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Chapter Text

“Ah, Severus, come in,” Professor Slughorn said, waving him toward one of the plush leather chairs in front of his rosewood desk. His eyes skimmed the frayed cuffs of Severus’ robe and the wilted collar of his shirt.

Severus sat stiffly. “May I ask what this meeting is about, sir? If Mr. Black is accusing me of cheating again—”

“Oh, no, no, nothing of the sort.” Slughorn unscrewed a silver‑lidded jar and popped a piece of crystallized pineapple into his mouth. “I simply realized we haven’t spoken about your career plans since fifth year. Your N.E.W.T.s are coming up, and all your professors expect great things. Have you given any more thought to what you want to do after Hogwarts?”

Severus’ shoulders tightened before he forced them still. When he spoke, his voice was flat, almost careful. “If you recall, Professor, you suggested I aim for a shop assistant’s post at a small apothecary. As a half‑blood with no connections, I doubt the Ministry or any major firm would take me on straight out of school — regardless of my marks.”

“Yes, well…” Slughorn cleared his throat. “You’re clever, Severus—very clever. But cleverness alone doesn’t open doors. You need to be sociable. Likable. And you must admit, you haven’t exactly endeared yourself to your fellow Slytherins. As for your popularity with other houses…”

A flush crept up Severus’ neck. “With respect, sir, I’ve never seen the point of currying favor with people who lack genuine talent. My work speaks for itself.”

“Oh, undeniably,” Slughorn said, tapping the open pupil file on his desk. “Especially in Potions and Defense. Which is why I’ve decided to offer you a rare opportunity—despite your… social shortcomings.”

“What sort of opportunity?”

Slughorn brightened. “One of my former students—Fleamont Potter, yes, James Potter’s father—has taken over the family business. Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, you know it. Hugely successful. His store manager needs someone to help with accounts and the behind‑the‑scenes work. Naturally, I put your name forward.”

Severus stared at him. “You want me to work for James Potter’s father?”

Slughorn leaned forward, his chair creaking under the shift of weight. “I can see you’re surprised. It’s true—normally I wouldn’t go out of my way to arrange an interview for someone outside my Slug Club, but I can’t deny you’ve impressed me with your diligence, Severus. You deserve a chance to prove yourself.”

He paused, his gaze flicking—just once—over Severus’ hair before he continued. “The interview is scheduled for Friday at ten o’clock, at Potter’s flagship shop in Diagon Alley.”

He lifted a hand to cut off any protest. “Borrow robes from a friend if you must, but do make yourself presentable. We can’t have you embarrassing Slytherin House.”

Severus curled his hands into fists beneath the desk. Working for his bully’s father was unthinkable—but refusing Slughorn could ruin any chance he had of finding work in London.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said tightly. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Excellent,” Slughorn beamed. “And a little something to help you make a good impression.” He flicked his wand, summoning a green glass bottle with an ornate French label. “Hair tonic, Severus. We might not all possess the untamed charm of young Mr. Potter, but there’s no excuse for neglecting one’s appearance.”

Severus took the bottle stiffly and tucked it into his robe. “Is that all, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Off you go to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey is giving a special session on soulmark presentation. Very important.”

Severus bent to pick up his satchel. “If it’s all right, Professor, I’d prefer to return to the library. As a half‑blood, I doubt I’ll receive one, so—”

“Now, now,” Slughorn said, wagging a finger. “You don’t want to get your Head of House in trouble with the matron, do you? Especially after I’ve gone to such lengths to arrange an advantageous interview.” Something sharp flickered in his eyes.

“No, sir.”

“That’s what I thought.” Slughorn turned back to his stack of essays. “Run along, then. Plenty to do.”

Severus took a steadying breath before pushing open the infirmary door. The lecture was already underway; the thought of every head turning at his late entrance knotted something low in his stomach.

“Decided to join us at last, have you?” Madam Pomfrey called. Laughter rippled through the rows of students.

“Sorry for the delay, Matron. Professor Slughorn needed to speak with me,” Severus said, slipping into the empty seat beside Lily Evans.

“Now that you’re finally here, let’s get you up to speed. Mr. Malfoy, if you would.”

“The Matron was explaining that soulmarks usually appear on a wizard’s seventeenth birthday,” Lucius drawled, flicking an imaginary speck from his sleeve. “Soulmark presentation is an honor reserved for pure‑bloods. I don’t see why half‑bloods and Muggleborns are even here.”

“Mr. Malfoy is only partially correct,” Madam Pomfrey said crisply. “Soulmarks are more common in pure‑bloods, but they can manifest in anyone.”

“Excuse me, Matron,” Dorcas Meadowes asked softly, raising her hand. “Does it hurt when the soulmark appears?”

“Not at all.” Madam Pomfrey strode to the conjured blackboard and tapped a diagram of a wrist. “The mark usually appears overnight while you sleep. Studies from the International Association for Magical Research confirm the process is painless.”

“Don’t worry, Meadowes, it doesn’t hurt a bit,” James Potter said, flashing her a grin. “Just ask Sirius. His showed up in November, but he won’t let any of us see it.” He reached for the gauntlet on Sirius’ wrist; Sirius shoved his hand away.

“No roughhousing in my infirmary,” Madam Pomfrey snapped. “Soulmarks are private. No one should ever joke about uncovering one by force. At the end of the lecture, each of you will receive a leather gauntlet to ensure your privacy.”

“Is it true the marks glow when you touch your soulmate?” Marlene McKinnon asked. “Otherwise, how would you know? Some people get the same mark without being soulmates, right?”

“That’s correct. The glow confirms the bond,” Pomfrey said.

A chorus of teasing erupted from the boys at the back. She rolled her eyes.

“Which brings me to my final point. If you receive a soulmark, you must register with the Ministry. Prolonged separation from your soulmate can cause Anemocor Syndrome — it starts with aches and headaches and can become far more serious if ignored.”

“May I be excused, Matron?” Evan Rosier asked, gathering his books. “I have Care of Magical Creatures at the lake in fifteen minutes—”

“Oh dear, look at the time!” Pomfrey exclaimed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stop here. My door is always open if you have questions. You’re dismissed — and don’t forget a gauntlet on your way out.”

“I’m not touching that,” Bellatrix said, eyeing the pile with disdain. “Come along, Cissy. Mother promised us bespoke ones from Madame Malkin’s. I’m thinking green silk with silver embroidery…”

Most students followed the Black sisters out, though a cluster of seventh‑year Gryffindor boys lingered, laughing among themselves.

“What did Slughorn want?” Lily asked, handing Severus his Transfiguration text.

Severus’ eyes flicked toward James Potter, who was—as always—the center of attention. “I’ll tell you. Just… not here. Library before dinner?”

“Sounds good. I still need to finish my Charms essay,” Lily said, linking her arm through his.

“You don’t need one of those, Evans!” James called. “Haven’t I told you? I’m your soulmate.”

“I’m hoping my soulmate’s more than just a pretty face, Potter,” Lily shot back, earning laughter and a few approving cheers.

“Maybe she’s hoping Snivellus will be her soulmate,” Sirius drawled, slouching against the wall. “They’re practically glued together.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” James said with mock horror. “Imagine being stuck with Snivellus for life.” 

A few boys clutched their chests in exaggerated dread, laughing. 

“Look on the bright side,” Sirius added. “He’d finally get that greasy mop scrubbed. Merlin knows it’s overdue.”

Severus’ hand twitched toward his wand, but Lily caught his wrist. “Don't give them what they want.”

Severus held Sirius’ gaze, fury simmering under the surface. “I won't,” he muttered. “Come on.”

Chapter Text

“What’s ‘The Clash?’” Peter asked, lounging on his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dorm. “Is that another one of those Muggle things?”

“It’s a band,” Lupin answered, looking up from his Charms essay. “Wait—you’re not planning to sneak out again, are you?” He glanced from James to Sirius, who was changing out of his wizarding robes and into a pair of tatty Muggle jeans.

“You should come with us this time, Moony,” James urged, lacing up the black leather combat boots he’d picked up on their last unauthorized visit to London.

"I am a prefect, in case you forgot," Lupin replied, leaning back in his desk chair. "I suppose I should put a stop to it, but I just don’t have the energy. Some of us actually have to study to do well in class," he grumbled, returning to his Goshawk textbook.

“I’ll come,” Peter said, suddenly sitting up. “It's our last term. Who cares about homework anymore?”

James and Sirius exchanged a look over his head. “This isn’t really your scene, Wormtail. We’re trying to blend in with the Muggles, and, let’s be honest, you stick out like a sore thumb.”

Peter tossed a rolled-up sock at James' head. James just laughed, effortlessly catching it with one hand.

“Ready?” Sirius asked, slipping on his battered leather jacket.  

“Always ready, Padfoot. Let’s make this a night to remember.”

“At least take the map this time,” Remus called after them. “I really don’t want you running into McGonagall again. She seems to think I should be able to control you, which is ridiculous.”

Sirius and James exchanged amused glances as they left the other boys behind. "I'm glad it's just the two of us. Remus wouldn’t last five minutes at the Roxy—way too many people and way too loud. And Peter... it’s like he has a special talent for scaring off girls.”

“Are we chasing after girls again tonight?” Sirius asked, trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

“Yeah, obviously! It’s a laugh, but I need the practice for when Evans finally caves.”

Sirius felt a sharp pain in his left wrist, but he ignored it, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. “Do you really think she'll get a mark? Evans is Muggleborn, and they almost never do.”

“Of course she will. Lily’s special. She’ll get a mark, no doubt about it.”

“And you’re sure it’ll be your name?”

“Hey, what's got you in such a mood, mate? Is it because your soulmate's a half-blood or something? Come on, Padfoot, why won't you tell me who she is?”

“Don't even joke about it. My mum’s completely mental. You have no idea what she’s capable of.”

James' smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. “I get it, you don’t want to talk about your soulmate. Just know that, whoever she is, I’ve got your back. And if the worst happens… you and Reg are always welcome at my house.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Sirius lied. “I just can’t stand how everyone’s obsessed with soulmates. My parents are soulmates, and trust me, their marriage is a nightmare. It’s nothing like the books and songs make it out to be.”

James placed a hand on Sirius' shoulder. “I know your parents can be a bit intense, but it's not always like that. Look at my Mum and Dad. They're soulmates, and they're really happy together. Don't lose hope, alright?”

Sirius shrugged off James' hand. “Did you hear that?” He ducked into one of the shadowed alcoves near the statue of the one-eyed witch. “It sounds like someone’s coming.”

“I’ll get my cloak," James said, reaching into his rucksack. "No way it’s Filch or Mrs. Norris—whoever it is, they're way too noisy.”

James threw the cloak over their heads, forcing them to huddle close. The spicy scent of his cologne washed over Sirius, and a sudden rush of longing made his chest ache.

“Alright?” James asked, leaning closer to get a better view of the map in Sirius’ hands.

Sirius tried to concentrate on the parchment in front of him. “It's Regulus.”

James looked up. “What?”

“Mulciber and Wilkes are with him,” Sirius said, already throwing off the cloak. His voice was clipped, tense. “What could two seventh-years possibly want with my baby brother?”

They broke into a run toward the Trophy Room. The voices ahead grew louder—Regulus’ high and unsteady, the others low and amused.

“I’ve got a cauldron full of hot, strong lo—hic—ve!” Regulus sang, arms flailing like he was conducting an invisible orchestra.

James skidded in, breath sharp. His eyes flicked from Mulciber’s smirk to Regulus’ flailing arms, then narrowed. “What the hell is going on?” he asked, voice low. “Regulus. Are you drunk?”

“Sirius!” Regulus lit up, voice too loud, too pleased. He lurched sideways, nearly taking Mulciber with him. “Guess what? I’ve just been initiated into the ancient rites of the Scroll and Key Society. Just like dear old Dad... and his dad... and his dad...”

His face turned a sickly shade of green.

Mulciber recoiled instantly, shoving him away. “Ugh—don’t you dare—”

“I’ve got you,” Wilkes said, catching Regulus under the arms. “But if you’re going to be sick—”

Regulus didn’t wait. He vomited spectacularly all over Wilkes’ shoes.

Sirius stepped forward, arms crossed, fury barely contained. “What the hell, Wilkes? Mulciber?”

“Keep your knickers on, Black,” Mulciber said, using a spell to clean up the mess. “As if you weren't drinking just as much in fifth year.”

“Yeah, well, Regulus isn't like us, is he?” Sirius argued, slinging his brother's arm over his shoulder to help him walk. “He's the rule-abiding type. A regular Head Boy in the making.”

“Nothing gives me more joy than living up to our esteemed parent's expectations,” Regulus laughed, but the sound was unexpectedly bitter.

“Yeah, you're a real golden boy,” Sirius muttered.  

Regulus' face flushed hotly. “Someone has to uphold the family legacy—join the right clubs, make the right connections. I wouldn't have to if you acted like the heir to the House of Black, instead of a filthy Muggle-lover.”

“Watch yourself, mate,” James warned. “There's nothing wrong with Muggles.”

“You would say that.” Regulus stumbled and leaned heavily against Sirius. “Lucius says it's one thing to consort with a Mudblood in secret, but to make her the object of your gallantry? You're making a fool of yourself in front of everyone who truly matters, Potter.”

“He doesn't know what he's saying.” Sirius shook his head. “He's completely smashed.”

“Drunk or not, that's what all Slytherins believe,” James said, glaring challengingly at Mulciber and Wilkes.

“Well, that's my cue,” Mulciber said, slipping his wand into the pocket of his robes. “I have no intention of getting caught out by Filch. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Seriously?” Sirius glared at the two Slytherins.

“Sirius-ly,” Regulus giggled, the sound turning into a hiccup.

“Looks like you've got it all under control,” Wilkes agreed, retreating hastily. “If you really want to blame someone for what happened tonight, Black, take it up with Malfoy. He’s in charge. We’re just following orders.”

“Typical Slytherins,” Sirius muttered, tightening his grip on Regulus' arm. “Ditching their friends the moment it gets inconvenient.”

“What should we do with him?” James asked as the older Slytherins slipped away. “There's no way we'll reach the dungeons without Peeves noticing, especially with all the racket he's making.”

Regulus, oblivious to the situation, continued singing “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” his voice growing louder with each verse.

“What about the Room of Requirement? We can conjure everything he needs to sober up there.”

“Good thinking. At least it's nearby.”

The two boys shuffled toward the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, carrying Regulus between them.

“Prongs, I don’t think I’m going to make it to London tonight. Reg’s completely pissed, and someone needs to stay with him—make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.”

James nodded, adjusting his grip. “Yeah. We’re not leaving him like this.”

“Can you go back to the dormitory and grab the hangover draught from my trunk?”

“I’ll bring some water and a couple of Muggle painkillers too,” James said, eyeing Regulus. “Wish I had a sobering potion, but brewing’s not really my thing. We could always try Slughorn’s stores—bet he’s got one tucked away in his apothecary cabinet.”

“Slughorn's probably warded his stash with protective spells. If Regulus wants to drink like an idiot, he can suffer like one.”

James laughed. “Look at you—playing the responsible older brother.”

“I am his older brother,” Sirius said, a flicker of irritation in his voice.

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

As they completed their third lap of the seventh-floor corridor, the plain stone wall shimmered and shifted into a simple wooden door.

“Take care. I'll be back as soon as I can,” James promised, vanishing under his invisibility cloak.

Sirius guided Regulus into the Room of Requirement, only mildly surprised when the room morphed into an exact replica of Regulus' bedroom at number 12 Grimmauld Place.

“Do I have to lie down? I feel like I'm going to be sick again,” Regulus whined as Sirius helped him onto the heavily curtained four-poster bed.

“Use this,” Sirius said, grabbing an old Quidditch helmet from the bookcase beside the bed. The shelves were weighed down with books on dark magic, wizarding history, and pure-blood genealogy.

“Gross. I actually liked that one,” Regulus grumbled as he banished the helmet, disgusted by what he'd just done inside it.

Sirius settled into the deep leather club chair beside the bed. With a flick of his wand and a muttered “Incendio,” he ignited a fire in the grate.

“It even smells like home,” Regulus sighed, laying back on the bed.

Sirius had to agree—cherrywood was his mother's favorite, thanks to its subtle, fruity aroma and its hefty price tag—but he preferred not to think about the family townhouse. “I hope you're happy,” he said, trying to adopt the lecturing tone befitting an elder brother. “James and I are missing a very important gig to be here—"

“Yeah, because time with James is oh-so-precious,” Regulus rolled his eyes. “Is that why you spent Christmas at his house instead of with us?”

“I figured you'd all be happier if I wasn't there,” Sirius retorted. “You can keep up your perfect pure-blood act a lot easier without me around.”

“I know you're not this thick.” Regulus' dark head shifted on the silken pillow. “Mother and father know you got a soulmark on your birthday. They were expecting you to come home and spill all the details so they can draft a marriage contract for the girl.” He turned away, staring up at the canopy above him. “I can only guess you're avoiding them because, whoever she is, they wouldn't approve.”

“Maybe I just don't want to get married,” Sirius snapped, his flush hidden by the darkness of the room. “Our dear Mum and Dad aren't exactly shining examples of wedded bliss, are they?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Regulus replied, clearly unconvinced. “Whatever the reason, you've got two weeks to sort it out. Mother says they're coming for the Slytherin-Ravenclaw final, and they're going to get answers from you one way or another.”

Chapter Text

“Oi, Snape!” Mulciber called from the bathroom doorway, his voice sharp with impatience. “Shift yourself! His Lordship wants a word with you before breakfast.”

“Malfoy?” Severus fastened the last button on his shirt, tucking it neatly into his uniform trousers. “What does he want this time?”

“No idea. But I wouldn’t keep him waiting. You know how he gets.”

Severus responded with a grunt, his expression giving nothing away as Mulciber sauntered off down the corridor. Alone, Severus turned toward the gilded bathroom mirror, attacking the tangles in his chin-length black hair with brisk, mechanical strokes. He avoided his reflection. There was no point in looking—he already knew the face that would meet his eyes.

Sallow skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, a hooked nose, and a wiry, angular frame. Unpleasant. Ugly. Not like—no. He slammed the door shut on that thought, but Sirius Black forced his way in regardless: the insufferable smirk, the effortless grace, and that glossy black hair that seemed to arrange itself perfectly without a second’s thought.

Black, who had everything—good looks, wealth, a famous name—and wasted it all. He strutted around in threadbare Muggle clothes, blind to the insult it was to those like Severus, for whom poverty wasn’t a fleeting fashion statement but a cage to escape. Worse, he dismissed blood status as “meaningless,” flaunting a privileged ignorance that made Severus’ blood boil.

Black didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—what it meant to fight and claw for every advantage in a world that handed him everything on a silver platter. No, he glided through life untouchable, carrying himself as though the universe owed him endlessly more...

“Enough,” Severus muttered, forcing his mind back to the present with a sharp effort. Brooding over Black wouldn’t solve anything. There were more pressing matters to attend to—like whatever scheme Lucius Malfoy was weaving this time.

He finished dressing, then made his way to the common room at an unhurried pace. He refused to give the pompous pure-blood the satisfaction of thinking he’d rushed to answer his summons.

Malfoy was waiting by the fire, seated in a high-backed wing chair with a tea tray neatly arranged on the tufted leather ottoman in front of him.

“There you are, Snape. Come join me for breakfast. I’ve had the others clear out so we can have a private chat.”

Severus settled himself warily in the chair facing Malfoy. The Slytherin prefect wore his long, shining hair loose, spilling down his black robes like silk. His skin was flawless and smooth as a girl’s, but the calculating look in his gray eyes dispelled any notion of softness.

“How do you take your tea?” Lucius accepted a delicate china cup from the house-elf at his elbow with practiced grace.

“Milk, no sugar,” Severus answered, struggling to contain his impatience.

“You must be wondering why I’ve called this little meeting,” Lucius continued, taking a deliberate sip of his tea before placing his cup back in the saucer with a soft click.

Severus accepted his own teacup with a clumsy movement. “What is it that you want, Malfoy?”

“I’ve always valued your directness,” Lucius said, his eyebrows lifting in faint amusement. “I’ll be equally candid with you. Professor Slughorn mentioned he secured an interview for you with Sleekeazy’s. I must say, I didn’t expect you to accept.”

“Do you think I want to work for the Potters? Slughorn made the arrangements without consulting me.”

“What if I told you I have a job for you? One that offers a chance to finally repay James Potter for seven years of undeserved torment?”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly do you stand to gain from this, Malfoy? Forgive my skepticism, but charity has never been your forte.”

“You’re right, of course,” Lucius agreed, steepling his fingers under his chin. “My father recently acquired Fawley’s Finest Hair Potions, and Sleekeazy is our only major competitor. If you can help us obtain their proprietary recipe, or find another way to undermine their operations...” His voice trailed off suggestively, leaving the implications hanging in the air.

“Even if I wanted to help you, what makes you think a new employee would be given access to trade secrets?”

Lucius smiled like a fencer savoring a well-timed riposte. “If our time together has taught me anything, Snape, it’s that a half-blood with a grudge can be surprisingly resourceful. I have no doubt you have all the motivation needed to bring down the Potters, but if that’s not enough incentive...” He reached into his robes and produced a black leather pouch, tossing it into Severus’ lap. “Consider that an advance.”

Severus almost dropped the pouch when he realized just how much gold was inside—more than enough to cover the first, last, and security deposit on a flat in wizarding London. Enough to finally leave Cokeworth behind, once and for all.

“I do have a score to settle with Potter,” he admitted grudgingly.

“I knew you’d recognize our shared interest,” Lucius said, reaching for the copy of The Prophet on his breakfast tray. “Secure the job, Snape, but don’t rush things. You’ll need to gain their trust for this to work. I’m willing to be patient, as long as you deliver results in the end.”

“Understood,” Severus replied, slipping the pouch into his robe pocket. He resented Lucius’ condescending attitude, but if he had to serve an arrogant pure-blood, he much preferred Malfoy to Potter. “Is there anything else, or am I free to leave?”

“That’s all for now,” Lucius said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll let you know if you’re needed again. And remember—this plan stays strictly between us.”

Severus was caught off guard when Mulciber and Wilkes nodded in acknowledgment as he approached the Slytherin table. It was clear that Lucius had briefed them on their new alliance, and Severus wasn't displeased with the change. He was more accustomed to being tolerated in Slytherin House than embraced.

He barely had time to process the shift in his housemates' attitudes before Lily slid onto the bench beside him.

“Happy Birthday, Sev!” she said, completely unbothered by the frosty reception she received from the rest of the Slytherin table.

“Thanks, Lily,” he said, accepting the brightly wrapped parcel with a flicker of surprise. After a beat, he added, voice low and a little uneven, “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, pouring him a cup of tea. “It’s your seventeenth. That’s something worth celebrating.”

“You seem to have lost your way, Evans,” Bellatrix cut in, prompting a chorus of snickers from the other girls. “The Gryffindor table is over there.”

“Grow up, Bella,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. “What’s the plan after Hogwarts? Dip yourself in green and silver so no one forgets you’re a Slytherin?”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. “People can tell I’m the right sort just by looking. Just like they can see you’re nothing but a filthy little—”

“That’s enough.” Mulciber shot a sidelong glance at Bellatrix before adding, almost lazily, “Evans was just on her way out. Isn’t that right, Snape?”

“Right,” Severus said, pushing back from the table. “Come on, Lily.”

Her eyes flashed, but she followed him to their usual corner of the library. “You’ve got just as much right to sit with your mates as anyone else. Don’t let them push you around.”

“It’s not about being pushed around,” he muttered. “It’s about survival.”

Lily’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I forget what it’s like for you—living with all those entitled pure‑bloods. Being a half‑blood in Slytherin… it can’t be easy.”

“No, it isn’t,” Severus said, the honesty slipping out before he could stop it. “I’m counting the days until I can leave this place.”

“Have you thought any more about getting your own flat?” Lily lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Madame Pince wasn’t listening.

“Not really,” he lied without hesitation. Lily would never approve of what he planned for the Potters; even after everything she’d seen, she still expected him to be better than James. “I’ve saved nearly everything from tutoring, but it’s nowhere near enough for a flat in London.”

“What about the money you’ve made working at the mill during summers?”

“Mum takes it.”

Lily’s fingers curled around his arm. “I didn’t know,” she said softly. “I wasn’t trying to upset you—especially not today. Just… open your present.”

A flicker of curiosity crossed Severus’ face as he drew the small, brightly wrapped parcel from his pocket. He peeled back the paper, and the instant he saw what lay inside, his breath caught.

“Dragonhide gloves.” His composure faltered. “Lily, you can’t afford—these must’ve cost fifty galleons at least.”

“I’ve been saving. You’ll need them if you’re serious about brewing professionally.”

Severus didn’t answer at first. Then, without warning, he pulled her into a fierce hug, his face pressed into her shoulder.

“I hoped it would cheer you up,” Lily said, laughing softly as he held on. “Missing out on a soulmark isn’t the end of the world, you know.”

“Missing out on a…?” Severus blinked, thrown.

“I assumed you didn’t get one. You would’ve told me.”

“Honestly, I haven’t checked.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t checked?”

He shrugged. “I’m a half‑blood. The odds of getting a soulmark are—”

“Ridiculous,” Lily cut in, catching his wrist and tugging at his cuff. “Honestly, Sev—who else would be this uninterested in something so monumental?”

She froze mid‑laugh. The color drained from her face.

“What?” Severus yanked his arm back, eyes dropping to the inside of his wrist.

“Sev…” Her lips parted, trembling, but no words followed.

“This has to be a prank.” His expression flickered between disbelief and rising anger. “Potter—or Black—one of their idiotic stunts. It has to be.”

“They wouldn’t joke about this,” Lily said, though uncertainty crept into her voice. “Do you think it’s possible that Sirius really could be your—”

“No.” Severus shoved back from the table so abruptly his chair scraped across the floor. Heat flooded his cheeks. “This isn’t real. It can’t be. Not him.” His voice thinned, cracking on the last word. “Not Black.”

He snatched up his wand with a jerky motion and strode out, leaving his books scattered across the desk.

“Wait!” Lily called, scrambling to gather his things. “You’re in shock—we should go to Madame Pomfrey—”

“Miss Evans, this is a library,” Madame Pince hissed from behind a cart of books. “Lower your voice.”

“Sorry,” she said quickly, hurrying after him.

She caught up with him near the rhinoceros' skeleton outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. “Sev, stop!” she panted, grabbing the sleeve of his robe.

“Leave me alone, Lily! I don’t need your help to deal with Black.”

“You’re shaking. Come on, let’s get you to the hospital wing.”

“I don’t need a Healer!” He gestured sharply at his wrist. “I need to scrub it off.” A breath, ragged. “Then I’m going to invent a hex so painful Black will wish he’d never been born.”

He turned sharply, fury and humiliation propelling him toward the dungeons.

Chapter Text

"Pass the potatoes, would you?" Peter asked, eagerly piling roast beef onto his plate. "Got to load up on carbs before Quidditch practice."

James snorted, loud enough to draw curious glances from the Ravenclaw table. "You're the equipment manager, Pete. What exactly are you fueling up for? Polishing our brooms?"

The table erupted in laughter, but Remus groaned, shaking his head. "You’re not planning another one of those ridiculous late-night Quidditch practices, are you? Some of us would rather not stumble into double Potions with Slughorn tomorrow looking like Inferi."

"We’ve got to be ready for Hufflepuff," James declared, undeterred. "Can’t let them think they’ve got a chance—not even for a second."

"I can’t practice tonight," Sirius said, cutting through James’ enthusiasm. "Promised Reg I’d meet him in the library. Something for Flitwick’s class."

"Regulus needs help with Charms?" Remus raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t he top of his class?"

"He is," Sirius shrugged, tone dismissive. "But Reg—he’s so bloody obsessed with being the best. If I don’t step in, he’ll probably work himself into an early grave."

"Well, aren’t you taking your big brother duties seriously all of a sudden," Remus said dryly.

Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but James cut him off, his voice unusually sincere. "Good on you for spending more time with him. It matters, Pads. Merlin knows the last thing we need is him turning into another Malfoy."

"Oh, please. As if Reg would let Malfoy’s slimy charm rub off on him. He’s not that far gone." Despite the flippant remark, a flicker of unease crossed Sirius’ face.

"You can make it up this weekend. But just this once, yeah? You’re my best mate, not my only mate. If the team thinks I’m playing favorites, I’ll never hear the end of it."

Sirius sighed theatrically. "Fine. I wouldn’t want to undermine your glorious authority, oh great Captain Potter."

The laughter around the table carried on, but Sirius barely noticed. His eyes kept drifting toward the Slytherin table—or more specifically, the empty seat where Snape would normally sit, nose buried in a book, projecting his usual air of practiced indifference. Tonight, though, that spot remained vacant.

Snape hadn’t shown up to Transfiguration either, and the infuriating pulse in Sirius’ left wrist flared—the same damned ache that gnawed at him whenever Snape disappeared to Merlin-knows-where, doing Merlin-knows-what. It had been tormenting him for weeks, growing sharper and more insistent with each passing day. He’d tried to brush it off, pretend it didn’t mean anything, but the pull of the soulmark refused to be ignored. If he didn’t figure out how to control it soon, he was going to lose his mind.

The scrape of his chair drew James’ attention. "I’m off," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder with feigned nonchalance. "Thought I’d catch Reg early. Don’t want him crying about being stood up or anything."

"Tell him he owes me for stealing you away from the team meeting," James called after him.

Sirius tossed a wave over his shoulder and made for the library. Asking Regulus for help wasn’t exactly his style. It felt desperate, maybe even pathetic, but he was out of options. Weeks spent buried in soulmark research, hidden behind his bedcurtains in the Gryffindor dorm, had drilled one truth into his head: he couldn’t do this alone. Not if he wanted any chance of hiding the mark from their parents.

And if nothing else, Regulus was sharp—sharper than most. Professors never stopped singing his praises, and his OWL scores weren’t far off Sirius’ own. But Regulus had one thing Sirius lacked: discipline. He didn’t coast on charm or gamble on luck; he earned his success, methodical, relentless. On a less charitable day, Sirius might call it obsessive. Hell, if he didn’t know better, he’d call Regulus a grind. Just like…

He grimaced as the thought barged in uninvited.

Snape.

He could see Snape now, hunched over a battered notebook, lank hair hanging in his face, scribbling furiously as if the world depended on his quill. James had nicked one of those notebooks back in third year, expecting something juicy: cringey love confessions, maybe, or a list of Gryffindors Snape wanted hexed. Instead, they’d found page after page of chemical equations. Extra credit Snape had assigned himself. For fun.

Typical.

Snape had no imagination, no spark. Just a mindless dedication to regurgitating everything he was taught for a pat on the head. How in Merlin’s name could someone so utterly insufferable be his soulmate?

Yet the pull in his chest remained. A cruel, stubborn reminder of just how twisted fate could be.

"What exactly do you need help with?" Regulus asked as he eased into the chair across from Sirius with his usual, fluid grace. "Your owl was stunningly informative, by the way. Truly, a masterpiece of detail."

"Take a guess," Sirius shot back, his voice slicing through the quiet of the library. They were seated at one of the old wooden tables tucked away in the section on the Second Goblin Rebellion—a spot Sirius had chosen because it was always empty, far from the prying eyes of nosy classmates. "I need your help with this soulmark mess."

Regulus’ lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Well, this is unprecedented. Sirius Black, turning to his brother for help instead of running to Saint James. Wonders never cease."

"Forget it." Sirius snatched up his bag in one sharp motion, frustration radiating off him. "I don’t know why I bothered asking you in the first place—what a waste of time."

"Hang on," Regulus said, catching Sirius by the sleeve of his robe. His tone stayed cool, but there was a thread of hesitation beneath the surface—something softer, almost cautious. "Look, I’m sorry, all right? But can you blame me for being surprised? You’ve never come to me for anything before." He glanced away, as though uncomfortable with his own admission.

"Yeah, well, I’m not exactly proud of it—asking my little brother for help," Sirius muttered, his frustration tempered with reluctance. "But let’s be real. You’re the only one who actually gets what Mum and Dad are like."

Regulus leaned back, his usually composed expression faltering just slightly. "So… I was right. Your soulmate’s a half-blood." He paused, his voice dropping to something almost unsteady. "Wait—don’t tell me she’s a mud—"

"Half-blood," Sirius snapped, cutting Regulus off before he could finish the word.

"I see why you haven’t told James. He’d just tell you to marry her, parade it in front of Mum and Dad, and call it a victory."

Sirius dragged a hand through his hair, tension etched into his features. "It’s not her blood status that’s the issue. It’s her. She’s unbearable. I wouldn’t last a week with her, let alone a lifetime."

Regulus leaned forward slightly, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Who is she?"

"I’m not telling you that. It doesn’t matter anyway, because we’re never going to—"

"All right," Regulus said, raising his hands in surrender. "But let’s be realistic—erasing or reversing the mark? That’s impossible. People have tried, and it never ends well. With just over a week until Mother’s visit, our best bet is to disguise it, make it look like something else."

"Do you even know how to do that?"

"You must think I’m some kind of genius.”

"Do you have an actual plan, or what?"

Regulus shrugged, his smirk fading. "No, not yet. But I’ve got a solid idea of where to start. There’s a book on magical semiotics in the restricted section that might have answers—but we’ll need James’ cloak to get to it."

"I can get that, no problem." Sirius leaned forward in his chair, determination lighting up his features. "Meet me at the base of the grand staircase tonight. We’ll get the book, and we’ll figure this out."

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, almost detached, but carrying an undertone of quiet intensity. "I’m glad you came to me. James may be your best friend, but I’m your brother—your blood."

"Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Reg. You’ll ruin your reputation. But… thanks. Really."

"And as your brother," Regulus continued, folding his arms, "I suppose it falls to me to give you the unpleasant truth. I’ve never heard of anyone rejecting their soulmate without consequences. Even if we manage to hide the mark, that’s not a real solution."

"Let me worry about that."

Regulus didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let the matter drop. If Sirius wouldn’t tell him, he’d piece it together himself. A half-blood, someone Sirius apparently couldn’t stand—it wasn’t as though the possibilities were limitless.

Chapter Text

"Are we seriously not canceling practice?" Peter whined, staggering under the weight of a bag stuffed with Quaffles and Bludgers. "First Sirius ditches us, and now it’s pouring. Brilliant. Just brilliant."

James flicked his wand, casting an Impervious Charm over his robes to keep them dry. "A bit of rain won’t kill you. Besides, proper players train in any weather."

"Yeah, well, I’m not a ‘proper player,’ am I?" Peter muttered, hoisting the bag higher with a strained grunt. "I’d rather be in the library like Sirius—nice and dry, learning some charm or whatever."

Severus froze in the shadows, his breath catching at the mention of Sirius. The towering gargoyle statue beside him provided perfect cover, its jagged silhouette melding seamlessly with his dark robes.

"Hard to imagine Regulus needing help with Charms." Remus fell into step beside James. "The way Flitwick bangs on about him, you’d think he’s some kind of magical prodigy."

Their voices faded as they disappeared through the castle doors, heading toward the Quidditch pitch. Severus remained rooted in place, alone with his thoughts.

So, Black was in the library. That was Severus’ domain, a sanctuary of quiet and solitude where he knew every creaking floorboard, every shadowed alcove, and every hidden passage. He tightened his grip on his wand, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. This was it—his chance. No Potter, no Lupin, no Pettigrew to interfere. Black was alone, vulnerable. Finally, Severus could confront him about the soulmark prank and reclaim a shred of his dignity.

Casting a Disillusionment Charm over himself, he slipped into the library, trailing behind a chattering group of third-year Hufflepuffs. They provided the perfect cover as he glided past Madam Pince’s desk without drawing so much as a suspicious glance.

Sirius wasn’t in the Herbology section or the corner reserved for Ancient Runes. Magical Theory yielded nothing, and Potions was never a likely option; Black hardly seemed the type to appreciate the subtle science and exact art of potion-making.

Then he spotted them. The Black brothers were tucked away in a shadowy nook of the History section; a fitting spot for pure-blood aristocrats who believed their family’s legacy placed them above everyone else.

Severus crept closer, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Sirius’ back. He tried to ignore the way Sirius' shoulders tapered into a lean, sculpted waist, or how his long, dark hair seemed to gleam in the firelight. For a fleeting moment, Severus wondered what it might feel like to touch it—or tug it. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he chased it away with a flash of anger.

He watched as the younger Black rose from the desk with effortless grace. “Until tonight, then.”

“Until tonight,” Sirius agreed, giving a brief nod.

Severus waited, fully expecting Sirius to follow his brother with his usual restless energy, but to his surprise, Sirius remained where he was. He pulled a pair of hefty, well-worn books and a thick stack of parchment from his knapsack. The soft rustle of pages and the faint scratch of his quill soon joined the quiet crackle of the fire, the only sounds breaking the stillness of the library.

It was... strange. Black wasn’t known for diligent study. Charm and privilege had always carried him through life. Yet here he was, engrossed in something akin to actual work. Severus felt an unwelcome flicker of curiosity.

He dismissed it almost instantly. Curiosity about Black’s activities was a distraction he could ill afford. His focus shifted back to the task at hand: finding a way to isolate Sirius in a private, warded space where their confrontation could unfold uninterrupted.

Severus’ gaze shifted to the grand, ornamental fireplace, its intricately carved stone glowing faintly in the firelight. Like many in the library, it connected to another room, open on both sides.

A plan took shape in his mind. Cloaked by his Disillusionment Charm, he could catch Sirius off guard with a precise Petrificus Totalus. A swift Glacius would extinguish the flames, clearing the way to maneuver his immobilized body into the soundproofed study beyond.

"I always knew you were a coward, Snape," Sirius spat, scrambling to his feet as soon as the curse broke. "But hexing someone in the back? That’s low—even for you."

"Oh, did I bruise your delicate sense of fair play?” Severus’ wand snapped up. “Acrior!" A cruel smile tugged at his lips as crimson welts bloomed across Sirius’ pale, perfect skin.

"That hurt, you tosser!" Sirius roared, dropping his wand and lunging at Severus, determined to settle the score with his fists.

Severus, tall and wiry, was no match for Sirius’ raw strength—honed by years on the Quidditch pitch. Magic should have been his salvation, but the moment Sirius’ hand clamped around his wrist, his soulmark ignited—flooding him with a rush of heat: unwelcome, intoxicating, and utterly disarming.

Sirius froze, his grip loosening as his storm-gray eyes widened. Severus caught the faint flush rising in his face—confirmation, if he needed it, that Black felt it too.

"Let go," Severus hissed, wrenching his arm free. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his body rebelling against the sudden, jarring separation. To his surprise, Sirius didn’t resist. He released him without a fight, his hands dropping to his sides—trembling slightly, as if he felt the loss even more keenly.

"I thought this was your idea of some sick joke," Severus snapped, his tone sharp and accusatory. "You’re seriously telling me this is real? That we’re... soulmates?"

"It’s a joke, all right," Sirius shot back, brushing his hand over the welts on his face with a grimace. "My parents are soulmates, and they hate each other more than anyone I’ve ever met. Makes perfect sense I’d end up tied to someone I can’t stand either."

Severus’ lips thinned, his wand hand twitching. “There has to be a way to fix this,” he muttered—barely audible, more to himself than to Sirius.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “You think I haven’t been trying? It’s all I’ve thought about since my birthday. Let me guess—you just had yours? I was hoping to fix it before you even noticed."

"Centuries of brilliant minds have failed to unravel soulmarks—but of course you thought your knowledge of seventh-year charms would suffice."

"Got a better idea, then? Or should we just accept our fate and start planning the wedding?"

"Don’t be ridiculous." Severus glared at Sirius, but deep down, his body betrayed him—a sharp, unwelcome thrill sparking at the charged intimacy of their argument. "You’re the last person I’d ever choose to be tied to. You’re soft, and spoiled, and weak—"

"I’m weak?" Sirius looked ready to throw a punch. "I still remember the way you used to snivel and whimper every time James so much as looked at you—"

"Oh yes, very brave of you—ganging up on me four to one." Severus stepped forward, his wand jerking threateningly. "Let’s see how long that courage lasts. Your birthday was over two months before mine, wasn’t it? I’d wager you’re already feeling the effects of Anemocor Syndrome. You’re certainly acting like a mad dog—"

Severus barely registered the blur of motion before Sirius’ fist slammed into his jaw, snapping his head back with a sharp crack. Pain flared instantly, radiating through his face and scrambling his thoughts. He staggered, then caught himself, his grip tightening instinctively around his wand.

"Depulso!" The spell blasted Sirius into the bookshelf with a dull thud. He crumpled to the floor, books cascading around him in a chaotic tumble.

Severus stalked toward the fireplace, one hand pressed to his jaw as pain bloomed—dark and purpling. "Best of luck breaking the bond, Black. I’m sure your unmatched brilliance will carry you far."

"Wait," Sirius rasped, hauling himself upright with obvious difficulty. Severus noted the pained grimace as Black brushed a hand over the back of his head. "Neither of us want this bond. Why don’t we work together—"

"Work together?" Severus let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Watching you suffer from soulmate rejection might be the only silver lining to this entire disaster."

He swept out of the room, eager to put distance between himself and Black—but the anger in his chest was harder to escape. The throbbing pain from Sirius’ punch was a minor inconvenience compared to the humiliation of being bound to someone he despised.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door chimed as Severus stepped into the shop. Behind the counter, the tailor glanced up, his gaze skimming over Severus in a swift, practiced appraisal that wasn’t quite welcoming.

“Can I help you?”

“I need a suit. Off the rack is fine, so long as it can be altered quickly.”

“That depends.” The tailor’s tone cooled by a degree. “Off‑the‑rack suits begin at twenty pounds. Shall I proceed?”

Severus drew a folded stack of crisp notes from his pocket, letting the edges show. “That’ll do.” He turned toward a display of Oxfords, fingertips brushing polished leather before he pivoted back. “I’ll need shoes, shirts, and a tie to match.”

“It’s always better to settle the suit first,” the tailor advised with the air of a man who had explained this countless times. “Shoes and ties should complement, not compete. What's the occasion?”

“A job interview. Accounts and inventory.”

“Grey or black worsted wool would be my recommendation,” the tailor said, nodding toward the raised platform. “Good, solid choices. Professional.”

“Black.” Severus stepped up. The tape slid around his shoulders; the pencil scratched briskly. “Three shirts. White. Durable.”

“Right.” The tailor scanned the rack and pulled a suit free with a quick, practiced glance. “Quality’s decent, and it won’t strain your budget. Forty pounds with the shirts.”

The fabric felt strange beneath his fingers—crisp and new, so unlike the second-hand robes or clearance-bin finds he was used to at Madam Malkin’s. Most wizards wouldn’t think much of a Muggle suit, let alone one bought off the rack, but to Severus, it felt like a rare indulgence. He allowed himself one breath to feel it. 

“Black Oxfords would be ideal,” the tailor continued. “For the tie—navy, burgundy, or perhaps emerald. Understated, but with character.”

“Emerald.” Severus gathered the shoes and tie and disappeared into the dressing room.

He changed without lingering. When he stepped out, he paused before the full‑length mirror. His reflection startled him: hair washed and combed into place, the suit’s lines crisp and precise, his silhouette suddenly sharper, cleaner. He looked, if not like someone else, then like someone he might have been under different circumstances.

“Well,” the tailor said, stepping back to admire his work. “That’s quite the transformation. A good suit makes all the difference.”

“Can I wear it out?”

“Of course. Plenty of gentlemen prefer to leave in their new suits.” He smoothed the lapel with a practiced hand. “You’ll look right at home in London.”

“Severus Snape,” he said, keeping his tone formal as he addressed the stylish young witch behind the counter. “I have an interview at ten.”

“Oh—right on time! Through the back, love. His office is just there.”

Severus drew a steadying breath and stepped into the back room. The shift from the polished storefront was abrupt: cramped, cluttered, and edged with a kind of practicality that bordered on neglect.

A tall young man sat behind the desk, dark head bent over a ledger. At the sound of Severus’ footsteps, he looked up, his smile brightening the drab space.

“Tom Riddle,” he said smoothly, rising to offer his hand. “You must be Mr. Snape. Slughorn has had quite a bit to say about you.”

Severus sat carefully in the plain wooden chair. “Professor Slughorn is…generous with his praise.”

“Generous? Hardly.” He opened a file, eyes scanning the contents. “He calls you diligent, but he also thinks you lack creativity and independence. I wouldn’t put much stock in it. Slughorn’s assessments are rarely as insightful as he believes.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Severus’ face before he mastered it. He hadn’t expected bluntness from someone who’d once basked in Slughorn’s favor.

“I’m a half‑blood as well,” Tom said lightly. “It teaches you early who gets taken seriously—and who doesn’t.”

The words hit a quiet, guarded place inside Severus, and his reply slipped out too quickly. “I’ve been doing independent study with Slughorn—created a few spells—but it makes no difference. To him, I’m just a grind.”

Tom’s interest sharpened. “You’ll have to show me those spells sometime. Initiative like that is rare.”

He let the compliment settle before shifting on.

“Now—the position. It’s straightforward work: accounts, payroll, inventory. Not glamorous, but steady. Thirty‑five galleons a week. How does that sound?”

“Thirty‑five galleons is fair. I’ll take it.”

Tom’s smile widened. “Excellent. You won’t regret it. The Potters value their staff, and someone with your abilities won’t stay at the bottom for long.”

“Thank you.” A faint stiffness pulled at Severus’ shoulders. “When do I start?”

“I’ll send an owl in May with the details — where to report, what to bring. In the meantime, start looking for a flat in London. Wizarding areas fill quickly, and Muggle housing can be… unpredictable. Best to get ahead of it.”

Before heading back to Hogwarts, Severus made a stop at Sugarplum's Sweets Shop to pick up chocolates for Lily. The pink, heart-shaped box wasn’t something he’d usually choose—it felt overly sentimental, almost naive—but today felt different. Dressed in his freshly purchased clothes and buoyed by the excitement of a future in London, he allowed himself a flicker of hope, fleeting as it was. Who better to share this rare moment of optimism with than Lily?

He headed toward the Transfiguration courtyard, certain she’d be there, likely stretched out beneath the old oak tree with her books scattered around in that effortless, endearing disarray. The unseasonably warm breeze carried a hint of spring and made the moment feel almost perfect—until it didn’t.

“Oi, Snivellus! What’s that you’ve got there? Something for your sweetheart?”

Severus froze, his grip tightening on the box. He turned slowly, his expression hardening. “What it is and who it’s for is none of your concern, Potter.”

Pettigrew stepped forward, his laughter high-pitched and grating. “Well, would you look at that—Snivelly’s dressed to impress! A real gentleman now, are we?”

Black, leaning casually against the courtyard wall, sighed audibly. “Leave Snape alone,” he said, his voice flat and indifferent. He didn’t even bother to look up. “Honestly, who cares if it’s for Lily? If she fancied him, they’d already be a couple.”

“Since when do you pass on ripping into Snivellus?”

Severus lingered for a moment, waiting to see if the taunts would continue, but James’ focus had already shifted entirely to Sirius.

The thought that he might be expected to feel gratitude for Black’s half-hearted intervention was both absurd and infuriating. Severus had never relied on anyone to defend him against James’ cruelty, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Turning sharply on his heel, he abandoned his plan to meet Lily and strode into the castle, determined to find a way to break free from Black for good.

Chapter Text

Sirius crossed the study and dropped into the chair opposite Regulus, his gaze already fixed on the book in his brother’s hands. Bound in centaur hide, it shimmered faintly, its surface rippling with a slow, unnatural pulse — the sort of magic Hogwarts kept locked behind wards in the Restricted Section. They’d stolen it two nights ago under James’ invisibility cloak.

“What did you find?” Sirius asked, voice low.

Regulus angled the book toward him, his fingers resting lightly on its edge. “This potion can alter the mark—temporarily. It’ll look like someone else’s name.” He flipped to a diagram inked in rust-colored script. “The question is… who?”

Sirius didn’t hesitate. “Not anyone we know. I don’t need Mum drafting a marriage contract before I’ve even left school.”

Regulus reached for a second book on wizarding genealogy and began scanning the pages. “What about a cadet branch of the Selwyns?”

“Cadet branch?” Sirius frowned. “You know I never listened when Mum sermonized about bloodlines.”

“It’s a junior line,” Regulus explained, still reading. “Descended from younger sons. This one’s gone quiet—no male heirs, just daughters. Harder to trace. Which works in our favor.”

Sirius leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Good. What do we need to brew the potion?”

Regulus reached for a folded parchment beside the inkpot and flattened it with one hand, scanning the columns. “Base ingredients are covered. Stabilizers, binding agents—already sorted.” His finger paused halfway down the list. “But we’re missing mermaid scale and fluxweed stems. Slughorn keeps both under lock.”

He slid the parchment across the desk. “You’ll have to break into his stores.”

Sirius took it without flinching. “Leave it to me.”

“Sirius… this kind of magic is volatile. The text hints at consequences if it's not cast exactly right. Are you sure about this?”

Sirius gave a dry laugh. “Do I look like I’ve got other options?”

Regulus watched him. “We could stall. Say the mark hasn’t appeared yet. It’s rare, but not unheard of.”

“They’d drag me to St. Mungo’s for testing,” Sirius said. “Or worse. You know she doesn’t ask questions—just reaches for her wand.”

Regulus nodded, jaw tight. “I still don’t like this. The book’s old. The spell’s older. If something goes wrong—”

“It won’t,” Sirius said, standing. He adjusted the strap of his satchel with a sharp tug. “Just keep the potion stable. I’ll bring the rest.”

Regulus nodded, stacking his books with deliberate care. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.

Then, quietly: “Sirius… to complete the ritual, you’ll have to show me your wrist.”

“You don’t need to see it. Just cast through the sleeve—it’ll work the same.”

Regulus chewed his lip. “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. Maybe she’s got enough pure-blood ties to pass muster—”

“Do you think I’d be doing any of this if that were the case?”

Regulus didn’t argue. He just stood, gathering the last of his books. “Then promise me—if anything goes wrong, you’ll go to Madam Pomfrey.”

Sirius’ gaze drifted to the edge of the desk, eyes unfocused as if watching something only he could see. “Sure,” he said at last.

“Sirius—”

Sirius' mouth pulled into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You worry too much, Reg. Honestly.”

Regulus just looked at him—not accusing, but not convinced either. “Just be careful.”

Sirius tapped the edge of the desk twice with his knuckles. It was meant to be casual, but Regulus knew that gesture. It was the same one he used when he didn’t want to talk about something. “I’ll see you tonight.”

By the time Regulus reached the Slytherin common room, his shoulders were tight, feet dragging. The torches were low, throwing long shadows across the stone. Mulciber and Wilkes were by the hearth, nursing mugs that smelled sharp and illicit. Above them, the porthole showed a flicker of movement—something pale, fast, and gone before he could place it.

“Regulus!” Mulciber called. “You missed the whole plan for tomorrow’s match.”

Regulus tugged off his gloves, fingers stiff. “Had things to sort.”

Wilkes looked him over. “You look like you’ve been hexed and left in a ditch.”

Regulus gave a thin smile. “Just tired.”

Mulciber snorted. “Go get some rest, then. Ravenclaw’s got a new Beater, and I’m not dragging your corpse off the pitch.”

Rosier glanced up from wizard’s chess. “Snapped a bat in practice. No control.”

Bole, polishing his broom in the corner, didn’t look up. “Regulus flies tighter than anyone. He’ll have the Snitch before Ravenclaw remembers they’ve got a Seeker.”

Wilkes grinned. “Fast hands, sharp eyes. Shame about the personality.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Appreciate it,” he muttered, already turning toward the dormitory stairs. His hand skimmed the banister, fingers trailing the worn wood as he climbed. He needed few hours of sleep—just enough to clear his head before meeting Sirius.

He’d taken two steps up when he saw Snape, hunched over his usual desk, surrounded by books. The scratch of his quill was steady, rhythmic. He looked untouched by the noise around him.

Regulus slowed.

One of the books caught his eye. The Binding Sigil: A Treatise on Soulmarks and Symbolic Affinities. He’d searched for it himself, after Sirius confessed his plan to remove the soulmark.

He veered toward the desk before he could talk himself out of it, stepping into the pool of torchlight.

“What do you want, Black?” Snape didn’t look up. “You’re blocking the light.”

Regulus slid into the chair across from him, picked up one of the books. “Didn’t know Babbling was assigning soulmarks.”

“She’s not,” Snape said, snatching it back. “Independent study.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Bit sentimental for you.”

Snape paused. “It’s arcane magic. Not a romance novel. If you’re here to sneer, don’t bother.”

“Wasn’t sneering. Just didn’t expect you to be interested.”

“I’m not. It’s theory.”

Regulus glanced at Snape’s wrist. No gauntlet. Just a buttoned sleeve. If someone wanted to hide a mark without drawing attention, that’s how they’d do it.

Snape’s quill paused. “If you’re done playing detective, I’ve got work to finish.”

Regulus stood, smoothing his robes. “Right. I’ll leave you to it.”

He turned away, but his thoughts were already racing.

He’d never heard of a soulmark bonding two wizards. Not in Magical Lineage and Inheritance. Not in Soulbond Theory. Not even in the footnotes of Arcane Anomalies, which he’d copied by hand, margin to margin. Soulmarks were meant to preserve magical bloodlines—pair power with pedigree, ensure continuity. That was the theory.

And yet. The book in Snape’s possession. The timing. The way he’d shut down the conversation—not bored, not scornful, but guarded. Sirius’ wrist, always hidden. His refusal to speak about it. Regulus turned it over like a potion on the edge of separation—unstable but holding.

If he was right—if Severus Snape was Sirius’ soulmate—then everything shifted. The secrecy. The volatility. Even Sirius’ willingness to undergo a painful, dangerous ritual rather than tell their parents the truth. It wasn’t just rebellion, or even self-preservation.

It was desperation. And it made a terrible, aching kind of sense.

Chapter Text

Severus tucked a few rashers of bacon between slices of buttered toast and rose from the table, his knapsack heavy with books. Around him, the Slytherin table shimmered green and silver in anticipation of the match against Ravenclaw.

Narcissa and Bellatrix had charmed serpents onto their cheeks—sleek, glinting in House colours—and were now helping Alecto Carrow enchant her own. Alecto looked flustered, almost pleased, under the sudden attention. Severus sneered, repulsed by how easily she bent beneath the Black sisters’ influence.

He turned toward the library—then paused, locking eyes with Sirius across the Great Hall. Sirius sat hunched, shoulders slack, but his gaze lifted just enough to meet Severus’.

He’d faded in recent weeks. The arrogant gleam that once lit his face had dimmed, replaced by hollow eyes and an unhealthy pallor. So, this was Anemocor Syndrome. Severus felt a dark satisfaction settle low in his chest.

“Snape—just a minute.”

Severus turned and came face-to-face with Sirius’ younger brother. Regulus wasn’t dressed in standard Quidditch robes but in something custom-cut and unmistakably expensive. Even among Slytherin’s elite, a Black stood apart.

“What do you want, Black?” Severus didn’t bother to mask his irritation. “Shouldn’t you be gearing up for the big match with the rest of your team?”

“I need a word,” Regulus said quietly, his eyes flicking toward the Slytherin table. “Not here. You’re heading to the library, right?”

“Come if you want,” Severus muttered, striding out through the towering doors without glancing back.

There were only a handful of reasons a fifth-year would seek him out—and most were unlikely. Either Sirius had told him, or Regulus had pieced things together himself.

His suspicion was confirmed the moment they cleared the Great Hall. Regulus seized his sleeve with a sharp tug, steering him beneath the looming gargoyle statue.

“I’ve got something to say to you.”

Severus raised his wand and cast Muffliato, letting the buzz settle between them. “Then say it.”

“I know about the soulmark.”

Severus exhaled, slow and deliberate. “So, he told you.”

“No. He didn’t.” Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “He’d hex me for even bringing it up—but I figured it out. And I’m worried.”

Severus gave a dry laugh. “How touching. But I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

He turned to leave, but Regulus stepped cleanly into his path. “Our parents are visiting today—officially for the match. Unofficially…”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Yes?”

“They know he has a soulmark. They’re going to demand to see it.”

Severus went still.

“You’ll be relieved to hear he performed a ritual last night to obscure it—just temporarily. When they check the mark, it’ll read ‘Selina Selwyn.’”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Regulus leaned in. “You know exactly what it takes to alter a soulmark—and what it costs. Magic like that doesn’t come without pain.” His voice was quiet, but sharp. “Don’t you care about him at all?”

Severus gave a bitter snort. “After everything he’s done?”

“You know what my family’s like. What do you think they'll do if they find out their heir is soulbound to a half-blood—and not just that, to…” He swallowed. “…to someone like you?”

Severus’ jaw tightened. “Say it, Regulus. Go on. Don’t choke on it now.” He shoved past him, the movement sharp and final. “You think I haven’t heard worse?”

The dining room shimmered with quiet wealth, its glow softened by charmed candlelight and the hush of waitstaff moving like shadows through the gloom. Sirius sat upright, spine rigid against the velvet upholstery, adjusting the napkin in his lap to hide the tremor in his left hand.

The ritual had worked.

The name etched into his wrist now read Selina Selwyn—convincing enough to fool even his parents, but the pain was worse than Regulus had warned. It pulsed beneath his skin, a raw throb that blurred the edges of his focus, making the room feel too warm, too close.

Across the table, Orion summoned the maître d’ with a flick of two fingers. “We’ll take the 1807 Selkie Reserve. Decanted. And the Mooncalf tartare to begin.”

Walburga didn’t look up from her menu. “Sirius is rather young for a vintage of that calibre,” she said, voice light, almost amused—like commenting on a child playing dress-up. “It’s wasted on an untrained palate.”

Sirius didn’t flinch, but his fingers curled tighter around the napkin.

Orion folded the wine list with deliberate care. “Perhaps,” he said mildly. “But it’s a night worth marking. Regulus was exemplary—caught the Snitch, sealed the match. Slytherin couldn’t have asked for better.” He turned to Sirius, nodding once. “And Sirius’ soulmark. A rare milestone. Not unexpected, but still—worthy of acknowledgment.”

Walburga’s laugh was soft, polished, and cruel. “Yes. A soulmark is something, at least. More than he’s managed until now.” She flipped the menu with a manicured finger, one brow lifting. “The Selwyn name still carries weight, of course—though I’ve heard the vaults aren’t quite what they were.”

Orion waved a hand, dismissive. “The vaults are irrelevant. What matters is the bloodline—and we won’t have to blush for the bride’s.”

Regulus, seated beside Walburga in his quidditch uniform, toyed with the stem of his water goblet. His thumb traced the glass rim, slow and absent. “Do we actually know where she is?” he asked, voice light, almost careless. “I thought the Selwyns had left England. If she’s abroad, it could take time to find her.”

“Your mother and I retain a gentleman with certain… discreet competencies,” Orion said. “Just the sort one needs when legacy is at stake.”

The sommelier approached, the bottle nestled in a white cloth. With quiet ceremony, he presented the label, uncorked it, and poured the wine into crystal goblets. The scent of aged plum and sea salt drifted across the table. Orion watched, pleased.

Walburga’s gaze shifted to Regulus. “Is that a Scroll and Key pin, darling?” she asked, reaching out to adjust his lapel.

Regulus held still, shoulders taut beneath her hand. “Yes, Mother.” His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked to Sirius, then away. “Malfoy inducted me earlier this term. Probably because I’m in Slytherin. I suppose it would’ve been Sirius, if…”

Walburga withdrew with quiet finality. “You’re carrying the family legacy now—alone, thanks to Sirius.” She settled back into her chair, smoothing her napkin. “He couldn’t stomach Slytherin, naturally. And he’s hardly on track to be Head Boy. As for the finer traditions—Scroll and Key, the ones your father holds dear—he’s let those slip too.”

The waiter placed a bowl of consommé in front of Sirius—clear broth, garnished with something green and something egg-shaped. He didn’t look down. His gaze remained locked on his mother, whose hand now rested lightly on Regulus’ thigh.

“Yes, well, it’s too late to do anything about that now,” Orion said, slurping his soup with unbothered satisfaction. “Hogwarts is over. Time to look ahead.” He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’ve a contact at the Ministry—posted at the French Embassy. He’s looking for a sharp young aide-de-camp. Naturally, with your background—and your French—he thought of you.”

He offered a faint smile, more gesture than warmth. “It’s respectable. And it gives you time to… recalibrate.”

Sirius leaned back, deliberately casual. “I’ve been thinking about curse breaking,” he said, eyes locked on his mother. “Gringotts takes applicants straight out of school—if your marks are high enough.”

Orion’s voice rose, incredulous. “Curse breaking? For the heir to the House of Black? Don’t be absurd.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Gringotts is crawling with half-bloods. Goblins run the place.”

Regulus shifted beneath his mother’s hand, discomfort flickering across his face. “He’s not serious, Father. You know how Sirius loves to joke.”

“A Black should know when silence serves him better,” Walburga murmured, her voice soft as silk. Then, with a glance toward Orion: “After dinner, take Regulus back to school. Sirius will stay. I believe he’s forgotten certain... refinements expected of our name.”

Sirius held Regulus’ gaze for a moment, the silence between them thick with recognition. Neither spoke, but the message was clear: Walburga’s lessons were never gentle.

Chapter Text

“Um—Remus, sir?” Callum O'Dell, a third-year with a mop of unruly hair and ink-stained fingers, hovered near the table, clearly unsure whether he was interrupting something important. “Sorry to bother you, but Black’s brother is outside again. He’s asking for you.”

Remus looked up from his Charms essay, brow furrowing. “Regulus?”

Callum nodded. “Well—he asked for James first, but since he’s off snogging Eloise Fairbourne behind the greenhouses…”

Remus shut his book with a quiet snap. “Right. I’ll take care of it.”

He ducked through the portrait hole, arms folded tight across his chest. Regulus stood just outside, still in his Slytherin Quidditch kit, though his hair had been tamed with grooming charms and his face bore the polished detachment of someone who’d rehearsed this encounter.

“What do you need, Black? I’d have thought you’d be off celebrating Slytherin’s victory over Ravenclaw.”

“I’m looking for my brother,” Regulus said, clipped. “I know you have that map—the one that shows where everyone is. I’ve heard James and Sirius talk about it when they thought no one was listening.”

“Why do you need it?”

Regulus turned his wand over in his fingers, tapping it against his palm. “He went to dinner with our parents. That was over an hour ago. He hasn’t come back.”

“Why not send your Patronus? I know you can cast one—I’ve seen it.”

“He might not be in any condition to answer.” The words landed hard, brittle and exposed.

Remus didn’t speak. He knew what Regulus meant—what he was trying not to say. Sirius had a habit of vanishing after encounters with Walburga, slipping into corners of the castle where even James couldn’t reach him.

“Wait here,” Remus said, already turning.

Inside, he took the stairs two at a time. At the dormitory, he knelt beside James’ trunk and lifted the lid. The Marauder’s Map was buried beneath a half-eaten box of chocolate frogs, their wrappers soft and sticky with age. He brushed them aside, fingers closing around the worn parchment.

When he returned, Regulus hadn’t moved. His posture was perfect. Like he’d been carved from marble.

Remus tapped the map with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Ink spilled across the parchment, blooming into corridors and stairwells, secret alcoves and forgotten rooms. Remus scanned the names, eyes flicking fast.

“There,” he said, pointing. “He’s in the infirmary.”

Regulus’ face went still. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“I’ll come with you,” Remus said, stepping forward.

Regulus moved before he could think. “No. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“He won’t want you to see him like that. Not if it’s one of hers.”

Remus hesitated, the map curling slightly in his grip. “I know you’re his brother, but I’m—”

“One of his best friends,” Regulus said. “Then you know how he is. He hates being fussed over. If he’s hurt, he’ll want space—not people hovering.”

He turned to go, but Remus’ voice stopped him.

“Just… tell him I’m here. If he needs anything.”

Regulus glanced back, just briefly. Remus wasn’t challenging him anymore. He just looked tired. Worried.

“I will,” Regulus said.

Then he walked away, leaving Remus behind the portrait hole, the map still glowing faintly in his hands.

It didn’t take long to find Sirius. Only one other student occupied the ward—Elias Rowntree, who’d managed to scorch half his robes and mildly concuss himself trying to force open a magically sealed locket. Regulus waited until Madam Pomfrey disappeared into her office before crossing the polished floor to Sirius’ bed, screened off by privacy curtains.

Sirius lay motionless, long black hair tangled across the pillow, his face pale and drawn. Shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his brow, like the pain hadn’t quite let go.

He saw Regulus but didn’t speak. Just a twitch of his fingers and a half-hearted attempt to sit up—barely more than a flinch.

Regulus sat beside him, voice low. “What happened?”

Sirius shook his head.

“She cast a silencing charm on you again, didn’t she?” Regulus’ mouth tightened. “You always have to push her. Even now—after the ritual, when you’re barely holding together. It’s idiotic.”

Sirius closed his eyes, slow and deliberate.

“At least tell me what kind she used. If it’s clashing with the soulmark ritual…”

He turned over Sirius’ wrist, undoing the ties on the sleek leather gauntlet. Selina Selwyn’s name was still etched there, faint but intact. Relief flickered across his face.

Sirius gestured, fingers spelling out a request. Regulus summoned parchment and quill, pressing them into his brother’s hands.

I can only speak to people of higher status than myself, Sirius wrote. And even then… only respectfully. He underlined the last word twice.

Regulus’ jaw clenched. Of course. Walburga’s favorite punishment—elegant in its cruelty, perfectly tailored to Sirius’ defiance. A charm that didn’t merely silence, but rewired speech into submission.

“Whatever she used must’ve reacted badly with the mark,” Regulus muttered, eyes scanning Sirius’ pallid face. “You look like hell. What did Pomfrey say?”

Sirius scribbled one word: Flu, underlining it twice. Told her that’s why I lost my voice.

“She’s not an idiot. She’ll figure it out.”

Sirius attempted a shrug, but the motion faltered halfway. The quill slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud.

“This is Dark Magic. It’s unstable.”

Sirius didn’t respond. His eyes had closed again, breath shallow and uneven.

Regulus stood, spine straightening with resolve. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring you what you need, big brother.”

Regulus was in luck. Severus hadn’t gone to bed yet. He was in his usual spot by the fire in the Slytherin common room, hunched over a thick tome, his dark head bowed in concentration.

“Snape,” Regulus said, lowering his voice. A few upperclassmen lingered nearby—some studying, others drinking and playing Gobstones in the flickering firelight.

Severus didn’t look up. “What do you want now, Black?” His voice was clipped, disinterested, as he continued scribbling notes into his black, leather-bound journal.

Regulus stepped closer. “It’s Sirius. He’s in the infirmary.”

Severus paused mid-sentence, quill hovering. “And?”

“He can’t speak,” Regulus said, voice tight. “Our mother hit him with a silencing curse, old family magic. Whatever she used, it’s reacting badly with the concealment charm we used on his soulmark. Making everything worse.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It is,” Regulus said. “You’re his soulmate.”

Severus scoffed. “A magical accident. A cosmic joke. I’m not obligated to play healer just because fate decided to be ironic.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that. The bond’s active. You could stabilize it. Help him heal.”

Severus returned to his notes. “Let Pomfrey do her job. I’m not wasting my time on Black’s latest melodrama.”

Regulus hesitated, then reached into his satchel. “I’ll give you this.” He held up The Language Beneath: Semiotics of the Unseen.

That got Severus’ attention. He looked up slowly. “You’re bluffing.”

“Sirius and I stole it from the Restricted Section. It’s annotated—he added notes on soulmark theory. You want it, don’t you?”

Severus stared at the book, then at Regulus. “You’re trading your brother’s recovery for a textbook?”

“I’m trading your stubbornness for his survival,” Regulus said evenly. “Take the book. Speak to him. That’s all I’m asking.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then Severus closed his journal.

“Fine,” he said, standing. “This is a transaction, Black. I get the book, I tolerate your brother. That’s the deal.”

Regulus handed it over. “Deal.”

Severus cancelled the Disillusionment Charm and stepped closer to the bed, his gaze narrowing on Sirius’ motionless form. A flicker—Sirius stirred, lashes fluttering before his eyes opened, pupils blown and unfocused.

“Sévère?” he rasped, the name warped by a thick, unfamiliar French accent.

Severus moved closer, drawn against his better judgment. “Your brother bribed me. A rare book. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come.”

Sirius exhaled, sinking deeper into the pillow. “I’m never whole without you.” 

Severus scoffed, though the sound rang hollow. “You’re delirious.” Still, he sat beside the bed, posture rigid. When Sirius reached out, Severus hesitated—just a breath—before taking his hand.

“Of course you speak French. English is too vulgar for a Black.”

Sirius didn’t answer. Just curled his fingers around Severus’, weak but deliberate.

“I suppose you want me to crawl into bed with you. Regulus probably thought that would fix everything.”

Sirius launched into fractured French, the words slurred and half-formed.

“Shut up,” Severus said, and climbed in beside him. Sirius was swathed in silver-grey silk, the kind of pajamas Severus had only seen on rich purebloods. He brushed the fabric once, unable to stop himself.

“Your eyes look black,” Sirius said, blinking up at him. His voice was quiet, oddly sincere. “They’re unreadable. I never know what you’re thinking. Except when you hate me.”

“Don’t talk.” Severus lifted a hand, hesitated, then ran it through Sirius’ hair, glossy, dark, infuriatingly soft.

Sirius sighed, leaning into the touch.

Severus told himself not to react, not to feel, but his skin betrayed him, the soulmark flaring with heat and light.

Sirius’ breathing slowed, the tension in his body softening. His fingers remained curled around Severus’ hand. Loose now, but unwilling to let go.

The minutes stretched, soft and heavy. The infirmary was hushed, cloaked in dim candlelight.

Sirius’ grip finally slackened. Severus eased his hand free, careful not to wake him. The absence of contact left a strange chill on his skin.

He stood, telling himself it meant nothing. The warmth, the way Sirius had leaned into him—just a magical compulsion. Not real.

He reached for the door handle, fingers brushing cool brass. He paused.

Behind him, Sirius shifted in sleep, a faint sound escaping his throat.

Severus closed his eyes briefly. The soulmark pulsed beneath his skin.

He opened the door and stepped into the corridor, leaving the hush of the infirmary behind.

He did not look back.

Chapter Text

“You do realize it’s freezing, right?” Lily said as she stepped onto the covered bridge, brushing snow from her cloak. “We could’ve met somewhere with a fireplace. Or at least a door.”

Severus shrugged, his breath curling in the cold air. “I know. But this was the only place I could think of where we wouldn’t be interrupted. You’re always with someone lately.”

Lily gave him a look—half amused, half exasperated—as she sat beside him on the bench. She rubbed her hands together briskly. The tall glass windows shielded them from the wind, but January still pressed in, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’d actually like Mary and Dorcas and Marlene if you gave them a chance,” she said, nudging his arm. “Sometimes I wonder—if we hadn’t been friends before Hogwarts, would you have bothered with anyone at all?”

“I don’t need ‘friends,’” he muttered, tugging his scarf tighter. “I have you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. “That’s not how it works. You can’t just claim me and opt out of everyone else.”

“I’m not claiming anything,” he said, voice low. “I just… I don’t know how to be around them.”

“You don’t even try.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood and walked to the nearest window.

“I wanted to show you something.”

Lily followed, curious. He raised his wand and murmured an incantation she didn’t recognize. Frost bloomed across the glass in delicate, curling patterns, resembling lace or feathers. At the center, a stylized doe emerged, etched in ice.

She stared at the window, her breath fogging the air. Then she turned to Severus, eyes bright. “You made this?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on her face. Something in her softened. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him—not dramatic, just warm and instinctive. “It’s beautiful,” she said when she pulled back. “Honestly, it’s the best gift I’ve gotten.”

Severus looked down, then back at the frost on the window, as if it might speak for him. “I thought… maybe it would help. I know you were hoping for a soulmark.”

Lily’s smile thinned. “After your birthday… I didn’t want to bring it up. I know how upset you were.”

“I don’t want to talk about Black.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said gently. “I just meant—I know you were hoping for something different. And I was too. But it’s rare for Muggleborns.”

“Or half‑bloods,” he muttered. “Didn’t stop mine.”

She glanced down and picked up the book beside him. “Semiotics of the Unseen,” she read. “You’re still trying to get rid of the mark?”

He nodded. “Regulus gave it to me. They stole it from the Restricted Section.”

Lily turned it over in her hands, fingers brushing the worn cover. “You should be careful. If you’re caught with something like this… Dark Magic, and stolen too…”

“I won’t get a slap on the wrist like the Black brothers?” he said bitterly. “Perks of having your father on the Board of Governors.”

“Even if no one catches you,” she said, shaking her head, “that’s not the point. Dark Magic doesn’t care what you mean to do. It rewrites you.”

“I can’t just leave it. Not when it’s his.”

She reached out, brushing his sleeve. “I know he’s been cruel—him and James both. But… are you sure that’s all there is to Sirius?”

“You think there’s some hidden depth under all that hair?”

“I think people are more complicated than they let on,” she said. “Even Sirius. He’s not stupid. He aced his O.W.L.s, and I know you noticed.”

“So what if he’s clever?” Severus snapped, shifting sharply. “He’s the Black heir, big Quidditch hero. Everything’s handed to him.”

Lily watched him, her voice quieter. “You sound like someone who’s seen everything he takes for granted.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I remember first year,” she said. “You at the edge of the pitch, watching like you were trying to learn it by heart—like maybe if you stayed long enough, you’d find a way to belong.”

He went still.

“Sirius doesn’t even think about it,” she went on. “He’s been flying since he could walk. That kind of ease—”

“—is privilege,” Severus cut in, sharp. “Yes. I know.”

“Sev—”

“And James is worse,” he barreled on. “Laughs with the half‑bloods, flirts with the Muggleborns—like it’s some grand gesture.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It is,” he snapped. “He’s never had to fight for space. Respect just… falls into his lap.”

“I know it’s unfair. I’m not pretending it isn’t. But James isn’t Lucius.”

“He’s nice to you,” Severus bit out. “So of course you think he can’t be all that bad.”

“Are you trying to start a fight?”

“No,” he said, too hard. “I just don’t want you taken in.”

Lily flushed, but didn’t look away. She straightened a little. “I’m not that easy to take in, Sev.”

His shoulders eased a fraction. “Good. Because soulmark or not… he’s not going to stop chasing you.”

Chapter Text

Sirius is flying.

Not on a broom, or in a carriage, or on anything with reins. Just—flying. The wind cuts clean across his skin, and the sky is endless, blue and burning. Below him, rooftops blur. Fields stretch wide. The world is open, and he is weightless.

There’s no sound but the rush of air. No walls. No names. No history. He laughs—he thinks he laughs—but it’s silent. He turns, loops, dives. The sun catches him.

It’s almost perfect.

All it’s missing is someone beside him. James, maybe. Laughing. Racing him. Calling him a show-off.

Then something shifts. The sky darkens. The wind dies.

He’s falling.

Not fast. Not violent. Just—down.

The light fades. The air thickens. Below him now: rows of terraced houses. A canal, slick and unmoving. Factory roofs, flat and rusting. A single chimney, coughing smoke into the grey.

He lands in a room.

The carpet is threadbare. The wallpaper yellowed and peeling. Something flickers in the corner—a box with moving images and a voice. Sirius doesn’t know the name for it.

The furniture is mismatched and sagging. A chipped ashtray overflows beside a half-empty bottle. A second bottle lies on its side, leaking into the carpet. A single string of tinsel droops across the window, dulled by condensation and grime.

A man slumps in the armchair. His shirt is stained, his buttons askew, his eyes glazed and bloodshot. Sirius has never seen him before.

The front door opens. A boy steps inside. He is thin and cautious, his boots wet from snow. His coat hangs short at the wrists, and one cuff is fraying. He moves like he’s trying not to take up space.

It’s Severus.

He looks young, but not soft. The kind of thin that doesn’t come from skipping meals at school. The satchel on his shoulder drags at him. He sets it down with care, eyes low, like he’s learned not to look too long.

“You’re late,” says the man in the armchair. His voice is rough and slurred. The accent is sharp, working-class, bitter.

“Train was delayed.”

“Bet it was,” the man mutters. “Bet they had to clear the tracks for all you posh little freaks.”

Sirius feels the flinch—not his own, but Severus’. A practiced silence.

“What’ve they taught you now?” he sniffs. “How to wave a wand and make Christmas dinner? Shame it doesn’t work in real kitchens.”

“Just spells,” Severus says quietly. “And potions.”

“Oh, well done.” The man shifts forward, swaying. “Bet you think you’re clever. Bet you think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” He leans in, close enough to smell. “You walk in here like you’re royalty. Like this dump’s beneath you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He grabs the satchel and yanks it open. Severus doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, still.

Robes spill out. Parchment. A wrapped parcel.

“What’s this?”

“It’s from Lily,” he says, low.

“Oho, it’s from Lily,” the man mocks, voice high and cruel. “Little Lily, sending you treats now? Bet she thinks you’re precious.”

He tears the paper. A book. Advanced Potion-Making. He flips it open, squints at the page, then slams it shut against Severus’ shoulder.

“Books won’t save you,” he spits. “Spells won’t save you. You’ll end up in a factory like the rest of us. Or worse.”

Sirius wants to move, to shout, to stop it—but he’s only watching. Feeling. The dream holds him still.

Severus kneels, gathering his belongings in silence. The man slumps back into the chair, already fading.

“Go on then. Go play wizard. Just don’t forget who you are.”

Sirius sat up, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest. The dream was already slipping—sky, smoke, the boy kneeling—but the feeling stayed. A weight in his ribs. Something sour at the back of his throat.

It hadn’t just been a memory. It had felt lived. Witnessed. Like he’d stood inside Snape's skin and seen the world from behind his eyes.

He knew what that meant. He’d read enough about soulbonds to recognize the signs. Sometimes, when the bond was unstable, you didn’t just dream—you slipped into the other’s memories. Felt what they’d felt. Saw what they hadn’t shown. It was meant to draw the partners closer, to push them toward the intimacy that would let the bond settle.

He winced. Since that night in the infirmary, nearly a week ago, he’d been feeling a bit better. Snape's touch had helped. But without regular infusions of contact—if not more—he’d be right back where he started.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He would get up. Get dressed. The library wasn’t a bad bet. Snape was the type to be there early, buried in something grim and complicated. Maybe he was there now.

He needed to find him. Not just for the symptoms. That was the excuse, but it wasn’t the reason. Not really.

He couldn’t shake the image of that boy—thin and cautious, kneeling in silence while his father tore him down. The way he didn’t speak, didn’t defend, just absorbed it like he’d been trained to.

Sirius recognized it. Not the specifics, maybe, but the shape of it. He hadn’t gone quiet like that. He’d shouted back, slammed doors, broken things just to prove he could, but he knew what it was to be spoken to like you didn’t matter. To be made small, and then punished for refusing to stay that way.

Something stirred in him—not pity, exactly, but something close. He didn’t want it. Didn’t know what to do with it. So he shoved it aside and focused on what mattered now: finding Snape. 

Severus frowned and pulled Semiotics of the Unseen closer, angling it toward the light. Sirius’ handwriting curled along the margin in slanted, theatrical French:

Envisager l’utilisation d’un sortilège de mémoire modifié pour atténuer les symptômes du rejet de lien d’âme. Si je ne me souviens pas que j’ai une âme sœur, est-ce que je ressentirai toujours cela?

Of course Black took notes in a foreign language, just to prove he could. Just to make sure anyone who stumbled across them would know he was educated. Fluent. Superior.

Severus flicked his wand. The translation charm shimmered across the page, then rippled—interference, probably, from the book’s residual dark magic—before the ink settled into crisp, comprehensible English:

Consider using a modified memory charm to manage symptoms of soulbond rejection. If I don’t remember that I have a soulmate, will I still feel this way?

Severus scoffed.

Absurd. Reckless.

Intriguing.

He’d never considered memory charms as a countermeasure. Soulbonds resisted most forms of magical tampering, but if the emotional resonance could be dulled at the source—

He frowned.

Lily had always said Black was brilliant with Charms. And this—this was clever.

Unsettling, how easily his mind framed it as a strength.

This was Sirius Black. If he excelled, it was no triumph. Tutors. Access to restricted texts. A childhood steeped in magical theory, handed to him like silver cutlery.

Severus snapped the book shut.

He would not admire him.

“Snape.”

Severus shot to his feet, wand raised. The book thudded against the window seat behind him. Sirius stood at the mouth of the aisle, framed by the stacks, hands lifted—not in peace, but with that familiar edge of mockery.

“I’m not here to fight.”

“If you’ve come for the book, your brother traded it. Fairly.” Severus’ voice was clipped. “I assumed a gentleman like you would honor a verbal agreement.”

He let gentleman hang, just long enough to curdle.

“Actually, I'm here about memory sharing.”

Severus didn’t move.

“You’ve studied it, haven’t you? You study everything.”

Severus went still. “You saw one of mine.”

Sirius nodded. His expression was unreadable. Concern, maybe. That was new.

“I think it was Christmas break. Third year. Your dad was in it.”

Severus’ stomach turned. He glanced toward the stacks, suddenly wary. “You can’t know that. Even if it was mine—”

“I know.” Sirius stepped closer. He looked like he might reach for him.

That made Severus furious. Sympathy? From Black?

“Whatever you saw, keep it to yourself.”

“What if I want something in return?”

“Of course.” Severus’ voice turned sharp. “You expect me to bend for you—because you’re rich, and a Quidditch hero, and—”

“No,” Sirius cut in, eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t demand that. And how can you say things like that, just—flat out?”

Severus saw the flush rise in Sirius’ face. Shame. Fear. It gave him a cruel kind of power.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. It was obvious even before this—you wanted to bend Potter. Or bend for him.” He stepped closer, voice low and vicious. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want to be his girlfriend. And it kills you that he’d rather have Lily.”

Sirius grabbed the front of Severus’ robes, yanking him forward. He flicked his wand, but Sirius was stronger, wrenching it from his grip.

“Shut up about Potter.” He was holding back, barely. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here to make another trade.”

“You want me to do what I did in the infirmary.” His voice dropped, bitter and precise. “And if I refuse, you’ll run to Potter with what you saw—my memory. Is that it?”

“I’m not going to tell anyone your secrets, Sniv. But I don’t expect charity. You must want something. Name it.”

“I’m not touching your filthy Galleons.”

Sirius released him. “Then something else.”

Severus hesitated. The silence stretched—tight, deliberate. Sirius thought the moment was lost.

But then:

“Teach me to fly.”

“You want to fly?”

“I want to learn. You can teach me. It’s one of the few things you’re good for.”

Sirius’ jaw tightened. “Fine. If we’re doing this—when? Where?”

“Falbarton Castle ruins. Saturday. Before breakfast.”

Sirius shook his head. “That’s too far.”

“You want your little friends to know about us?” He gestured toward the pitch outside the window, as if the whole scene were a stage. “It’s perfect. We’ll handle your… needs and my lesson all at once.”

Sirius glanced toward the stacks, as if someone might be listening. “Might be hard to get away without James asking questions.”

“Not my problem.” He turned slightly, angling himself toward the window, dismissing Sirius without needing to say it.

“Saturday, then,” Sirius said. “I’ll be there.” 

Chapter Text

Severus muttered a warming charm under his breath, the syllables barely audible above the wind. Even sheltered beside one of the crumbling towers of what had once been Falbarton Castle, the cold found him easily, slipping past wool and charm alike.

He’d been waiting nearly half an hour for Sirius, and was beginning to wonder if this had all been a mistake.

It wasn’t as if he’d need it. After school, he’d be shut away in the backroom of the Potters’ London showroom: inventory, accounts, payroll, the odd delivery if no one else could be spared. Flying wouldn’t come into it.

Still, the idea of being airborne had always held something for him. Not freedom, exactly. Just the quiet thrill of lift. Of leaving the ground behind.

He hadn’t realized how badly he lacked the knack until his first flying lesson with Madam Hooch. The broom wouldn’t respond. His balance was off. The other boys had kicked off like it was nothing—laughing, racing, already halfway to the goalposts—while he stood there, humiliated.

Dropping the class had been easy. It was voluntary, after all. No one batted an eye. Slughorn signed the form without comment, as if it had been expected.

He hadn’t thought about it in years. Not until now, standing in the cold, waiting.

A sharp crack split the air.

He turned, wand half-raised, but lowered it when he saw Sirius at the edge of the field, cloaked in black, hood low. The wind didn’t seem to touch him.

“Relax. It’s only me.” Sirius held up the broom like proof. “I brought it. Just like I said.”

Severus glanced at the Comet: sleek, polished, unmistakably bespoke. “You only brought one?”

Sirius shrugged. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “We can’t both ride it.”

“We’ll go tandem,” Sirius said, like it was obvious. Then, catching Severus’ expression, he added, “Relax. I know what I’m doing. Our groom taught me when I was—” He stopped short, jaw tightening.

“When you were what? Four?”

“Five,” Sirius muttered. “Look, I’m not saying you’re a child.”

“Good. That would be a waste of breath.” Severus crossed his arms, more for warmth than defiance.

Sirius laid the broom down in the snow. “Speaking of breath—why aren’t you wearing a coat?”

Because it’s falling apart, and I’d rather freeze than let you see that.

“Stick to flying,” Severus said flatly. “Your commentary on my wardrobe isn’t required.”

Sirius frowned. He hesitated, then shrugged off his own cloak and held it out. Beneath it, he wore a battered leather jacket. It was cracked at the seams, unmistakably Muggle.

“Here. Take it.” He gave the cloak a small shake when Severus didn’t move.

Severus wanted to refuse, but the wind bit through his sleeves, and Sirius’ cloak was thick, heavy, still warm from his body. He flung it over his shoulders, fast, like it didn’t matter.

It blocked the wind instantly. The lining was soft, absurdly so. And it smelled like Sirius. Oakmoss from his posh soap. And something else. A trace of cigarette smoke and old leather. Severus had smelled it before, that night in the infirmary.

“Come here.” Sirius swept his hair back. “You need to stand over it.”

Severus didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because otherwise you’ll fall off before we’re airborne,” Sirius said, already impatient. “Just—stand over it.”

Severus stepped forward stiffly, straddling it with the posture of someone bracing for humiliation.

“Your feet are too close together,” Sirius said, reaching out.

Severus flinched when Sirius’ hands brushed his hips. “You don’t get to touch me like I’m furniture.” 

“I’m adjusting your center of gravity. You’re stiff as a board.”

“I’m not stiff.”

“You are,” Sirius said, maddeningly calm. “You’re tense. It’s fine. Just—widen your stance.”

He demonstrated, legs apart, weight balanced, the motion fluid and instinctive. Severus mirrored him, refusing to look at how Sirius’ trousers clung to his thighs or how easily he moved.

“Better,” Sirius said, stepping back. “When we take off, lean into me. Don’t fight the motion.”

“Lean into you?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Can you just trust me to teach you to fly?”

“Fine. What’s next?”

“I’m going to call for the broom and take us for a little flight.”

“You’re meant to be teaching me, not taking me on a romantic tour over the castle ruins.”

“Wasn’t my choice of location, remember? The broom picks up on nerves. If it doesn’t trust you, it won’t respond. You’ve got to fly it a bit—get used to each other.”

“Let’s go, then. The sooner this is over, the sooner I’ll be flying on my own. Which is what I imagined from the beginning. I didn’t know you’d treat this like a…”

“Date?” Sirius said, calling for the broom.

It responded instantly, rising with a smooth, eager motion. Severus had to lean back—just as Sirius had instructed—to keep from falling off. They hovered above the field now, and despite himself, Severus felt a flicker of exhilaration. He hated that.

“You’re wobbling. I’m putting a hand on your waist—don’t hex me.”

Severus scowled but didn’t object when Sirius’ arm slid around his waist, pulling his tall, narrow frame against a chest solid and warm. Even through layers of wool and cotton, the contact buzzed beneath his skin.

He stared straight ahead, reaching for something cutting to say, but nothing came.

Not with the wind in his hair and the ground falling away beneath them.

Not with the broom responding to him—just a little.

Not with Sirius’ heartbeat steady against his spine.

They circled the castle twice, the broom carving wide, steady arcs through the air. The wind bit at Severus’ cheeks, but he didn’t mind. Below, the towers rose like sentinels, and beyond the ruins, the hills stretched dark with pine and tangled brush.

On the second pass, Sirius leaned in slightly. “Want to try something?”

The broom dipped, slow at first, then sharper, slicing through the air in a clean, thrilling descent. Severus gripped the handle, instinctively shifting his weight forward. The wind roared past his ears, and for a moment, he forgot everything: the cold, the awkwardness, the fact that Sirius Black was pressed against his back.

He laughed. Just once. Sharp, surprised, and utterly unguarded.

Sirius pulled them out of the dive with practiced ease, leveling them above the treetops.

They hovered for a beat, breath fogging the air between them. 

“Not bad, right?” 

They landed in the snow with barely a jolt. Severus stepped off first, boots crunching against the frost. “When do I get to fly it without you clinging on?”

“Next time, maybe. I’ve got to get back before James starts asking questions. And we’ve still got the second half of our deal to sort.”

The flicker of contentment on Severus’ face vanished. “Right. You’re only doing this to manage your symptoms.” He turned sharply and strode toward the crumbling portcullis. Sirius hesitated, then followed.

At the gatehouse arch, Severus stopped and turned, face closed off. “Take off your glove.”

He stripped off his own boiled wool glove and shoved it into his pocket. Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed that whatever fragile truce they'd reached midair had already dissolved. Still, he pulled off his sleek dragonhide glove and held out his hand.

Severus took it quickly, then tugged him closer to the wall, out of the wind.

He bit his lip, trying to ignore how good Sirius’ skin felt against his own. The soulmark flared, greedy for contact. He kept his gaze low until the rush settled. When he finally looked up, Sirius’ cheeks were flushed, and his grey eyes—usually sharp, amused—were wide, pupils blown.

“You’re more far gone than I thought. In the infirmary, I assumed all that nonsense was just the curse talking.”

“I’ve had the mark longer than you. Makes sense I’d feel it more.”

“You’re really going to Obliviate yourself?” Severus asked, tone mocking but tight with something else. “That’s your plan?”

“You read my notes.”

“You stuck them all over the book,” Severus said. “Hard not to.”

He didn’t add: You’re clever. If reckless. Especially with yourself.

“So maybe now you see we’d get further working together. Holding hands is nice—sweet. But the mark doesn’t care about nice. It’s pushing us toward… more. You feel it. I know you do.”

Severus yanked his hand back, ignoring the sharp ache that followed. “You can’t even say it.”

“I don’t know how you stay so bloody calm. Is this normal for you? Because where I come from, queers aren’t just laughed at. They’re filth. Something you joke about to make people sick.”

Severus’ expression turned cold. “Oh, right. Because in my world, they’re accepted with open arms.”

“I didn’t mean—just… you seem like you’ve accepted it. I don’t even know how you know.” He hesitated. “Have you—been with someone? A bloke?”

“No. And if you’re trying to ask me something, maybe try not sounding like a twelve-year-old.”

Sirius flushed. “Then how do you know you’re—why are you so bloody sure?”

“Like you’ve never thought about it.”

“What have you thought about?” He stepped closer, voice quieter now. “Like… kissing another bloke?”

Severus let out a short, sharp laugh. “Kissing? That’s sweet.”

Sirius’ mouth twisted. “Forget it.”

He stepped back, wand already rising.

“Wait.”

Severus shrugged off the cloak, the chill biting through his school robes at once. “Your cloak.”

Sirius hesitated, then reached for it.

“If you want to try a kiss,” Severus said, voice flat, “just to confirm your suspicions…” He met Sirius’ eyes. “I wouldn’t be adverse.”

“You mean like, right now?”

“No, I was thinking in the middle of the Great Hall with a blinking sign overhead. Yes, now.”

“I don’t even know if I want to kiss you—”

Severus stepped forward and kissed him. His lips were dry, too firm, their noses bumping like he was trying to prove something instead of feel it. Sirius froze, stunned, but he didn’t pull away.

Then the soulmark flared.

Heat bloomed between them, sudden and sharp, like magic rushing to fill a gap neither of them had meant to open. Sirius gasped. Severus jerked back, startled, eyes wide.

“You kiss like a virgin,” Sirius said quickly, trying to cover the vulnerability clawing up his throat.

“Yeah, well, so do you,” Severus shot back.

Sirius barely had time to react before Severus kissed him again, harder this time, pressing him back against the wall. The stone was cold through his jacket. His cloak slipped from his fingers, pooling at their feet.

Severus’ hands slid into his hair, glossy and too soft, and curled deep, holding him there. Not rough, but firm. Like he needed Sirius to stay exactly where he was. The tug drew a sound from Sirius’ throat, quiet and startled. He reached up, fingers finding Severus’ face, tentative and warm.

The soulmark pulsed again, slow and steady now, like it approved.

They broke apart, breathless.

“I should go,” Sirius said, stooping to grab his cloak. “If we’re both missing at breakfast, James’ll start asking questions.”

Severus didn’t look at him. “Wouldn’t want Potter to worry.”

“Do you want to do this again? Another flying lesson. Same time next week?”

“Bring your own broom next time.”

“Right,” he said, jaw tight, not quite meeting Severus’ eyes. “I’ll see you later.”

Then he Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Chapter Text

“What’s that?” Peter asked, as the Potter family’s Eagle Owl swooped low over the breakfast table, dropping a parcel that narrowly missed Sirius’ toast.

James lit up. “Finally!” He tore into the brown paper. “Mum sent it—Granny Potter’s pearl ring. It’s tradition. Eldest witch in the family gets it at seventeen.”

He held it up: gold band, cabochon pearl, gleaming like it knew it was important.

Peter frowned. “You’re an only child.”

James gave him a look. “Which is why I’m giving it to Lily, Wormtail. Keep up.” He slipped the ring into his pocket with a flourish. “There’s a necklace too, but Mum made me swear not to give her that until we’re properly betrothed.”

Peter snorted. “Like she’s going to pass up the Potter heir and a vault full of Galleons.”

James’ smile vanished. “Lily’s not like that. She’d hex me for even suggesting it.”

Remus raised an eyebrow and nudged his plate aside. “Before you start handing out heirlooms, maybe try asking her to Hogsmeade first.”

“Bit early for the grand romantic gesture, Prongs," Sirius agreed. "She still rolls her eyes every time you open your mouth.”

James looked unbothered. “She rolls her eyes at everyone. I happen to think it’s charming.”

“Of course you do,” Sirius muttered. “You’re delusional.”

Peter leaned in, mouth full of sausage. “Wasn’t Lily’s birthday last week? If she got a soulmark, wouldn’t we have heard?”

Remus didn’t look up from his toast. “He waited for the ring to wish her happy birthday. Romantic, if you ignore the odds. Muggle-borns rarely get soulmarks—and even if she did, what are the chances it’s his name?”

Peter glanced toward the far end of the Gryffindor table, where Lily and Marlene McKinnon were deep in conversation. “So, when’s the big moment, then? We’ve got Charms, then double Potions… You going to do it while Slughorn drones on about fluxweed?”

James grinned, finishing the last of his coffee even though it had gone cold. “No time like the present,” he said, setting the mug down with a quiet clink.

He stood, brushed the crumbs from his jumper, and started down the table. The hum of conversation dipped as he passed, but he didn’t slow.

Marlene glanced up as he reached them, her voice light. “Morning, Potter. Come to dazzle us with your charm, or just steal our jam?”

James grinned. “Tempting, but I was hoping Evans might spare me a moment before Charms.”

Lily stirred her tea, then met his gaze with a raised brow. “I’m listening.”

“Actually, Evans… I was wondering if we could step into the Entrance Hall for a minute. What I’ve got to say is a bit personal.”

Marlene’s brows lifted. “Go on, then. If you don’t, I’ll simply perish from suspense.”

Lily sighed but stood. “If this is the only way to get rid of you, Potter, I suppose I can spare a minute.”

They stepped through the double doors into a quiet alcove near the grand staircase. His heart thudded like he’d just come off the Quidditch pitch, but he kept his pace steady. At the portrait of Percival Pratt—still asleep—he stopped and turned to face her. She didn’t smile. Just waited.

“Evans, you know how I feel about you. And now that you've had your birthday… maybe it’s time you stopped pretending you don’t feel the same.”

“What does my birthday have to do with anything?”

“You must’ve gotten your mark,” James said, trying for a smile. “I get why you wouldn’t say anything. People talk—about blood status, about Muggle-borns getting above their station. Like it’s some kind of crime to want something good.”

“I’m not sure what you think I want,” Lily said, though her cheeks were pink.

James hesitated, then reached for her hand. “I think you didn’t want to look like you were chasing me. Like you were after the name, or the vault, or whatever people whisper when they think I’m not listening.”

He pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out.

“That’s—what is that?” Lily asked, pulling her hand back.

“It’s one of the Potter family rings,” James said quickly. “I thought—if I gave it to you on your birthday—you’d know I wasn’t messing about. I’m serious. About you. About us.”

“James… I didn’t get a soulmark. You know how it works for Muggle-borns. It’s not exactly guaranteed.”

He blinked, as if her words hadn’t quite registered. “You didn’t get one? But—I love you.”

“That’s very… flattering.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened around her sleeve. “But your birthday’s in March. You’ll likely get a mark. Be matched with someone else. Which means—”

“I don’t care.” He reached for her hand, pressing the ring into her palm. “Let it point to whoever it wants. I love you, Lily. That’s not going to change.”

Her fingers curled around the ring once before she forced them open again, letting him take it back. “You know that isn’t how it works. Soulmarks are magical bonds. They affect your health, your magic. Even if we do have feelings for each other… your body will need her. And she won’t want you chasing after me.”

James’ face flushed. “I don’t care what she thinks,” he said, voice rising. “And I don’t know why you do.”

Her hand came up, not quite a warding gesture, but close. “You need to calm down.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “I’ve loved you for years, Lily. Years. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“You’re not listening. I won’t be your last fling before the mark shows up.”

“That’s not—” James started, reaching for her, but she was already moving. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she passed. “You’re not a fling!” he called after her, but she didn’t turn.

His fist closed over the ring, the pearl pressing hard enough to leave a mark.

“That will be all for today,” Professor Flitwick announced, and the usual rustle of parchment and clatter of books filled the room. “Keep practicing your Confundus Charms—we’ll be testing them next week!

Sirius didn’t move. He was watching Marlene, who had leaned in close to Lily again, speaking in that same low voice she’d used throughout the lesson. Lily was shaking her head, her expression tight. Neither she nor Marlene acknowledged him, though he’d been staring at them the entire hour.

Flitwick turned toward Remus, who had just slung his knapsack over one shoulder, his posture already resigned to double Potions in the dungeons.

“Mr. Lupin, would you stay behind a moment?”

Sirius eyes turned toward him. Remus straightened, slipping into his prefect voice. “Of course, sir. Can I help you with something?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me the whereabouts of your friend Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said with a faint smile. “I know it’s nearly the end of the year, and you lot are feeling very grown-up—but Mr. Potter is still expected in class.”

“Yes, sir. He mentioned feeling ill at breakfast,” Remus replied smoothly. “Could be he’s in the infirmary.”

“The infirmary?” Flitwick’s brow furrowed slightly. “He’s not usually one to miss Charms,” he said mildly. “Still—if he’s unwell, I trust Madam Pomfrey has him in hand.”

He paused, adjusting his spectacles. “Do let him know I expect him back tomorrow. We’re nearing exams, and I’d hate for him to fall behind.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“Very good.” Flitwick nodded and turned back to his desk, already sorting through a stack of parchments.

Sirius fell into step beside Remus as they left the classroom, his voice low. “Where do you think he actually is?”

“If I had to guess? Evans turned him down, and now he’s off brooding somewhere. I just hope he’s not planning to skip Potions on top of it.”

“James won’t care,” Sirius said, tired and a little bitter. “Slughorn worships him even more than Flitwick does. And you saw it—Flitwick didn’t even blink when James cut class. No detention, nothing.”

They reached the staircase to the dungeons, but Sirius veered off, heading back the way they’d come.

Remus stopped. “Where are you going?”

“I need the map. It’s the only way I’ll find him.”

Remus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you cut too. If you both vanish, even Slughorn won’t be able to pretend it’s fine—golden boy or not.”

Sirius hesitated, then crossed back to where Remus stood, lingering as a few of their housemates passed by. Lily walked arm-in-arm with Marlene; she gave Sirius a pointed look, but Lily kept her eyes down, gaze fixed on the floor.

He waited until they were out of earshot.

“You know how James gets about Evans. I tried to tell him—not everyone gets a mark, and Lily’s Muggle-born. But he wouldn’t hear it. Just kept insisting it was her.”

Remus’ shoulders dropped. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I’ve tried. Merlin knows I’ve tried. He really thought it was written in the stars or something.”

“That’s exactly why I need to find him.” 

Remus exhaled heavily and started down the stairs. “Fine,” he called over his shoulder. “But don’t expect me to lie to Slughorn. He’d see through me before I even opened my mouth.”

“The Hog’s Head? Seriously?” Sirius asked, sliding into the grimy booth across from James. His friend had a small army of empty pint glasses in front of him. The barkeep—a dodgy-looking man in a filthy apron—didn’t even blink when Sirius ordered two more.

“They’d clock me at The Three Broomsticks,” James muttered, eyes fixed on the table.

Sirius took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. “So… Evans went well, then.”

James looked up, eyes glassy. “She didn’t get a mark, Pads. I know it’s stupid, but I really thought—” He broke off, voice cracking. “I thought she was it.”

Sirius leaned forward, gave his arm a quick squeeze. “It’s not over. What if you don’t get one either? Then you can marry whoever you want. Lily, Madam Rosmerta, even bloody Professor McGonagall if you fancy.”

James let out a bitter laugh. “There hasn’t been a Potter born without a soulmark in four generations.”

“Still could happen.”

“Yeah, and I could play professional Quidditch for the Arrows.” He drained his glass. “Come on, you know I’m right.”

Sirius nodded, slow and reluctant. “Yeah. You probably are.”

James slouched hard against the booth, like the fight had gone out of him. “Lily doesn’t even want to give us a chance. I told her I didn’t care about soulmates, that I only wanted her. She wasn’t moved. Just kept talking about how the other girl would feel.”

“Whoever she is, she’s going to loathe Evans. You’ve been mooning over her since second year.”

James leaned in, eyes suddenly sharp. “Pads… do you think there’s a way to get rid of it?”

Sirius stiffened. “What?”

“The mark. Everyone says it’s impossible, but you must’ve looked into it. I know how much you hate yours.”

“It’s not her I hate,” he said, too carefully. “I don’t even know who she is.”

James’ gaze flicked to the gauntlet on Sirius’ wrist. “So she’s not at Hogwarts.” He leaned closer. “Please. Just tell me. Let me hate fate with you.”

Sirius sighed, but he began undoing the ties. James sat up, eyes bright with something like hope. He leaned in to read the name.

“Selina Selwyn?” He frowned. “I didn’t think there were any Selwyns left.”

“Which is the only good news,” Sirius muttered, tying the gauntlet back up. “My parents hired some investigator to track her down. Regulus says the family vanished after the war with Grindelwald.”

“So you’ve got time. At least until they find her.” James paused. “But what about that illness Pomfrey mentioned? Anemocor syndrome or whatever. She made it sound like there are consequences if you don’t… you know.”

Sirius shrugged. “Nothing I can do until they find her.”

James stared at the table. “You were right. All this time, you’ve said your parents are soulbonded and miserable. I thought that kind of thing couldn’t happen to me. And now it’s happened to both of us.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said quietly, trying not to think about Severus’ flying lesson.

Or the sharp, unexpected sound of his laugh.

Or the strange, magnetic slide of his lips against Sirius’ own.

“The mark doesn’t give you a choice. It just picks someone and tells you to get on with it.”

“Romantic, isn’t it?” Sirius said, and took another drink.

Chapter Text

“Ah, my favorite potion-makers,” Slughorn declared, beaming as students filtered into the dungeon and found their assigned lab stations.

Severus slid into the seat beside Mulciber, jaw set. The pairing wasn’t a surprise. Slughorn had a habit of assigning him to underperforming housemates, a silent vote of confidence that felt more like conscription.

He set up the cauldron over the enchanted Bunsen burner, adjusted the flame to a low simmer, and measured out the honeywater with care. Mulciber leaned back in his seat, already disengaged.

“We’ll be brewing Dreamless Sleep today,” Slughorn announced, gesturing toward the ingredients laid out at each station: Sopophorous Bean, crushed Moly root, fresh Chamomile and Lavender. In Severus’ view, the explanation was redundant. Anyone with half a brain could infer the assignment from the setup.

“A delicate brew,” Slughorn intoned, “commonly administered after emotional or physical trauma. Too strong, and it numbs more than dreams. Too weak, and it’s little better than bedtime tea. Precision, my dears. I expect nothing less than your full attention.”

Severus didn’t look up. He reached for the Moly root, grinding it finer than necessary just to keep his hands busy. Then he added the Sopophorous bean whole, watching for the split before folding in the crushed root.

He glanced toward the bench where Sirius usually sat with Potter, expecting the usual noise, the usual posturing. It was empty.

He blinked once, then again, as if the absence might correct itself. It didn’t.

“Where’s Black?”

Mulciber sat up slightly, finally interested in something happening in class. “Professor,” he called, with mock innocence, “Are we missing some of our classmates today?”

Slughorn turned, blinking toward the empty bench where Potter and Black were meant to be. “Oh dear,” he said, frowning mildly. “We do seem to be short a few.”

His gaze slid to Remus, who was hunched over his cauldron like he was trying not to be noticed.

“Mr. Lupin,” Slughorn said, with the air of someone invoking reason, “you’re a prefect and a sensible young man. Any idea where your housemates have wandered off to?”

“No idea, sir,” Remus replied—too quickly. He didn’t look up. His stirring was just evasive enough to make it clear to Severus that he was lying.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Marlene said, flat and unapologetic, from her seat beside Lily. “They’re skipping.”

Several heads lifted. She smiled faintly, pleased by the ripple she’d caused.

“Is that so?” Slughorn murmured, his expression settling into polite dismay. He hesitated, as if Marlene’s bluntness had forced him into the awkward position of either assigning punishment or appearing to play favorites.

“Please inform them, when you see them later, that I expect them in detention this evening at six,” he said with a sigh.

He returned to his rosewood desk, settled into his chair with a vaguely sulky air, and reached for his jar of crystallized pineapple. “I dislike playing the stern schoolmaster, Mr. Lupin, but alas—they’ve rather forced my hand.”

“Yes, sir,” Remus called back, already retreating gratefully into his cauldron.

Severus smiled, thin and mean. Detention suited Black.

He reached for a stem of lavender and a sprig of chamomile, binding them with silken thread before lowering them into the cauldron—the final step. The potion shimmered faintly, its surface settling into a muted blue.

He paused.

Normally, he didn’t care about the results. Brewing was a means to an end, not something he lingered over, but Slughorn had assigned something useful for once: Dreamless Sleep. He was certain he’d read—somewhere, in one of the older texts—that it could block the kind of memory-sharing that sometimes occurred between soulmates in dreams.

With a flick of his fingers, he summoned a small vial from the rack beside the sink. It hovered, then landed neatly in his palm.

Perfect.

He skimmed a portion off the top.

The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into one of Black’s memories. Forced to watch him lounging in fine clothes, accepting lavish gifts, or eating sumptuous meals in his family’s gilded townhouse in Islington.

Black had never known hardship.

Severus corked the vial with care and slipped it into his pocket.

“What do you have there, Mr. Snape?”

He turned, guilty and startled. Slughorn had moved from his desk without him noticing.

“Nothing, sir. Just—”

“Dreamless Sleep is a controlled substance,” Slughorn said, extending his hand. “Removing it from the lab without permission is a serious breach of the honor code.”

Severus hesitated, then surrendered the vial. Slughorn frowned, more disappointed than stern, as he took it.

“I’d rather not penalize your partner by docking points for the potion—which, as usual, is perfect,” he added, with the air of someone bestowing a favor. “Therefore, I’ll expect you in detention this evening.”

Slughorn turned to inspect Lucius and Wilkes’ cauldron, leaving Severus to contemplate the pleasures of the evening ahead.

Severus was unsurprised to find himself the first to report for detention. Slughorn’s office was located in the dungeons, and in February, the chill was at its worst. He shivered in his thin school robes before casting Incendio on the small pile of firewood in the grate. The flames caught quickly, and he held his hands close, letting the heat bite through the chill.

He didn’t expect company soon, but the quiet didn’t last. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by Slughorn’s unmistakable drawl.

“No need to say more, Mr. Black,” he said indulgently, his voice growing louder with each step. “I was a young man once too, believe it or not.”

The office door swung open. Slughorn ushered Sirius inside with a theatrical sigh. “I remember what heartbreak feels like—oh, believe me, yes!”

Sirius stepped inside, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, well. Some people take it harder than others,” he said, arms crossed. He was wearing the cloak from their flying lesson, and Severus had to forcibly shove the memory of how soft it had felt out of his mind.

Slughorn chuckled, undeterred. “I suppose the hangover will be punishment enough for Mr. Potter, eh?”

Sirius gave a half-shrug, gaze skimming past Severus without landing. “It wasn’t just a hangover. He’s in the infirmary.”

Slughorn continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Well, I don’t normally assign detentions to seventh-years,” he said, casting a mildly reproachful glance first at Sirius, then at Severus. “I trust this won’t become a habit, eh, gentlemen?”

“No, sir,” they replied in unison, both stiff. Their eyes met—just briefly—before Slughorn reclaimed their attention, handing each of them an unwieldy, old-fashioned wicker basket.

“Given that you’re normally responsible and competent young men, I’ve decided to assign you the task of gathering Puffapod seeds from the edge of the Forbidden Forest.”

Sirius smiled, clearly relieved not to be scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons. Severus grimaced, wishing he’d worn his coat, no matter how old and threadbare it was.

“Return with those baskets full, and we’ll call it even,” Slughorn said, waving them off as he sank into the chair behind his desk. He dipped his quill and pulled a stack of fourth-year essays toward him with a sigh. “Honestly, if I see one more misuse of a semicolon, I may resign...”

They exited the castle through the North Gate. Severus kept waiting for Sirius to speak, but for once, he was silent. Preoccupied. Almost as if he were thinking.

Which, Severus sneered, he probably was. Brooding over Potter, rejected by Lily, and foolish enough to drink himself into the infirmary.

Severus’ lip curled. Of course Potter would be a drunk, just like—

No. He shoved the image of Tobias Snape out of his mind.

They passed the greenhouses and continued down the sloping path that skirted the Quidditch pitch. The stands were empty, half-buried in frost, and the goalposts loomed ominously against the grey sky.

Sirius finally paused.

Severus pulled up short too, breath curling in the cold, impatience flickering across his face.

“What?” he asked, when Sirius only looked at him.

Sirius gestured vaguely at Severus’ robes. “Don’t you own a coat? It’s winter. In Scotland.”

“Thank you, Black, I hadn’t noticed.” Severus turned and resumed walking.

“Wait,” Sirius said, already pulling off his cloak. He held it out—for the second time.

“Take it. No one’s around to see, and we’re the only ones unlucky enough to be sent out in this weather.”

Severus considered refusing. He should have—on principle, if nothing else—but he was freezing, and the wind had already numbed his fingers.

He reached out and took the cloak, his hand brushing Sirius’ in the exchange. The soulmark flared, warmth flooding his body before he’d even swung the fabric over his shoulders.

The scent hit him next: green, woody oakmoss, threaded with faint notes of amber and worn leather. He breathed in, as deeply as he could without Sirius noticing.

“You’re welcome,” Sirius said, arms crossed. He was wearing that battered leather jacket underneath—as usual—so Severus didn’t feel guilty about taking the cloak.

Not that he would’ve felt concern for Black in any case.

“You expected thanks? You’re the reason I’m out here,” Severus muttered, burying his hands deeper into the folds.

Sirius gave a dry laugh. “How d’you figure? I wasn’t even in class when Slughorn handed out your detention.”

“We were brewing Dreamless Sleep. I wouldn’t have tried to steal it if you hadn’t helped yourself to my memories.”

Sirius scoffed. “Once. And I didn’t exactly ask for the guided tour.” He kicked at a frozen root, then glanced sideways. “Still. I saw enough.”

Severus didn’t answer. His grip tightened around the cloak, knuckles pale against the fabric.

“Your dad…” Sirius hesitated, voice low. “Is he always like that? With the bottle?”

Severus didn’t look at him. “Not your problem.”

Sirius reached out, fingers brushing Severus’ shoulder. Severus flinched, and Sirius pulled back fast, palms raised. “Sorry. I wasn’t—just—look.” He exhaled. “Can you stop pretending none of this matters? We’re soulmates. I’m allowed to care.”

Severus turned, face tight. “Now you care.”

Sirius shifted, boots crunching frost. “Yeah. I do.”

Severus muttered something and started to walk away.

“I mean it.” Sirius caught his arm, gentler this time. “Does he always talk to you like that?” He hesitated. “You shouldn’t go back there after term.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“So what’s your plan? Because… if you need help. Money. Somewhere to stay…”

Severus shrugged off his hand. “I don’t need your help.”

“You don’t even have a coat!”

Severus spun around. “Yeah? Well I’ve got a job lined up after I finish school. Which is more than you, I reckon. Planning to live off the family vault forever?”

“Actually, I want to be a curse-breaker. Gringotts.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

Sirius hesitated. “My mother.” His voice, for once, stripped of irony. “She thinks it’s beneath me. ‘Consorting with Goblins’ and all that rot.”

Severus turned back toward the forest, tone clipped. “You’re of age. Or is playing heir still easier than being your own person?”

Sirius didn’t answer right away. Then, behind him—quiet, but firm:

“It’s because of my brother, all right?”

Severus paused mid-step.

“If I walk,” Sirius continued, “everything falls on him. The expectations. The pressure. My mother’s attention—which is a bloody delight, by the way.”

Severus turned slightly, enough to glance over his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I would’ve left ages ago if I didn’t think she’d turn it all on Regulus the second I did.”

Severus crouched beside a puffapod bush, fingers stiff with cold as he began filling his basket. It gave him something to do while Sirius’ words settled. Unexpected, and not easily dismissed.

Was being heir to the House of Black truly so unbearable that Sirius stayed only to shield his younger brother?

Severus sneered reflexively. Of course he’d spin it that way—some noble-sounding excuse to keep his privileges intact. A tragic little narrative to justify living in comfort while pretending it was sacrifice.

He wouldn’t be taken in.

Sirius crouched beside him in the snow, filling his own basket.

“Look,” he said quietly. “I want you to keep the cloak.”

Severus stood, his basket full. “Use your brain, Black. I can’t walk around Hogwarts in your cloak without someone noticing.”

“I’ll transfigure it. You like green, right?”

Severus scoffed, though the thought of keeping it—warm, comforting, and still threaded with Sirius’ scent—thrilled him more than he’d admit.

“It’s not just the color. People are going to start asking questions if I show up to the Slytherin common room in mooncalf wool.”

“So we’ll make it look cheap. Easy.” He shrugged. “James and I sneak out to Muggle clubs all the time. I’m good at transfiguring wizarding robes. Let me try.”

“You’re oddly invested in my outerwear.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I’m invested in you not freezing to death. That’s all.”

Severus spread his arms, mockingly theatrical. “Fine. Do your worst.”

Sirius raised his wand and murmured the incantation. The cloak shortened, darkened to a deep green that Severus found quietly pleasing. The fine, magical wool dulled, taking on the faintly synthetic sheen of cheap Muggle fabric.

“There,” Sirius said, lowering his wand. “That should do it.”

They started back toward the castle. Severus adjusted his grip on the basket, irritated to find the quiet between them wasn’t unpleasant.

“Lily told me about Potter offering her the family jewels,” he said, venom threading through his voice. “For someone held up as the best the school has to offer, he’s remarkably stupid.”

“Lay off James. He’s gutted about Evans. Why do you always have to go for him?”

Severus laughed, incredulous. “Why do I always—”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re the same as him,” Severus said, shaking his head. “So rich you don’t even notice how insulting it is, being expected to jump at fancy presents.”

“James isn’t like that, and you know it. You’re just looking for a reason to hate him.”

“I don’t need a reason,” Severus snapped. “I know pure-blood entitlement when I see it.”

“Your mum was a Prince, wasn’t she? Pure-blood through and through.”

Severus blinked, thrown. He hadn’t expected Sirius to know that, let alone use it.

“So what?” he said, recovering. “You think that makes me one of you?”

“You know how it works. Pure-blood girls get jewellery at seventeen. James was trying to include Lily. Show her she matters.”

He hesitated. “If you want to twist that into something ugly, that’s on you.”

“Finally back,” Wilkes said from his desk as Severus stepped into the Slytherin dorm, towel still slung around his neck, pajamas clinging damp at the cuffs. “Meant to ask if you’d look this over before Transfiguration.”

“Put it there.” Severus brushed wet hair from his face. “And don’t forget my usual fee.”

Wilkes rolled his eyes but dropped the essay on Severus’ desk, adding a single silver Sickle on top. “Don’t lose that. It’s my last one ‘til Hogsmeade.”

“I’ll look it over before breakfast,” Severus said, already turning toward his four-poster. The towel slipped from his shoulders, landing in a damp heap on the floor.

Mulciber shifted under his covers. “Mine too. And if you fix that last paragraph, I’ll owe you one.”

“You already do,” Severus muttered, pulling back the hangings.

Mulciber gave a lazy shrug and disappeared beneath his blanket.

Severus climbed into bed, drew the curtains closed, and cast a quiet Holdfast jinx to seal them—immovable now, even against the nosiest hands in the dorm. 

From the pocket of his pajamas—old, ill-fitting, one button gone—he drew out Sirius’ cloak and cancelled the shrinking charm with a flick. It unfurled across his lap, soft and incongruous against the school blankets. They were warm enough, but the cloak offered something else. Not just the scent of Sirius’ expensive soap, though that lingered too.

He ran his fingers along the lining, then settled back against the pillow. His mind circled their conversation about James’ gift. They’d both known it was a proxy war. They hadn’t been talking about the ring. Not really. They’d been talking about this. Severus accepting the cloak.

Part of him was still angry he’d taken it, but another part—quieter, larger—was comforted by the memory of Sirius offering it. Tailoring it. Changing the colour.

“You like green, right?”

He closed his eyes.

The cloak was warm.

The rest—anger, doubt, whatever it was—could wait.

Chapter Text

Severus is walking through a corridor that doesn’t end.

The walls shimmer. Marble, then mahogany, then glass. His footsteps echo, sharp and clean. He’s wearing a suit. Not just tailored. Enchanted. It fits like it was made for him. The fabric hums with quiet power.

People nod as he passes. Colleagues. Professors. Ministry officials. They smile, deferential. Someone calls him Sir. Another says Head of Department. He doesn’t stop walking.

The corridor opens into a hall. Chandeliers float above. Scrolls hover midair, waiting for his signature. A goblet lifts itself toward him. Applause ripples through the room.

Lily is there.

She’s radiant. Not the girl from Spinner’s End, but sharp, brilliant, untouchable. She smiles at him like he’s earned it. Like he belongs.

“We did it,” she says.

He nods. He doesn’t dare speak. The sound might break it.

The chandeliers flicker, then stutter, as if caught mid-spell. The floor shifts beneath him. Not falling. Not rising. Just… changing.

He’s standing in a drawing room. Immaculate. Expensive. The kind of space he’s only seen in books or glimpsed through polished windows. Never entered.

The furnishings are old but not softened by use. Preserved. Every gleaming surface declares: this family has had money for generations and intends to keep it that way.

A door opens. A woman enters, dressed in mourning black. Severe lines, high collar, no softness. Behind her, a tall man follows—equally formal, equally distant. Then two boys.

The taller one wears a velvet suit and a white cravat, his grey eyes defiant. Sirius. Ten, maybe eleven.

The younger is a smaller echo. Same bones, same eyes, but watchful. Nervous. Regulus.

The woman turns. Behind her hangs a tapestry. Faded green. Immense. It hums faintly with magic.

“Walburga, is this really necessary?” Orion asks, not looking up from the decanter. He pours slowly, the amber liquid catching the firelight. His voice is almost indifferent. “Cygnus has already dealt with the girl. She’s gone.”

“Gone from his house,” Walburga replies, her back still to him. “Not from ours. The stain remains until it is cleansed.”

She turns and extends a hand toward Sirius. Her smile is tight, ceremonial. “Come here, my son.”

He steps forward, posture locked. Doesn’t take her hand. She lets it fall and turns back to the tapestry. Only now does Severus see it clearly: an enormous, sprawling family tree.

A soft sound breaks the hush. Severus turns.

Regulus stands near the hearth, pale and still. His fingers curl tight around the edge of his sleeve.

“Mother,” he says quietly. “Andromeda didn’t choose the soulbond. Do we really have to cut her out over it?”

Walburga’s gaze sharpens. The room stills around her. Regulus lowers his eyes.

Sirius steps forward, placing himself between them.

“If you’re set on punishing someone,” he says, “make it me. I’m the heir. It’s supposed to fall to me.”

Walburga lowers her wand slowly. Her gaze lingers on Sirius, measuring.

“That is correct,” she says. “But this isn’t punishment. It’s instruction.”

She turns back to the tapestry. Its embroidery glows faintly in the firelight.

“You will burn her name from the tree,” she explains. “Your uncle cast her out, but the binding holds. It won’t break until you sever it. That is your duty.”

For a moment, Severus thinks he won’t do it. That he’ll refuse, consequences be damned.

Then Walburga speaks again, her voice like ice. “If you won’t,” she says, “your brother will.”

Sirius doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look at the tapestry.

He looks at Regulus.

“Go sit down,” he says, voice taut. “You’re not doing this.”

Regulus obeys, silent and wide-eyed.

Sirius raises his wand. He hesitates—just long enough for Walburga to notice, not long enough for her to speak. Then he casts the spell.

Severus jolted upright, wand in hand before breath returned. He didn’t need a charm to know it was early, but cast Tempus anyway. The numbers hovered, pale and brief, confirming what he already knew. Morning was still distant. The others slept on, undisturbed.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his sternum, a gesture meant to distract from the ache beneath his ribs. Unwanted residue from Sirius’ memory, forced on him through the soulbond.

Andromeda Black. He knew that name. She’d been a seventh-year when Severus first arrived at Hogwarts. Elegant. Aloof. A Slytherin, like her cousins.

Well. All but one of them.

Her soulmark had matched her to a Muggleborn. Ted Tonks. The scandal was loud enough that even first-years heard the whispers. Severus hadn’t paid much attention. He’d had other concerns—surviving Slytherin House without drawing fire, masking his lack of formal magical training, trying not to flinch when the other students sneered at his accent or his robes.

He remembered the tension more than the details: the way her name stopped conversations, the way some students spat it like a curse.

He hadn’t known Sirius was the one who cast her out.

Family magic. Severus knew the theory. Mostly from books, not experience. His mother had been a Prince, a proud if not particularly affluent pure-blood family, but they’d severed ties after she married Tobias.

Still, he understood how it worked among the Old Houses. The wealthier pure-bloods maintained reservoirs of ancestral power, bound to their estates. Each family member could draw on it, usually in proportion to their standing within the hierarchy.

Being cast out meant losing access. A wrench, certainly—but minor, perhaps, compared to being disowned by one’s parents and sisters. Especially when the wizarding world was all you’d ever known, and you’d once stood near the top of it.

A sour taste crept up the back of his throat. Sirius had claimed he stayed in that house to shield his brother, and the memory Severus had seen lent that story more weight than he’d ever wanted to grant it.

Did Sirius’ mother deliver lessons like that often?

The memory of Regulus approaching him in the Slytherin common room surfaced. Unwelcome, and newly refracted.

“He can’t speak,” Regulus had said, voice tight. “Our mother hit him with a silencing curse. Old family magic.”

And had his father always stood aside, polished and indifferent, while she did as she pleased with their sons?

It wasn’t the same, but it echoed—faintly—his own mother, drinking herself senseless whenever she could. Her gaze, unfocused, always sliding past him. Her silence, constant, even when Tobias mocked or tore into him.

He groaned in frustration. The idea that he and Sirius Black might share anything—history, pain, even a flicker of understanding—was intolerable.

He gathered his clothes from the floor, dressing in the dark with brisk, jerky movements.

He’d go to the library. Slip in under a Disillusionment Charm. Settle into the window seat overlooking the Quidditch pitch.

There had to be a way to block the memory sharing beyond Dreamless Sleep, and he wouldn’t rest until he found it.

Sirius flipped the pillow and pressed his cheek to the cool side, eyes sliding toward James’ bed. He was finally out—Pomfrey’s calming draught had done its job.

His birthday was tomorrow. Or today, technically. They’d talked so long it had tipped into morning, though the sky outside still felt like night.

He’d wake up and see a name on his wrist. Sirius wondered who it’d be. Probably some girl with clever eyes and a laugh James would fall in love with on principle.

He didn’t like to admit it—hadn’t, even to himself—but before his own birthday in November, the thought had slipped through. That maybe, impossibly, it might be James. Just once. Just long enough to feel sick about it.

His soulmark burned, the way it always did when he thought about James. Like it was punishing him for wanting the wrong person.

He sat up, ribs aching, and reached for the Marauder’s Map. Sometimes, watching Severus’ dot helped dull the pain. Just a little. As if even imagined proximity could trick his body into settling.

Tonight, the dot wasn’t in the Slytherin dorm. It hovered in the library again—western corner, same as before. Probably the window seat near the Quidditch pitch.

Sirius pulled on his dressing gown over his pajamas and slipped his feet into his slippers. He didn’t stop to ask himself why. He just moved.

“Don’t jump,” Sirius said, drawing back the heavy green curtain that screened Severus’ favorite window seat. “It’s only me.”

“Salazar,” Severus muttered, flinching despite the warning. “What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed. “And how did you know where to find me?”

Sirius shrugged and slid into the opposite side of the window seat, forcing Severus to shift his legs to avoid brushing against him.

He hesitated, then handed over the map. It glowed faintly between them, alive with the movements of everyone in the castle. He hadn’t left it behind in the dorm, not with the chance James might wake and see he was meeting Severus in the library.

“We started it in third year,” Sirius said, tone offhand. “James, me, and the others. Took ages to get it right. Tracks every person at Hogwarts—mostly so we could dodge Filch.”

“You expect me to believe you made this?” Severus studied the map with quiet intensity, almost hungrily, the way he always did with unusual magic. Maybe it was a side effect of growing up in a Muggle household. That sharp, consuming curiosity for enchantments Sirius had long since stopped noticing.

“Believe what you want.” Sirius leaned back against the carved wood, the burn of the soulmark easing slightly now that Severus was near.

Severus handed the map back with a flick of disdain, but Sirius could tell it wasn’t easy for him to let go.

“You’re so desperate for us to work together,” Severus said. “Fine. I’ve found a way you might actually be useful.”

“Useful. That's generous. You must be in a good mood.”

“We need an alternative to Dreamless Sleep,” Severus continued, ignoring him. “Something that stops the memory bleed.”

Sirius sat up, alert. “You saw one of mine?”

Severus nodded. “The night you disowned Andromeda Black.”

“I only did it to protect Regulus,” he said, voice clipped. “I hate my family’s pure-blood mania.”

“Functionally, you’re no different. You did the disowning.”

“I was eleven.” Sirius’ voice rose, then caught. His face flushed. “What would you’ve done?”

Severus held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. “The same, probably.”

“So maybe now you believe me,” Sirius said. “I only stay for Regulus. In two years, he’ll come of age. He’ll be strong enough to stand her down. And then I’ll leave. Like I’ve always meant to.”

“And what—walk out with a wand and a dream? I do hope you’ve started saving. Ever paid rent? Cooked a meal? Washed your own robes without a house-elf to fold them?”

Sirius bristled. “How hard can it be?”

Severus lifted his brows. “Dumbledore’s letting me spend a few weekends in London to sort out Muggle housing. I could bring you along. Might do you good to see how the world actually works—before you try running headlong into it.”

Sirius blinked, thrown. His mouth opened, then shut.

“You’re inviting me to go look at flats with you?” He scoffed, trying to recover. “What’s next, picking out a china pattern?”

Severus shrugged, tone cool. “If you’re not interested, you need only say.”

Sirius hesitated. His fingers twitched against his sleeve, brushing the soulmark like it might settle the ache. His voice came quieter, but no less firm. “No. I want to go.” He paused, jaw tightening. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’ll hate it.” Severus didn’t look at him, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “I expect to be thoroughly entertained.”

“It’s a date.” Sirius stood, drawing back the curtain. “I’ve got to get back. James’ll be awake soon, and it’s his birthday, so…”

“He’ll want to tell you all about his soulmark.” Severus opened a book, eyes skimming the page with deliberate disinterest. “I do hope he’s recovered from his drinking binge.”

“He’s doing alright. He’d be touched by your concern.” Sirius hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain. “Are you up for another flying lesson on Saturday?” He swallowed, pressing on when Severus only looked at him, expression unreadable. “I could really use another… session.”

“That is acceptable.” Severus turned the page, holding the book a little closer to his face, a quiet signal of dismissal.

“Thanks, I guess.” Sirius started to turn, then paused. “Doesn’t it affect you at all?” His voice dropped. “If I don’t spend time with you… mine burns.”

Severus didn’t look up. “I already agreed to meet. I don’t know what more you want from me.”

“Right.” Sirius’ mouth tightened. “See you later, then.”

“Where’ve you been?” Peter asked as Sirius stepped into the Gryffindor common room, still in his dressing gown. “Remus sent me to find you—James is in a state.”

Sirius glanced toward the hearth, where a few fourth-years hunched over parchment. He lowered his voice. “Not here. Upstairs.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows it’s his birthday. You don’t have to whisper.” He was already halfway up the stairs. “And you still haven’t said why you took the map.”

“I needed it to sneak in his present,” Sirius said, smooth as ever.

Peter snorted. “Hope it’s not more Firewhisky. He’s already halfway to tragic hero mode.”

They reached the dormitory. The door creaked open.

James stood by his bed, collar askew like he’d redone it three times and still wasn’t satisfied. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw tight. Remus stood nearby, speaking low and fast—until the door opened and he fell silent.

“There you are,” James said, trying for a smile. “Thought you’d be here when I woke up. Figured you’d want to hear it from me.”

Sirius hesitated, then peeled off his dressing gown and tossed it onto his bed. “Was finishing your gift,” he said, pulling his shirt from the trunk. “Didn’t think chocolate frogs were going to cut it this year.”

James nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s not Lily.”

Sirius paused, then pulled the shirt over his head, fingers fumbling slightly at the collar. “No surprise there. So… who is it?”

James looked up. “You know her better than I do. She’s your cousin.”

Sirius froze mid-button. “Please tell me it’s not Bellatrix.”

James gave a bitter laugh. “Worse. Narcissa.”

Peter, already sprawled on his bed, blinked. “Wait—how’s that bad? She’s gorgeous. And her family’s, you know...”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Go on, Wormtail. What’s her family like?”

Peter shrugged. “Rich. Not that you need the money,” he added, a little sulky. “Some people get all the luck.”

Remus gave him a look. “Try to have some tact. You know James has been in love with Lily since second year.”

“I’m just saying—Narcissa’s not exactly a downgrade.”

Remus hesitated, glancing at Sirius. “Isn't she practically betrothed to Malfoy? Even I heard about that serpent brooch he gave her for Christmas.”

“That won’t matter once she sees the mark,” Peter said confidently. “She’ll be bragging about it by lunch—you’ll see.”

Sirius grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at Peter without looking. “That’s enough out of you.” He turned back to James. “Let’s get out of here. London’s calling—we could catch a gig at Dingwalls, maybe grab something greasy in Camden after.”

James smiled faintly. “Thanks, Pads. But I probably shouldn’t skip again. I got lucky last time—any more and Dumbledore’ll Floo my dad.” He straightened, smoothing his collar again. “How was detention with Slughorn, by the way? I heard you had to share it with Snape.”

“Fine,” Sirius said. “He sent us out to collect some obscure potion ingredient. You didn’t miss anything. Other than freezing your arse off.”

“So… are you going to tell her at breakfast?” Peter asked, hurrying after them down the stairs.

“No, Wormtail,” James said, not quite meeting his eyes. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet—for now. I just need to get through the week.”

Heads turned as they reached the landing. The common room quieted. Everyone seemed to be watching James’ left wrist while pretending they weren’t.

Sirius cleared his throat. “So, Prongs… present now, or after breakfast?”

“Let me eat first. I need at least one good decision today.” He turned to Peter. “You and Remus go ahead. I need a word with Sirius.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Remus caught the back of his robes and steered him toward the portrait hole. “Come on, Wormtail. It’s his birthday—let him have a moment.”

Once they were alone in the corridor, James lowered his voice. “I don’t suppose you could… help me with her, Pads? I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to Narcissa, and this feels more than a little awkward. Especially considering…”

“The whole school’s talking about you trying to give the family jewels to Lily,” Sirius said, deadpan.

James shot him a look, but Sirius only shrugged. “I’m sure she didn’t mean for it to get out. Probably told Marlene McKinnon, who told one person, who told five more… you know how this place works.”

“Yeah.” James ran a hand through his hair, tousling it harder than usual. “I doubt she’ll be thrilled about the match, no matter what Peter says.” He cleared his throat. “How long do I have before the mark starts making it… awkward not to, you know, acknowledge it?”

“You’ve got time,” Sirius said, voice easy. “Months, usually.”

James nodded, then hesitated. He reached out and rested a hand briefly on Sirius’ back. “Thanks, Pads,” he said quietly. “I know you’ll help me figure it out.”

Sirius shrugged, but his voice didn’t waver. “Always.”

Chapter Text

“Oh. Hi, Pettigrew.”

Peter looked up from the broom he was polishing—third time over, just to be thorough—and froze. Three Hufflepuff girls stood in the doorway of the broom shed: Diana Fawley in front, arms crossed, her expression unreadable; behind her, Susan Avery and Maisie Cattermole exchanged a look that made Peter feel like he’d just been caught loitering in the girls’ lavatory.

“Hello, ladies. Can I help you with something?”

Susan glanced at Maisie, mouth twitching. Diana didn’t smile.

“I know you’re Gryffindor’s Quidditch manager,” she said, tone cool, “but are you in charge of all the school brooms now?”

Peter puffed out his chest slightly. “Not officially. But I do a lot of maintenance. People don’t realize how much goes into keeping a team functional. Tail bristle alignment, fastening integrity—”

Susan cut in with a polite nod. “We get it. You’re… essential. If you don’t mind, we’ll just grab our brooms. We’re flying out toward Falbarton Castle while the weather holds.”

Peter stepped aside, gesturing toward the wall-mounted holsters like a concierge at a second-rate hotel. “Of course. Let me help.”

He reached for Susan’s broom, handed it off, and watched her turn away without a second glance. Diana was next, fingers tapping against her sleeve.

Peter’s jaw tightened. It was irritating—how little anyone seemed to care about the work he did. James had promised that being close to the team would make him interesting. Desirable, even. But so far, all it had earned him was a front-row seat to Sirius’ charm and James’ spotlight.

Behind him, Maisie lingered near the Gryffindor rack, quieter than the others. Her eyes drifted toward the Silver Arrow in its enchanted holster.

“Is that James Potter’s?” she asked, trying for offhand but not quite pulling it off. “I heard he got a new one after the Ravenclaw match.”

Peter glanced up, sensing an opening. “Yeah. Custom enchantments. Tuned for sharper dives—Madam Hooch said it’s borderline illegal.”

Maisie made a low, impressed sound. “Figures. He flies like he’s showing off even when he’s not.”

Susan snorted. “He’s always showing off.”

Peter smiled, stretching it too far. “Well, he’s got the reflexes for it. And the broom helps. I helped calibrate it last week.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “You did?”

Peter nodded, aiming for casual. “I’m the manager. I handle all the gear.”

Maisie tilted her head. “So you know him pretty well?”

Peter hesitated, then leaned against the rack like he’d seen Sirius do once. “Yeah. I mean… I know things. Like who his soulmate is.”

That got their attention. Diana’s head tilted. Susan looked skeptical. Maisie leaned in, eyes wide.

Peter lowered his voice, conspiratorial. “He hasn’t told anyone—he’s still heartbroken it wasn’t Lily Evans.”

Diana stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm. “You have to tell us,” she said.

Peter blinked, and the secret spilled out before he could stop it. “It’s Narcissa Black.”

Susan audibly gasped. Maisie’s mouth fell open.

“You’re sure it’s her?” Diana’s voice sharpened, quick with interest. “I mean… Narcissa Black is so stuck up. To be soulbonded to James Potter when everyone knows he’d rather be with Lily Evans…”

“It’s too good,” Susan agreed.

“Wait—just a minute,” Peter said, alarmed, as Susan started to put her broom back. “It’s a secret. James doesn’t want this getting out. He’s still figuring out how to approach Narcissa. Bit awkward for him, like you said… because of Lily.”

“Let’s go back to the common room,” Diana said, turning on her heel. “I don’t think I want to fly anymore.”

The other two fell into step beside her, already whispering.

“Wait, I’m serious…” Peter trailed after them, voice rising. “If James finds out I’m the one who told—he’ll be furious!”

None of them looked back.

“It gets easier with practice,” Sirius said, his mouth twitching as Severus landed gracelessly, skidding across the frost-slicked stones of Falbarton Castle’s courtyard.

“It’s the ground, not my technique,” Severus muttered, defensive—but smiling. The rare sight of it did something strange to Sirius’ chest. He didn’t want it to stop, so he said nothing, just took the broom when Severus passed it over, careful not to brush his hand in the exchange.

Sirius cleared his throat.

“Flying’s sorted. What about the other bit?”

“This way.”

Severus turned and started up the winding stone steps toward one of the castle towers, not bothering to check if Sirius was following. The wind whistled through the arrow slits, but Sirius didn’t feel the cold. He was too busy anticipating what it would be like to touch Severus again, his soulmark burning eagerly for contact.

When Severus turned to face him, his eyes were so dark they looked almost black. Wind whipped his chin-length hair around his face, and—unexpectedly—it suited him. It made his hooked nose look distinguished. Almost handsome.

“Can I—” Sirius began, but Severus was already moving, swallowing the rest of the words with a kiss that was graceless but deep.

Sirius made a breathless sound against the seam of Severus’ mouth, his hands going instinctively to Severus waist. Sirius didn’t expect much muscle—he spent most of his time in the library, after all—but his hands slid to Severus’ back anyway, curious to feel what was there.

“Did I say you could do that?” Severus pulled back sharply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His glare was practiced, but not quite convincing.

Sirius froze, hands still half-raised. “No, but—”

“But what? Just because you’re used to getting everything you want—”

“I need it, alright?” Sirius interrupted, voice raw. “My mark burns all the time now. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. I keep staring at your dot on the map because it’s the only thing that helps.”

“Calm down, Black,” Severus said, voice low but less sharp. “I may not want you pawing at me, but that doesn’t mean I won’t touch you.”

Sirius blinked. “Touch me?” His heart stuttered. “Where, exactly? Because I’m not giving you blanket permission either.”

“Your back,” Severus said with a shrug. “Or your chest. Either way… you’ll need to unbutton your shirt.”

Sirius untucked his shirt and worked the buttons open with quick, practiced fingers, jaw clenched against the vulnerability of it. “You don’t want me looking at you, do you?”

“Say one more thing and I won’t touch you again.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and tugged open his shirt. The satisfaction was immediate. Severus’ gaze snagged on his chest. He bit his lower lip, not thoughtfully, just like he didn’t know what else to do with his mouth.

“Like what you see?”

Severus scoffed, eyes flicking up. “I like it when you follow instructions.”

Sirius stiffened, but then Severus’ hands were on him. Skin to skin, moving fast, sliding over his bare chest. The contact stole his breath. His body betrayed him instantly, heat rushing through him like a fuse lit too close to the flame.

Severus kissed him again, and he was so close Sirius could feel the press of him through his trousers.

“You’re really into this,” Sirius breathed, gasping for air but more eager to taunt, to claw back control. “If I’d known you were this desperate, I’d have skipped the flying lesson.”

“Shut up,” Severus said, but he stepped closer, guiding Sirius’ hips forward until his length dragged against the line of Severus’ thigh with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Fuck,” Sirius gasped, his body jolting before he could stop it, chasing friction.

“You respond to everything,” Severus murmured, cataloguing the reaction like it was data. “Doesn’t matter what I do.”

Sirius bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His hips kept grinding forward, breath hitching, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. Severus’ thigh was solid beneath him, unyielding, and the friction was maddening.

“If you fucking stop now,” Sirius managed, the warning rough in his throat, almost a growl.

“Keep still and I won’t,” Severus said, trying for indifference—but his pupils were blown, and he was watching Sirius’ face like he needed to memorize every detail.

Sirius’ body surged ahead of thought, chasing sensation before his mind could catch up. Heat flooded his spine, his knees buckled, and a strangled sound tore loose from his throat. He came hard, still fully clothed, the sensation sharp and humiliating and so good it stole the breath from his lungs.

Severus stepped back abruptly, and Sirius had to catch himself against the tower wall. Goosebumps rose across his chest, the warmth already gone. Severus turned away, hands clumsy at his waistband, like he couldn’t get out of the moment fast enough.

“Don’t you need—” Sirius began, but the question died in his throat when Severus looked back. His face was shuttered, unreadable.

“That’s all you get.” A quick flick of his wand, and a cleaning charm swept over his robes.

“You’re serious? That’s it?”

“You expected a cuddle?”

Sirius straightened, bristling. “Of course not.”

“Then we’re done here.”

“Did you hear about Madame Pince?” Patricia Rakepick asked, lazily stirring her tea with a self-cooling charm. She sat with the other Slytherin upperclassmen in the common room, their green-trimmed robes draped over plush armchairs. “Someone nicked a book from the Restricted Section. Real dark stuff—Ministry-banned, apparently.”

“Oh, she’s losing it,” drawled Florence Burke, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “She’s trying to get Dumbledore to approve a full dorm search. Can you imagine?”

Bellatrix snorted. “Filch would wet himself. He’s been dying for an excuse to paw through our knickers since third year.”

That got a round of laughter from the girls—sharp, indulgent, a little too loud.

“I bet it was one of the Gryffindor half-bloods,” said Lucy Rosier, sprawled across one of the black velvet sofas like she owned it. “They’re always pretending they’re above it, but they’re obsessed with anything forbidden.”

“Or Potter,” Bellatrix added, eyes gleaming. “He probably wanted to impress Evans with something dangerous. Tragic, really. Whoever ends up as his soulmate will have to live with being his second choice.”

“Third,” Narcissa murmured, not looking up from her book. “He’s been chasing her since fourth year. That’s a lot of rejection to inherit.”

The girls laughed again, and Narcissa glanced up, expecting one of their familiar smirks.

Instead, she caught sight of a pale-faced girl hovering just beyond the circle of firelight like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there.

Eloise Rowle.

The name surfaced without effort. A second-year who trailed Narcissa through corridors and study halls, always a few steps behind, pretending not to be watching.

Bellatrix clocked her immediately. “Well, look who wandered in,” she said, voice syrupy and sharp. “Lost, sweetheart?”

Eloise flushed, visibly wilting. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, stumbling over the words. “I just—I need to tell Cissy something. Narcissa, I mean.”

The correction earned a snort from Florence. Patricia muttered, “Cute.”

Narcissa closed her book with a soft thud. “Let’s step away. You’re clearly not here for an audience.”

Eloise hesitated, eyes flicking toward Bellatrix, who was watching her like a cat with a paw already raised.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Bellatrix said, stretching her legs across the rug. “Whatever it is, we’re dying to hear it. Aren’t we, girls?”

Florence smirked. “I hope it’s about Potter’s soulmark. He’s been brooding handsomely since his birthday.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Patricia leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Did the news finally break? Is it Evans?”

Eloise swallowed hard. “It’s just—I thought Narcissa should hear it from someone who wasn’t trying to be cruel.”

Bellatrix sat up straighter, sensing blood. “What exactly should Narcissa hear?”

Eloise looked at Narcissa, then back at the others. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“It’s all over the castle. That James Potter’s soulmate is… you.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, Cissy,” Lucy said, her voice lilting with concern as she shifted to make room at the Slytherin table. A silver teapot hovered between platters of sliced melon and cold ham, steam curling lazily above the rim. “We weren’t sure you’d come down. You must be exhausted.”

Narcissa took her seat with unhurried grace, robes immaculate, as if the quiet stir her arrival caused had nothing to do with her. “I slept quite well,” she said, reaching for the teapot with practiced ease. “Bella—toast?”

Patricia offered a sympathetic smile over her half-eaten poached egg. “Still, it must be overwhelming. All that attention. I heard even Flitwick asked if it was true.”

Florence leaned forward, her tone soft, almost admiring. “James looked wrecked last night. Honestly, it’s sort of poetic. You, him, fate. The whole castle watching.”

“I don’t see why Potter’s brooding,” Bellatrix muttered, buttering her toast with unnecessary force. “His soulmark links him to the oldest wizarding bloodline in England. If anyone’s been slighted, it’s us.”

“Need I remind you,” Narcissa said coolly, stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea, “we don’t even know if this rumor is true.”

“Pettigrew must be mortified. Poor thing. He only wanted to impress that Hufflepuff girl. It’s awful how quickly things spiral.” Lucy paused, her smile turning gentle, almost maternal, as she reached for a dish of sliced pears. “You’re handling it beautifully, Cissy. Really. I don’t think I could be so composed if my soulmate preferred someone else.”

Narcissa didn’t have time to answer. A sharp clink rang out from the High Table, silver on glass.

Dumbledore had risen.

The Great Hall quieted with startling speed. Forks stilled. Conversations dissolved mid-sentence. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to dim slightly, as if the clouds themselves were listening.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “You all have classes to attend, so I’ll keep this brief.”

He looked out over the gathered students, his expression mild, but touched with something quietly knowing. A kind of private understanding.

“As some of you may have heard,” he continued, “a book has gone missing from the Restricted Section. This is not merely a rare volume—it is dangerous. Its contents, if mishandled, could pose a serious risk.”

He paused, letting that settle.

“On the advice of Madam Pince and several other members of staff, I’ve authorized a temporary search of student dormitories. I understand this is an unusual breach of privacy, and I do not take it lightly. But my duty is to ensure the safety of this school—and sometimes, that requires uncomfortable measures.”

A ripple of murmurs spread across the room—disbelief, indignation, a few nervous glances.

Dumbledore raised one hand, and the whispers faded.

“I ask for your patience while the search is conducted. You will be kept informed, and accommodations will be made to ensure your comfort. In the meantime, no student will be permitted to return to their common room until the matter is resolved.”

He let the silence stretch just long enough.

“If the person in possession of the book would prefer to come forward privately,” he added, his voice gentler now, “they are welcome to visit my office at any time.”

With that, he resumed his seat.

For a moment, the Great Hall held its breath. Not out of reverence, but unease. Then the low hum of conversation resumed, quieter now, threaded with speculation and nerves.

“I left all my textbooks in the common room,” Florence said, her voice edged with real worry. “My Arithmancy essay’s still on my desk.”

“I’m sure Professor Vector will let it slide,” Patricia replied, leaning in with a little too much interest. “Still—what book do you think it was? And who’d be reckless enough to take it?”

The girls around Narcissa traded theories in eager bursts, but she wasn’t listening.

If she thought about the dormitory search at all, it was only to note how conveniently it had redirected attention away from her.

Almost against her will, Narcissa’s gaze drifted to the far end of the Gryffindor table. James Potter sat there, surrounded by his usual orbit—Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and a handful of girls pretending not to watch him too obviously.

She went still, the line of her shoulders tightening. He was staring back.

Florence leaned in, voice low. “He’s kind of stupidly fit, right?”

She was the only one who’d noticed where Narcissa was looking.

“That robe’s doing a lot of work. Shame it’s not enough.”

Florence laughed. “God, Cissy. You’re brutal.” Then her smile faded. “But seriously… are you okay? If you ever want to talk or vent or whatever—I’m around.”

“I’m fine,” Narcissa said, with a smile that clearly wasn’t meant to invite follow-up. “Pettigrew probably started the whole thing just to feel important. You know how he is.”

Suddenly, James shoved back his chair, the scrape sharp enough to turn a few heads. He didn’t speak, just stood and stalked away from the Gryffindor table, shoulders tight.

Remus hesitated, then made a quiet gesture toward Peter, who’d half-risen from his seat, uncertain. He followed James alone.

Florence watched them go. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Narcissa expected Sirius to follow them, but at the last second, he veered off toward the Slytherin table. She stiffened, bracing for the possibility that he might actually try to speak to her about James—here, in public, with half the school watching. It would be just like him.

But instead, he headed toward Regulus. They exchanged a few hushed words, and Narcissa thought she saw the flick of a note pass between them. Then Sirius turned and followed his friends out of the Great Hall without looking back.

Severus brushed a cobweb from his sleeve with a precise, irritated flick. His mouth tightened. The underground chamber reeked of mildewed parchment and scorched ink, the air thick with the stale residue of spells long spent.

“Regulus gave me your note,” he said. “You could’ve picked somewhere less theatrical.”

“This is the Undercroft,” Sirius replied, lighting another torch along the wall. The flame sputtered, casting jagged shadows across the low, vaulted ceiling. “James and I found it in fourth year when we were mapping the castle.”

Severus snorted. The sound echoed, brittle. “Of course you did. You and Potter—always joined at the hip.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “How is he, by the way? I never liked him, but even I didn’t think he’d stoop to humiliating Lily and Narcissa both.”

“James didn’t want anyone knowing about the soulmark,” Sirius said, voice tired. “It was Peter. He thought it would impress someone—”

Severus cut in, dry. “And you expect me to believe James had no idea?”

“It doesn’t matter who knew what,” he said, voice clipped. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t meant to get out.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders drawn tight. “Look. I’m not here to defend James. Or any of them.”

“Then why are you here?”

Sirius gave him a flat look. “You know why. The book.”

Severus folded his arms. “You’re not getting it back.”

“You heard Dumbledore. He’s already searching. And if you think he hasn’t brewed up some kind of tracking spell that’ll sniff it out wherever you’ve stashed it, you’re delusional.”

“Then why do you want it? If he’s going to find it anyway.”

Sirius shifted, boots scraping against uneven flagstone. “If I hand it over, I get detention. If they find it on you…”

“I’ll be expelled,” Severus said flatly.

“So,” Sirius said, quieter now. “Do you have it?”

Severus lingered a beat too long, then reached into his bag with a sigh that sounded more like contempt. “Obviously.”

Sirius reached for Semiotics of the Unseen, visibly relieved—until he realized Severus was still holding on. Their hands met in a brief, silent standoff.

“You used this to obscure your mark.”

Sirius hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

Severus’ grip didn’t loosen. “Did you experience any of the adverse effects the book warned about?”

Sirius tugged the book free. “There was some discomfort. You saw me in the infirmary.”

“But nothing since?”

Sirius tilted his head, watching him with guarded curiosity. “No. Nothing worth mentioning. Why—don’t tell me you’re actually worried.”

“My only concern is your tendency to fling yourself into things without the slightest regard for the consequences.”

Sirius’ mouth twitched. “It almost sounds like you care.”

“I don’t,” Severus said, already turning to leave.

“Wait.” Sirius reached out, fingers brushing his shoulder—just enough to stall him.

“Since we’re alone,” he said, eyes dropping to Severus’ mouth, “you could help me with the withdrawal symptoms. Since you’re feeling so generous.”

Severus stilled, then turned back slightly, gaze narrowing. “And what exactly do I get out of it?”

“I did just stop you from getting expelled.”

Severus didn’t move, but something in him went still—like a door closing. “Typical Black,” he said, contempt threading through every syllable. “You think cleaning up your own mess counts as generosity.”

He turned and climbed the steps back to the main level, his back held stiff with resentment.

Dumbledore looked up as Sirius entered, his quill hovering mid-sentence. The office was cluttered but warm: a crackling hearth, silver instruments ticking on high shelves, and the scent of lemon polish lingering beneath old parchment.

It was too calm for what Sirius was about to do.

“Mr. Black,” Dumbledore said, voice mild. “I had a feeling you might come by.”

Sirius placed Semiotics of the Unseen on the desk between them.

“The book that went missing from the Restricted Section,” he said. “I’m returning it.”

Dumbledore didn’t touch the book. He studied Sirius for a moment, then gestured to the armchair across from him. “Sit down, please. I suspect this is more than a simple act of restitution.”

Sirius lowered himself into the tartan armchair, trying to look casual. The cushions were too soft, like they remembered every student who’d sat there with guilt in their throat.

“I borrowed it,” he said. “I thought it might help.”

“With your soulmark,” Dumbledore said, not unkindly.

Sirius fidgeted with his cuff. “I just wanted to understand it,” he said. “Maybe undo it.”

Dumbledore removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a quiet charm. “When I was your age, I felt the same. My soulmark appeared when I was seventeen. I spent years trying to erase it.”

Sirius leaned forward, startled. “You had one? But you’re...”

“Half-blood,” Dumbledore finished, tone even. “Yes. But there are other kinds of inheritance that make a bond difficult to name.”

Sirius tried for casual and missed. “What do you mean? Other than blood status—what else makes a mark unacceptable?”

Dumbledore met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I think you already know, Mr. Black.” He paused before continuing. “The man I was bound to—yes, it can happen between men, though it’s rare—feared the mark more than I did. That fear drove him to desperate choices. It ruined his life. And hurt others along the way.”

Sirius swallowed, the air suddenly too warm. “That’s not—people don’t talk about that. I’ve never heard of it happening.”

“I just told you it can,” Dumbledore said gently. “The question isn’t whether it’s possible. It’s whether you’ll spend your life trying to undo it—or find a way to live with it.”

“Is that what you did, then? Lived with it?”

He knew Dumbledore had never married. As far as anyone knew, he lived alone.

Dumbledore’s expression shifted, the lines around his mouth deepening. “My soulmate died when I was a young man,” he said quietly. “He couldn’t bear what the bond asked of him. And in trying to sever it… he lost more than just the mark.”

“So that’s the answer, then? One of you dies, and the other gets to move on.”

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted to the far wall, where a dust-covered instrument ticked softly, its rhythm steady and indifferent. “That’s one possibility,” he said. “A tragic one. But not the only path.”

He was quiet for a moment, the ticking filling the space between them. “I don’t speak of this often, but I think it matters now. The man you’re bound to—he’s struggling, isn’t he? Maybe even more than you are.”

Sirius’ fingers tightened around the fabric of his robes, fists forming slowly in his lap like he hadn’t noticed. “I think it’s me he can’t stand. Not the soulbond.”

Dumbledore nodded, slowly. “That may be true. Soulbonds don’t guarantee affection. They reveal something deeper—often before either person is ready to face it.”

Sirius glanced up, hesitant. “You said it’s about recognition, not affection. But… is there a way to make someone see you differently?”

Dumbledore considered him for a moment. “Affection cannot be forced,” he said quietly. “But understanding—sometimes that can be earned. If you’re willing to be seen. Not the version you think they’ll accept. The real one.”

He paused, then added,

“And often, it begins not with being understood, but with trying to understand.”

Sirius hesitated. “I’ll try,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t know if it’ll make a difference.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Trying is often the bravest part,” he said. “Especially when the outcome is uncertain.”

He let the silence settle. Then, without ceremony, he picked up his quill.

“That will be all, Mr. Black.”

Chapter Text

“Professor Slughorn? You wanted to see me?”

Lily stood in the doorway of his office, her Transfiguration textbook clutched tight to her chest. She’d spent longer than usual on her appearance that morning—hair smoothed, collar straight—not out of vanity, but defense. It was the only shield she had against the scrutiny that followed her through the castle now.

Everyone was talking about James Potter’s soulbond with Narcissa Black.

She felt it in the way conversation faltered when she entered the common room, in the way glances slid off her like water. Even at the Gryffindor table, her usual seat felt newly exposed. James wasn’t speaking to her—not that he was speaking to anyone. He was handling his disappointment with a brooding silence that only seemed to heighten his appeal among the castle’s female contingent.

Lily wasn’t sure which was worse: being ignored, or being watched.

“Miss Evans,” Slughorn said gently, rising from behind his desk with a furrow of concern. “Come in, my dear. Sit down, won’t you?”

He gestured toward the velvet chair opposite him. “Can I tempt you with a spot of tea? Or perhaps a biscuit—chocolate, if you’re feeling indulgent. I daresay things have been rather trying of late. The castle’s positively humming with speculation, and none of it, I assure you, has done you justice.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Lily said, settling into the chair with careful composure. “That’s kind of you, but I’m alright.”

She folded her hands over her book, voice steady. “I appreciate your concern—truly. But I’d rather not discuss what people are saying. It’s been a lot, and I’m trying to stay focused.”

Slughorn nodded, more solemn than usual. “Quite right. You’ve always had a clear head—and now that you’re leaving school, I suppose there’s no harm in admitting you’ve long been one of my favorites.”

He hesitated, fingers steepled. “You’re an exceptional witch, Lily. I’ve said so to the staff more than once. And if it weren’t so widely assumed you’d be married straight out of school—well, I’ve always believed you could go far.”

He faltered, realizing how that sounded. “Not that marriage precludes ambition, of course. It’s 1978—witches can do anything these days. Dear me, yes, absolutely!”

Lily tightened her grip on her book, but her voice stayed even. “I know you mean that kindly, sir. And I do appreciate your support—it’s not something I’ve always been afforded.”

She offered a small, practiced smile. “It makes a difference, having someone in your position willing to look past certain assumptions.”

Slughorn’s expression softened. “Well, I should hope so, my dear. You’ve earned every bit of it.”

He cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. A framed photograph of him with a former student—smiling, triumphant—tilted slightly on the desk as he leaned forward. “And it’s your future I wanted to speak about, actually. That’s why I asked you here.”

“My future, sir?”

Slughorn nodded, his jowls wobbling with the motion. “The Aurich Academy of Alchemical Sciences, my dear—quite prestigious. They offer fellowships to promising students from modest means: full tuition, research placement, generous stipend. It’s not often such doors open.”

He paused, visibly pleased. “I submitted your name last month—your N.E.W.T. scores, your fluxweed notes from the advanced seminar. I heard back this morning. You’ve been accepted.”

Lily blinked. “They accepted me, sir?” Her voice was quiet, incredulous. “I didn’t even know I’d applied.”

The Aurich Academy—its vaulted laboratories, manicured grounds, and reputation for excellence—had always felt like a distant dream. She’d read about it, sighed over it, but never imagined someone like her would be chosen.

Slughorn smoothed the edge of his waistcoat. “Well—no, not officially. I took the liberty of submitting your name. Quietly.”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking toward the window. “I assumed, as did many others, that you’d have… other prospects after school. The sort that tend to interest young women more than research placements and laboratory work.”

He smiled, as if trying to soften the implication. “But given recent developments, I’m rather glad I had the foresight to prepare an alternative.”

Lily pressed her lips together before replying. “I see.”

Slughorn blinked, his tone cooling by a degree. “I must admit, I expected a touch more enthusiasm. It’s a rare opportunity, Miss Evans—quite a prestigious one.”

Lily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, though it hadn’t fallen. “Thank you, sir. Honestly.” She could feel the weight of his expectation, the pause where praise was meant to bloom. “I think I’m still taking it in.”

Her smile was the one she’d worn through most of the term—polite, practiced. “It’s more than I ever expected.”

Slughorn’s face brightened, his earlier disappointment swept aside. “Just don’t forget me when you’re revolutionizing the field of Potions, eh?”

He chuckled, patting the arm of his chair. “I do like to keep tabs on my rising stars. A witch with your brains—and charm—is bound to go far. I’ve always said so.”

Lily’s smile held, but the velvet chair felt suddenly too soft, the fire too close. She nodded once, precisely.

“I’ll be sure to write.”

Severus was waiting for her outside Slughorn’s office. He leaned against the stone wall, arms folded.

“What did he want?” he asked as she approached.

Lily glanced down the corridor. A cluster of third-year girls loitered near the end, whispering behind their hands, clearly listening.

“Let’s walk,” she said, already heading toward the library.

“I assume he wanted to talk about Potter,” Severus muttered, falling into step beside her. His voice was low, but not low enough. He didn’t seem to notice the way Lily stiffened.

“Actually… he offered me a fellowship. At Aurich.”

He went still, the line of his mouth hardening. “Aurich? But—he told me they weren’t taking applications this year.”

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. The words had come out too fast, too blunt. This wasn’t how she’d wanted him to find out. “I didn’t know he’d submitted anything. He only told me today.” She hesitated, guilt catching up to her. “Apparently he assumed I’d be married by now. That I wouldn’t be interested.”

Severus let out a bitter breath. “Typical.”

He started walking again, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He didn’t speak again until they reached the marble steps of the Great Staircase, where the air cooled and the torchlight flickered against the stone.  

“Still,” he said finally. “It’s brilliant, Lily. Aurich doesn’t hand out fellowships lightly. It’s one of the few places that actually values real research. Their archives go back centuries—some of the texts aren’t even indexed.”

Lily glanced at him. His voice was steady, but his shoulders were tight, and he hadn’t looked at her once. “I know,” she said. “I just… I know you wanted it too. And I know Slughorn likes me more. Not because I’m smarter. Just because I’m easier to like.”

He stopped walking, finally turning to face her. His expression was guarded, but not cold. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve watched him hand out opportunities like party favors to people who flatter him. But you didn’t ask for it, Lily. You didn’t scheme for it. You earned it.”

She looked down. “It doesn’t feel like earning. It feels like being picked.”

Severus nodded. “You were picked. And you’ll be watched. Every mistake will be proof you never belonged. Every success will be theirs to claim. You’ll be the exception they trot out when they want to prove the system works.”

“And you’ll be working for the Potters.”

He flinched—barely, but enough to register. “It’s work,” he said after a beat, voice flat. “Not what I wanted, but it’s something. It’ll pay the rent.”

They continued into the library, passing Madame Pince’s desk with only a nod. She didn’t look up, already absorbed in cataloging a stack of returned scrolls. Lily led the way toward the Northwest Wing, where the shelves rose taller and the air grew colder. The section on Archaic Runes and Forgotten Languages was deserted, as usual—perfect for a conversation no one else was meant to hear.

Severus settled into the single desk tucked between two towering bookcases, the wood scarred by years of ink spills and wand burns. He dropped his knapsack onto the surface with a dull thud and began rummaging inside for his Transfiguration essay.

Lily slid into the seat across from him, setting her own books down with more care. With a subtle flick of her wand, she cast a privacy charm, enclosing their table in a faint shimmer that dulled the ambient sounds of the library. The stained glass window behind her spilled fractured light across the desk, greens and blues catching in Severus' hair.

“You shouldn’t have to settle,” she said, as if their conversation had never paused.

He shrugged, eyes on his parchment. The only sign he’d registered anything was the slow bleed of ink beneath his quill, pooling where he hadn’t moved. “Neither should you have had to be beautiful and charming just to be considered. But that’s how it works. You survived Spinner’s End. You’ll survive Aurich.”

“Like you’ll survive Sirius Black?” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Funny, isn’t it? Slughorn always assumed I’d be the one to land a rich pureblood. Turns out it’s you.”

Severus opened his textbook, turning to the chapter on Animagus transformation. “He’ll be livid when he realizes he missed his chance to name-drop me at dinner parties. ‘My dear boy Severus—yes, the one bonded to Sirius Black!’”

Lily laughed, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. “You forgot the part where he claims he always saw your potential.”

Severus’ mouth curled into something like a smile, but his eyes stayed cold. “Just imagine what that bloated parasite would say if he knew—what any of them would say.”

The laughter faded. Lily watched him for a moment, then reached out, resting a hand on his arm. Her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, where the fabric had begun to fray. “I didn’t mean to make light of it. It’s just easier sometimes—not thinking too hard about what it all means.”

He didn’t pull away, but his voice was flat. “By all means, keep laughing. It’s always been ridiculous. Just happens to be my life.”

His eyes returned to the book, but Lily wasn’t ready to let it go. “Has it started?” she asked quietly. “The symptoms Madam Pomfrey warned us about?”

He didn’t look up. “If it has, I haven’t noticed.”

She leaned in, the old library chair creaking beneath her as her weight shifted forward. “I know you don’t want this, Sev. But… can you actually reject it? Soulbonds aren’t exactly known for being forgiving. Most of what I’ve read ends badly when someone tries to fight them.”

“Black and I have an arrangement. As long as we stick to the terms, it’s tolerable.”

“And that’s really how you’re going to live? No real relationship, just an arrangement?”

“Have you ever seen two men have a ‘real relationship’ in this world?”

His voice was low, bitter. “Even if I weren’t soulbonded to Black… that doesn’t feel like a real possibility.”

Lily shivered against a draught from the nearby window and pulled her robes tighter.

“It’s not just that you’re two men,” she said finally. “Honestly, I’m more worried about what his family would do if they found out. The Blacks aren’t exactly known for their tolerance.”

“All the more reason to stick to the arrangement,” Severus said, shrugging with deliberate indifference.

He hesitated before he spoke again.

“Look, Lily—don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve got no interest in dissecting Black. You know how it is. Like you with Potter: what’s done is done. I’m just trying to get through this without making it worse.”

She picked up her quill, trying to focus on the essay they’d been assigned—something about the ethics of magical identity and the boundaries of transformation. Her handwriting wavered slightly as she began a new line.

“Alright. I won’t press.”

She paused, the tip of her quill hovering above the parchment.

“Just… if it ever gets worse, I hope you’ll let someone in. Even if it’s not me.”

Chapter Text

“Aren’t you coming, Narcissa?”

Florence lingered at the threshold as the other girls swept into the Great Hall, cloaks trailing velvet and fur, voices bright with gossip.

“In a moment,” Narcissa said, smoothing her glove. “I’ve a letter to send—Mama expects it weekly.”

Florence waited until the others had moved on before stepping closer. “Did you tell her about James?”

“And say what?” Narcissa didn’t look up. “I told you I think the whole thing’s a mistake.”

“I’ll come with you,” Florence said, her voice low. Her gaze drifted toward the sixth-year Gryffindors stomping snow into the Hall, cheeks flushed, brooms slung over their shoulders. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” Narcissa said, lifting her shoulders in a faint shrug. “I just need a moment.”

Florence hesitated, uncertain. “All right,” she said quietly. “Just… don’t disappear.”

Narcissa nodded once. “I won’t.”

She turned and walked calmly toward the western tower. She wanted to be alone, but storming through the castle like James Potter would only draw more unwanted attention.

He was behaving like a character in a school play: brooding at meals, slamming doors, practically begging the entire castle to stay invested in their humiliation.

Her lips tightened. If he really was her soulmate—and she still hadn’t decided whether to believe it—it was going to be a long adjustment. Never had it been more obvious that he hadn’t grown up in a Sacred Twenty-Eight household. No one who had could reach seventeen without grasping the value of discretion.

It was as if privacy meant nothing to him.

Or maybe he really was just that foolish.

She rounded the last corner to the owlery. The sharp tang of ammonia and damp feathers hit her just as something unseen seized her wrist. She tried to scream, but the sound vanished, swallowed by a silencing charm.

“Merlin—I didn’t mean to scare you.” James stepped out from beneath his invisibility cloak, loosening his grip. “I just needed to talk.”

Narcissa pulled her wrist free, blue eyes narrowing. “Are you in the habit of grabbing girls in dark corridors, Potter? Because you won’t be doing it with me.”

In the cramped space, his height and Quidditch-honed muscle made him seem more imposing than charming. He registered it—finally—and stepped back, hands raised in a gesture that was half apology, half defense.

“Not my smoothest entrance, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate me shouting across the Great Hall. The cloak’s a family heirloom—been in the Potter vaults forever.”

“So you do understand discretion.” She rubbed her wrist, slowly, like it still stung.

James ran a hand through his unruly hair, visibly flustered. “Can we start over? I need to show you something.”

He began to roll up his left sleeve.

Narcissa’s stomach turned. No more pretending. Her name was written on his wrist—in her own elegant handwriting, inked like a signature on skin.

“There.” James buttoned the sleeve again, jaw tight. “Now you’ve seen it. Sirius said you wouldn’t believe it unless it was right in front of you.”

“So it’s true.” Narcissa’s voice was flat. Not cold. Just distant.

“Don’t sound so thrilled.”

She lifted her chin. “Why would I be? You’ve spent the last year making a spectacle of your feelings for someone else.” She paused, considering. “And you haven’t exactly been discreet with anyone else, either.”

James flushed. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it’s perfectly fair.” Her tone sharpened. “The whole castle knows you tried to give Lily the Potter Pearls on her birthday. That was what—three weeks ago? And you’ve barely stopped sulking since.”

“Yeah? Well, you weren’t exactly subtle about Lucius either.” He gestured at the serpent clasp on her cloak. “Isn’t that the brooch he gave you for Christmas?”

She laughed once—sharp, incredulous. “Please. That’s a trinket. A standard gesture. He didn’t start handing out heirlooms before the mark confirmed anything. Only a complete idiot would do that.”

“So I’m an idiot.”

Her brows lifted. The fact that he needed it spelled out only confirmed her opinion.

James exhaled. “Look, I know this is a mess. But we don’t have to make it worse by being difficult.”

“Difficult,” she repeated.

James gave her the half-smile that usually smoothed things over. “I’m just saying—we don’t have to make this harder than it needs to be.”

“You mean harder for you.” She turned away.

“Where are you going?” He hesitated, then followed her into the owlery.

“I have a letter to send,” she said, not bothering to look back. “Then I’m going to dinner.”

She passed a pair of scops owls nestled in straw-filled perch boxes, their eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. At one of the stone arches, she stopped and stroked the head of a barn owl, its white feathers a perfect match for the fox trim on her cloak.

“Hello, Vespers,” she murmured, voice soft—nothing like the tone she used with James. “Would you like a mouse ear?”

She reached into her cloak pocket and offered the treat. The owl accepted it with quiet dignity.

James watched, arms crossed. “So that’s it. You’re not even going to talk to me.”

Narcissa didn’t look at him. She drew a folded parchment from her pocket, sealed in deep green wax and stamped with the Black crest. Her fingers were precise as she tied it to the owl’s leg with silver twine.

“What exactly do you expect me to say?”

James frowned, watching Vespers fly off into the darkening sky. “I didn’t ask for this either. But the mark’s real. Ignoring it messes with your magic, your health—everything. You can’t just pretend it’s not there.”

Narcissa turned to face him. “That does sound inconvenient. Still, when I consider the alternative…”

James flushed. “Just… tell me how to fix it.”

She studied him for a moment. Even though she was angry, a part of her acknowledged that he had a certain unkept charm. “Start by keeping your heartbreak to yourself,” she said. “Every time you sulk in public, it feeds the gossip—and I’m the one they dissect.”

James shifted his weight, discomfort flickering across his face. “I don’t do well with pretending. But if that’s what it takes—I’ll figure it out.”

“Good.” She turned toward the spiral stairs, lifting her cloak to avoid a stray bale of straw. “Prove you can manage that much. Then we’ll talk.”

“Ah, Mr. Snape. Punctual as ever.”

Albus turned from the fireplace with a mild smile. The portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, with whom he’d been conversing, sniffed at Severus’ Muggle suit and vanished from the frame.

“Would you care for tea?” Dumbledore gestured to the low table near the hearth, where a silver teapot steamed gently beside a precise arrangement of china cups. “Chamomile today. I find it encourages civility.”

Severus clasped his hands behind his back, posture stiff from habit. Conversations with the Headmaster were rare, and Dumbledore’s genial tone always unsettled him. Most professors made the rules of engagement clear: deference, silence, no presumption—especially from a scholarship student. Dumbledore ignored those rules entirely, which only made him harder to navigate.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Severus said. “But unless you need something from me, I’d prefer to be on my way. I’ve a flat viewing in Lambeth, and even with Floo travel, I’ll be cutting it close.”

“I won’t keep you, Mr. Snape.”

Dumbledore’s tone was mild, but Severus caught the watchfulness behind it.

“There’s another student traveling to London today. I thought you might Floo together—Mr. Sirius Black.”

He said it lightly, but his eyes didn’t leave Severus’ face.

“Very well, sir. Provided he’s on time.”

He offered nothing more, hoping silence would pass for indifference.

“We haven’t spoken much, have we?” Dumbledore said, his voice light, almost absentminded. “A pity. I’ve been meaning to say—may I call you Severus?”

He didn’t wait for permission.

“I’ve watched your progress with quiet admiration. You arrived with fewer advantages than most, and yet you’ve worked with precision, with purpose. You filled the gaps others never had to notice. That kind of discipline—well, it speaks to a mind not only clever, but resilient. You’ve become one of the most capable students in your year. That is no small thing.”

The praise landed before he could deflect it.

“Thank you, sir. I’ve done my best to make use of the time.”

Dumbledore nodded. “And now Professor Slughorn tells me he’s arranged a position for you at Sleakeasy’s. He rarely intervenes for students outside his Slug Club.”

“Yes,” Severus said with a nod. “Which is why finding a flat in London is a priority.” He hesitated. “Magical accommodation’s scarce, and Muggle flats aren’t much easier. I’d prefer to go sooner rather than later.”

A knock interrupted them. Sirius stepped in the moment Dumbledore called, “Enter.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. Gone were the usual jeans and battered motorcycle jacket. Sirius wore a velvet suit in deep charcoal, the linen beneath it pale and starched. The close tailoring drew attention to his height, his athletic build, and the proud, dramatic coloring he wore like a birthright.

“Now that Mr. Black is here,” Dumbledore said, “you may Floo at your discretion, Severus.”

He turned to Sirius with a gentler tone. “I was sorry to hear of your loss. Please give my regards to your aunt Honoria—we were at school together.”

“Yes, sir,” Sirius said, tugging at his collar like it itched. “She mentions it often.”

“Severus will be Flooing to London as well,” Dumbledore said, noting Sirius’ glance. “I expect you both back promptly at ten tomorrow. No delays, gentlemen.”

He paused, then added more gently, “Safe travels, Mr. Black. I hope the day brings what comfort it can.”

He settled behind his desk and began reviewing a stack of parchments. A clear dismissal.

Severus reached into the brass bowl on the mantel and tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames. “Leaky Cauldron, London,” he said, and stepped into the green flare, vanishing from the room.

He emerged in the public lounge of the inn, jostled at once by the press of bodies and the sharp scent of ale. The hearth behind him flared again—Sirius, evidently not far behind, stumbled through and collided with Severus’ back.

Severus moved quickly, brushing soot from his sleeves as he slipped past the crowd and out into the street.

“Thanks for waiting,” Sirius said, breathless and sarcastic, still catching up.

Severus didn’t slow. “I assumed you had a funeral to attend.”

“So did Dumbledore.”

Severus glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You know he’ll send a condolence card. Possibly flowers. You’ll be caught.”

Sirius shrugged. “Let him. It was the only way I knew he’d let me leave the castle.”

“At least you’re not dressed like a delinquent. I thought you’d turn up in that ridiculous motorcycle jacket and make it impossible for me to secure the tenancy.”

Sirius’ wand paused mid-motion. “I am wearing it,” he said, frowning. “I was about to drop the glamour. I hate clothes like this.”

“Then wait until after they’ve accepted my application,” Severus snapped. “The first thing you’ll learn about living without the Black name is that you’re judged on sight. No landlord is going to hand over keys to someone who looks like he’s just crawled out of the Roxy after a bender.”

Sirius scoffed, but he put his wand back in his pocket. “Relax. I’ll keep the costume on until you’ve signed the bloody lease. Then I’m setting it on fire.”

Severus ducked into the first alley he saw and held out his hand, stiff and businesslike.

“Take it,” he said. “We’ll Apparate together.”

Sirius didn’t hesitate, and Severus swallowed, ignoring the flare of warmth as the soulmark stirred to life beneath his skin. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge how narrow and pale his fingers looked, swallowed in Sirius’ larger grip. He focused on the mechanics: placement, pressure, intent. Not the feeling.

Then the alley twisted out of view, and they landed behind a reeking dumpster.

Sirius dropped his hand and cast a scent-banishing charm with a grimace. “Charming. Where are we?”

“This is Lambeth,” Severus said, already walking toward one of the converted Victorian terrace houses that lined the street. “Let me do the talking—and try to look like a ‘clean, respectable young man’.”

“Define ‘respectable.’ Because I’m fairly sure I’ve failed that test since birth.”

Severus pressed the button for the mechanical bell. “Just don’t open your mouth.”

The door opened on a woman in her late sixties, mauve housecoat cinched at the waist, silver hair swept into a lacquered twist. “You’re Mr Snape, I take it?” she said, eyeing Severus’ collar with brisk approval. “You’re early. That’s a good sign.”

Her gaze slid past him to Sirius, who stood half a step behind, hands in his pockets, glamour still intact but posture unmistakably insolent.

“And who’s this, then?” she asked, voice sharpening. “You said you’d be living alone.”

Severus stiffened. “He’s not staying,” he said quickly. “Just here to help me carry a few things.”

The landlady’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t let to groups. Had a pair of lads last year—left burn marks on the carpet and a hole in the wall.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I understand,” Severus said, voice clipped. “I’ll be the sole tenant. You won’t have trouble from me.”

She sniffed, then stepped aside to let them in. “We’ll see. Mind your shoes—hallway’s just been waxed.”

She led them up the narrow staircase, one hand trailing a banister polished to a dull shine. “I’ve someone comes in twice a month to do the hallway and stairs,” she said over her shoulder. “But I’m not a cleaner, and I don’t run a boarding house. Tenants are expected to keep their own spaces decent.”

Sirius glanced at the peeling wallpaper and the dust gathered in the corners. His nose twitched, but he said nothing.

“That won’t be a problem,” Severus assured her. “I’m used to looking after myself.”

At the top of the stairs, she unlocked the flat and stepped aside. “Front room and bedroom through there,” she said. “South-facing windows. You’ll get light in the mornings, if that matters.”

Severus stepped in first. The sitting room was modest. High ceilings, a gas fire, and a threadbare rug over scuffed floorboards. A small table stood by the window, one leg propped with folded newspaper. The bedroom door hung slightly ajar, revealing a narrow bed and a wardrobe with one mirrored panel, cracked at the corner.

“I had the walls repainted last spring,” she added, a touch defensive. “The last tenant skipped out on the rent and left it a mess. I’ve done what I can, but I’m not a cleaner—and I’m too old to be scrubbing other people’s filth.”

Sirius made a quiet sound of distaste, eyes lingering on the rug.

“I’ll take it,” Severus said. “If it’s still available.”

“It is,” she said. “Rent’s due weekly, in cash. No cheques, no delays.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded envelope. “I can pay the first month in advance.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “That’ll do nicely.”

She counted the notes, then handed Severus a stubby biro and a worn ledger. “Sign here, please. And I’ll need a reference—nothing formal. Just someone who’ll say you’re steady and not likely to disappear with the furniture.”

Severus nodded, signing. “You’ll have it tomorrow.”

She gave a short nod, then glanced at Sirius, lips pursed. “I expect quiet evenings. No callers after dark, and no parties. Your friend’ll be gone before then, I trust.”

“Of course,” Severus said. “Thank you, Mrs. Penfold.”

She handed over the keys with a nod, her fingers lingering just long enough to make the gesture feel formal.

“Well then,” she said. “Good day to you both.”

The door shut behind her, leaving Sirius and Severus alone in the flat.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for cleaning supplies,” Severus said, already halfway into the hall cupboard. He pulled out a mop with a splintered handle, a dented bucket, and a dustpan missing half its bristles.

Sirius leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “You’ve got twenty-four hours in London, and you want to scrub the floors?”

“I’m not sleeping in someone else’s filth.”

Sirius shrugged off his jacket and hung it on one of the bent hooks jutting from the front door. “Fine. I’ll help.”

“Do you even know what this is?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s a mop. I’ve seen one before, thanks.” He started rolling up his sleeves, eyes scanning the room. “We can use magic for most of it. That’s how the house-elves manage.”

“Magic doesn’t kill bacteria. You still need disinfectant. Rags. Newspaper for the mirrors.”

“I saw a shop on the corner,” Sirius offered. “I’ll go. Pick up whatever you need.”

“You’ve never cleaned a flat. You wouldn’t even know what to look for.”

“Then we’ll go together.” Sirius shifted his weight, arms folding tight across his chest. “You’re meant to be teaching me, aren’t you? So I’ll know what to do when I finally get out of Grimmauld Place.”

Severus sighed. “Fine. Better than leaving you here unsupervised. You’d probably banish half the furniture and get me evicted.”

Sirius reached for his jacket. “We should. That mattress looks older than the building. I’m not sleeping on it.”

At the corner shop, Sirius drifted to the newspaper stand, flipping through NME like he had nowhere else to be. Severus headed straight for the cleaning aisle. Bleach. Rubber gloves. Steel wool. Bin liners. Dishcloths. His hand paused over the bottle of Fairy, the cleaner Lily’s mum always used. He dropped it into the basket, then circled back to the front for a newspaper.

By the time Severus reached the till, Sirius was back—arms full.

“What is all that?”

Sirius dumped the load onto the counter: PG Tips, full-fat milk, a paper bag of sugar, and chocolate digestives. “Tea things,” he said, like it was obvious. “You don’t have a kettle. They’ve electric ones, but I figured you’d prefer the hob kind.” He lowered his voice. “Less magical interference.”

He added a dull-red kettle to the pile.

Severus stared at it. “Do I look like I have money for this?”

Between the deposit on the flat, a month’s rent in advance, and new work clothes, he was already calculating which meals he could skip.

“I’ve got it,” Sirius said, pulling a Muggle wallet from his coat.

Severus wanted to object, but couldn’t find the words. Not with the woman behind the till watching them, openly curious.

“You new round here, love? Haven’t seen you in before.”

“Just moved in.” Severus didn’t elaborate.

“Didn’t think you were local,” she said, not unkindly. “You look like you ought to be on Top of the Pops, not buying tea,” she added, nodding at Sirius.

He leaned against the counter, smiling down at her. “What’s Top of the Pops?”

She laughed, counting out his change. “Don’t play daft. You look like one of them lads off the telly. What’s your mum think of that hair, then?”

“Oh, she insists I keep it like this,” Sirius said solemnly.

She handed over the paper bag with a shake of her head. “Here you go, love. Come back soon. You’ve livened things up more than the radio ever does.”

Outside, the wind had picked up. Severus strode ahead, spine straight, coat snapping behind him. Sirius lingered a moment, then jogged to catch up.

“Before you start in on the money—you’re letting me stay the night. That’s worth something.”

“Funny. Thought the place wasn’t fit for a Black.” Severus didn’t slow.

“You bring up my family every time I try to do something decent. It’s bloody exhausting.”

“Of course. I’m the exhausting one.”

“Is this about the coat?” Sirius said flatly. “Because I know you’re not making this much fuss over a kettle and a few tea things.”

“It’s not about what you bought,” Severus hissed, turning to face him. “It’s that you think I come with a price.”

Sirius laughed—sharp, incredulous. “Believe me, Snape… if I were trying to keep you, it wouldn’t look like this. I’d have put you up in Knightsbridge with silk sheets and pink champagne. Not offered to scrub your grimy little flat in—wherever the hell we are.”

“Lambeth.” Severus turned away again, but the edge had dulled.

“Right. Lambeth.” Sirius fell into step beside him. “So—can we stick to the original plan? You teach me how to survive without the family vault, and I show you a good time in London.”

Severus glanced at him sideways. “Was that the plan.”

“It is now.”

Back upstairs, Severus tore the newspaper into squares, setting them aside. He poured a splash of vinegar into a chipped mug, topped it off with warm water from the tap, and dipped a rag into the mix.

“So… what should I do?”

“Dusting,” Severus said. “Top to bottom. Otherwise you’ll just knock the filth back onto clean surfaces.”

“Right.” Sirius improvised a charm to coax Mrs. Penfold’s feather duster into motion, then tried the same with the broom and dustpan—less successfully.

Severus didn’t comment. He pressed the vinegar-damp rag to the glass, then followed with the newspaper, scrubbing in tight circles until the pane cleared.

“You’re not going to use magic?”

“I will,” Severus said, testing the window. It was painted shut. “Eventually. Especially on the oven. But I need to work out how to do it without setting off the extractor fan or melting the knobs.”

Sirius started sweeping from the corners, the way he’d seen the house-elves do at home. “I just thought… you’d know this kind of magic already. Doesn’t your mum—”

“My dad doesn’t like magic,” Severus said, clipped. He dipped the rag into the vinegar mix again. “She’s not allowed to use it. Not in the house.”

Sirius worked in silence after that, adjusting the charm until it pulled dust cleanly from the skirting boards. The broom followed, sweeping in quiet compliance.

Severus hopped down from the chair where he’d been finishing the windows. “Clever,” he said. “You can use that charm on the cupboards next. Come on.”

The kitchen was narrow—barely room for two—and Sirius hesitated at the threshold, unsure how they’d manage without stepping on each other.

“Fairy Liquid and warm water,” Severus said, setting the bucket down. “Use the kettle. The tap’s useless unless you want to smear the grease around.”

Sirius picked up the bottle, squinting at the label.

Severus caught the look. “It’s not made of real fairies.” 

“I didn’t think it was,” Sirius muttered, folding his arms.

Severus opened one of the upper cabinets, revealing a shelf lined with old newspaper and a scatter of crumbs. “Start with the doors. Around the handles. That’s where it builds up.”

“And you?”

“Cleaning the bathroom,” Severus said. “Don’t bother me again until it’s done.”

Once the cupboards were clean, Sirius moved to the floors. “Scourgify first, Tergeo after,” he muttered, anchoring both charms to the mop with a slow sweep and fixed radius. The spell held. Dust lifted. The mop tracked the edges like it had done this before.

Satisfied, he crossed into the bedroom and cast Reparo on the cracked mirror bolted to the wardrobe. The glass sealed with a soft click.

The bed was another matter. Plain steel frame, chipped at the joints but solid. The mattress lay bare—no sheets, no cover—and stained in ways he chose not to catalogue.

“What are you doing in here?” Severus asked from the doorway, drying his hands on a rag.

“Finished the kitchen,” Sirius said. “Started on the floor too.” He paused, trying not to sound like he was waiting for a mark out of ten.

“And you fixed the mirror.” Severus crossed to the dresser, opened one of the drawers. His face didn’t change.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but we should banish the mattress.”

Severus looked at the stained cover, expression flat. “And replace it with what?”

“My bed at Grimmauld Place. I’ll shrink it, bring it here. Easy.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Your mother won’t notice?”

“She will,” Sirius said. “Eventually. But that’s a problem for later.”

Severus glanced at the mattress again, then turned toward the hallway. “Fine. Go sort it. I’ll be ready when you get back.”

Despite what he’d told Severus, Sirius wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to get into his bedroom at Number Twelve without alerting the portraits, the house-elves, or—Merlin forbid—his parents. He was spared the effort of improvisation when he remembered it was Saturday. Walburga would be out, overseeing final arrangements for the Heritage Ball, which she co-hosted annually with Arabella Fawley.

He let himself in through the back entrance (reserved for tradesmen and deliveries) under a basic Disillusionment Charm. The wards shuddered once, then let him pass, recognizing the signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand.

Inside, he went straight to the bedroom. He shrunk the mattress, pillows and bedding, but left the four-poster. It wouldn’t fit in Severus’ flat, and Sirius had no intention of bringing it.

He crossed to the loose floorboard and pried it up. Inside, his most prized possession sat exactly where he’d left it: a Dansette Bermuda all-in-one, shrunken to fit the space. He pocketed the record player, then a handful of vinyl: Roxy Music, the Clash, Bowie.

He turned to the wardrobe. Severus was wearing that new Muggle suit he was so proud of, which wouldn’t exactly help him blend in at the Electric Ballroom, and Sirius doubted he’d packed anything else. He reached past the dress robes and pulled out what passed for fashionable in Camden: Sex Pistols t-shirt with cracked lettering, stovepipe jeans, striped socks, and a faded denim jacket with frayed cuffs and a stitched-on patch he didn’t remember adding.

Once everything was stowed, he left the way he came, mentally assembling a shortlist of places Severus might tolerate and maybe even enjoy, if Sirius played it right.

Chapter Text

Once Sirius was gone, Severus went to the kitchen to assess the damage. The offer to help had sounded sincere enough, but it was hard to believe Sirius had actually followed through. More likely, he’d gotten distracted by his NME again, just like at the shop.

But the counters were clean. The cabinets had been wiped down. Even the floor had been mopped.

He opened the under-counter refrigerator, then shut it again with a grimace. The inside hadn’t been touched, but the rest of the room was spotless.

The mop drifted past him in the hall, still charmed to clean a floor that no longer needed it. He cancelled the spell, wrung it out over the bucket, and banished the dirty water.

It was almost impressive, the way Sirius had managed to improvise cleaning spells that actually worked. The memory of the Map surfaced, the one that tracked every person in Hogwarts Castle. The one Sirius claimed to have enchanted himself.

Perhaps Lily was right. Perhaps there was more to Sirius than met the eye.

Severus knew he was clever. Top marks when he bothered. Could’ve led their year, if effort had ever interested him.

He began putting away the tea things Sirius had left out, pausing when he noticed the milk was still cold.

He’d cast a preservation charm, then.

That was almost… thoughtful.

Severus shook his head, recalibrating. This was Sirius Black.

Spoiled. Reckless. Arrogant.

Whatever he said about wanting to leave his family, Severus didn’t buy it. No one in their right mind walked away from that kind of power.

Severus crossed the hall to the bathroom. He had fixed the chips in the tub and brightened the tile, and the plumbing, sink, and mirror looked as clean as they were ever going to get. Not luxurious, but passable.

He summoned his towel from Hogwarts, along with the hair tonic Slughorn had given him. He set the towel on the radiator and turned toward the bath.

He supposed he might as well clean up.

Not for Sirius’ benefit.

Just to confirm the room was useable.

He was still drying off when Sirius came crashing back into the flat—the crack of Apparition loud in the hall.

“Salazar,” Severus muttered, tightening the towel around his waist as he strode toward the noise. “Do you have to detonate every entrance? I’ve had the lease for half a day—I’d prefer not to be evicted before I’ve unpacked.”

Sirius turned, visibly annoyed—until his eyes landed on Severus’ bare chest. His expression shifted. Severus watched him swallow, gaze dropping to the towel knotted at his waist.

“Sorry,” he said, voice a little rough. He held out a handful of shrunken clothes. “If she comes up, I’ll Obliviate her.”

“You can’t Obliviate every Muggle who hears you being careless,” Severus said, arms folded. His eyes flicked to the bundle. “What is that supposed to be?"

“Clothes. You said I could take you out, show you the sights. You won’t fit in where we’re headed in a suit.”

Sirius hesitated, then added, “Not that it’s not… very professional. Just—maybe not ideal for tonight.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Don’t strain yourself trying to be tactful, Black. It’s not a skill you possess.”

He took the clothes with a graceless swipe and shut the bedroom door behind him.

The way Sirius had looked at his chest lingered. Severus felt his cheeks warm and hated the flicker of anticipation it stirred—the ridiculous idea that Sirius might admire him.

Severus knew what he looked like. Tall, but too thin. A nose that distorted his whole face. Eyes so dark they barely registered as a color. If Sirius felt any desire, it was because of the soulmark. A magical compulsion.

He cancelled the shrinking charm on the clothes and started pulling them on, choosing not to dwell on why he was letting Sirius dress him like a doll.

He smoothed a hand over the denim jacket, fingers pausing on one of the patches. He’d never owned anything fashionable. Before buying his suit, he’d stuck to his school uniform. It was second-hand and ill-fitting, but still better than the clothes his mother brought home from the charity shop.

He cast a charm to resize Sirius’ clothes to fit. They were close in height, but Sirius was broader, more solid. Severus swallowed, trying not to picture Sirius as he’d looked earlier: collar open, hair tousled, face lit with that careless sort of beauty that never had to try.

He turned toward the mirror.

The young man scowling back looked like he had stepped out of one of those music magazines Sirius devoured.

Angry.

Sharp-edged.

Maybe even dangerous.

Is this the sort he fancies? His fingers curled into his sleeve.

But he already knew. James Potter, striding off the Quidditch pitch in full Gryffindor glory. Shoulders squared, jaw set like he’d just saved the castle. Smug. Athletic. Golden in that insufferable way.

Severus turned from the mirror, bitterness rising in his throat.

“You hungry?” Sirius called through the door. “I’ve got a few ideas—depends how picky you’re feeling.”

Severus wrenched the door open, cutting off the spiral of thoughts he hadn’t asked for. “There aren’t many places that would serve me dressed like this.”

Sirius gave a low whistle, stepping inside. “You’d be surprised.” His eyes skimmed the outfit, lingering. “You’ve always had a bit of an edge. Just needed the right packaging.”

“You were saying something about food?” Severus hoped the heat in his face wasn’t obvious.

“Do you like Chinese? There’s a place in Knightsbridge—”

Severus looked at him. Just looked.

Sirius winced. “Right. No Knightsbridge.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “There’s always Wimpy’s.”

“Because I’m working class, I must only eat burgers?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Fine. Indian on Regent Street. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Severus said, turning toward the door.

“Walk or Tube?” Sirius asked as they reached the street.

Severus gave him a look. “You know how to use the Tube?”

Sirius shrugged. “James and I come up when we can. Hogwarts gets dull. London doesn’t.”

“Why Muggle London?” Severus asked, glancing at the traffic. “The wizarding world has music. And it’s less… abrasive.”

They walked a few steps in silence.

“I got into Muggle music to piss off my mum,” Sirius said finally.

“That’s childish.”

“Obviously,” Sirius muttered, kicking a loose bit of gravel into the gutter. “Still worked.”

They descended into the Underground. Sirius didn’t pause to check the map or queue behind the tourists—just crossed the concourse and slid a few coins across the ticket window. The clerk nudged two stubs toward him without glancing up.

Sirius turned, holding it out between his fingers. “I’m paying tonight. Don’t argue.”

“Why would I?” Severus took it with a flick of his wrist. “Payment for services rendered, wasn’t it?”

They passed through the barrier and stepped into the carriage bound for Piccadilly Circus.

It was already crowded. Muggle teenagers sharing headphones from a bulky cassette player, tourists with cameras slung around their necks, voices loud and unmistakably American. A woman in heels clutched a theatre program, her perfume sharp in the cramped space. Severus didn’t bother with a seat. He reached up, fingers curling around the metal ring overhead.

“Indian doesn’t strike me as a Grimmauld Place staple.”

Sirius snorted. “Please. My mother thinks turmeric is foreign aggression. It’s all canard à l’orange and filet de bœuf en croûte—her way of reminding everyone we predate the Malfoys.”

A woman nearby shifted, startled by the clash of Sirius’ motorcycle jacket and his fluent, aristocratic French. Severus caught her mid-stare. She looked away, cheeks coloring.

“Let me guess. You found the restaurant while ‘exploring’ with Potter.”

Sirius shrugged. “His family’s comfortable in Muggle London. They do business here. Not that I paid much attention when Fleamont explained it.”

“You call him Fleamont?”

Another shrug. “He’s not like other pure-blood fathers. No lectures. No bloodline sermons. Just… decent.”

“Piccadilly Circus Station,” the intercom crackled overhead.

Severus stepped off the train before the doors had fully opened, slipping past a knot of shoppers and onto the platform.

They climbed the stairs without speaking. At street level, black cabs idled along the curb. Overhead, neon billboards advertised British Airways and Coca-Cola.

“This way,” Sirius said, slipping past a woman in sequins and a man clutching a bouquet in crinkled cellophane.

Regent Street curved ahead, all white stone and window displays. Perfume bottles sat in rows, precise and expectant. Mannequins stood in tailored suits, angled just so.

Severus slowed, his head turned toward one of them.

“Do you like suits?” Sirius asked. Not quite teasing.

“It’s just a window,” Severus said, speeding up again.

Sirius matched his pace. After a few steps, he tried again.

“James says Veeraswamy was the first Indian restaurant in London. Thought you’d like the history.”

Severus only grunted in response.

They didn’t speak again until they reached the door.

The maître d’ paused just long enough to register Sirius’ jacket, then stepped aside with a professional smile. “This way, gentlemen.”

He led them into a dim back room with paisley wallpaper, a linen-covered table, and a single candle flickering in a brass holder. It was clear he was tucking them out of sight, away from the more conventionally dressed patrons.

“May I take your coats?”

Severus stiffened, one hand drifting toward his wand.

Sirius shook his head. “We’ll keep them, thanks.”

The maître d’ paused, then nodded. “May I get you something to drink?”

Sirius glanced at Severus, then back. “Whatever goes with samosas,” he said. “Surprise me.”

Once he had gone, Severus opened the menu. “I didn’t think he’d seat us.”

“They’ve seen worse. It’s the West End,” Sirius said, settling back into the velvet. His voice dropped slightly. “Whole streets round here don’t blink at two blokes in leather. Not for dinner, anyway.”

Severus glanced at the candle, then back at him. “This isn’t what I pictured.”

“No?” Sirius said, all innocence.

“I assumed we’d be eating something wrapped in newspaper. Possibly while standing.” He took a sip of water, eyes flicking to the linen napkins. “It’s… nice. Civilized.” A pause. “It almost feels like a date.”

Sirius smiled. “Who says it isn’t?”

“You did,” Severus said flatly. “You said it was payment.”

Sirius shrugged. “Can’t it be both?”

The waiter returned with a tray, setting down two highball glasses. “The chefs are working on your samosas,” he said. “Would you like to order anything else?”

Sirius didn’t bother with the menu. “Lamb curry. Palak paneer. Garlic naan.” He handed it to the waiter, then glanced at Severus. “What looks good?”

Severus gave him a flat look. “You’ve already ordered enough to cater a wedding.”

Sirius turned back. “And the Chicken Chettinad. Vegetable biryani too, thanks.”

Severus took a sip of water. “I’m just relieved I’m not paying. Half of it’ll go cold while you talk.”

“It’s fine dining, Snape. The portions are small.” He shifted in his seat, one leg bouncing lightly beneath the table. “We’ll manage.”

Severus pretended to study the Mughal court painting on the far wall. “I assume you and Potter come here often.”

Sirius shrugged. “With his family, sometimes.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Do you want something else to drink? A Kingfisher, maybe? I didn’t expect them to bring this.”

“I don’t drink.”

Sirius’ face tightened. Then he nudged the glass aside. “I’ll stick to water too. It’s not like I liked it anyway.”

Severus didn’t look at him. “Suit yourself, Black. It’s no concern of mine.”

The waiter returned with a polished plate and set it down between them. Two samosas sat upright, golden and crisp, steam curling from their edges.

“Tamarind and mint chutney on the side,” he said quietly.

“Thanks.” Sirius reached for one of the samosas. “Could we get two mango lassis as well?”

The waiter glanced at the untouched gin and tonics. “Was there something wrong with your drinks?”

Sirius gave a quick smile. “Just changed my mind.”

The waiter nodded and lifted the glasses onto his tray. “I’ll bring them right out.”

“Since we’re on a date—”

“I haven’t agreed to that.”

“Since we’re eating dinner. Together. In an intimate setting,” Sirius said, undeterred. “Maybe we should try to get to know each other better.”

“You mean instead of watching each other’s worst memories like theatre?” Severus aimed for dry, but it came out more anxious than he liked.

“We could start there,” Sirius said. “Did seeing my memory… bring up any questions?”

“If this is about my father, I’m not discussing it.”

“That’s fine.” Sirius slouched slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his napkin. “We can talk about mine. Or we can talk about the menu. But if we don’t pick something, it’s going to be a long night.”

Severus picked up his mango lassi, taking a slow sip. “You mentioned Gringotts, earlier.”

Sirius blinked, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Severus set the glass down. “Curse breaking. That’s the plan?”

Sirius’ posture shifted—not quite a straighten, but something close. “I wrote to the Ministry. Asked them to send my N.E.W.T. scores to Gringotts with the application.”

Severus adjusted the cutlery beside his plate, eyes fixed on the fork. “Don’t they require references? Three wizards in good standing?”

“Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick agreed to vouch for me.” He hesitated. “I haven’t heard about an interview yet, but McGonagall says that’s normal. They send letters closer to the end of term.”

“There’s an entrance exam,” Severus said after a beat. “I read about it somewhere.”

Sirius nodded, reaching for his water. “That’s good for me. I’m better at tests than essays. All that Hogwarts busywork—”

Severus’ posture shifted—barely, but Sirius registered it.

“Not that it’s useless,” Sirius added quickly. “Magical theory matters. I just… it’s never been how I learn best.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Sirius gave a small shrug. “I do better when I’m moving. Wand in hand, reacting in real time. Not sitting still, writing essays about goblin treaties.”

The server returned with a wide metal tray, most of the dishes nested in small, handled bowls—brass or something meant to look like it. Steam curled upward, fragrant with garlic, cumin, and something sharper Severus couldn’t name. Despite what he’d said about Sirius ordering too much, the portions were modest.

“Dig in,” Sirius said, already helping himself to a little of everything.

Severus waited until he was done before serving himself, hunger held in check by habit more than manners.

After a few bites, Sirius said, “I think you agree with me more than you let on.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Your thoughts jump around like cursed fireworks. I can’t be expected to chase them.”

“I don’t think you actually enjoy writing essays all that much.” Sirius wiped his mouth with his napkin, then glanced over. “I mean, yeah, I’ve taken the piss about you being a swot—but I know you like inventing spells.”

Severus looked up, food forgotten. “Who told you that?”

“Evans, sort of. Indirectly.” He took another bite of lamb curry. “That eavesdropping charm you came up with—Muffliato. Everyone in Gryffindor Tower uses it now.”

“Do they.”

Maybe that’s why we work,” Sirius said. “I used to think the idea was absurd. But we both hate being boxed in. We’d rather be out there—casting, building, breaking things—than parroting someone else’s wandwork.”

“Touching,” Severus said. “Shall we carve it into a tree?”

Sirius just smiled, unfazed. “How’s the food?”

The warmth in that smile tightened something low in Severus’ chest.

“My research into the mark doesn’t suggest it’s tied to compatibility,” he said, tone deliberately dry, as if academic distance could neutralize whatever had just flickered between them. “Most of the leading theorists argue it’s about propagating strong magical bloodlines.”

Sirius smile faltered. “I’ve had pureblood dogma shoved down my throat since I could walk. All that talk about bloodlines—it’s just a way to keep power in the hands of the same old families.”

“Confident, aren’t you—dismissing scholarship you haven’t even reviewed.” He kept his tone dry, but his heartbeat was no longer steady.

“You know what I mean. Magical bloodlines—it’s like astrology for Muggles. Convenient. Circular. It explains everything after the fact, but the logic falls apart the moment you press on it.”

“There’s a newer theory,” Severus said after a pause. “El-Fahim’s. She argues soulmate bonds aren’t about blood or fate. Just… resonance. Magical, emotional. Two cores reacting to each other.” He hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Like tuning forks. One moves, the other answers.”

Sirius leaned in, the candlelight catching in the silver thread of his jacket. “So… that thing in the infirmary. When you steadied me. That could’ve been—” He broke off, searching Severus’ face. “You think that was resonance?”

Severus shrugged, fingers tightening around his fork. “The bloodline model doesn’t account for soulbonds between men. It deems them functionally impossible.” He looked up, just briefly. “But they exist.”

Sirius held his gaze. “We definitely exist.”

His eyes only left Severus’ when the waiter approached, bill in hand and a polite half-smile on his face.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, placing the leather folder gently between them. “And I hope everything was to your liking.”

Sirius reached for it before Severus could move. “It was brilliant, actually. The biryani especially—whatever spice blend you use, it’s criminally good.”

The waiter smiled, pleased. “Chef grinds it fresh. Cardamom, clove, a little fenugreek.”

Sirius pulled out his Muggle wallet and slipped in a few folded notes. He kept his hand over the receipt like he was trying to stop Severus from seeing the total. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Sirius stood, stretching like he’d been holding something in. “It’s a good night. Want to walk for a bit?”

“I assumed you had tickets to something loud and vaguely anarchic. Judging by the outfit you forced on me.”

“Turns out I’m not in the mood for chaos,” Sirius said, tugging his jacket straight. “You’ve given me a better idea. I’ll explain outside.”

“Is this where you finally explain?” Severus asked, shoulders hunched against the wind. Sirius’ denim jacket might’ve been fashionable, but it wasn’t built for a London night. Especially not one this damp, with the pavement slick from earlier rain and the glow of shopfronts reflecting in puddles.

“I know—it’s mad, spending our only night in London holed up somewhere. But I’ve been thinking. About resonance.” He glanced at Severus, then away. “Would you try something with me? Just for a bit.”

“Define ‘something.’”

Sirius stopped on the pavement, pulling out a cigarette. “A few spells. Nothing dramatic.” He flicked the lighter, flame blooming between them. “I want to see if it’s stronger. When I’m touching you.”

Severus watched the flame. “Fine,” he said eventually. “But I’m taking proper notes.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” Sirius offered him a cigarette. Severus accepted, letting Sirius light it for him, their faces briefly close, breath mingling in the cold.

“Alright.” Sirius exhaled a stream of clove-scented smoke. “Let’s walk a bit. Finish these. Then we Apparate to your building.”

“Not inside,” Severus reminded him.

“Not inside,” Sirius agreed.

Severus kept one ear tuned to the stairwell, half expecting Mrs. Penfold to appear and demand an explanation. But Sirius slipped through the door beside him without incident, the shimmer of a basic Disillusionment Charm fading as they crossed the threshold.

“Where are we doing this?”

“Sitting room.” Sirius unzipped his jacket and hung it on one of the crooked hooks by the door. “Let’s start with an Imperturbable Charm. Soundproof the flat. Keep your landlady from barging in.”

Severus crossed into the sitting room and cast the charm with a precise flick, sealing the flat in a soundproof bubble.

“I’ll clear some space.” Sirius gave his wand a sharp sweep, sending the olive settee skidding against one wall and the chipped coffee table to the other. “What do you want to start with?”

Severus conjured his old black diary and a self-inking quill. “Lumos,” he said, eyes on the page. Then, sharply—“Cast it first without touching me.”

“Right.” Sirius stepped back and lifted his wand in a smooth arc. “Lumos.”

A soft glow bloomed at the tip.

“Good.” Severus kept writing. “I’ll record the external effects. You’ll have to describe the internal ones.”

Sirius gave a half-smile. “You want me to tell you how it felt?”

“In layman’s terms, yes.”

He considered. “It’s a kind of buzz. Familiar. Like the magic’s just waiting, and I’m letting it out. It feels… clean. Steady.”

Severus nodded once. “Now try it again. While we’re touching.”

Sirius reached for his hand. The soulmark flared instantly, warmth blooming between their palms and tingling at the edges like a live current. Severus felt it settle beneath his skin, quiet and charged, like static waiting to spark.

“Lumos.”

This time, the flat blazed with light. Severus blinked, his eyes slow to adjust. As soon as their hands parted, the brightness collapsed, vanishing as if snuffed out.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius breathed. “Did you feel that?”

“Possibly.” He adjusted his grip on the quill, steadying it against the edge of the notebook. “What, precisely, did you feel?”

“Power,” Sirius said, low and breathless. “Not just mine—ours.” He stepped closer, eyes bright. “You saw it. Imagine channeling that into something real. A combat spell. Or even a potion—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Severus said, finishing his notes with a final stroke. “What’s next?”

“My Patronus.” Sirius straightened, mouth twitching into a grin. “Bet we could clear a whole swarm of Dementors.”

“Fortunately, the need doesn’t arise.” But he held out his hand again.

“You don’t want me to try it solo first? For the sake of magical rigor?”

Severus allowed himself a faint smile. “I’d rather see what it does at full strength.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sirius clasped his hand with a gentle squeeze. He raised his wand, traced a smooth arc through the air, and ended with a deliberate thrust. “Expecto Patronum!”

An enormous silver dog burst from the tip of his wand, easily five times larger than the version Severus had seen him conjure in Defense class. It bounded across the room, tail high, paws skimming the worn floorboards as it circled them with joyful momentum.

Severus let go of Sirius’ hand on instinct, but the Patronus held. It padded over, nosed his fingers with quiet curiosity, then ducked its head, unmistakably asking for a scratch.

“Huh,” Sirius said, watching him. “He’s not usually this friendly.”

Severus gave it one tentative stroke, like someone who’d studied the gesture but never practiced it. “Send it away,” he said, reaching for his notes. “I want to try mine.”

“Finite Incantatem.”

The dog dissolved into mist.

Severus extended his hand again, forcing his focus back to the spell. Easier than looking at Sirius, who was both too handsome and far too pleased with himself.

“Expecto Patronum.”

The doe burst from his wand in a rush of silver light, enormous and radiant. Her hooves skimmed the floor as she ran in wide, sweeping arcs, too charged to settle.

Sirius stared—then laughed, sudden and bright. “Merlin, she’s gorgeous,” he said, eyes shining. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Severus ended the spell. The light faded, but the air still hummed.

“How was it for you?” Sirius asked, stepping closer. “Because mine felt—” a pause, a smile, “very good.”

Severus swallowed. The soulmark still tingled under his skin, and Sirius was standing far too close.

“It was… effective.”

“You’re still glowing,” Sirius murmured.

He leaned in, tentative.

Severus met him halfway.

He tasted like clove and heat, with a hum of magic beneath his skin that Severus could feel through his teeth. The journal slipped from Severus’ hand, forgotten. He slid one hand beneath Sirius’ shirt, fingers tracing the warm line of his spine, the shift of muscle under skin.

Sirius made a soft, surprised sound.

Severus deepened the kiss, then pulled back just enough to speak.

“Should we continue testing in the bedroom?”

Sirius blinked, breathless. “Yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

Sirius followed him in, stripping as he went. By the time Severus turned, he was bare to the waist, chest rising with each breath.

“Now it’s your turn.” His fingers trailed the length of Severus’ arm. The soulmark flared, as if it had been waiting.

Severus drew back, not abruptly—but enough. “You don’t give orders here, Black. If you want this, it’s on my terms. Or not at all.”

Sirius held his gaze. Then he nodded.

“All right, Snape,” he said quietly. “Your terms.”

“Damn right.”

Severus pulled the borrowed T-shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor. He started on his belt, trying not to think about how much he hated the contrast: him, all sharp angles and asymmetry; Sirius, a bloody Quidditch poster with Black family beauty on top of everything else.

Sirius’ hands closed over his, the touch light. “May I?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “You want to undress me.”

“I want to taste you.” Sirius licked his lips, a flush rising on his cheeks. “If that’s what you want. You’re in charge here.”

“Have you done this before? Because I don’t want any teeth on my prick.”

“No. But I’ve imagined it. Enough to know what I want to do to you.”

Severus hesitated, then let his hands fall away. “Then do it.”

Sirius knelt at his feet, easing Severus’ trousers and shorts down. He paused, gaze flicking up once before settling low, eyes wide and dark.

“Even better than I imagined.” He pressed his face to the crease where thigh met hip and inhaled, slow and deep.

Severus let his fingers drift into Sirius’ hair—light at first, then firmer. “If you’re going to kneel like that, make it worth the posture.”

“I intend to.” Sirius pulled back just enough to conjure something slick into his palm. The scent of oakmoss and smoke rose, faint but unmistakable.

“I’ve smelled that before.”

“Used it often. My four-poster. After curfew.” His hand cupped Severus’ balls with unexpected gentleness, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along the perineum.

Severus bit the inside of his cheek. “Thinking of Potter, no doubt.”

“Thinking of you.” He looked up, voice rough. “I used to wonder what you’d look like. How you’d taste. What your cock would feel like in my mouth.”

Severus groaned, knees unsteady. “Fuck.”

Sirius licked along the shaft, tongue tracing the ridge before easing the foreskin back. His hand moved in rhythm, slick warmth coating every stroke.

Severus’ fingers slid into Sirius’ hair and curled at the nape. The strands were soft, damp near the roots. He felt the tension in Sirius’ scalp and exhaled, trying to steady himself.

“Take it deeper.”

The heat of Sirius’ mouth was immediate, wet and enveloping. Severus felt the suction, the drag of tongue, and the subtle shift of Sirius’ jaw as he adjusted to take more.

“Good,” Severus said. “Keep your lips over your teeth. Slower. I said slow, not tentative.”

Sirius hummed in response, and Severus swore—low and sharp—as the vibration hit deep.

“Look at me,” he said, voice tight. “I want to see your eyes.”

Sirius looked up, mouth full, pupils blown wide. His cheeks were flushed, lips slick with spit and oil. Severus felt the tension gathering in his thighs, breath catching in his throat. The soulmark pulsed faintly, a flicker of heat behind his ribs.

“You’re fucking gorgeous all the time,” he said, voice low and uneven. “But you’re perfect like this.”

He pushed deeper, hitting the back of Sirius’ throat. Sirius gagged, tried to pull off, but Severus held him in place.

“Nearly there. Breathe through your nose.”

Sirius drew a shaky breath, airway finally clear. Severus pushed forward again, and Sirius’ throat clenched around him, tight and involuntary. The sensation dragged a groan from Severus’ chest.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, hips flexing. The coarse hair at the base of his cock scratched Sirius’ cheek, balls brushing his chin with every thrust. “I want you to come with my cock buried in your throat.”

Sirius obeyed, eyes watering, his hand working over his cock with desperate speed. His body trembled, muscles taut, jaw straining with each thrust. 

The soulmark flared again. Magic surged through Severus’ nerves—sharp, insistent—as if he could feel Sirius straining toward release.

When Sirius came, his throat clenched hard, a reflexive squeeze that dragged a broken sound from Severus. The heat of Sirius’ mouth held him as he spilled deep, hips stuttering, breath caught in his chest.

Only then did he ease back, letting Sirius pull off slowly—gasping, spit-slick, trembling, forehead pressed to Severus’ thigh.

Chapter Text

“Morning, Miss Cissy,” the house-elf said, appearing with a soft pop inside the drawn bed curtains.

Narcissa sat up, the book slipping from her lap. “Penny?” she said, startled enough to forget her tone. “What are you doing here?”

She’d told the other girls she meant to sleep in—an easy excuse to skip breakfast and the weekend noise. Truthfully, she’d just wanted a quiet hour in pajamas, alone with a book and no one expecting anything from her. A house-elf from home was not part of the arrangement.

Penny flicked the curtains open. “Miss is still in bed. Forgive me, but we need to hurry. They’re already here.”

Narcissa glanced at the watchface nestled in the diamonds on her bracelet. “Who’s here?” Her voice cooled. “Don’t tell me—Mother.”

“And your father,” Penny said, already at the trunk, sorting through the neatly folded layers. “He’s not in a good temper this morning. Best not keep him waiting.” She held up the icy blue lavallière blouse—silk, high-necked, and reserved for situations where optics mattered more than comfort.

Narcissa slipped it on without comment, then crossed to the wardrobe and selected a charcoal pencil skirt. She stepped into her low-heeled boots, the pair with discreet warming charms.

“I’ll do your hair,” Penny said, already at the desk, collecting the silver brush and the tin of enchanted pins.

Narcissa sat, smoothing the skirt over her knees. She uncapped the jar of iris-scented hand cream and rubbed it into her palms. “Why have they come?”

Penny paused, hands still in Narcissa’s hair. She was halfway through the braid, coaxing it into a crown across Narcissa’s head. “Miss Bella wrote,” she said softly. “She mentioned James Potter.”

Narcissa’s hands stilled.

“Your father asked to speak with you directly,” Penny said, sliding the last pin into place. “They are with the Headmaster now.”

Cygnus lowered himself into one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, accepting the porcelain teacup with a nod that bordered on perfunctory. “Your hospitality is appreciated, Headmaster,” he said, inspecting the brew before taking a measured sip. “We won’t take up more of your time than necessary.”

Dumbledore settled into the opposite chair. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he said evenly. “These conversations tend to go best when approached with clarity.”

Druella sat, smoothing her skirt. “I trust my husband’s letter conveyed the nature of our concern. We’ve been informed that Narcissa is soulmatched to the Potter boy.”

“We’ve seen him fly,” Cygnus added. “We attend Slytherin matches, naturally. He’s competent on a broom. But beyond that, we know very little.”

“Narcissa’s never mentioned him,” Druella continued. “And his people—well, they’re not part of our usual circle.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained composed. “James Potter is among Gryffindor’s most capable students. He’s Head Boy and maintains a consistently strong academic record.”

Druella tilted her head slightly. “His parents are in potions, I believe. Cosmetics. For general sale.”

“I believe so. I’m afraid I’ve never kept up with the finer points of commerce.”

“At least they’re solvent,” Cygnus muttered, exhaling. “Could we see the boy? I’ll want to extend a formal invitation to his parents, of course, but while we’re here, I’d prefer to assess him myself.”

“Just to confirm,” Druella said quietly, threading her fingers through her husband’s. “We’ve had… disappointments before, as I’m sure you’re aware. We’d rather not be caught unprepared.”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened, almost imperceptibly. “I’m familiar with your family’s history. I’ll speak with Mr. Potter about a possible introduction. But I trust you understand—he’s under no obligation to agree.”

A knock interrupted them. Narcissa stepped inside, braid pinned like a coronet, the soft drape of her blouse tempering the cool precision of her posture. “Mother. Father.” Her voice was even. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Dumbledore stood, as if he’d been waiting for the cue. “Miss Black. Your parents have expressed interest in meeting Mr. Potter while they’re here. I’ll speak with him now—give you a moment together.”

Druella rose first, gliding forward to kiss her cheek. “Cissy, dear. You look lovely.”

Cygnus remained seated, smiling with quiet pride. “You’re always a credit to us. I trust your studies are still satisfactory?”

“I’m first in Arithmancy.” Narcissa took the chair Dumbledore had vacated. Chin level, ankles crossed, hands folded. No reminders necessary.

Druella reclaimed her seat with a rustle of silk. “We hadn’t planned to intrude,” she said, adjusting a bracelet that didn’t need adjusting. “But your sister’s letter left us… concerned.”

Cygnus’ smile thinned. “Is it true, what she said about the Potter boy?”

“Whatever Bella told you, I didn’t know until after. But yes—it’s him.”

Druella’s hand hovered for a moment before settling over Narcissa’s. “He’s not from our world, darling. That makes things… complicated.”

“But Dumbledore seems to think highly of him,” Cygnus said, his tone carefully neutral.

“He’s Head Boy, apparently,” Druella added. “That must mean something. A natural leader. Steady.”

“Unless standards have slipped since our day,” Cygnus said, smiling faintly. “But I doubt they’ve slipped that far.”

There was a pause. Druella glanced at her husband, then back at Narcissa. “Do you like him, dear?”

“He’s very sure of himself,” Narcissa said evenly. “I don’t spend much time thinking about him.”

“No, of course you don’t,” Cygnus said, his smile returning. “You’ve always had better things to do.”

“Where’s Sirius?” Remus asked, reaching for the eggs.

James didn’t look up. He tore his toast in half, slow and distracted. “Left early this morning. Dumbledore signed off on it—his aunt died. Funeral’s today.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, Regulus didn’t have to go?”

James shrugged, still not meeting their eyes. “Pure-blood politics,” he said. “Sirius is the heir, so…”

Peter stirred his porridge, frowning. “Still feels wrong.”

Remus glanced sideways at James. “Did he say anything before he left?”

“Just that it’d be grim. Long. Probably end in a shouting match.”

A folded parchment dropped onto his plate. James sat up, finally interested.

Remus leaned in. “New spell? You and Sirius working on secret owl-free messaging?”

James shook his head, already tearing it open. “No. At least—I don’t think it’s from Sirius.”

His eyes scanned the page, brow furrowing.

“Can I see?” Peter asked, reaching for it.

James stood, folding the parchment and slipping it into his pocket. “It’s from Dumbledore. He wants to speak with me.”

Remus looked up, hopeful. “So… Quidditch practice is cancelled?”

“Probably,” James said, tugging his sleeves down and smoothing his hair with both hands. “I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

As they climbed the Great Staircase, Dumbledore said, “Miss Black’s parents have asked to speak with you. You’re free to decline, of course.”

James shrugged, hands in his pockets. “If we’re going to be family, might as well get it over with.”

Dumbledore hummed. “May I ask—how familiar are you with the Black family?”

James huffed a laugh. “Sirius is my best mate. I know enough.” He glanced sideways. “They’re big on that Sacred Twenty-Eight thing Slytherins love to throw around. Narcissa’s sister got disowned for soulmatching a Muggleborn—Ted Tonks.”

“Quite,” Dumbledore said, sighing softly. “If you can, try to see Miss Black apart from her family. Otherwise, I worry you’ll judge her for choices that weren’t hers.”

James frowned, remembering their brief, glacial exchange in the owlery. “You think she’s like Sirius underneath it all?”

“Whatever you think of her,” he said at last, “she may have her own picture of you, too. Try to meet her the way you’d want to be met.”

He murmured the password. The gargoyle groaned to life, stone grinding as it slid aside.

James hesitated. “You’re not coming?”

“I suspect my presence wouldn’t be welcome,” Dumbledore said, voice mild. “Best of luck, Mr. Potter.”

“You must be James Potter.” Cygnus stood and crossed the room with an ease that made James sit up a little straighter. He held out a hand. “Cygnus Black. I believe you know my daughter.”

James shook the offered hand, firm but careful. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Please,” Druella said, gesturing to the armchair opposite hers. “I always find a proper cup helps set the tone. How do you take yours?”

James sat, trying not to fidget. “Just milk, thanks.”

Druella nodded and poured with the kind of elegance that made James suspect she’d never spilled anything in her life—not even on purpose.

“You’re a Chaser for Gryffindor, aren’t you?” Cygnus settled back into his chair. “Druella and I always attend the Slytherin-Gryffindor final. Tradition.”

“I hope you won’t mind that we’ll be cheering for Slytherin,” Druella added, offering a faint smile. “Both our families have been in that house for generations.”

James nodded. “All but Sirius.”

Druella’s gaze sharpened. “You know Sirius Black?”

“He’s one of my best mates.”

Cygnus chuckled, low and dry. “Ah. Yes. Sirius. A bit of a black sheep, I suppose—not solely for being in Gryffindor, mind you. We’ve no prejudice against the house itself.”

“Just against the people in it?”

Narcissa spoke for the first time. “James is Quidditch Captain.”

James turned to Narcissa, surprised. “Didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Quidditch Captain and Head Boy,” Cygnus said, picking up the thread. “That’s not a popularity contest, I hope.”

James hesitated. “I mean… it kind of is.”

Cygnus nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Influence matters.”

Druella offered him a lemon biscuit, placing it on his saucer with the same care she’d used for the tea. “You’re very comfortable in conversation,” she said. “That’s rare in boys your age.”

James fumbled the biscuit, nearly losing it to the saucer. “Thanks. I guess I talk a lot.”

“Better that than silence. Silence breeds suspicion.”

James blinked. “Right. Yeah. I’ll keep talking, then.”

“Tell me, Mr. Potter,” Cygnus said, folding his hands. “What’s your strongest subject at school? Narcissa’s always had a sharp mind—I’d like to think she’ll be matched with someone who can keep pace.”

James glanced at Narcissa, who met his eyes briefly before looking down at her teacup.

“Er—well,” he began, shifting in his seat. “I don’t take Arithmancy, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I’ve heard it’s brutal.”

Druella arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“I’m more of a practical magic type,” James said, settling his teacup. “Defense, Transfiguration, Charms. Even Potions—on the days it doesn’t try to murder me.”

Cygnus gave a short nod. “Disciplines that reward precision. Admirable.”

“Speaking of practical,” Druella said, offering him the plate of lemon biscuits again, “what are your plans after Hogwarts? Does your father expect you to take on the family business?”

“Oh—no,” James said, accepting a biscuit. “He’s more of an inventor than a businessman. He mostly tinkers with potions and forgets to eat.”

Cygnus’ expression shifted—just slightly. “Quite right. Wizards ought to leave commerce to those better suited to it. Goblins, for instance.”

“And does he hope you’ll follow in his footsteps?”

“I was thinking Auror,” James said. “I like dueling. Combat magic’s always come naturally.”

Druella’s eyes lit, genuinely pleased. “He’s practically a Rosier, isn’t he, dear? My family has always valued courage in service of honor.”

Cygnus inclined his head. “A man should be brave, yes. But not foolish. And never dull.”

James wasn’t sure which category he’d just been sorted into.

Cygnus studied him a moment longer. “You and Narcissa come from different traditions. But I begin to think the match may have merit. Assuming my daughter agrees.”

Narcissa, who had been silent again, looked up. “Yes, Father. I think we should invite the Potters to Rooksnest.”

Druella nodded. “Naturally. Traditions must be observed. And do tell your mother not to worry—I’ll help her prepare. These things can be… a bit foreign, at first.”

James set down his teacup. “She won’t need help. She’s unfamiliar with being patronized, not with being prepared.”

Narcissa rose suddenly. “Mother, may James and I speak privately? I believe we’re entitled to that, now that the mark’s confirmed.”

“I wasn’t aware it had been properly verified.”

“I assumed Narcissa’s word would be enough. But if not…”

James tugged up the sleeve of his Quidditch hoodie and turned his wrist outward. The skin was bare, save for the faint shimmer of the soulmark—Narcissa’s name inked onto his skin, as if written in her own hand.

Both Blacks leaned forward, despite themselves.

Druella recovered first. “Very well,” she said, brushing a crumb from her lap. “You may go into the hall, Cissy—but five minutes only. You know the rules.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She turned to James, her eyes bright with something—challenge, maybe, or curiosity.

“Well?” she said. “Coming?”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Narcissa turned. “You can’t speak to my mother like that.”

James crossed his arms. “She talks down to my mum and I’m meant to smile through it?”

“She wasn’t insulting her. She was offering help. In her way.”

“So I’m meant to sit there while they act like my family’s beneath them?”

“My parents will never see your family the way you want them to. They don’t do ‘equals.’ You’ll be happier if you understand that now.”

“Then maybe we skip the invitation altogether.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed calm. “Do what you like, Potter. But if you plan to marry me, you’ll need to learn how to survive a conversation without declaring war.”

“So that’s what this is? A test?”

“No,” she said patiently. “It’s a language. And you keep shouting in yours.”

He paused, then said, “You kept steering the conversation away. Every time they said something you knew I’d react to.”

“I was trying to keep the room from catching fire. Don’t make me do all the work next time.”

“You’re not like them.”

“I am,” she said, brushing a hand down her sleeve. “I’m just better at translation.”

She turned to go, but his voice stopped her.

“I’ll try,” he said. “But only because it's you. I’m not built to let things slide.”

She glanced back at him, expression unreadable. “Then redirect it. You’re supposed to be charming, aren’t you?”

James blinked. “I can be.”

“I’d like to see it,” she said dryly. “At least once.”

Then she slipped back into the Headmaster’s Office, leaving him alone in the hall.  

Chapter Text

“That almost sounds pleasant,” Severus said as he stepped back into the bedroom, a large mug of strong tea in one hand and a sleeve of chocolate digestives in the other.

Sirius was crouched on the floor beside the Dansette Bermuda. The record was already spinning — not the chaotic, furious noise Severus had braced for, but something slow and melodic.

“Thought we could have a bit of music,” Sirius said, standing and taking the mug from him. “Do you want to eat these in bed? I’m freezing.”

Unlike Severus, who had pulled on shorts and a borrowed shirt before venturing to the kitchen, he was completely naked, moving with the careless ease of someone who had never learned to be self‑conscious. 

Severus forced himself to look away from the shifting muscles of Sirius’ chest and settled back against the pillows. The mattress was softer than anything he’d ever touched. His fingers lingered on the velvet duvet, idly tracing the embroidery.

“I can’t believe you want to leave all this behind,” he said, aiming for cynicism. It came out closer to confusion.

Sirius sank deeper into the pillows, mug cradled in both hands. “You don’t exactly strike me as the comfort‑loving type,” he said, sipping.

“Wasn’t much comfort to love. Not in our house.”

Sirius looked down at his tea. “So what’s this job, then? Whatever it is — it got you out.”

“Admin work,” Severus said. “Filing, sorting… keeping things running for people who think they’re far too important to do it themselves.”

“Riveting,” Sirius muttered, biting into a biscuit and brushing crumbs off the duvet. “So you’re a glorified paper‑pusher.”

“It pays. I’ve got a flat. I don’t have to see my father. That’s already more than I expected.”

“Come on. There must be something you actually want.” Sirius set the mug aside and turned toward him. “In your dream, you were Head of Department. Head of what?”

“You’re painfully literal, Black. That dream wasn’t about a Ministry desk.”

“So what was it about?”

“Power,” Severus said, before he could stop himself. “Enough that I wouldn’t have to crawl for people like—” He cut himself off, jaw snapping shut. “Lucius Malfoy.”

“That tosser,” Sirius muttered.

“Don’t pretend you understand.”

Something in Sirius’ expression flickered — hurt, or maybe defiance. “After everything you saw in that memory… you still think I have it easy.”

Severus’ fingers slid into Sirius’ hair. It was silky and infuriatingly perfect. “Easier than most.”

Sirius exhaled, a hard, frustrated sound. “I’m trying. I don’t know what else you want.”

Severus’ hand drifted down, tracing the line of Sirius’ jaw. “Isn’t it obvious.” He shifted, legs spreading slightly. The soulmark pulsed between them, as if urging the moment forward. “Show me you remember how to use your mouth.”

Sirius didn’t say much on the walk to the Leaky Cauldron. His voice was shot—throat raw from Severus’ cock—and Severus could still feel the soulbond humming between them, low and satisfied. It made him stand a little taller. The feeling stayed with him all the way to the Floo hearth at the back of the pub.

Sirius reached for the powder, then hesitated. “We’ll need another meet — one more before term’s out.”

The bond tugged at Severus like a thread under the skin. He shoved his hands into his pockets and held still. “Can you come to the Undercroft before dinner?”

“Already? Didn’t peg you for the clingy type.”

“I’m going to brew something for your throat,” Severus said, flat. “You won’t be able to eat properly otherwise.”

“You’re going soft.”

“Fine. I won’t bother.” Severus reached for the earthenware jug on the mantle, fingers brushing the rim—

Sirius caught his arm, squeezing once. “Didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he muttered, gaze flicking away. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

Sirius gave a brief nod and stepped into the hearth. The flame rose, swift and final. Severus waited a beat, then followed. He emerged onto the carpet in Dumbledore’s office, ash still clinging to his coat.

The headmaster looked up from his desk, light catching on his half-moon glasses. “Mr. Black. Mr. Snape. Right on time. I trust the funeral was conducted with the dignity it deserved?”

Sirius gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Thanks for letting me use the Floo. I should get moving if I’m going to make it to Quidditch practice.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “And you, Mr. Snape—any promising leads?”

Severus stood straight, arms clasped behind his back. “Yes, sir. I took a flat yesterday.”

“Very good,” Dumbledore murmured, already glancing back at his parchment. “Carry on, then.”

Chapter Text

Severus drew back the velvet curtain shielding his usual window seat in the library. The view gave onto the Quidditch pitch, where a knot of Gryffindors threaded through the practice loops. Sirius was among them—hard to pick out in formation, but the arc of his Comet broom as he banked left was distinctive.

Severus shivered. He remembered the last flying lesson: Sirius at his back, hands firm over his own, guiding the broom through a steep dive. For one impossible moment, Severus had felt weightless. Unafraid. Like the world might hold him steady, just this once.

He didn’t know what to do with that memory. He didn’t trust it.

The curtain snapped open beside him. He flinched.

“Snape,” Lucius said, voice clipped. “Did you hear me?”

“Obviously not,” Severus muttered, straightening. A book slid from his lap and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Lucius didn’t react. “Follow me,” he said, already turning. “I booked a study room. We’ll talk there.”

Severus stood, gathering his books with barely concealed resentment. He trailed Lucius through the stacks into one of the library’s private study rooms—the kind usually reserved for Prefects. The space was paneled in dark wood, the fire snapping in the grate. A large barrister’s desk dominated the room, its carved charmwork ornate but worn at the edges.

Lucius took the room’s only chair without hesitation, leaving Severus to stand.

“I heard you were flat hunting in London. Did you find something suitable?”

“Yes,” Severus said, hands clasped behind his back. He hated standing like one of Malfoy’s lackeys, waiting for orders—but the galleons were spent, and the debt wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good,” Lucius said, adjusting his cuff. “There’s been a change.”

Severus frowned, watching him closely. Lucius’ robes and hair were immaculate, as always—but his eyes were shadowed, his jaw set too tight.

“Oh?” Severus said. “What kind of change?”

“I know I told you to take your time,” Lucius said, leaning back. “Build trust. Blend in. But I’ve reconsidered. I need results sooner.”

Severus scoffed. “I’m a clerk, Malfoy. You may not be familiar with the bottom of a hierarchy, but I assure you—new hires aren’t handed trade secrets.”

Lucius’ expression cooled. “Then be inventive. You’re not stupid.”

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“Break into their records,” Lucius said, shrugging. “Filing cabinet, enchanted ledger, whatever they use. I still want the hair potion formula—but I’ll take anything sensitive. Earnings reports, marketing plans, product development. Whatever you can get.”

Severus’ jaw tightened. “That wasn’t part of the arrangement.”

Lucius looked up, eyes narrowing. “You’ve already taken my gold. Don’t pretend you’re too delicate to earn it.”

“If I’m caught, I’m finished,” Severus said flatly. “Blacklisted. Doesn’t matter how many NEWTs I have, or if Dumbledore himself tries to intervene. No one hires a known spy.”

“Then don’t be caught.”

Severus folded his arms. “Double the gold. Up front. Or I walk.”

Lucius reached into the inner pocket of his robes and withdrew a slim coinfold, clearly fitted with an extension charm. He opened it without looking, eyes still fixed on Severus, and began stacking galleons onto the desk.

“I thought your hatred of Potter would be enough. But perhaps I underestimated your sense of self-preservation.”

Severus swept the coins into his hand with a flick of his fingers. “You didn’t. You just hoped I’d be cheaper.”

“Cheap would’ve been convenient. But I’m not interested in convenience anymore.”

Severus nodded once. “Narcissa’s soulmark. The whole castle’s talking.”

Lucius’ eyes flashed, but the anger was quickly buried beneath his usual mask of indifference. “Potter’s made a spectacle of it. Of her. Of me. That doesn’t go unanswered.”

“Didn’t realize you were sentimental.”

Lucius’ mouth curled. “It’s not sentiment. It’s reputation. Precedent. A Malfoy doesn’t take insults lying down.”

“So it’s about pureblood honor, then,” Severus said, voice dry. “I see.”

Lucius gave a thin smile. “I doubt you do.”

He dipped his quill in ink and began writing—slow, deliberate strokes, each one a clear dismissal.

“You may go. I have no further use for you tonight.”

Sirius towel dried his hair roughly, then cast a drying charm over it and reached into his kit bag for a clean shirt.

Training was over, but for once he felt… solid. Like his bones had stopped rattling inside him. No winded breath, no ache in his joints. His hands were steady. The soulmark quiet. Just breath, strength, motion.

As if something essential had been restored—quietly, without fanfare—by the intimacy he’d shared with Snape.

“You know you clipped me, right?” Remus muttered, rubbing salve into his calf. “Twice. Same leg.”

“You were in the way,” Sirius said, tugging his shirt over his head.

“Reckless as ever,” James muttered, buttoning his trousers. “But I’ll allow it. You were flying like you meant it.”

Peter grinned, hoisting the ball bag onto the top of the lockers. “Definitely got your swing back.”

“Just in time,” James added. “Final’s this weekend.”

“Your mum coming up?” Peter asked.

James nodded. “Yeah. She’s already planning a victory dinner.” He glanced at Sirius. “What about yours?”

“They’ll be there. Regulus is playing.”

Remus looked over, quiet for a beat. “Well, if they’re not cheering for you, we will.”

Sirius nodded, but absently. His parents’ favoritism felt like background noise now—small, compared to Snape and the soulmark.

“Narcissa’s parents’ll be there too,” James said, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder. “I really want us to win. Mum deserves something to hold over Mrs. Black when she starts going on about oyster forks and family trees.”

Sirius snorted. “Good luck. You’ve only just begun to experience the delights of being part of the Black family.”

James grinned. “It’s impressive you turned out halfway decent.”

“Come on,” Peter said, already heading for the door. “If we’re late, the sixth years’ll nick all the pudding.”

“Oh—right,” Remus said, yanking his jumper over his head. “It’s chocolate cake tonight, isn’t it?”

“And lamb with peas,” Peter added, not slowing. “And proper mash. The good kind—with butter, not that weird watery one.”

James clapped Sirius’ arm. “You ready, Pads?”

Sirius’ heart gave a small, muted flip.

He still loved James, of course he did, but since consummating the soulbond with Severus, something in him had settled. The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t claw. It just… sat quietly. Like it understood its place.

For the first time in years, Sirius felt like he could stand beside James without wanting more. Just be his best mate. No longing, no pretending, no tightrope.

And that, honestly, was a relief.

“I’ll meet you later,” Sirius said, adjusting the strap of his kit bag. “Need to send my new gloves back to Quality Quidditch Supplies before the match. The warming charms aren’t working.”

James blinked. “Oh. You’re going to the Owlery?”

“Yeah.”

“You want company?”

Sirius shook his head, casual. “Nah. I’ll be quick.”

“Alright. I’ll save you a seat.”

They split at the corridor’s fork, Sirius angling toward the Bell Tower Wing in case James looked back. He didn’t.

Once the others were out of sight, Sirius veered sharply, cutting across the courtyard and slipping behind the Beasts Classroom.

Severus was already there, arms folded, waiting in the shadow of the stone arch.

“Your message said it couldn’t wait. So talk.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Still allergic to manners, I see.” He rolled up his sleeve in a series of sharp, impatient motions, then held out his wrist. The mark was dark, angry-looking, pulsing faintly. “It’s burning. Worse than before.” He glanced up, eyes narrowing. “Has yours flared since London?”

Sirius shrugged, dropping his Quidditch bag with a thud. “Funny. I feel fantastic. Must be a you problem.”

Severus’ mouth tightened. “So you’re not going to help.”

“Like you helped me?”

Severus yanked his sleeve down like he was slamming a door. “You want a trade? Is that it?”

“That’s how this works,” Sirius said, voice flat. “Isn’t it?”

Severus’ eyes flicked over him, sharp and assessing. “Fine. What do you want, Black?”

Sirius licked his lips. In his boots, he had the height advantage, and Severus had to tilt his chin to meet his gaze. His eyes were sharp, defiant. Sirius hated how much he liked that—how much he liked the fight in him.

“Maybe I want you to return the favor,” Sirius said. “Like I did for you.”

“You think I’d put my mouth on you? I’d sooner swallow poison.”

“Disgusts you, does it?” Sirius’ voice rose, heat flaring behind his ribs. “You didn’t seem disgusted at the flat. Or in the Undercroft.”

“It’s not disgusting when you do it. You’ve always been good at it—mouth open, eager, like a dog—”

Sirius moved before he registered the impulse, fisting Severus’ shirt and slamming him back against the wall. Severus' breath hitched once—sharp, shallow—eyes narrowing to slits.

“Get your hands off me,” he rasped, low and venomous.

Sirius let go, but not gently. Severus hit the wall with a dull thud and stayed there, breathing hard. His fingers twitched at his sides—holding something back. A hex. A punch. Sirius couldn’t tell.

“Maybe the Mark’s evening the score.” His voice sounded flat to his own ears, though the heat behind his ribs hadn’t cooled. “Maybe now it’s your turn to burn.”

“You want me to suffer?” Severus’ voice was low, bitter. “You’ve had years of practice. This is just more of the same.”

“Save the dramatics, Snape.”

Sirius bent for his bag, fingers closing around the strap in a clipped, impatient tug. Canvas scraped against stone as he slung it over his shoulder.

Severus didn’t move. The flush rising high across his cheekbones gave him away—creeping toward his ears. Not just rage. Shame. 

“When you’re ready to get on your knees,” Sirius said, letting his gaze linger.

Daring. Cruel. A little too loud in his own chest.

“You know where to find me.”

Chapter Text

Severus knocked once. At the soft “Enter,” he stepped into the Headmaster’s office, schooling his expression into something neutral as he came to a halt before the desk.

“You sent for me, sir.”

Dumbledore looked up, eyes mild behind the half‑moon spectacles. “Yes, Severus.” He removed them and polished the lenses with a small, practiced charm. “I have received a letter from your mother.”

He lifted a sheet of parchment thin enough for the light to pass through it, the hired‑owl slip still stuck to the corner.

“She asks whether you might be permitted to meet her in Hogsmeade this afternoon. She writes that you will know where to find her.”

“Yes, sir,” Severus said, keeping his voice even.

“You may go at once,” Dumbledore said. “I should like you back before dinner.”

Severus inclined his head and turned toward the door.

“Severus.”

Dumbledore’s tone was gentle, careful. “If your mother should require assistance of any kind, you may come to me.”

A muscle in Severus’ jaw tightened. “She won’t need anything, sir. She only wants to speak about my plans after school.”

Dumbledore regarded him for a moment. Not pitying, simply seeing more than Severus wished he could.

“Very well. You may go.”

Outside, the grounds were nearly empty; everyone else was busy working themselves up over the Gryffindor–Slytherin final — only a few days away. His eyes flicked to the distant hoops. Black would be out there now, showing off on that Comet as if he’d built it.

Heat knifed up under Severus’ sleeve — the soulmark flaring, sharp enough to make his fingers twitch.

He hadn’t spoken to Sirius since the disaster in the Beasts classroom; pride wouldn’t let him. Even so, he’d pulled on the green coat Sirius had given him. It irritated him every time he felt its weight — a reminder of how easily some people could give things away — but the spring wind was cold, and he wasn’t about to freeze for the sake of principle.

At the fork, he took the path toward Hogsmeade. The village roofs showed through the trees, smoke drifting in thin, uneven lines.

His mother never came to Hogwarts. If she’d made the trip, she wanted something from him. The old expectations gathered as he walked: the bills, the mill, the future she still believed he’d return to.

He slowed as the Hog’s Head came into view, smoothing his expression before he reached the door.

Inside, the pub was dim even at midday, lit by a few stubborn candles and whatever light managed to push through the smeared windows.

Eileen sat in a corner booth, half in shadow. Her hair was unwashed but brushed flat, the strands sticking where they’d dried against her skin.

She’d made an effort. It was somehow worse.

He slid into the seat opposite her, keeping his face still.

“I wrote to Dumbledore,” she said, tapping the rim of her glass. Gin, cheap and sharp. “Asked if we could meet.”

“I know.” The perfume she’d dabbed on — something floral from a chemist — mixed uneasily with the alcohol.

She gave a small, strained smile. “Figured you wouldn’t want me up at the castle.”

A tightness settled under his ribs. “Mum, I’ve never said that.”

“You don’t need to.” She looked away, shoulders lifting in a small, defeated shrug. “Same as I know you hate coming home after term.”

A group of older wizards at the bar barked out a laugh. Severus’ shoulders drew in. He kept his hands folded under the table.

“Actually… I won’t be coming home,” he said. “I’ve got a job in London. Took a flat there.”

Eileen’s head snapped up. “Since when? And how did you get the money for that?”

“I’ve had money owed to me for months,” he lied. “Helping younger students. They finally paid.”

Her mouth tightened. “If you had money, Severus… you could’ve said something. I could’ve used the help.”

He glanced at her glass — nearly empty. She hadn’t been here long. His throat felt tight.

“I still have some.” He reached into his pocket for Lucius’ gold. “How much do you want?”

Eileen let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the table. “Your father’s going to be furious when he hears you’re not coming home. He was counting on you — on what you bring in.”

“Mum… why won’t you leave him?”

She blinked, as if the question had come from somewhere else. “Leave Tobias?” A short, disbelieving sound escaped her. “Severus, I can’t. We’re married. That’s… that’s how it is.”

“You could.” He leaned forward, setting the pouch of gold between them. “I’ll give you all of this. Every bit. If you’ll go.”

Eileen stared at the Galleons, then at him. Her expression tightened, wary. “You didn’t make that tutoring.”

“It doesn’t matter where it came from.”

She looked at the pouch for a long moment, knuckles going pale against the glass. “All right,” she said quietly. “I’ll… think about it.”

His jaw tightened. Think about it meant no. It always had.

Eileen slipped the galleons into her coat, patting the pocket once. “Just… promise you’ll write from London. Let me know where you’re staying. I don’t want to lose touch.”

Severus rose, pulling his coat tighter. “I’ll write.”

There was nothing else he trusted himself to say.

By the time he reached the castle, the burn under his wrist had tightened into a hard, needling spike. The walk back from Hogsmeade had done nothing to settle him; if anything, the quiet had given the pain more room to climb. He needed something to do with his hands, something that wasn’t thinking about his mother’s face or the way the gold would already be slipping through her fingers.

The dungeons were empty, the corridors hollow with the absence of students at dinner. He slipped into the Potions classroom and shut the door behind him.

Slughorn’s apothecary cabinet was locked; Severus broke the charm with a flick, the wards giving way like damp paper. Frost‑mint, diluted dittany, moon‑rendered tallow. He took what he needed and didn’t bother pretending he’d replace it later.

His workstation waited in the corner. He lit the burner, the blue flame throwing thin shadows across the stone.

The tallow melted first. He crushed the frost‑mint by hand, the leaves growing colder under his fingers, the sharp scent cutting through the gin and cheap perfume still clinging to his coat.

He stirred the mixture until it thickened, rolled up his sleeve, and exposed the welt — angry, red, pulsing with heat. He applied the salve carefully. The cooling charm bit, then dulled. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.

He set the jar aside and slid down the wall, the faint dampness of the stone pressing between his shoulder blades.

For a moment — just a moment — he let the quiet hold him.

It didn’t last. The burn under his wrist pushed back in sharp, insistent pulses. Without Sirius’ help, it would only worsen; he knew that. How long he had before it became unmanageable was another matter entirely.

Sirius had said not to approach him until he was ready to get on his knees. Severus would sooner let the mark take a layer of skin with it.

If he still had Semiotics of the Unseen, he might have found something useful — a counter‑charm, a dampening technique, anything that could blunt the bond’s pull. But the book was gone, and the pain pressed on.

Chapter Text

Mulciber slowed when he spotted Sirius leaning just outside the reach of torchlight.

“What are you doing down here, Black?”

“Waiting for my brother. Obviously.”

Mulciber’s eyes flicked to the blank stretch of stone. “You know you can’t even see the entrance, right? It’s invisible to—”

“—outsiders, yeah, I’ve heard.” Sirius shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “My family’s been in Slytherin since forever. I know where the bloody door is.”

Mulciber smirked. “But not the password.”

“Let me guess.” Sirius stepped away from the wall, angling himself just enough to look down on Mulciber. “Something pompous. ‘Worthy Within,’ or ‘Legacy Eternal.’ You lot do love a motto.”

“Lionbreaker,” Mulciber said, savoring the word. The wall shuddered and split open, green light spilling out like something glimpsed through deep water. “Fitting, with the match tomorrow. Come on.”

Sirius stepped inside after him. A group of younger students froze mid‑gobstones, one marble skittering off the table and hitting the floor with a sharp crack. Sirius ignored them, eyes sweeping the room.

No Snape.

He hadn’t seen him since the blow‑up in the Beasts classroom. At first, the silence had felt like space — room for his temper to burn itself out — but every time his gaze skimmed the Slytherin table and didn’t find that sharp outline, something in him pulled tighter.

Annoyance, he told himself. 

Wilkes gave a lazy wave in Regulus’ direction. “Black. Your brother’s here.”

Regulus rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his robes. “Sirius?”

“Get him out before the strategy session,” Wilkes said, angling toward Narcissa’s circle. The girls’ bright chatter thinned to a curious hush as Sirius passed.

“I need to borrow a tie,” Sirius said. “Mum and Dad are coming tomorrow. You know how they get.”

Regulus’ expression tightened by a hair. “Alright. This way.”

They descended into colder air. Damp crept through Sirius’ jacket, and he tried not to picture Snape living down here without even a proper coat.

Regulus pushed open a door. “My room.”

Sirius followed him inside. Same layout as Gryffindor, but richer: velvet hangings, a thick rug, silver‑trimmed trunks. He drifted to the desk and picked up a serpent‑shaped letter opener, turning it over in his hand.

“What color do you want?” Regulus asked, opening his wardrobe. The tie rack slid out with a soft mechanical hum, spilling velvets, damasks, and silks in deep green, steel grey, even amethyst.

“This is fine.” Sirius grabbed one at random and shoved it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“You’re wearing that charcoal suit? Because if you are, I think Mum would prefer—”

“I don’t give a flying toss what Mum prefers.”

Regulus exhaled through his nose. “I thought after last time, you’d realize it’s smarter not to provoke her.”

“I’m wearing the tie, aren’t I?”

Sirius’ gaze drifted to the other boys’ beds — plainer than Regulus’, but still cushioned by family money.

“Is Snape’s room around here?”

Regulus shut the wardrobe with a clipped snap. “So that’s why you’re really here.”

“He’s vanished again.” Sirius shrugged, the motion a shade too sharp to be casual.

“I’m not taking you to his room,” Regulus said. “He shares with Wilkes and Mulciber, and they’ll make a whole thing of it. Not because of the soulmark — because of the final.”

“Do you think he’ll go?”

“You could try asking him. That’s usually how people find things out.”

Sirius dragged a hand through his hair again, sharper this time. “He’s impossible. And he knows exactly how to needle me.”

“Most people do.”

Sirius let out a humorless breath. “Brilliant. Incredibly helpful.”

“Wait.” Regulus caught his shoulder before he turned, fingers light but insistent. “The book said your mark would start reverting. Does it say Snape’s name again?”

“It’s fine. Mum’s not likely to demand another inspection anytime soon.”

“And if she does? I can’t redo the ritual without the book.”

“Stop fussing.” Sirius gave his shoulder a quick, dismissive bump. “I’ll deal with it.”

Once he slipped through the entrance, Sirius ducked into a shadowed alcove and pulled out the Marauders Map.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he muttered, tapping the parchment.

Ink flared. Footprints unfurled across the castle. James, Remus, Peter — the whole team — were already gathered around the Gryffindor common room fire, deep in the final strategy session before the match. His chest gave a guilty twist; he ignored it.

He scanned lower.

No Severus in the Slytherin dorm.

Not in Potions.

Not in the undercroft.

Sirius’ jaw tightened.

“There you are,” he said — clipped, almost a growl — when he finally found the dot.

Relief came late, sliding in behind the anger.

“Right. We’re doing this.”

He folded the map, shoved it into his pocket, and turned away from the path to Gryffindor Tower, heading straight for the library.

He found Severus in the window seat overlooking the pitch. The book in his lap might as well have been blank; he wasn’t seeing it. His breath hitched every few seconds, barely noticeable unless you were looking. One arm stayed pinned to his side, fingers hooked over the sleeve like he was holding himself together.

Sirius felt something twist low in his gut. He forced it down.

Severus must have felt the weight of the stare; he turned, eyes narrowing at once. “What do you want, Black?”

“You hiding from everyone or just me?”

Severus’ expression iced over. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stood, clearly intending to leave.

“Wait.” Sirius stepped into his path. “You look worse than usual.” His gaze dropped to the sleeve. “You said the bond was giving you trouble. Is it—”

“I can’t keep up with whatever you think you’re doing.” His voice was flat, brittle. “You set your terms. I’m not meeting them.”

He moved to brush past. Sirius caught his arm—too fast, too hard. Severus flinched, a sharp, unguarded wince. Sirius released him at once.

“I’ve got a temper. You know that. And don’t pretend you weren’t—”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

“So I deserved it.”

“Don’t twist my words.” Sirius exhaled hard. “We can’t talk out here. Inside.”

He tipped his chin toward the nearest study room.

Severus hesitated, wand hand twitching. “Five minutes. Then I’m gone.”

Inside, Sirius shut the door with a muttered charm. Severus stood by the leaded window, too still to be anything but braced.

“Let me see it,” Sirius said.

“No.”

“Snape—”

“I said no.”

“You’re impossible.”

Sirius stepped forward. Severus jerked back on instinct, shoulder brushing the bookshelf. His hand twitched toward his wand before he caught himself.

“Just hold still. I need to see what I’m dealing with.”

Severus’ mouth tightened — a flash of refusal, pride, and pain all at once. He hesitated, jaw working, then tucked his wand under his arm with a stiff, irritated motion. When he peeled the sleeve back, Sirius stopped short.

A blood‑soaked bandage covered the mark.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Sirius muttered. “What did you do to it?”

His hands were rough at first, then steadier as he caught Severus’ wrist and eased the bandage free. The skin beneath was raw and inflamed, the soulmark raised and angry, as if it had scabbed, torn, and bled again.

Severus hissed and jerked back. “That hurts, you idiot.”

“You’re the one who tore it open,” Sirius said, releasing him. “Mine never looked this bad.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, irritation scraping under his skin, then yanked his tie loose and shoved it into his pocket. He unbuttoned his shirt with quick, clipped motions, the fabric falling open to expose the solid, Quidditch‑honed muscle he never thought twice about.

Severus kept his eyes on the far wall, though his cheeks colored. “What are you doing.”

“Helping you,” Sirius said. “Obviously.”

Severus went still.

“Oh, for—Not that.” Sirius’ voice flattened, cold. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re the one who set the terms. Knees first, wasn’t it.”

“Shut up and take off your shirt before I do it for you.”

Severus’ fingers went to his tie, movements clipped and unwilling. He stripped the shirt off in jerky, efficient motions. Underneath, his collarbone cut a hard line; his ribs shifted with each breath. He looked like a boy who’d shot up too fast and never had the chance to put anything on him.

Sirius closed the distance, one hand firm between Severus’ shoulder blades to hold him still. Their chests brushed—barely—and the soulmark flared between them, a pulse of heat urging more contact.

Severus sucked in a breath, sharp and involuntary, fingers curling once before he forced them flat.

“Hold still,” Sirius said, feeling the tremor running through him the moment their skin touched.

Warmth spread between them, easing the angry throb of Severus’ mark. His breathing evened, but his eyes stayed fixed on the far wall, as if looking at Sirius would cost him something he wasn’t willing to give.

Sirius kept his grip firm, practical, ignoring the heat crawling up his own throat. After a long moment, he spoke—quiet, almost grudging.

“Is it helping?”

“Yeah,” Severus said. “It is.”

Sirius let out a short breath, half scoff. “You’re a stubborn bastard. I’m not thrilled about this bond either, but at least I’m not trying to tear myself apart over it.”

“Aren’t you.” Severus leaned in before catching himself, pulling back a fraction. “You’re the one reckless enough to use a spell from that book. Utterly deranged.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t kill me.” He shifted his grip. “And it wore off. Look.” He lifted his wrist, flashing the mark.

“I know what a soulmark looks like,” Severus muttered, knocking his hand aside.

“But you’ve never seen mine,” Sirius said. “Don’t you… want to.”

He shut his mouth fast, furious he’d let that escape.

“It’s just my name,” Severus said, tired in a way that wasn’t weakness so much as resignation. He shifted, letting a fraction more of his weight rest against Sirius’ chest.

Sirius drew in a slow breath to steady himself — and caught the scent.

“Is that—Frost-mint?”

Severus straightened at once, as if he’d realized how close he’d drifted. “I stole it from Slughorn,” he said, brusque again. “Needed it for a salve.”

“And you’re not even a little worried about getting caught.”

“This from the boy who nicked a book out of the Restricted Section.”

“You already said it — they’d barely scold me.” Sirius pulled him in without thinking. “You, on the other hand…”

The words died when he realized how close their faces were.

“You can let go.”

Severus broke contact, turning his back under the pretense of reaching for his shirt. Even from behind, Sirius saw the flush creeping down his neck, spreading across his shoulders and chest.

“You sure you’re alright? Let me see the mark.”

“I’m fine.”

He turned to face him, eyes dark and flat, daring Sirius to push it.

“Go on. Back to Gryffindor Tower. Potter’s probably halfway to a breakdown without you.”

Sirius yanked his shirt on, not bothering with the buttons. “Right. Should’ve known better than to try.”

Severus’ expression flickered—anger first, then confusion, then something rawer he crushed down so fast it barely existed.

“Don’t pretend you’re doing this out of kindness, Black.”

“Not everything’s a bloody transaction, Snape.”

Sirius turned away first, because someone had to.

“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “don’t let it get this bad.”

Sirius ducked through the portrait hole and barely got two steps in before James called from the fire.

“Oi! You missed the team meeting.”

He didn’t bother hiding the irritation.

Sirius headed straight for the butterbeer keg Peter had smuggled in. “Had to talk to Reg,” he said, casual as anything. He dropped into an armchair and flashed the tie from his pocket. “See? Proof. Mother will be appeased.”

James’ expression softened — but only a little. “Sorry, Pads. I forgot it’s… well. A thing for you. Playing against Regulus.”

Peter snorted from the sofa. “Don’t let him off that easy. If he was only meeting Regulus, why’d he need the map?”

Remus took a slow sip, gaze steady over the rim of his glass. “He’s not wrong. You’ve been disappearing with it a lot lately.”

“Told you. Secret girlfriend across enemy lines.”

Remus nodded, maddeningly calm. “He does stare at the Slytherin table. Quite a bit.”

James threw a hand to his chest. “Sirius Black, consorting with Slytherins. I’m scandalized.”

“Says the bloke soulmatched to Narcissa Black.” He stood and stretched, joints cracking. “I’m turning in. Need to be conscious for the match.”

James got up too. “You don’t want the grand recap of our brilliant strategy?”

“Let me guess — keep our Seeker alive when he dives. Same as every year.”

James grinned. “That’s my Beater. Merlin help Slytherin tomorrow.”

Sirius pushed open the bathroom door and stepped back into the dorm, towel slung around his neck. James was sitting on his bed, waiting.

“If this is a lecture, I’m going back in the shower.”

“I’ve been thinking about what Remus and Peter said. And… it does feel like you’re keeping something from us.”

Sirius pulled his pajama shirt over his head, grateful for the moment it hid his face. He tugged it straight. “It’s not what they think. I just… need a bit of space.”

James nodded slowly and stood up. “You’d tell me if it was something else, yeah? I don’t care if she's a Slytherin. Doesn’t bother me.”

Sirius swallowed. “I’d tell you.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop prying.” James clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Tomorrow’s going to be weird. Reg on the pitch, your parents wanting him to win… I get why you’re tense. Just know I’m supporting you.”

Sirius managed a crooked half‑smile. “Wouldn’t survive without you, would I?”

He pulled his curtains halfway closed.

“Night, Prongs.”

Chapter Text

“Snape,” Mulciber said. “Got a minute?”

Severus didn’t look up from his breakfast. “Shouldn’t you be trotting off with the rest of the team.”

Mulciber dropped onto the bench at his right, gloves shoved into his belt, helmet tucked under one arm. “In a bit,” he said. “My brother’s here — came with my parents.”

Severus cut a neat line through his toast. “How wonderful for you.”

Mulciber ignored the tone. “He brought me something. Something I can’t brew on my own.”

“Illegal, then.”

Mulciber grinned and nudged a small pouch toward him under the table. “Only if you botch it. Thought — since you’re not going to the match — you might help me out. Spillbrew. For after.”

Severus spread jam across the toast in a thin, even stripe. “Who says I’m not going. Quidditch has its charms. Chiefly the injuries.”

Mulciber snorted. “Right. Anyway — I’ll make it worth your while.”

Severus weighed the pouch, then slipped it into his pocket. “Fine. It’s simple enough.”

Mulciber clapped his shoulder once. “Come by later if you feel like it. Room of Requirement. Gryffindors are running the thing.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Figured.” He took a piece of bacon, bit into it as he stood, and jogged off toward the rest of the team.

Severus had just begun to believe his breakfast was safe from further Quidditch‑related intrusions when Regulus slid into the seat across from him, eyes flicking in the direction Mulciber had gone.

“You’d rather brew than watch his last match.”

“I’d rather be poisoned by Acromantulas than watch your brother preen, Black.”

Regulus exhaled sharply, a small shake of his head. “For reasons beyond me… Sirius wants you there.”

Severus took a deliberate bite of toast, expression unchanged. “All the more reason to stay away.”

“Regulus.”

Lucius’ voice cut across the Hall, impatient. The rest of the team waited behind him, a knot of green and silver.

Regulus gave Severus one last look, then pulled on his gloves before turning to join them.

“Narcissa, there you are.” Druella’s gaze drifted over the rope braid at her shoulder, then to the narcissus brooch pinned to the lapel of her deep green coat. “You’ve chosen beautifully this morning.”

A faint prickle rose under Narcissa’s skin at the implication she might have appeared in something inappropriate — a Gryffindor scarf, for instance.

“I am perfectly capable of presenting myself, Mother.”

“Of course you are, my dear. But after the family’s recent embarrassment, I prefer to be certain.”

Narcissa’s fingers paused on the railing — a barely perceptible hitch — before she smoothed her expression. “Have the Potters arrived?”

“No. Dumbledore will be bringing them.” Druella accepted a cup of tea from a passing house‑elf. “Did you know they usually sit with the Gryffindor students? Right in the stands.” A soft, incredulous laugh. “I suppose that’s why we’ve never been introduced.”

She lifted her cup again — only to pause as a ripple of movement passed through the box. Dumbledore was approaching, guiding a tall man whose spectacles sat slightly askew and a plump woman in vivid purple robes, waving cheerfully to students as she passed.

“Oh my.” Druella followed Narcissa’s gaze. “Fwooper feathers on the hat — and in May.” Her smile brightened, brittle at the edges. “We shall have our hands full.”

A short distance away, Cygnus broke off his conversation with Orion and moved to join them. Dumbledore caught sight of the three Blacks gathered together, and his smile warmed as he guided the Potters toward them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Black,” he said, “may I present Fleamont and Euphemia Potter — James’ parents.”

Cygnus extended his hand with easy courtesy. “Mr. Potter. Mrs. Potter. A pleasure.”

“And a pleasure to meet you,” Fleamont said, earnest and just a touch distracted. “Mrs. Black.”

Euphemia’s smile brightened. “You must be Narcissa. James has spoken of you in his letters.”

“Has he.” Narcissa kept her tone light. “I hope he spoke well.”

Euphemia laughed softly. “He did — though not nearly enough. You’re even lovelier than he said.”

Narcissa was spared the necessity of replying. A clear, commanding voice — Professor McGonagall’s — swept across the stadium: “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly take your seats. The match will begin in five minutes. Team captains, to the center of the pitch.”

“Oh, they’re lining up,” Fleamont said, delighted. He lifted the Omnioculars hanging around his neck, tracking the movement below.

Narcissa followed his line of sight. James jogged out of the tunnel, broom in hand. Sunlight caught in his dark hair as he crossed the grass, his stride loose and assured in a way she refused to call charming.

“Oh, I’d forgotten Lucius was Slytherin’s captain,” Druella said lightly.

“He’s a Chaser as well, I believe,” Euphemia said, consulting her program.

“Hm. Interesting,” Fleamont murmured. “Chasers often end up leading, don’t they? Something about the position encourages it.”

At the center of the pitch, James and Lucius clasped hands. It ought to have been a polite formality, but the handshake held, their shoulders tightening by a fraction before they broke apart.

Madam Hooch stepped in at once, whistle glinting as she readied the coin toss.

The coin spun, landed.

From the commentator’s box, Colin Merriweather — a cheerful fifth‑year Hufflepuff — called out, “Slytherin will start with the Quaffle!”

A low swell of approval moved through the stands as the players took their positions.

“Shall we sit?” Druella suggested, indicating the front row.

Narcissa waited for her mother to settle before taking her own seat. Euphemia sat to her left, while Fleamont and her father took the places on Druella’s right.

“Is this your first time in the Parents’ Box?”

Fleamont blinked, as though only just realizing Druella was speaking to him. “Oh—yes, I suppose it is,” he said, lowering his Omnioculars. “We usually end up with the Gryffindors. Habit, I suppose.”

Euphemia’s smile was warm. “It’s where the children are. And the view is quite good.”

“How… spirited,” Druella said, her gaze drifting toward the Gryffindor stands, where students in red and gold were already waving banners and shouting their house song.

Narcissa shifted toward Euphemia. “Mrs. Potter — may I fetch you tea? The elves have just brought out a fresh tray.”

“No, thank you, dear. Stay — James is lining up his shot.”

Even Druella leaned forward, surprised that James had stripped the Quaffle from Slytherin so quickly and was already streaking toward the goalposts. A breath later, he sent it cleanly through the center hoop.

“TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!” Merriweather’s eager announcement momentarily drowned out the roar of the crowd. “James Potter with the first goal of the match!”

Cygnus nodded approvingly. “A strong opening. Gryffindor is fortunate to have him.”

Fleamont brightened. “He’s aiming for a personal best. I think he said… twelve seconds from midfield? Or was it fourteen? Ah well — he’ll know.”

Druella’s brows lifted a fraction. “A… personal best?” The term sounded faintly foreign on her tongue.

“He keeps track of his numbers,” Fleamont clarified, still smiling.

Druella gave a soft, amused breath. “We only have daughters, so I forget how… eager boys can be.”

“That's right,” Euphemia said. Her attention returned to the pitch, where James slipped past a Slytherin Chaser with an easy feint. “You have three daughters, don’t you? Narcissa is the middle?”

Narcissa felt her mother stiffen — and went still beside her. Euphemia didn’t seem to notice; James had scored again, and the stands erupted. As the cheers ebbed, Narcissa spoke quickly, her voice a shade too bright.

“Is James’ interest in Quidditch something he gets from you, Mrs. Potter?”

“From me? Hardly. And please — call me Euphemia.” She laughed. “I never know what’s happening, but it’s all such fun.”

“Has your family always been Gryffindors?”

“Oh, heavens, no — we’re all Hufflepuffs,” Euphemia said cheerfully. “James was a surprise to us, in this and in so many other ways.”

Druella’s brows lifted. “How so?”

“Well,” Euphemia said, amused, “you must have noticed Fleamont and I are a touch older than most of the parents here.”

Druella set her teacup down with a soft click. “Yes… I had wondered.”

“We’d nearly given up hope of having a child when James came along,” Euphemia continued, unembarrassed. “He’s always kept us on our toes. He’s clever — I half‑expected him to take after his father and end up in Ravenclaw.”

“And he’s got such a generous nature he’d have made a fine Hufflepuff,” Fleamont added, smiling. “But in the end, I think the Hat knew what it was doing, putting him in Gryffindor.”

Cygnus nodded sagely. “The Hat placed him well. The Auror Office demands a certain… boldness.”

As if to prove the point, James picked off a pass meant for Wilkes, cut between two Slytherin defenders, and snapped the Quaffle through the upper ring before the keeper even shifted.

Druella let out a soft, brittle laugh. “At this rate, we may as well hand Gryffindor the Cup now.”

“Our offense may be asleep on their brooms, but you’re forgetting our secret weapon.”

Euphemia turned toward Cygnus, smiling. “Secret weapon?”

“He means my cousin Regulus,” Narcissa said. “He’s Slytherin’s Seeker.”

“Ah, Regulus!” Fleamont said, nodding. “Of course — Sirius’ younger brother.”

“That’s right,” Druella said, her tone pleasant but edged with mild surprise. “I forget, at times, that you know Sirius.”

“Oh, he’s practically a second son. He’s been underfoot at our place since the boys were eleven.”

James broke free along the right flank and drove the Quaffle hard into the far hoop. Fleamont let out a delighted laugh — a small, proud burst he didn’t bother to hide.

When the roar of the stands ebbed, Euphemia turned back to Druella with an open, hopeful smile. “We’d love to have Narcissa — and all of you — in London sometime. Perhaps when term’s over.”

“How thoughtful,” Druella said. “We should have you all down to Rooksnest — a house party would be—”

“Regulus has sighted the Snitch.” Cygnus leaned in sharply, omnioculars snapping into focus. “There — near the Gryffindor hoops.”

Narcissa caught herself holding her breath — and she could feel, somehow, her parents and the Potters doing the same — as Regulus dropped into a steep dive after the flicker of gold.

Then Sirius streaked into view, bat raised.

He caught the bludger cleanly and sent it screaming toward Regulus.

Regulus jerked upward at the last instant, the ball whipping past his stirrup. The Snitch vanished in the chaos of the near‑miss, its glint swallowed by the glare.

“It must be strange for them,” Euphemia said, her voice tight. “Facing each other like that.”

Fleamont shook his head. “Strange, yes — and a bit too close for comfort.”

“All part of the game,” Cygnus said, eyes narrowing on the play. “Orion and I flew the same way when we were on the Slytherin team.”

Euphemia’s brow furrowed. “But you weren’t on opposing teams. Sirius as a Beater and Regulus as the Seeker—Merlin, it’s nerve‑wracking to watch.”

Cygnus answered with calm certainty. “They know what they’re doing.”

Fleamont managed a faint, worried smile. “Let’s hope they remember that.”

A fresh surge of motion on the pitch pulled every eye back to the game. Remus snapped a pass across the field, the Quaffle cutting through the air in a clean red blur. James caught it one‑handed, momentum carrying him straight into open space. The motion was so fluid it startled her — a flash of grace she hadn’t expected from him. He didn’t slow, only rolled his wrist and slipped the Quaffle past the keeper’s glove into the lower hoop.

Merriweather’s voice cracked like a whip over the stands.

“Another goal! That’s fifty points to Gryffindor, nil for Slytherin — Malfoy had better hope his Seeker can catch the Snitch next time.”

The stands erupted again, swallowing whatever else might have been said.

Severus pulled his coat close, narrowing his eyes to catch the match through the gaps in the boards above his head. The Slytherin stands thundered with anger as Sirius’ Bludger skimmed past Regulus’ boot, a breath from knocking him off his broom.

The cheers for Regulus rose again, but Severus found himself watching Sirius instead, noting the pallor in his face even from here. Potter swung in beside him, calling something quick and worried before veering away after the Quaffle.

He shifted against the cold beam, irritation prickling beneath his collar. Quidditch was idiotic: pure‑bloods throwing themselves through the air for applause, as if gravity bent differently for them.

His fingers brushed the vial of Spillbrew in his pocket, the one Mulciber had wheedled out of him. A juvenile potion for those truth‑or‑dare games the upper-years played; it made lying impossible and nudged the girls toward dare, which was undoubtedly Mulciber’s aim.

He told himself he was only here to hand over the finished brew. Nothing else. He wished they’d blow the whistle and be done with it. He didn’t want to watch another minute of this.

Almost on cue, the crowd lurched to its feet, shouting. Regulus had spotted the Snitch. Sirius streaked toward the bludger, bat raised — then checked his momentum by the smallest degree, a shift so slight it barely broke the line of his flight. The bludger slipped past untouched. A heartbeat later, Regulus closed his glove around the Snitch, and the stadium roared.

The whistle blew, and the pitch dissolved into noise. Sirius hit the grass hard, eyes flicking toward the parents’ box, where his mother and father were on their feet with the other Slytherins, applauding Regulus’ catch.

James landed beside him almost immediately. “You alright, mate?”

“Fine.” Sirius didn’t look at him. “Just a loss.”

James followed his glance toward the box, then back to him. “That wasn’t ‘just’ anything.”

Sirius’ grip tightened on his broom, knuckles white. “I said I’m fine.”

James let it go. Not because he believed him, but because he knew pushing would only make it worse. “We played well. Nothing we could’ve done once Reg got eyes on the Snitch.”

Sirius huffed, shoulders still rigid. “Yeah.”

Remus touched down, breath still uneven. “Merlin, that ending.” He glanced at Sirius. “You good?”

“I’m fine.” Sirius shoved his broom at Peter without looking. “Need to check on Reg.”

Peter, juggling the broom, blurted, “Why? You didn’t hit him. That’s why we lost.”

A sharp silence dropped over them.

James’ hand closed around Peter’s shoulder, hard. “Not now.”

Peter flushed, staring at the grass. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Sirius said, voice flat.

James turned Peter gently toward the tunnel. “Let him be. He’ll meet us after.”

Sirius didn’t hear them. He was already cutting across the pitch toward the Slytherin celebration.

Regulus was half‑buried in a crush of green robes, teammates thumping him on the back, someone ruffling his hair while another shook his hand. He glanced up at the movement, catching Sirius’ eye — a flicker of worry, quickly shuttered — before the crowd surged again around him.

When the bodies shifted, Orion was suddenly beside him.

“An excellent catch, Regulus. Slytherin could not have asked for a finer Seeker today.”

“Thank you, Father.” His gaze slid toward Sirius, careful now. “It wasn’t an easy match for anyone.”

“Precisely,” Orion said. “And in such matches, discipline shows. Regulus has it. You, Sirius — you have heart. It only needs direction.”

Sirius’ jaw locked. “Came too close,” he muttered to Regulus alone. “Sorry.”

“We’re joining the other Slytherin parents for dinner,” Orion said, as if Sirius hadn’t spoken at all. “Regulus, clean up and meet us.”

“Father—” Regulus hesitated, licking his lips. “There’s a celebration in the common room. I don't want to miss—”

“You’ll have time for that later.” Orion’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Let your father enjoy a moment of pride. They’re rare enough.”

Sirius didn’t stay to hear the rest.

He turned sharply and walked. Not toward the Gryffindor tunnel, where the post‑match autopsy would already be starting and James would take one look at him and see far more than Sirius could stand.

He cut across the pitch instead, letting the dark line of the Forbidden Forest pull him on, his stride tightening with every step as the noise behind him thinned to nothing.

Chapter Text

Severus watched Sirius break away from his brother and father, posture alone enough to signal something had gone wrong. Instead of heading for the Gryffindor changing room, where the team would be licking their wounds and Potter would be hovering like an anxious mother hen, Sirius cut hard toward the forest.

Severus hesitated only a heartbeat beneath the stands before slipping after him. The crowd was still roaring over Slytherin’s win; no one noticed him ghosting along the edge of the pitch toward the trees.

Ahead of him, Sirius’ pace was fast and uneven, the stride of someone who wasn’t seeing the ground in front of him. Charging into the Forbidden Forest in that state was idiotic, but entirely in character.

Severus loosened his wand in his hand, scanning the undergrowth as he followed. Even the forest’s edge was treacherous, with flowers that exhaled intoxicants and bowtruckles shifting like twigs in the branches. Beyond the first line of trees, the forest changed; its silence deepened, its shadows occupied by things that did not forgive trespass.

Sirius pushed through a stand of saplings and into a small clearing, drawn by the sudden openness. Severus followed more slowly, gaze still tracking the forest floor. That was when he saw it: faint geometry carved into the soil, stones arranged in a circle too precise to be natural. His stomach dropped. His wand was up before he consciously decided to act.

“Impedimenta!”

The jinx hit Sirius squarely. He froze mid‑stride, one foot suspended above the ground, breath locked in his chest. Severus closed the distance in three quick steps, grabbed a fistful of his collar, and hauled him backward—hard—until both of them were clear of the runic ring. Only then did he release the spell.

Sirius rounded on him the moment he could move. “What the hell, Snape?”

“You were about to walk straight into a unicorn trap.”

“A what?” Sirius blinked, half angry, half confused.

“A unicorn trap. Poachers set them all over the forest. You very nearly volunteered yourself.”

Sirius looked back at the clearing, frowning. “Didn’t look like anything.”

“That’s rather the point,” Severus said flatly. “Unicorns aren’t in the habit of strolling into obvious snares.”

“You could’ve just shouted.”

“And trusted you to listen? Hardly.”

He turned toward the thinning line of trunks. “Come on. There’s a gamekeeper’s shed a few paces from here.”

Sirius followed, still watching him sidelong. “How d’you know all this stuff about the Forest.”

“Potions ingredients don’t pay for themselves,” Severus said, reaching for the shed door. “Harvesting is cheaper.”

The hinges groaned as he pushed it open. Inside, a billhook hung on the wall beside an old mackintosh charmed against weather, and an oil lantern sat crookedly on a shelf.

“Why are we here, exactly.”

Severus went straight to the iron stove, nudged a log inside, and lit it with a low, exact Incendio. The flame caught with a soft whoosh.

“I want tea.”

“Fine. Pour me one.” Sirius shut the door against the wind, the latch clicking softly. He shrugged out of his red‑and‑gold robes, then started on his Quidditch gauntlets, dropping everything onto a bale of straw. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.”

Severus took two enamel mugs from the cupboard. With his back still turned, he tipped a few drops of Spillbrew into one and covered them with loose tea.

“Mulciber said there’s an afterparty in the Room of Requirement. Thought you’d be there.”

The kettle hissed as he set it over the flame.

Sirius’ jaw tensed. “Needed a breather.”

Severus poured the water and handed him the doctored mug. Sirius drank deeply, shoulders loosening a fraction as the warmth hit him.

“Because Potter and his little entourage are blaming you for the loss.”

Sirius scowled and set the mug down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then what are you upset about.”

“I’m not upset. It’s just—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s Regulus, alright? I sent a Bludger straight at him. And then I nearly did it again.”

“I thought it looked intentional,” Severus said, taking a slow drink. “I’ve seen you fly often enough to know when you’re pulling back.”

“Yeah, well… let’s hope you’re the only one who noticed.” Sirius folded his arms, gaze fixed anywhere but Severus. “I don’t want people saying Regulus didn’t deserve the win. Especially not where my father can hear it.”

Severus opened the cabinet, making a show of pushing past a few empty tins.

“Did he say something to you. After.”

Sirius scoffed, sharp and automatic. “The usual. I’m too emotional, I lack discipline, I’m not a proper Black. He’d have preferred I knocked Reg clean off his broom.”

Severus nudged a packet of stale oatcakes toward him.

“He sets you against each other.”

Sirius swallowed, eyes going distant.

“Since we were kids… I was always louder, more—too much. And Reg—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “They expect him to be what I’m not. Controlled.”

“He doesn’t defy them,” Severus said. “You do.”

Sirius huffed out a humorless breath. “Yeah, well… someone had to tell them where to shove it.”

Severus brushed the crumbs from his hands. “You make life hard for yourself, Black.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You could just give them what they want. Like your brother.”

Sirius’ answer came fast, hot.

“No. I couldn’t.”

Severus reached out, catching his wrist.

“No. You couldn’t.”

Sirius went still. The soulmark pulsed between them, low and warm.

“You’re not what they say you are, Black.”

“I’m not?” Sirius tried for careless; it didn’t land.

“You shield him,” Severus said quietly. “Even when it costs you.”

Sirius shook his head, almost a flinch. “Why are you—why are you doing this.”

“Doing what.”

Sirius gestured with his free hand, defensive and thrown. “This. You’re being… decent. That’s not—”

Severus stepped in and kissed him, intent on shutting him up. Sirius made a frustrated sound, but his hands were already on Severus, pulling him in against the solid breadth of his body.

“What did you make of the Blacks?” James asked, straightening his tie before settling into his seat.

“They were perfectly pleasant,” Euphemia said, lifting her glass with a small smile. “A touch formal, perhaps — but that’s hardly a crime.”

“Mm.” Fleamont, already half‑lost in the wine list, peered over his spectacles. “Speaking of Blacks… where’s Sirius? He’s usually first to the table.”

James smoothed the edge of his napkin. “He needed a bit of time. After the match.”

Fleamont set the menu aside. “He held back.”

It wasn’t a question.

Euphemia sighed. “That near‑miss gave me a fright. Narcissa’s parents didn’t seem troubled at all.”

“They’re… different about that sort of thing. Winning’s the only thing that matters in that house.”

Euphemia touched his hand lightly. “Well… he did what he had to.”

“I just hope the team sees it that way,” Fleamont said.

“Most of them do,” James said. “Peter was blunt, but that’s Peter. The rest know what he’s up against.”

He reached for his water glass, but a stir at the entrance drew his attention. The Blacks had arrived. The host straightened, guiding them in, and James rose out of habit.

Narcissa’s winter‑white blouse, tucked neatly into high‑waisted charcoal trousers, gave her an unstudied polish, the kind that made everyone else look slightly rumpled. He became abruptly aware of his damp hair and the tie his mother had insisted on, suddenly worried it made him look overeager. Or worse, young.

Druella took in the room with a cool sweep of her gaze. “How very cozy,” she said as Cygnus seated her. “Quite… unpretentious.”

“We discovered it in second year, when James and Sirius made the team,” Euphemia said with a smile. “It’s been our after‑match stop ever since.”

“And they know our order by heart,” Fleamont added. “A mercy, really — I can never remember what I like.”

The waiter arrived with the wine. A small measure was poured for Fleamont; he tasted it, then nodded. “Perfect, thank you.”

The waiter moved around the table, filling the glasses — ladies first, then the men.

Cygnus glanced toward the bottle, his tone mild. “And this is…?”

“The house red,” Fleamont said cheerfully. “But truly, order something else if you prefer. I’m afraid I’m no expert.”

Cygnus tasted the wine, then gave a small, approving nod. “A reliable choice,” he said. “Very drinkable.”

Druella offered James a gentle smile. “A hard match. I do hope Gryffindor is bearing up.”

“It stings,” James admitted. “Last match and all. But they played their guts out. That’s what matters.”

“You did your part,” Cygnus said. “Fifty points before the Snitch — no one could ask more of a Chaser.”

“I put the Quaffle through the hoops,” James said with a small shrug. “But that only happens because everyone’s where they should be.”

The waiter stepped up beside them. “May I bring you some appetizers to start?”

While their parents ordered, Narcissa angled her head toward James, her voice low enough not to carry. “And… Sirius? Is he all right?”

James hesitated — just a breath — before answering.

“He went to check on Regulus after the match,” he murmured. “But he didn’t come back to the changing rooms.”

“Narcissa, darling — your turn to order,” Druella said, her glance flicking curiously between them.

Narcissa straightened, fingers steady on the menu. “Yes, of course.”

“The salmon would suit you. It’s fresh, and not too heavy.”

“That sounds lovely.” Narcissa offered the waiter a polite smile.

“And for the young gentleman?” he asked, turning to James.

“Steak Diane, thank you.” James closed the menu and handed it back, wishing the moment with Narcissa hadn’t been cut off so neatly. With their parents listening to every syllable, everything felt tight, formal, impossible. He hoped — quietly, stubbornly — for even a sliver of time later when they might speak without an audience.

“Narcissa,” Euphemia said once the waiter had stepped away. “I’m afraid the match rather dominated the afternoon. I’d love to know more about you.”

“Of course, Mrs. Potter. What would you like to know?”

“Oh, nothing too intrusive,” Euphemia said lightly. “Just whether you’ve thought about what comes after Hogwarts.”

“My mother’s charitable work keeps her quite occupied. I’ll be helping where I’m needed.”

“Most commendable,” Fleamont said. “Witches have a way of throwing themselves into good works. I’ve always admired that.”

“We do a bit with the St. Mungo’s auxiliary ourselves,” Euphemia explained. “What kinds of projects do you and your mother take on?”

“Just now, I’m helping my sister with the Heritage Ball,” Druella said lightly, adjusting the fall of her napkin. “Arabella Fawley and I are chairing it this year. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure.”

“I don’t believe I have,” Euphemia said, unruffled. “But it sounds like a lovely cause — something to do with historical preservation?”

Druella laughed, a soft, chiming sound. “You could call it that. The funds go toward restoring Hogwarts’ portraits and maintaining certain magical collections. Among other things.”

The dishes arrived, and Druella brightened. “Oh — this takes me straight back to Provence. The seasoning is nearly identical.”

Cygnus countered, “Mm. I’m getting more Dordogne than Provence. It’s very like that place near the house.”

Soon he was describing the rosés from Provence — the “proper pale ones, not the sugary pink things the English buy” — and a tiny vineyard near their village that “still does everything by hand, no irrigation, you can taste the limestone in the glass.”

James let his attention drift, already bored.

He tuned back in only when Druella addressed him. “Do you and your family travel much?”

The Potters shared a small, amused look. Fleamont answered first, blinking as though pulled from a pleasant daydream. “Oh — not nearly as much as we ought to. I’m a hopeless traveller, truth be told. I like to stay close to my work. It’s a terrible habit.”

Cygnus nodded politely. “The shop must keep you busy.”

Euphemia smiled. “It does, but we’re fortunate. Our manager keeps everything running beautifully.”

“Yes, yes — Riddle is marvellous. Far more organised than I am. I’d lose half the stock if left to my own devices.” He chuckled, then added, “Still, with an engagement in the family, I suppose I’ll have to make an effort and venture out into the world.”

He turned to the Blacks with earnest curiosity. “Have you given any thought to where the wedding should be?”

Druella and Cygnus exchanged a brief, practiced glance. “Traditionally, the groom’s parents host,” Druella said carefully. “But if that’s inconvenient, Rooksnest can accommodate a large gathering.”

“Not in the least,” James said smoothly. “But the day belongs to Narcissa. Wherever she’d like it, we’ll make it work.”

Narcissa glanced up at him, surprise flickering across her face before she hid it.

Fleamont brightened. “There you have it. We’re entirely at your disposal.”

Later, after dessert had been cleared and the long meal finally wound to a close, Narcissa asked her mother if she and James might walk back to Hogwarts alone.

“Very well, dear.” Druella brushed the faintest kiss against her cheek — a gesture more ceremonial than affectionate. “I’ll write once we’ve settled on a date for the Potters to come to Rooksnest.”

They stepped out into the cool afternoon, the noise of Hogsmeade fading behind them. James let out a breath he’d been holding for an hour.

“Go on — admit it. I was almost charming back there. Not a single outburst, even when your family hinted mine couldn’t properly manage a society wedding.”

Narcissa’s smile was small but unmistakable. “If that was you restrained, I’m almost impressed. And they weren’t insulting you — just reminding me what I’m owed as a Black.”

“My dad was loaded before Sleekeazy’s ever hit the shelves. Trust me — if you want Westminster Abbey, I’ll find a way to get us the keys.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “You really don’t get it. In my family, status is something you’re born into. Money is nice but… supplementary.”

“Supplementary, sure. But they don’t exactly turn it down.”

Narcissa turned, studying him like he was finally interesting.

“What?” James straightened, trying not to look like he cared.

“You’re not at all what I expected.”

“In what way?”

“For one thing… you handled losing far better than any Chaser I’ve ever dated.” She resumed walking, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “No sulking. No monologue about how the team failed you. It was… refreshing.”

“Is that what Malfoy’s really like?” He didn’t bother hiding his contempt.

She gave him a look that answered the question without words — and then added, “And you understand about Sirius.” She paused again, turning toward him. “Not many people do.”

“Speaking of Sirius…” James’ grin faded. His hand went automatically to his coat pocket. “I should find him. After what happened, I can imagine exactly what Orion said to set him off.”

“What is that?” Narcissa asked as he pulled out the Marauders Map, not bothering to hide it the way he normally would.

“Something my mates and I made. It shows where everyone in the castle is. Handy, if you know how to read it.”

“So that’s how the four of you vanish from the castle whenever it suits you,” she said, giving him a sidelong look. “We all assumed Dumbledore was turning a blind eye.”

“No, we’re genuinely that clever,” James said, tapping the parchment. Ink flared to life, names and dots blooming across the page.

Narcissa leaned in, eyes widening. “There are so many people.”

“I like to work it out,” James murmured, scanning the map. His gaze swept the Quidditch pitch, then drifted toward the edge of the grounds. “There — near the Forest.”

“Why would he go there?” Narcissa bent closer, close enough that James caught the clean, floral scent of her perfume.

“I don’t know…” His brow furrowed. “Snape’s with him.”

He stared at the two dots, as if the map had made a mistake.

“They’re… very close,” Narcissa murmured, leaning in. The dots hovered almost on top of each other, stubbornly refusing to separate.

James’s expression changed at once. “That’s not right.” His voice thinned with worry. “Sirius wouldn’t stay put if Snape was there.”

Narcissa straightened, reading the shift in him. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

James folded the map too quickly, the parchment crinkling as he shoved it into his coat.

“Potter,” she said dryly, though her eyes warmed, “I can manage the walk.”

“Right.” His voice was distracted now. “If Snape’s done something to him—”

“Go. Quickly.” 

James nodded once and took off toward the shed.

Chapter Text

When Severus finally pulled away, his pupils were blown wide, his eyes almost black. He caught the hem of Sirius’ undershirt between two fingers and tugged once, brushing warm skin before he let go.

“Off.”

Sirius dragged the fitted shirt over his head and dropped it. Cold air rippled across his skin, and Severus’ gaze tracked the shift of muscle, lingering on the strength in his shoulders and the taut line of his stomach.

“That doing something for you?” Sirius managed.

“Yes.”

He followed the line of Sirius’ throat to the place where neck met shoulder and closed his mouth over it, drawing hard enough to bruise.

Sirius’ breath stuttered. “Your turn.”

“I’m not stripping for you, Black.”

“But I’m meant to stand here like an idiot? Come on. Don’t be a coward.”

Severus went still at the word—a brief, involuntary tightening—but he didn’t pull back.

“I told you. This happens on my terms. Or not at all.”

“What are your terms, then?”

Sirius almost didn’t believe he was asking. He was bigger, stronger; he could shove free without effort. He didn’t. Merlin—why wasn’t he moving.

Severus’ eyes dropped to the crate behind him. “Turn over.”

“Here? Now?” Heat crawled up Sirius’ neck. “There’s not even room to—”

“You won’t need to lie down.”

Sirius let out a laugh, quick and wrong. “Yeah. No.” He grabbed his shirt off the floor and dragged it over his head, the hem catching on his shoulder before he yanked it down. “I’m not—I’m not getting bent over bloody crates.”

“Then where.”

Severus kept his voice flat, but Sirius saw the effort it took.

“There’s a tapestry of St Jerome near Ravenclaw Tower.”

Severus nodded. “The scholar with the lion. I know it.”

“There’s a room behind it. No one goes in—no one even knows it’s there.”

“Midnight,” Severus said. “Your friends will be too drunk to notice you’ve slipped off.”

“Bit bloody eager, you.”

“If you’re backing out—”

“Didn’t say I was.” He reached for his robes and gauntlets, fingers unsteady as he gathered them up. “I said I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“I’ve got to go. We’ve been gone too long as it is.”

“Fix your hair first.”

Sirius raked a hand through it, the echo of Severus’ fingers still tingling at the roots. He pushed the door open. The daylight hit sharp and cold, stripping the shed’s warmth from his skin. He blinked against it, took a few steps—

—and James came jogging toward him. Sirius’ stomach tightened; he shot a quick look over his shoulder. If Severus walked out now—

“You alright?” James asked, eyes flicking to the shed. “I saw you were out here on the map with Snivellus—”

“Yeah, unlucky timing,” Sirius cut in. “Wanted a bit of quiet. Picked the wrong spot.”

He headed for the pitch, pace quickening for a step before he forced it back to normal.

James fell in beside him. “Reg alright?”

“Fine.”

“And your dad? He said something, didn’t he.”

“Same old. Nothing worth repeating.”

They walked in silence after that, James only speaking again once they reached the equipment shed.

“Pete put your broom away. Bat too.”

“Right. I’ll be sure to send him flowers.”

James bumped his shoulder lightly against Sirius’. “He didn’t mean anything by it. You know Wormtail—mouth first, sense later.”

“I’m over it.”

They headed into the Gryffindor changing room. Sirius went straight for his locker and began stripping out of his uniform.

James leaned back against the wall, eyes closing. “Good. He thought you were pissed at him.”

Sirius pulled on his favourite corduroy trousers, the ones his mother would never have allowed in the house. “So. How’d you survive dinner with my charming relations?”

“They weren’t that bad.”

“Bless. You really believe that.”

James huffed a laugh, conceding. “Alright, they’re snobs. But Mum’s immune to that sort of thing, and Dad lives in his own world.”

“Lucky them.”

Sirius bent to pull on his boots, taking his time with the laces so he didn’t have to look at James.

“Mum and Dad missed you at dinner.”

“Yeah, well… tell them I’ll make it up to them.”

He tugged on his henley, smoothing the sleeves down over his wrist as quickly as he could without drawing James’ attention.

“What’s that?”

Sirius’ hand stilled. “What’s what?”

James nodded toward his neck. “There. You’ve got a mark.”

“It’s nothing.”

“So Pete wasn’t imagining it. You do have a secret girlfriend.”

Sirius shut his locker. “Drop it.”

James only looked more pleased with himself. “Come on, Pads. Who is it?”

Sirius opened his mouth. The lie he’d prepared about Patricia Rakepick sat right there.

But it wouldn’t come. His throat simply refused, like the words jammed somewhere on the way out.

“Is it one of Narcissa’s friends?”

“No,” Sirius said too fast. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all. “I don’t think she knows he exists.”

James’ brow creased. “He?”

Sirius tried to deny it, but nothing came. Panic surged up, sharp and sudden.

“Hey—are you alright? You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Sirius’ hand closed around his wrist, a guilty, protective reflex. James’ eyes followed the movement.

“Is it the mark? Does it hurt?”

He reached for Sirius’ arm.

Sirius’ body jolted with the instinct to shove him off, but the movement died before it reached his limbs. They locked, useless, a cold rush flooding his chest.

The sleeve slid back. James stared.

“Severus Snape.”

Flat. Disbelieving.

“I didn’t want to lie,” Sirius heard himself say, his voice thinning with shock. “I just—I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“But… I saw it. It said Selina Selwyn.”

Sirius dragged in a breath. “Regulus helped me fake it. The Selina thing—that was his idea. I just… I couldn’t let you see the real one. If my parents knew—”

“Your parents, yeah, but… me? Pads, why?”

“I couldn’t have you see it. Not when it’s… not when it’s a bloke.”

James’ breath caught, like he’d been hit.

“You can’t help that. Soulmarks don’t give you a choice.”

Sirius let out a rough, shaky sound.

“Yeah, well, have you ever heard of this happening? I haven’t. Not once. Not until Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore knows?”

“He guessed. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“You should’ve told me.”

Sirius’ eyes flicked away, shame tightening his throat.

“Didn’t want to lose you.”

Something in James’ face broke open. He pulled Sirius into him, arms closing tight around his shoulders.

“You’re not losing me.”

Sirius went rigid at first, every muscle braced. Then the familiar scent of James’ cologne hit him, warm and stupidly comforting, and something in his chest pulled tight, almost painful.

“Even if I’m… like this?”

James’ arms tightened around him. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Not a single thing.”

Sirius pulled back a little, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand. “Yeah, well. Tell that to the rest of the world.”

James shook his head, like he was still trying to understand. “Pads… what if it’s not real? Snape’s into all sorts of dark rubbish.”

“I know it is. I—I’ve had to touch him. Because of it.”

James exhaled sharply. “That’s bloody awful. Him, of all people.”

Sirius’ jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“We should get someone to look at it. My dad knows people. Curse‑breakers, specialists. They’d know if something dark was done to it.”

“I don’t want anyone else knowing.” Sirius shook his head, quick and sharp. “Reg figured it out on his own. I didn’t tell him. Now you. That’s enough.”

“Yeah. Okay. Just me.”

“And you’ve got to promise you won’t go after him. Snape didn’t do anything. He’s… he’s stuck in this same as me.”

“You don’t have to worry about him right now, Padfoot.”

James squeezed Sirius’ shoulders once, though something in his expression hardened.

“Now that I know, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Chapter Text

“You’re sure about this?” James asked as they climbed the Grand Staircase toward the seventh floor. “We can skip it. Head back to the dorm.”

“And let Slytherin think they got under our skin?” Sirius aimed for normal, trying to ignore how James’ gaze felt different now. “Not a chance.”

“Malfoy’ll be unbearable about the win,” James sighed. “As if he had anything to do with it.”

“You did steal his girlfriend. He’ll take whatever victories he can.”

James huffed a laugh—brief, but it eased something between them. “Come on,” he said as they reached the blank stretch of wall. “Let’s give him something else to complain about.”

He paced once, twice. On the third pass, a door shimmered into place and swung open onto a full Muggle disco, colour everywhere, the mirrorball throwing restless flashes across a packed, shifting crowd.

A shout went up from somewhere—“James Potter!”—and the room surged toward him in a wave of noise and movement. Sirius hung back, the brightness and heat hitting him all at once, until Mary Macdonald caught his wrist and pulled him through a gap in the bodies.

“Good, you’re here. I need help charming this water for the fog.”

“Doesn’t Evans usually help you with this?”

“She’s off fetching butterbeer with Pandora. Come on. You’re the only one I trust not to cock it up.”

She steered him into a quiet corner where a bucket of water waited.

“Here’s the Moondew,” she said, fishing in the pocket of her minidress. The skrrt‑skrrt of a skipping record cut through the music, and Mary groaned under her breath. “Oh, not the turntable again. The needle keeps catching—I’ve got to help Marlene before the music dies.”

She slipped away.

Sirius knelt over the bucket and stripped the Moondew petals, letting them fall one by one. The water shivered at the first touch. Three taps of his wand set it turning in a slow counter‑clockwise pull, and fog rose almost at once, curling around his boots as the lights caught in it and turned the corner into a pocket of haze and colour.

He stayed half‑hidden in the dark, watching the dancers. James was with Dorcas Meadows, laughing with his head tipped back. He looked exactly as he always did—easy, bright, as if the conversation in the changing room had never happened. As if nothing in his world had shifted at all.

It should’ve helped, but instead it left a small, stubborn distance between them, the kind that hadn’t existed until James knew.

He tore his eyes away and pushed toward the bar.

“What’ll it be?” Gareth Bell, a seventh-year Hufflepuff, called over the music.

“Got any Firewhisky?”

Gareth ducked beneath the counter and flashed a small bottle of Basilisk Bite before pressing it into Sirius’ hand. “I’ll do you one better. Not enough to share, but I figured you could use some after that loss.”

Sirius took a sip and barely smothered the cough as the liquor scorched down his throat.

“Burns, doesn’t it?” Gareth grinned.

Mulciber and a pack of Slytherin girls shoved up to the bar, all perfume and sharp laughter. Gareth turned to take their orders, and Sirius lowered his eyes to his drink.

The bass thumped through his ribs—too close to the way his heart had jumped in the changing room. James hadn’t understood. Not the part that mattered. He thought the soulmark was an unwanted compulsion, maybe even something Snape had twisted into being. He didn’t see what lay underneath, the thing Sirius kept shoved down so deep it barely had a name.

A shoulder knocked into him. Lucy Rosier was suddenly at his left, shouting past him toward Mulciber. “I thought you were bringing Spillbrew!”

Mulciber’s eyes caught on the sparkle of her halter top before he answered. “Snape was supposed to brew it. I gave him everything he needed, and the tosser just disappeared.”

Sirius’ head snapped up.

Lucy made a face. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. What now—Spin the Bottle?”

“That’s for fifth‑years,” Patricia Rakepick said, flicking her hair. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

The two girls headed for the floor, hips swaying with the beat. Mulciber watched them go, muttering, “Wouldn’t have minded Spin the Bottle.”

“What were you saying about Snape?” Sirius had to raise his voice to be heard over the music.

Mulciber shrugged. “Promised me Spillbrew, then vanished. Maybe he’ll show up later. I told him about the party.”

He moved off, calling after someone else.

Spillbrew.

The shed.

The tea.

Had he been dosed?

“Gareth,” he said, jaw tight. “I’ve always hated—”

He reached for something he knew wasn’t true, just to test himself. The lie jammed in his throat. His mouth refused it. What came out instead, raw and unguarded: “Being a Black.”

Gareth cupped a hand to his ear. “Say again?” he shouted, the opening chords of Starlight Hex swallowing the words.

Sirius finished the drink in two gulps and pushed the empty bottle toward him.

“Never mind.”

Gareth arched a brow. “Pace yourself, Black. I’m not carrying you back to Gryffindor Tower.”

Sirius didn’t register the words. When he hadn’t been able to lie to James, he’d blamed nerves. Or guilt. But no—the truth was simpler and far worse.

He shoved off the bar, jaw tight. He needed to find Snape. Now.

The Room kept the disco going but slid a door into place on the far wall, answering the urgency in him. Sirius made straight for it, shouldering through a dancing couple without slowing.

“Easy,” a familiar voice called behind him.

He didn’t turn.

“Not now, Remus.”

“You’re storming off. That’s never a good sign.”

“Don’t feel like celebrating. Or talking.”

Sirius kept moving, hoping Remus would take the hint.

Remus didn’t. He fell into step beside him.

“You’re weaving,” he said quietly. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”

Sirius swallowed. He couldn’t dodge it.

“I had a few. Gareth gave me Basilisk Bite.”

“Brilliant. Then you’re definitely not taking the stairs alone.”

Sirius ground his teeth.

“Fine. But no more questions. James already tried to interrogate me, and I’m not in the mood.”

“All right. We can just walk.”

He let Remus turn him toward the Tower, every step dragging the wrong way. His mind stayed locked on Snape and what he’d say when he finally got him alone.

“Seen Sirius anywhere?” James asked, sliding in beside Peter at the bar.

Peter stiffened; he’d been mid‑attempt at chatting up Maisie Cattermole, who looked politely cornered.

“He was here,” Peter said quickly. “Mary dragged him off the second you walked in.”

“Oh—hi, James!” Maisie said, brightening. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry about the match. You were brilliant, though.”

“Cheers,” James said, eyes scanning the dance floor. “Could’ve gone better, but I’ll take the compliment.”

Peter turned pointedly back to Maisie. “Maybe,” he said, voice a touch strained, “there’s… another way to find him.”

“Right.” James clapped Peter’s shoulder once. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He stepped into a dark corner, the charmed fog hiding the shift of his outline.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he whispered, tapping the parchment.

Ink spread in quick, branching lines. His gaze found Gryffindor Tower at once.

The upper‑year dormitories were nearly empty, everyone still at the party, but Sirius and Remus were on their beds, their names settled side by side. Sleeping, or more likely talking.

He started to roll up the map, already planning to go after him, when something caught his eye.

Severus Snape.

Not in the dungeons, or the library, or anywhere he usually skulked. He was up near Ravenclaw Tower, inside the small hidden room behind that medieval tapestry—the one with the monk pulling a thorn from a lion’s paw. James and Sirius had found that room together in fourth year, exploring after curfew.

How in Merlin’s name did Snape know about it?

James’ hand tightened, the map curling in his fist. He put it away quickly and turned toward the wall. The room obliged him at once, a wooden door forming cleanly out of the stone.

This was the moment to confront Snape about the soulmark and decide for himself whether it was real.

Severus paced the cramped, dusty room behind the tapestry, irritation rising with every circuit. Of all the places Sirius could have chosen, this one appeared to be nothing more than a Charms‑class storage closet. Shelves sagged under jars and crates, and the air smelled faintly of chalk and old parchment.

Restlessness pushed him toward one of the crates. He flicked his wand, and the lid snapped open.

Goose feathers. Flitwick burned through them by the dozen every year teaching first‑years the Levitation charm.  

He started to close it, then paused and swept his wand in a tight arc. The crates groaned and folded into a narrow bedframe, the transfiguration clean and spare. A second spell lifted the feathers into the air; they spun once, obedient, before weaving themselves into firm pillows and packing into a serviceable mattress.

He allowed himself the smallest smile and turned toward another crate, considering what might serve as a blanket.

The scrape of boots on flagstone cut the thought short. Severus straightened, expecting Sirius.

James Potter stood there instead.

“Impedimenta!”

James cast before Severus could so much as react, mouth tightening as he took in the conjured bed.

“What the fuck.”

He stepped close enough to seize Severus’ wrist, peeling back the frayed cuff with two fingers, like he didn’t want to touch him more than necessary.

“Sirius Black.”

He read the name flatly, no disbelief left in him, just a sick twist of disgust. The moment he let go, Severus’ arm dropped like stone.

“So it is real.”

He plucked Severus’ wand from his stiff fingers, then flicked his own. The counter‑jinx hit; Severus sagged hard before catching himself, cheeks flaming at the sudden loss of dignity that always followed James’ presence.

“What are you playing at, Snape?”

“What am I—?” Severus’ anger cracked through the words. “You’re the one who barged in here and stole my wand—”

“You’ll get it back when I’m done,” James cut in, voice sharp. “I’m just trying to work out how the hell you ended up soul‑marked to Sirius.”

“You think I chose this?”

“I think it’s a trick,” James shot back. “You cursed him, or brewed something, or—hell, I don’t know—got in his head. Made him think it’s real so you can…”

His gaze flicked to the bed again, revulsion tightening his jaw.

Severus saw the opening and took it. “Hard for you to swallow, I suppose.” His voice went soft, poisonous. “Not so hard for him.”

James recoiled, and Severus felt the sharp, mean satisfaction of having hit the mark.

“Don’t be disgusting. As if Sirius would ever want to touch you.”

“He’s done far more than that, Potter.”

James’ wand jerked up like a reflex.

“Expulso!”

The blast slammed into Severus’ chest. Air punched out of him; the world snapped backward in a violent blur, and then his skull struck stone with a crack that sent white heat bursting behind his eyes.

“You’re disgusting,” James spat. “And I want you to understand something: I’m going to find a way to get Sirius free of this. Whatever it takes.”

He tossed Severus’ wand onto the empty bed, a gesture that made it clear he no longer considered him worth disarming.

“And if you tell anyone—if you make this harder for him—I’ll make sure you regret it.”

He waited, as if expecting a retort. Severus’ vision was still doubling, the room tilting in slow, nauseating waves. He couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to.

James seemed to take the silence as confirmation of something. He left without looking back.

Chapter Text

A loud crack shattered the dormitory’s early quiet. Sirius groaned as his bedcurtains were yanked open, a spill of light cutting straight into his eyes.

“Master Sirius is still abed,” came the low, venom‑edged voice. “And stinking of drink. Mistress will be so pleased.”

“Kreacher? What the hell are you doing here?”

Kreacher bowed low, mock‑respectful. “Mistress requests Master Sirius at breakfast. Young Master Regulus is already washed and dressed.” His nose wrinkled. “Not sprawled about like this.”

“Fuck off.”

“Master Sirius forgets the manners befitting his noble blood,” Kreacher sniffed. “Master Regulus would never disgrace himself with such vulgarity.”

Peter groaned into wakefulness. “Is that elf going on again?” He pushed himself upright, hair sticking up everywhere. “What time is it?”

“Just gone eight,” Remus said from his bed.

Sirius rolled onto his side, pressing his fingers to the base of his skull. The ache there wasn’t the usual hangover fog but a hard, localized throb, like he’d been hit. “Can everyone shut up for five seconds?”

“James didn’t come back last night, did he? Typical,” Peter said, ignoring him.

Kreacher went to the foot of Sirius’ bed and began rummaging through his trunk. “Master Sirius’ best suit,” he muttered, flicking the leather jacket aside with two fingers. “Buried in rubbish. Wrinkled. And stinking of Muggle smoke. Disgraceful.”

“You can save the commentary. I’m not going.”

“Oh, Kreacher will inform her,” the elf said, eyes gleaming. “Mistress will be most interested to hear her eldest refuses a summons.”

“Sirius.” Remus’ voice was low. “Skipping gives them someone else to aim at.”

Sirius sat up. “Fine. I’ll go. Now piss off.”

Kreacher’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “Kreacher knew Master Sirius would not dare defy her.”

Sirius moved fast, like he meant to grab him. “You smug little—”

Kreacher vanished with a sharp crack before Sirius could close the distance.

Peter let out a small, startled laugh. “Is he always like that?”

Sirius yanked his shirt on, fingers fumbling at the cuffs. “He’s been in that house too long. Warps you.”

Remus passed him his suit trousers. “Charm didn’t do much. Still smells like cigarettes.”

“Good. Maybe she’ll choke on it.”

“I wish I could have breakfast in the headmaster’s parlour,” Peter sighed. “They do that rice thing with the smoked fish and eggs. Supposed to be amazing.”

“Trust me, you don’t want what I’m getting served.”

“Devilled kidneys?” Peter asked, still oblivious. “They’re not bad, really—”

“He means his mother, Pete,” Remus said, tired and dry. “Not the food.”

Sirius looped the tie into a neat four‑in‑hand without even looking. “You got a hangover potion, Remus? My head’s killing me.”

Remus was already rummaging in his desk. “Figured it might be.” He came up with a small yellow vial and handed it over. “Tastes foul.”

“They all do.” Sirius uncorked it and threw it back in one go, grimacing.

“We can walk with you,” Remus said. “If you want.”

“It’s just breakfast.”

Remus watched him rub the same spot at the base of his skull again. “You keep doing that. If it’s that sharp, Pomfrey should look at it.”

“I’ll see how it goes. Maybe it’ll clear once I’ve eaten.”

He left soon after. Most of the sixth‑and seventh‑years were still asleep, but a handful of younger students had gathered around the common‑room fire, their voices too bright for the hour. One boy froze when Sirius appeared, half‑rising from the armchair Sirius usually claimed. Sirius brushed past him, headache pulsing hard enough to drown out the room. He pushed through the portrait hole and into the corridor, heading for the Grand Staircase.

No doubt Regulus had already made it to the breakfast table. He wouldn’t be hungover—Regulus never was. He’d have spent the night at their father’s elbow, paraded before the families Walburga still bothered with. Sirius hadn’t been asked to those gatherings since second year; Walburga had learned he’d make trouble regardless of the consequences.

Sirius adjusted his tie, a small, pointless correction. He should have made more of an effort—for Reg’s sake, if not hers.

“Emundare.”

He swept his wand over the velvet of his suit. The cigarette smoke lifted, replaced by the dry oakmoss of his cologne. As he rounded the last corner, the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office came into view. Sirius stopped before it, jaw tight.

“Sirius Black,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

The statue rumbled aside, the sound spiking through his headache.

He stepped inside. The Headmaster’s tartan chairs and tea table had been replaced by a long mahogany table laid for three. Regulus sat halfway down, eating a soft‑boiled egg from a silver cup, two neat toast soldiers the only thing on his plate.

Walburga was pouring tea into his cup. She looked up at Sirius’ entrance.

“So you’ve decided to join us at last.”

Orion stood at the sideboard, selecting thin slices of ham. “He’s here now, Walburga. Let him sit.”

Sirius took the seat across from Regulus, unfolding the linen napkin with a practiced flick and settling it over his lap.

“You look dreadful. I suppose that’s fashionable in Gryffindor.”

“I had a late night.”

“Of course you did. You’ve never known when to stop.”

Orion set a plate before Sirius—eggs, bacon, a mound of kedgeree. The smell alone turned Sirius’ stomach.

“A proper breakfast,” Orion said, settling into his chair. “Whatever Dumbledore serves these students, it clearly isn’t enough. Half of them look as though they’re wasting away.”

Walburga didn’t look up from her tea. “You mean Eileen Prince’s boy. Hardly surprising in a half‑blood. They so rarely look truly well.”

Sirius stared at her. “You’re talking about Severus Snape?”

“Snape, is it?” Walburga dabbed her spoon against the rim of her cup. “I knew she married a Muggle nobody, but I never cared to learn the name.”

“We passed him on the stairs,” Regulus said, careful as ever. His eyes flicked to Sirius. “He looked…unwell. As if he might be going to the infirmary.”

Orion made a noncommittal sound. “In any case—your performance yesterday was exceptional, Regulus. I expect we’ll see more victories before the year is out.”

“A welcome change,” Walburga murmured. “We’ve had so little to applaud in recent years.”

Sirius felt his shoulders stiffen.

“The weather was perfect for flying,” Regulus said, cutting in before anyone else could speak. “You could see all the way to the lake.”

Orion dabbed his mouth with his napkin and turned to Sirius again. “Perhaps if you’d trained with any seriousness—”

“I’ve got the best stats of any Beater at Hogwarts,” Sirius shot back.

“Impressive on parchment, perhaps. Less so on the pitch.”

Walburga set down her cup with a soft click. “At some point, Sirius, you will need to decide what sort of man you intend to be. Indulgence and excuses will only take you so far.”

Sirius’ vision tightened at the edges. The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against the plate.

Regulus looked up sharply. “Sirius?”

“I’m fine,” he said, though the word scraped out of him.

Walburga sighed. “Honestly. Even now—dramatic.”

Sirius pushed back his chair.

“Sit down, Sirius,” Orion said, the warning unmistakable. “You have not been excused.”

“Yeah, well—I’m done sitting here for this.”

Regulus had gone very still, eyes fixed on his plate.

“Let him go,” Walburga said. “He’s clearly not fit for company.”

Sirius turned and left, past caring how it looked. He didn’t remember choosing a direction, only the stairs under his feet, the pulse in his skull, and the way his steps kept pulling him toward the Hospital Wing.

Toward Snape.

“Tell me again how you fell,” Madam Pomfrey said, the diagnostic charm sweeping over Severus in a soft blue arc.

“I was taking the stairs too quickly.”

“Mm.” Her eyebrows lifted. “And you went backwards? You’re not usually careless with your footing.” She examined the back of his head. “If someone pushed you—if this is boys being over‑rough—”

“I said I fell.”

She ended the charm with a neat flick. “You’ve a mild concussion and a contusion at the back of your skull—consistent with a fall, if that’s the story you’re sticking to.”

She made a brisk note on her clipboard. “I’ll fetch something for the pain. You’ll stay here for observation until the swelling goes down.”

“That seems excessive.”

“Severus,” she said, meeting his eyes at last, “you’re an intelligent boy, but you’re not a Healer.”

He drew a breath. “Obviously not—”

“Good. Then choose a bed and lie down. You can keep disagreeing with me from there.”

She slipped into her office. Severus stayed seated. He couldn’t make himself move.

Worse than the pain was the conclusion he kept circling back to: Sirius had set him up. Agreed to—whatever that had been in the shed—and then sent Potter in his place.

Did he truly believe Severus capable of engineering the soulmark? Capable of magic on that scale?

Perhaps he should be flattered that they thought him so powerful.

“What are you doing here, Snape?”

Severus opened his eyes. Sirius stood over him in the same velvet suit he’d worn in London, looking impossibly beautiful—infuriatingly so.

“As if you don’t know.” He pushed to his feet too fast, a pulse of pain cracking through the back of his skull. “As if you and Potter didn’t arrange the whole thing.”

Sirius’ expression tightened. “Arrange what?”

“You sent him to meet me last night. When we were meant to—” He broke off, the rest of it stuck behind his teeth.

“What do you mean?” Sirius stepped in, bristling. “I didn’t tell James anything. I didn’t go because you—” His eyes flicked toward Pomfrey’s office. “Because you dosed me with Spillbrew. And then you sent me out there knowing I might say anything.”

“It wasn’t meant to last that long,” Severus snapped. “And you never say anything. I had to get the truth somehow.”

“I never say anything?” His voice spiked. “That’s rich. I’ve told you everything—everything—and you just sit there like a vault. The only time I learned anything was from that memory—”

Madam Pomfrey swept between the beds, her mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.

“You will lower your voice at once, Mr. Black.”

“Sorry, Matron—I wasn’t—”

“Are you injured?” she said, looking him over with cool disapproval. “Or have you simply come to disturb a patient who is?”

“No. Just a headache.”

Pomfrey lifted her wand and swept it once beside his head; a thin ribbon of pale light skimmed over his temple and dissolved.

“A hangover,” she said, unimpressed. “You may sleep it off in your dormitory. I’ve no time for self‑inflicted ailments this morning.”

“Fine,” Sirius said, his gaze fixed on Severus. “But this isn’t finished.”

“You sound very sure of that,” Severus said, cutting.  

“That will do, Mr. Black. You may go.”

Sirius turned—slowly. His eyes stayed on Severus’ until the doorway forced him to look away.

Chapter Text

Sirius left the infirmary but couldn’t make himself go far. He paced just outside the door, too wired to stand still, unsure whether to wait for Snape to come out or hunt down James and demand an explanation.

If he had the Map, he’d already have found him. But James had it, and that must be how he’d ended up in the tapestry room. What had he said to Snape? What had he done, after Sirius had told him not to go near him?

The headache Sirius had woken with wasn’t a hangover; it wasn’t even his. He’d felt Snape’s pain—shared it—and that wasn’t supposed to happen unless the bond was unusually attuned.

The thought punched a short, dry breath out of him. He and Snape, attuned. They could barely get through a day without a fight.

A group of chattering third‑years passed, their laughter scraping at his nerves. He summoned his cloak and headed for the exit, needing air, needing movement before the pressure under his skin found somewhere worse to go.

He’d made it halfway to the broom shed when James stepped into his path, also dressed for flying. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d been circling the grounds for hours.

“Sirius. Good. I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’ve been looking for you too.”

James glanced over his shoulder, checking they were alone. “It’s about Snape.”

“You hit him.”

“Yeah, I did.” His brow pulled tight. “Hold on. Why are you saying it like that?”

“He’s in the infirmary.”

“He is?”

Sirius didn’t let him recover. “Whatever you did, it knocked him hard enough that I felt it.”

James’ eyes flicked away. “He said things. About you. About the mark. I wasn’t going to stand there and let him—”

“I told you not to start anything.”

“You’ve been hiding this for months. I wasn’t letting him use that to push you into anything.”

“Push me? He couldn’t. He hasn’t got the strength.”

“You know what I mean. He saw you were ashamed—that’s something he can use.”

Heat crawled up Sirius’ neck; his gaze dropped to the grass, anywhere but James’ face.

“I told you already, it’s not his fault we’re bonded. It just happens. Sometimes. Between men. Dumbledore said—”

“Does Dumbledore know it’s Snape? Because he might say something different if he did.”

“It’s not Snape’s fault I’m… like this, alright?” The words tumbled out too fast. He dug his nails into his palm, grounding himself on the sting. “I knew before my birthday. I just—didn’t want to.”

James shifted, eyes flicking away. “Didn’t want to what?”

“Didn’t want to be… different.”

“Different how?”

Sirius swallowed, throat tight. “Not‑liking‑girls different.”

“You mean… liking blokes?”

A small, reluctant nod. Barely there.

“…Oh.”

Sirius’ mouth twisted; he looked past James, toward the trees, anywhere with space.

“Yeah.”

James dragged a hand over his face. “I wasn’t trying to start anything. I took his wand to keep it from turning ugly. But then he started talking like he had some hold over you—”

“You’ve got to promise me you won’t do it again.”

“Sirius—”

“I mean it.”

A group of second‑years passed, loud and oblivious. James angled toward the path, and Sirius fell in beside him.

“Fine. I won’t. I just—” He let the rest die. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

They kept walking, neither of them speaking. Sirius’ face cooled by degrees, his expression settling back into something he could pass off as normal, but the inside didn’t follow. The hollow, wrung‑out feeling stayed where it was, the same drained ache he got after a match that went to extra time, only this time it wasn’t his muscles that were spent, it was whatever part of him had forced those words out.

He kept away from the Hospital Wing after that. James knew now, and that made everything feel exposed. Wrong. Like if Sirius even thought about going near Snape, James would see it somehow.

He buried himself in NEWTs revision, grateful for something that required all his attention. Six NEWTs was the goal; Gringotts didn’t take curse‑breakers with less. The bank had finally written back about an interview, though it wouldn’t be until weeks after term. So when James asked him to come to Rooksnest, Sirius agreed. Distance felt safer.

James didn’t say he was nervous about staying at the Black estate, but Sirius could see it in the way he kept smoothing his sleeves. The Potters were rich, but they weren’t used to the kind of cold grandeur his aunt and uncle would drag out. Sirius hated all of it, but James needed him, so he went.

There was only one thing he regretted.

He’d been revising Transfiguration in the library with James when the heat gathered at his wrist, the soulmark’s quiet warning. Snape was watching him, anger in his face and something hungrier beneath it.

Sirius looked away too quickly, terrified James would notice. When he finally forced himself to look again, Snape was gone.