A New Different World

The polished mahogany desk gleamed under the bright lights of the Department of Magical Education. Severus sat upright, his dark robes impeccably neat, the crisp parchment of his results in one hand. Across from him, Madam Marchbanks, the stern but sharp-eyed witch, peered at him with an expression that balanced between admiration and curiosity.

"Congratulations, Mr. Blackwood," she said, her voice warm but still formal. "Perfect scores across all subjects. Outstandings in everything. It's a rare feat, especially for someone sitting both OWLs and NEWTs within the span of three days."

Severus inclined his head politely, his face unreadable as ever as he let thanks to the woman who had tested him in both his lives. "Thank you," he replied simply, folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of his robes.

Marchbanks leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped in front of her. "You're certainly British," she began, her tone tinged with curiosity, "but I don't recall anyone by the name of Blackwood. Your performance suggests a formidable education, yet your name is unfamiliar."

Severus met her gaze calmly. "I am an orphan," he explained smoothly. "Most of what I know, I taught myself. I practiced with whatever books I could acquire, supplementing my knowledge over the years."

Marchbanks raised a brow, visibly impressed. "Self-taught? That's no small accomplishment, especially given the complexity of the subjects you've mastered. I daresay you've outperformed even the brightest of our formally trained candidates."

"I appreciate your kind words," Severus replied politely. That was worrying. Maybe, he should have toned it down.

The older witch regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. "You have a bright future ahead of you, Mr. Blackwood. Your skills and determination will take you far. Have you considered where you'll go from here?"

"I have a few plans," Severus said, keeping his tone deliberately vague. "Nothing concrete as of yet."

"Well," Marchbanks said, standing and extending a hand, "wherever you go, I wish you success."

Severus rose and shook her hand briefly. "Thank you, Madam Marchbanks."

With a final nod, he turned and left the office, his steps echoing softly against the polished floor of the Ministry of Magic. The corridors were bustling with witches and wizards, their robes swishing as they moved about their business. Severus walked with purpose, though his eyes took in every detail of his surroundings.

The Ministry itself was familiar yet subtly different. The architecture was the same—grand, imposing, and steeped in magical history—but there were small changes. Faces he recognized were older or absent entirely, replaced by unfamiliar ones. New offices had been added, and the air of the place felt slightly less oppressive than it had in his own time.

He passed a group of wizards in Auror robes, their conversation a low murmur punctuated by occasional laughter. None of them paid him any mind, and Severus continued on his way, his mind already cataloging potential differences and how they might affect his plans.

The three days of exams had been grueling, but they had been necessary. His new identity, Severus Blackwood, was now firmly established, and his credentials were beyond reproach. The exams themselves had been laughably easy for someone of his skill and experience. He had breezed through the practical components, his wandwork precise and perfect as always, and his written answers had been comprehensive enough to leave no room for doubt.

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the hum of the city greeted him. The Ministry's grand entrance loomed behind him, its golden lettering catching the light of the setting sun. Severus paused for a moment, glancing up at the sky before adjusting his robes and moving down the street.

He allowed himself a small, fleeting sense of satisfaction. The first step was complete. With his OWLs and NEWTs officially recognized, he now had the means to forge a new life in this unfamiliar world.

He had a new identity now.

_______________________________________

The emerald flames of the Floo Network dissipated as Severus stepped out into the bustling lobby of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Nearby, a bored-looking guard sat behind a high desk, his robes slightly rumpled, quill poised over a large, open register.

The guard glanced up from the parchment, his sharp eyes scanning Severus from head to toe. "Name?" he asked curtly, his quill hovering expectantly.

"Severus Blackwood," Severus replied in a measured tone.

The guard raised a brow but didn't comment further. "Purpose of visit?"

"I'm here to attend the interviews for the trainee positions," Severus explained calmly. "It was advertised in the Daily Prophet."

The guard made a note in the register, the scratch of the quill filling the brief silence. "Ground floor hall," he instructed, gesturing vaguely down a corridor to the left. "Just follow the signs. It's not far."

"Thank you," Severus said with a polite nod before heading in the indicated direction.

The corridor was busy with healers in pristine lime-green robes moving briskly, some carrying clipboards, others levitating trays of potions. Severus walked with purpose, his boots clicking softly against the polished tiles. It wasn't long before he reached a wide, arched doorway marked Interviews – Trainee Healers.

He stepped into the hall and was met with a low murmur of voices. The room was spacious, its walls lined with noticeboards pinned with pamphlets and announcements. Around thirty to forty people were already present, seated on long benches or standing in small clusters. Severus took a moment to scan the crowd, his expression impassive.

He recognized a few faces immediately. Penelope Clearwater, her neat blonde hair tied back in a low bun, sat at the edge of a bench, reviewing what looked like a prepared list of notes. Zeba Hafeez, a sharp-witted Ravenclaw he remembered from his teaching years, stood by the window, deep in conversation with another young witch. Near the far wall, Irina Bess, a former Hufflepuff with a penchant for Herbology, was nervously adjusting the collar of her robes.

Most of the applicants appeared to be recent Hogwarts graduates, barely out of school and eager to begin their careers. Severus couldn't fault them for it; the healer trainee program at St. Mungo's was prestigious, a coveted opportunity for those with aspirations in magical medicine.

As he observed the room, his mind flicked briefly to his own circumstances. The timing of the interviews was fortuitous. He had stumbled across the advertisement in the Daily Prophet mere days after his arrival in this world, and securing this position would provide him with not only financial stability but also a legitimate footing in society. Confunding muggles for cash had been a temporary necessity, one he had no desire to repeat.

The traineeship was a stepping stone, a path leading to specialization in various wards and departments—burns, curses, communicable diseases, magical maladies, dark arts injuries, and others. Healers were trained rigorously for three to four months before being assigned as junior or intern healers. Severus wasn't particularly concerned about the competition; his expertise far surpassed anything these young hopefuls could boast.

Still, he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. He had never imagined he would stand here, in this world, starting over. But then, life had always had a peculiar way of twisting his expectations. With a small, almost imperceptible sigh, he moved to take an empty seat along the wall, settling in to wait for his turn.

The low murmur of conversation in the hall quieted as the doors opened, and five figures stepped onto the raised podium at the front of the room. The applicants collectively turned their attention to the newcomers, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and nervous anticipation. The five witches and wizards wore the unmistakable lime-green robes of St. Mungo's, their bearing confident and professional.

The woman at the center, a stern-looking witch with silver-streaked hair tied into a bun, stepped forward first. She tapped her wand against her throat, amplifying her voice with a soft Sonorus. "Good afternoon, everyone. I am Senior Healer Mathilda Grayson, Head of the Trainee Program here at St. Mungo's. To my left is Healer Norris, specializing in Magical Maladies, and to my right are Healers Jenkins, Crowther, and Barnes, who oversee other departments."

The other senior healers offered polite nods as their names were mentioned. Healer Grayson continued in a brisk tone, "You are all here because you wish to join our trainee healer program. This is a rigorous and demanding position that requires not only theoretical knowledge but also practical skills, adaptability, and a calm mind under pressure."

There was a ripple of shuffling as some applicants straightened in their seats, trying to look attentive.

"We will begin with a theoretical examination," Grayson announced. "This will consist of thirty questions, primarily situational scenarios and general knowledge in the field of magical medicine. It is designed to test your problem-solving abilities and foundational understanding."

Severus's lips thinned slightly. Theoretical exams were no challenge for him, but the prospect of dealing with thirty situational questions was tedious, to say the least.

Grayson's sharp gaze swept over the group. "Before we distribute the papers, each of you will create your own desk and chair. This will allow us to observe your transfiguration skills. Those who fail to do so will not proceed to the next stage. Begin."

A ripple of movement followed as wands were drawn and incantations murmured. Severus, seated near the back, sighed softly. He reached into his robe and drew his wand with practiced ease. His voice didn't break the stillness of the room; the incantation left unspoken as he cast the spell nonverbally. With a fluid motion, a desk and chair materialized before him, the wood polished and smooth, the design functional yet elegant.

He lowered his wand, his expression calm as he adjusted the chair slightly and sat down. Around him, others struggled—some desks wobbled precariously, others were uneven, and a few collapsed entirely, forcing their creators to try again.

Severus didn't notice the quiet exchange of glances among the senior healers. Healer Barnes nudged Jenkins and softly murmured, "Nonverbal. Flawless execution."

Jenkins' lips twitched into a faint smile. "Noted."

Meanwhile, a young wizard near Severus muttered under his breath as he wrestled with his half-transfigured chair. "Bloody thing keeps tipping over... Why couldn't they just conjure desks for us?"

Severus tuned out the background chatter, his attention on the healers distributing the examination papers. When a crisp sheet landed on his desk, he picked up his quill, ready to begin. He won't lose to these fools.

____________________________________

The hall was silent, save for the soft scratch of quills on parchment and the occasional rustle of robes. The senior healers stood at the edges of the room, their gazes keen and observant, taking in every detail of the applicants. To the casual eye, it might have seemed as though they were simply overseeing the written examination, but each healer was mentally cataloging the actions and behaviors of the candidates.

Healer Grayson's sharp eyes swept across the room. She noted the young witch in the front row who seemed to be scribbling furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. 'Too hasty', Grayson thought. Rushed decisions lead to mistakes.

Her gaze shifted to another candidate who wrote steadily, their posture relaxed but attentive. They had conjured a perfectly functional desk and chair—nothing extravagant, but stable and effective. Grayson made a mental note. Pragmatic, calm under pressure. Could do well in wards requiring steady hands, perhaps spell damage or diagnostics.

Meanwhile, Healer Barnes leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, watching a wizard in the middle row who was visibly sweating, his quill trembling slightly. 'Nerves,' Barnes murmured to himself. 'Not ideal for high-stress wards like creature-induced injuries or curse reversal. The theory paper isn't just about knowledge. It's about composure. If one is panicking from a simple written exam, he has no chance as a healer. A healer can't panic when they're holding someone's life in their hands.'

At the back of the room, Severus continued to write with an air of unhurried precision. His desk, conjured silently, was among the most stable in the room. His quill moved steadily across the parchment. Healer Crowther had been observing him since the conjuration task. She nudged Grayson subtly. "That one," she whispered. "Nonverbal Transfiguration, calm demeanor. He hasn't looked up once since he started writing."

Grayson followed her gaze. "Interesting. Let's see how he performs in the practical."

The theoretical exam, while crucial, was not the sole determinant of a candidate's suitability. Each aspect of the process was layered with hidden evaluations. The conjuration task had been designed not only to test skill but also to reveal creativity, precision, and adaptability.

For instance, the applicant who had conjured an intricately carved desk with unnecessary embellishments had caught Barnes's attention. 'Flashy, but not practical,' he muttered. 'Could indicate a need for attention or overcompensation—not traits we want in a healer.'

As the applicants wrote, their writing styles were observed. Those who fidgeted or erased excessively were noted for possible indecisiveness or lack of confidence. Conversely, those who wrote calmly, with minimal corrections, were flagged as potential candidates for wards requiring quick decision-making, like the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad or the Emergency Response Unit.

As the hour wore on, the healers continued their quiet observations, making mental notes and exchanging subtle glances. The examination, seemingly straightforward, was a web of assessments designed to identify not only aptitude but also attitude, creativity, and resilience.

By the time Grayson called for the papers to be handed in, each senior healer already had a shortlist of candidates they were keen to see in the next round.

_________________________________________

Severus leaned against the wall near the back of the hall, arms crossed as he observed the others. The room was filled with quiet murmurs and occasional bursts of laughter as the applicants chatted to pass the time. He remained silent, his dark eyes flitting from one group to another. Most were young, fresh out of Hogwarts, and their nervous excitement was palpable. They seemed to form little clusters, finding familiarity in old school ties or shared acquaintances.

Severus, on the other hand, stood apart, blending into the shadows as he had done for most of his life. It wasn't that he was unfriendly—it was just his nature to observe first, speak later.

The door creaked open, and the murmurs hushed almost immediately. The five senior healers re-entered, their expressions a mix of seriousness and quiet authority. They carried stacks of parchment in their hands, and one of them—Healer Grayson, if Severus recalled correctly—stepped forward to address the group.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she began, her voice steady and firm. "Thank you for your patience. We've reviewed your papers and cross-checked your OWLs and NEWTs results." She paused, letting her gaze sweep over the room. "Before we proceed, I want to commend all of you for making it this far. It's no small feat to be here today."

A faint murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the room, though Severus remained impassive.

"Now," Grayson continued, "unfortunately, not everyone has made it past this stage. If I call your name, please step to the side." She began reading a list of names, her tone neutral but not unkind. One by one, eight individuals were called. Some looked crestfallen, while others accepted the news with quiet resignation.

"Those of you who were called, I encourage you not to give up," Grayson said as the eight stepped aside. "You are welcome to apply again next year after gaining more experience or furthering your studies. Healing is not an easy profession, and perseverance is key."

Severus watched the dismissed applicants leave, their footsteps echoing softly in the hall. The remaining 30 stood in silence, the weight of the moment settling over them.

Grayson cleared her throat and continued. "For those of you still here, congratulations. You have passed the first stage. Now, we will divide you into six groups of five. Each group will be assigned to a ward for the next two weeks, after which you will rotate to a new ward. This is to ensure you gain a well-rounded experience during your training."

Another healer, Healer Barnes, stepped forward. "These rotations will allow us to assess your strengths and weaknesses in different environments," he explained. "Emergency response, spell damage, potions and poisons, creature injuries, transfiguration mishaps, and magical maladies. Each ward requires a unique skill set, and this will help us determine where you may excel in the future."

Grayson began calling out names for the groups, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Group One: Penelope Clearwater, Irina Bess, Zeba Hafeez, Thomas Ackerley… and Severus Blackwood."

Severus straightened slightly as his name was called but betrayed no emotion. He stepped forward to join the small group that was beginning to form near the front. Penelope Clearwater, a familiar face from his teaching days, gave him a polite nod, which he returned curtly.

Grayson continued assigning names to the other groups until all six were formed. "Group One," she addressed them directly, "you will begin in the Emergency Ward. This is one of our busiest and most demanding wards, so be prepared for anything. Report to Healer Crowther in ten minutes; she will oversee your training for this rotation."

Severus's new colleagues exchanged nervous glances, but he remained impassive. Emergency Ward? It made sense. His earlier nonverbal conjuration and composed demeanor had likely marked him as someone who could handle high-pressure situations.

"Any questions?" Barnes asked, looking over the assembled groups.

"Will we receive feedback after each rotation?" asked a witch from Group Three.

"Absolutely," Barnes replied. "Your supervisors in each ward will evaluate your performance and provide detailed feedback at the end of your rotation."

Another applicant, this one from Group Five, hesitated before asking, "Are there specific benchmarks we need to meet during training?"

Grayson nodded. "Yes. Each ward has its own set of competencies you'll be expected to achieve. These will be explained to you by your supervisors."

Satisfied, the room fell silent once more. Grayson clapped her hands together. "All right, everyone. You have your assignments. Groups Two through Six, remain here until your supervisors arrive to collect you. Group One, report to Healer Crowther in the Emergency Ward. Best of luck."