Edit: The story had too many wows that needed to be downgraded to plain old vows. Even if the word looks... weird in my eyes.

The event that kickstarted Severus Snape's second chance at life was so utterly moronic, that, had he not been the one to benefit from it, the man formerly known as the sour bat of the Hogwarts dungeons would have blamed Harry Potter.

Well, of course the boy-who-lived-to-be-a-disgrace was in the heart of the trouble, but for once he wasn't the one who started it. That dubious honour belonged to the Longbottom boy. And Severus himself. And, to the lesser extent, Draco Malfoy.

If Severus hadn't decided to keep his new batch of Felix Felicis safely tucked to his robes.

If Draco Malfoy hadn't been so glorious as a student as to be allowed to attempt the Draught of the Living Dead.

If Harry Potter the Cursed Child hadn't caught a case of Dragon Breath hex in the face. Even if that was admittedly both amusing to watch and a good reason to dock points from Gryffindor.

If Longbottom hadn't brewed the Forgetfullness Potion so spectacularly weird. Really, last time he checked, the catastrophically clumsy excuse of a son of Alice Longbottom was in fifth, yes fifth year. The potion was in the curriculum of first years! Severus was still unsure, if that buffoon had any semblance of brains at all…

But it was no matter now. All those events had combined into the perfect storm of fate.

Severus knew without even opening his eyes that he was in the hospital wing. One simply cannot be brewing potions professionally without getting their senses honed to perfection. And potions master Snape had a nose that wasn't only gigantic enough to enter a room first, he was also able to identify potions on their scent alone from the other side of said room.

Around him was an impressive collection of brews of his own making – and one antidote for the Living Dead. That one was made by potions mistress Estrella Beaufort, he was certain. The groundwater in Bretagne had its own unique scent after all, just like Hogwarts did have its own stench.

One reason for Severus' admittedly greasy visage was the abominable malodour that seemed to infest the water of Scotland. Not that England was any better. Or Wales. Or anything in the British Isles, to be quite frank. Nothing he had tried could cover the stink that clung on anything the foul water touched. He simply refused to drink the stuff, and even showering in it felt like torture.

Severus had resorted himself to drinking bottled sparkling water from the Alps and taking showers only once a month. And even that grated on his sensitive nose. He would have given anything to be free from it.

He would have left a long time ago to swim in waters more palatable to his senses, had he not been chained to the wills of others like a pathetic ghoul haunting some old attic.

If only he was free.

Thoughts of freedom from offending olfactory sensations brought Severus back to the present. He had clearly been part of a potions accident of epic proportions, and considering the antidote on his bedside table it had been quite a while that he had been under.

Of course Severus himself had a stash of antidotes readily available, but apparently they hadn't tried to ransack his personal possessions. Good.

Estrella Beaufort didn't lend her craft for cheap either. That meant that the Headmaster – and ultimately the Order of the Phoenix – had had to spend a Hippogriffs weight in Galleons to rouse their despised agent. Even better.

Clearly the Headmaster had had to reach his grasp beyond his normal web of control, probably because his second best potions master Slughorn had gone and hidden himself too well to be contacted this urgently. Or maybe he had been contacted, but had been able to refuse. Not everyone had a noose made of vows and allegiances around their neck after all.

Speaking of those dreadful shackles controlling his every decision…

Where were they?

Severus forcefully smoothed his forehead and kept pretending to be deeply asleep while he concentrated on the corners of his consciousness, where the Unbreakable Vows and pledges of servitude and life debts usually lingered not unlike the stench of Hogwarts' putrid water.

Nothing.

He carefully ventured to feel his connection to the Dark Lord through his Dark Mark. Usually he wouldn't do this voluntarily because even thinking about the Mark filled his head with burning pain. Just one of the Dark Lords whims. This time, however, he was surprised.

The connection was not there.

Inky black eyes flew open as the Severus rose from his bed and clutched his arm like he had been bitten by a snake. He tore his sleeve up – and stared.

Where there should have been an ugly tattoo of a skull and a snake, there was unblemished skin.

He was free.

Severus Snape's mind was whirring in the dark hospital wing with the speed of a hurricane. The potions mishap was the only explanation, and now that he considered the combining effects, it wasn't even that improbable that this was the outcome. The potions had obviously combined when Potter had belched fire causing the other two students to douse him in flammable potions and knock him out with double body slams.

His first hypothesis was that Draco had accidentally killed him – or probably that was the effect of the Felix that had shattered in his pocket when he fell. And somehow the Longbottom dunce had given the Forgetfulness Potion his own brand of idiot-savant treatment, and instead of wiping Severus' memories, the potion had wiped the metaphorical memories of his bindings...

Actually, on a second thought, maybe the potions together had just convinced the Unbreakable Vows that he was dead?

After all, all his vows and pledges had included word "to the death". Even he hadn't been stupid enough to bind his afterlife to the cause of others – even though that had almost happened a couple of times.

Occam's Razor would tell him to prefer the second hypothesis. So he would go with it.

But what to do with this newfound freedom?

Should he truly join the cause of the Dark Lord and his merry band of deranged lunatics? Or should he keep helping Puppet Master Dumbledore and his Marionettes of Light? Maybe he should form a third front, a grey front, and use his knowledge to knock both players from the board and lead the magical Britain to a new, better morning without systemic prejudice and a new civil war brewing every generation?

As if…

"Two weeks of detention, mister Longbottom. And two thousand points to Gryffindor", the former potions professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry whispered, "And fuck you all equally."

Then he Disillusioned himself and left the Hospital wing with the graceful silence of a veteran double agent. Never to be found or heard of again in Britain.