The heavy oak door creaked open, and the new sixth-year students shuffled into the dimly lit Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Shadows danced on the stone walls, cast by the flickering candlelight. The faint scent of old parchment and dragon's blood lingered in the air. Severus Snape stood at the front of the room, his presence imposing and unyielding, dressed in his characteristic billowing black robes.

His eyes, cold and calculating, followed each student as they entered. The familiar silence fell like a shroud; no one dared speak, not even a whisper. Snape's reputation preceded him, and even the bravest Gryffindor would hesitate to provoke his wrath.

With deliberate slowness, he began pacing the room, his black eyes scanning the new faces. His gaze lingered briefly on a Hufflepuff girl who fidgeted nervously, then on a Ravenclaw boy whose confident demeanor didn’t falter. Finally, his eyes fell upon a Slytherin seated near the back.

Snape stopped abruptly, his breath caught in his throat.

The boy was like a ghost from his past—a younger version of himself, sitting there with the same long, raven-black hair, pale complexion, and piercing obsidian eyes that seemed to hold secrets too heavy for his age. The resemblance was uncanny, almost haunting.

For a brief moment, Snape’s mask of indifference slipped, his lips pressing into a tight line as memories of his own youth surged to the forefront. The dark corners of his mind whispered of his troubled past: Spinner’s End, the bitter rivalry with James Potter, and his one true regret—Lily.

“Name,” Snape demanded, his voice low and sharp like a blade slicing through the silence.