September 1st, 1991.
The morning air at King's Cross Station carried the faint tang of coal smoke and rain-soaked concrete.
Trains rumbled and hissed across the platforms, the sound of chattering families echoing beneath the iron arches.
The ordinary bustle of Muggle London—a thousand lives colliding, none the wiser to the world that hid just beyond a single brick wall.
Cassius Snape adjusted his satchel, a contrast to the typical scene of students heading for school, he had no heavy trunk, no owl in a cage, just his simple satchel bag, containing all his supplies and pets within its expanded space.
He moved with deliberate calm, boots clicking softly against the polished floor as he passed through the crowds.
His dark coat and pressed trousers were far too clean, his stride far too measured for an eleven-year-old.
He drew looks without meaning to—people's eyes lingering for a heartbeat before slipping away, their minds quietly pushed by the smallest brush of intent.
Grindelwald's lessons had made sure of that.
He arrived at Platform Nine, stopping between the signs marked 9 and 10.
The wall ahead shimmered faintly when he glanced through his magical sight—layered wards, ancient and well-tuned.
Simple enough for those who belonged.
Impassable to those who didn't.
Cassius exhaled softly, but before stepping through, his eyes flicked sideways.
Two men loitered by a snack kiosk, dressed in beige trench coats and bowler hats like they'd raided a century-old costume shop.
One pretended to read a newspaper upside down.
The other held his wand hand inside his pocket so stiffly it might as well have been chained there.
"Ministry Aurors," Cassius muttered under his breath, lips curving faintly. "Subtle as a Hungarian Horntail in a tea shop."
They were watching the barrier—not him specifically, but the general flow of magical families slipping through.
A precaution, perhaps. Or a quiet observation ordered from higher up.
But still they were at least better than some of the magical families even this early some had arrived, clearly dressed in their finiest 'muggle' attire to blend in...
Yeah, Hawaiian shirt, with boardshorts, and clogs in british september...
I mean you couldnt really draw any greater attention to yourself without dawning a neon pink princess dress.
Cassius gave the Aurors a polite, meaningless smile as he walked past.
He didn't slow, didn't glance back.
He simply shifted his stride slightly and let his presence fade.
The faintest illusion charm—the type too small for detection spells to bother with—washed over him like a ripple in water.
To them, he became just another forgettable boy in a crowd of hundreds.
Then he stepped forward and passed through the barrier.
For half a second, the world folded into warmth and static light.
Then—
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Steam hissed from the crimson locomotive as the Hogwarts Express loomed before him, its polished brass gleaming under the morning sun.
The scent of oil, iron, and faint magic clung to the air.
Owls hooted in their cages, cats meowed, trunks thudded against the platform as wizarding parents fussed over children in brand-new robes.
Cassius took it all in silently.
The last time he'd seen this scene, it had been through a screen, or through his imagination as he read it out on a page.
Now it was real.
The warmth of the bricks beneath his palm, the pulse of the wards surrounding the platform—it was all tangible.
Canon made manifest.
He smiled faintly.
"So this is where the fun begins."
He was early, purposefully so.
The crowd hadn't yet thickened; only a handful of students were here this soon.
A pair of Hufflepuffs already boarding, a nervous family arguing over an owl that refused to leave the family to follow the child to school, and some naughty children to young to go and yet still trying to sneak onto the train.
Cassius let his eyes drift over them, cataloguing faces automatically.
Connections.
Potential allies.
Potential obstacles.
The game board was filling, piece by piece.
He walked the length of the train, glancing into each compartment.
The first few cars, near the front, were already marked but not by any notable signs, just things those in the know were privu to: Prefects Only.Head Boy & Girl. Reserved territory for the student body elite.
Not his destination, at least not yet.
He wanted anonymity—and vantage.
By the time he reached the fifth carriage, the platform was growing busier, as the clock approach 9.
He slipped into a compartment midway down the train, far enough to avoid supervision, but close enough that he could watch the portal from the window.
Perfect.
He quickly flicked his wand hand exchanged his muggle-wear for his school robes before taking a seat at the window.
His reflection stared back at him: sharp features softened only slightly by youth, dark hair brushing just above his eyes, and an expression that could be mistaken for calm—if one didn't look too closely at the storm behind it.
He drew his wand—the yew and thunderbird feather—and gave it a lazy spin between his fingers.
The faint crackle of static whispered through the compartment.
It was quiet, save for the occasional whistle of steam and the hum of his own thoughts.
This was the pause before the first move.
Soon the others would arrive—Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger.
Soon the story would begin to unfold exactly as written.
But Cassius Snape was not a character content to follow someone else's plot.
He was here to change it.
To reshape it.
The son of a spy, the heir to two legacies—Severus Snape's bitter brilliance and Gellert Grindelwald's burning vision, along with the 'hidden' lineage of Lily Evans and her dark secrets.
He had no illusions about what Hogwarts would be.
It was a battlefield disguised as a school.
Every professor a potential enemy.
Every student a potential pawn or blade.
He leaned back against the seat, folding one leg over the other, eyes never leaving the faces entering through the portal onto the platform.
His thoughts flickered rapidly—tactical, precise.
His primary purpose today was to acquire three pieces before they could be tainted by Hogwarts and its manipulative headmaster.
Specifically miss know-it-all herself Hermione Granger, next Neville Longbottom, a boy who due to the heroic sacrifice of his parents longed to live up to their efforts only to land in a house that was far from a good fit, and lastly was a less known future slytherin who would be a source of information for him into the slytherin ranks which had not been breeched by his synthetic muggle-borns for their own safety.
For all his preparation, Cassius knew the danger wasn't theoretical.
The moment he entered Hogwarts, he would draw attention—from Dumbledore, from the remnants of the Death Eaters children, and his own mother who would find out that her greatest shame had come back to haunt her.
But that was fine.
He welcomed attention.
Beyond the glass, the barrier shimmered again as more students crossed through—Harry Potter among them now, wide-eyed and uncertain, his messy hair unmistakable.
Cassius watched him quietly.
The Boy Who Lived.
The symbol of everything Dumbledore had built.
"Soon," he whispered. "We'll see what kind of hero you really are."
He leaned back, shadows shifting faintly around him as the train began to fill with laughter, chatter, and the scent of sugar from the trolley cart.
Cassius Snape—the anomaly in canon—sat waiting for the story to begin, eyes sharp and heart steady.
In one week, the boy who was never meant to exist had forged his place in history.
Now, the curtain was rising.
And Hogwarts had no idea what was coming.