A New Different World

The heavy oak doors of Gringotts closed behind Severus with a muffled thud. The chill of the winter air biting at his face as he stepped into Diagon Alley. The information he had gleaned in the last few hours was nothing short of mind-boggling, each revelation adding another layer to the incomprehensible reality.

He paused just outside the bank, his eyes narrowing against the pale light filtering through the enchanted street lamps. He hadn't existed in this world. Hadn't existed. The notion was absurd, yet the information and the newspapers left no room for doubt. His parents, both Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape. They had never crossed paths. There was no Severus Snape in this version of reality.

Instead, his mother had married Alphard Black. Alphard, of all people. A name he had associated with a vaguely sympathetic presence among the Black family but hardly someone he had ever expected to fill the role of his father. Not that it mattered, as both Alphard and Eileen were long dead in this world, leaving behind a single son. A son named as Corvus Black.

Severus shook his head, his lips twisting into a grimace as he thought about it. Corvus Black. A man two years older than Severus had been in his original timeline, married to Bellatrix Black – and happily, no less. He scoffed at the thought, though the bitterness tasted sharp on his tongue.

He fucking married Bellatrix. The fanatical sycophant to the Dark Lord, now lived as a doting wife and mother to three children. A wife to the variant of him of this universe. He knew that Blacks liked to stir their own cauldrons. But this was ridiculous. The very idea bordered on the ludicrous.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself. The bizarre twists didn't end there. Lily Evans. Lily Potter. The name alone was enough to unearth the carefully buried ache in his chest, the phantom pain of a wound that never fully healed. In this world, her story had unfolded similarly to his own—at least at first. She had married James Potter, borne a brat to him, and survived Voldemort's attack.

But James Potter was dead here.

The thought caught him off guard, its weight landing heavily in his chest. James Potter, dead. Lily, alive. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. That much had remained constant, though the echoes of similarity ended there. Peter Pettigrew had been unmasked as a traitor, captured, and later escaped Azkaban. The pieces of this world's history were both familiar and foreign, fragments of a puzzle he couldn't yet fit together.

Severus exhaled sharply, trying to force the thoughts aside. There was too much to process, and lingering on the details wouldn't serve him now. He needed resources. Tools. Answers. And for that, he needed a wand.

The corners of his mouth tightened as he remembered the lengths he'd gone to just to reach this point. It hadn't been hard to obtain the necessary funds, though the method still left a sour taste in his mouth. Wandless magic, refined through years of practice and the crucible of war, had proven invaluable once again to him. A Confundus Charm here, a subtle compulsion there, and he had extracted enough Muggle money from unsuspecting passersby to exchange at Gringotts.

It wasn't something he was proud of. The act of taking from others, even indirectly, grated against the core of his discipline. But survival didn't leave room for sentimentality. It never had.

_________________________________________

The shop bell tinkled faintly as Severus pushed open the door to Ollivanders, the sound cutting through the stillness of the night. He stepped inside, his boots making soft taps against the wooden floor. The air smelled of dust and aged wood, and the oppressive silence was broken only by the faint creak of the shelves, laden with countless wand boxes stacked haphazardly to the ceiling.

Behind the counter, a familiar figure turned, his pale eyes narrowing as they settled on Severus. Garrick Ollivander, as gaunt and enigmatic as Severus remembered, tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing his unexpected visitor.

"It's rather late," Ollivander said, his voice soft yet pointed. "I was about to close. What brings you here at this hour?"

Severus met his gaze evenly, his voice calm despite the weight of the day's revelations still pressing on his mind. Some things really didn't change, despite the universe. "I need a wand."

The wandmaker's eyebrows arched slightly. "Indeed?" he said, a hint of curiosity creeping into his tone. "And what has become of your old wand, if I may ask?"

"It broke," Severus replied simply, his expression betraying nothing.

Ollivander's frown deepened, and he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "careless." Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves behind him, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

As the old man worked, the measuring tape on the counter sprang to life, darting toward Severus. He remained still as it began taking measurements, its enchanted movements precise and mechanical. From the length of his arm to the width of his palm, it seemed to take note of every detail before retreating with a snap.

Severus glanced around the shop, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. It was just as he remembered it from his own world—dimly lit, with a faint layer of dust coating everything and an almost otherworldly stillness hanging in the air. The sight stirred something uncomfortably nostalgic in him, though he quickly pushed the feeling aside. No matter how many times he came in this shop. The feeling was same. And wasn't that saying something, considering he usually brought new muggleborn kids to this shop.

"Your previous wand," Ollivander called from somewhere among the shelves, his voice faint but clear. "What was it made of?"

"Ebony," Severus replied in a steady tone. "Dragon heartstring core."

The wandmaker emerged moments later, clutching several slim boxes. He set them on the counter and peered at Severus with renewed curiosity. "Ebony," he repeated softly, his silvery eyes glinting. "A wand that chooses a wizard of great strength—both of will and of character. Skilled, too. It does not suffer mediocrity."

"No doubt," Severus said evenly, his voice tinged with dry detachment. He was skilled. Of that there was no doubt. He wasn't a mediocre wizard. Not by a long shot.

Ollivander gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile before gesturing to the boxes. "Let's begin."

One by one, Severus tried the wands. Each time, he felt the same lack of connection—a cold, empty resistance that left no doubt the wand did not belong to him. Sparks fizzled half-heartedly, or in some cases, nothing happened at all.

After the fourth attempt, Ollivander hummed thoughtfully, his gaze flicking over Severus as though reevaluating him. He disappeared into the back again, returning moments later with few more boxed, their edges worn with age as testament to his age.

"Perhaps," Ollivander murmured, almost to himself, as he carefully opened one of the boxes. He held out the wand within, his long fingers cradling it with reverence. "Ebony. Phoenix feather. Thirteen inches."

Severus took the wand without hesitation, his long fingers curling around the smooth wood. The moment he did, he felt it—a warmth that spread from his fingertips through his arm, settling deep in his chest. The connection was immediate, a sensation of being whole, as though the wand had been waiting for him all along.

Ollivander's pale eyes studied him intently, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a ghost of a smile. "Ah, yes," he said softly. "Quite the curious combination. Elder and phoenix feather. A wand for someone who walks a unique path, I should think. Powerful, but not easily bent to another's will. A wand for someone who forges their own destiny."

Severus glanced at him. He rather liked it. He afterall had walked quite an unique path. But the mention of Elder surely was unnerving a little. Afterall, it was that damned Elder wand which had been the primary reason behind his demise. "How much?"

"Eight Galleons," Ollivander replied without hesitation.

Severus reached into his pocket, pulling out the coins and placing them on the counter. "A fair price," he remarked politely.

Ollivander inclined his head. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr…" He trailed off, his inquisitive gaze lingering on Severus for more.

Severus's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smirk. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for the galleons alone."

The wandmaker chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Very well. May your wand serve you well."

Severus gave a curt nod. He rather liked his new wand. If only the wood would stop giving him the creeps.

_________________________________________

The Leaky Cauldron was quieter than usual, the late hour keeping most patrons either in their rooms or out on other errands. Tom was wiping down the counter with a damp rag. Magic was good and all. But menial labour helped with the joints at his age.

The sound of coins hitting the wooden counter broke through his reverie, sharp and deliberate. Startled, he looked up to find a man standing before him—a stranger, tall and cloaked, his face partially obscured by the shadows of his hood.

The man's silvery blonde hair was the only thing which was visible for him under those shadows.

"One room for two nights," the man said, his voice low and precise, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Tom blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness of the request. The stranger's tone was clipped, almost cold, devoid of the usual pleasantries most guests offered. Frowning slightly, Tom set the rag aside and leaned over the counter.

"Er… Right, then," he muttered, pulling open a drawer and rifling through the keys. His fingers hovered over the tags before settling on one. He placed the brass key on the counter, sliding it toward the man.

"That'll be six Sickles," Tom said, though his voice carried a hint of hesitation as his eyes studied the stranger's face. The man's pale complexion and sharp features gave him an almost spectral air. Something about him felt… out of place. The last thing he wanted was some dark wizard creating chaos in his inn.

The stranger's gloved hand reached out, sliding the key off the counter and pocketing it in one smooth motion. He dropped six Sickles into the same spot where the key had been, the metallic clink echoing faintly.

Tom cleared his throat, fumbling for the guest register. "Name?" he asked, his quill poised above the open page.

The man's eyes—dark and piercing—lifted to meet Tom's. For a moment, there was only silence, the kind that seemed to stretch uncomfortably long. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Severus," he said, the name delivered with deliberate finality.

Tom's quill hovered uncertainly. "Severus…" he prompted, glancing up from the page.

The man's expression didn't waver, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Just Severus."

Tom frowned, the response unsettlingly curt. "Right," he mumbled, scrawling the name into the register with a shaky hand. He couldn't recall the last time someone refused to give a full name—or a title, for that matter. Most of the young wizards practically jumped to tell their titles.

As he closed the register, Tom glanced back up, intending to ask a follow-up question, but the words caught in his throat. The stranger was already turning away, his cloak sweeping behind him as he moved toward the staircase.

For a moment, Tom stood there, staring after him. Something about the man's demeanor—his precision, his silence—felt unnervingly deliberate. He wasn't the usual kind of traveler that passed through the Leaky Cauldron.

Shaking his head, Tom muttered under his breath, "Strange one, that."