The Secret Stars

by in_sects

Summary:

Severus Snape just wants to finish school, secure a decent-paying job, and escape his abusive family once and for all, but an unexpected soulmark presentation throws all his plans into jeopardy.

Chapter 1

"Ah, Severus, come in," Professor Slughorn said, gesturing for Severus to take a seat in one of the plush, leather-upholstered chairs positioned in front of his elegantly carved rosewood desk. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took note of the frayed cuffs on Severus' second-hand robe and the wilting collar of his white school shirt.

"May I ask what this meeting is about, sir? If Mr. Black is accusing me of cheating again—” Severus began, his frustration evident.

"Oh, no, no, it’s nothing like that." Horace reached for a glass jar with a polished silver lid, unscrewing the top and popping a piece of crystallized pineapple into his mouth.

"It just occurred to me that we haven't had a proper chat about your career plans since our mandatory session in fifth year. Your N.E.W.T.s are just around the corner, and all your professors are expecting great things from you. Have you given any more thought to what you want to do after Hogwarts?"

Severus' shoulders tensed momentarily, but he quickly forced himself to relax. When he finally spoke, his voice revealed none of the deep resentment simmering within him. "If you recall, Professor, you suggested I should start my career as a shop assistant at one of the smaller apothecaries. As a half-blood with no professional connections, it's unlikely I'd be hired at the Ministry or any of the larger companies straight out of school, no matter how well I do on my N.E.W.T.s."

"Yes, well..." Slughorn cleared his throat. "You're a clever boy, Severus. But surely, all these years in Slytherin have taught you that being clever alone isn't enough to get ahead. You need to be sociable. Likable, even! You must admit, you haven't exactly endeared yourself to your fellow Slytherins during your time here. And as for your popularity with students from other houses..." He paused, letting his words sink in.

A flush crept over Severus’ sallow face. "With all due respect, sir, I’ve never seen the need to curry favor with those who lack genuine talent. My abilities speak for themselves."

"You are undeniably talented, especially in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts," Slughorn agreed, his fingers trailing over the open pupil file in front of him. "That's why I've decided to present you with a rare opportunity, despite your... social shortcomings.”

"Rare opportunity?" Severus repeated, his tone wary. "What exactly does this 'rare opportunity' entail, Professor?"

Horace beamed with pride. "One of my illustrious former students, Fleamont Potter—yes, James Potter's father—has recently taken over the family business. You're familiar with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, I trust? It's one of the most popular potions across Europe! Interestingly enough, his store manager, another brilliant former student of mine, is seeking assistance with the accounts and various behind-the-scenes tasks. Naturally, given your exceptional abilities, I recommended you for an interview right away."

"You want me to work for James Potter's father?" Severus spat, his voice laced with incredulity.

Horace leaned forward, the chair creaking under his 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 who isn’t in my Slug Club, but I can't deny you've impressed me with your diligence, Severus. You deserve a chance to prove yourself." He hesitated briefly, his gaze flickering uncertainly over Severus' greasy hair. "The interview is scheduled for Friday at ten o’clock, at Potter’s flagship shop in Diagon Alley.” He raised a plump hand, anticipating Severus' question. “The Headmaster has already arranged a day pass for you, with your mother granting him the right in loco parentis. Borrow some robes from a friend if you must, but ensure you look presentable. We can't have you embarrassing Slytherin House, can we?”

Severus clenched his fists, thankful that the desk hid his hands from Slughorn's view. The idea of working for his bully's father was repugnant, but rejecting Slughorn's offer could further damage his already fragile reputation, making it nearly impossible to secure a job in wizarding London—the crucial next step in his life.

"Thank you, Professor. I appreciate the opportunity and will ensure it’s not wasted."

Horace nodded approvingly. "I'm delighted to hear that. Now, with that in mind, I have a little gift for you." With a flick of his wand, he summoned a green glass bottle with an elegant French label. "It's a 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 with a stiff motion, quickly tucking it into the pocket of his robes. “Is that all, sir?”

"Yes, my boy! Off you go to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey is holding a special session for all seventh years about soulmark presentation. You won't want to miss that, eh?"

Severus stooped to gather his black leather satchel from the floor. "If it's all right with you, Professor, I'd rather return to the library. As a half-blood, the likelihood of receiving a soulmark is slim, and—"

"Now, now," Horace said, wagging a finger in Severus' face. "You don't want to get your Head of House into trouble with the matron, do you? Especially after I went to such lengths to arrange such an advantageous interview for you." A glimmer of resentment flashed in his eyes.

“No, sir.”

"That's what I thought," Horace said with a satisfied nod, turning his attention back to the stack of third-year essays on his desk. "Off you go, then. Plenty to do, plenty to do."

---

Severus took a steadying breath before pushing open the door to the infirmary. He was painfully aware that the lecture was already in progress, and the thought of the immediate scrutiny his abrupt entrance would provoke filled him with a sense of dread.

"Mr. Snape! Decided to join us at last, have you?" Madam Pomfrey said, her tone a blend of sternness and mild exasperation. Laughter rippled through the rows of students seated behind her.

"Sorry for the delay, Matron. Professor Slughorn needed to speak with me," Severus explained, slipping into the seat next to Lily Evans.

"Now that you're finally here, let's get you up to speed. Mr. Malfoy, please fill in your tardy housemate on what he missed."

"The Matron was explaining that soulmarks usually appear on a wizard's seventeenth birthday, when they come of age," Lucius said, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of his robe. "Soulmark presentation is an honor reserved for pure-blood witches and wizards. I don't see why half-bloods and Muggleborns are even part of this discussion."

"Mr. Malfoy is only partially correct," Madam Pomfrey stated firmly. "Soulmarks are more common in pure-bloods, but they can manifest in anyone. That's why Headmaster Dumbledore insisted that everyone attend this lecture."

"Excuse me, Matron," Dorcas Meadowes asked, raising her hand shyly. "Does it hurt when the soulmark appears?"

"Not at all," Madam Pomfrey replied, striding to the blackboard she had conjured in front of the assembled students. She pointed to a detailed diagram of the human wrist with her wand. "The mark usually appears overnight while you are asleep. Studies conducted by the International Association for Magical Research indicate that the process is painless.”

"Don't worry, Meadowes, it doesn't hurt a bit," James Potter said, flashing a confident grin at her. "Just ask Sirius. His mark showed up in November, but he won't let any of us see it." He reached for the leather gauntlet covering his friend's wrist, but Sirius firmly pushed his hand away.

"No roughhousing in my infirmary!" Madam Pomfrey admonished sharply. "This is a good moment to remind you all that soulmarks are highly private. No one should ever joke about forcibly uncovering one. At the conclusion of my lecture, each of you will receive a leather gauntlet to cover your wrist and ensure your privacy."

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

"That's correct. The mark glows when you make physical contact with your soulmate," Madam Pomfrey confirmed. A chorus of teasing erupted from the boys seated at the back of the hall, causing her to roll her eyes in exasperation. "Which brings me to my last, very important point! If you receive a soulmark, it's crucial that you register with the Ministry's Department of Marriage and Families. They can assist you in locating your soulmate should the need arise. Prolonged separation from your soulmate can lead to a serious medical condition known as Anemocor Syndrome. Initially, it manifests as muscle aches and persistent headaches, but if left untreated, it can result in severe systemic issues affecting your entire body. So please, take this seriously."

“May I be excused, Matron?” Evan Rosier asked, gathering a stack of books and parchments from the floor beside his chair. “I have a Care of Magical Creatures lecture at the Black Lake in fifteen minutes—”

"Oh dear, look at the time!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, gesturing for the students to stand. "I'm sorry we couldn't cover everything today, but my door is always open if you have questions about soulmarks or any other medical concerns. You're dismissed! And please, don't forget to take a gauntlet on your way out."

"I am not touching that," Bellatrix said, casting a disdainful glance at the pile of gauntlets on the table by the door. "Come on, Cissy, Mother promised us bespoke ones from Madame Malkin's. I'm thinking green silk with silver embroidery for mine…”

Most of the students filed out behind the Black sisters, but some of the seventh-year Gryffindor boys lingered at the back of the hall, chatting and laughing.

"What did Slughorn want to talk to you about?" Lily handed Severus his Transfiguration textbook, her tone light but curious.

Severus’ eyes flicked toward James Potter, who—as usual—was the center of attention. "I’ll tell you. Just… not here. Want to stop by the library before dinner?"

"Sounds good. I still need to finish my Charms essay," Lily said, linking arms with him as they passed the display of gauntlets.

"You don’t need one of those, Evans!” James called out. “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, prompting a chorus of laughter and a few approving "Nice one, Evans!" from the boys.

"Maybe she’s hoping Snivellus will be her soulmate," Sirius drawled, slouching insouciantly against the wall. "They're always glued together."

"Don’t be disgusting," James said, turning with mock horror. "Imagine being stuck with Snivellus for life." The boys erupted again, some clutching their chests in exaggerated dread.

"Look on the bright side," Sirius said dryly. "You'd finally get to scrub that greasy mop of his. Merlin knows it's long overdue."

Severus’ hand twitched toward his wand, but Lily caught his wrist before he could draw. "Please, Sev," she whispered. "He's not worth it."

Severus held Sirius’ gaze, eyes burning with quiet fury. "You're right," he muttered. "He's not worth the trouble. Let's go." 

Chapter 2

“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?” He eyed Sirius intently, trying to gauge his friend's emotions. “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? What did you do to him?”

“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.  

“Golden boy?” 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,” Sirius muttered. “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? He’s going to need it.”

“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 helmet,” 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 3

“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 clue,” Mulciber replied with an exaggerated shrug that bordered on mockery. “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, snatching up his comb to attack the tangles in his chin-length black hair with brisk, mechanical strokes. He avoided his reflection with practiced ease. 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. Unremarkable. 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.

Snape 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 breakfast 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?” Severus snapped, his voice tight with barely suppressed irritation. “Slughorn made the arrangements without consulting me. Besides, what choice do I have? It’s not as if I have people lining up to offer me positions.”

“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 made his way to the Slytherin table, his pace measured but purposeful. He was caught off guard when Mulciber and Wilkes nodded in acknowledgment as he approached. 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?”

Bella 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 Snape before adding, almost lazily, “Evans was just on her way out. Isn’t that right, Snape?”

"Right," Severus agreed, pushing up from the table. “Come on, Lily.”

Lily's eyes flashed with anger, but she followed Severus to their usual spot in the library. “You’ve got just as much right to sit with your mates as anyone else,” she said firmly, her voice low but insistent. “Don't let them push you around.”

“It’s not about letting them push me around. It’s about survival.”

Lily hesitated, guilt flickering in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sev,” she said quietly. “I forget how hard it must be 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 admitted, his tone unusually candid. “To be honest, Lily, I’m counting the days until I can finally 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 easily. He knew Lily would never approve of his plan to sabotage the Potters. Even though she’d witnessed James’ bullying firsthand, she always expected him to rise above it. “I’ve saved nearly everything I’ve earned from tutoring younger students, but it’s still not enough for a flat in London.”  

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

“Mum takes it.”

“I didn’t know,” Lily said quietly, her fingers curling around his arm in a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, Sev. I wasn’t trying to upset you—especially not today. Why don’t you open your present? It might help.”

A flicker of curiosity crossed Severus’ face as he drew the small, brightly wrapped parcel from his robe pocket. He turned it over once, thumb grazing the tidy bow, then paused. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he murmured, though the faint lift in his voice betrayed a quiet anticipation.

He peeled back the paper slowly, and when the box opened, his breath caught. “Dragonhide gloves,” he said, almost to himself. His guarded expression cracked, disbelief spilling through. “Lily, these are real. You can’t afford—these must’ve cost fifty galleons at least!”

“I’ve been saving,” she said, her smile soft and steady. “You’ll need them if you’re serious about brewing professionally.”

For a moment, Severus didn’t speak. Then, without warning, he pulled her into a fierce hug, burying his face in her shoulder.

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

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

“I assume you didn’t get a mark. Otherwise, you would’ve told me.”

“Honestly, I haven’t checked.”

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

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

“Ridiculous!” Lily interrupted, grabbing his wrist and starting to unbutton his cuff. “Honestly, Sev, who else would be this uninterested in something so monumental?” She froze mid-laugh, the color draining from her face.

“What?” Severus jerked his arm back to examine the inside of his wrist.

“Sev...” Her lips parted, trembling slightly, as if searching for the right words, but nothing came.

“This has to be some kind of prank." His expression flickered between disbelief and simmering anger. “Potter—or Black—it’s one of their ridiculous stunts. It has to be.”

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

“No," Severus said sharply, his face suddenly flushed. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "This isn’t real. It can’t be. Not him." His voice wavered, raw and uneven. "Not Black." He grabbed his wand in a jerky motion and stormed out, leaving his books scattered across the desk.

“Sev, wait!” Lily called, scrambling to gather his belongings. “I think you’re in shock! We should see Madame Pomfrey—”

“Miss Evans, this is a library!” Madame Pince hissed, appearing from behind a towering cart of books. “Keep your voice down!”

“Sorry!” she mumbled before darting after Severus.

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!” Severus gestured wildly at his wrist. “I need to scrub it off! Then I’m going to invent a hex so painful, Black will wish he’d never been born.”

Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and stormed toward the dungeons. 

Chapter 4

"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.

Regulus let out a slow exhale, his lips pressing into a thin line. "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," he added, his gaze sharp and pointed, "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, his mind already turning. 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 5

"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 the boy’s 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,” he said, his tone cool and measured.

“Until tonight,” Sirius agreed, giving a brief nod as the other boy departed. 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 quarry into the soundproofed study beyond.

---

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

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

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

Severus, tall and wiry, was no match for Sirius’ raw strength, honed through years on the Quidditch pitch. Magic should have been his salvation—but the moment Sirius’ hand locked around his wrist, his soulmark burned to life, flooding his body with a rush of warmth—unwelcome, intoxicating, and utterly disarming.

Sirius froze, his grip slackening as his stormy-gray eyes widened. Severus caught the faint flush creeping up 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 entire body rebelling against the abrupt, jarring separation. To his surprise, Sirius didn’t resist. He let go without a fight, his hands falling to his sides, trembling faintly as if he felt the loss even more keenly.

"I thought this was your idea of some sick joke," Severus snapped, his tone cutting 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 unconsciously. "There has to be a way to fix this," he muttered, his voice barely audible, as though the words were more for his own ears than Sirius’.

"You think I haven’t been trying?" Sirius dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. "It’s all I’ve thought about since my birthday. Let me guess—you just had yours? I was hoping to sort it out before you even knew."

"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 like he was seconds away from throwing 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 took a deliberate step closer, 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 crashed into his jaw, jolting his head back with a sharp crack. Pain flared immediately, radiating through his face and leaving his thoughts momentarily scrambled. He staggered but caught himself, his grip tightening instinctively around his wand.

"Depulso!" The spell sent Sirius flying into the bookshelf with a dull thud. He crumpled to the floor, books cascading down 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 lingering in his chest was harder to escape. The throbbing pain left by Sirius’ punch was a minor inconvenience compared to the humiliation of being bound to someone he despised.

Chapter 6

The soft chime of a bell echoed through the shop as Severus pushed the door open, its hinges groaning faintly before it creaked shut behind him. The tailor glanced up from his work, his gaze sharp and calculating as it flicked over Severus, more judgmental than welcoming. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice courteous yet clipped, the edge of irritation betraying the thought that perhaps this schoolboy wasn’t worth his time.

Severus stiffened, his posture rigid as he locked eyes with the man. He was no stranger to dismissal and disdain—wizard or Muggle alike—but he had no intention of accepting it today. “I need a suit. Something off the rack will do, provided it can be altered quickly to fit. Can you manage that?”

“That depends,” the shopkeeper replied, skepticism threading his tone. “Off-the-rack suits start at twenty pounds. Is that within your means?”

Severus didn’t flinch. He had taken careful steps to prepare for this moment, visiting Gringotts to exchange some of Lucius’ Galleons for crisp Muggle banknotes. “That’ll do.” He stopped at a display of Oxfords, his fingers gliding over the polished black and brown leather before turning back abruptly. “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 the suit, not compete with it. May I ask the occasion?”

“I’ve got a job interview at a shop in London. It’s for a behind-the-scenes role—managing accounts and inventory.”

“Grey or black worsted wool would be my recommendation,” the tailor said, gesturing for Severus to step onto the raised platform reserved for measurements. “Practical, professional, and suitable for most situations. Wool is versatile enough for year-round wear, though it can run warm in summer.”

“Black,” Severus said firmly, his tone discouraging any further discussion. He adjusted his stance as the tailor worked, tape measures sliding and notes scribbling. “And three shirts,” he added. “Plain white ones. Durable.”

“Not a problem.” The tailor moved to a row of suits, pulling one free after a quick inspection. “This one’s a reliable choice—good quality without stretching the budget. With the shirts included, your total will come to forty pounds.”

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.

“Black Oxfords would be ideal. Classic, formal, and adaptable to almost any occasion. For the tie, I’d suggest navy, burgundy, or perhaps emerald—something understated with just a touch of character.”

“Emerald,” Severus decided briskly, not missing a beat as he gathered the shoes and tie before heading to the changing room. When he emerged some time later, he stopped before the full-length mirror, his reflection almost unrecognizable. His freshly washed, chin-length hair, combed neatly into place, took a slight edge off the sharp angles of his face. The suit, with its precise tailoring and clean lines, gave him a polished, composed appearance—worlds apart from the worn, shapeless Hogwarts uniform he’d grown used to.

“Well,” the tailor said, stepping back to take a good look. “That’s quite the transformation. A good suit makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

“Can I wear it out?”

“Of course, sir. Plenty of gentlemen prefer to leave in their new suits.” He smoothed the lapel and stepped back, taking one last glance at the fit. “You’ll look right at home out there in London.”

---

“Excuse me,” Severus said, his tone formal and measured as he addressed the stylish young witch behind the glass counter at Sleekeazy’s Hair Potions. “My name is Severus Snape. I have an interview with the store manager at ten.”

“You’re right on time! Just head through to the back, love. His office is right there.”

Taking a steadying breath, Severus stepped into the back office. The contrast to the polished storefront was striking—the room was cramped and cluttered, with a distinct air of practicality that bordered on neglect.

Behind a large desk sat a tall, striking young man, his dark head bent over a ledger. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up, meeting Severus’ gaze with a magnetic smile that seemed to fill the room with an energy entirely at odds with its drab surroundings.

“Tom Riddle,” he said smoothly, stepping forward and extending a hand with easy confidence. “You must be Mr. Snape. Slughorn has had quite a bit to say about you.”

“Thank you.” Severus sat carefully in the plain wooden chair opposite Tom’s desk. “Professor Slughorn is…generous with his praise.”

Tom’s smile tilted sharply, almost conspiratorial. “Generous? I wouldn’t say so.” He flipped open a file on his desk, glancing briefly at its contents—Severus’ academic records. “He called you diligent, yes, but also implied you lack creativity and independence. I wouldn’t let it bother you; Slughorn’s insights are far less perceptive than he believes.”

Severus’ eyes widened for a fraction of a second, the bluntness of the remark catching him off guard. It wasn’t what he’d expected—especially from someone who had once basked in the glow of Slughorn’s favoritism.

“I’m a half-blood, like you,” Tom continued, his tone casual but pointed. “I know what it’s like—you work tirelessly for the best marks because what choice do people like us really have? The wizarding world doesn’t hand us much, but it’s quick to judge us for taking what little opportunity we get.”

The words resonated with a part of Severus he seldom acknowledged. “I couldn’t agree more,” he admitted, his voice betraying a hint of the quiet bitterness he usually kept buried. “I’ve been doing independent study with Slughorn—created a few spells of my own, even—but none of it seems to matter. To him, I’m just a grind.”

“You’ll have to share those spells with me someday,” Tom said, leaning forward slightly, his smile knowing. “It’s impressive work—truly. Now, about the position... I’ll be honest, it’s not particularly challenging. Routine tasks: reconciling accounts, processing payroll, managing inventory. But the pay is solid—thirty-five galleons a week. What do you think?”

Severus paused, considering Tom’s words carefully, his expression guarded. “It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but opportunities like this are rare, and thirty-five galleons is…fair. I’ll take it.”

Tom’s smile widened further. “You won’t regret it. The Potters run their business well—they value their staff. And with your skills, I’d say there’s plenty of room for you to grow.”

“Thank you for the opportunity. I won’t take it lightly.”

“I didn’t expect you would.” Tom stood, effortlessly composed. “I’ll send you an owl in May with the details—where to report, what to bring, that sort of thing. In the meantime, I recommend starting your search for a flat in London. Wizarding areas are competitive, and even Muggle housing can be tricky. Best to start early.”

---

Before heading back to Hogwarts, Severus made a stop at Sugarplum's Sweets Shop to pick up a box of 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 hard as he glared at James. “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 up a chance to rip into Snivellus? Don’t tell me you’re going soft.”

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, his mind already churning with plans to research the soulmark and find a way to break free from Black for good.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed Tom's cameo. He’ll definitely be playing a bigger role as the plot unfolds, and I can't wait to explore his interactions with Severus further. Let me know your thoughts!

Chapter 7

Notes:

It’s been a minute since I updated—His Proper Place needed finishing, and I wanted to give it the focus it deserved. Now that it’s complete, I’m ready to return to The Secret Stars and pick up the threads. For anyone who needs a refresher:

Severus Snape, desperate to escape his abusive home, accepts Slughorn’s offer to interview at Fleamont Potter’s potions company. The bitter irony of working for James Potter’s family is not lost on him.

Severus barely registers Madam Pomfrey’s lecture on soulmarks or the dangers of ignoring them. As a half-blood, he’s certain he’ll never receive one. But on his seventeenth birthday, Lily Evans rolls up his sleeve and finds Sirius Black’s name etched into his wrist—leaving them both stunned.

Severus convinces himself the mark is just another Marauder prank. That belief shatters when a confrontation with Sirius turns explosive. Their skin meets, the marks ignite, and the impossible becomes undeniable: Severus and Sirius are soulmates.

Now they are trapped in a connection neither of them asked for, one that threatens everything they thought they understood about themselves, each other, and the futures they have fought to claim…

Sirius crossed the study and sank into the chair opposite Regulus, his eyes 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 kind of magic Hogwarts kept locked behind wards in the Restricted Section. They’d stolen it two nights ago, huddled together 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.

Notes:

I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Chapter 8

Notes:

Another small update. The story insists on unfolding, whether I’m ready or not. 💚

Severus tucked a few rashers of bacon between slices of buttered toast and rose from the table, his knapsack already heavy with books. It was Saturday, and the Slytherin table shimmered in green and silver for the final match of the year.

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.

Notes:

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the Black family dynamics!

Chapter 9

Notes:

Words in italics are meant to be in French, but I spared you (and myself) the actual French. I figured tossing in real French might confuse readers who, like me, would be left Googling every other line. So consider the italics a polite little signal: “Bonjour, we’re switching languages now.”

“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?” Remus asked, voice cool. “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.”

Remus didn’t blink. “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,” Regulus said, too quickly. 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. Paler than usual. 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,” Regulus said, voice low. “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, sharper than intended. “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—low, steady.

“Just… tell him I’m here,” he said. “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,” Regulus pressed, eyes narrowing. “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.

Regulus snorted. “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,” Regulus said quietly. “It’s unstable. You need help.”

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.”

Severus finally looked up, eyes sharp. “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.”

Regulus’ jaw clenched. “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. His voice was hoarse, fragile. “C’est vraiment toi?”

Severus froze. That voice—soft, stripped of bravado—wasn’t the Sirius he knew. No sharp retort, no smirk. Just rawness.

He moved closer, drawn against his better judgment to Sirius’ mouth, chapped and flushed, a vivid contrast against his bloodless skin.

“Your brother bribed me,” Severus said, arms folding. “A rare book. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come.”

Sirius exhaled, sinking deeper into the pillow. “I don’t care,” he murmured in French. “I’m just glad you’re here.” His words were slow, dreamlike. “I’m never whole without you.”

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

Sirius sighed, tension draining from his limbs. “It’s so good,” he whispered, lashes lowering like a curtain.

“Of course you speak French,” Severus said, voice flat. “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,” Severus continued, voice laced with mockery. “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—tailored precisely, expensive without needing to announce it. Severus brushed the fabric once, fingers lingering longer than he meant.

“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,” he added, dryly, with a flicker of something aching.

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

Sirius sighed, leaning into the touch like it cost him nothing. Severus clenched his jaw. He told himself not to react, not to feel, but his skin betrayed him, sparking at the contact, his soulmark flaring with heat and light.

He sat like a statue, every muscle locked in place, as if stillness could make him immune.

Sirius’ breathing slowed, the tension in his body dissolving into the mattress. 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, lashes resting against pale skin, unmoving. He looked younger like this. Almost breakable.

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

He stood, but his gaze lingered on the curve of Sirius’ throat, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. Details he shouldn’t notice. Details he’d catalogued anyway.

Then he turned toward the door, spine rigid. He told himself it hadn’t meant anything. The warmth, the way Sirius had leaned into him—it was just a magical compulsion. Not real.

He didn’t need a soulmate. Certainly not Sirius Black. A privileged, reckless brat who had coasted through life on charm and arrogance, blind to the world Severus had clawed his way through. The idea that fate had bound him to someone so careless—it was grotesque.

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

Behind him, Sirius shifted in sleep, a faint sound escaping his throat. Not a word. Just breath. Just need.

Severus closed his eyes briefly. The soulmark pulsed beneath his skin. It didn’t hurt. That was the problem.

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

He did not look back.

Notes:

I made a moodboard for the fic! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. 😉

Chapter 10

“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, pulling back. “Honestly, it’s the best gift I’ve gotten.”

Severus looked down, then back at the window, as if the frost might say what he couldn’t. “I thought… maybe it would help. I know you were hoping for a soulmark.”

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

His jaw tightened. “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 said. “Didn’t stop mine.”

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

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

Lily’s brow furrowed. She turned the book over in her hands, fingers brushing the worn cover as if it might bite. “You should be careful,” she said at last. “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,” Lily said, shaking her head, “that’s not the point. Dark Magic doesn’t care what you mean to do. It’s not a tool—it’s a force. You let it in, and it rewrites you. You know that.”

He gestured roughly at his left wrist. “I can’t just leave it. Not when it’s his.”

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

He gave a bitter laugh. “You think there’s some hidden depths beneath all that hair?”

“I think people are more complicated than they let on. Even Sirius. He’s not stupid. He aced his O.W.L.s, and I know you respect that. You always notice who’s top of the class.”

Severus scoffed. “So what if he’s clever? He’s never had to work for it. He’s the Black heir, big Quidditch hero. Everything’s handed to him, and he acts like that makes him better than the rest of us.”

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

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I remember first year,” she said. “You stood at the edge of the pitch like you were trying to memorize it. Like maybe if you watched long enough, you’d figure out how to belong there.”

He stiffened, but she kept going. “Sirius doesn’t even think about it. He’s been flying since he could walk. That kind of ease… it’s a kind of privilege too.”

Severus turned, color rising in his face. “Privilege,” he said, voice clipped. “It’s not just ease—it’s insulation. Sirius has never been sneered at for secondhand robes or asked who his parents are before anyone takes him seriously. He doesn’t get followed around shops. He doesn’t have to prove he belongs every time he opens his mouth.”

His voice rose, bitter and fast. “And James—he’s worse. He plays the part of the benevolent prince. Laughs with the half-bloods, flirts with the Muggleborns, and acts like it’s some grand gesture. Like we should be grateful he’s willing to treat us like people.”

Lily folded her arms, her expression tightening. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he snapped. “You think it’s kindness, but it’s performance. He gets to be magnanimous because the system was built for him. He’s never had to fight for space. He’s never had to earn respect—it was stitched into his robes before he even arrived.”

Lily shifted, her arms unfolding as if she were trying to soften the space between them. “I’m not saying you’re wrong about the system. You’re not. But James isn’t Lucius. He’s arrogant, and he can be cruel—but he doesn’t think people like us don’t belong here.”

Severus’ lip curled. “He’s nice to you, so of course you think he can’t be all that bad.”

Lily’s voice sharpened. “Are you trying to start a fight?”

“No,” he said, but the word came out hard. “I just don’t want you taken in. He’s handsome, charming—half the school hangs on his every word.”

Lily’s cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze. Her voice was steady, if a little tight. “You don’t need to warn me off, Severus. I know what that kind of attention looks like. I’ve seen enough of it to know when it’s real, and when it’s just a game.”

Severus exhaled, shoulders easing just slightly, like he’d been bracing for something worse. “Good. Because soulmark or not, I don’t think he’s going to stop chasing you.”

Notes:

Since soulmarks are rare for non-purebloods in this universe, it made sense for Lily not to receive one.

Now I’m curious: should James get a soulmark? And if so, who should it connect him to? (For story reasons, it’ll need to be a het pairing.) Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear what you think!

Chapter 11

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.

“It’s not about the book.” Sirius’ gaze flicked to the half-drawn green curtain behind Severus, where his books and parchments were gathered. “It’s about memory sharing.”

Severus didn’t move.

“You’ve studied it, haven’t you?” Sirius’ voice dropped. He licked his lips once. “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. The force knocked Severus off balance, his shoulder hitting the edge of the window seat. He flicked his wand, but Sirius was stronger, wrenching it from his grip.

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

Severus sneered. “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,” Sirius snapped. “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.”

Sirius blinked. “You want to fly?”

Severus’ gaze didn’t waver. “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.”

Severus stepped back, just enough for the light from the window to catch his expression. His smile was thin, surgical.

“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.” Severus’ voice was dry, almost bored. He turned slightly, angling himself toward the window, dismissing Sirius without needing to say it.

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

Notes:

Thank you for all the brilliant soulmark ideas for James in the last chapter—I genuinely loved reading each one. While his reaction to Lily’s non-existent soulmark doesn’t appear just yet, I promise it’s coming soon… and it’s going to be interesting. 👀

Chapter 12

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 didn’t move right away. He stared at the broom as if it might bite, then stepped forward stiffly, straddling it with the posture of someone bracing for humiliation.

Sirius watched him, then stepped in without hesitation. “Your feet are too close together,” he said, reaching out.

Severus flinched when Sirius’ hands brushed his hips. “You don’t get to touch me like I’m furniture,” he snapped, voice low but sharp.

Sirius pulled back, brows raised. “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, then tried again. “Can you just trust me to teach you to fly?”

Severus gave him a long, unreadable look. “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.”

Severus didn’t look convinced, but he faced forward again. “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 didn’t comment. Didn’t ruin it. Just adjusted their angle and 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. Severus didn’t move. Neither did Sirius.

Then, gradually, the broom began to descend.

“Not bad, right?” Sirius said, casual, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

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?”

Sirius snorted. “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,” Severus said, voice clipped. “In the infirmary, I assumed all that nonsense was just the curse talking.”

Sirius flinched, but didn’t pull away. “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?”

Sirius met his eyes. “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,” Sirius said, voice low. “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.”

Sirius flinched. “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.”

Sirius winced. “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?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “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.”

Sirius swallowed. “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?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “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, the words tripping over the silence, 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.”

Sirius hesitated, then swallowed. “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.

Notes:

Early update instead of Tuesday like planned. Got inspired and couldn’t wait. Can’t promise it will happen again. 😅

Credit to borsukuje’s fanart for the "You kiss like a virgin" line. They’re basically the patron saint of Snack art, so odds are you’ve seen it already, but if not, go look. You deserve that joy.

Thank you for reading. James is crashing out about Lily’s lack of soulmark in the next chapter, I promise!

Comments, theories, and emotionally compromised yelling are always welcome. 🫶

Chapter 13

“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 like it had personally offended him. “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. “Don’t,” he said, voice low. “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 didn’t look up right away. She stirred her tea, slow and deliberate, then met his gaze with a raised brow. “I’m listening.”

James leaned in slightly, careful not to crowd her. “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.”

Lily crossed her arms. “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.”

Lily’s brow furrowed. “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,” she said, her voice tight with effort. “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.

“Look,” Sirius said, voice low. “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,” Sirius said, already turning.

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, voice low. “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.

Notes:

James is meant to come off a bit spoiled and entitled here, not in a character-bashing way, but more as someone shaped by privilege and expectation, with all the emotional blind spots that come with it. If you found yourself feeling even a little sympathy for him, I’d love to hear about it. And if not… honestly, I’ll enjoy that too.

As for Sirius… he’s lying to James, and he knows exactly how dangerous that is. Something tells me this isn’t going to end well.

Chapter 14

“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.

Notes:

✨Thank you for reading.✨
I hope you're enjoying the spiky dynamic between Severus and Sirius as much as I do. They’ll soften toward each other eventually... maybe this chapter is the first crack in the armor. 😏
Up next: James’ birthday! 👀

Chapter 15

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. “Enough out of you, Wormtail.” 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.”

Notes:

So… James and Narcissa. Soulmarked. Thoughts? I’d love to hear what you make of the match, especially how it fits (or doesn’t) with the Marauders dynamic.
Next chapter: Narcissa’s POV. Her side of the story is coming. 👀