Marquas spent his first week as Severus Snape taking inventory of his new life, and frankly, it was worse than he expected. His home at Spinner's End was a depressing brick hovel that smelled perpetually of damp socks and regret. His wardrobe consisted exclusively of black robes that billowed dramatically but served no practical purpose beyond hiding stains. And his social calendar was a nightmare trifecta of Death Eater meetings, brewing sessions for the Dark Lord, and creepy fireside chats with Lucius Malfoy about "the purity of bloodlines."
"This is worse than my coding bootcamp," Marquas muttered as he scrubbed a cauldron that had been used to brew something that smelled suspiciously like fermented toad. "At least there I could order pizza."
The biggest immediate problem, however, was staring back at him from every reflective surface: the hair. Dear Merlin, the hair. It wasn't just greasy, it was an environmental hazard. Birds could potentially get stuck in it and die. The North Sea had less oil.
"Right," he declared to his reflection on the fifth morning. "Priority number one: fix this disaster before I accidentally cause another energy crisis."
He'd spent his nights poring through Snape's extensive collection of potions texts, looking for anything remotely related to hair care. Wizards, it seemed, were perfectly content to use their reality-defying powers to grow teeth in teacups but hadn't bothered developing decent shampoo.
"Typical," he snorted, flipping through Magical Hygienics Through the Ages. "They can brew liquid luck but can't figure out basic conditioner."
Fortunately, Marquas had two advantages: Snape's encyclopedic knowledge of ingredients (which came with the body, thank god, he hadn't fancied relearning potion-making from scratch) and his own 21st-century understanding of chemistry. Between them, he was going to science the hell out of this hair problem.
He set up a makeshift laboratory in what appeared to be Snape's bathroom, a room that looked like it had last been updated when Queen Victoria was still teething. The sink was permanently stained with something purple, and the mirror occasionally offered unsolicited opinions about his appearance.
"You could store potatoes in those eye bags, dearie," it commented as he laid out ingredients.
"And you could use a good Scourgify, but we all have our crosses to bear," Marquas retorted, levitating a small cauldron onto a hovering flame.
First, he identified the problem. This wasn't normal grease, no amount of regular washing seemed to affect it. After careful magical analysis (and several disgusting sample collections), he determined that young Snape had likely suffered a potions accident involving a permanent water-repelling charm. The charm had fused with his hair follicles, causing them to produce an excessive amount of magical oil that couldn't be removed by conventional means.
"So you essentially waterproofed your own head," Marquas told his reflection. "Genius move, Severus."
The solution required something that could break down magical oil compounds while simultaneously neutralizing the repelling charm. He started with unicorn root, freshly dried and finely shredded. Known for its purifying properties, it was commonly used in antidotes for magical contamination. Plus, it smelled way better than Snape's current hair situation.
The problem, however, was that unicorn root was extremely potent, it could potentially destroy his scalp along with the oil. He needed a buffer.
"Dittany," he murmured, reaching for a small bottle of extract. "For protection and healing."
Next came the truly innovative part. Marquas had found a Muggle chemistry textbook hidden deep within Snape's collection (carefully disguised as Pureblood Lineages of Eastern Europe). The principles of surfactants and chelating agents gave him an idea. He began to sketch out a formula that combined magical ingredients with the chemistry behind what Muggles called "clarifying shampoo."
"Let's not reinvent the wheel," he muttered, jotting down proportions. "Just... magic the wheel into a flaming chariot."
Three days, fourteen failed attempts, and one minor explosion later, Marquas stood over a cauldron of shimmering silver liquid. It didn't look like any potion he'd seen in Snape's memories, not murky green or bubbling purple, but elegant and gleaming, like liquid moonlight.
"Here goes nothing," he said, scooping some into a vial. "If this dissolves my scalp, at least I won't have to attend Lucius's dinner party tomorrow."
He cleared the bathroom of all flammable materials (a lesson learned from batch #7), applied a Shield Charm just in case, and poured the concoction over his head. The potion was cool against his scalp, tingling slightly as it worked its way through his hair. A faint minty scent filled the room, replacing the usual dungeon-master musk that followed Snape everywhere.
Now came the waiting. Twenty-three minutes, according to his calculations. Any less and it wouldn't fully neutralize the charm; any more and he risked damaging his hair follicles.
Marquas set a timer spell and sat on the edge of the bathtub, flipping through Snape's journal to pass the time. Most entries were bitter diatribes against James Potter or mournful odes to Lily Evans. Marquas rolled his eyes.
"Merlin's saggy Y-fronts, this is pathetic," he muttered. "Note to self: develop a personality beyond 'angry' and 'pining.'"
The timer chimed, startling him. With a deep breath, he approached the sink and performed the specialized rinsing charm he'd developed, a modified Aguamenti that produced perfectly pH-balanced water.
As he dried his hair with a gentle warming charm (no rough toweling for this delicate operation), he closed his eyes, afraid to look. What if he'd made it worse? What if he was now completely bald? Would Voldemort still respect a hairless Death Eater?
"Oh, stop being dramatic and look already," the mirror chided.
Marquas opened his eyes, turned, and froze.
His hair no, Snape's hair, fell in gentle waves around his face, black as midnight and soft as charmed silk. The grease was gone. Completely banished. The hair shone with natural health, not oil, and when he cautiously ran his fingers through it, they came away clean.
He looked... oddly regal. Still pale, still sharp-featured, but somehow transformed. Less "dungeon-dwelling potions gremlin" and more "mysterious dark wizard with excellent conditioner."
He raised an eyebrow, impressed with himself. "Lucius can eat his heart out."
The mirror actually whistled. "Well now, that's quite the improvement! You almost look like you don't hate sunshine and puppies."
"Don't push it," Marquas warned, but he couldn't keep the triumph from his voice. His first major project as Snape was a success. He carefully bottled the remaining potion, labeling it "Hair-Gloss Reversal Potion" in Snape's spiky handwriting.
But the hair was just the beginning. Now that he could see his reflection without wincing, the next horror became painfully apparent: the clothing.
Marquas pulled open Snape's wardrobe and stared at the sea of identical black robes. They were all designed to billow dramatically, an effect achieved through a combination of excessive fabric and what appeared to be a permanent Ventus charm woven into the hem.
"No wonder you're always cold and miserable," he muttered, fingering the thin, coarse material. "You're basically wearing a permanent draft."
He gathered every black cloak he owned, cursed them for dramatic effect (and because swearing as Snape felt wonderfully satisfying with that deep voice), and tossed them into the fireplace with the satisfaction of a man exorcising demons.
"If I'm going to be a dark wizard," he declared as the fabric caught fire, "I refuse to be a fashion disaster as well."
The next day, he visited a discreet magical tailor in a corner of Diagon Alley where people didn't ask questions about Dark Marks. The elderly wizard raised an eyebrow at Snape requesting anything other than "black, billowing, and depressing," but worked quickly.
The result was a set of custom-tailored robes in deep charcoal gray rather than pitch black. They were cut with sharp, clean lines that hinted at authority without screaming "I'm compensating for something." Each one had clever wand holsters stitched subtly into the lining and inner pockets charmed to hold potion vials, scrolls, and at least one sandwich (Marquas had learned that Snape often forgot to eat when brewing, which explained a lot about his temperament).
"If I'm gonna be dark," he muttered as he inspected the drape of the fabric in the mirror, "I'll be fashionably dark."
His final touch was a subtle warming charm woven into the fabric, because being perpetually cold seemed to be part of Snape's whole misery aesthetic, and Marquas refused to endure British dungeon winters without proper insulation.
The next morning, he entered the Great Hall of Hogwarts for a pre-term staff meeting (apparently Snape had already arranged to become the new Potions Master, a detail Marquas discovered from a letter from Dumbledore). He'd arranged his new hair into a neat half-ponytail, allowing some strands to frame his face while keeping it practical for brewing. The new robes whispered elegantly around his ankles rather than flapping like a distressed bat.
Minerva McGonagall actually stopped mid-sentence when he entered. Slughorn, who was retiring and showing Snape the ropes, nearly dropped his teacup.
"Severus?" Slughorn managed after a moment. "My dear boy, you look... different."
"I've made some improvements," Marquas replied smoothly, helping himself to tea.
"Well!" Slughorn recovered quickly, ever the social butterfly. "Most impressive! You almost look like you've spent time in sunlight!"
McGonagall was still staring suspiciously. "Are you feeling quite well, Severus?"
"Never better," Marquas assured her, allowing himself a small smirk. "I've simply decided that personal neglect isn't the virtue some believe it to be."
Professor Flitwick, tiny and cheerful as ever, beamed at him. "Excellent charm work on those robes, Severus! Is that a modified warming enchantment I detect?"
"Good eye," Marquas nodded. "With a stability matrix to prevent overheating during brewing."
"Ingenious!"
Dumbledore arrived last, sweeping in with his usual theatrical timing. He paused momentarily when he spotted Snape, those blue eyes twinkling with something between amusement and calculation.
"Ah, Severus. A new approach for a new position, I see."
Marquas inclined his head slightly. "Precisely, Headmaster."
As the meeting progressed, he could feel the other professors stealing glances at him. He pretended not to notice, but inwardly, he was cataloging their reactions. McGonagall: suspicious but not hostile. Flitwick: genuinely impressed. Slughorn: calculating the social implications. Dumbledore: inscrutable as always, but definitely intrigued.
This, Marquas realized, was power of a different sort than what Voldemort offered. Not fear or intimidation, but the subtle manipulation of people's expectations. They expected Snape to be greasy, bitter, and antisocial. By defying that expectation while maintaining his dignity, he'd thrown them off balance.
And off-balance people were easier to manage.
After the meeting, as he walked back toward the dungeons to inspect his new office and quarters, he felt oddly light. The hair potion had been more than just a cosmetic change, it was a declaration of intent. A statement that this Severus Snape would not be defined by his past mistakes or others' expectations.
Now he just had to figure out how to navigate being a double agent without getting killed. And deal with the whole Lily situation. And possibly prevent a wizarding war.
But one step at a time.
First, he had a laboratory to set up and lesson plans to prepare. If he was going to be the youngest Potions Master in Hogwarts history, he might as well revolutionize the curriculum while he was at it.
"Goodbye, greasy git of the dungeons," he murmured as he entered his new domain. "Hello, Professor Snape 2.0."