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 with theatrical focus.
“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 slow, deliberate, and 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 cast-iron 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 student 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.