A New Different World

The oppressive stillness of the Forbidden Forest enveloped him as consciousness returned in jagged shards. Severus Snape groaned softly, a hand instinctively clutching at his pounding head. The pain was sharp and insistent, as if a troll had taken a hammer to his skull. His limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as though he'd been dragged through hell and spat out the other side.

He cracked open his eyes, squinting against the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy of trees above him. The forest's familiar silhouettes loomed in the distance, dark and ancient as ever. The scent of damp earth and moss filled his nostrils, grounding him. Though his mind swirled with disjointed fragments of memory.

Nagini. The snake. Her fangs sinking deep into his neck, venom burning through his veins. He could almost feel the phantom ache of her bite, a cruel reminder of his final moments. But he wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He felt pain. Pain was a sensation for the living.

A sharp intake of breath escaped him as he sat up, muscles protesting. He looked down at his hands, his fingers trembling slightly. They were wrong. They were unlined, unmarred by the passage of time, the calluses from years of potion-making softened, almost nonexistent. Panic bubbled in his chest as he flexed them experimentally, the movement alien in its ease. His gaze drifted lower, taking in his lean, wiry frame—a far cry from the older, more worn body he had inhabited for decades.

It wasn't just his hands. It was all of him. His body felt… younger. Stronger. His robes, though dusty from the forest floor, fit too well—no longer tight across his shoulders or frayed at the cuffs.

"What in Merlin's name…" he muttered under his breath, his voice a hoarse rasp.

He stood, legs unsteady beneath him, and took a cautious step forward. He was in the Forbidden Forest—that much was clear—but how? And why?

The last coherent memory he could summon was of death. His death. The betrayal, the agony, and the bitter resignation as he succumbed to the darkness. Yet here he stood, alive and… young?

His thoughts were interrupted by a low, guttural roar echoing through the trees, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. It was distant, yet powerful, reverberating through the forest like a warning.

Severus froze, instincts honed by years of war kicking in. He was wandless. An easy prey all together. His heart pounded, not in fear, but in grim anticipation. Whatever had made that sound was no mere creature—it was something larger, something dangerous.

Despite the haze of confusion clouding his mind, curiosity burned bright within him. It was a trait he could never suppress, no matter how much it had cost him over the years.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The roar came again, this time closer. He didn't hesitate.

With a muttered incantation, Severus pushed off the ground, the magic flowing through him as naturally as breathing. He could it do non verbally, but he wasn't going to try that in his weakened state. He soared into the air, robes billowing around him as he ascended above the treetops. The skill had been a gift—or rather, a lesson—from the Dark Lord himself, one of the few things Severus could acknowledge with begrudging respect. Say what you would about Voldemort's monstrosity, his grasp of magic had been unparalleled. The man was evil. But he was competent in magical arts. A quality he had always appreciated.

As he flew toward the source of the noise, the wind rushed past him, carrying with it the familiar scents of the forest below. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of logic. The Forbidden Forest. His younger body. His memories of death. It didn't add up. None of it did.

He tightened his grip on his wand, black eyes scanning the horizon. Whatever lay ahead, it held answers—or so he hoped. And if not, he would carve out the truth with his own hands.

The clearing slowly unfolded before him, bathed in the eerie glow of moonlight and flickering firelight. Severus hovered just above the treetops, eyes narrowing as he took in the scene below. For a moment, his mind struggled to process what he was seeing, as though the raw absurdity of it all had short-circuited his thoughts.

Dragons. Four of them.

The beasts were massive, their scales gleaming like molten metal in the low light. Smoke curled from their nostrils as they shifted restlessly, claws gouging deep furrows into the earth. The sight of their sheer size and power was enough to send a bolt of alarm through him, but it wasn't just their presence that left him stunned—it was their familiarity.

He recognized them.

His chest tightened as his gaze darted from one dragon to the next. The Welsh Green, smaller but no less ferocious, paced near the edge of the clearing, its sinuous tail lashing the ground. The blue sheen of the Swedish Short-Snout reflected the moonlight as it flared its wings briefly, a low growl rumbling in its throat. The Hungarian Horntail loomed in the center, its spiked tail curling and uncurling like a coiled whip, while the Chinese Fireball hissed softly, its fiery breath illuminating the faces of those nearby.

This wasn't just any collection of dragons. These were the dragons from the Triwizard Tournament. From 1994.

"What in Merlin's bloody name…" he breathed, his voice barely audible over the rush of his heartbeat in his ears.

His grip on his wand tightened, knuckles white as he descended slowly, his feet touching down on the soft forest floor. The familiar weight of the moment pressed heavily on his shoulders. He knew these dragons—knew them too well. They were supposed to have been brought to Hogwarts for the First Task, under heavy Ministry supervision.

But here they were, in the Forbidden Forest, as though time itself had twisted in on itself.

Was he in the past? His jaw clenched as the possibility clawed at his mind. The thought was maddening—utterly improbable. And yet, the evidence before him was undeniable. Unless…

Unless this was some cruel artifice.

The Dark Lord, or perhaps some other powerful wizard, could have conjured this as an illusion. A trap, perhaps. An attempt to destabilize him, though to what end, he couldn't guess. His pulse quickened as his gaze swept the clearing, his mind racing through possibilities.

His thoughts came to a jarring halt when he caught sight of the figures standing near the dragons. His breath hitched as he recognized them, their voices carrying faintly on the wind.

Hagrid was gesturing animatedly as he spoke, his deep voice filled with awe and enthusiasm. Beside him, Charlie Weasley stood with arms crossed, the very picture of a dragon handler in his element.

Hagrid threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and familiar, while Charlie offered a crooked grin, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the Fireball's breath.

Severus stared, the scene striking him like a hammer to the chest.

The dragons, the handlers, the easy camaraderie—it was exactly as he remembered it from the preparations for the First Task. Not similar. Not close. Exactly.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry as the implications crashed over him. If this wasn't the past, if he wasn't somehow back in 1994, then what in the name of Merlin was he looking at?

A low growl from the Hungarian Horntail pulled him from his spiraling thoughts, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath his boots. His instincts screamed at him to move, to retreat, but he remained rooted, his mind now grappling with a darker realization.

Hagrid and Charlie. Both were standing near the dragons, speaking in low, conspiratorial tones. There was no sign of malice, no indication of anything untoward.

It wasn't possible. Hagrid—a man who couldn't even squash a spider without apologizing—aligned with the Dark Arts? The notion was absurd. Charlie, too, had a reputation for straightforward bravery and loyalty. These were not men who would collude in a plan to attack Hogwarts.

Severus exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his confusion. If they weren't involved in some nefarious plot, then what was this?

The tension in his chest eased, just barely, as he stepped back into the shadows of the forest. His thoughts churned, questions multiplying faster than he could answer them.

He needed time to think. To parse through this impossibility and find the threads of logic buried within.

Severus turned, melting into the shadows. Whatever this was—past, present, or something far stranger—he would find the truth. He always did.