Severus understands all this⎯ or rather, he learns about it⎯ not immediately, but gradually.

They show him, he is being taught. At the time he is only nineteen.

Now, within him, beneath the thin shell of his skin there are not identical library shelves laden with books and folders signed in calligraphic handwriting; nor a formidable, impregnable castle resembling the Tower; nor even the typical alchemical laboratory with flasks and reagents; and certainly not a labyrinth of muscles, bones, and internal organs.

A sea dwells inside him.

The dark water, with shades of lead and turquoise, ripples gently yet remains serene. In clear weather, one can try to see the sunken ships sleeping on the bottom in eternal slumber, or sit on the stones warmed by the gentle sun, exposing one's face to the breeze. On cloudy evenings, especially in autumn and winter, when the seagulls fall silent and the dark surface of the sea stirs, the dead look out from under the water, slowly floating past. He knows he should not gaze into their empty, whitish eyes for too long. Eventually, from the depths of the water, Percival will inevitably look upon him one day, but let that day not be today.

Today he is forty-eight, a decade since his death in the Shack.

The sea wind meanders through the narrow streets of Amalfi, caressing the cheeks of passersby and teasing their hair with a gentle hand. Coastal bistros, nestled like jewels along the shore, exude the seductive fragrance of exotic spices, hinting at flavors as vivid as the amber hues of the descending sun.

“…miss⎯?”

Severus sits alone in a café, his slender fingers idly tracing the rim of a glass filled with deep, ruby wine. His gaze, as frigid and unyielding as the winter frost, meets yours with the slightest of recognition, though his expression remains inscrutable. “It would be preferable if you pretended not to see me,” the man remarks, his voice laced with a cutting edge, tempered by the faintest shadow of familiarity.

In his inky eyes reside the untold tomes of history.