Rain hit the rusted windowpanes of a one-bedroom apartment like a metronome of misery. Inside, Marcus lay on a deflated mattress, chewing on stale crackers and staring at the ceiling as if it had the answers to life's most pitiful questions. He was forty-two, single, balding, mildly lactose intolerant, and spiritually constipated.
"Should've married Linda," he muttered, crumbs tumbling down his faded hoodie. Linda bright, beautiful, a redhead with the temperament of a Greek goddess and the patience of a saint. And he let her go. For what? A dream of directing his own sci-fi film called Galactic Fist of the Shadow Emperor. Spoiler: it never got made.
"I thought I'd make it big," he said to the ceiling. "I thought I was special."
The ceiling was unimpressed.
"I have no kids, no wife, not even a plant. Even a cactus left me. A cactus, God!"
The rain answered with a louder drumbeat. Marcus sighed, pulled a thin blanket over his shrinking frame, and stared into the abyss of his regrets.
"If there's a God, any God, I don't care if you're the God of Mice and Expired Tuna, listen. If you've got some cosmic relocation program, send me somewhere else. I'll take anything. Make me a dog in a rich man's house. Make me a side character in a movie. I'll be the guy who dies offscreen, I don't care. Just get me out of this tragic indie film of a life."
He paused dramatically.
"And if you're feeling theatrical… surprise me."
Silence.
Then… pain.
Blinding, real pain.
Marcus's eyes snapped open. Everything was blurred, bright, and moving far too fast. Fists were flying. His ribs exploded with agony. A knee found his stomach. He gasped, but no air came. Someone laughed. His vision cleared just long enough to catch a mop of messy black hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
"Hold him, Sirius!" shouted the leader. "He thinks he's better than everyone."
Laughter again.
Then realization.
"Wait... what the hell? Are these... kids?"
He was on a dirt path lined with stones, the sun bright overhead, the air warm and grassy and far too scented to be his apartment. His nose wait, his nose was shorter. His hands were thinner. He reached for his face mid-beating and touched hair long, greasy, sticking to his cheeks like wet seaweed.
He was… a teenager?
"Hey!" he croaked. "What, stop I'm Marcus, I'm—"
WHACK!
A punch cracked his jaw sideways. The world spun. The last thing he saw before blacking out was James Potter.
Marcus woke up inside a cramped dormitory room smelling of parchment, potions, and dust. He sat up with a jolt, the rough wool blanket tangling around his legs. A broken mirror on the opposite wall confirmed what he feared.
It wasn't him in the reflection.
It was Severus Snape.
"Oh… oh no," he whispered.
He reached for his face again. Greasy hair? Check. Sallow skin? Check. Expression that looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon dipped in sarcasm? Double check.
"God," he said, rubbing his temples. "You cheeky little bastard."
It was a cosmic joke. He wanted out of his life and got yeeted into the childhood of one of the most emotionally tortured characters in fiction. Snape. Actual Snape. Bullied-by-the-Marauders, hopelessly-in-love-with-Lily, ends-up-dying-for-the-greater-good Snape.
And he just got the living hell beat out of him by James Potter and his Hogwarts delinquent gang.
Marcus or rather, Severus stumbled to the washstand. Cold water helped a little. The cuts on his face ached, lips swollen, knuckles bruised from futile flailing. He stared at himself in the mirror.
"I wanted a break, not a breakdown!"
The door creaked. A familiar voice flat, nasal, bored called, "Snivellus, you alive in there?"
Marcus flinched. Another student. A Slytherin. He didn't know the name, but the disdain was unmistakable.
"Fine," Marcus muttered, dropping his voice lower to mimic Snape's tone. "I tripped."
The student scoffed. "Again? Merlin's beard, man. At least get hexed doing something cool next time."
The door shut.
Marcus slumped back on the bed. The memories were slowly bleeding into him, Snape's memories. They were faint, more like impressions than images: isolation, hunger for approval, contempt for the preening Gryffindors. And Lily.
Dear God, Lily Evans.
Her name was a melody that haunted his chest. The ache wasn't his… yet it was.
"How do people write fanfiction for this guy?" he muttered.
Still, he sat up. Despite the beating, despite the confusion, a part of him buzzed with something electric. He was in the story now. In the halls of Hogwarts. He could hear faint spells crackling from outside, laughter echoing from students heading to dinner.
And something else stirred in him, resolve.
"Alright, God. You got jokes. You think you're clever, huh? You send me from a hopeless loser to a tragic icon with childhood trauma and zero social skills."
He looked in the mirror again.
"Fine. Let's see what we can do with this."
He threw on the Slytherin cloak. It was heavier than expected, coarse, and lined with silver thread. As he walked toward the door, he found a small note tucked on the table. The handwriting was elegant, curled in gothic strokes.
"You wanted to be a side character. But be warned: sometimes, they feel everything just as deeply as the main ones. —G"
Marcus stared. "G?"
God? Gandalf? Gellert Grindelwald?
He didn't get time to think. The moment he stepped into the hallway, the world twisted again. Not violently but deliberately. As though the universe had turned its attention back on him. A student passed him with a sneer. Another whispered, "Snivellus," under their breath.
But he didn't flinch.
He smiled.
Smiled.
"I know the future," he murmured. "I know what happens. What if I change it?"
His pulse quickened. The thought wasn't just comforting, it was intoxicating.
If he played his cards right, he could rewrite the story. Maybe stop Lily from dying. Maybe turn the tables on the Marauders. Hell, maybe even open a potions shop in Hogsmeade and actually enjoy life.
That's when he saw them again.
James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Peter was trailing behind like an afterthought.
The Marauders.
The golden boys of Hogwarts.
James caught sight of him and that same smirk curled on his lips. "Look who's back for round two."
But Marcus, just cocked his head, calm, calculating.
He said nothing.
Just watched.
James blinked. The smirk faltered. Just a little.