Chapter Text
I.
SEVERA
“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…”
The tales that once fuelled her hyperactive imagination at three, four, five years old always began like that. It was an unwritten law of the fairy-tale world: an unspecified place in an equally undefined time — so that they could have come from anywhere, really, or any age.
She liked to think she shared that experience with other children — falling asleep to the sound of her mother’s voice (raspy from too much screaming, from the cheap liquor trickling down her throat) speaking words of far-off kingdoms and daring heroes as a soft background orchestra to her daughter’s fragile sleep. Every child in the world, Muggle or not, must know what that felt like. She had to have at least that in common with them.
But of course, she was a witch. And witches were easily the most common villains in fairy tales. The young girls saved by handsome, kind princes from the clutches of vindictive stepmothers, lascivious fathers, and monstrous ogres, were beautiful and modest and sweet-tempered — everything she was not.
She hadn't taken long to notice the stark contrast between herself and the fairy tales maidens, and she took even less time to purge them from her mind. She’d thrown herself instead into the darker, more mythical stories from her mother's world — her world, once she turned eleven — those forbidden tales of astute, sharp-minded sorceresses who saved their own skin and the handsome, kind prince’s, helping him face countless challenges and fight off enraged, fire-breathing dragons. They were beautiful, yes (as she could never hope to be), but they studied and wielded magic.
That was her calling, too. It was what she was born for.
It was her true belonging; not her family, reduced to a beaten, blue corpse by her father's mindless violence, poisoned by her mother's passive resignation.
Her home — she already decided by the age of seven — would be the ancient, magical castle-school in the Scottish Highlands. Hogwarts.
She had already devoured her mother's magical tomes (hidden from Dad’s watchful, rancorous eyes) and had learned more spells than half her future first-year classmates. She was a small, ugly thing, neglected and unwashed and underfed, wearing third-hand robes and dragging the old trunk that had once belonged to her mother. But she was hungry, and hopeful, and alive, and she was clever — the cleverest witch in the proud House of Slytherin, she promised herself—
Until the four of them.
Until she was brutally reminded of how feeble her hopes were — how pathetic and laughable she looked to most people, even magical ones. Even to her own kind.
She was doomed to become the Ugly Dark Witch of her childhood tales, no matter what she did. And that was the role she would grow into — damn her heart, damn her dreams of light and sunshine and kind, handsome princes.
Hunger still clawed an endless pit in her belly, and nothing — no one — could ever fill it, placate the beast, satiate her to the marrow.
She was to be always hollow, always a ghost in her own skin, a dream-like mirage of a girl.
But so be it, she told herself while she grew up battling the golden princes — the very heroes her mother used to speak about in a singsong, distant voice, weaving her words like lace and wrapping the rich fabric around her daughter’s heart.
So be it.
*
The morning sun poured into the Great Hall in shades of egg-white and yellow gold, casting a warm glow over the bustling crowd of students gathered at the four long tables. It felt like watching a painting come alive, like watercolours turned into skin and tissue.
Severa Snape paused to take in the view, her pupils narrowing in the sunlight, revealing the deep brown of her irises. She wasn't a creature of the day — she much preferred the soothing veil of twilight, the seductive shroud of night. It had always been that way. The night hid many things, even from herself. She had made a refuge out of it, her own sanctuary, ever since she’d first recoiled from her father's drunken shouting as a child and later as an adolescent. It wasn't hard to imagine herself growing into a proper night owl well into adulthood — because she would get there, no matter what murderous little schemes some idiotic, sadistic teenage boy cooked up in his maggot-infested brain. She would live and thrive to spite them all, she would become worthy and great and—
“—wake up, Snape.”
Severa blinked against the light. Her hand unconsciously tightened around the butter knife.
But it was only Cassia Nott — shrill, smug Cassia, with her ludicrously glossy cascade of ash-blond hair and impeccably applied lipstick and emerald earrings on her earlobes. She snapped her fingers in front of Severa’s clouded eyes.
“Pulled another all-nighter?” asked Rosier from across the table, his cultured voice tinged with faint concern.
Yes.
“No,” she said shortly. “Just thinking about that collaborative project Slughorn’s been going on about since the start of term.”
A collective shudder ran down the group of seventh-year Slytherins.
“Ah, yes. The Inter-House project.” Mulciber, seated beside her, let out a snort of disgust, his mouth full of sausages and eggs, cheeks puffed like little balloons on his otherwise rough-hewn, brutal face. “I wonder where old Slug pulls this kind of crap — fraternising with the other Houses, can you believe it? As if we were starry-eyed first-years—”
“Please. As if you’ve ever been a starry-eyed ingénue,” Severa said, biting into a soft buttered roll. She savoured it: before Hogwarts, she had never been able to eat what she wanted, when she wanted. She had never really gotten used to that feeling of fullness, of satiated appetite — something in her always craved more, more, more.
Laughter rippled through the boys — Mulciber’s the loudest of all. Priscilla Selwyn, right beside Rosier, gave a small, knowing smile between spoonfuls of porridge. Nott scoffed but prudently stayed silent; the boys’ friendship shielded Severa from the worst of her female Housemates’ judgements, and the rest of the male Slytherins’ too. That protection hadn't come for free.
She couldn't boast a proud surname, nor a centuries-old magical lineage, unlike someone else. She had fought tooth and nail for every crumb of respect, and clung to any scrap thrown her way.
“Hey, Snape.” Avery leaned in, like he was about to share a secret. “Who d’you reckon Slug’ll partner you with? Imagine if it's one of those bloody Marauders gits—”
“Ugh, Augustus, we're eating, for goodness’ sake—”
“Oh, come off it, Cassia — don't pretend you haven't always fancied Black anyway—”
“Hey,” Mulciber growled, “I’m eating too.”
“I honestly think Severa could devour Pettigrew, or even Lupin, for breakfast,” said Priscilla, not unkindly. “And Slughorn is not foolish enough to pair any of us with Potter and his little gang.”
“I heard the pairing’s going to be random,” Rosier said darkly. A chorus of groans promptly followed.
“Brilliant,” Mulciber muttered, nearly slamming his fork down. “Now I really don't feel like eating.”
“A historic moment.” Avery grinned, and Mulciber flipped him off without missing a beat. He never minded being the butt of a joke — as long as he was the one who started it. Severa had learned that the hard way.
None of them had tolerated her at first — not even when Lucius Malfoy had shown a curious interest in her excellent grades, her prodigious aptitude to the Dark Arts, the quiet fury with which she responded to the Marauders’ endless humiliations. But then Narcissa Black took her under her wing, no doubt at her fiancé’s suggestion. After that, Severa had not been on her own.
But you weren't really on your own, even before that… Were you?
Severa gritted her teeth, pushing away the small, accusing voice in her head. A soft female voice, which she knew to be hopelessly off-tune — unlike her own singing voice, which was quite above average, if she said so herself—
Yes, Lily had always liked that about her. She had encouraged Severa to sing their favourite Muggle songs, laughing when her friend poked fun at her awful pitch…
Severa swallowed her bitter black coffee, sour on her tongue. Involuntarily — almost an out-of-body experience — her eyes flicked to the Gryffindor table: they found Lily, sitting beside a messy-haired, laughing young man. The Head Boy to her Head Girl — a picture-perfect couple for the ages.
She smiled at something Potter — that bloody bastard — whispered into her ear and gave him a playful swap on the shoulder. Severa gulped down some more coffee, tempted to pour herself another cup in the absence of strong alcohol (not that she ever made a habit of drinking, not like her drunkard Muggle father, never).
Her gaze wandered on their amiable neighbours: tired-looking Lupin, nervously tittering Pettigrew, and fucking Black, running his long, elegant fingers through his dark mane of annoyingly perfect hair. (Not that he used any special products for it, it was just naturally that perfect. She whole-heartedly wished his inbred genes would curse him with early baldness or at least a nasty receding line, but no — the only real flaw of shockingly good-looking, wealthy, powerful, influential Blacks was their unapologetic unhingedness.)
So far, Potter and his horrible friends had left her alone this year. This promised only more pain later, in her experience; or maybe, the reason for that small mercy was the same that had disrupted her already unhealthy sleep cycle for a whole month now. Lily had finally capitulated to Potter’s creepy courtship — not that Severa had the right to say anything contrarian about it. At least Potter, as thick-headed as he was, hadn't called Lily a “filthy little Mudblood”.
She winced at the memory and pursed her lips. She kept on eating her breakfast; she had to take advantage of the Marauders ignoring her entire existence as much as she could. In the previous years, she was often forced to resort to eating in the common room or outdoors, or to skipping meals altogether, to avoid their harassment. She had made herself small and unnoticeable — not that it actually worked, in the end.
Potter had still hung her upside down, with her knickers and her skinny, pale legs for the whole school to see. Black had still tried to murder her.
“I’m going to the library.”
Rosier snorted. Mulciber laughed, though not derisively. They both knew her “swottiness” would come in handy very soon, under the guidance of a leader they all looked up to. Severa had made sure of that, too.
“Why do you need to study? You already know everything there is to know,” Priscilla smiled, without a trace of mocking in her voice.
Severa shrugged, slinging her bag over one bony shoulder. “You can never know too much.”
“See? That's the spirit!” Avery winked. “Let her do her thing, she's good at it — and she’ll let us copy too, our generous genius.”
“Quit it, Augustus. Flattery really doesn't suit you,” Severa said firmly. She never let anyone copy from her homework unless she obtained something in return.
Priscilla waved at her while the others resumed their breakfast — Mulciber with his usual fierce enthusiasm for food — and Severa nodded back at the Selwyn girl, quietly grateful for that little gesture. She was the gentlest of the Slytherins, though she came from an ancient family and Severa from a destitute suburban Muggle neighbourhood. She was always kind to Severa, as much as a pureblood Slytherin could be selflessly kind to a poor half-blood girl with no beauty or wealth or any kind of influence to her name.
But Severa didn't forget her courtesy. She was not prone to forgetting anything, really.
Head held high, she headed towards the open doors of the Great Hall. Her nape itched — a familiar sensation; alerted, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder.
The Marauders, mercifully, hadn’t noticed her — but Black’s grey, mocking gaze was fixed on her dark, slim figure, like a leopard eyeing its prey. He hadn’t said a single word to her — or even about her, at least not within her earshot — since the term had started. Just the occasional self-satisfied smirk whenever she passed by, each one like a cold, blood-chilling arrow straight to her skull.
Severa clenched her jaw, deliberately turning her back to him with practiced disdain, pretending his very presence didn’t unsettle her — pretending he wasn’t a living, breathing reminder of the moment she had come face to face with death, and realised just how little her life meant to those who should have protected her.
Dumbledore had literally silenced her — tied her tongue with magic — to keep her from speaking the truth about Lupin, to stop her from clearly and loudly saying what one of Gryffindor’s precious Golden Boys really was.
That it had been Potter, of all people, who’d “saved” her… Merlin, the thought still made her stomach turn.
Swallowing bile, suddenly regretting her generous breakfast, she all but fled the Hall, quickly making her way to one of her favourite refuges — the library — hoping for a bit of light reading before class. She needed the spellbinding comfort of the written word to drive away the image of Potter and Lily’s nauseating doting, and Black’s granite stare — to escape the constant reminders of all she had lost, and everything she had been denied since birth.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of lectures and barely contained annoyance. Severa drifted from classroom to classroom like the “overgrown bat” she was often mockingly called — sometimes flanked by Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier, who muttered darkly among themselves, and sitting beside Priscilla in Transfiguration.
Severa had a quiet respect for McGonagall: she was a capable witch, and one of the few teachers who actually held the Marauders accountable for their endless “pranks” — and it didn't escape Severa’s notice that McGonagall kept a hawk-eyed watch on her, most likely at Dumbledore’s behest.
She didn't mind. McGonagall was fair, strict, and didn't hesitate to praise her work, even though she was Head of Gryffindor. Severa could have done much worse.
Charms was predictably dull — not because of Flitwick, who was a fine enough teacher despite his naggingly chirping voice, but because Severa had mastered the Protean Charm years ago, long before she’d even sat her O.W.L.s. She stifled a yawn behind one hand, her mind only half-engaged as Flitwick droned on and on.
By the time the bell rang for the final class before lunch, a dull ache had settled behind her eyes — likely due to her chronic lack of sleep — and she barely registered the walk down to the dungeons until the familiar, damp chill of the Potions corridor greeted her like an old friend. She spent most of the time in the Slytherin areas of the castle; she had made winter her home, vastly preferring it to the suffocating heat of summer. Summer meant endless days in Spinner's End, with not even Lily's company as a salve for her loneliness and the claustrophobic atmosphere in her derelict Muggle house. Her mother's apathetic detachment from everything — including her daughter — only made Severa’s blood boil.
She was lucky, really, that her oaf of a father had drunk himself to an early grave a few years prior. Eileen Prince, on the other hand, had never recovered from the loss.
How she could still remain slavishly devoted to a man who had bullied, belittled, and beaten her without a shred of remorse for over a decade — that was beyond comprehension. That Muggle brute had despised everything her mother was and stood for, including the child they conceived together — a witch, an abomination who tricked him into marriage like a common whore—
The Gryffindor’s’ entrance yanked Severa back to reality. She was careful not to turn around or even glance sideways at them, but she felt Lily’s presence like a solid fist to her ribs. They used to sit together in every shared class; it had been their stolen time to enjoy each other’s company. Back then, Lily hadn't cared about the insults hurled at Severa by her own Housemates. She had agreed with her — said they were no more than glorified bullies — and steadily defended her at every turn.
Now, however — now she sat with Potter, sharing languid, lovesick looks with that brain-damaged imbecile. She was surrounded by an insipid couple of Gryffindor girls who spent their time laughing about Severa’s greasy hair and ogling Black like he was a particularly tasty dessert. Black, for his part, strutted around like an overgrown peacock, fully aware of his physical charms and — according to the whispers — entirely too willing to use them to lure a different girl into his bed each month.
God, Severa was eternally grateful that he didn't seem to register her as a female. In fact, he scarcely considered her human at all.
“You shouldn't waste your thoughts on that filthy Mudblood, Snape,” Rosier whispered in her ear. Severa straightened, jaw tight; she hated thinking of Lily that way, but it was the unassailable truth. And she could not afford missteps — not around the likes of Rosier and the others, with their pristine pedigrees and all the connections she needed to rise in power.
“I’m not. Honestly, I couldn't care less,” Severa lied with practiced ease. “Potter and his ilk are exactly what she deserves.”
Avery snorted. “Hear, hear!”
The inane chatter was cut short by Slughorn, cheerful and potbellied as ever, grating more than a little on Severa’s nerves. Slughorn was a Slytherin through and through, but he had always played favourites — and despite her obvious talents, which he dutifully acknowledged, Severa had never made the cut. She wasn't glamorous enough for his ridiculous little club.
Still, after she’d effortlessly brewed a perfect Draught of Living Death last year, Slughorn had had no choice but to invite her in. She had accepted, of course, like the dutiful Slytherin schoolgirl — and destitute half-blood — he believed her to be.
As if to confirm her thoughts, the professor beamed at Lily, and at Potter and Black too, as fellow Slugclub members, while offering Severa only a distracted, though not impolite, nod.
He cleared his throat, a silent request to the class for silence.
“Alright, students!” He clapped his hands so vigorously that a few people sitting first-row jumped. Severa didn't. “Today we're beginning the project I’ve been hinting at for some time now…” (“Only every class,” Severa’s perfect hearing picked up Potter’s murmured joke from the back of the room, and Black’s bark-like laughter), “… so, my dear boys and girls, shall we see what all the fuss is about? There is this lovely, but extremely dangerous potion I’d like to show you…”
Slughorn uncovered the cauldron, its contents steaming and bubbling innocently. Severa recognised it at first glance — and she was close enough to smell it, too…
“Gather round, those of you at the back, come closer…” As the students promptly obeyed, Severa felt them rally behind her, their voices like poison in her ears — Lily's a veritable stab to the heart.
“So,” said Slughorn, clearly proud of the excitement his theatrics had stirred (no doubt a decades-old routine), “who can tell me what's in this cauldron?”
Severa raised her hand, to no one's surprise. She wasn't the only one to know the answer — Lily certainly did, they had talked about this potion’s lesser cousins after seeing samples at Zonko’s, on their first visit to Hogsmeade — and oh, how she had laughed while Severa snorted and rolled her eyes at the other girls' vapid antics—
“Oh, yes, of course, Miss Snape. Do tell.”
“Amortentia.” A few giggles followed her flat statement. Priscilla Selwyn blushed prettily, while Cassia Nott puffed up her already voluptuous breast, her bored gaze suddenly alert. Severa ignored them all. “The most powerful love potion in the world.”
“Yes, most dangerous indeed, my dear… You recognised it by…?”
“The mother-of-pearl sheen and the spiralling steam—”
“But mostly the smell.”
Severa flinched. Black — his deep, posh-accented voice like an irritating buzz in her ear. She grimaced but let him show off what little culture he possessed.
“It smells different for each person. Now, what I smell…” Predictably, most girls leaned forward to listen attentively, hanging on every word fallen from his full, cruel lips. “Wet dog-fur, motorcycle oil, and—” he paused, and Severa could easily picture the glib smirk on his face. “Oh, I couldn't possibly say.”
Another round of tittering. Severa rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might fall out of the back of her head. Black's definition of what passed for “charm” had to be professionally studied in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries.
Also, wet dog-fur? Really? That was the weirdest “enticing” smell she had ever heard of — but Black was deranged, of course. Better not to ask.
Slughorn chuckled. “Oh, I understand, my boy, I understand…. Can't show all your cards, can you? Now then, Miss Snape…” (“She probably smells nothing but her own grease—” “James, quit it! We’ve talked about this—" “Alright, alright, Lily… I apologise…”), “—what is the brewing time for Amortentia, and its most critical steps?”
Severa answered, only mildly bored. This was one of the reasons why Slughorn, while appreciative of her talent, never counted her among his absolute favourites: she staunchly refused to be one of his pathetic sycophants.
Miraculously, Black stayed quiet for once, and she could finish her answer in peace. It did seem like that last year of school wouldn't be as unbearable as the rest.
“Ten points to Slytherin and five to Gryffindor — very well, very well… Now, as for the collaborative project — it is a sort of tradition for my seventh-year students, and I don't see why I should abandon it now, with such a talented class—” Maybe because theirs was the single most hostile Slytherin-Gryffindor class in ages? But it was useless to point it out. “So, you’ll be working in pairs to brew Amortentia, but with a twist: you’ll modify the potion to make it even more dangerous — yes, Mr. Potter, I thought you might appreciate it — so that your potion would reveal what scents your partner can pick up when smelling it,” Slughorn finished, beaming at the class as if he’d just handed them a priceless opportunity rather than a recipe for chaos.
Lily cleared her throat. “Professor, so… it's a modified Amortentia — one that's supposed to affect the person nearest the brewer, not the drinker…?”
“Exactly, Miss Evans! It's a proximity effect, not a direct one… Quite clever, isn't it? Class, are you up to it?”
Murmurs of uncertainty swept through the students. Severa straightened in her seat: she could do it, but most of her classmates wouldn't last a minute without botching it.
Slughorn clapped again, though this time the sound was drowned by the chatter and nervous speculation.
“Let’s assign the pairs!”
A collective shiver passed through the room — a reminder of the dreaded Inter-House project. Severa braced herself.
It was, as Rosier had said, a random sorting. Their names would be written on a piece of parchment, dropped in an empty cauldron, mixed around, and drawn out by Slughorn’s (momentarily all-powerful) wand. He seemed to quite relish it, judging by the twinkle in his eyes.
Priscilla was quite lucky: she was partnered up with Lily — though both of them appeared deeply unimpressed by the arrangement. Cassia was paired with Pettigrew of all people — Severa took a moment to smirk at their mirrored expressions of horror — and Potter with Rosier (Black’s cousin, which was more than the prat deserved). On and on it went until only a few names remained, Severa’s included.
“Let us see, let us see…” Slughorn was obviously having the time of his life in this attempt at matchmaking from Hell. “Miss Snape, for Slytherin, of course… and…” A pause. Even Slughorn hesitated.
Severa swallowed hard.
“… and Mr. Black.”
And just like that, the universe displayed its truly appalling sense of humour.
SIRIUS
He couldn't remember a time when he didn't hate his mother.
There must have been at least a few years of his life when he wasn't a constant disappointment to her fine, aristocratic sensibilities. A time in which she had held him to her breast, stroked his dark curls when he had nightmares and couldn't sleep (which happened frequently — after all, he lived in a house that displayed decapitated house-elves’ heads as luxury decoration), soothed him when he cried. Though, according to Walburga Black, he had always been a loud, stubborn, unbending child — assertive in his will, his wants, his objections. To his parents’ pride, their firstborn son seemed to embody everything they could hope for in an heir. Unlike his younger brother, Regulus, who cried easily and often as a little boy, Sirius had been more prone to sulking and explosive tantrums. He banished tears, hiding them from his parents, as if pre-emptively shielding himself from their scorn.
Now, many years later, the tables had turned completely. Regulus — soft, fragile Regulus, who once had needed his big brother to protect him from their older cousin Bella’s torments — had grown into a cold, haughty boy, proudly obsessed with his heritage, marching straight into ruin.
And Sirius—
“Little blood-traitor — how dare you shame us all with your perverse proclivities, your recklessness, your mingling with filth — the scum of the Wizarding world — you are no son of mine, not anymore — you don't even exist to us—”
It was what he had wanted since the age of nine: to exorcise the disgrace in his blood, the madness, the decadent elitism, the rot and the violence and his own pain through pure, unfiltered rage — to leave them before they could cast him out forever, and never look back, not even once.
But they still clawed at him from the inside out, defiling his good intentions, twisting them, hissing suspicions in the back of his mind. You can never escape us. You cannot defy your own blood.
He did envy James. He was so carefree, so happy, so unapologetically alive. His parents doted on him, as did most people who knew him. That was why Sirius had been drawn into James's gravity so easily — a black star to James’s dazzling sun: he was and had everything Sirius wished for himself.
And by staying in his orbit — by carving out space for himself with the loud, single-minded flair that had become his trademark — maybe Sirius could borrow just a few atoms of that unconditional love for himself, too.
Ah, he really was an old, loyal cur, wasn't he? Big and scary and fierce, and yet so shockingly docile under the right hand’s touch.
Maybe his mother had a point when she called him a “weak little fool”.
Bugger that evil hag. Bugger them all.
Was he a fool to bask in James's, and Remus’s, and Peter's steady friendship? Was he weak to want to feel human, when throughout the entirety of his childhood he had been marked as “wrong”, as “different”, no matter what he did?
He had carved out a whole new role for himself in the narrative — and yet… yet the sickly-sweet, clinging smell of incense, of his father's expensive cologne, of the dust of wasted years in a house that had never known real quietude — the coppery tang of his own blood in his nostrils, after a particularly harsh and, in Walburga’s view, “well-deserved” punishment, which he had inevitably instigated with his own outrageous behaviour (never using fists like a common, dirty Muggle, oh no, always with magic, as if to cleanse the inherent sickness of hurting your child)—
It all still lingered in the deepest folds of his soul, where not even Padfoot’s sharp teeth could reach to tear it out like a piece of rotting flesh.
It haunted his nights, made a wildfire of his dreams — the boys in his dormitory knew him to be an insomniac for a reason — and turned his adolescent heart into lead.
He couldn't run away. On that, he and his family agreed. He had simply to eradicate the putrescence until he was brand-new, and clean, and more alive than any of those walking, decaying Black corpses would ever be.
He fought death with a thunderous excess of life, until he was gorged with it, until he could drown inside its pulsing, living core.
*
Sirius's seventh and final year at Hogwarts didn't start as promisingly as he had hoped for.
He was happy for James, finally realising his Dream of Eternal Love with Evans or whatever — really, he was. Not that he could relate to the feeling: he himself gleefully flitted from one pretty girl to the next, like a bee to flowers, all gentleman-like until he inevitably discarded them with some thin-veiled excuse and broke their hearts, and they exploded into tearful tantrums in front of the whole school, to the great amusement of the other students.
Sirius had to laugh too. The girls' infatuation with his — considerable, he wasn't humble enough not to recognise it — good looks swiftly faded away, the damage was not too deep to begin with, and so the cycle could restart as if nothing at all had happened.
He preferred it that way. With a war looming and his family’s dark heritage imprinted on him like a centuries-old scar, love felt like a dangerous hazard — one that even he, as notoriously reckless as he was, couldn't afford.
James seemed to disagree. He had been head over heels for Lily since at least third year, as far as Sirius could remember.
Their being together meant that Prongs spent much less time with him — but Sirius didn't resent him for that. He couldn't wrap his head around all that lovey-dovey crap — Lily, who had loathed the lot of them almost as much as Snape did until a few years prior, often joked about him having the emotional range of a Flabberworm — but he would always be there for James, his brother in everything but blood. It just meant he would be slightly bored throughout the school year as a result.
Not that he enjoyed Remus's company less, or even Wormy’s; but James could read him like an open book, and Sirius missed that. He missed being seen.
Maybe Snape had been right all along about him — he was an intolerable show-off.
Snape. Now there was another difference from the previous years: James was severely forbidden by Lily to even joke about that slimy snake, at least when either the latter or his new, morally righteous girlfriend were within earshot. Consequently, Sirius was prohibited to mock, hex, or even toy with Snivelly like a dog with a rabbit, as he had made a habit of in six years.
That meant his school time was considerably duller than he had expected.
Lily had always had an unfathomable fondness for Snape. They were often seen together as young girls, to the befuddlement of James (how could such a pretty thing like Evans ever voluntarily associate herself with that unwashed creep?), and Sirius himself had always compared Lily's affection to something similar to what one feels for a slightly bothersome pet, or a charity case. At any rate, James was devoted to Lily, to the point he had quietly abandoned one of his favourite pastimes: annoying the hell out of that Slytherin goblin.
Now, in Potions class, Sirius — elegantly sprawled on the chair, absentmindedly twirling one of his dark curls, to the joy of many girls attending — looked askance at the above-mentioned goblin, seated in front row as was her habit for this class — the little swot. She painted a perfect picture of dishevelment: her lank, black hair clearly hadn't seen a proper wash, or even a comb, in days; her eyebrows were a dark, unruly mess on her too pallid, angular face; not even a faint trace of makeup softened her harsh features. Her eyes, though — he couldn't see them from this angle, but he knew her profile enough to bet on it — were sharp and luminous in her attentiveness to Slughorn's blabbering.
What an unfortunate creature, really. And yet, she made his teeth ache, like some kind of virus. Dark magic clung to her like a mantle — he could smell it on her, always had from the very beginning. Sirius was familiar with it; he knew his fair share of Dark curses and rituals, thanks to his family’s indoctrination. He could recognise it in others as if it were his own reflection in the mirror.
James’s loathing for Snivelly had a different source: she was such a loser, an unpleasant Slytherin weirdo — for him, it was merely a game. His only real berserk button had been the girl’s strange, close bond with Evans, and that was unceremoniously broken when the greasy bitch had called her a Mudblood. From then on, Lily — as much as Sirius could gather — didn't speak to her anymore, deliberately pretending the other girl didn't exist. And that pained Snape, to Sirius’s satisfaction. She deserved that treatment, the despicable blood purist — as if she weren't a half-blood rat herself.
Out of nowhere, someone nudged him in the ribs — Remus. Moony was watching him with a slightly raised eyebrow, Sirius didn't know whether as an admonishment or in genuine curiosity.
Sirius blinked. Only then he realised he had been focusing his unseeing stare on Snape for the last five minutes. He shook his head, irreverently grinning up at Moony, who seemed to relax himself quite a bit. He probably had feared his friend wanted to prank Snivelly or something, causing Lily's disapproval and a veritable commotion in class. It wouldn't be the first time.
But Sirius had given his word — he would be a good boy, for once; he really didn't want to compromise Evans and James's relationship with some juvenile antics, not when those two had taken so long to come together.
He focused on Slughorn instead. He was talking about a potion (obviously), and soon Sirius realised which one. He smiled to himself, taking the chance to annoy Snape by cutting short her dutiful explanation of the Amortentia’s recognisable traits. Not even Evans could have something to say against that. It was all a sane rivalry between students, nothing more.
“Who do you think Slughorn will pair us with, Moony?” Sirius heard Wormy murmuring to Remus. He was seated right behind him, next to McKinnon (whom Sirius had had a fling with on fourth year, ended with her pouring pumpkin juice on his head over breakfast in the Great Hall — Prongs had almost choked on his kippers for laughing too hard at the scene, and Sirius along with him — thankfully they were still on good terms, since she was Lily's friend and James's Quidditch teammate).
Ah, yes. This deluded idea of Slughorn of making us befriend a Slytherin when we have already spent six years hating the creeps’ guts.
Sirius smirked at Peter's anxiety. “Oh, don't worry,” he comforted him before Remus could reply, “whoever it is, they won't dare cross you — not when you're my friend.”
The Black name still counted something among those fanatics, especially when one of their leaders was his (somewhat) cousin.
“But Padfoot — you are…” Remus began, not unreasonably.
“No longer on my family tree, you mean? Or in my parents’ good graces?” Whenever I was, though? “Doesn't matter. I could — we could scare them off quite easily. They'll leave you both alone — Remus, you're a Prefect, and Peter… well, you're so unassuming no one would want to mess with you. Where would be the fun in that?”
Wormy gave a nervous laugh. Remus only looked at him in faint disapproval but couldn't help a slim smile at his nonchalance.
In the end, the pairs were sorted randomly. Prongs was dealt a pretty lucky hand: Rosier as a partner meant no big trouble for him, since he wouldn't dare raise his cousin's infamous temper. As much as Regulus (though in his brother's case, it actually hurt — not that Sirius was ready to admit it), Evan had given him a cold shoulder since he had run away from home and started living with the Potters. He still knew better than to poke at him or his mates, though. He wasn't suicidal.
Sirius chuckled when poor Peter ended up with Cassia Nott — big boobs and an even bigger ego, as he had dubbed her; quite an attractive girl, if only she didn't display the facial expression of someone who's bitten on a lemon whenever a Gryffindor and/or a Not-Pureblood crossed her way. This should be fun.
Lily was partnered with Selwyn, who wasn't that bad at all, for a Slytherin. Neither of the girls were particularly enthusiastic over the idea of working together, though: Selwyn was still a blood suprematist. A polite, well-mannered one, but still a bloody bigot.
With a grimace, Sirius waited for his turn.
“Miss Snape, for Slytherin, of course…” Slughorn drew out an unassuming slip of parchment out of the cauldron — and his face said it all.
Oh, I have a bad feeling about this.
“… and Mr. Black.”
For a few seconds, his brain was blessedly blank. He couldn't literally conjure a half-coherent thought.
He turned hastily to James, who was mouthing “what the fuck” next to an eerily still Lily. Remus was quite pale himself, and Peter was unattractively open-mouthed, as if waiting to come up with some form of empty reassurance.
Sirius dared a glance toward Snape. He didn't know what he expected from her, exactly — some kind of explosive tantrum? A vitriolic look in his direction? A very loud, very insisting protest?
But the girl was absolutely imperturbable. She had lost what little colour her cheeks had, a vein faintly pulsing on her left temple. But she didn't object, nor did she make a scene.
Well, that meant he had no other choice but to be equally mature and go on with that travesty of a lesson.
“Lucky me, I guess,” was all he said.
Lily flinched visibly, and Sirius almost gave in to his urge to laugh it all off.
He didn't. He wasn't feeling particularly amused at the moment.
While everyone else trudged to their assigned seats — their expressions not unlike condemned men on their way to the gallows — Sirius made a point of dragging his stool just a bit too loudly as he approached Snape’s workbench. She was already seated — arms rigid around her torso, the scowl on her face a perfect mirror of his own mood. Sirius flopped into his seat with theatrical flair, letting out an exaggerated sigh that could probably be heard all the way from the corridor. His breath ruffled a few too-thin strands of hair on the top of Snape’s head; though she couldn't be described as short by any means, he still towered over her.
She flinched minutely, before regaining her icy composure.
“‘Morning, Snivelly,” he breathed in her ear, careful not to let Slughorn — usually blind to the Marauders’ taunting of their least favourite person in Hogwarts, but that morning annoyingly more attentive to the unlikely pair — catch him in the act. He was satisfied to see her shiver, admittedly in revulsion; but it was still better than that pathetic attempt of hers to look completely unfazed. She wasn't, and the fact that his mere proximity had at least some effect on the frigid bitch made his smirk stretch a bit too wide.
Nonetheless, she didn't respond. She was already handling the vials with calm, collected expertise — she was in her element here, quick and professional, her long, pale fingers arranging the ingredients with something akin to delicacy.
“Oh, so you're going for the silent treatment, now? How original.”
That earned him a loud clack as she put down a bowl of rose petals a bit harder than necessary.
“Better than lowering myself on your level,” she spat, her voice laced with something lethally toxic.
Sirius grinned — he had her. He had made her open that ugly, sharp little trap of hers and acknowledge him. Or at least, outwardly acknowledge him — she was already too conscious of his presence, he could read it in the tense line of her shoulders, the otherwise almost imperceptible twitch on the right side of her mouth.
“You wound me,” he said, with the lazy grin that normally made girls swoon and sigh. She barely glanced his way. “I thought you might be thrilled to spend some quality time together, Snivelly…”
“I’d rather cut out my own eyeballs and have them for dinner.”
He couldn't stop the snort that escaped him. Snape had a way with words, that was undeniable. A hundred nasty quips came to his head — one more vicious than the next — but he held back. He had promised James, after all, for the sake of his anticipated honeymoon with Lily.
Snape was looking at him like he was a particularly disgusting species of engorged slug.
“Make yourself useful.”
“I do know how to brew Amortentia—”
“Do you, now? I’m honestly surprised you can read at all.”
He smirked down at her, something razor-sharp behind the curve of his lips. She stiffened, and for a split second he knew that he must resemble nothing more than his fierce, dangerous canine form. If only I could just transform right now and devour her whole — the insipid, little—
He picked up the knife and toyed with it, eyeing the blade with sudden interest.
“That isn't fair, Snape.”
“What would you know about fairness?” she hissed — and suddenly her face was tilted up towards him, lips drawn back just enough to show her uneven, yellowish teeth. “Now, would you graciously heat the water in that silver cauldron and stop trying to distract me so I’ll fail this class? Because it won't work, not even if you — I don't know — burst into a tap-dance routine stark naked on the desk—”
“That would be quite the view… and you wouldn't deserve to enjoy it,” Sirius replied, all saccharin, wide-eyed innocence. “Remember, if you fail this project, so do I.” He brazenly winked at her. “So, be a good little girl, and prep the lacewings and rose oil like the instructions say.”
She glared at him — a look that could curdle milk — but blinked in an odd mix of irritation and surprise. She hadn't expected that, but he did know his Potion-making, to her obvious displeasure.
They did exactly what they’d told each other to do: Sirius filled and heated the cauldron, and Snape gathered the first ingredients to add to the boiling water. He observed her as she weighed them out. She really had a knack for Potions. She didn't waste a single motion: her movements were precise, efficient — there was a certain professional grace to her, definitely above a mere schoolgirl’s aptitude—
“What?” she snarled.
Sirius frowned. She had caught him staring at her (again) like she was a particularly confounding puzzle, her slight frame standing out stark against the smoky backdrop of the Potions classroom — so thin, did this girl even feed herself properly? He could probably wrap one arm around her waist twice over—
“You're quite adept at this, aren't you? Swotty Snivelly…” He had the pleasure of seeing her lips thin into a white line on that already too-pale face. “I suppose you spend a lot of time hunched over a steaming cauldron. Explains the hair, at least — mystery solved.”
“I wish there were a similarly apt explanation for your complete absence of functioning brain cells, but alas, some things are just congenital.”
Slughorn’s booming voice announced that the lesson was almost over, which stopped Sirius from answering with another barbed insult. Rolling his eyes, he stirred the potion (seven times anticlockwise, as per the instructions — not that he needed to peek at his copy of Advanced Potion-Making, thank you very much). Without a word, either of protest or otherwise, she lowered the heat and covered the cauldron. The potion would now have to brew for seven days before they could proceed to phase two.
“Very good, Mr. Black, Miss Snape — oh, Mr. Pettigrew, kindly try not to melt this cauldron like you did during the Anti-Veritaserum lesson, thank you…”
Sirius glanced over his shoulder. He didn't bother to stifle a barking laugh. Big-Boobs Nott was bouncing in her seat, berating Wormy like he had attempted at her life — and maybe he had, from her point of view, for he had accidentally singed the ends of her blonde hair trying to lower the flame. Poor bloke had probably had a nervous breakdown from her incessant screeching.
The bell rang — thanks for small mercies, I guess.
“Would you look at that, Snape? Our little experiment almost seems successful compared to theirs. So far, at least…”
He turned toward her — but of course (why am I even surprised?), she was already heaving her bag on one shoulder and rushing out like her life depended on it.
“Wait a second—”
She wasn't listening. She was already halfway through the door before he could even get her name out.
Sirius cursed her under his breath and grabbed his things.
“Hey, Padfoot, what—”
“Not now, James.”
He pushed through the mass of students at the doorway, trying to go unnoticed — not an easy task, considering his height — but he was a master of secret shortcuts and hidden passageways. He achieved his goal and caught up with thrice-damned, unusually fast-paced Snivelly.
“Hey, wait, I said — we need to—”
She jumped when he grabbed her skinny arm, so hard that it almost rattled him. But it wasn't out of fear; that would be out of character for her.
“Unhand me now,” she snapped, with a face like she would have gladly bitten his head off.
“Hey!” Sirius didn't let go. Now it was a matter of principle. He leaned in — he didn't give a damn whether people were enjoying the show or not. “We need to set a date to work on the project, you little idiot! Why’d you run off like that?”
“Because I can't stand breathing the same air as you, you illiterate twat—”
“Very funny. Always the same groundbreaking material, Snivelly — that's a new low, even for you—”
“Touch me again without my permission and I’ll hex what's left of your shrivelled brain—”
Sirius released her then. He had made that fucking promise, and he could feel Lily’s judgemental eyes boring into him from somewhere behind.
“Alright. Alright.” He tried to paste on his lips a nonchalant smile. It didn't work. Snape just massaged her wrist, though he hadn't meant to be forceful at all. She was still glaring up at him with such venom that, had he been anyone else (he had grown up with Walburga and Bellatrix, after all), he would have made a prudent retreat. “Calm down. We need to—”
“I heard you.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “So…?”
Snape didn't lower her gaze for even a second, her dark, contemptuous eyes blazing—
Pretty eyes.
The thought hit him uninvited, and Sirius instinctively recoiled from it — but it was true all the same. Pretty eyes, so brown they look almost black. Obstinate, proud, untameable—
Luckily, she didn't seem to catch whatever the fuck must have just flickered across his face.
“I’ll let you know later—”
“Later when?”
“In Ancient Runes. You attend that class too, don't you?”
Sirius snorted. “As if we didn't spend the last three years competing for the best translation—”
She ignored the comment completely. “Later, then. Do not bother me again unless I call on you.”
Before he could even begin to formulate a reply — she wasn't simply a bloody terror and a Dark Witch in progress, she was also insufferably bossy — she turned on her heel and stormed off, her mouth twisted into the ugliest grimace he had seen on her yet.
Sirius blinked.
What the fuck just happened?
A polite cough cut through his confusion.
“That went well,” said Remus, his smile not nearly as amused as Sirius had hoped. He looked genuinely concerned, and probably the rest of his mates were, too.
“Yeah… Let's see until we're locked in a room alone to work on this fucking co-project, then I’ll predict whether we’d both make it out alive or not.”
“Barely,” Prongs added, eyes laughing behind his spectacles as he tracked Snape's retreating figure. “Slimy bitch,” he muttered into Sirius' ear, careful that Lily wouldn't hear.
Sirius smirked — but somehow, the usual malice didn't quite reach his eyes.