'd just stepped out of a gothic horror novel.
He wore long black robes that billowed slightly in the breeze—actual robes, like something from a medieval painting, not modern clothes. His hair was black and greasy, hanging in lank curls around a sallow face. His nose was prominent and hooked, sharp enough that you could probably use it as a weapon. His eyes were dark and cold, currently looking down at Ethan with an expression of profound annoyance mixed with impatience.
He looked exactly like a bat. A really pissed-off bat in human form.
Severus Snape. Potions Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Half-Blood Prince. Future hero and tragic figure of the wizarding war.
Standing on Ethan's doorstep like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Ethan's brain short-circuited. He almost blurted out "Professor Snape!" right then and there, fanboy instincts taking over.
But he caught himself at the last second. Shoved that reaction down hard.
He was supposed to be a random eleven-year-old kid from the slums. He shouldn't know who this man was. Shouldn't recognize him.
Play it cool. Play dumb.
Ethan forced his expression into something wary and confused, the face of a street kid who didn't trust strange men showing up at his door after dark.
"Who... who are you?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound small and uncertain.
Professor Snape made a sound that was half-snort, half-scoff. His lip curled in what might've been amusement, if amusement could somehow be contemptuous and mocking at the same time.
"I wasn't aware," Snape said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "that the genius young portrait artist of Spider's End Alley made a habit of asking people's names before drawing their pictures."
He paused, letting that sink in, his dark eyes boring into Ethan like he could see right through him.
"Severus Snape," he finally continued, biting off each syllable with precision. "There. Now you know. Are you satisfied? May I come in, or are you planning to keep me standing out here like some traveling salesman?"
"I..." Ethan scrambled for something to say, some excuse. "It's getting dark now, sir. I can't really see clearly enough to draw properly. If you want a portrait, maybe we could schedule something for tomorrow morning when the light is better, and I could—"
He didn't get to finish that sentence.
Snape swept past him without waiting for permission, his black robes billowing dramatically as he strode into the apartment. It was like watching a storm cloud drift indoors.
"Lumos."
The single word was spoken quietly, almost casually, but the effect was immediate.
Light flooded the room—bright, clean, white light that made Ethan's eyes water after the dimness he'd been sitting in. The broken, dead light bulb that had been hanging uselessly from the ceiling suddenly blazed to life, as though it had never been broken at all.
Magic. Real, actual magic, performed right in front of him.
Ethan stared, momentarily speechless.
Professor Snape, completely unbothered, swept across the room and dropped himself onto Ethan's sad excuse for a sofa with the air of someone claiming a throne. He leaned back, somehow making even that ratty piece of furniture look imposing, and tilted his chin up to look at Ethan.
A thin, cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"Paint," Snape said simply. An order, not a request.
"..."
Ethan stood there for a moment, frozen, processing what had just happened.
Then, slowly, he closed the door and moved to gather his art supplies. He grabbed his sketch pad and pencils, settled himself on the three-legged stool (carefully balanced so he wouldn't tip over), and looked up at his unexpected client.
"What, um... what would you like me to draw, sir?" Ethan asked, trying to sound professional despite the surreal circumstances.
Snape's lip curled again. "Whatever you'd like. A portrait, perhaps? Isn't that supposed to be your specialty?"
There was something in his tone—a sharp edge, an undertone of mockery that Ethan couldn't quite figure out. Like this whole thing was some kind of test or joke that Ethan wasn't in on.
Portrait painting.
Yeah, that was his specialty. In both lives, actually. He'd always been good at capturing faces, at finding the essential character of a person and putting it down on paper.
But how was a simple portrait going to impress someone like Professor Snape? The man taught at a school of magic, for crying out loud. He probably saw incredible things every day. What would a normal charcoal portrait mean to someone like that?
Ethan stared down at his blank page, mind racing.
He needed to do something different. Something meaningful. Something that would make an impact.
But what?
His fingers drummed against the pencil nervously. Think, think...
And then, like a lightning bolt, an image flashed through his mind.
Red hair, like autumn leaves catching fire in the sun. Bright green eyes, the color of fresh spring grass. A kind smile, warm and genuine.
Lily Evans.
Or, well, Lily Potter now. Harry's mom. And—if Ethan remembered the books correctly—the person Severus Snape had been in love with basically his entire life. His childhood friend, his first love, his everything. The woman he'd never gotten over, even after her death.
Ethan's eyes widened as the idea solidified.
Oh.
Oh.
He'd said to draw a portrait. He hadn't specified whose portrait.
It was risky. Really risky. If this went wrong, Snape might actually kill him. But if it went right...
If it went right, he'd definitely make an impression.
Ethan's hand tightened around his pencil. His heart was hammering again, but this time it was from excitement rather than fear.
He could do this. He could see her in his mind's eye already, even though he'd never actually met her, never seen her except in vague descriptions from the books. But somehow—maybe it was the system's "Lifelike Imagination" skill kicking in—he could picture her perfectly.
The curve of her smile. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed. The exact shade of her hair.
Ethan bent over his sketch pad, pencil poised.
Then he began to draw.
The outside world faded away almost immediately. The sounds of Spider's End—distant shouts, the rumble of cars, the ever-present industrial hum—receded like water draining from a bathtub.
There was only the paper. The pencil. The image forming beneath his hand.
Ethan leaned forward, hunched over his work, his face inches from the page. His jaw was clenched tight with concentration. Sweat started to bead on his forehead, but he didn't notice. Didn't care.
He only had a rough impression of Lily Potter from the books. Vague descriptions, a few scattered details. But in this moment, with his pencil moving across the paper, it was like she was standing right in front of him. Like he was drawing from life rather than imagination.
Every detail came to him clearly. The exact shape of her face—oval, with a slightly pointed chin. The way her eyebrows arched, expressive and mobile. The fullness of her lips. The small scar she might've had on her temple from some childhood accident.
He could see her.
And more than that—he could feel the magic flowing through him, through his pencil, into the drawing itself. It was warm and electric, like a current running just beneath his skin. The system's notification about his paintings containing magic... he'd noticed it before, but never quite like this. Never this strong.
This wasn't just a drawing. This was something more.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The only sound in the room was the whisper of charcoal on paper, punctuated by Ethan's quiet breathing.
From his position on the sofa, Professor Snape watched in silence.
He'd felt the surge of magic the moment the boy started drawing, and his expression darkened immediately. His lips pressed into a thin line, and irritation flashed through his dark eyes.
This was exactly the problem.
This was why he was here in the first place.
Dumbledore had sent him—sent him, like Snape was some kind of errand boy—to deal with this situation. A young wizard who had no idea he even had magic, running around Spider's End selling magically-enhanced artwork to unsuspecting locals.
Every single drawing this kid produced was infused with magic. Not intentionally, not consciously, but the effect was the same. The paintings drew people in, captured their attention in ways that normal art shouldn't. Made them stare for hours, forgetting to eat, forgetting to sleep, completely entranced.
It was borderline dark magic. Definitely a violation of the Statute of Secrecy.
When Snape had returned to Spider's End for his usual summer retreat from Hogwarts, he'd noticed immediately that something was wrong. The streets were eerily empty. People weren't out and about like normal. At first he'd thought maybe there was some kind of flu going around, keeping everyone indoors.
Then he'd heard the reports. Dozens of locals, all exhibiting the same strange behavior—sitting at home, staring at portraits on their walls, barely responsive to outside stimuli.
It hadn't taken long to trace the source back to one skinny eleven-year-old boy with a talent for drawing.
The Ministry of Magic had gotten involved. There'd been arguments, debates about what to do with the kid. Some officials wanted to prosecute him, put him on trial for unauthorized magic use and violation of secrecy laws. Others pointed out that he was clearly an untrained child who didn't even know what he was doing.
It was Dumbledore who'd ultimately intervened, pulling strings, calling in favors, getting the case dismissed before it could go to trial.
And then, with that infuriatingly cheerful smile of his, he'd asked Snape to "check in on the boy."
"Severus, what an interesting coincidence that he's from Spider's End as well! Don't you think? Perhaps you could offer some... guidance? Hehehehe~"
Just thinking about Dumbledore's twinkling eyes and jovial chuckle made a vein throb in Snape's forehead.
He knew exactly what Dumbledore was doing. Trying to soften him up, trying to make him connect with some random urchin just because they happened to grow up in the same slum. As if shared trauma was some kind of bonding experience that would turn Snape into a mentor figure.
Ridiculous.
Snape had come here with every intention of being thoroughly unpleasant. He'd let the boy draw whatever mediocre sketch he was capable of, then absolutely eviscerate it with criticism. Tear it apart, mock every line and shadow, make it crystal clear that raw magical power meant nothing without discipline and control.
He'd even prepared his speech in advance, crafting insults that would crush whatever artistic pride this child had built up.
That would teach him the appropriate level of humility.
Snape allowed himself a small, nasty smile at the thought. It was the same expression that made first-year Gryffindors burst into tears.
But beneath the anticipation and malice, there was something else. Something uncomfortable that Snape didn't want to examine too closely.
This apartment. The broken furniture, the smell of mildew and cheap alcohol, the water-stained walls and general air of neglect and poverty.
It reminded him of his own childhood. Of his own father's drinking. Of his own mother's gradual decline into depression and apathy.
Of growing up in this very same neighborhood, where hope went to die.
And despite himself, despite his best efforts to remain coldly detached, that uncomfortable feeling of recognition gnawed at him.
He'd been this kid once. Scared, alone, desperate for a way out.
Snape's expression hardened. No. He wasn't going to feel sympathy. That wasn't why he was here.
He was here to do a job. Collect whatever painting the boy produced, probably destroy it to eliminate the magical contamination, deliver a harsh lesson about control and consequences, and then leave. Simple.
"Sir," the boy's voice broke through Snape's thoughts. "The drawing is finished."
Snape blinked, snapping back to the present.
He looked at the boy—Ethan—who was holding up the sketch pad with both hands. There was something in the kid's expression, a mixture of nervous pride and anticipation, like he'd just completed something important and wasn't sure how it would be received.
Snape exhaled heavily through his nose, the sound halfway between a sigh and a snort.
With theatrical reluctance, he reached out and snatched the sketch pad from Ethan's hands.
His prepared insults were already queuing up on his tongue, ready to be deployed. He glanced down at the drawing with the full intention of immediately finding something to mock.
His eyes locked onto the image.
And he froze.
Completely, totally, absolutely froze.
It was like someone had hit him with a full-body bind curse. Every muscle in his body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes—usually narrowed in suspicion or contempt—went wide with shock.
Because staring up at him from the paper, rendered in incredible, heart-wrenching detail, was a face he would recognize anywhere, anytime, in any form.
Lily Evans.
Not a generic portrait. Not some random woman. Her.
The girl he'd grown up with. The girl who'd been his first and only friend. The girl he'd loved with every fiber of his being for as long as he could remember.
The woman whose death had destroyed him.
The drawing was... it was perfect. Her face, exactly as he remembered it from their Hogwarts days. The slight upturn of her nose. The way her hair fell in soft waves around her face. The intelligence and warmth in her eyes.
But more than that—and this was what made Snape's hands start to tremble—the artist had somehow captured her essence. The kindness that radiated from her. The gentle humor. The strength beneath the softness.
This wasn't just a technically proficient drawing. This was Lily, preserved forever in charcoal and paper.
How? How could this child, this boy who'd never even met her, who wasn't even born when she died, possibly—
Snape's mind reeled. His carefully constructed walls of sarcasm and cruelty crumbled like sand.
For a long, suspended moment, the dingy apartment in Spider's End fell completely silent.
And Severus Snape, the man who prided himself on his control, who never let his emotions show, who maintained perfect composure even in the face of death and torture...
Stared at a drawing of the only woman he'd ever loved, and couldn't form a single word.
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