Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One — James Potter

King Potter sat at the white table and chairs beneath the great oak, the August midday sun still blistering overhead. Before him rested a jug of chilled tea, summer melons, and a plate of delicate sweets. The three men seated with him all had their eyes fixed, like his, on the same spot a short distance away—beneath the flowered trellis.

Under that trellis heavy with red blossoms, the Queen of Gryffindor wore a loose white robe, her red hair pinned into a lazy bun, as she instructed a man in how to hold her child. The man’s face was half-hidden by shoulder-length black hair, revealing only pale skin and a prominent hooked nose. He wore black wizard’s robes, and the way he cradled the baby was stiff and awkward—like he might drop the bundle any second.

James’s fingers twitched restlessly. With a sigh, he was the first to look away, raising his teacup for a sip.

“Harry will be fine,” Sirius said from beside him in a soothing tone. “He’s not even three months old—he won’t remember being held by Snape.”

“Why does that bloke have to be Lily’s friend, of all things?” James asked for what was clearly not the first time. The three friends exchanged glances, but none answered.

“Well… Snape is one of the Seven Gods’ blessed,” Peter Pettigrew, the King’s valet, said nervously. “The castle staff are… a bit afraid of him.”

“They’re actually afraid of him now,” Sirius said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. His legs started to swing up toward the table, but one mild glance from Remus Lupin made him plant them back on the ground with a sheepish grin.

“Thank you, Padfoot,” Remus said politely.

“For what?”

“For everything.” Remus smiled.

James’s fingers brushed his lower lip thoughtfully, his gaze on Sirius’s relaxed, rakish posture. “Do people fear him only because of the Seven God’s blessing—or for something else?”

“Like what?” Sirius asked.

“Like…” James’s tone turned pointed. “Dark magic.”

Remus, himself a creature of dark magic, lowered his head to take a sip of tea. Peter looked even more uneasy. Only Sirius raised a questioning brow. “What—are the servants whispering that Snape used dark magic to kill Walden?”

James gave a noncommittal shrug. “Trial by combat saved his ass,” he said with a sly double meaning. Sirius gave a knowing snort. “But the real question remains unanswered—how Walden MacNair died is still a mystery, and the castle’s not exactly safe. Sirius, even if you’re not in the King’s Guard, I still want you as my personal protector. And Harry’s.”

“A King’s guard has to be in the Guard,” Sirius said lightly. “I’m a mercenary now. You’ll have to pay more if you want my services.”

“Oh, Padfoot. I never knew you were so mercenary and cold-hearted.”

“I’ve always been. You just pretend not to notice—because you love me too much.”

James kicked Sirius’s chair. “Name your price. I’ll pay it.”

“Excellent.” Sirius gave him a cheeky wink. “How could I refuse you, my king?”

James gave him a mock punch to the arm. “Someone has to keep an eye on Snape,” he continued. “All right, fine, I’ll pay extra.”

Sirius turned his head, those silver-grey eyes unreadable. “I’m already watching him,” he said.

“I knew you’d never neglect your duties.”

“Of course not,” Sirius replied, his gaze drifting toward the trellis, a faint, wicked curl at the corner of his lips.

James had to admit, Sirius—now free of his post as Captain of the Castle Guard—was a lot more like the childhood friend he’d grown up with. No rules to follow, no duty to uphold; he did whatever he pleased, offended whoever he liked. More than once, James had overheard the castle maids chattering about who was going to knock on Sirius’s door tonight, and what so-and-so had got up to with him last night.

Honestly, he was the King. His ears shouldn’t be sullied with that sort of vulgar gossip. He’d have to remind Sirius in private not to take things too far—and, at his age, to consider settling down with someone.

It was strange, though. James was Sirius’s friend, not his father. This really shouldn’t be his problem.

“How’s the Academy?” James switched the conversation to Remus.

Remus was busy with dessert, stabbing a hole into his sponge cake with a fork and filling it with honey before stuffing the wet, sweet mess into his mouth. Sirius, watching this in horror, made a strangled noise and accused him of indecent behavior.

“I’m just eating cake,” Remus replied through a mouthful of sweetness. “Where exactly is your mind wandering?”

James was certain that if the Mayor of Hogwarts City—Lyle Lupin—saw his son behaving with such a lack of manners, he’d drag him home on the spot to relearn the proper conduct expected of a noble family. James rubbed at the bridge of his nose, suddenly feeling like he was the oldest of the four of them, not Sirius.

“The Academy’s doing well,” Remus finally answered. “We’ve taken in a good number of boys and girls this year. They’re all quite driven.” He glanced at Sirius. “Don’t go corrupting their pure little hearts.”

“In your mind, am I nothing but some debauched libertine?” Sirius rolled his eyes. “Have you even looked at yourself?”

“I don’t go fluttering my eyelashes at everyone,” Remus said with a grin. “And I’ve got no… special interest in young scholars.”

James caught an exchange of looks between them that he couldn’t decipher—Sirius seeming ready to argue, Remus wearing the kind of “go ahead, try me” expression that dared him to. In the end, Sirius gave up, turning away from the provocatively smug werewolf and instead glancing toward the Queen and her friend from home.

They couldn’t swap secrets like they had as children—that was James’s first thought. They’d grown up, each with their own path, their own responsibilities. That he could no longer share his burdens with his closest friends nearly hurt James more than the burdens themselves; it made him feel like a traitor. But the private conversation he’d had with the King’s Hand still echoed in his mind—he was the ruler of a nation, and the weight he bore for the sake of his country and his people was far more important than his own feelings.

“It’s either dark magic… or a person,” Dumbledore had said, sitting at his large desk, as warm and gentle as ever.

“If it’s a person—someone who killed one of my Castle Guard in my own courtyard—what would their goal be?” King Potter raked his fingers through his messy black hair. “To frame Snape? Get him beheaded? Or save him… and still get him beheaded?”

“Or perhaps Mr. Snape isn’t the real target at all,” Dumbledore said. “His life isn’t of such great consequence.”

James pursed his lips. “The lives of the King, the Queen, and the Gryffindor heir are far more valuable, is that it?”

Dumbledore leaned back in his long chair, thoughtful. “If they could kill Walden in your courtyard today, they could kill you or Harry tomorrow. The latter is more difficult, but… not impossible.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Every person around you is a suspect.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes glinted behind his glasses. “If someone wants Gryffindor’s throne, and war won’t get it for them, there are other ways.”

“I’d stake my life on Sirius, Remus, and Peter,” James said firmly.

Dumbledore said nothing, stroking the little phoenix that had flown to him, while his other hand turned a page in a book.

“There is one way,” he said at last. “If, one day, misfortune should befall both you and Harry, there’s a spell that can preserve Gryffindor’s rule from being usurped until a rightful heir appears.”

After hearing the explanation, James frowned. “Couldn’t it just stay with you, Mr. Dumbledore?”

“I’m old, James. I know my limits.” The King’s Hand spoke calmly, as if discussing his own death were an ordinary matter. “One day I will be gone, and the glory of Gryffindor will be carried forward by you and the young.”

James sighed softly and lifted his teacup. He trusted these three men with his life, and he believed Sirius would die to protect him and his son—but Dumbledore’s worries weren’t without merit. It was no secret that nations planted spies and assassins in each other’s courts. He would have to be careful.

James was relieved to see that his child had been returned to his wife’s arms, the two of them deep in conversation. The Slytherin gave them a glance, shook his head in clear dismissal, then turned and walked away.

Strangely, James noticed that Snape didn’t walk the way he used to. When he’d first arrived, he was always hunched over, moving with a stiff, uneasy gait like a great spider. Now, he stood straight as a bamboo stalk, head tilted slightly up, his steps firm and deliberate. His billowing wizard’s robes flared behind him like the wings of a bat. He cast sidelong glances at people as he passed, and the servants shrank away, hurrying to clear a path for him.

The Queen, carrying their child, walked toward them. Peter, who had been sitting, immediately stood to offer her his seat and poured her a cup of tea.

“I invited Sev to join us for tea,” Lily said, handing the sleeping baby over to a nearby nanny and easing herself into the chair, one hand at her waist.

“He’d sooner accept when roses bloom on the northern ice fields of the Ozerpia Continent,” James said dryly.

“I’m afraid he has unpleasant memories of this place.”

James recalled that what had happened to Snape had taken place not far from here. Of course, all traces had been erased, but for the man himself, the stain might linger. Then again, none of them really wanted to sit down and make small talk with Snape. He was like a walking curse—misfortune seemed to cling to him.

“He’s gone to see Poppy,” Lily went on. “She told me a few days ago that some of the formulas Sev provided were giving our potioners trouble—they can’t quite grasp the technique. She was hoping Severus might guide them in person.”

“She wants us to give him a wand?” James asked. “We can’t possibly allow him to use magic. He’s still… dangerous.”

“Poppy never asked for that,” the Queen replied. “She only hopes we might permit Severus to visit the potion room.”

“I’ll discuss it with Dumbledore.”

“And what about allowing him outside the castle? He’s asked you more than once.”

“It’s even more dangerous for him beyond these walls.”

“He’s being kept prisoner here, James,” Lily said gently. “I think he’d rather take his chances in the city and die there than be locked away in this castle until he withers and dies. Let someone go with him—watch him, if you truly think he could harm anyone.”

James didn’t understand why Lily was so insistent that Snape wasn’t dangerous. Tobias Snape was one of the cruelest men James had ever heard of, second only to King Voldemort himself. How good could his son possibly be?

“I’ll discuss it with Dumbledore,” James repeated.

Lily let the matter drop, and they chatted idly until the full moon was about to rise. Remus excused himself first, heading for the dungeons; Lily took Harry back to the castle; James sent Peter to keep Remus company during his transformation. Sirius shifted his posture, leaning forward, his expression turning serious.

“Something you want to tell me in private?” he asked.

James genuinely liked his best mate. “I want to ask you to serve as the Guardian of Gryffindor’s Royal Authority.”

Sirius’s expression made it clear he had absolutely no idea what James meant. “The what now?”

“Let’s say—purely hypothetically,” James explained, “that one day, for some reason, Harry and I… are no longer here.”

“Like you’ve gone on holiday?” Sirius said sourly. “And you’re not planning to take me with you?”

“Of course I’d take you if we went on holiday. I mean something else.” James rubbed his forehead. “Something like… well… unavoidable death.”

Sirius stared at him as if he’d grown two heads. “Under what circumstances would you and Harry die together? I’m your personal guard. I wouldn’t allow that to happen.”

James restrained the urge to hug his friend. He was a king, after all. “It’s only a hypothetical,” he said. “You know—better safe than sorry.”

Sirius glared at him for a long moment, then finally nodded. “So what is this ‘Guardian of the Royal Authority’ thing?”

“Well,” James said, “if the day ever came when Harry and I were both gone, as long as the Guardian swears to protect it with his life, the magic safeguarding Gryffindor’s sovereignty will remain intact. That way no foreign power could immediately Apparate into Gryffindor territory. Enemy kings couldn’t enter our castle, and our banner would remain red until the next true heir appeared. I want you to be that Guardian. No one else will know the secret. Even if it leaked, you’re more than capable of protecting yourself and disappearing somewhere no one could find you. I can’t think of anyone better for the role, Padfoot. Out of all the people who might betray me and my kingdom, you’re the very last.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Sirius said slowly, but James could see the pleasure sparked by his friend’s trust. “That’s a heavy responsibility.”

A few days later, James called Sirius in to discuss the matter of closely watching Snape—and Sirius’s reaction was exactly as he’d expected.

“Why me?” Sirius crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m your bodyguard, not his.”

“You’re a mercenary, aren’t you?” James said pointedly. “I pay you, you do the job.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Prongs,” Sirius said dryly, “but you’re asking me to be his babysitter.”

“Not a babysitter.”

“He wants to go outside the castle, I have to go with him. He wants to brew potions, I have to follow him into the potion room,” Sirius said. “What’s next? Am I supposed to tuck him in at night?”

“He also needs an assistant to help him make potions, since he can’t use magic or a wand himself, and the people in the castle who do brew are too busy.”

“Ha. You picked me because I’m the most idle man in the castle, right?” Sirius said, face cold.

“Of course not—because you’re the toughest man I know in this castle,” James said, frowning.

“So I’m supposed to share a room with him while brewing. Just the two of us,” Sirius stressed. “I could get hurt by some unknown Dark magic—or stabbed with my own sword.”

“I don’t think you’re afraid of that.”

“The castle servants are terrified of him.”

James let out a huge sigh. “All right, name your price.”

Sirius grinned and named a number.

“You leech,” Potter said, eyes wide. “Couldn’t I knock some off the price for you being Harry’s godfather?”

Sirius laughed heartily, clapping the king on the shoulder. “If you want me to be your son’s swordsmanship teacher, I’ll have to add to that figure.”

Potter rolled his eyes and hurled an inkwell from the desk at his ex Captain of the Royal Guard. “If your father knew you were blackmailing your king like this—”

Sirius cut him off immediately. “He’d be proud of me. He spent his whole life as the army’s Commander-in-Chief at the border and never made half what I do.”

“Get out of here,” James said with a mock scowl. “Keep an eye on that greasy Slytherin and make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”

Sirius reached the door, paused, and turned back—his grin gone. “Maybe Walden’s death really wasn’t his doing.”

“No one can be sure,” James replied with equal seriousness. “We can’t rule anything out.”

He watched Sirius hesitate, his fingers rubbing the hilt of the sword at his waist as if deciding whether to say something. James waited, but in the end Sirius only shrugged, opened the door to the king’s study, and said—

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

He bowed, turned, and walked out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two — Sirius Black

Brewing potions was a boring business, Sirius thought.

He stood before the table, a brass cauldron simmering over a low flame. With his wand, he stirred the milky, bubbling liquid inside, while in his other hand he held a pinch of beetle-shell powder.

“Wait.”

The man opposite him, who had been watching intently the entire time, stopped him. “You skipped half a turn.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and tossed the black powder in. “Half a turn, Snape. Just half a turn.”

Snape slowly lifted his head, his pitch-black eyes fixing him with a severe glare. “That half turn might cause you to—”

He broke off suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a false smile, and took a step back.

Before Sirius could figure out what was going on, the cauldron in front of him began to froth violently and shudder on its stand. He leapt back—but too late. The contents erupted upward, splattering hot liquid all over his face and hair. Coughing and spluttering as it stung his nose, Sirius heard the low, dark laugh of the other man in the room.

“You bloody bastard,” Sirius swore loudly, as a rag was shoved into his hand.

He wiped the gunk from his eyes, then raised his wand to clean the mess on the table, shooting an angry glare across at the Slytherin. Snape was still laughing, and Sirius, momentarily stunned at seeing such a rare smile, decided to hurl a spoon at him.

“I warned you,” Snape said, dodging the attack. “You’re the one who said, just half a turn.”

“You should’ve given a clearer warning,” Sirius muttered darkly. “Potion-making is the most godawful job there is.”

“You’d rather wander the castle pretending to be on patrol.”

“My patrols are serious,” Sirius shot back. “I’d much rather be out there teaching the greenhorns how to handle weapons or use real magic to protect themselves.”

Snape’s face had already slipped back into its usual mask of indifference and faint mockery. His voice was deep and velvety as he said softly, “Most people cannot understand. Because there’s no foolish waving of wands, you think it’s not magic. I don’t expect you to appreciate the slow simmer over a low flame, the curling white steam, the delicate fragrance—and the heady, mind-altering enchantment it holds.”

Black’s mouth fell open slightly. He was fairly sure Snape was describing something sticky and viscous.

“Sounds like you can have an orgasm just brewing potions,” Sirius said. “I’d have thought something else would be what leaves you ‘heady and mind-altered.’”

“Such as?”

“Such as having your mouth full of my cock,” Sirius said shamelessly. “Or your arse.”

Twin spots of brick-red rose on Snape’s pale cheeks. He lowered his gaze, letting the black curtain of his hair fall forward to hide his expression. “Do all mercenaries speak this crudely, or just you?”

“I’m the best of the lot,” Sirius grinned.

“If Potter knew the man he was paying was such a brazen, lewd libertine…”

“I’d still get his job done.”

Sirius began walking slowly toward the other man, watching Snape’s pitch-black eyes catch the torchlight, his gaze flickering in an unreadable way. Snape’s teeth caught lightly on his lower lip; his hands braced against the table behind him; his whole body was wrapped in the folds of his black wizard’s robes—his robes. Sirius wondered if the man had any idea how someone could look so ascetic and yet so debauched at the same time.

“We need to start the next batch,” Snape murmured, exhaling lightly. “Madam Pomfrey wants the wound balm as soon as possible.”

“She can wait,” Sirius said quietly, letting his fingers brush the skin beneath Snape’s eye. Snape shivered, inhaling sharply, tilting his head back to meet his gaze.

“Not until I find out exactly what it is that leaves you heady and mind-altered,” Sirius whispered. “Lift your robes.”

Snape obeyed, lifting his robes and looking straight at him, waiting. Sirius didn’t need to glance down to know the other man was already hard—because, like every man, Snape was ready for it at any time. He stepped back, fingertips brushing his lower lip, taking in the sight before him. Snape stood there with his legs apart, the raised hem of his robe revealing the bulge in his underwear. And his eyes—shadowed, dark—were brimming with unmistakable desire.

Sirius stepped forward, tugged the other’s underwear down to his knees, letting that flushed, heavy thing spring free, then sat in the chair in front of Snape, fixing him with the same dark gaze. He just looked—saying nothing.

Under his gaze, Snape’s cock, flushed to a reddish-purple, twitched sharply against his stomach, a bead of clear liquid slowly gathering at the tip. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing rapid. Sirius guessed the hardness must be aching like hell—his own, trapped in his trousers, certainly wasn’t comfortable.

“Now I can be sure,” Sirius heard his own voice rasp. “Compared to brewing a potion, baring your cock in front of me gets you far more dazed and desperate.”

Snape was already panting fast, his hips instinctively thrusting forward.

“Black,” he said, low and hoarse.

Sirius smiled as he stepped forward, stripping off his own trousers to free his straining cock. One hand closed around both of them at once, while the other slipped beneath the parted fabric to Snape’s upper body, fingers brushing over the taut peaks of his chest.

“If you can hold out and come after I do, I’ll give you a blowjob,” Sirius murmured. “If you come before me, you’re not allowed to put your underwear back on while you’re brewing potions later.”

Snape let out a low, sensual sound as Sirius began rubbing their cocks together. His fingers occasionally squeezed Snape’s balls to wring out the most pleasure, while the one at his chest teased lightly, keeping the sensitive nipples under constant stimulation. It was hardly a fair contest—Snape stood there, both hands holding up his robes, legs trembling, while Sirius controlled every part of the game.

It wasn’t long before Snape jerked his hips forward and came, some of it splattering onto the inside of his robes. He locked eyes with Sirius, panting low, then released his hold on the fabric and immediately dropped to his knees, taking Sirius into his mouth. Sirius couldn’t last long against the warm, skilled mouth of the Slytherin, and soon spilled himself inside it.

Looking down, he saw traces of himself still at the corner of Snape’s mouth. Sirius reached out, scooped it up, and pushed his fingers into Snape’s mouth. The whole time, Snape kept his gaze fixed on him—just as he had every other time they’d done this.

He wasn’t oblivious to the heat in Snape’s gaze. Sirius guessed it was because, in the entire Gryffindor kingdom, he was probably the only one willing to show Snape just how good sex could feel. Slowly withdrawing his fingers from the mouth that had just brought him to the height of pleasure, he pulled his trousers back on and reached out to help Snape to his feet.

“Sit here,” Sirius said, pushing a chair toward him. “I’m guessing your legs won’t hold you up for long.”

Snape quietly sat down in the seat prepared for him, smoothing out his robes. He seemed willing to accept defeat, leaving his underwear on the floor.

“Are you willing to go back to making the wound salve?” Snape asked.

“Did you take your trousers off just to make me work willingly?”

“I did it because…” Snape paused, glaring at him in irritation. “Compared to you Gryffindors’ shoddy excuse for a wound salve, mine works much faster. Take that wound on your shoulder, for example—if I remember correctly, it left you with a high fever for two days. If you’d used my formula at the time, it would have healed in under a week, without even reddening in the process.”

Sirius instinctively reached up to rub his right shoulder—the one Rosier had slashed wide open during the dueling trial more than two months ago. It hadn’t hurt much that day, but by the next morning, he’d been feverish and bedridden in Madam Pomfrey’s care for several days. He gave a faint smile at Snape’s scowling expression.

“You sound rather concerned about me,” Sirius said.

“My concern is for the children,” Snape replied coldly. “That Charlie Weasley, for instance, somehow manages to fall over constantly.”

Sirius suspected his own expression had softened, because Snape’s glare didn’t seem quite so sharp anymore. Picking up the wand from the table, he rekindled the flame beneath the cauldron.

“In honor of the fact that you’ve got nothing on under those robes,” Sirius said teasingly, “I’ll follow all your instructions to the letter.”

Brick-red tinged Snape’s pale cheeks again as he gave his orders in a clipped tone. This time, Sirius didn’t dare alter the steps, and at last they ended up with a cauldron full of gel-like salve. Snape portioned it into small ceramic jars, and Sirius took one.

“This stuff seems pretty handy,” Sirius said, peering at the white substance inside. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll be needing it soon.”

“We?”

“Mm.” Sirius dipped a finger in, scooping up a dollop and sniffing it. “Smells good. Come here, stand over here.”

Snape eyed him suspiciously—and the salve on his finger—then blushed as though realizing something. “I need to go teach the children.”

“Class isn’t until after lunch. And you’ve got nothing on underneath—are you planning to teach them arithmetic like that?” Sirius lowered his voice to a dark, coaxing rumble. “Come on, stand by the table. Let’s see if this salve works as… magically as you claim.”

“You just did it.”

“Without sword practice, I’ve got too much energy to burn.” Sirius was pleased when Snape moved to stand before him. “Oh, look who’s hiding a sword under his robes now. Turn around.”

Snape didn’t protest again. Sirius knew that during the brewing process just now, the constant brush of Snape’s robes against his bare, sensitive erection had already roused him to full arousal once more. With his back to him, Snape planted both hands firmly on the table for balance. Sirius lifted the robes up to his waist, revealing two pale, slender legs and a pair of round, firm buttocks.

Sirius smoothed the salve along the insides of Snape’s thighs near the groin, moving with deliberate care and letting his fingers occasionally graze the man’s balls. Snape hung his head, breathing heavily as he watched him.

“You’re very sensitive,” Sirius murmured, letting his fingers glide over the other man’s taut sack. “Remarkable.”

“You’re greedy,” Snape replied between breaths.

Sirius gave a wicked grin, stood, stripped off his lower garments, and scooped up a generous amount of salve to coat his fully erect length. Stepping closer, he brushed the hard tip against the insides of Snape’s thighs.

“Yes, I am greedy,” Sirius admitted. “Because you’re so…” He searched for the right word, but abandoned the effort—the entirety of his focus was now on his straining arousal and the man before him. “Squeeze my cock.”

He pushed his erection through the tight press of Snape’s thighs, bracing both hands on the table beside Snape’s own. Sirius thrust forward, sliding in the slick path of the salve, each stroke grazing Snape’s balls and the underside of his cock.

It was exquisite—Sirius rested his head lightly on Snape’s shoulder, turning to watch his profile. Snape’s brows were knit tightly, lips parted, and each time Sirius’s hardness slid against his length, a helpless moan escaped him. Snape’s fingers twitched, desperate to reach down and grab himself, but he couldn’t—Sirius’s chest pressed firmly against his back, trapping him in the narrow space between table and body.

Sirius quickened, driving into the squeeze of Snape’s thighs, making sure every touch was weighted enough to build need but too fleeting to grant relief.

Snape was trembling now—his legs aching, his whole body shaking. He writhed, hips thrusting forward, only to make it worse: his cockhead dragged against the underside of the table, sending shudders tearing through him.

“Black.” Snape’s voice was that tone again. “Black.” It was almost a plea now. “Sirius.”

Sirius went rigid, spilling between Snape’s thighs.

“You’re fucking going to kill me,” Sirius laughed breathlessly, biting down on the pointed tip of Snape’s ear that was right by his lips. “You slut.”

Snape’s body went rigid, unmoving even as the Gryffindor whispered crude words against his ear. He didn’t stir either when Sirius let him go, crouching down to examine the reddened skin of his inner thighs, rubbed raw by their friction. Gryffindor fingers lightly scraped along the pale flesh there, brushing against the Slytherin’s swollen sac, still taut with arousal from the constant rubbing. Beneath the table, Sirius saw Snape’s cock—harder now from his touch—and with his fingers, he smeared the bead of precum at the tip, spreading it down the full length.

“This salve really is excellent,” Sirius remarked fairly, his palm stroking along the Slytherin’s shaft. “Look—you haven’t even got any swelling or redness. Does it hurt?”

Snape shook his head in silence, breathing heavily. Then, after Sirius had worked him with relentless strokes, he cried out and spilled onto the floor.

Later that day, Sirius sat by the edge of the Guards’ training grounds, at the open space where Snape was teaching the remaining few children to read. After what had happened, regardless of the judgment of the Seven God, the castle staff have their own version of the truth. Fewer and fewer servants dared let one who bore the blessing of the Seven God continue teaching their children—now only Charlie Weasley and Alan from the stables still allowed it.

His gaze drifted toward the training yard. The post that had once been his was now held by Frank Longbottom, who managed it quite well. Longbottom’s wife had given birth at the end of July, coincidentally on the same day as the king’s heir. Sirius couldn’t deny a touch of nostalgia for his old title and duties in the Guards. Yet he knew that mercenary work suited his nature far better. When the inevitable war with the Slytherin Kingdom broke out, he wouldn’t need to worry about duty or station—he could simply leave everything behind and report to the commander at the border. Perhaps as a messenger, perhaps as a vanguard soldier.

He was alone, with little worth tying him down.

Sirius glanced again toward Snape beneath the tree, the corner of his lips quirking upward.

“You look happy.”

Someone sat down beside him; Sirius didn’t need to look to know who. It was another full moon.

“Hi, Moony,” he greeted lazily. “I’m watching a certain dark wizard. Haven’t you heard? That’s my primary occupation these days.”

Remus sniffed the air, a little too deliberately. Sirius glared. “I thought James was paying you to watch him, to help him brew potions. The king surely doesn’t know you’re also… profiting on the side,” Remus hinted.

“That’s just a bonus,” Sirius said with a wicked grin. “He is a good fuck.”

The werewolf studied him for a moment, then gave him a soft, knowing smile. “You ought to settle down. Your father would be glad.”

Sirius opened his mouth, hesitating before asking slowly, “Where exactly did you get the idea that I… with whom… should settle down? If it’s from my mother, I assure you, that’s nothing more than her wishful thinking.”

Remus looked at him, then at Snape in the distance, then back again. “I thought—well. You’re practically drenched in his scent.”

“Don’t joke, Moony.” Sirius gave a sharp laugh.

“You’re with him all day.”

“I was paid. I do my job.”

“You make yourself sound like a whore.”

Sirius smirked lewdly. “Right. We both are.”

“James didn’t pay you to… never mind.” The werewolf gave up. “Your private life isn’t our concern.”

Sirius grinned, poking at Remus’s side. The latter squirmed away, ticklish.

“Stop it—you don’t know where those hands have been!” Remus cried.

“My hands just made a big batch of healing salve. You can try it tomorrow—it works wonders.” Sirius grinned wider. “Firsthand experience.”

They horsed around for a while. Snape occasionally glanced up at them, expressionless, but showed no other reaction.

By evening, when Sirius went down to the dungeons and stripped for transformation, he looked up to see his friend already a wolf, howling at the full moon through the high window. Sirius considered for a moment, then spoke from beyond the sturdy iron bars.

“I don’t need to settle down,” he told the friend who could no longer understand his words. “My loyalty belongs always to my king and country. Dying in battle is my fate. I don’t need anyone waiting idly for me, nor do I need to hesitate in combat because of anyone I care for.” Sirius shrugged. “Maybe the one to cut me down will be Tobias Snape—or maybe it’ll be the other way around. So…”

He smiled carelessly, transformed into a massive, shaggy black dog, and slipped through the magical gaps between the bars to join his friend.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 – Severus Snape

Severus changed into the heavier, better-fitted wizard’s robe he had brought from Slytherin, putting away the loose summer one. He straightened his chest, lifted his chin, and made sure he was standing tall enough to be intimidating.

The people of Hogwarts Castle wouldn’t dare treat him lightly, he thought. Severus knew very well what the servants whispered among themselves in the castle, and surely the people outside had heard the same. The looks they gave him were different now—full of respect and fear. They feared that defying him would bring down the judgment of the Seven Gods, or perhaps they feared his own punishment.

It felt good to be revered. No wonder his king could never abandon it, no wonder Lucius aspired to it. Severus stepped out of his chamber in the cellar, surveying everyone in his path with disdain. Without a word, they made way for him, addressing him respectfully as “Sir.”

He walked toward the castle gate, where Sirius Black was already waiting, dressed in a fitted shirt and trousers, his ever-present longsword hanging loosely at his side. He stood with his usual careless slouch.

Almost everyone in the castle feared him—except Black.

Black wasn’t afraid. Black held him between his fingers.

Severus wondered whether Black realized how much sway he had over him. The answer was obvious—of course he did. Black had influence over everyone around him, and he knew exactly how to wield it.

“Ready for an adventure in the city?” Sirius asked.

“You can’t even imagine,” Severus replied.

Sirius laughed freely, as wildly as always. Severus watched him exchange greetings with the guards stationed at the gate, who swung it open for them.

It was hard to believe that he had been in this kingdom, in this city, for nearly a year, and that this was his first time setting foot inside the parts of Hogwarts City where Gryffindor’s citizens lived. Well, the second time. The first had been the day he arrived with Lily’s entourage, passing through this same broad avenue of cobblestones, into the castle that would confine him for nearly a year. He still remembered the shock of first seeing this vibrant, prosperous city—and the hostility in the eyes of the crowd. Not that he had shown it.

Now, however, no one could recognize him. After so long in hiding, most of Gryffindor’s people had likely forgotten what Tobias Snape’s son looked like—if they remembered Tobias Snape at all. Gryffindor was one of the strongest kingdoms on the continent of Ozerpia, rarely facing war, seldom challenged by neighboring nations.

Seldom—except by Voldemort, King of Slytherin.

The five-year war had ended in Voldemort’s defeat, forcing him to sue for peace with gifts: gold, land, Lily Evans—and Severus Snape. She, as a bride of alliance. He, as a hostage of punishment.

As Severus walked the peaceful streets, he thought perhaps this was precisely his king’s design: to soften Gryffindor, to let it wither in its comfort. Peace had never been Voldemort’s true goal. His ambitions were far grander.

And Severus would help him. His king would be astonished at how far young Snape’s resolve could go.

The neighborhoods around the castle were lined with grand houses, clearly belonging to noble families or high-ranking officials. Whitewashed walls, soaring beams, columns as wide as two men could encircle, adorned with colorful carvings and paintings.

Again Severus was struck by the differences between Gryffindor and Slytherin—not only in thought and temperament, clothing and food, but now in architecture as well. Slytherin’s northern cities were bleak, their earthen houses built to resist wind and snow, prioritizing warmth over appearance. Their people weren’t rich enough to waste on white walls and ornamentation. Function outweighed form—just as Slytherin food was meant to fill the stomach, while Gryffindor’s was designed to please the eye and the palate.

Severus studied the houses, wondering whether one of them belonged to Black’s family.

“My home is over there,” Black said, as if reading his thoughts, pointing at a large white mansion. “Two streets past that is Remus’s house.”

Severus looked in the direction, realizing he couldn’t tell which one Sirius meant. “Lupin’s father is the mayor, isn’t he?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Would he be at home right now? Or do you have some kind of town hall?”

Black eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”

Severus shrugged. “Curiosity. You think I’d hurt him?”

“I don’t think you could,” Black said plainly. “Lupin’s father is a wizard.”

“And his son is a werewolf,” Severus added, lacing his tone with deliberate malice.

Black glared at him, but surprisingly, he didn’t snap. “Yeah. And that’s no secret in Hogwarts City. What, werewolves in your land don’t live so well?”

“There are no werewolves in Slytherin cities.”

“Driven out?”

“Killed.”

This time Black’s gaze hardened, his voice low and furious. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Severus answered curtly. “Werewolves are a disease, dangerous. For the good of the people, we minimize harm. Even if we expelled them, they wouldn’t survive long in the northern ice fields.”

“Looks like I gave Slytherins too much credit,” Black snarled. “You’re nothing but heartless, filthy bastards.”

Severus studied the anger in his eyes. Was it because Lupin was his friend, and Severus’s indifference to werewolf lives crossed a line? Or was it because Lupin was his friend, while Severus was merely a convenient body?

“The Slytherins you despise include your queen,” Severus shot back coldly. “You dare claim there’s no filth among Gryffindors?”

Black’s grey eyes locked onto his, unflinching. “You’re right,” he said at last, through clenched teeth. To Severus’s surprise, he went on: “So tell me—why are you researching potions for werewolves?”

Severus blinked. “How did you—? You can understand human speech in your Animagus form?”

“Of course I can,” Black snapped. “Why are you working on a werewolf potion?”

“For their well-being.”

“Bullshit.” Black rolled his eyes. “You don’t care about their lives.”

“For their strength,” Severus admitted at last. “If werewolves could remain conscious and controlled in their transformed state, their power would be a formidable weapon. That’s what I wrote in my research proposal.”

Black’s glare only deepened. “So your potion would let a werewolf stay aware while biting people?”

“You were conscious when you killed in battle, weren’t you?” Severus countered. “The goal is the same—the methods differ.”

Black’s brows rose, his expression softening slightly. “Fair point,” he said. “You actually make sense when you talk.”

Severus wasn’t sure if the heat rising in his face was a blush. “Of course I make sense. I suppose most of the time the people around you don’t understand what you’re saying.” And before Sirius could react, he pressed on. “Think about it. If this potion works, there’d be no need to kill—or exile—werewolves, depending on a kingdom’s law.”

Black chewed on that for a while, perhaps debating whether to mock him for his arrogance. Finally he said: “So if it worked, Remus would stay himself every full moon.”

“He could be anywhere. No dungeon. He could even read, provided his hands—or paws, or whatever you call them—are nimble enough.”

“And if it fails?”

“That possibility doesn’t exist. I won’t fail,” Severus declared, unashamed. “Even if I did, they’d go on as before, no harm done.”

Black stroked his chin, his gaze on Severus shifting in some subtle way. “You know you’re an arrogant bastard, right?”

“I’m simply stating facts.” He wasn’t going to blush.

Black grinned. “You want to see the mayor.”

“Yes.”

“You’re hoping he’ll, what—support your research?”

“I doubt Potter or Dumbledore would listen. But Mayor Lupin, who’s also said to be a respected scholar, might. For the good of the werewolves.”

Black’s grin spread wider, that wild, reckless smile lighting his grey-blue eyes in the sunlight. Severus refused to admit that somewhere inside him tightened.

“I’ll take you to him,” Sirius said. “But first, let’s look around.”

Black led him out of the wealthy district and into the bustling market streets, stopping now and then at the stalls. Severus picked up every strange tool and fruit he didn’t recognize, asking about their purpose. The marketplace was crowded, yet no one seemed to recognize him. A few people called out greetings to Black, and he would return them with a courteous smile.

The Hogwarts market sold more than just necessities and food—there were countless decorative trinkets as well: ornaments for clothing, for hair, for the home. So unlike the markets in Slytherin’s capital, where frivolous purchases were rare and money was never wasted on things that served no purpose. Lily and Lucius’s houses had a few such objects, mostly imported; Bellatrix’s family likely owned plenty. Voldemort, for all his severity, tolerated a little extravagance from the three great houses. Ordinary families like Severus’s, however, handed over every spare coin to fund the Dark King’s army.

His father had always approved of that arrangement—delighted, even, to devote the family’s livelihood to their sovereign. Whether his wife and child had enough to eat was another matter entirely.

Black bought a clay jug, a bunch of bananas, a few flatbreads wrapped in oiled paper, and a braided cord with intricate patterns, then guided Severus farther toward the outskirts. On the way they passed a side street, where boys and girls in bright colors and revealing clothes loitered. Severus couldn’t help but glance twice.

“Captain Black,” a young man with long golden hair called out cheerfully. “Care to stop by today?”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Severus thought Black flicked a glance at him before answering. “Not today,” Black said easily. “And I’m no longer a captain.”

The young man only shrugged and turned to entice another passerby. Severus wisely held his tongue. Still, curiosity gnawed at him. The castle was already full of young men and women knocking on Black’s door at night—why would he bother with brothels?

He must have let some of that slip, because Black shot him a sideways look and a wicked grin. “Brothels offer variety. No coyness, no pretenses—they take their pleasure and give it. I’ve learned a trick or two there. And I’m not the only one who benefits.”

Severus managed a stiff, dry smile, thankful for his voluminous robes concealing what should not be visible in the street. He told himself he allowed Black to take what he wanted, to collect his debt—but he could not deny the force of his own response. To accuse Black of treating him as nothing more than a convenient bed-warmer—or a slut, as the Gryffindor himself liked to say—would be hypocrisy. His desire for Black’s body was every bit as sharp. That insistent presence inside him, sometimes bursting out with song and dance, he later excused as nothing more than hunger for sex.

He knew better, but that was the farthest admission he could allow himself.

They left the city proper, climbed a steep stairway, and emerged on a high ridge with a breathtaking view. Black chose a tree, conjured a blanket beneath it, and sat. Severus lowered himself beside him, careful and reserved.

“From here you can see nearly all of Hogwarts,” Black said, pulling the flatbreads from his pocket and handing one over. “Eat.” He reheated them with a charm until they were hot to the touch. “Careful.”

Severus tore the bread into small pieces, chewing slowly, while Black devoured his own in hearty bites. “You’ve brought a Slytherin here to survey the city,” Severus said. “Aren’t you worried he might be a spy?”

Black gave him a look as if he’d told a joke. “Are you, Snape? Even if you were, what good would it do? Foreign agents can’t Apparate directly inside. And the underground tunnels beneath the city are endless—we could reclaim Hogwarts whenever we pleased. Don’t forget: before you ever reached this point, Slytherin’s army would have to break through my father’s defenses at the border. Five years of effort, and you haven’t even touched it.”

Severus fell silent, eating his meal. The Gryffindor bread was richer than Slytherin’s, filled with spices and bits of meat. But as he chewed, an image surfaced of his mother in their kitchen, kneading plain, tasteless dough, while he sat reading by the warmth of the stove. His father forbade servants—though they could hardly have afforded any—and so those kitchen hours with his mother had been precious, until his father returned from leave to ruin them.

“What are you thinking?” Black’s voice dragged him back. “You looked… were you plotting how to take Hogwarts, spy?”

The word startled Severus, and the last scrap of bread slipped from his fingers. Black scooped it up with a sigh and ate it himself.

“Nothing,” Severus muttered. “Only wondering how I’ll speak with the Mayor.”

“That’s hardly a problem. I’ll do the talking,” Black said, tugging at his collar.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing this.” Black pulled free the dingy, frayed cord around Severus’s neck, holding up the bright new braid he’d bought. “That old thing is filthy. It’s enough to kill the mood, staring at it while I’m fucking you.”

Severus stared, appalled, before his face flushed crimson. He snatched the cord back with a growl. “Hands off. I’ll do it myself.”

Carefully he slipped the pendant over his head, working at the knot, grateful his hands didn’t shake. He held the metal piece in his palm, accepted the new cord, and tied it back around his neck.

“That was your mother’s gift,” Black said, not asking but stating. “You carry it always. You must miss her.”

Severus composed his face and gave a small nod, tucking the pendant beneath his robes. “She was one of only two people who cared for me. If you count Lily.”

Black’s dark, finely shaped eyes lingered on him, thoughtful, but he didn’t press. Perhaps he assumed, as the son of the Slytherin commander, Severus had been coddled and cherished as he himself had been.

Black peeled a banana and handed it over, taking one for himself.

Severus couldn’t fathom how Black could make eating a banana look so… indecent. At any rate, once he’d finished his portion, he went to his knees and started on Black’s.

That one, however, was not a banana.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four – Sirius Black

Sirius and Snape followed the City Hall guards into the mayor’s office. Snape was quiet the entire way, and Sirius guessed he must be working out his arguments in his head.

Mayor Lupin was already waiting. His face lit up when he saw Sirius. “Well, this is a rare sight, Sirius,” the mayor said. “What brings you here?”

“I’m the freest man in the King’s castle these days, haven’t you heard?” Sirius quipped at his own expense. “And the man beside me—”

“I know who he is.” Lyle Lupin turned his sharp gaze on Snape. “Mr. Snape.”

“Mayor,” Snape returned with the proper courtesy.

“So then, what exactly is your business?”

Sirius glanced at the slightly shorter Slytherin, ready to speak, but Snape got there first.

“What would you think if I said I had a way to let werewolves retain their human reason during the transformation?”

Lyle Lupin froze. Sirius expected him to grow angry—but to his surprise, the mayor looked intrigued instead. In the art of offending no one, Remus truly was his father’s son.

“Remy has spoken of your accomplishments in potion-making at Slytherin,” Mr. Lupin said evenly, with no trace of emotion. “And I’ve heard of your work improving the castle’s potions. I assume what you propose is related to that.”

Convincing Mayor Lyle Lupin was easier than Sirius had imagined. For the sake of his son, the man was willing to seize on any possibility. He agreed to speak to the King’s Hand about supporting Snape’s unfinished research, and Snape in turn promised that if he succeeded, the mayor’s son would be the first to benefit.

Not even a week later, Sirius received word of a new assignment from James: to assist Snape in brewing Wolfsbane Potion—the name Snape had given his invention.

When Sirius entered the laboratory, Snape was bent over a thick stack of parchment. Sirius wondered if it included the notes salvaged from the Black Lake that night. Fate was strange—if he had let Snape’s notes be ruined in the water, they would never have had the chance to make a potion that might help one of his best friends.

“This is nothing like the simple concoctions before,” Snape said curtly, without preamble. “The formula is still under testing. I adjust it each time. I expect you to keep up.”

He looked entirely professional, like one of the learned masters of the Academy. His autumn-black robes fit neatly over his thin frame, shoulder-length hair shadowed his pale cheeks, leaving only the hooked nose and a face set in deep thought. He was ugly—that had been Sirius’s first impression, and it hadn’t changed. But this Snape was not the same man he had first met. His features were still ungainly, yet now he carried an undeniable air of authority.

Something had changed in Snape. Perhaps something in Sirius had changed as well. He wasn’t about to dwell on it; thinking had never been his strength.

Snape handled the more troublesome ingredients himself; some simpler preparations the castle apothecaries had already chopped or ground. After several rounds of working together, Sirius had picked up the trick: don’t think, don’t question. Just treat yourself like Snape’s puppet on strings—react the instant a command is given, make no wasted movements.

Sirius was sure Snape would rather brew everything with his own hands; instructed others to use a wand is still slower than waving it yourself. But Snape could not wield a wand at all. The silver chain at his throat glimmered, intertwined with the colored thread Sirius had given him.

Their first cauldron brewed into an odd shade of blue. Snape frowned, dipped a ladle, dropped in a leaf, and watched how it spun in the liquid. Then he sat down at the corner desk to write notes, ignoring Sirius entirely.

Bored, Sirius went outside for air, and happened to spot young Bill Weasley carrying a stack of white cloths. The boy had shot up in height. Though only twelve, being the eldest of a poor household had stripped much of the softness from his face; the innocence in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by the beginnings of a man bearing burdens. Sirius had heard Bill was there when Walden’s corpse was found—he’d taken three days’ leave afterward, and returned quieter, more self-contained.

After exchanging a few words with the boy, Sirius went back to the workroom. Snape was still bent over his notes, chewing the end of a quill, dark ink spotting his pale face. Sirius stepped forward and wiped the ink away with his thumb. Snape startled, his black eyes going wide and fixing on him.

“Oh.” Snape glanced at Sirius’s ink-stained fingers.

Sirius swallowed a sudden impulse and sat down opposite him. “Well?” he asked.

“I’ll try altering one of the ingredients in the next batch,” Snape replied steadily.

That day they brewed five cauldrons, each a different color. Each time, Snape tested, recorded, and bottled the results in waiting clay jars.

“This is more exhausting than drilling raw recruits,” Sirius complained.

“It’s only the first day,” Snape said with a thin, mocking smile at Sirius’s sore back. “One stable, successful potion can take hundreds, even thousands of trials.”

So their days were filled with brewing, testing, altering, brewing again, testing again, altering again. Snape still made time in the afternoons to teach the children their letters, though according to him, Charlie Weasley now cared more for horses and spent most of his hours in the stables learning with Alan.

With fewer students, Snape had more hours free, and poured them all into his research. If Sirius hadn’t dragged him outside to eat and catch a bit of sun, the man might well have allowed himself to starve into a dry husk among his cauldrons.

At the end of November, Snape handed Sirius seven little vials containing the final product.

“Have Lupin start seven days before the full moon. One vial each day,” Snape instructed. “On the day of the transformation, record his condition.”

Truthfully, Sirius was just as eager—perhaps even more so than anyone else. He had overseen every step of the brewing himself, and he might well be the one most invested in seeing the results. He made a trip to the Academy, personally delivered the potions to Remus, and when he returned, the tracking spell told him Snape was in the King’s Garden.

A sudden panic seized him. Sirius was abruptly reminded of the last disaster that had occurred when Snape ventured alone into the royal grounds. He almost broke into a run, only to find—

Snape cradling the kingdom’s four-month-old heir, gazing down at the child swaddled in cloth. From within the bundle, a tiny hand reached out. Snape leaned closer, and Harry’s small fingers caught hold of his nose. The queen laughed. Snape’s face flushed crimson, his expression tightening with impatience.

“He doesn’t like me,” Sirius heard him mutter as he approached, trying to steady his breath.

“Of course Harry likes Uncle Snape,” the queen replied softly, taking the child back into her arms.

Sirius crossed over to where the king sat in his chair. James gave him a helpless roll of the eyes.

“Lily insisted,” James said, as though that explained everything. “Sit down, Padfoot.”

At his arrival, Snape’s face was as unreadable as ever. He cast Sirius a sidelong glance, then turned his head away. “I’ll be going,” he said curtly, giving a careless wave before leaving.

“I thought that after all this time together, he’d be more civil to you,” James murmured as he watched Snape’s retreating back. “Looks like you’re just as unwelcome as I am.”

“I’m the one tasked with watching him. Why would he welcome me? Besides—when did you ever care about what Snape thinks of you?” Sirius replied. “You don’t trust him in the least.”

“I don’t care, no. But still—he is needed in many things.” James turned back toward Sirius, gesturing for him to pour some tea. “At the end of January, Harry will be six months old. On that day, we’ll officially proclaim him heir to the Gryffindor kingdom. Since Lily comes from Slytherin, tradition requires that representatives from Slytherin be invited to the ceremony. Frank doesn’t have much experience handling security for events of this scale. I’d like you to help.”

The heir’s swearing-in would be an affair greater even than the royal wedding a year ago. Envoys from allied nations would attend as guests and offer congratulations, and Slytherin—bound by marriage ties and the source of the heir’s other half of blood—would certainly send representatives as well. Sirius could not afford to be careless; Slytherin’s ambitions toward Gryffindor were plain as day.

He sought out Frank Longbottom, the captain of the guard, who welcomed his advice as a former commander. Meanwhile, Snape had little use for him. With no potions that required Sirius’s help and no inclination to leave the castle, the Slytherin buried himself either in the warmth of the cellar with their roaring fireplaces or in the library. Sirius, free of other duties, threw himself wholly into preparations for Harry’s ceremony.

The full moon came in the midst of it, and Sirius had to admit: this time, the transformation was markedly different. Moony howled far less, hardly bashed against walls or shook at the bars, and for nearly half the time managed to sleep stretched out on the stone bed.

“I could almost feel the human part of me,” Remus said the next day. “Not clearly—like through water. But compared to before, when I remembered nothing at all of those three days, this time I could hold back from acting fully the beast.”

Sirius found Snape in the library and reported the results. The Slytherin stayed silent a long while, deep in thought, before speaking slowly.

“It must be improved further,” Snape said, pensive. “But as I told you, I will not fail.”

He gave Sirius a smug, infuriating smile, and Sirius bristled with frustration. Which was why, not long after, he dragged Snape to a secluded corner of the library. With the aid of the healing salve—Sirius truly believed it was Snape’s greatest creation—and his fingers, he pressed until he found the most sensitive spot inside Snape, determined to erase that greasy bastard’s self-satisfied smirk, leaving only raw need and desire.

From behind, Sirius seized Snape’s wrists and pinned him against the bookshelf, forcing him to bite down on the hem of his own robes to muffle his cries, pounding into him until Snape’s legs trembled and gave way, until his cock twitched and leaked helplessly against his stomach. Until he let go of the cloth between his teeth and began to beg in that voice, Sirius did not release his hands—only then letting Snape touch himself to completion.

That night, Sirius, content and at ease, was polishing his family’s heirloom longsword in his room when a knock sounded at the door. The first time he ignored it, but when the knock came again, he set the sword aside and went to open it.

Claire, one of the kitchen maids, stood there holding a steaming bowl of noodles. She glanced up at Sirius with a coy look, the ties at her bodice left loose so that her rounded breasts showed through in teasing glimpses.

“I’ve brought you a little supper, Sirius,” she said in a soft, girlish voice. “Let me in so I can set it on the table.”

Sirius blocked the doorway, looking down at the bowl instead. The noodles were freshly cooked, topped with crumbled meat, fragrant and tempting.

“Thank you, Claire,” Sirius said without moving aside. “But could you do me a favor and take it down to Mr. Snape in the cellar?”

“Snape?” The color drained from her face. “But…” she faltered. “But this was meant for you.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sirius insisted. “Take it to Snape.”

“No, he frightens me,” Claire whispered, looking as though she might cry. “Sirius, Mr. Black, you always used to accept it.”

It was only when she said this that Sirius realized he hadn’t taken any of these late-night offerings in quite some time. When had he started refusing them? He couldn’t recall. His gaze lingered for a moment on the young woman’s delicate face, then drifted to her pale, full breasts—but he felt nothing. Not a stir of interest, not even the slightest reaction from his body.

“I have no appetite,” he said at last, stepping back as though to close the door. “This just isn’t to my taste.”

Whether Claire ever carried the supper down to Snape, whether Snape accepted it, Sirius had no interest in knowing. He went on helping Snape refine the Wolfsbane potion, followed whenever Snape wanted fresh air outside the city walls, shadowed James when the king traveled, and when bored, played with the royal heir. All told, Sirius thought his life as a mercenary was rather comfortable.

Remus tested two more brews in December and January. The January draft allowed him, in wolf form, to pass the entire night without a single howl. He only lay sprawled on the stone bed, staring wide-eyed at Sirius in his black dog form, until at last the two of them fell asleep together. The Wolfsbane seemed to have worked—but once Remus returned to human form, his body broke out in a rash.

Snape and Madam Pomfrey studied the rash carefully, checking against the potion’s recipe. Back in the laboratory, the young scholar kept scribbling notes, sinking once again into the kind of intense focus that left Sirius entirely ignored. With nothing better to do, Sirius shifted into Padfoot and dozed at Snape’s feet.

It was not the first time he’d transformed in front of the Slytherin. Save for the initial surprise, Snape had grown used to it quickly. As now, when his free hand absentmindedly combed through Padfoot’s fur. Delighted, the black dog nudged the man’s hand with his nose, sniffed the scent of his palm, and gave it several licks. Snape jerked back, startled, but soon enough let his hand fall again, fingers sinking into the softness of black fur.

Just like that day in the dungeon, Sirius remembered, when he had stood outside the iron bars of a cell, watching the accused murderer crawl toward him on hands and knees—so alone, so desperate—as Snape buried his fingers into his fur, as though clinging to something solid in the dark.

By late January, envoys from across the kingdoms were arriving for the oath-taking ceremony, quartered in Hogwarts Castle’s guest lodgings. On the eve of the event, the Slytherin delegation arrived as well—led once again by Lucius Malfoy.

Sirius relayed the news to the Queen and to Snape as they stood in the young heir’s chamber, watching Harry sleep. James stood off to the side with his usual look of helpless exasperation.

“If you don’t agree to be my son’s godfather soon, Snape may beat you to it,” James muttered, pulling Sirius aside. “Lily’s hinted at it more than once.”

Sirius raised his brows, casting a few glances at the Slytherin standing by the cradle. “And I don’t see why that would be such a bad thing,” he said. “Snape seems to like Harry well enough.”

“Padfoot.” James scowled at him.

Sirius burst out laughing, clapping the king on the shoulder. “A Gryffindor Black for a godfather is far better than a Slytherin Snape.”

“So, you agree then?”

“Well, I am nothing if not loyal to you,” Sirius said with a shrug. “What about the matter I raised with you last time?”

James pressed his lips together, then gave a short nod. “Peter agreed.”

Sirius whistled, lips curling into a grin. “No one will ever suspect him. A rat can slip away faster than anything, and Peter’s clever enough to hide in plain sight. Let the world believe I’m Guardian of Gryffindor’s Royal Authority—let them come for me.”

“You three are the ones I trust most. If the day ever comes, at least we’ll have some hope of protecting Gryffindor’s crown,” James said gravely.

“That day won’t come,” Sirius muttered with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “I really don’t see what you’re so worried about.”

James looked at him with troubled eyes, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Dumbledore mentioned a prophecy,” he murmured. “From Sybill Trelawney. It spoke of me and Harry. Dumbledore fears if word spreads, someone may come after us.”

A prophecy. Sirius frowned. That old hag had made plenty of predictions, none worth listening to. And yet—his mind jumped back to a day last spring, when he and Snape had hidden away in the broom closet for a quick tryst, only to overhear Sybill muttering in that strange, otherworldly voice. Sirius hadn’t remembered a word of it—her ramblings were always curses and nonsense—but something told him this must be the same one.

If it was that prophecy, who could have let it slip? Only Dumbledore had known—unless someone else had been nearby when he and Snape overheard her in the broom closet…

He sensed a presence behind him and turned to find Snape standing there, watching James. Snape’s face was a mask of blankness; James’s was set in weary contempt. For a moment Sirius feared the two might start brawling on the spot.

Would Snape truly dare strike the King of Gryffindor?

“Your Majesty,” Snape said first, bowing his head.

“Mr. Snape,” the king replied coldly.

Snape turned to leave. Sirius shot James a grimace, then followed after him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five — Severus Snape

Lily’s son was… adorable. If Severus were being honest with himself, he would admit as much. Especially those eyes—exactly his mother’s. An utterly harmless infant, whose life consisted only of eating, sleeping, hiccupping, crying, and soiling his nappies. A creature who tugged at his nose, yanked his hair, and laughed at him, soft and fragile.

Had Severus once been such an amusing little thing? Had he too slept contentedly in the warm cradle of his mother’s arms? Had his father, like Potter now, fretted over his every move—or had he not cared in the least? And Black? As a baby, Black must surely have been more charming than Lily’s son, who took most of his looks from his father. And Black was simply… Black.

Tomorrow Lily’s son would be formally proclaimed heir to the Kingdom of Gryffindor, and of course Lily had invited him. Severus ought not to feel nervous about it; he had known all along this day would come, that their paths had never been the same. And yet…

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were the sort who liked babies,” came Black’s voice suddenly at his back.

“Do I look more like the type who would use a baby for experiments?”

“Or brew strange potions out of their hair and fingernails.”

“Have you not considered that this is precisely why I seek the company of King Potter’s son?”

Black barked a laugh, as though genuinely amused. Severus lowered his head, letting his hair conceal the false smile tugging at his mouth.

“You’ll be at the inheritance ceremony tomorrow, won’t you?” Black asked. “Assuming you were invited.”

Severus hesitated a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Black made a small noise. “I’m headed to the Great Hall for dinner. You—”

Was Black about to invite him to eat there? That was hardly a place a man of his standing was welcome. “I’ll dine in the cellar,” Severus said.

“You’re sure?” Black’s eyes swept him up and down, skeptical. “Something tells me you mean to skip the meal entirely.”

“Potter doesn’t pay you to oversee my eating habits, does he?” Severus replied dryly.

Black pursed his lips, conceding the point. “True. Whether you eat enough isn’t my concern. Well then, I’ll be off.”

Severus stood at the corner, watching Black’s back as he walked away, puzzled by the odd nature of their bond. Strictly speaking, Black was set to watch over him. Yet Black was also his assistant in potion-brewing—and not to mention their frequent couplings. When Severus had first arrived in Gryffindor, Black’s hatred had been a heavy, palpable thing. But now he could hardly sense it at all; their dealings felt, at times, almost like… friendship.

Or more than friendship? Severus could not tell. He longed for Black’s touch, and clearly Black did not recoil from his. Black never kissed, but the fierce impulse living inside Severus always drove him to want to try. Only his formidable self-restraint kept him from humiliating himself.

Yet still, he wanted to kiss Black.

After a modest meal in the little kitchen, Severus lingered in the corridor leading back to the cellar. Night had fallen; fine snow drifted outside. Most of the castle’s inhabitants had already retired to their chambers, leaving only the patrolling guards and those still busy with preparations for tomorrow’s ceremony. Severus turned, letting his feet carry him forward, into a less familiar part of the fortress.

He had, of course, been to this tower before, on idle wanderings. Black’s quarters were easy to identify—the largest chamber along the corridor, and besides, a wooden plaque hanging at the door baldly declared Sirius Black.

Severus stood before it, imagining how many men and women, with all manner of excuses, must have knocked at this door by night. He had not even decided whether to raise his hand when it swung open, revealing Black’s tall, rangy frame. His black curls fell across his cheeks, and beneath the thick sweep of lashes, his pale grey eyes fixed directly on Severus.

Severus held his silence, staring back, while Black said nothing, only stepping aside to make room.

Severus entered. The heavy wooden door shut behind him.

It was his first time in Black’s chambers. Unlike his own damp and chilly confinement in the cellar, Black’s room was a single, spacious chamber: a bed, a table, a fireplace, and a large window.

Severus walked to the window and peered out. Only darkness. By day, he thought, the hunting forest would be visible.

“I don’t suppose you came here for the view,” said Black behind him.

Severus turned. Black wore a white shirt, its fabric catching the firelight and glowing orange. Severus swallowed, seeing the hunger in Black’s eyes—and knowing that his own reflected the same. He had never before taken the initiative; he had always let Black do as he wished, as though repaying the debt of that life spared upon the execution ground.

Thinking of their relationship that way made it much simpler, there was nothing Severus couldn't handle.

And yet, he knew he wanted more. The small, winged thing in his chest beat its wings furiously. This was his only chance.

“So what do you think I’ve come here for?” Severus turned, his voice low and velvety as he faced the taller man.

“I have my own ideas.” Black leaned closer, until their bodies were nearly touching. Severus tilted his head back, meeting the wicked curl of the other’s smile.

“I was only standing there. You were the one who opened the door.”

“And I only opened it. You were the one who walked in.”

Severus parted his lips, then bit lightly down on the tip of his tongue. Black’s gaze dropped to that glimpse of pink, his eyes narrowing.

“I want,” Severus murmured. “I want you to fuck me. From the front. While looking at me.”

Black drew in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening at once. He stripped off his shirt without hesitation. Severus followed, shedding every last piece of clothing. With scarcely a word more, Black shoved him onto the bed and climbed after him, limbs braced, his body caging Severus in as he looked down into his face.

Black was already hard; Severus knew he was too. After a long moment of gazing at him, the Gryffindor moved lower, his tongue sliding out to lap at Severus’s erection. Severus lifted his torso, watching as that tongue traced and teased along his length. Then Black took him into his mouth, eyes still fixed on him, and Severus could see the outline of his cock pressing against the other man’s cheek.

“Fuck—” Severus cried out, on the edge of spilling over.

Black stopped at just the right moment, pulling away. Severus’s slick cock, touched by the warmth radiating from the hearth, still felt cool in the open air. Black lifted one hand in silent summons, and a small jar resting on the table flew neatly into his grasp.

Severus knew that jar well.

He spread his legs, letting Black prepare him, their gazes locked the entire time. His brows knit as Black’s deft fingers worked inside him, seeking out the spot that made him hiss and shudder—yet never once did he close his eyes.

His body was ready, and the Gryffindor knew him too well. Black withdrew his fingers and moved upward, angling his rigid length toward Severus’s lips. Severus opened his mouth to take him in, sucking, hardening him further, making it easier to drive deep, easier to align with his body.

And then—just as Severus had wanted—they were face-to-face. Black lifted Severus’s legs to rest upon his shoulders, and Severus grasped the wrists braced against his thighs, his body nearly folded in half. Black thrust into him in one solid stroke, and then again, and again, pounding into him like driving stakes into the ground.

It was their first attempt at this position, their first time like this. Severus gave himself over to the flood of pleasure, moaning, shamelessly meeting Black’s eyes. Black answered his stare with an intense gaze and a sharp grin—mocking his greed, perhaps, but Severus could no longer care. In this position, every plunge buried Black to the hilt, each stroke grazing that place that sent sparks through him. Severus released one hand to grip his own cock.

Black shifted, lowering Severus’s legs to lock around him, pressing their bodies flush. With one free hand he pinned Severus’s arm to the bed, while his hips never faltered.

Severus’s aching cock was trapped between them, each thrust grinding Black’s stomach across that sensitive length. As Black’s rhythm quickened, Severus was stroked in matching tempo, until the dual assault—inside and out—drove him past the edge. He cried out, climax tearing through him.

Not long after Severus came, Black spilled deep inside him.

The aftershocks of release left Severus dazed. He stared at a crack in the ceiling, still lost in the memory of what had just happened, in the scent of Black lingering over him. Black had not moved away. The air was suddenly heavier, closer, and when Severus came back to himself, he found Black’s face hovering near, grey eyes fixed on him.

“What have you done to me?” Black whispered.

And then Black kissed him.

Shock and disbelief gripped Severus so completely that for a moment he could not respond. Black’s lips fastened over his own, tongue teasing at the seam, coaxing him gently, patiently, into yielding. Inexperienced as he was, Severus let himself be guided, his lips parting, and Black’s tongue slid inside.

Kissing was nothing like he had imagined. He had thought it must be wet, messy, unseemly—but his first taste of it told him otherwise. Kissing was intimate, unbearably sensual. Black’s tongue led his, drew from him, shared saliva and the taste of each other. Black was burning pine, icy spirits, ruthless possession.

They kissed for a long time, until Black finally pulled away, holding his gaze. Severus was panting, only then realizing that somewhere in the course of it, his arms had wound themselves around Black, their bodies entwined.

Like lovers.

He released him, and Black rolled onto his side, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“I will no longer be the most fearless and courageous one on the battlefield.” he said.

Severus didn’t quite understand. “Black,” he said.

“Sirius,” the Gryffindor corrected softly. “Severus.”

Severus pushed himself up to look at him. The man’s face was still half-hidden behind his arm. “Sirius,” Severus whispered, tasting the syllables on his tongue.

“Sleep,” Sirius murmured, tugging the blanket over him.

Exhaustion dragged Severus under. When he woke in the middle of the night, Sirius had curled around him from behind, spooning him tightly. He slipped from the embrace with careful, quiet movements, dressing piece by piece so as not to wake the man.

Before leaving, Severus lingered, watching Sirius’s sleeping face for a long while. Then he bent and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

By torchlight he traced his way back to the dungeons, avoiding the patrols of the Inquisitorial Squad, shrouded in shadows. Fortune was with him—he evaded every one, reaching his own rooms safely.

In the bathroom he scrubbed himself down with cold water, erasing all outward traces, but what lay buried deep within could never be washed away. Tonight Sirius had kissed him, and their entanglement would only grow more complicated. Severus’s heart thrilled that what he had longed for had at last come to pass, and yet ached that such sweetness was so brief.

He knew the day would come when Sirius hated him again—sooner or later. The Gryffindor was a man of open, upright nature, and on Severus’s forearm lay a hideous mark. Whatever Sirius might feel now was fleeting, no match for the loyalty he bore to Potter.

Sirius would recover from this.

As for Severus—he would carry these marks with him to the end.

For there was no turning back.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six – Sirius Black

When Sirius woke, the space beside him in the bed was empty. The cold quilt told him that the Slytherin had left long ago. He reached for the tracing spell he had cast and found nothing—only then did he recall that he had forgotten to renew it yesterday.

Sirius ruffled his hair and shrugged at himself. Today was Harry’s inheritance ceremony. Severus had probably gone back to change into his ceremonial robes. If he guessed right, it would be the same set he’d worn at last year’s wedding. Sirius freshened up quickly and put on formal attire of his own. Even without the crisp uniform of a Guard Captain, as the eldest son of the Black family he had no shortage of options. He chose a black leather tunic and trousers, belted the family’s heirloom sword at his waist, slipped his wand into the breast pocket of his jacket, and left the room.

He wandered into the small kitchen and, sure enough, found Severus sitting at a chair, dipping bread into soup. He was wearing exactly what Sirius had expected.

“That robe’s a bit old, isn’t it?” Sirius said with a cheeky grin.

Severus shot him a blank glare, then looked down at his own clothing. “I think it’s perfect,” he said dryly.

“You mean the next time you’ll wear the very same one again?”

“I can’t recall any occasion coming up that would require such formal robes.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Harry’s inheritance ceremony?”

Severus blinked. “Are you cursing Potter to an early death?”

“I’m suggesting you’ll live that long.”

Severus’s face remained expressionless, as if every thought and feeling had drained away. Sirius couldn’t tell what was running through his mind; all he noticed was the crumb of bread clinging to the edge of those thin lips. Sirius reached out, brushed it away, and then bent down to press the lightest kiss against those barely parted lips.

The kitchen staff were busy preparing the day’s banquet wine and paid them no attention. Perhaps they noticed, but wisely pretended not to. Two blotches of color rose on Severus’s pale cheeks, and his ink-dark eyes fixed fiercely on Sirius. The mask of coldness and emptiness slipped aside, revealing the heat hidden beneath.

“See you later, Severus,” Sirius said, straightening and flashing his usual roguish grin. “I’ve got a bodyguard’s duties to attend to.”

As he stepped out of the kitchen, he heard the deep, unmistakable voice of the Slytherin behind him. “Sirius.”

Sirius turned. Severus’s mouth opened, as if to speak, but then closed again. “What?” Sirius asked.

Severus studied him for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “Nothing,” he said at last. “goodbye.”

Sirius’s smile curled at the edge of his lips. “See you later,” he said, lifting a hand in parting before walking out of the small kitchen.

He went first to find Frank Longbottom, helping him handle the castle patrols and the matter of the envoys’ guards. By custom, foreign envoys were not permitted to bring armed escorts; instead, the Kingdom of Gryffindor supplied Guards to ensure their safety. They had done this once already at last year’s wedding, and Frank had managed it well—there was nothing that needed troubling the former captain.

James, just as he had on the day of the wedding, kept running his hands through his messy hair. When he caught sight of Sirius, he relaxed a little, though Sirius could still feel his tension. The queen sat nearby, exactly as Sirius remembered: Lily Potter radiated calm and courage, soothing her husband as only she could. Peter gave Sirius a nervous grin, and Dumbledore was there too, cradling little Harry in his arms, the aged face bent toward the six-month-old child.

“Mr. Dumbledore,” Sirius said.

“Sirius.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “Everything ready?”

“Looks like it,” Sirius replied. “Frank’s done well. I just checked the Great Hall—all the envoys are in their proper places. The invited nobles are seated too. We’re only waiting for the hour.”

Dumbledore nodded and lifted Harry against his shoulder. “James?”

The king of Gryffindor inclined his head and bent his arm, his wife’s hand resting firmly in his. Together they led the way out of Harry’s small nursery. Sirius followed behind, joined at the doorway by Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Once inside the Great Hall, Sirius took his place at the side, eyes fixed on the three principal figures and the infant as they walked to stand behind the high table. His gaze swept the hall, and he quickly spotted his true concern at the entrance: Severus Snape had only just arrived. A servant offered him a tray of bread and salt at the doorway; Severus took some, ate it, and then moved to stand beside Lucius Malfoy.

He watched the two Slytherins bow their heads and exchange a few words, then both turned toward the front where the king had begun to speak. Sirius forced his attention back as well.

“We thank you all for coming today to Gryffindor Castle to attend the heir’s oath ceremony,” James declared. “My son, Harry Potter, is six months old this day. As King of Gryffindor, I, James Potter, hereby proclaim my son, Harry Potter, to be the future heir of the Kingdom of Gryffindor. He shall continue, after me, to lead this kingdom forward and to protect the people of Gryffindor.”

Professor Dumbledore raised Harry high, and in the midst of so many strangers the child neither cried nor fussed, but instead laughed in delight. Sirius could not help wondering whether Dumbledore had used some subtle magic.

Captain of the Guard Frank Longbottom stepped forward, bearing the Sword of Gryffindor in both hands and presenting it to King Potter. James drew the sword from its scabbard and touched its gleaming blade to Harry’s brow, then each shoulder, before lifting it high overhead.

“From this day forth, Harry Potter is recognized as one of the masters of the Sword of Gryffindor,” James proclaimed. He sheathed the sword again and hung it upon a hook on the wall behind him.

The gathered witnesses applauded at the proper moment. Sirius winked at his king and secretly raised a thumb in salute; James flashed him a wide grin in return. Sirius went to his assigned seat, where food and wine had already been laid. He sat with the Guards—no one dared object, and even if they had, Sirius would not have cared. Some might brand him a traitor, but that was hardly his fault; any Guard with sense knew Evan Rosier had brought his death upon himself.

The academy representatives sat at the far end of the same long table. Sirius saw Remus concentrating on cutting the meat on his plate—aside from sweets, Moony’s greatest love had always been meat. Peter and the senior attendants were placed down near the hall’s rear, where Severus Snape also had a seat.

At the head of the hall, James raised his goblet. “Our thanks to all of you,” he said loudly. “A toast—to everyone present.”

Servants had already filled the cups. Sirius lifted his own with the rest and drained it in one swallow.

It began with Frank, seated opposite Sirius. His fingers slipped from his fork and he collapsed face-first onto the table. Then those around him, and farther down the hall—the servants moving between the tables—fell one after another.

The sound of bodies striking table and floor echoed in waves. Sirius sprang up, his gaze fixed on the high table—but his legs gave way beneath him. His fingers, reaching for the sword hilt, had gone weak and useless. His strength drained out of him all at once, leaving him slumped helplessly, his face pressed into a half-eaten plate, eyes wide and staring forward.

From his angle Sirius could not see the king, the queen, or the prime minister—likely they had all collapsed too. Nor did he hear Harry cry; the child must also have been struck down. At first he suspected the wine, but dismissed the thought at once: neither Harry nor the servants who carried the dishes had touched it.

Terror and fury flooded him. He tried to move any muscle at all, but he was frozen as if carved from stone. Without muscle to anchor it, magic would not come to him either. Silence descended over the hall—utter silence, as though no living soul remained.

Then came footsteps. From behind, quick, long strides, sure of their direction. Sirius wanted to roll his eyes to see who approached, but even his eyeballs refused him.

He knew soon enough.

Severus Snape strode forward, sleeves and hem of his formal robes flaring like the wings of a great black bat. Sirius’s breathing quickened, his heart hammering in his chest. A voice screamed inside his head: Impossible—absolutely not—no, no, no, no, no…

Clearly the Seven Gods had not heard Sirius’s desperate prayer. The Slytherin strode to the high table, his intent plain. He seized the Sword of Gryffindor, drew it from its scabbard, and pressed the blade to the left side of his neck. With a sharp motion he hooked the silver chain hanging there and gave a savage pull.

A crisp snap rang out. The chain broke cleanly and fell to the ground.

Snape stretched out his right arm, palm upward, while lowering his gaze to the floor—exactly where the royal family and the King’s Hand had collapsed. From where Sirius lay he could not see Snape’s face, only the curtain of black hair and, half-glimpsed through it, that great hooked nose.

Sirius longed to roar, to scream, to fling himself forward and seize the Slytherin by the collar and shake him until he answered—what in God’s name was he doing? He had eaten the bread and salt; was he about to betray the oath sworn before the Seven and raise his hand against the King of Gryffindor? Against Lily Potter, his countrywoman and friend, and her child? Did he mean to harm them as well? But Sirius could do nothing. His cheek was pressed helplessly to the table, his body drained of all strength, his eyes locked wide open, forced to witness the unfolding horror.

A whistling sound cut through the stillness. A dark little rod—no, a wand—flew straight into Snape’s waiting palm. He closed his fingers around it, lowered his arm, and pointed it downwards.

“Avada Kedavra.” Sirius heard the words whispered.

A flash of green. Snape spoke the curse four times, and four times the green light flared, stabbing Sirius’s vision until his eyes burned. Inside, he was howling, you son of a bitch, no, no, no, no, no! Hot tears spilled down his face. His useless body would not even allow him to sob; he could only weep silently, in torment.

That was his king—the brother of his heart, the boy he had grown up beside, the man whose life he had sworn to protect. That was his queen, the heir of their kingdom, the very soul of everything he had vowed to defend with his own life.

And that was the first man he had ever given his heart to. The man who had stirred him, whom he had kissed. The last word they had shared was a farewell—Goodbye.

From last night to today, Snape had planned it all. No—likely he had been plotting far longer. Once the first shock of denial passed, Sirius was left staring into the truth: Severus Snape was a cold-blooded murderer. The realization choked him, made him want to bite through his own tongue, to tear himself free, to rip Snape into shreds, to kill him and then kill himself.

Snape turned without sparing Sirius a glance. From behind came another voice.

“Shall we kill the rest of them?” Malfoy’s.

“No need,” Snape replied coldly. “My task is done. There’s no reason to stir further trouble. Come—we must go. The king is waiting for my report.”

“The king will be here shortly.”

Snape paused. “You’re certain?”

“He waits at the border. With the Potter family dead, the wards that barred foreign apparitions have fallen. He’ll be here any moment.”

“But… ah—”

A crackling sound. Sirius saw Snape’s eyes fly wide as his whole body turned deathly white, his expression erased in an instant beneath a marble mask. He bowed his head, sank to one knee, and raised the Sword of Gryffindor high in both hands.

“My king,” he said, in a voice of utter submission Sirius had never heard from him before.

A tall, thin figure entered Sirius’s field of vision. Bald scalp gleaming, skin corpse-pale, features flattened, and eyes like burning coals.

The King of Slytherin—Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt. Or, as he named himself, King Voldemort—stood within the halls of Gryffindor Castle.

But that was impossible. James had cast the spell of Guardian Royal, ensuring that after his and Harry’s deaths, no king of the enemy realm could ever set foot on Gryffindor’s soil—guaranteeing that, under the loyalty of her subjects, Gryffindor would endure in stability. Unless. Unless—
A fresh wave of anguish struck Sirius. Unless Peter was already dead. Unless Snape, or Malfoy, had killed him.

But how could they possibly have known that Peter was the Guardian of Gryffindor’s Royal Authority? That was a secret no one was supposed to know.

Voldemort lifted the Sword of Gryffindor, studied it with care, and then fastened it to his belt with deliberate precision.

“You’ve done well, Severus. Better than I expected,” said King Voldemort in a voice as harsh as metal scraping on stone. “Not only did you bring me the prophecy, you also rid me of the one it referred to. I admit, when you first proposed your plan, I doubted you could truly carry it out. But clearly, I should never underestimate a Snape. You’ve surpassed your father—claiming Gryffindor for me without spilling a single drop of blood.”

“Thank you, my King,” said Snape, bowing lower still. Sirius suspected he was kissing Voldemort’s hem. Or perhaps his boots. Disgusting.

“Others will arrive soon enough,” Voldemort went on. “The Muggle armies are still held at the border, but not for long. Once they see the banners change—” He raised his wand-hand, flicked it in several intricate gestures, and the red lion standards hanging throughout the castle shimmered and turned into green banners bearing the serpent. “—they will know who their King is now.”

Snape said nothing, only straightened slowly to stand, following behind his King. Voldemort crossed to the long table, where Sirius could see him gazing down at the bodies sprawled there.
“Excellent. Excellent,” Voldemort said. “Sever their heads and hang them from the gates.”

Sirius had thought his heart could bear no further pain. Clearly, he had underestimated the enemy King’s cruelty. To his shock, Snape sank to his knees again—not prostrate this time, but lifting his face in a plea.

“My King, I beg you,” Snape said, his voice raw with desperation. “Allow me to bury Lily and her son. You said you would—you promised me. I… I will never have the chance to be with her now, but grant Lily and her son mercy, I beg of you.”

The King’s expression was mocking. “I never thought you such a sentimental fool, Severus.”

“Please.”

“Very well. That matter I leave in your hands. But Potter’s and Dumbledore’s heads must hang upon the walls.”

“I shall see it done for you,” Snape replied, gratitude thick in his voice.

Then Sirius heard the cracks of Apparition—several of them—and unfamiliar voices chorusing My King. Voldemort moved from the long table to the front, turning to Snape.

“The antidote, give it to Lucius. Let him rouse my faithful servant.”

Faithful servant? Sirius wondered. Snape too seemed puzzled, but asked no questions. He drew a small vial from his robes and handed it to Malfoy. Moments later, Sirius heard a familiar voice, trembling as it spoke:

“M-my… my King.”

Sirius knew that voice instantly. To his shock and fury, Peter was alive. Peter Pettigrew crawled forward to kneel at King Voldemort’s feet, kissing the hem of his robe, while Voldemort’s expression was one of deep satisfaction.

“My faithful spy, Peter,” Voldemort said in a sing-song murmur. “Without you, I could never have set foot in this kingdom—at most I might have taken Gryffindor’s sword.”

Snape was a Slytherin, a spy from the enemy realm—Sirius could make sense of that. But Peter? Peter, a spy for Slytherin? Cowardly, cowering Peter? James’s page, Peter? The boyhood friend they’d all grown up with?

No no no no no! Sirius longed to scream, to howl. Everything he had ever known had shattered. This was his fault. James had asked him to guard Gryffindor; he had sworn never to betray James. And yet it was Sirius who had convinced James to appoint Peter as Guardian of Gryffindor’s Royal Authority. His fault, entirely his fault. He had handed his kingdom’s sovereignty into the hands of Slytherin’s cruel King.

Sirius wished he were dead already.

But death meant no vengeance. When shock and anguish ebbed, what remained inside him was only hatred. He would avenge his King, his kingdom. He would kill those bastards with his own hands—stab them full of holes, watch them writhe on the floor in agony, beg for mercy, regret their betrayal of James. He would tear them to pieces.

That resolution steadied him, even as Voldemort’s orders continued.

“Kill the royal guard,” he said.

Footsteps, the sounds of bodies lifted and then dropped again. Sirius knew what it meant—his comrades in the guard had had their throats slit, their bodies tossed aside. They had come to this banquet expecting celebration, not to be drugged senseless, slaughtered without ever drawing a blade.

The vileness of it made Sirius nearly retch.

And was he, too, to die here before he could take his revenge? Panic surged. Sirius strained to move a finger—nothing.

“My King,” Snape’s pale voice broke in. “May I beg one boon for my father—regarding the fate of these Gryffindor soldiers?”

Voldemort raised a hand; the killing ceased. “Speak.”

“If I err, you may punish me,” Snape said, bowed low. “My father is campaigning in Ravenclaw. His army has advanced, but at great cost.”

Voldemort’s red eyes bored into him. “Go on.”

“These Gryffindor soldiers are valuable men—trained in swordplay, strong, battle-hardened. Let them choose: enlist in Slytherin’s army, to serve under my father’s command… or die for their King with their throats cut.” Snape smirked faintly. “I rather doubt their loyalty to Potter extends so far.”

Hatred churned in Sirius’s head. He would sooner die than serve Tobias Snape.

Yet death meant no vengeance. Perhaps survival was the better path.

Voldemort considered for a long time. “Tobias does need more men,” he muttered.

“My King, these here are Gryffindor’s wealthiest, most powerful noble houses. With their fortunes behind us, and Gryffindor’s armies bolstering ours, the fall of Ravenclaw will come sooner. We may not even need to drain more of Slytherin’s own resources.”

Snape’s words were smooth, persuasive, logical. Voldemort’s interest sharpened. “Very well. Do as you propose.” He turned to the others. “Bind the royal guard and drag them to the execution ground.”

Sirius strained harder, forced his eyes to blink—astonishingly, he managed it twice. He tried to push himself up, but his body would not obey; only his neck twitched, turning his head slightly. The plate crushed beneath his cheek clattered faintly.

At once, every head turned toward him. Peter Pettigrew shrieked in terror. Voldemort’s brows arched in avid amusement. And Severus Snape—his already pale face drained of the last trace of color.

Before anyone else could act, Snape whipped up his wand, aimed it at him, and in a flash of red light—Sirius knew no more

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven – Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt (King Voldemort)

Privately, Voldemort admitted to himself that Tobias’s son had gone farther than he had ever expected. After all, Tobias had spoken to him countless times of his useless, weakling boy, good for nothing but burying himself in books. And when Voldemort himself had received young Snape the year before his departure, the frail and sullen figure had left little impression on him.

Assigning the young man to spy within Gryffindor had originally been nothing more than a punishment for the Prince family, a way to remind Sammir Prince—through his grandson—of what his defiance and his father’s transgressions had cost them. Sammir’s once-beautiful and brilliant wife had been tortured into madness and locked away in the dungeons; his daughter, Eileen Prince, long poisoned into chronic pain and forced into marriage with a cruel husband; and his intelligent grandson beaten by that same father, only to be sent at last as a spy to the enemy kingdom, sworn to serve the very King Voldemort whom Sammir had betrayed.

The Dark King had not expected that young scholar to last long—certainly not to survive discovery in Gryffindor territory, where he should have met a quick and miserable death.

As for Sammir Prince himself, after defying Voldemort’s command, he had languished for years imprisoned in the high tower of Slytherin. When the Dark King himself informed him of all that befell his kin, the once-wise old face had twisted in pain and grief. On his knees, Sammir had begged his sovereign to spare his family, offering his own life to atone for his sins.

Voldemort had, of course, not altered his judgment. Even though the remorseful Sammir had already told him how to master death and seize immortality, Voldemort would not relent. His people had to learn: none may question the will of King Voldemort.

Compared to the old man, the young Snape was so much easier—naïve, eager, sharp, quick, and shallow enough to be pliable. The King offered him the lures every ambitious youth craved: power, status, women—alongside the threat of Eileen Snape’s life. Already desperate to prove himself, raised in Slytherin tradition and loyal to the Dark King, Severus quickly swore to display his abilities in Voldemort’s service.

If there was anything peculiar, it was Snape’s wish that, once successful, he might restore the Prince family’s honor. Voldemort had doubted the boy capable. But should he succeed, granting it would cost little. Sammir’s descendant achieving the Dark King’s grand designs could be considered a form of loyalty rendered by the Prince line.

Yet, to Voldemort’s surprise, this supposedly weak, useless bookworm had slipped deep into Gryffindor, survived Peter’s machinations, and returned with invaluable intelligence. Unlike his mother’s side, Severus resembled his father—utterly loyal, forthright, proving his talent and skill time and again.

Even the task that should have been impossible—the murder of the Potter family and seizing of the Gryffindor Sword—Voldemort had intended as a death sentence for Sammir’s grandson, an ironic end. But Severus had managed it unaided, without support of any kind. Voldemort was forced to reconsider the young man he had once dismissed as a worthless worm.

Now, standing in what had once been the castle of the Gryffindor kings, Voldemort looked on in satisfaction as his loyal subject commanded with poise and order, nothing at all like an untried scholar. Severus Snape had great potential, he thought.

“Outside of the royal guard, how do you mean to deal with the rest?” Voldemort asked.

His own inclination was simply to kill everyone in the great hall—after all, these were Gryffindor’s most exalted.

“Killing them may spare us some trouble,” came Severus’s measured reply. “But it will create far greater trouble. We desire Gryffindor’s resources, and those resources come chiefly through its people. Better to win them than to antagonize them. Spare these noble families, and they will take the lead in showing gratitude. The rest—the common folk—will follow.”

The Dark King decided to let the young man have his chance, for he had already proved himself once. “Then see to it. Peter.” The sneaking Gryffindor servant’s face lit with eagerness. “Take me to Dumbledore’s study.” Voldemort commanded.

Conquering Gryffindor’s lands would naturally expand Slytherin’s territory and resources, yet what King Voldemort truly desired was something far greater. When his plan succeeded, he would no longer need armies or wars of succession—the whole of the continent of Ozerpia Continent would bow before him.

Peter Pettigrew led Voldemort up stair after stair, winding their way to the highest reaches of the castle. At the top stood a pair of stone gargoyles; once, no doubt, they had been animated by enchantment, but with their master’s death they were nothing now but cold, lifeless rock. Voldemort ordered Peter to remain there and stepped alone into the former King’s Hand’s office.

Opening the door, he struck against a perch left just behind it. Once it might have housed a bird, but now it stood desolate and bare. Voldemort let out a scornful laugh. To keep a useless bird as a pet? His own basilisk was infinitely more practical.

He surveyed the chamber. It resembled less a minister’s office than a small library: bookcases soaring to the ceiling, stacks of volumes piled everywhere. And among them—black magic tomes. Dumbledore’s private collection, larger even than what Slytherin’s kingdom possessed.

How laughable. The self-proclaimed paragon of the Light, Albus Dumbledore, privately enthralled by the Dark Arts.

Scattered across Dumbledore’s great desk lay countless sheets of parchment. Voldemort leafed through them with disdain—petty matters of state. A map of Ozerpia caught his eye: the land once marked “Gryffindor” had already been redrawn as “Slytherin.”

He tossed it aside and picked up a book resting nearby.

It was slim, coverless—but intimately familiar. For it had once been his. Or rather, it had once belonged to his subordinate, the late Head of Slytherin’s Royal Academy: Sidney Prince.

Sidney Prince was Sammir Prince’s father. Long ago, when Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt was still a young king, he had approached Sidney with scholarly questions about Horcruxes. Sidney had found this very book for him in the Academy’s library.

Voldemort still remembered Sidney’s words: to split one’s soul was indeed a vile and perilous deed. Yet, more terrible than the forging of Horcruxes was the gathering of the Seven Gods’ relics to “master death and gain immortality.” Should anyone attempt it, disaster would befall the whole continent of Ozerpia. That, Sidney explained, was why the four relics belonging to the Seven Gods had been divided among different kingdoms.

But when Gaunt pressed Sidney further—whether he knew the method to “master death and gain immortality”—Sidney claimed ignorance. And not long after Gaunt had fashioned his first Horcrux using the book’s instructions, the very same volume vanished from his private study. Still, the loss mattered little: he had already learned what he needed.

Only much later did he learn the truth—that Sammir Prince had stolen the book and delivered it into the hands of Dumbledore, Gryffindor’s Prime Minister. Now, standing in that Prime Minister’s chamber, Dumbledore dead and gone, the book once more in his grasp, Voldemort felt afresh the old fury he had tasted when he first pried this betrayal from Sammir’s mind.

And, of course, had that been the only betrayal, Sammir and his kin would never have suffered such torments.

After Sidney’s death, his son Sammir Prince succeeded him as Head of the Academy. By then, Tom Gaunt styled himself Voldemort, yet he put to Sammir the very same question:

“Tell me, the renowned legend of Ozerpia—the claim that the Seven Gods’ treasures may ‘master death and grant immortality’—is it true?”

Back then, the young Sammir had replied, “Mm, there’s a piece of enchanted parchment that records the method and incantation.”

“You’ve seen what was written on it?” King Voldemort asked.

Sammir shrugged, giving a careless smile. “I glanced at it. But honestly, I don’t think it’s real,” he said. “It felt more like a joke.”

King Voldemort pressed urgently, “Where did you see it?”

“I think it was kept in the Prince family library. My father said it had been entrusted by King Salazar Slytherin to a former Head of the Academy—my great-grandfather. He demanded it must never leave our family. When I was a child, my father was tidying the library and left it aside for a moment. I caught a glimpse of it then.”

“And now? Where is that parchment?”

“It might still be in the old family library. Or perhaps my father threw it away.” Sammir tilted his head and asked lightly, “Your Majesty, why do you want it?”

At that time, King Voldemort still bore a human face, though already somewhat altered. He fixed his red eyes on the Academy Head’s black ones, until the man’s once-carefree expression slowly hardened into solemnity.

“Bring that parchment to me,” Voldemort commanded furiously.

That Sidney Prince had dared lie to him—feigning ignorance of the relics of the Seven Gods—enraged the King. And the next time Voldemort summoned the Head of the Academy, Sammir Prince knelt before him and declared that the parchment had vanished.

Legilimency on a bookish man who cared only for scholarship and potion-brewing was child’s play. Voldemort at once uncovered the man’s lies and secrets. He learned that the thief who had slipped into his study to steal the Book of Soul Splitting was none other than the dark-haired youth before him. And he learned too that Sammir not only knew where the parchment to “master death and grant immortality” was kept—he had read it.

When he pressed further, searching for where the parchment had been hidden, he encountered a towering wall in Sammir’s mind. The young Prince refused to yield, even rebuking him harshly.

“Splitting the soul is evil enough, Your Majesty. And yet you would seek to master death itself? That will bring ruin upon the whole of Ozerpia!”

King Voldemort had Sammir imprisoned in the highest tower for treason against the crown; his wife was tortured before his very eyes with the Cruciatus Curse until she went mad; and his only daughter, Eileen Prince—barely fifteen years old, already showing prodigious talent in potion-making—was placed under the Black family’s guardianship, where she was poisoned with draughts that brought only pain.

But no matter what methods King Voldemort employed, Sammir never revealed the parchment’s location or its contents. The Princes were like mules: once their minds were set, not even the blood of their own kin could move them. The former Head of the Academy told Voldemort that he was ready to pay with his life, but the King was no fool. If Sammir died or went mad, he would lose forever his chance to seize the secret of mastering death.

Until—King Voldemort stood at the window of Dumbledore’s study, gazing down at the lands that had once belonged to the Gryffindor kingdom, his fingers stroking the scabbard of the Sword of Gryffindor, a smile of triumph curling at his lips. Until he informed the now-aged and weakened Sammir, who had languished in captivity for twenty-five years, that he had decreed a marriage: the last surviving blood of the Prince line, the forty-year-old Eileen Prince, would be given as wife to the warlord Tobias Snape.

Even through long years of imprisonment, Sammir had heard whispers of Tobias’s cruelty. At last the old man broke. He begged for one final meeting with his daughter before she was wed. Voldemort consented, standing aside to witness the heart-wrenching reunion—the embraces, the tears, the parting.

And then Sammir yielded the secret he had guarded for decades. He laid open his mind, allowing King Voldemort to glimpse Salazar Slytherin’s bequest: a parchment inscribed with the method to attain immortality. He revealed, too, where it had been hidden.

The relic of Salazar Slytherin, ancestor of Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt, was concealed within the potion-brewing chamber of Slytherin Academy. Bound by a Fidelius Charm cast by Sammir himself, it could not be revealed unless he spoke.

At Voldemort’s command, the Academy’s Head, Ingram Evens, led him into the chamber, where at last he found the treasure he had dreamed of for so long.

Twenty-five years was no great span to King Voldemort. With enough lives at his disposal, he knew he would eventually seize what he desired.

But for the Prince family, it was already far too late. King Voldemort did not release Sammir. Instead, he kept the betrayer imprisoned, forcing him to live on and watch as Voldemort crowned himself the Night King of Ozerpia.

The Night King—the Master of Death.

To possess immortality without the need to split the soul.

Once he became the Lord of Death, he would no longer have to fear death.

Salazar Slytherin’s relic laid it out clearly: by collect the four treasures of the Seven Gods on the continent of Ozerpia—the Locket of the Slytherin Kingdom, the Cup of the Hufflepuff Kingdom, the Diadem of the Ravenclaw Kingdom, and the Sword of Gryffindor—together with the Deathstone passed down through the Gaunt family, then at the appointed time, using the proper magic, one could summon the White Walkers, the Army of the Dead.

The summoner would become their master—the Night King.

The Night King could not die, for nothing could kill him. Every corpse would rise to join his ranks, swelling the number of his White Walkers without limit. Voldemort the King would command the greatest and most powerful army of death the continent had ever seen, never again needing to rely on Muggles to wage his wars. Ozerpia would no longer be divided into nations, for every corner of the land would bow to him.

Tom Marvolo Riddle Gaunt would become the supreme sovereign who unified Ozerpia.

But to claim the Seven God Treasures was not so simple. The formidable armies of Slytherin struck down the Hufflepuff Kingdom and seized its Cup first. Yet the Gryffindor Kingdom proved far more difficult to conquer. Years of war drained Slytherin’s strength, and still Voldemort’s forces could not shake Gryffindor’s might—let alone seize the Sword.

He had planned to set Gryffindor aside for the moment, and turn his power against Ravenclaw instead. Yet through the cunning of Sammir Prince’s grandson, the impossible came to pass: Voldemort gained the Sword of Gryffindor without spilling a single drop of blood. Also killed were the Potter family, who, according to the Trelawney family prophecy, would destroy King Voldemort.

Now, Voldemort had three of the sacred treasures. He foresaw that under Tobias Snape’s assault, Ravenclaw would not hold much longer. Soon, the last treasure would be his.

Only one obstacle remained: to summon the White Walkers, the wizard must possess a whole and unbroken soul, strong enough to withstand the transformation into the Night King. Yet Voldemort had already divided his soul into seven fragments in the making of Horcruxes—two of which had been used up. He began to suspect that Sidney Prince had taught him soul-splitting for a darker purpose: to cripple him, to ensure he would never have the strength to summon the White Walkers.

Now, Voldemort had reclaimed the Book of Soul-Splitting. The first half described the creation of Horcruxes, in which he had once been deeply absorbed. The latter half, which he had scorned, explained how to restore what had been sundered.

The requirements for the ritual were within his grasp: Hufflepuff’s Cup, and the venom of a Basilisk—both of which he already possessed.

All he needed was to reclaim the scattered fragments of his soul, and on the night of the great summoning, bind them together within a vessel: a young wizard, whose magic and life force would fuel the reunion of his spirit. Once the Horcruxes were drawn back into one, Voldemort the King would rise as the Night King—the Lord of Death who ruled Ozerpia.

And as for which young wizard would serve as that vessel—Voldemort had already chosen.

Glossary:

The Prince Family: Sidney Prince → Sammir Prince → Eileen Prince → Severus Snape

White Walkers: The undead. In Game of Thrones, they are the most powerful army—able to rise again even after death.

The Night King: The most dangerous and powerful overlord in Game of Thrones. He can turn all the dead (including slain White Walkers) into his own soldiers and possesses immortality.

In the setting of this story, a powerful dark wizard can transform himself into the Night King by uniting the four treasures—the Locket of the Slytherin Kingdom, the Cup of the Hufflepuff Kingdom, the Diadem of the Ravenclaw Kingdom, and the Sword of Gryffindor—together with the Resurrection Stone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight – Peter Pettigrew

Peter believed that from this moment onward, his fate was about to change. He would no longer be a lowly servant, no longer anyone’s errand boy, summoned and dismissed at will. He would become the new king’s right hand, one of the most powerful men in the new realm. The name Pettigrew would rise into the ranks of the noble houses, and his descendants would enjoy wealth and glory.

Everything King Voldemort had promised, Peter would have.

His hands trembled with excitement as he bent low before his new master, showing obedience and waiting for the rewards that were soon to be his.

Yes, he had betrayed James—but could anyone truly blame him? James had never once considered naming him the Guardian of Gryffindor’s Royal Authority. Why? Because James had always looked down on him—just as everyone did. Even Sirius, with all his smug cleverness, had only suggested him for the role because Peter was a rat, one who could crawl through sewers, burrow into thickets, and hide himself away in shadows. Deep down, Sirius had never believed him capable of anything great.

Now he had proven them wrong. They should never have underestimated him.

Did sovereignty or honor truly matter to common folk? Did the ruler’s name change anything about ordinary lives? For the nobility and the wealthy, perhaps—but for people like him? Never. Peter was born a commoner, from a family that had served as castle servants for generations. To him, there was no difference between serving the Potters or serving Voldemort. Since that was so, naturally he had to fight for more—for himself, and for his descendants.

And Sirius had been right about one thing: Peter was skilled at hiding. He had hidden himself among the royal families, listening and recording all their secrets, reporting them directly to King Voldemort himself. His new master spoke to him with courtesy, with a tone that showed genuine regard for his work. Peter basked in it.

Two days had passed since the Red Ceremony. Now they stood upon the execution platform. Below, the King’s Guards and mercenaries, bound and left hanging in the light snow for two days, shivered as they awaited their fate. Peter lingered at the back, pretending he was not avoiding Sirius’s murderous glare. But his palms sweated against his wand. He should not be afraid of Sirius—the man was bound tightly, starved and parched for two nights, and like all the wizards there, his neck bore a gleaming silver collar that drained him of magic. He could not possibly spring forward and kill Peter.

Still, Sirius bared his teeth at them, and Peter shrank further back, hiding behind Snape’s taller figure.

“These last two days, Severus, you have proven yourself capable of acting in my stead,” said his master to Snape. “I will not remain here for long. Once the situation is secure, Hogwarts Castle and its surrounding lands will be entrusted to you and Lucius. Lucius’s wife and son are on their way here with your mother; they will live with you henceforth. I trust you will not disappoint me.”

“I strive always to walk the righteous path laid by my king,” Snape replied, his voice slick and serpentine. “I thank you for your favor.”

“You have received all that I promised you. The false accusations of treachery against the Prince family will be annulled completely. And since the Potter family fell by your hand, the Hogwarts fief rightfully passes to the name of Snape.” King Voldemort’s voice rose as he proclaimed, “You are no longer a commoner—you are now a lord, master of land.”

“Thank you, my king.” Snape lowered his gaze respectfully, his voice filled with joy.

Jealousy squealed in Peter’s chest like a trapped rat. He ground his teeth to hold back a curse. He remembered all too well when Snape had first come here, skulking along the walls like discarded refuse. And now this greasy Slytherin bastard was made a lord of the Hogwarts lands? That should have been his. His! He glared at the back of Snape’s head, and at Sirius, bound below.

Sirius glared back, his eyes burning with hatred. Peter hunched his shoulders and shrank his neck.

“Peter,” his master called. Thrilled, Peter stepped forward.

“My—my lord,” he said eagerly.

“You aided me in seizing this throne; your service has been invaluable. I grant you a chest of gold, a townhouse, and several servants. But the work of the Dark Lord’s reign is not yet done. I appoint you to serve as Severus’s personal attendant.”

Snape’s attendant? Peter froze, catching Snape’s mocking smirk. Quickly, he bowed low and stammered, “Thank you, thank you, my lord.”

“I trust you will assist me by keeping watch over Severus,” Voldemort said.

In that instant, Peter understood. King Voldemort meant for him to spy on Snape—just as he had once spied on James—reporting every move of that little snake back to him. Oh, this was glorious. Peter loved being useful. He grinned wide, while Snape’s smirk no longer looked quite so pleased.

Plainly, Snape dared not oppose the king’s decree. Peter laughed inwardly. Did that fool truly think King Voldemort would ever trust him?

Evidently, Voldemort was pleased with his arrangements. Smiling, he turned to the bound Gryffindor soldiers below the platform.

“Now,” he said, “it is time to resolve these problems. My intention was to kill you all. But Severus has given me a better suggestion. You now have a choice besides death at the hands of the executioners.” King Voldemort gestured threateningly toward the row of Slytherin executioner standing nearby.

“You may pledge loyalty to the great King Voldemort, become soldiers of Slytherin, and march under the command of my general, Tobias Snape—help me wage war. Or else, you may go straight to the executioner.” His smile widened. “Now, let me see your commander set the example.”

Alastor Moody was dragged forward roughly, limping on his crippled leg, his one good eye blazing with fury. He spat in the direction of the dais, back ramrod straight.

“Snape, I’ve always known you were rotten to the core, you mongrel bastard. You think I’d play lackey to your father’s whelp? I’d sooner face execution. Unlike you, coward, I don’t fear death.”

“Ah, Alastor Moody—the undefeated former Commander,” drawled Voldemort, seated above them. “My armies suffered plenty under your hand. Let me think… Severus.” He turned to the man beside him. “Wasn’t it you who wanted him executed by Impalement?”

From behind, Peter Pettigrew darted a glance at Snape. His face was grim, and he gave a stiff nod.

“Yes,” he said shortly.

“Then perhaps this instead. For the sake of vengeance—for you, and for your father’s men—let him suffer the saw.” Voldemort’s cold voice cut through the air. “What say you?”

At the mention of that grisly punishment, Peter shivered, while Snape’s face drained to a corpse-like pallor, every trace of expression vanishing.

“I don’t…” A faint hiss of breath escaped him.

“Then it is decided.” The King of Slytherin did not let him finish, his voice rising as he gave the order. “By Severus’s will, the old Commander of Gryffindor is condemned to the saw.”

Snape’s eyes flew wide, but he said no more. Peter knew well that the Slytherins feared their King too much—no one dared raise a word against him. Soldiers dragged Moody toward the executioners. From the corner of his eye, Peter saw them hang the old warrior upside down.

Moody showed not an ounce of fear. Only deeper hatred burned on his face, his good eye fixed in a vicious glare at the figures on the dais.

“You’ll pay for this, Snape!” Moody roared. “The Seven Gods will damn you!”

The agonized screams of the long execution rang without end. Snape sat frozen, expressionless, while Peter thought he might piss himself.

The next prisoner dragged forward was Frank Longbottom, Captain of the Guard. Peter couldn’t believe anyone, after seeing Moody’s fate, would still choose the executioner. But these so-called patriots were stubborn fools. Frank chose the same.

Someone shouted from the crowd:

“You still have a son, Frank!”

Peter knew that voice—Sirius.

Black stood out starkly, not wearing the uniform of the Guard. Sirius always drew attention; Peter knew that. He craved it every waking moment, and with his family name and his striking face, he never failed to have it. Peter had known Sirius long enough to know one thing: he would rather die than betray James.

Good, Peter thought. That was one less fanatic who might kill him.

Now Sirius was glaring up at the dais, teeth bared in a snarl that reminded Peter of the day Sirius had hacked down Evan Rosier in a frenzy. Peter shuddered.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, intrigued. “Ah… the eldest son of Orion Black, the Commander himself?”

“Fuck you,” Sirius spat, crisp and sharp.

“You might like to know—your father held the border for only a short time before every banner turned Slytherin green. He led a band of soldiers in retreat, but I’ll find him soon enough.”

Sirius’s eyes blazed, wild as a beast. “My father will fight for Gryffindor to his last breath!” he roared. “And so will I!”

“He may get the chance—once I catch him. Severus.” Voldemort’s mouth curled into a smile as he turned back. “Sirius Black is a renowned figure. Many of your father’s finest men fell to him. I’ve heard he gave you plenty of trouble here as well. Surely your hatred of him rivals your hatred of Moody.”

Snape’s head jerked, his black eyes wide on his King.

Voldemort pressed on. “Then perhaps, to avenge you and your father’s men—”

“My King.”

Snape cut him off suddenly, spinning and falling to his knees, forehead pressed flat to the ground. His voice shook with urgency. “Please—give Black to me.”

Peter gaped at the turn of events. Clearly, so did Voldemort. The King of Slytherin’s expression darkened, red eyes narrowing as he studied the young scholar, anger curling slowly across his face.

“You dare interrupt me, Severus,” Voldemort hissed. “You had best give me a reason worth hearing.”

No one made a sound. The Slytherins knew their King too well. Even from behind, Peter saw Snape’s shoulders trembling with fear.

“I… my hatred for Black is not something death—mere death—can satisfy.” His voice was tight with terror, yet he pushed on. “I beg you, allow me to make him suffer all the pain I have endured.”

Voldemort’s crimson gaze bored into the man kneeling before him. “Oh? How intriguing,” he said, soft and deliberate. “And what exactly do you propose?”

Snape hesitated, then whispered: “I want him… I want him as my… servant.”

Voldemort laughed. “A servant? What revenge is that?”

Snape pressed his forehead harder to the ground. “I want Black as my…” He drew a long, shuddering breath and forced the words out. “I want Black as my fuck toy.”

Those from the Kingdom of Slytherin hissed, while Sirius, crimson with rage, shouted hoarsely in return, spitting curses.

“Fuck you, Snape, you filthy bastard, you motherless whore, you dirty half-blood, you murderous dog, you rotten slut…!” Sirius hurled every vile word Peter had ever heard—and many he had not. “If you dare touch me with the hand that killed James, I swear I’ll bite your cock off the first chance I get. Do you hear me, Snape? You—”

King Voldemort silenced him with a spell that snapped his jaws shut. Sirius’s face remained flushed, his eyes blazing with words he could no longer voice.

“I have long heard that the Gryffindors are a vulgar, depraved, shameless people,” the King said coldly, though his fury burned all the sharper for his forced composure. “They not only permit women to hold office but even allow men to rut with men. I had not expected, Severus, that in a single year you would become as degenerate as they. If Tobias knew his son had turned into such a perverse creature, what do you think he would have done? I daresay he would strip you bare, bind you to a post in the frozen waste, and let the crowd stone you until you died.”

“My King, you once promised me Lily as my bride. But now… Lily is gone.” Snape’s voice was steadier than it had been before, more resolved. “Let Black stand in her place—as the fulfillment of your pledge.”

All could see how enraged Voldemort was, yet no one dared imagine the sovereign would openly revoke his word. For a fleeting moment Peter hoped his master might simply kill them both, but after a heavy silence, the King gathered his wrath and spoke again.

“I did promise to give Lily to you. But since you slew her with your own hand…” The King of Slytherin mused darkly. “If it is a plaything you want—well, aside from his foul tongue, Black does have a handsome face. It would not be unseemly to grant him to you. And with the hatred you bear him, I expect you know very well what to do.”

“Thank you, my King. Thank you.”

“You know you must be punished for your insolence—even as Lord of Hogwarts’s domain.”

“Yes, my King. I am willing to accept whatever punishment you decree.”

The King’s long, narrow red eyes lingered on the kneeling man for some time before turning to Peter. “Take Black to Severus’s chamber. Ready him for use. Severus will not wait long.”

At last Peter dared look at Sirius. Hatred, disgust, and fury warped every line of his friend’s face. Peter drew his wand, steadying himself with the reminder that Sirius bound hand and foot was nothing to fear. Pointing at the disgraced captain, he murmured Mobilicorpus. Sirius’s body jerked into the air, dragged helplessly forward by the spell.

Behind them, King Voldemort commanded the executioner to sever Frank Longbottom’s head.

Peter guided the silent Sirius into the castle, to the chamber set aside for him, and lowered him onto the bed. Realizing where he had been brought, Sirius’s eyes went wide with fresh outrage.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Peter muttered, flicking his wand. Sirius’s arms and legs spread wide, bound fast to the four bedposts. With another snap of his wrist, his friend’s clothes vanished. “Snape’s moved into James’s chambers now. He does have an eye for things—thinks himself a king already. And this was the Queen’s chamber. Fitting enough for you.” Peter let out a nervous laugh. “How long have you two been at it? I never noticed a thing.”

His childhood friend lay naked upon the white-sheeted bed, glaring like a sacrificial lamb at slaughter. Instinctively, Peter shrank back two steps. Then he remembered Sirius could not speak, that his blazing eyes could not harm him, and his courage returned.

“Did you think I was content to remain a servant forever? James was the King’s son, you the commander’s heir, Remus the mayor’s boy. And only Peter, the useless coward, the servant’s son.” The words poured out of him—rarely did anyone listen. “You cannot imagine how powerful Voldemort is, how persuasive. What he promised me… If you hadn’t ruined everything, all that Snape has now would have been mine—Hogwarts’s lands, the taxes at my command, the servants and cooks waiting on me. The very people who sneered at me before would be scrambling to marry off their daughters to me.”

Peter walked to the window, glancing out. From the Queen’s chamber one could see the King’s courtyard, where the white tables and chairs beneath the trees now bore a thin coat of snow.

"Tell me how I ruined your life. I don't remember asking you to betray James." Peter screamed, turning around. Sirius, lying on the bed, his eyes blazing with anger. "Why don't you tell me, Wormtail? I'm very interested to hear it."

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine — Sirius Black

He saw Peter standing there trembling, his whole body hunched in on itself like a sewer rat. How laughable. Sirius was bound tight, a silver collar dampening his magic fastened around his neck. Hurting Peter was impossible.

At least, for now.

Sirius bared his teeth, throwing back his head in mad laughter at Peter. “Say it, Peter,” he growled, twisting against his restraints.

Peter had done a thorough job. Sirius could not so much as move a limb, much less lunge forward to rip that rat apart. As for magic, every attempt to summon it ended in emptiness, a plummeting drop into nothingness, his body hollow. He began to gasp again, as though suffocating—just like two days ago when he awoke from unconsciousness, bound head to toe, dumped with the other royal guards upon the freezing execution grounds to await an unknown fate.

Losing magic was like losing a part of his very life. He felt like a helpless infant, raw and exposed. Sirius wrestled down the instinctive terror. So this—this was what he had felt like for more than a year? The thought struck him hard.

Peter Pettigrew, pressed against the window, watched Sirius’s struggles until certain of his own safety, then finally dared to speak. “Everyone—everyone’s saying Snape used dark magic to kill Walden. It makes me furious.” His back against the window, wand raised and trained on Sirius, he declared: “It was me. Do you understand, Sirius? I did it! I knew all along Snape was a spy the Dark Lord had planted here. He told the Dark Lord about Sybill Trelawney’s prophecy—the prophecy of the Dark Lord’s bane. The Dark Lord gave the task to me.”

“What task? To kill Walden?” Sirius mocked him. “I doubt Walden was ever important enough for Voldemort to care. And that prophecy—I’ve heard it. It has nothing to do with Walden.”

“No, no, of course not. The Dark Lord believes the prophecy speaks of the Gryffindor King, the Queen, and their heir.”

“He told you to kill James and his family—and you actually thought you’d go through with it?” Sirius’s throat tore with a beastlike roar.

“I—I’m not afraid of you,” Peter stammered, pushing his wand forward unnecessarily. “I had to give it a try, I’ll be a nobleman from the Hogwarts estate, Sirius. Since that Slytherin arrived, the Dark Lord hasn’t valued me as much. I had to get rid of him. This was my one chance to rise.”

“You wanted to use Walden’s death to get rid of Snape.” Sirius’s eyes grew darker.

“Not just Snape. My plan was flawless—three birds with one stone. That day I was here, I saw Walden trying to force Snape into pleasuring him. Hah! Pathetic Snape—nothing like the proud, smug nuisance he is now. I knew you were on leave; the chance wouldn’t come again. I lifted the curse you’d placed on Snape, stole Walden’s sword with a spell when he wasn’t looking, and stabbed him from behind. Snape—Snape was so terrified he vomited!” He let out a nervous, excited laugh.

Sirius said nothing, letting the words sink in. “I checked your wand,” he finally said.

“Yes, you checked the wand I gave you,” Peter replied, looking even smugger when Sirius’s eyes widened in dawning comprehension. “I hinted to Snape in the dungeons that if he wanted to prove his innocence, he’d need the Seven Gods’ blessing. He’s clever—of course he understood. That’s why he demanded trial by combat.”

“And then you pushed the Queen to the execution grounds to save him, didn’t you?” Sirius’s voice turned icy. “No wonder. James gave strict orders no one was to tell the Queen about Snape’s capture—kept it hidden for a month. And what a miracle, you suddenly found your courage right then to break James’s order and tell her. Brilliant, Peter. The Queen knew nothing of swordplay. That was two lives at once.”

Peter giggled at Sirius’s bitter praise. “Not just her and the heir in her belly—Snape wouldn’t have survived either.”

“How clever you are,” Sirius sneered, his voice rising. “Then how could you not realize James would never stand by while his wife and child were sent to their deaths? How could you not think he’d do everything in his power to stop her?”

Peter’s face flushed red. No, he hadn’t thought of that. He had been certain his plan flawless. “James was—too obsessed. He could always remarry, sire another heir. Anyway, you shouldn’t have interfered.” His tone turned sullen. “You should have let those two Slytherins and her bastard brat die right there.”

“How dare you speak of James’s son that way.” Sirius was shaking with rage. “That is your Queen—and the future King of Gryffindor! But you never cared, did you?”

“That’s not all on me!” Peter shouted back. “You gave me the chance, Sirius! James never thought to come to me. It was you who brought me in. This is on you as much as me. Together, we destroyed Gryffindor’s kingdom!”

The twisted words made Sirius’s body seize with fury. “I trusted you, Peter. James and I trusted you! We didn’t—we didn’t give you a chance to betray him!” he roared, hot tears spilling from his eyes. “You’d better pray Snape never gives me the chance—you know what I can do. I’ll kill you both with my bare hands!”

Peter’s face went deathly pale. With a scream, he bolted along the wall, slammed the door shut, and locked it tight behind him. Sirius lay on his back, gasping and sobbing at the ceiling, fists trembling violently.

Peter dared to blame him. He would never betray his King or his country. He would rather die.

When the rage ebbed, lying alone on the bed, Sirius slowly calmed, only for a wave of self-loathing to consume him. Yes—James had never considered Peter. It was Sirius who had been arrogant, self-assured. He should have sworn his life to guard the throne until Gryffindor’s sword itself chose a new heir. Gryffindor’s kingdom should have remained Gryffindor’s forever. King Voldemort should never have had the chance to step onto their soil and so easily seize their rule...

Even if Snape had killed the Potters, he should have slunk away in disgrace—Sirius would have hunted him to the ends of the earth.

No Slytherin could ever be trusted. His will had been too weak. He was responsible for this ruin. James had told him to keep watch on that serpent, and he hadn’t taken it seriously—dismissed the frail, wandless, half-starved Snape as no threat. He had used Snape as a convenient body to bed, and somewhere along the way, he had begun to care. He had let that cunning snake slip into his life, let himself drown in it.

He had never doubted him. He had given him his true heart.

He had fallen in love with him.

He had kissed him.

Alastor was dead. Frank was dead. His father and brother were missing. As he lay here, he had no idea how many more Gryffindors had been executed. Even if they chose to surrender, Tobias Snape would show them no mercy—the fate of the vanguard was, more often than not, death.

Only he had been spared, kept back as Snape’s imprisoned plaything, a toy for his lust. This was the punishment the Seven Gods had dealt him, the price he was to pay for his own pride and arrogance.

And yet—he was still alive.

In the firelit chamber, Sirius’s eyes slowly began to gleam, his lips pulling into a mad grin. Snape was, after all, a young man full of blood and heat. They had done it so many times, tried so many variations, that Snape was surely addicted to his cock by now. Did he really think Sirius would lie down meekly and play the obedient slave? He gravely underestimated the former commander of the King’s Guard.

So Sirius lay waiting, sprawled out, expecting his master to enter, to demand him, to take him.

But time dragged on, and in the warmth and comfort of the chamber Sirius nearly drifted into sleep. The man he was waiting for never appeared. He did sleep, and when he woke, opening his eyes, the windows were nothing but black.

He heard noises outside, from the royal apartments beyond the Queen’s chamber. Snape must have returned, for Sirius heard Peter’s grating voice speaking.

“Mr. Snape, do you need me to help you inside?” Peter asked. “Sirius is already waiting for you in there.”

Sirius didn’t hear Snape’s low reply, only Peter’s hurried “yes, yes,” followed by the sound of a door opening and shutting. His eyes flew wide, heart pounding furiously as he fixed his gaze on his own door in anticipation.

He waited longer still. At last, the door between the two chambers opened. Severus Snape’s tall, thin figure appeared in the doorway, hesitating, looking at Sirius. Behind him, the other room was ablaze with lamplight; by contrast, Sirius’s chamber was too dark. Against the backlight, Sirius could see only the pale face half-concealed by lank, greasy hair.

But as his eyes adjusted, he began to notice more.

This Snape was not the same man Sirius had seen earlier on the execution grounds, chin lifted in arrogant defiance. Even through the haze of Sirius’s hatred, he could not miss the exhaustion etched into him now—the lifeless eyes, the slumped posture, as though some crushing weight were bowing him down.

In some repressed, hidden corner of himself, Sirius felt the urge to reach out, to kiss away that bleakness, to soothe the murderer and tell him that things would somehow be all right.

His reason kicked the thought aside. He schooled his face into calm.

“Severus,” Sirius murmured softly.

The change was immediate. Snape straightened, his dull eyes flickering with a faint light, his pale face taking on an expression that was almost hope. Sirius fluttered his lashes, holding his gaze with a deep intensity, luring him closer.

Snape came forward—slowly, haltingly, limping. Sirius could not ignore the limp, nor the tremors that shook him now and then. There had been none of that earlier at the execution ground. He looked to be in pain, though he betrayed nothing of it on his face. He simply kept staring at Sirius, until he reached the bedside.

“Sirius,” Snape said, looking down at him.

Sirius remained silent. He was, after all, his captor’s toy. He had to act the part, let Snape choose the next step. Naked, limbs spread, he lay there lazily, letting himself be displayed to the Slytherin’s gaze, every inch unthreatening.

Snape extended a hand. Sirius noticed the faint tremor in those long fingers as they touched his cheek, then traced his brow, his nose, his lips. The hand moved lower, brushing the silver chain at his throat, his chest, his belly, his groin, stopping at the edge of his pubic hair.

No matter how much Sirius loathed the man before him, no matter how badly he wanted him dead, his body betrayed him under that touch. He grew hard.

Snape’s eyes fixed on his erection, uncertain, then flicked back up to Sirius’s face.

“All yours, Severus,” Sirius whispered hoarsely, grinding his hips invitingly.

“You weren’t saying that this morning,” Snape said.

“I changed my mind,” Sirius replied. “I’m glad I’m still alive.”

Snape studied him a moment longer, his expression softening. His cold fingers closed around Sirius. Sirius gasped, lifting his hips to seek more of that contact. The ropes on his ankles held him down; with a frustrated groan he fell back against the bed, panting.

“Damn these ropes,” Sirius muttered.

Snape turned his head toward the bed’s foot, hesitated, then drew his wand from his pocket and pointed it at the bonds around Sirius’s feet. Sirius felt his legs suddenly light—Snape had freed him.

The change was instant. Sirius’s legs shot up, clamping around Snape’s neck and yanking him down onto the bed. Snape’s wand flew from his hand in shock. He clutched Sirius’s calves, screaming in terror.

Snarling, Sirius twisted his legs tighter, cutting off his air, trying to break his neck. Snape’s face flushed red. At first he thrashed, but soon his kicks weakened, his grip on Sirius’s legs slackened. Sirius knew he was close to strangling the cruel man to death.

He would kill him. He would undo his own mistake with his own hands, and only then could he face James, beg James’s forgiveness.

But the wand that had fallen clattered back into Snape’s hand. He raised it at Sirius. It must have been a wordless spell, for Sirius heard nothing—only felt his strength drain away, his legs falling limp.

Snape tumbled back, crashing to the floor. Clutching his throat, he coughed and gasped, wand shaking as he aimed it at Sirius, his whole body trembling.

Sirius could not move. In his blurred vision he gathered every scrap of hatred and fury he had, glaring at Snape.

“You tried to kill me,” Snape rasped from the floor, not even bothering to hide the wound in his voice.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Sirius said coldly, choking on the words.

Damn it—why was he crying?

Snape sat there, forcing his breath steady, wand-hand growing steadier. The hurt and pain faded from his face, leaving only a blank, empty mask.

“Yes,” Snape said flatly, forcing himself to his feet. “Why not.”

Sirius watched as Snape adjusted his disheveled clothing and smoothed his hair, never once meeting his eyes throughout the whole process. In the end, Sirius couldn’t hold back the question any longer.

“When did you start passing information to Voldemort?”

At last, the Slytherin met his gaze. Sirius had thought he wouldn’t answer, but Snape spoke.

“From the very beginning.”

“The beginning? Right under Dumbledore’s nose?” Sirius demanded.

“You never expected that, did you, Black? Dark magic is far stronger than you people think.” Snape rolled up his left sleeve slowly, baring his forearm. Sirius’s eyes widened. What he had once assumed was a dark birthmark now revealed itself to be a grotesque symbol: a skull with a serpent slithering through its empty eye sockets, the image writhing as if alive. Snape let him look for a moment before tugging the sleeve back down. “Escaping the Dark Lord’s grasp is… nearly impossible.”

“So you told him about the prophecy you overheard,” Sirius said, recalling what Peter had told him.

“Yes.”

“And he ordered you to kill James, Queen Lily, and their child?”

Snape hesitated, then: “Yes.”

“How could you bring yourself to do it?”

Snape’s breath grew heavier, his obsidian eyes flat and emotionless. “For revenge, of course.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. “And how did you manage to drug everyone?”

“For that, I should thank you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The potion was one you brewed for me. Naturally, you don’t remember. Most of the time you had no idea what you were actually making—you thought it was Wolfsbane.” Snape’s voice dripped malice as he spoke, deliberate and slow. “Individually, neither potion had any effect. But combined, they released a gas—colorless, tasteless—that sent anyone who inhaled it into unconsciousness. You, having been exposed to them before, were less affected. The brilliance of it was that it worked the same on wizards and Muggles alike. I laid them all out on the floor, and no one noticed.”

Sirius felt a fresh wave of fury. “You used me?”

Those black eyes fixed on him without a flicker of feeling. “Do you know the most amusing part? It was Potter himself who asked you to help me.”

How could a man be so vicious? Sirius’s teeth rattled with rage; he couldn’t form words. He thought back to how Snape had solemnly visited Mayor Lupin, asking him to persuade James and Prime Minister Dumbledore to allow him into the potion chamber to brew Wolfsbane. Sirius and James had been kept entirely in the dark. He had brewed, with his own hands, the potion that would leave James unconscious—handing Snape the chance to slaughter his king, his queen, and Gryffindor’s prime minister. He had even let Snape take him in that potion room, drowning himself in the man, while Snape must have been laughing at his gullibility and how easily he could be manipulated. Sirius had never despised himself more.

“You are the most venomous man I’ve ever known, Snape,” Sirius spat. “More venomous than Tobias Snape, more venomous than Voldemort himself.”

Snape’s face remained dark, silent, his eyes locked on Sirius for a long moment before he slowly turned away. Sirius stared at the other man's back with hatred as he limped to the door, turned around, and faced himself again. Snape had not spoken again. He merely raised his wand, muttered spells into the room, and at last leveled the wand at Sirius.

Sirius braced himself for the sting of the Cruciatus or something worse. But instead, the ropes binding his hands fell away, the spell that had sapped his strength dissolved. Snape walked out and shut the door.

Sirius leapt from the bed and dashed for the exit—only to find the door swung open easily.

But he couldn’t leave. He slammed into an invisible wall.

From his side of the barrier, he watched Snape cross the sitting room and disappear into what had once been James’s chamber. Sirius hurried back to his own room and flung open the window. It opened, but again—there was the unseen wall, impenetrable.

He was trapped here, imprisoned in what had once belonged to his queen. His enemy lingered just beyond his reach—visible, yet untouchable. His hatred only grew sharper.

And he loathed nothing more than his own helplessness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten – Sirius Black

Snape ignored him completely.

At first, Sirius was so furious that whenever he saw that man appear in the adjoining room, he would plant himself in the doorway and unleash a torrent of curses. But Snape remained utterly unaffected. Sirius suspected he had cast a Silencing Charm, and within two days, Sirius had worn himself out.

Wormtail brought him some clothes and delivered his meals punctually each day. Thanks to Snape’s magic, Peter never had to step into Sirius’s range of movement—he only needed to stand at the door and float the tray inside. Sirius would immediately hurl the food toward Snape’s side of the barrier—the enchantment clearly blocked only Sirius himself—and refused to eat. He had no appetite anyway.

In the first few days, he would still pace restlessly, glance out the window, hoping to catch sight of someone passing through the courtyard below, perhaps to look up, wave, and tell him what was happening outside. But no one came. In the end, Sirius let himself lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wasting away. He figured he would succeed in starving himself soon enough.

There was only so much one could do in a room like this, stripped bare of everything. It had once been the Queen’s bedchamber, adjoining the King’s private quarters. Anything that had belonged to Lily Potter had long since been removed. Now it was nothing but a bland, ordinary space. The only remarkable thing was its size—larger even than his old dormitory. Yet even in its emptiness, Sirius could imagine the room’s former warmth: the Queen cradling little Harry every day, playing with him, letting him roll about on the great bed, watching him sleep in innocent peace. His King, after dealing with affairs of state, would come here to talk with her, and together they would dream of their child’s future.

It was Sirius who had ruined it all, as an accomplice.

The chamber was connected to two other rooms: one was James’s bedroom—now occupied by Snape—and the other had been Harry’s nursery. What it was used for now, Sirius did not know. He guessed Snape had converted it into a private potions laboratory; he had once seen Snape carrying a cauldron inside. From time to time, the smell of brewing would drift through—perhaps from what had once been Harry’s room.

On the fourth or fifth day of his confinement—Sirius had stopped keeping count, convinced he was near death—he lay as usual on the bed, weary of everything, wrapped in the suffocating weight of guilt and self-loathing. He had made too many mistakes; the Seven Gods would never permit him to see James again in the afterlife. And truthfully, he had no face to meet his King, his Queen, or the Prime Minister.

His dulled senses told him someone had entered the room. Sirius cracked his eyes open to slits, saw who it was, and shut them again. He no longer cared. Whatever Snape wanted, he could take. Sirius was dying anyway. His one chance to kill Snape had long since passed, and the sly serpent would never grant him a second opportunity.

The figure drew closer, standing beside him—perhaps watching him. Sirius no longer had the strength to speak. Cool fingers brushed his cheek, then came to rest on his forehead. And truth be told, when Sirius surrendered everything, emptied himself of thought, Snape’s touch was strangely welcome. He let himself sink into memories of all they had done together: on the rug before the hearth in the dungeons, in the straw of an empty stable, in the darkness of a broom cupboard, in a potions classroom, in Sirius’s own bed.

The owner of that hand had always gazed at him with those dark eyes, making him twist and writhe under clever fingers and a deft tongue, whispering his name. That same man had worn robes a size too big, nibbled on apples Sirius had given him, smiling in quiet contentment. He had taught earnestly under the shade of trees, sneaking glances at Sirius, thinking he had gone unnoticed. He had tasted bittersweet—yet so very intoxicating.

And that hand had also cast four Death Curses, killing the most powerful and high-ranking figures of Gryffindor.

Sirius’s eyes snapped open, and Snape’s hooked nose filled his vision.

“Don’t touch me,” Sirius snarled through clenched teeth. “You fucking mongrel.”

Snape betrayed no emotion. But he withdrew his hand. Without a word, he produced a small vial from within his robes and pressed it to Sirius’s lips. Sirius tried to resist, clamping his teeth and lips shut, but Snape forced them apart and poured whatever was inside down his throat.

Before long, warmth spread through Sirius’s limbs. Starved and weakened as he was, he felt a flicker of strength returning, though not enough to restore him.

Snape’s hand moved again, this time producing a second vial. He poured half into Sirius’s mouth and tipped back the rest himself.

This potion felt different. It left Sirius feeling—excited. Heat pooled in his abdomen, spread through his body, set his head spinning. A familiar sensation slowly stirred awake, gathering insistently in his lower half. Sirius writhed, peering through his lashes at the other man.

Snape was undressing, and Sirius thought that was perfect. He loved Snape’s naked body—white as wax, not too heavily haired, achingly sensual. And Snape’s cock, already standing tall, gleaming with that beautiful pearly-white shade. Sirius thought that soon it might darken into a deeper, flushed violet-red with arousal.

Once Snape had stripped bare, he raised his wand at Sirius, and at once the fabric that had been clinging to him with its suffocating heat vanished into nothing. Then Snape conjured a cord, binding Sirius’s wrists to the headboard. Sirius wasn’t particularly fond of being tied up, but in this moment, it felt perfect—he could hardly wait for what was coming next.

He licked his lips, spread his legs, pushed his hips upward, and rasped in a hoarse voice, “Touch me, Severus. Come fuck me.”

He had thought his lewd words would please Snape, excite him further, earn him the contact he craved. Instead, a spasm of pain crossed Snape’s face, sharp as though he’d been lashed. Sirius couldn’t understand why Snape’s hand was trembling as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Sirius’s legs, his fingers brushing the seam of flesh between Sirius’s thighs.

This was bloody fantastic, wasn’t it?

Snape summoned a familiar small jar, one Sirius recognized immediately—they’d used it countless times. The Slytherin scooped out a generous handful of the ointment, and his slick fingers pressed carefully into Sirius’s body, slowly, painstakingly, stretching him, easing him open.

It was taking far too long. Sirius was losing patience. He was ready—he had been ready for ages. He was desperate to be filled, desperate to drown in endless, reckless ecstasy. He writhed in frustration, shamelessly moaning, begging.

“Faster, faster,” Sirius panted. “I can take it—just get in me already.”

He’d always been a man of excess, never one to restrain himself, and now he cared even less. What meaning was there in restraint? He was a sinner. He was going to die anyway—so why shouldn’t he claim one last, unholy pleasure? Besides, this was Severus Snape—his accomplice, his fellow conspirator, the most wicked man he knew, the one he hated most, and the one he most desperately wanted to be close to.

What better thing could possibly happen to him than this?

Snape’s gaze on him was—agonized. And when he slowly pressed into Sirius’s body, when at last they became one, his expression was that of a man enduring the Cruciatus Curse. Or perhaps something worse than that. He clutched at the bend of Sirius’s relaxed knee, driving his hips forward into the other man’s body, again and again, without warmth, without tenderness, avoiding Sirius’s eyes the entire time.

Sirius moaned wantonly, urging him on, telling Snape how good it felt. He loved the thrust of his cock inside him, loved this state of thoughtless abandon, the haze of pleasure clouding everything. He was so close. Touch me, he begged. Take me in your hand, make me come.

If he wasn’t mistaken, his words only made Snape suffer more. His whole face twisted, sweat dripping from his brow onto Sirius’s stomach, his teeth clenched so tightly he made no sound at all. Through Sirius’s blurred vision, he saw those black eyes swimming with mist, on the brink of spilling into tears at a single blink.

Don’t cry, Severus, Sirius whispered. This is perfect—just like this.

Snape shut his eyes. No tears fell—only a shimmer caught in his lashes. He reached down and took Sirius in hand, squeezing, stroking, giving him more and more. Sirius cried out as he came, spilling hot across his own stomach. An instant later, Snape’s face contorted, his body locked rigid, and in his torment, he too was undone.

The fog in his head was lifting. Sirius realized the other man had opened his eyes at last, yet still refused to look at him. Snape lowered his upper body, bracing his elbows on either side, bowing his head to suck at Sirius’s neck and chest. Sirius thought those spots would soon darken into bruises. The sensation of Snape pulling his softened cock free, and the trickle of seed leaking from him, made Sirius grimace.

Snape left the bed quickly. With a flick he summoned a damp cloth, wiped away the spend across Sirius’s stomach and between his thighs, then tossed it onto the floor. From his own chambers he called forth a clean set of clothes, laying them neatly on the bed. He stooped to collect the ornate wizard’s robes that had been discarded, layer after layer wrapping himself back into that rigid, ascetic shell.

Reality and reason had returned. Sirius’s vision was sharp now, his mind utterly clear. His body, the scent lingering on his skin, the searing memory—it all screamed of what had just happened. Rage flared in his chest once more, tangled with hatred, contempt, and shame. He pushed himself upright on the bed, glaring at Snape, whose face bore nothing but cold composure, stripped of any trace of feeling.

“You drugged me,” Sirius heard his own voice say, icy and dripping with hate. “You raped me.”

If Snape had any reaction to the words, he didn’t show it. He fixed his gaze on some invisible point behind Sirius’s head and spoke without inflection. “You will attend tonight’s dinner with me.”

“You just raped me, and now you expect me to sit beside you at dinner? What the hell is wrong with you?” Sirius’s fists trembled as a surge of nausea clawed up his throat. “You make me sick.”

Snape remained as expressionless as carved wood. “If you can conduct yourself properly throughout and eat something,” he said flatly, “you will be permitted to see your dear friend.”

“My dear friend?” Sirius sneered. “You murdered them all, remember? By your own hand, or through others—it makes no difference. Every death lies on you.”

“Tomorrow is the full moon,” came Snape’s answer.

Sirius froze. Then shame slammed into him. He had forgotten Remus. Remus had been there at Harry’s oath ceremony, beside James and his Head of House. He too had been struck down and left insensible. And Sirius had forgotten him.

“What have you done to him?” Sirius’s eyes burned red as he ground the words out through clenched teeth.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Snape replied.

Sirius glared darkly, his clenched fists digging sharp nails almost into his own palms. Snape picked up the set of clothing laid out on the bed and handed it to him. Sirius took it without a word, slowly pulling on the white shirt and a pair of dark wool trousers. The clothes were a bit loose on him, but Sirius soon realized why Snape had dressed him this way. His collar lay open, making it plain for anyone to see the marks Snape had left on his skin.

Oh, Snape wanted everyone to know—that he, Sirius Black, former Captain of the King’s Guard, was now nothing but the Lord of Hogwarts’ whore. To shame him, was that it? Snape thought this would humiliate him, make him squirm? Sirius rose unsteadily to his feet, chin lifting, and flashed Snape a wild, reckless grin.

His reputation had always preceded him; this was no ruin to his name. If Snape wanted the world to know he was a rapist, then Sirius would gladly oblige him.

Snape turned his face aside, striding from the room without another glance. Sirius followed, passing through the connecting door between their chambers. Snape stopped before the outer door, his back to Sirius.

“Remember. Behave appropriately.”

Sirius had no time to ask what that meant before Snape opened the door.

Outside waited Peter—who ducked his head fearfully under Sirius’ furious glare—alongside two armed guards. They were clearly Slytherins, for Sirius didn’t know their faces. One carried a wand as well as the blade at his hip. At Snape’s and his appearance, both bent slightly in deference. Snape ignored them utterly, his expression grim as he swept forward, his black robes billowing like waves.

Sirius hurried to keep pace, the two guards falling in behind them.

He heard them whispering, muffled laughter laced with the words “fuck toy.” Snape had only wiped him down with a damp cloth, never bothering with magic to erase the evidence. Sirius himself could still smell the sex clinging to his body, guessed he looked every bit the man who had just been thoroughly used. His weakened, stumbling legs only seemed to prove their point.

And he could not deny it—he had indeed been used by Snape, not long ago.

Inside the castle, the new Slytherin Guard was plain to see, every man respectful toward Snape. At his passing they snapped straight, eyes fixed forward. Yet once he was gone they whispered to each other of the lord’s “whore” or “plaything,” their tones edged with scorn. Sirius suspected they looked down on Snape as much as on him—who but a pervert, in Slytherin eyes, would keep a male bedfellow? Among their kingdom, such men were judged abominations, deserving death by stoning.

Sirius knew exactly where they were going—the King’s private dining hall. Once, James had dined there with the Queen, sometimes joined by Dumbledore or other high officials.

He trailed Snape into the room. A long table stretched out, already filled. At its head, of course, sat King Voldemort. At his left was Lucius Malfoy, and beside him a delicate blond woman cradling a golden-haired infant—about the same age as Harry—Sirius’ heart clenched with sudden pain. At the King’s right hand was an empty chair, and beyond it a frail, white-haired old woman twisting her fingers anxiously. When Snape entered she smiled nervously, small dark eyes—creased deep in wrinkles—flicking toward Sirius.

Sirius would wager that when younger, she had looked very much like Snape—save the great hooked nose, they might have been stamped from the same mold.

Snape advanced, knelt without hesitation at Voldemort’s feet, and pressed his lips to the King’s robe.

“My King,” he said softly. “Forgive my lateness. There were… matters that required time to resolve.”

Voldemort’s serpentine face curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. “Good,” he said, gaze flicking meaningfully to Sirius. “I can see you have disciplined Black well. Sit.”

Snape took the empty seat at the King’s right. Sirius stood frozen, feeling like a fool. Snape cast him a glance, then at the space between himself and the old woman. Sirius scowled back.

Surely Snape didn’t expect him to sit on the floor?

But Sirius forced his legs to move. He crossed to the space and lowered himself onto the cold stone. Behave appropriately, he reminded himself—and if he was to act, then he would act to the fullest.

He tilted his head, resting it against Snape’s knee in a picture of submission. And truth be told, after the walk, he had little strength left. It was easier this way.

Snape’s body went rigid, his hands fixed motionless upon his knees.

Now who was behaving inappropriately? Sirius thought, bitter amusement curling in his chest.

The old woman’s gaze lingered on him. Sirius met it from below until she quickly looked back to her empty plate.

When the food was served, the rich smell made Sirius ache with hunger. He had been starving himself, intent on death as punishment. But now—now he knew he could not die. Not yet. Remus was still alive; he had to know his friend’s fate. Perhaps others too had survived. To take his own life now would be cowardice. He could not surrender.

Snape ladled soup into a bowl, broke pieces of bread into it, and held it out to Sirius. But Sirius only opened his mouth, waiting. Snape glared, and Sirius blinked innocently.

Wasn’t he Snape’s pet? Wasn’t this appropriate?

Snape pressed his lips thin, then picked up a spoon and fed him. Sirius swallowed greedily, opening for more, again and again, until the bowl was emptied and his belly warmed.

“I admit,” Voldemort’s shrill voice cut through the hall, “when you asked for Black as your reward, I suspected some prior arrangement between you—that you would endure the Cruciatus rather than see Potter’s most loyal captain fall. Yet now I see you have indeed… put him to good use. My doubts were needless.”

“My King, my loyalty to you is unshakable,” Snape answered softly. “As I told you, Black was… unfriendly to me. His striking looks, combined with my desire for revenge, proved too great a lure. Breaking him took some time, hence the delay.”

“Once again you show me that no task is beyond you. Look at Black—what a fine pet you have raised, Severus.” Voldemort’s voice was amused. “Imagine Orion Black’s face, seeing his firstborn reduced to this.”

“Yes, my King,” Snape murmured. “Sirius is a good dog.”

Sirius closed his eyes, fists clenched, swallowing down every curse that fought to escape his throat. Think of Remus—perhaps suffering somewhere even now. If enduring this humiliation brought him closer to his friend, then endure he must. He had already failed James; he would not fail Remus too. He opened his mouth again, taking whatever Snape fed him, unable even to taste it.

The Slytherins spoke then of their own kingdom: mines, poor harvests, famine. Malfoy mentioned the grain collected from Gryffindor lands, most of it bound for the Ravenclaw front. Sirius caught the important parts—Tobias Snape’s campaign against Ravenclaw was stalled, awaiting supplies. Tomorrow, King Voldemort would return to Slytherin’s palace, leaving Gryffindor’s conquered lands in young Snape’s and Malfoy’s hands.

When dinner ended, Sirius’ legs and backside were numb from the hard stone. He rose stiffly, trailing after Snape as he made his farewells to King and Malfoys. The old woman, so like him, waited silently by the door. Sirius realized with a start she had not spoken a single word all evening.

Snape went to her, ignoring Sirius, and took her arm gently. His voice softened. “Mother, let me take you to your room.”

Her other hand covered his, and she nodded. “Come. I am very tired,” she said in her frail voice.

Following them, Sirius could not help his curiosity. Snape was only twenty-two—how could his mother be so aged? Perhaps she had borne him late in life, as with Gryffindor’s late king. King Fleamont Potter and the Queen had long remained childless, refusing concubines, until fortune granted them James in their later years.

They reached James’ old chambers. Snape instructed the Slytherin guards to see Sirius safely back inside, while he himself led his mother into the adjoining room.

One guard sneered at Sirius, but he was too weary, too heavy with food and exhaustion to care. Waving him off, Sirius trudged into what was now Snape’s bedchamber, crossed through to his own, and collapsed upon the bed, falling instantly into sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven – Sirius Black

When Sirius woke, it was already nearly noon the next day. Unlike the previous days, he had slept soundly through the night, dreamless. Sirius suspected Snape had drugged him, once again.

Though awake, he still lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, sinking once more into his loathing of himself. Alone, he forced himself to face honestly what had happened yesterday. He wanted to go on living, which meant he had to coexist with what had taken place—no matter how bitter, how hateful, how humiliating.

The fact was that Severus Snape had drugged him and forced him. The fact was that he had enjoyed it, taken pleasure in the entire thing. The fact was that he craved Snape’s touch as much as he longed to kill him with his own hands. And that, precisely, was what he truly despised and felt ashamed of. He could not stop hating the desire his own subconscious harbored toward that murderer, and it filled him with fury and shame at himself.

Sirius rolled onto his side and blinked at the person entering through the doorway, then sat bolt upright.

“Poppy,” Sirius said in surprise.

The mediwitch pressed her lips together; seeing Sirius seemed to overwhelm her. She strode forward and pulled him into a tight embrace, clutching at the back of his robe and drawing in a loud, shaky breath.

“Oh heavens,” Madam Pomfrey said, shaken. “It’s you. You’re alive.”

That was exactly what Sirius wanted to say as well. They clung to each other for a long while before parting. Sirius smiled as the mediwitch drew her wand, her trembling hand beginning to steady as she examined him.

“How did you come here?” Sirius asked. Perhaps what he really meant was: How are you able to be here? He had thought all Gryffindors in the castle had been slaughtered. Yesterday he learned Remus was still alive, and now, seeing Poppy—in full command of her magic—standing before him, hope inside Sirius grew a little stronger.

“He—Snape—asked me to check someone’s condition in detail,” Poppy said, voice thick with emotion, though her wand hand had steadied. “I never expected it to be you, Sirius. We heard about the fate of the Guard and thought you too must have… you surely would have…”

Yes, he would rather have died than surrendered. “It was that close,” Sirius said. “Snape claimed me from King Voldemort.”

He thought Poppy must have already heard some version of this, since gossip traveled quickly enough. The son of the Slytherin Commander had taken the son of the Gryffindor Commander as his plaything. Enough to give Slytherins material to boast of for a lifetime.

“I had heard that Snape kept a…” Poppy broke off, and Sirius wondered what term she had heard. “I never thought it would be you.” She skipped over the word for the sake of Sirius’s dignity, and he was truly grateful.

“How am I?” Sirius asked.

“How many days has he not fed you?” the mediwitch demanded, sounding angry, slipping back into the manner Sirius remembered of her. “Though, the place he specifically ordered me to check—your insides—shows no injury.”

Sirius flushed. “Er.” He said. “I refused to eat.”

“You refused to eat,” Poppy repeated, hands on her hips as she glared. “Sirius Black, I thought you were a fighter.”

It was merely another layer added atop his existing shame; one he could bear. “I changed my mind,” Sirius said. “And the rest? What’s the situation?” He meant something else, and deflected the topic.

Madam Pomfrey regarded him gently, summoned a chair, and sat across from him. “In the first few days there were some scattered uprisings in the city, but they were quickly quelled. The leaders were bound at the castle gates for days before Snape sent them to the Slytherin Kingdom’s mines. The city is now under curfew, with the Guard patrolling the streets for suspicious persons. The wealthy are forced to donate great sums of coin, stores of grain, and land. Of course no one dares refuse; in this season, exile to the Slytherin mines is nearly a death sentence. Common folk’s lives, however, are little changed—just as before.” She spoke in a neutral, detached tone; perhaps that was why she made such a capable healer. “We had expected chaos to grow worse, given the frightening rumors about the Slytherin King’s governance. But Voldemort handed the management of Hogwarts City entirely over to Snape. He… he is not like his father. That is all I can say.”

“No matter the differences, the essence is the same,” Sirius said with a curl of his lip. “We would never plunder our people’s property. And the castle?”

“The entire Guard has been replaced, but the servants remain mostly unchanged. Snape let them choose between staying on or going home, and most chose to stay. Money is money, and no one quarrels with their livelihood. Mayor Lupin was dismissed, his house seized by Malfoy. Fortunately, Dean Minerva took him into the college. Arthur was reassigned to the stables, and his old post was given to Peter.”

“Peter? Peter Pettigrew?” Sirius couldn’t help but laugh aloud. “He got Arthur’s old job?”

“Yes, Peter is now…”

“Steward of the castle,” Sirius finished for her. “That traitor, that bastard. Betrayal of the King earns him the post of castle steward? He must be furious with himself.”

Madam Pomfrey looked baffled as he laughed nearly to tears. “Sirius,” she said.

“No, it’s fine, please continue,” Sirius said, still laughing.

“Molly has also returned. She is in the great kitchen, though I hear Snape means to assign her to tend solely to his… favorite.” Madam Pomfrey chose a gentle term. “If Molly knew it was you, she would be glad.”

“What about Bill?”

“He still trains with me. Charlie is in the stables with his father. The children do not understand much of what has happened—except Bill; he is precocious. Charlie is happy enough learning to care for his favorite horses, while also receiving the meals provided by the castle.” Poppy paused, glanced over her shoulder at the empty chamber beyond the wall. “I have the sense Snape is giving particular care to the Weasley family.”

Sirius followed her gaze to the next room, his expression growing grave. The Weasleys had always been kind to Snape, and so in this new order they received his favor. Before, the Guard—especially Alastor Moody—had made Snape’s life difficult, and Snape had taken his vengeance in kind. Much as Sirius hated him, he had to admit: in enmity or gratitude, the Slytherin was fair.

And what of himself? Snape’s treatment of him—was it revenge, or merely the expression of personal desire?

What he could foresee was this: if he wanted even the slightest chance to avenge James’s family and his fallen brothers of the Guard, he would have to bury his fury deep, conceal his true heart, and feign compliance. Sirius did not know if he was capable of that. All his life he had been straightforward, charging headlong for the righteous path, scorning any compromise with falsehood.

Snape was a slippery, despicable serpent—hadn’t he already proven that he could keep his role as a spy hidden even under Dumbledore’s very nose? Could Sirius truly wrest any advantage from such a cunning man?

“And the Guard of Gryffindor?” Sirius asked. “How many heads has Snape taken?”

Poppy’s face went pale. “I don’t know the exact number… but from what I heard the Slytherin ranks saying—once Vice Captain Benjy Knight and Kingsley Shacklebolt surrendered, the rest of the Guard laid down their arms as well.”

She was watching his face, perhaps expecting him to rage at the cowardice of men who valued their lives above their honor. Strangely, Sirius had expected the same of himself. Yet—what right did he have? He was the one still breathing, spared beneath Snape’s protection. For him to condemn others for grasping at a chance to survive would have been the very height of hypocrisy.

He tilted his head back, drew in a long breath. “So long as we live, there’s still hope, isn’t there?” he murmured. “The dead have nothing left.” Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he finally forced the words out. “James. And Mr. Dumbledore. Their heads—were they truly hung upon the city gates?”

There was no answer. Sirius turned his head and saw the mediwitch wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Sirius,” she choked. “They took them down this morning.”

The blaze of fury within him had cooled into a steady ember, burning low but never extinguished. He would have his vengeance. Whatever private thoughts he might harbor about Snape, that vow remained unshaken. If anything, the fire burned hotter for it.

“It’s all right, Poppy,” Sirius said, drawing her into an embrace, stroking her back. “It’s all right. Believe me—I’ll make them pay twice over.”

“Hush, don’t speak of it,” Poppy pressed a hand against his chest, shaking her head, composing herself. “They’ve set curses on you, Sirius. If you speak too freely, he’ll hear.”

“I don’t care. Let Snape come for me. When he chose to keep me alive, he should have known I would never relent in avenging James.” Sirius’s voice was low and hard. “Lily was his friend. Harry—a helpless child. And still he raised his hand against them. For that alone, the Seven will never forgive him.”

Poppy patted his shoulder and rose to her feet. “I cannot tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, Sirius. I can only beg you to take care, not to throw yourself away in reckless haste. I must go now—but when I can, I’ll come back to see you.”

Sirius walked her to the door, watching as she departed under the watchful eyes of Slytherin guards. He returned to the chamber, lay idle for a time, then pushed himself upright. If he meant to defy Snape, he would need to be certain his body had the strength for it. He would train—build his stamina, harden his muscles—until he was ready.

What he could foresee was this: if he wanted even the slightest chance to avenge James’s family and his fallen brothers of the Guard, he would have to bury his fury deep, conceal his true heart, and feign compliance. Sirius did not know if he was capable of that. All his life he had been straightforward, charging headlong for the righteous path, scorning any compromise with falsehood.

Snape was a slippery, despicable serpent—hadn’t he already proven that he could keep his role as a spy hidden even under Dumbledore’s very nose? Could Sirius truly wrest any advantage from such a cunning man?

“And the Guard of Gryffindor?” Sirius asked. “How many heads has Snape taken?”

Poppy’s face went pale. “I don’t know the exact number… but from what I heard the Slytherin ranks saying—once Vice Captain Benjy Knight and Kingsley Shacklebolt surrendered, the rest of the Guard laid down their arms as well.”

She was watching his face, perhaps expecting him to rage at the cowardice of men who valued their lives above their honor. Strangely, Sirius had expected the same of himself. Yet—what right did he have? He was the one still breathing, spared beneath Snape’s protection. For him to condemn others for grasping at a chance to survive would have been the very height of hypocrisy.

He tilted his head back, drew in a long breath. “So long as we live, there’s still hope, isn’t there?” he murmured. “The dead have nothing left.” Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he finally forced the words out. “James. And Mr. Dumbledore. Their heads—were they truly hung upon the city gates?”

There was no answer. Sirius turned his head and saw the mediwitch wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Sirius,” she choked. “They took them down this morning.”

The blaze of fury within him had cooled into a steady ember, burning low but never extinguished. He would have his vengeance. Whatever private thoughts he might harbor about Snape, that vow remained unshaken. If anything, the fire burned hotter for it.

“It’s all right, Poppy,” Sirius said, drawing her into an embrace, stroking her back. “It’s all right. Believe me—I’ll make them pay twice over.”

“Hush, don’t speak of it,” Poppy pressed a hand against his chest, shaking her head, composing herself. “They’ve set curses on you, Sirius. If you speak too freely, he’ll hear.”

“I don’t care. Let Snape come for me. When he chose to keep me alive, he should have known I would never relent in avenging James.” Sirius’s voice was low and hard. “Lily was his friend. Harry—a helpless child. And still he raised his hand against them. For that alone, the Seven will never forgive him.”

Poppy patted his shoulder and rose to her feet. “I cannot tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, Sirius. I can only beg you to take care, not to throw yourself away in reckless haste. I must go now—but when I can, I’ll come back to see you.”

Sirius walked her to the door, watching as she departed under the watchful eyes of Slytherin guards. He returned to the chamber, lay idle for a time, then pushed himself upright. If he meant to defy Snape, he would need to be certain his body had the strength for it. He would train—build his stamina, harden his muscles—until he was ready.

Sirius spent the morning working through some basic exercises in his room, finishing off the breakfast that had been brought to him and pushing himself to keep stretching his muscles. The days of near-starvation had left him thinner than he liked, but he could put the weight back on. He had nothing else to do anyway—at least until Snape came for him and demanded… whatever he was planning to demand.

He ate lunch, then drifted over to the window for a while. Outside, he caught sight of Snape’s mother, wrapped in heavy winter clothing, seated at a white iron table and chair set, perhaps admiring the Gryffindor King’s gardens under snow. Snape appeared briefly, sitting with her, exchanging a few words. When he lifted his head toward Sirius’s window, Sirius immediately stepped back. He had no desire to look at that ugly bastard’s face right now.

As dusk approached, Sirius received another visitor—this time one of Snape’s two personal guards, the one who carried a wand. The wizard fixed Sirius with a look of pure disdain, wand raised high, and barked an order.

“Out, Black. I’m taking you somewhere.”

Sirius’s heart pounded. Night was falling. Snape had said he’d let him see Remus, and Sirius was willing to believe this was it. He pulled on a heavy leather coat over his regular clothes and followed through the two doors without incident, standing now before the Slytherin soldier. Sirius had nearly a head of height on him, and the man’s scowl made it clear he didn’t enjoy having to look up.

“Tch.” The man sneered. “Hard to believe the great Sirius Black is nothing but a filthy deviant.”

“Do me a favor and say that to Snape himself,” Sirius replied carelessly. “I’d love to see what he says back.”

The guard’s face flushed scarlet, though Sirius could tell he dared not push the issue—Snape was Voldemort the King’s most trusted commander, and even a Carrow wouldn’t risk offending him.

“Walk, Fuck Toy,” the man snapped, blunt and cold. “I’ve been ordered to deliver you to the dungeons.”

The dungeons. Of course—that meant Remus. Sirius’s step lightened; he strode easily down the familiar corridors. Along the way they passed a number of patrolling soldiers, who greeted the Slytherin guard by name. Sirius learned this was Amycus Carrow, and that he had a sister named Alecto.

Their mocking didn’t bother him. In fact, Sirius felt almost amused; every insult flung at him was an insult at Snape by association. The soldiers called him all sorts of crude names, but Sirius, shameless as ever, took no real offense. He even idly imagined what would happen if he fluttered his lashes at one of them.

When they reached the dungeons, Sirius bounded down the stairs first, glancing back when Carrow stopped at the entrance. “Not coming down?” he asked helpfully.

Carrow grimaced at him. “You Gryffindors are disgusting,” he spat. “There’s a werewolf down there. I’m not setting foot near it.”

Sirius arched a brow, shrugged, and continued on. Snape had already told him how Slytherins despised werewolves—Carrow’s reaction only proved it true.

He hurried straight to the last cell at the far end, gripping the iron bars with both hands. “Moony!” Sirius shouted.

Inside, the figure who had been lying down scrambled up. When he saw who it was, he lunged to the bars as well. “Padfoot?” Remus said, his voice raw with shock. “I thought you were—”

“Dead, yeah. Everyone did.”

Remus sniffed the air, his nose twitching, and Sirius took the moment to study his old friend. He looked pale and thin, worn down, frail. The days had been cruel to him too. Sirius’s chest tightened with guilt for having let him suffer alone.

“I’m sorry, Moony,” Sirius said, voice thick. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“Why?” Remus asked gently. “None of this is your fault. If you mean the scent on you—yes, I noticed.”

All of Sirius’s bravado, the careless arrogance he’d shown in front of the Slytherins, crumbled away before Remus. Remus was the only one who knew the truth about him and Snape—and that knowledge shamed Sirius beyond words. He lowered his head, gripping the bars until his knuckles went white.

“It’s humiliating.”

“Sirius,” Remus said softly, crouching down on the straw-covered floor. “I don’t know what’s happened, but I’m glad you’re alive. For any reason at all.”

Slowly, Sirius lowered himself to the floor as well, locking eyes with the friend of his boyhood. “Me too,” he admitted.

Remus smiled faintly, and through the gap in the bars they reached out, clasping right hands.

“Why has Snape locked you here?” Sirius asked.

Remus glanced around the cell. “When I woke, I was bound with the other students in a corner of the Great Hall. Snape was respectful toward Minerva; he had intended to return me to the school with the rest. But Peter—Peter told Voldemort the King who I was.”

“That traitor,” Sirius snarled. “He’s only afraid you’ll take revenge on him.”

“And I will, if I get the chance,” Remus said with quiet steel. “Voldemort ordered me executed. Snape asked to use me for testing Wolfsbane Potion and requested my life be spared. So here I am. He set Peter to deliver my meals and even gave me books.” He gestured toward a small stack in the corner. “It’s dreadfully dull, though.”

“I’ll keep you company,” Sirius promised. “All night.”

“You can’t transform anymore, Sirius.” Remus touched the chain of his own necklace. “That puts you at risk, being here.”

“Has he given you Wolfsbane?” Sirius asked instead.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. These bars are solid. I’m safe enough here.” Sirius rubbed his fingers along the iron.

“Padfoot…” Remus sighed. “Just knowing you’re alive makes me feel so much better.”

And Sirius, who had lived through days of despair, felt the same seeing Remus alive before him.

He sat there, watching as moonlight streamed down through the high grate, falling over Remus’s form. Bone shifted, muscle stretched, and his friend became a great, furred wolf. The anti-magic silver chain around his neck lengthened with the transformation, adjusting to fit.

Sirius had been with Moony through countless full moons, and the change never frightened him—if anything, it fascinated him. The massive grey wolf did not howl or snarl but padded forward, sitting on his tail before Sirius and fixing him with a steady gaze.

“Wolfsbane really is a brilliant invention,” Sirius murmured, his admiration genuine. “He’s… an exceptional potioneer, I’ll give him that.”

The wolf snorted.

“I know, I know—I’m only talking about his potions work. Otherwise he’s a bastard. A vicious snake. I’ll have my revenge, Moony. Believe me. As long as I’ve got breath, I’ll never let him go. No matter where he runs, I’ll hunt him down. Until then…” Sirius gave a crooked smile. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep pretending to obey, won’t I?”

The wolf gave no answer, and Sirius found himself uncertain how long his façade of obedience could last.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve – Severus Snape

Severus walked down the main street of Hogwarts City, with the people on both sides giving way before him. They lowered their heads, or turned their faces aside; no one dared meet his gaze.

Perhaps what they feared were the Slytherin Guards who protected him—two before and two behind, a total of four soldiers in Slytherin uniform, armed with knives, swords, or wands, their faces stern and fierce, glaring at anyone who dared approach.

Or perhaps what the people feared was Severus himself. The only son of Tobias Snape, the Butcher, the “Kingslayer” who killed the Potter royal family—Severus Snape, now the most powerful lord of Hogwarts City.

He wondered if they whispered in private that his cruelty surpassed even his father’s, even his king’s. As Black had accused, that he was the most malicious man he had ever known.

Severus had long understood: in order to help his king secure a better future, all of this was an inevitable process. He had chosen his path, and was destined to walk it without turning back. He had known all along that one day he would again be hated and despised by Black; what was happening now was nothing more than the execution of his plan.

Once Severus set his mind on something, he never changed it.

A month had passed since that blood-soaked ceremony that violated the Seven Gods’ commandment. Hogwarts City had grown more stable; people’s lives were returning to their usual rhythm. Other than a few individuals who had been affected, most still lived as before. They merely had a new king, a new banner, a mayor replaced by a lord, with less hidden money and food supplies—but otherwise, little had changed.

King Voldemort had little objection to the arrangements made by Severus and Lucius; what he needed was money and food for his armies. Perhaps in time King Voldemort would demand that every household in Gryffindor send at least one able-bodied man to the battlefield, but Severus decided he would face that matter when it came. Perhaps his father would conquer Ravenclaw early, making further expansion of forces unnecessary.

He arrived at Lucius’s home, the largest and most luxurious house in all of Hogwarts City, once belonging to Mayor Lyle Lupin. Evidently, after Lucius had moved in, he had managed it well; now the style of the house was more in line with Slytherin taste. The hedges were trimmed neatly, everything arranged symmetrically, and Lucius had even raised two white peacocks. Severus did not know where he had acquired them.

Entering the main hall, he found that Lucius had already prepared refreshments. Severus noticed that besides Lucius and Narcissa, Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, was also present.

He did not know when that woman had arrived in Hogwarts City.

Severus sat at his designated seat and gave a cool nod to those present; Bella responded with a derisive laugh.

“You’re different now, Kingslayer Severus,” Bella said noisily not long after Severus sat down. “Soaring high, aren’t you?”

“I thought you should be serving in the King’s presence,” Severus replied pointedly, emphasizing the word serving.

Bellatrix Lestrange’s ambition toward their King was plain for all to see, and the King did not hide his relations with Bella in the bedchamber. Even after Bella was married, he still often summoned her to serve him—at midnight. Rodolphus Lestrange dared not utter a single complaint.

Bella smiled smugly, clearly considering her relationship with King Voldemort one of her proudest achievements.

“The King has asked me to spend the winter here. I hear the weather in the South turns warm from March,” she said. “Of course, I will also ensure for the King that everything here is in order, and that no one harbors treacherous thoughts.”

“Under Lucius’s management, Hogwarts City runs perfectly,” Severus said smoothly. “After seeing the fate of the rebels, no one dares harbor betrayal toward King Voldemort any longer. There is little to worry about.”

“This outcome is what we achieved together,” Lucius said, raising his cup and taking a sip. “In the coming days, Narcissa will accompany you around. The scenery in the southern lands of the Ozerpia continent is quite interesting.”

Bella pursed her lips, her large eyes roving over the two wizards, fingers playing with her extravagant black curls. “What about that Black, Severus?” she asked lazily, with a contemptuous expression. “I hear you’ve taken a male pet—none other than the son of the former Gryffindor Commander. Sirius Black is famous even among us. With the things your mother’s side once did, don’t tell me you mean to use this as an excuse to betray the Dark King?”

Severus leaned back easily, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. “I have already explained this matter to the King, but since you’re so curious, I don’t mind repeating it. The King has publicly revoked the false charges of treason once made against the Prince family. I think no one should doubt the King’s wise decision.

“As for Black, much of the suffering I endured here was due to Sirius Black’s malicious deeds. He subjected me to abnormal perverse acts, forcing and threatening me relentlessly. Surely you’ve heard I nearly died here—that was all by his scheming. He comes from your Black family’s traitorous branch; that the same poisonous blood runs through his veins is entirely possible.”

Hearing remarks about her family, Bella was not angered but rather laughed with delight. “Ah, that’s true enough.”

“My hatred for him cannot be resolved by merely slitting his throat or severing his head. Now that he has fallen into my hands, I will naturally make him taste the humiliation I once endured.” Severus spoke at ease, his cold eyes fixed on the dark witch opposite him. “The King is fully aware of this.”

Bella seemed about to say more, but her sister tugged at her sleeve and shook her head. “The Dark Lord trusts Severus. Don’t say these things. Come, let’s go see Draco; he should be awake, I think I heard his voice,” Narcissa said gently.

Bella glared suspiciously at Severus for a moment, then unwillingly rose. “Give my regards to Eileen,” she said. “In a few days I’ll visit and reminisce with her.”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary,” Severus refused immediately. “My mother has caught a chill and is resting; any disturbance would be unnecessary.”

The witch looked at him, then suddenly laughed hysterically. “What are you afraid of, Severus? That I’ll curse her again? Or that I’ll feed her poison once more?”

Severus’s face darkened, his fingers curling. Narcissa Malfoy tugged Bella’s sleeve again; Bella grinned at Severus with provocation, then followed Narcissa into the inner hall.

Lucius, who had remained silent all this time, raised his brows at Severus. Severus forced a false smile.

“My sister-in-law is… unique,” Lucius said.

“She is loyal to the Dark Lord,” Severus said evenly. “I came to discuss the matter of spring harvest taxation.”

They discussed the taxes and security of Hogwarts City for a long time, considering whether to send more young men to assist with mining in the North. Severus opposed it—sowing began in March, and the farmlands needed manpower. They had taken Gryffindor’s fertile lands precisely for this purpose. Ordinary people, under current policy, had no objections to the new regime; but pressing too hard at once could provoke strong backlash.

“Step by step,” Severus said. “Wait until the first harvest, then see the situation.”

Lucius had no objection; he was still becoming familiar with the place. They spoke further about Slytherin’s homeland, and Tobias Snape’s campaign against Ravenclaw—already close to success. Soon their King would obtain Ravenclaw’s diadem. By the time dusk approached, Severus rose to leave.

“When the King gains the diadem, he will have collected all the Seven Gods’ relics, won’t he?” Lucius murmured as he saw Severus to the door. “Have you heard what possessing them all can achieve?”

Severus’s blank expression said everything. “Possessing them all naturally proves the King to be the most powerful ruler of the Ozerpia continent. The entire continent will belong to him, all people subject to him. Whatever the King’s plans may be, I will follow him.”

“Ah, of course,” Lucius said quickly, fearful of seeming disloyal. “I should not speculate privately about the King’s plans.”

“No, you should not,” Severus said bluntly. “Draco is still just a child; he needs his parents. Was it not to escape the intrigues of the court that you brought him South with Narcissa? Standing on the right side will naturally bring you benefit.”

Lucius flushed red, but Severus ignored the resentment in his eyes. The King’s favor toward him was plain for all to see; all the Slytherins who once looked down on him now dared not display any behavior that might anger him. He imagined himself returning North—those classmates or noble families who once humiliated him would now flatter him endlessly, hoping to gain his favor, or else cower in fear that he might settle old scores.

The title Kingslayer might not sound pleasant, but it was quite useful for intimidation.

Severus left what had once been the mayor’s residence and walked toward the outskirts, guards following behind him, keeping watch for anyone who might dare to approach. He stopped in front of a stall where flatbreads were laid out.

“Sir.” The stall owner immediately wrapped several pieces of flatbread and offered them with both hands. “These are for you and the gentlemen with you.”

Severus raised his eyes to the owner, nodded, and signaled for one of the guards to take them. He drew out his purse, pulled out more coins than the proper price, and said, “Take it.”

The stall owner looked nervous, uncertain whether he should accept. Severus snorted in irritation, set the coins down on the table, and turned to leave.

What did they take him for—did they think he was some shameless thief? Or perhaps this was simply what the Slytherin army had done to the common folk in Hogwarts City, making every tradesman look at them as if they were robbers. He would need to speak with the Captain of the Royal Guard later, but for now, he only wanted to walk away and give himself a brief moment of rest.

Severus climbed the steps to a familiar high ground, ordered his personal guards to halt there, and went alone beneath a tree. With a conjured blanket spread beneath him, he sat and gazed out toward the main quarters of Hogwarts City. Spring was nearing; small buds had sprouted on the trees, not enough to block the sunlight, though March sunlight was hardly something to fear.

He took out the flatbread he had just purchased, bit into it lightly, and closed his eyes.
It was the same thing, yet it tasted utterly different. In memory, the bread had been fragrant, sweeter, easier to eat. This one was dry, astringent, even bitter. Severus opened his eyes, looked at the flatbread in his hand for a long while, then glanced toward the empty place at his side. His fingers rubbed at the colorful cord hanging from his neck.

The turn of events had been foreseen, yet it had also brought countless unforeseen changes. Severus had gained what he wanted, but had not expected the price to be so heavy, almost suffocating. Each night he lay in bed, listening to the noises from the adjoining room, imagining the other man who lived there, and how deeply he must hate him now.

At times, when the pressure became unbearable, Severus would go to the door that joined the two rooms and silently watch Sirius Black as he slept.

Since the incident, Black had grown thin, the carefree, unrestrained brilliance he once carried gone. What replaced it was gloom and haggardness. Black ate irregularly—sometimes skipping many meals, then gorging himself afterward, as though deliberately trying to ruin his own body. Severus had asked Madam Pomfrey to tend to Black’s health, Molly Weasley to take charge of his daily life, and allowed Black limited freedom to leave the dungeons to spend time with Lupin. Only then did the situation show some improvement.

He knew Black was being consumed by guilt and self-loathing, and Severus could do nothing about it. What could he do? He could not allow himself to draw near again, could not bear to touch Black. All he could do was push him out of his life and mind, let Black wander the castle, while Amycus shadowed him. Amycus reported back, though it was hardly necessary. Severus had placed enough tracking and warning charms on Black to keep full account of the Gryffindor’s movements.

And that was what Black had once done to him—now reversed. Severus had become the one who felt the other’s presence at every moment, while Black had become the idle wanderer. He knew what others thought, especially the soldiers of Slytherin, whose whispered talk about him was foul. Severus resolved to feign ignorance. He had endured enough; he deserved at least what was his share.

Even if it was never truly his.

Severus bit the flatbread again and lifted his eyes to the tree canopy above. He must have been thinking of Black too long, for he thought he saw Black himself crouched on a thick branch, staring down at him with a dark expression.

Severus blinked.

Black on the branch suddenly dropped down, crashing onto him and knocking him backward. At the same instant Severus felt something sharp and cold pierce into the side of his neck and withdraw, blood spurting out in a torrent. He cried out in pain, clutching at the wound.

Then he saw it clearly: it was not Sirius Black. The man resembled him closely, but he was younger, slighter, now straddling Severus’s torso. That face so like Black’s leaned near, while in his hand gleamed a short blade stained with blood, its tip pressing lightly against Severus’s heart.

For a fleeting instant, Severus wished to pretend it was Sirius Black. To let Black kill him, grant them both release.

That day would come, but not now.

His fingers curled around his wand, and he shouted a spell. The man was blasted back but did not fall, instead rolling smoothly across the ground and charging again with the blade. He was nimble, his small frame allowing him to evade Severus’s curses and close the distance once more, this time slashing a deep, long wound into Severus’s side.

Too much blood had already poured from the neck wound; Severus’s vision was blurring, his steps unsteady. He cast a staunching charm on himself and turned, searching for the quick black-haired assailant. Just then the youth leapt onto his back, clung tight, and thrust his knife-bearing hand forward. The sharp blade was about to cut into Severus’s throat.

“This is for my brother,” he heard the black-haired man say.

The small figure failed to land his strike and was flung aside once again, this time subdued by Severus’s personal guards. One of the guards steadied Severus, whose steps were faltering, pressing a cloth to the bleeding wound on his neck and lowering him to the ground. Blood loss was causing Severus to drift in and out of consciousness. Through his blurring vision, he saw the guards pinning a young black-haired man to the floor.

That man was certainly injured. His face—so similar to Black’s—was pressed to the ground, twisted in pain and fury, yet his eyes still burned with rage as he glared back at Severus. A guard’s longsword was brought near the man, and with the last of his strength Severus gave an order.

“Goyle, Crabbe! Do not kill him,” he gasped. “Throw him into the dungeons. Do not—do not harm him.”

Then he allowed the darkness to swallow him whole.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen – Sirius Black

Sirius sat under a tree by the Black Lake, staring blankly at the water, holding in his hand a piece of flatbread long gone cold and stale. The Slytherin Guards assigned to watch him—his personal warders—sighed in impatience. Sirius cast them a lazy glance, then turned back to the surface of the lake.

Maybe that was Snape’s purpose, Sirius thought: put someone on him to keep him from making trouble, yet otherwise ignore him completely, planning to bore him to death.

He was permitted to do only so much. If he finished breakfast and lunch on time, he would be allowed outside his room of confinement in the afternoon for a short walk. If he cleared his dinner plate as well, then the next afternoon he could spend his exercise time in the dungeons, talking with Remus. Carrow shadowed him constantly, barring Sirius from any place deemed inappropriate, from any object deemed dangerous, freely eavesdropping on every word Sirius spoke to anyone, and when Carrow was utterly bored, sending Sirius back to his room.

But who could Sirius talk to, really? The castle servants dared not interact with him, save the Weasley family. If Sirius greeted them, the servants would duck their heads and hurry past—some even squeaked and fled outright. Later, Sirius learned from Molly that in the castle’s rumors he was branded a co-conspirator in regicide, a cold-blooded monster like Snape himself. And since all the Gryffindor Guards had either perished or been sent to war, leaving only Sirius surviving under Snape’s wing, the tale grew ever more convincing.

When he first heard this from Molly, Sirius had only shrugged, indifferent, not bothering to deny it. He was a co-conspirator. The draught that had felled the crowd had been brewed by his own hands; the forfeiture of sovereignty had come from his own lips. Sirius believed his own guilt was no less than Snape’s. He was the murderer of King Potter, the chief culprit in Gryffindor’s downfall.

He had no desire to defend himself, letting the rumors spread unchecked. The only reason he allowed himself to keep living was one—and once that reason was gone, Sirius saw no need to continue existing. Opportunities for vengeance would come; he would wait, even if twelve years it took. Sirius knew he would endure.

He leaned back against the tree trunk, staring at the setting sun, biting into the bitter, astringent flatbread, letting his thoughts wander. An image rose in his mind: a man in black wizard’s robes, sitting alone under a tree with his notes; a man whose eyes lit up when speaking of the studies he loved; a man devoted as he taught children to read and write; a man who blushed for all manner of peculiar reasons.

That man would fix him with those coal-dark eyes, long fingers pressing against his chest, thin lips shaping sounds that made Sirius’s heart itch and ache, always urging him, pulling him closer, closer still.

Sirius swallowed his bite, and a wave of self-loathing surged up his chest. This man he had buried deep in his heart, whom he dared recall only in secret—the man to whom he had given his heart—was the same man who, with treachery and deceit, had murdered his king, the man Sirius loathed with all his being. Torn between those two truths, Sirius felt himself nearly ripped apart.

He hurled the vile bread into the Black Lake and got to his feet. “I’m going back,” he said coldly to his warder.

“Finally willing to crawl back to your master’s bed, are you?” Amycus Carrow sneered.

Sirius rolled his eyes, deliberately shouldering his way past, hard enough to make Carrow stumble back with a curse. There was no need to let these Slytherins know that his “master,” save for that one time before a dinner with Voldemort when Sirius had been drugged, had never touched him since.

Snape likely feared Sirius would seize another chance to strangle him.

He made his way toward the castle on his own, but a large group entering through the main gates caught his attention. Lucius Malfoy, face grave, was striding at their head—what business did he have at the castle at this hour? Following him were four of Snape’s personal Slytherin guards, among them the two particularly tall wizards, Goyle and Crabbe. They bore a blood-stained stretcher. Sirius could not see who lay upon it, but a lock of black hair falling over the side was all too familiar.

For a heartbeat Sirius felt his heart stop. He instinctively took a few steps toward them, but reason checked him; he froze, watching as Malfoy directed the guards inside. Sirius guessed they were bound for Madam Pomfrey. Carrow voiced the very thought that had struck him.

“Severus, injured? He isn’t about to die, is he?” Carrow sounded almost pleased.

Behind them came another Slytherin party, led by Bartemius Crouch Jr., now captain of the castle guard. Walking at his side was a black-haired woman Sirius had never seen before. Her skin was deathly pale, her eyelids heavy, her jaw broad. What struck Sirius most was the faintly mad smile curving her face.

“Bella?” he heard Carrow mutter.

The woman—Bella—wandered forward with curious glances, looking about her and often back at the Slytherin soldiers trailing behind. Among them, Sirius now saw clearly, two men were dragging along a familiar figure, hauled forward roughly and leaving smeared trails of blood on the floor.

Disbelief clawed at Sirius’s chest as he drew a sharp breath and charged. Carrow shouted and gave chase, but Sirius saw only his goal. He darted past the guards who tried to block him, driving his elbow into one man’s side, his fist into another’s jaw. None of them could hold him back; even unarmed, Sirius’s speed and combat training were rarely matched.

The captive raised his head, eyes widening when he saw who was coming.

“Reg.” Sirius cried. He was almost to his younger brother.

Then he heard a woman’s low voice.

“Crucio.”

Sirius’s vision exploded, and he collapsed uncontrollably onto the ground, convulsing. Pain drilled into his skin, his veins, his very bones. He heard someone screaming, only to realize that the voice belonged to himself. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the unbearable agony ceased, and Sirius curled on the floor, gasping for air.

“You bloody—” Sirius panted out.

“Crucio,” the woman said again.

Sirius’s eyes rolled back, his fingers clawing at the floor as he writhed uncontrollably. Someone kicked him, rolling him to one side, then another kick sent him elsewhere. The bystanders might have been laughing—especially the woman—her sharp laughter ringing with unmistakable delight. Everything in Sirius’s head was gone, wiped away, leaving only stop stop stop this fucking pain.

The spell ended. Sirius’s face, scraped raw against the ground, was bleeding; the blood ran into his eyes. He knew how wretched he looked. He could not stop trembling all over, his muscles spasming beyond his control, and shameful filth seeped from him onto the floor. Lying in his own disgrace, he forced himself to turn his head toward his brother.

Regulus’s eyes were bloodshot, his face drenched in tears.

“If you ask me, Gryffindors are filthy, stupid, and uncouth,” the woman—Bella—said lazily, twirling her wand. “You said this is that pet of Severus’s?”

“Yes, Lady Lestrange,” answered the commander of the castle guard, Bartemius Crouch Jr., respectfully. “Mr. Snape is… quite attached to Black.”

Bella pointed her wand at Sirius, who lay sprawled on the floor. Sirius lifted his chin and bared a grin, wild and insolent, the kind that would surely infuriate her. Her face twisted with rage.

“I’d like to see what Severus could possibly do to me if I cursed him into a drooling idiot who only sucks his own thumb.” she said. “Crucio.”

Indescribable, piercing pain consumed Sirius once more. In the blur of his mind, he thought how the Slytherin soldiers, who usually mocked him only with words or tried tripping him when he passed—never succeeding—must be thrilled now. Whenever he brushed off their attempts, they only grew angrier. But now, with him rolling in his own piss and shit—literally—his enemies must be overjoyed.

By the time the curse lifted, Sirius’s voice was gone, stolen by endless screaming. He panted heavily, utterly drained. When he saw the vicious woman’s wand lift again, he could not help but flinch.

“At last, the Gryffindor mongrel knows fear.” the guards jeered.

“Bella, may I ask what you are doing?”

No matter how much Sirius despised Malfoy, at that moment he welcomed the voice that delivered him.

“Oh, Lucius.” Bella did not lower her wand. Instead she raised her head and gave a brazen smile to the blond man approaching. “I am teaching Gryffindors their place. If they had any sense, they would already know who is in charge now.”

“If I am not mistaken, Hogwarts Castle is still under Severus’s command.” Malfoy said. “He has not yet died, and already you rush to seize power? Even if Severus were dead, I am still here. It would never fall to you—a mere woman.”

Bella glared at Malfoy for a long while before she reluctantly lowered her wand with force. “Of course,” she said bitterly. “Men call the shots.”

“Barte, have you forgotten Severus’s instructions?” Malfoy then addressed the commander. “Take that assassin down to the dungeons. He can be dealt with when Severus wakes. Amycus, take Black back.”

Sirius’s jailer pouted in displeasure, clearly unhappy that Malfoy had cut short their fun. He stood there watching Sirius drag himself up with trembling limbs, showing no intention of helping. To be fair, Sirius thought he must look utterly foul. His legs were weak, forcing him to limp, and his fingers kept shaking uncontrollably.

As for his brother Regulus—he was led away toward the dungeons under Crouch’s escort.

Back in his room, Sirius washed himself, changed into a robe, and lay down on the bed to rest. The Unforgivable Curses weren’t meant to be used casually in combat, but clearly, the Slytherin wizards thought differently.

With his body finally relaxing, Sirius let his mind wander, wondering why his brother had appeared here. According to King Voldemort, Regulus and their father had led a band of soldiers far away. If Regulus had returned to Hogwarts Castle, did that mean their father was nearby as well? Snape had been injured—obviously by Regulus’s hand. Why would his brother risk his life to assassinate Snape?

And what about Snape? Malfoy had said he was still alive. Sirius couldn’t help the relief that washed over him at the news. Of course, he told himself, it was because if Snape died, Regulus likely wouldn’t survive long either. Besides, Snape’s life was his. Killing Snape to avenge James was the only reason he allowed himself to go on living. After that, he could leave this world and join all the people he cared about.

And Regulus? And Remus? Are you going to abandon them too? a voice whispered at his ear. Sirius closed his eyes, and the crushing weight of self-loathing struck him again. He tried to breathe, but found he couldn’t draw in air at all—only curling into himself, choking and trembling.

“Breathe, Sirius. Slower.” A gentle, motherly voice spoke to him, a warm hand pressing against his forehead. “It’s all right. Everything will get better.”

Through tear-blurred eyes, Sirius opened them to see Molly Weasley’s broad face smiling down at him with tender kindness.

“I—I can’t…” Sirius gasped.

“Slower. Breathe,” Molly said softly in that mother’s voice. “I heard. It’s all right, I’m here.”

Molly was a mother. She cared for him just as she had once cared for Snape. Even though Sirius had been an accomplice in James’s and Dumbledore’s deaths, even though he now lived under the shadow of the murderer Snape, she tended to him. Sirius clutched Molly’s calloused, mother’s hand and let his tears flow freely.

“They’re all dead.” After so long enduring and suppressing, after pretending to be strong, after ignoring the grief and helplessness gnawing inside him, Sirius finally broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. “They’re all dead, and I survived. It’s all my fault.”

He was glad Molly said nothing. She didn’t try to console him or stop him. She simply sat at his bedside, letting Sirius weep like a helpless child, smearing tears and snot onto her hand.

He cried for a long, long time, releasing all the guilt of being an accomplice and the torment of surviving, drowning in endless sorrow. At last, reason returned, and Sirius slowly quieted, reduced to ragged sniffling.

“We all survived,” Molly said when his sobbing ceased. There was no mockery, no reproach. “Whatever the reason, Sirius, you should be glad you lived through this disaster.”

“The potion that knocked everyone out—I brewed it,” Sirius muttered, voicing a secret he had never shared, not even with Remus. “I was an accomplice in killing the King and Queen…”

“Stop thinking that way, Sirius,” Molly said gently. “I could have guessed as much, but dwelling on it helps nothing. The truth is, you were used by Snape, just like all of us were deceived by him. If the Queen had asked me to help Snape brew a potion, I would have done it too. Would that mean I intended to kill the King and Queen? Did you intend to kill them?”

Sirius blinked, letting her words sink in. “No,” he said at last. “Of course not.”

“Then accept the truth, Sirius. Live with it. Your brother is still alive, too.”

Regulus. His little shadow. Always eager to imitate him—and now, imprisoned in Snape’s dungeons.

“Do you know what happened?” Sirius asked.

“Word is spreading through the castle,” Molly said. “Snape was attacked outside by Regulus—stabbed in the neck. He’s being treated by Poppy now, but he hasn’t woken yet.” She handed Sirius a handkerchief to wipe his face. “Honestly, I hate him. But I don’t want him dead from this either. If Snape dies, Regulus will die as well. And I can’t deny my family is surviving now only because of Snape’s protection. I can’t imagine what Hogwarts would become if Malfoy, or worse, Voldemort himself, took over.”

In that, Snape was a master, Sirius realized. He spared most Gryffindors, granted them small favors, and suddenly their mortal enemy became their benefactor—even earning their defense.

Wasn’t he the same? Sirius thought bitterly.

“Rest after dinner, Sirius,” Molly said, rising and bringing the food from the table to his bedside. “You don’t always have to be so brave. Focus on what you can do now.”

Sirius took the bread Molly gave him and bit deeply into it. Yes, he needed to focus on what he could do now. And helping his brother—that was the most urgent task at hand.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen – Sirius Black

The next day Snape did not return, nor the days that followed. From Molly, Sirius learned that Snape had fallen into a high fever and a deep coma, and that Poppy was fighting to keep him alive.

Without Snape’s magic, Sirius was confined to his chamber, reduced to pacing the narrow space in dull repetition. The full moon was fast approaching. Remus had already missed this month’s Wolfsbane potion, and the coming transformation would be brutal. Molly was right: they needed Snape alive—each of them, for reasons of their own.

On the fourth, perhaps the fifth day, Sirius received an unexpected visitor.

Snape’s mother came to the door that separated their rooms. She tilted her head back to look up at Sirius, who towered over her.

“Mr. Black,” she said nervously. “Might I ask a favor of you?”

The Kingdom of Slytherin was conservative by nature. Sirius had crossed paths with her often in the castle corridors, but she always contrived to avoid him. When forced to share the same passage, she would turn her face aside and pretend not to see him. Her son was branded the Kingdom’s “unnatural demon,” and as his mother, she surely bore the shame. In her eyes, Sirius could only be a debauched whoremonger—the corrupting influence who had ruined her dutiful Severus.

Mothers never truly knew their sons. Sirius understood that better than most.

There was a family necklace Snape had inherited, no doubt meant by his mother to be bestowed upon some virtuous young lady of unimpeachable bloodline. Clearly, that dream would not be realized anytime soon.

Yet, as Lord of Hogwarts, Snape would hardly struggle to find a bride. Sirius was certain that if word went out, families across the breadth of Ozerpia—every noble house with a daughter of marriageable age—would offer her up for his choosing, no matter the distance.

Young, unmarried lords were a rarity, after all. And Snape stood a single step beneath the King himself. His looks, his temperament, even the fact that he kept a male consort—none of it would matter in the face of such power.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, gazing down at the diminutive old woman with an indifferent shrug.

His arrogance must have embarrassed her. She drew several deep breaths before speaking again. Sirius thought she might abandon the attempt and retreat, but after a long silence she pressed on.

“Severus, my son… he has not yet woken.”

“I heard,” Sirius replied coolly.

She turned her face away, her mouth tightening in anger—and for a fleeting moment, the resemblance to Snape was uncanny. Sirius found himself wandering down memory’s paths, wondering when he had last seen that same expression on Snape’s face. Cute, even? He frowned, snapping himself back to the present, and waited to hear what she wanted of him.

When her gaze returned, he could sense her straining to restrain her true feelings about him, choosing her words with care.

“I do not understand what lies between you and my son, nor do I wish to. If I could, I would pretend you never existed—that nothing between you ever existed.”

“That may be too late,” Sirius said deliberately. “Because something between your son and me does exist.”

Her cheeks flushed—another trait her son had inherited—whether from embarrassment, anger, or both, Sirius could not tell. She drew a sharp breath, as though swallowing back the curses she no doubt longed to hurl, the same slurs Slytherins often spat at him. But what she said instead was restrained.

“As a mother, I would try anything—anything—to save my child.”

“You’ve come to the wrong man,” Sirius answered. “I’m no healer.”

Her black eyes fixed on his, and to his surprise, a tear slipped down her cheek. Guilt pricked him. He ought not have been so harsh with a mother in despair. He was about to offer an apology when she lowered her head, brushed away the tear, and drew in a trembling breath.

“I beg you, Mr. Black,” she whispered, her thin fingers knotting into her robes. “Speak to Severus. Say something… gentle.”

Sirius blinked, thrown off balance. “To Snape? Speak gently?”

“The castle healers believe it may help,” she said. “I think you may be the only one left who could reach him.”

He could not fathom where she had got such an idea. Yes, Snape desired him—but only carnally, surely? No man clawed his way back from the edge of death for the sake of a good fuck.

And what kind of twisted fancy made Snape’s mother believe Sirius Black would stoop to speak tender words to the sworn enemy of his murdered King, just to coax that killer back to life?

Still, he studied her face—the aged lines, the grief, the desperation—and finally gave a short nod.

“All right,” he said.

She stared at him, startled. “You… said—”

“All right,” Sirius repeated. “Though I can’t leave this room.”

“I—I’ll have him brought to you.” For the first time she smiled, a frail flicker of hope. “Thank you, Mr. Black. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” His voice cut like ice. “I’m not agreeing because I want your son to live.”

Her smile faltered, then vanished, replaced once more by that sour disapproval. “Of course,” she said. “No Gryffindor would ever wish for my son’s survival.”

“I’m glad you understand.” Sirius’s gray eyes were cold. “The only reason I consent is because I mean to save my brother—the very one who attacked your son. If your son dies, my brother dies. That is all. In truth, I’d rather see Snape dead—dead by my own hand, if possible.”

She looked at him for a long time, then her face softened with sorrow. “Of course,” she murmured. “No one will leave this calamity unscathed.” With a nod, she turned away. “I’ll arrange to have Severus brought.”

Sirius watched her leave, then crossed to the window. Spring had arrived; the trees were budding with fresh green. He fixed his eyes on a particularly thick cluster of leaves and let his thoughts drift.

So this was the price. He wanted Snape to live only because he wanted Regulus to live. If words could bring him back, then words he would give. It was not about what he wanted, not about what he felt for that man.

He should never have entangled himself with Snape. That way everything might have stayed simpler. They were destined to be enemies. Pure hatred was easier to bear than this entanglement of passion and conflict.

It wasn’t long before Snape’s mother returned, this time with Poppy in tow, wand raised to guide a floating stretcher. Upon it lay a still figure. Peter was there, and Malfoy, and that loathsome woman—Bella.

Poppy laid Snape down on the bed Sirius usually slept in and performed a quick examination. Snape’s mother stood at the other side, gazing at her unresponsive son. As for Peter, Malfoy, and Bella, they at least had the sense to remain in the sitting room and not provoke Sirius by intruding here.

She said little to Sirius—only instructed him that if Snape were to wake, he must inform her immediately. Before leaving, Snape’s mother walked to Sirius, bowed deeply, then departed. Sirius, meanwhile, could hear the shrill voice of a young Slytherin woman in the next room, speaking to Malfoy.

“Better if Severus were strangled by his pet, wouldn’t it? Then Hogwarts would be yours.”

“Shut up, Bella,” Malfoy replied with his usual arrogance. “Eileen isn’t worried, so why should you be?”

Peter, whom Sirius knew had always longed to claim the lordship of Hogwarts, dared not say anything. Instead he kept darting nervous glances toward Sirius’s room, muttering, “The Master told me to keep watch. I must stay here.”

Raising his voice, Sirius bellowed at the traitor in the other room. “Come here, Peter Pettigrew! I’m waiting for you to step inside.”

Peter shot him a hateful, fearful look and scurried off.

When silence finally returned, Sirius went to the door, checked that everyone had gone, and returned to Snape’s bedside. He would not kill him—not now, not yet. He stood watching Snape the way he had so many nights before…

When sleep eluded him and the demons in his mind gave him no peace, Sirius had often crept to the doorway of the adjoining sitting room, peering through at the sleeping face of his enemy.

Now that same enemy lay in his own bed, thinner than ever. Understandable—too much blood lost, days without food or water, surviving only on magic and potions. Sirius allowed himself, for a brief moment, to set aside hatred, letting something buried deeper rise to the surface.

He reached out and touched the cold cheek.

Snape’s neck was swathed in heavy bandages; of course the bleeding had long stopped. His brows were furrowed, his face ashen, his expression disagreeable even in deathlike unconsciousness. Sirius sighed, pulled a chair to the bedside, and leaned close until his head was level with the other man’s. The oil lamp flickered out, leaving only the firelight. Sirius lay against the bed, face near the Slytherin’s, both men swallowed by shadow.

“Your mother seems to think talking to you might bring you back. I’ve no idea why she believes that,” Sirius began. “After all, you murdered those dearest to me. At Harry’s inheritance ceremony, you slaughtered them all. I hate you. I despise you.”

At some point he realized he was holding the other man’s limp hand. He lifted the long fingers, studying them. “Your hand is beautiful. Your eyes are beautiful. Your smile… beautiful. The way you throw yourself into something with that focus—it’s beautiful. I once thought you were nothing like your father. But clearly…”

He cut himself short, swallowing the insult that wanted to break free. Lowering Snape’s hand, Sirius climbed onto the bed, still clothed, and lay at the far side. He laced their fingers together once more, turned toward him, and pressed a soft kiss to Snape’s unresponsive lips before rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“I never thought these hands could commit such cruelty. You destroyed those I loved most—James, Harry, the Queen, Dumbledore… and Severus Snape.” His voice fell to a whisper. “You are the one I hate most in this world.”

It was foolish, speaking to someone who might not even hear, yet Sirius went on, muttering to the ceiling. “But you can’t die, Snape. If you hear me—you must not die. Do anything you want to me, so long as you wake and live. I’ll call you Master. I’ll kneel before you, take you into my mouth. I’ll spread my legs for you, let you do as you will. Bind me, beat me, humiliate me. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted from me?” He drew a shuddering breath. “Just—don’t you dare die. Wake for me.”

Then he closed his eyes and slept beside his enemy.

In the dead of night Sirius woke abruptly, turning his head. Snape’s eyes were still shut, body unmoving—but Sirius was certain he had heard him.

Sirius.

He had heard Snape say his name.

Lighting the oil lamp, Sirius leaned over. Sweat beaded Snape’s brow; his lips moved without sound. Sirius pressed his ear to them.

Sirius, Snape whispered.

Sirius crossed to the table, seized the magical note Poppy had left him, and tossed it into the fire. He dragged a chair to the window and sat waiting. Soon Poppy arrived, still in her nightclothes but wide awake. Without delay she began tracing complex gestures over the body on the bed.

“It worked,” she said.

From across the room Sirius blinked. “It actually worked? I thought his mother was joking.”

Poppy beckoned him to help prop Snape up while she poured in a potion. The moment felt eerily familiar—Sirius remembered doing this before, a year ago. The healer expertly coaxed the liquid down Snape’s throat and laid him back.

“His body is sound,” she said calmly, professionally. “At the time, he treated himself enough that the blood loss never threatened his life. He simply does not wish to wake.”

“Does not wish to wake,” Sirius repeated.

“Have you ever wondered why magic has no effect on Muggles?”

He shrugged.

Poppy smiled faintly. “They say when the Seven Gods created wizards, they wove a bond among them—magic works only on our kind. Sometimes, to avoid hurt or escape pain, magic itself will act, drawing a wizard into this state.”

“You mean Snape refuses to wake because waking is painful?” Sirius gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Why would waking be painful to him?”

She shook her head. “That I cannot say. What matters is finding the right person—someone whose bond, through magic, can call him back. His mother spoke to him with no effect.”

“And you knew my words would?”

“I didn’t,” Poppy admitted. “It was his mother’s idea.”

Sirius looked down at the man in the bed. “Will he remember what I said?”

“You can ask him once he wakes.” She studied him, then laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “Whatever you told him, Sirius—don’t be ashamed. You’ve helped not only Snape, but your brother, and a worried mother as well.”

Whether or not she believed it, Sirius felt lighter for hearing her say so. “Thank you, Poppy,” he said earnestly.

“Shall we let him stay here tonight?” she asked. “I’ll return in the morning.”

He agreed.

That night Sirius kept his distance, seated by the far window, watching. Snape’s brow gradually eased, his face smoothing into peace, his breathing steady. Near dawn, his body shivered; his lashes fluttered, as if some fragile creature were unfurling damp wings.

Then Snape opened his eyes, unfocused, staring at the ceiling.

Sirius neither spoke nor approached, only watched. Slowly, Snape blinked, turned his head toward Sirius, and looked at him.

They held each other’s gaze for a long time. Then Snape closed his eyes again and slipped back into sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen – Severus Snape

Severus Snape awoke to find himself lying in his room. His mother was seated beside him, offering a faint, gentle smile.

“Drink some water,” Eileen said, helping him sit up and propping a large, firm pillow behind his back.

His mouth was parched. Severus drank deeply and greedily of the cold water until his stomach felt swollen and he could not swallow another drop. He collapsed back against the pillows, still drowsy, with the hazy sense that something of grave importance lingered in the depths of his mind—something that must have happened while he lay unconscious—but he could not recall it at all.

Through his heavy eyelids, Severus gazed toward the door leading to the adjoining room.
No one was there. Of course not. What was he expecting?

“Why are you here and not in your own room?” Severus managed, realizing speech cost him more effort than usual. “What time is it?”

His mother’s face carried a trace of sorrow. “You don’t remember? You’ve been unconscious for several days.”

Severus frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t…” He broke off, a face flashing sharply in his mind. “Oh—I remember. I was attacked, that assassin…” In an instant, the sleepiness left him. He tensed and turned sharply to his mother. “Is Crouch outside?”

“No, Sev.” Eileen pressed him back down as he tried to rise. “The healer said you should remain in bed a few more days.”

“I don’t want to lie here any longer.”

“You haven’t eaten in days. At least take some food first.”

“I’ve had water. Where is Poppy? Let her examine me.” Severus spoke urgently. “She’ll confirm I’m fit.”

With frail legs he forced himself out of bed, determined to reach the wardrobe and find clean clothes. He knew his mother’s worry—she was always worried for him—but he was no longer the young scholar who had once left Slytherin. He bore too many burdens now, too much responsibility. He was already a man who had to stand on his own.

He dressed himself properly, while his mother stood silently watching.

“Don’t worry,” Severus said, moving closer to reassure her. “I’m fine. Nothing will happen. Go back and rest.”

Eileen lifted a hand to straighten his collar, just as she had when he was a boy. “Yes… you always say that,” she whispered.

Severus watched her go. Then he turned, reaching for his wand on the desk—and saw him.

By the door to the sitting room stood Sirius Black, tall and upright, his gray eyes calm and impenetrable. His arms were crossed as he regarded Severus in silence. Then, slowly, Sirius let his arms fall. To Severus’s astonishment, he sank to his knees, lifting his face.

“Severus,” Black said softly. “My master.”

Severus’s breath caught. His eyes widened, words deserting him. He thought, he measured, and then he understood.

“The assassin,” Severus asked evenly. “Who was he to you?”

Black did not hesitate. “My brother.”

Of course—his brother. They resembled one another, and besides, the assassin had tried to cut his throat, declaring it was “for my brother.”

“I see.” Severus approached, standing before him, looking down. “To save your brother’s life, you would do anything.”

Yes, Severus understood him well. For Black was the kind of man who would give everything for those he cared about. He would kill Even Rosier for the wife and heir of Potter; try to strangle Severus for Potter’s vengeance; submit himself for Lupin’s safety. And now, for the sake of his brother’s life, he knelt before the man he hated most—calling that enemy his master.

“You can do with me whatever you wish.” Black said, as if striking a bargain. “I swear, I’ll obey.”

“Even though I killed Potter?”

Agony and hatred slashed across Sirius’s face. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Even if I killed the Queen? Dumbledore?” Severus’s voice lowered to a soft, almost tender murmur. “Even Potter’s heir?”

Sirius’s lips trembled, his teeth bared, and the false mask tore away. “You filthy bastard,” he growled, vicious and raw, his reddened eyes locked on Severus without a blink. His fists, pressed hard against his knees, shook with fury. “I swear to God, I will kill you with my own hands for them. I’ll slit your throat, sever your head. And your headless body will hang naked from the castle walls until every drop of blood has drained dry.”

Ah. That was the true Black—ever the man who fought for what he believed was justice. Severus had never been naïve enough to think Black could forgive the murderer of the Potters. For that, he had long been prepared.

Everything came at a price. Black was willing to abase himself for the sake of his family and friends; Severus, on the other hand, needed… a steady source of motivation.

Severus lowered his voice, infusing it with deliberate malice. “You just said you’d do as I command.”

Black panted heavily, chest rising and falling, eyes blazing with fury. Then, with obvious reluctance, he bent his upper body down until he was fully prone on the floor, presenting a posture of complete submission. “I’m sorry, Master. Please punish me.”

The way he spoke those words made them sound less like an apology than a threat: I’ll kill you.

Severus honestly didn’t know whether to be amused or enraged. “What if I told you to crawl naked behind me through the entire castle?” he asked deliberately.

He expected another outburst, another curse hurled at him. Instead, after a stretch of silence, Black replied in a flat voice: “I would, if that’s what you wanted.”

But he didn’t want that. The very thought of others leering at Black’s naked body filled him with a jealous rage.

Still, he couldn’t let Black come away without paying some price. Not when Peter Pettigrew and a crowd of Slytherins were waiting to see how he dealt with the assassin.

“I’ll consider that option,” Severus said at last. “For now—prove yourself. Crawl over here and suck me off. And if your teeth so much as touch me…”

He let the threat hang. If Black had any sense, he’d know exactly how much leverage Severus held.

Severus raised his wand and canceled the boundary charm that had barred Black from crossing the room. Then he spread his legs and stood waiting.

Black lifted his head, his eyes burning with pure fire, but still he crept forward on hands and knees, reached beneath Severus’s robes, and pushed his way in.

His mouth was just as Severus remembered—hot and wet. Pulling the robe higher to reveal the man’s dark head, Severus looked down. Black’s technique hadn’t faltered; he knew exactly when to tighten the suction and when to ease, never once letting his teeth graze.

Severus watched as his own arousal filled out Black’s cheeks, then felt him relax his throat and take him all the way down, eyes lifting to look up through his lashes. He really should have listened to his mother and eaten something; his legs were close to giving way beneath him.

Fingers twining in Black’s curled hair, Severus rocked forward and back, surrendering himself to pure, unthinking desire, letting all else fall away.

It had been so long—since the last time they…

A hard, deep pull, and Severus cried out as release surged through him, spilling into Black’s mouth. But Black didn’t stop—he kept drawing at him, and soon the oversensitive skin was starting to ache.

“Stop,” Severus rasped. “Just clean it.”

True to his word, Black obeyed, licking him clean of every trace before leaning back on his heels, hands resting on his knees, lifting his head to meet Severus’s gaze with stubborn defiance.

Severus wanted—oh, how he wanted—to sink down and return the act－take Black into his mouth, and kiss him.

He tucked his softened length back into his trousers, straightened his robes, and drew himself up, arrogant and cold as he looked down on the Gryffindor.

“Get up and follow me,” he ordered.

Black lowered his head, letting his long, curling hair fall forward to hide his face. One could see he was straining to play the part of an obedient, docile pet. Severus stepped out of the chamber; Crouch was already waiting.

“The assassin?” Severus asked.

“In the dungeons,” Crouch replied, walking just behind his left shoulder. “Next to the werewolf’s cell. The Slytherins must have thought putting him beside Lupin would be enough to frighten Black’s younger brother.” He continued, “All we know is that he’s Orion Black’s second son. But he refuses to say anything. Mr. Malfoy said to leave the questioning to you.”

There was indeed much Severus wished to know. “How is he?”

“His leg is injured, but nothing serious.”

“Has he eaten?”

Crouch hesitated. “Somewhat,” he said at last.

Which meant they had hardly given him anything.

“Tell Pettigrew—when he takes food to the werewolf, he is to bring some for the assassin as well.” Severus’s own stomach gave an ill-sounding growl. The captain of the guards kept his face politely solemn. “And have Pettigrew bring some light food to my chamber. You may go.”

“Mr. Snape,” the captain said.

“I know perfectly well the way to the dungeons.” Severus’s reply was hard and cold. “As long as you have fitted him with an anti-magic collar, he cannot harm me from behind bars.”

Crouch bowed and withdrew. Severus did not bother to check if Black followed. He simply strode on toward the cells where the assassin and the werewolf were kept. Nodding to the guards at the doorway, he had them open the door and went down into the dungeons.

Halfway down the stairs, he heard the voices of the two prisoners inside. The pair of cellmates seemed in fairly good spirits, and Severus considered whether he ought to apply harsher measures lest the others mistake him for weak.

But the pet who should have been trailing obediently at his heels instead rushed forward, heedless of having shoved aside his master.

Severus stumbled, nearly losing his footing on the steps. From below came cries—“Regulus!” “Sirius!”—ringing out in surprise.

Yes, he would need to consider carefully how to reassert his authority.

Slowly, deliberately, Severus walked to the innermost cell and stopped at a short distance, watching the moving reunion of the three Gryffindors. The moment they saw him, their words died away.

Remus Lupin, as always, answered his presence with wary, silent regard, revealing nothing of his true thoughts. The younger Black—what did they call him? Regulus? The Black family had a curious sense of humor when it came to naming—stepped back from his brother and glared at him with the same gray eyes. Sirius Black, meanwhile, turned squarely to face Severus, saying nothing.

At a glance, the brothers resembled one another, yet when standing together the differences were plain. The elder was taller, his face leaner, his gaze sharp and seasoned, hiding a feral savagery beneath, with a recklessness all his own. The younger was shorter, his features softer with a lingering trace of baby fat. Though he carried the bearing of a fighter, there was also the air of a schoolboy about him. And in those same-shaped eyes blazed open hatred of Severus.

Let him look. Severus was well used to such expressions from Gryffindors.

“Tut, tut, how touching.” He curled his lip, lacing his voice with arrogance and malice. “Don’t let me interrupt—do carry on your chatter. Your time is short enough.”

Lupin stayed silent. The younger Black let out a low growl from deep in his throat.
“I never expected to live long, falling into your hands, kingslayer. Only regret I didn’t kill you first.”

Severus lifted an eyebrow and turned his gaze to Sirius Black. Sirius pressed his lips tight, glaring at him for a long moment before turning back to his brother.

“Shut up, Regulus,” he said.

Regulus stared at him in disbelief. “What did you say?” he whispered.

“I said, shut up.” Sirius repeated, his tone harder. “If you want to keep yourself alive…”

“Is this what you’ve been doing all this time?” Regulus cut him off, his voice rising. “Bowing and scraping to the invader who stole our kingdom? Becoming his… dog? When I heard people whispering it in the streets, I couldn’t believe it. He killed James—you remember that, Sirius? Do you remember telling me about the honor of defending our country?”

“Of course I remember.” Sirius slammed both fists into the iron bars with such force that the clang made Severus almost flinch back. He steadied himself. “I will never…” He stopped, remembering too late that his master’s eyes were on him. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, Regulus,” he said, panting.

Regulus’s gaze flicked between his brother and the Slytherin leaning against the wall, drawing his conclusion. “He’s threatening you with my life, isn’t he? I don’t care, Sirius. When I ran away from Father and came back to Hogwarts, when I stalked that half-blood bastard and planned to kill him, I was prepared to die.”

“I care.” Sirius said.

“Sirius?”

“I care!” Sirius’s voice cracked louder. “Everyone I cared for, everyone I loved—he slaughtered them all that day!” His right hand thrust back toward Severus. “I thought you and Father were dead too. But you’re here—alive, with Remy beside you. Regulus, you’re all I have left.” His voice broke into raw desperation, on the edge of tears. “Don’t do this to me.”

Severus had heard enough. He strode forward, seized Sirius’s arm, and hauled him back.

“Enough,” he said coldly. “Your time is over. Come with me.”

“Let him go!” Regulus shouted. “You filthy son of a—”

“Regulus.” Sirius’s low voice cut him off, and the younger fell silent.

Severus dragged Sirius up the stairs, out of the dungeon gloom, striding quickly back toward their chambers. Sirius’s legs were long enough to keep pace—Severus had no concern he would stumble. At the chamber doors, the guards Goyle and Crabbe moved hastily aside, and as Severus pulled Sirius inside, he caught the sound of their muffled snickering.

He locked the door.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen – Sirius Black

He braced himself for Snape’s fury—punishment, or something of that sort. Snape’s physical strength was not overwhelming, yet the grip now biting into his arm felt as if the man meant to brand his fingerprints into the flesh. Sirius kept pace with his captor’s brisk strides, glaring back at every Inquisitorial Guard whose eyes slid toward him with suggestive amusement or open disdain—especially those two tall, dim-witted hulks posted at the door. One day, Sirius swore, he’d flatten both those idiots. Instead, he was all but dragged into Snape’s private chambers.

Snape was shorter, but when he slammed Sirius against the door with a resounding thud, Sirius had a fleeting, absurd thought—should he crouch a little, spare his master the indignity of craning his neck upward? Yet Snape seemed unbothered. Those upturned, dark eyes searched his own, fevered and fathomless. Sirius smothered the near-unruly emotions stirred up during his talk with Regulus, and hardened his gaze.

For a long moment, Snape only stared. Then, abruptly, he seized Sirius by the front of his robes and yanked him downward while rising on his toes, pressing their mouths together.

Sirius did not want to kiss back. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to pull this man close, to return the kiss. He crushed that urge. Kissing was for someone he loved—not for an old enemy, not for the master who kept him as a possession. He had already resolved: whatever passed between him and Snape would be pure transaction, never an exchange of feeling.

So Sirius pressed his lips tight, clenched his teeth, and kept his fists balled at his sides.

Snape’s mouth lingered on his, drawing gently, tongue skimming the seam of his lips. Sirius nearly yielded. Nearly—because meeting Regulus had been agony. His beloved brother, his little shadow, trapped in that bare, squalid cell—thin, filthy, exhausted. His mind had gone wild imagining it: Regulus, once shielded so carefully by their father, now alone in enemy territory, haunting the streets of conquered Hogwarts, tailing and ambushing the city’s most powerful and dangerous figure. How many times had his life hung by a thread?

Seeing him again had driven Sirius to the brink of breaking. He realized, with bone-deep terror, how afraid he was of losing anyone else.

And Snape was kissing him. Not rough, not ravaging. A kiss that soothed, that understood, that—Merlin help him—might even have carried affection. Even without responding, Sirius felt steadied, felt the surge of panic ebb away beneath that touch. His heartbeat slowed. His breath evened.

He felt… better.

When no response came, Snape drew back, eyes still locked on his, fathomless, unreadable. Then he stepped away, his face smoothed into a blank mask Sirius could not decipher.

“Return to your room,” Snape ordered. “I expect, when I come to you tonight, you’ll greet me with more enthusiasm than this.”

Sirius had no wit left for mockery. He knew precisely where he stood. With only a grunt, he strode past Snape, straight-backed, through the spell-warded door.

He bathed, letting the cool water wash clarity back into his mind. This was his choice—just as he had promised when Snape lay unconscious. He would yield. He would give whatever was asked.

When he returned to his room, Snape was gone. Only an empty plate remained on the desk; Sirius guessed he’d gone to confer with the castle stewards about the days he’d spent insensate. Sirius stripped bare, sprawled across his bed in what he fancied a seductively enticing pose.

The room was warm. The bed soft. With his resolve settled, Sirius felt at ease.

He drifted into sleep.

At midnight he woke to find an arm draped across him. He traced its line with his eyes to its owner—naked as well, asleep beside him. Snape’s brow was furrowed in worry even in slumber, yet there was a strange peace about him, too. Sirius lay still, staring at the ceiling.

Perhaps it was that same strange ease, but in this embrace with his enemy, naked skin against skin, Sirius hardened. Perhaps it was only that he had gone too long without human touch. Either way, his breath grew ragged as he willed his body to calm itself.

The man holding him shifted. Sirius stiffened further.

Turning his head, he found himself staring straight into wide, wakeful black eyes. Snape’s gaze was calm, untroubled. Sirius met it with the same cold detachment.

“I can see it,” Snape murmured. “You’re far more eager than you were this morning.”

Sirius clenched his jaw against any retort and replied in a flat, lifeless tone. “So what now? Are you going to fuck me, master?”

Snape’s jaw tightened, his face darkening, as though Sirius’s words had cut him. “Of course,” he said icily. “I may enjoy what is mine whenever I wish, may I not? What are you waiting for?”

Sirius glared at him, breathing hard, then climbed wordlessly onto the other naked man and used his tongue to please his master. He knew Snape’s preferences, knew the sensitivities of his body with precision, and knew exactly how to coax his pleasure. Slowly Sirius moved downward, positioning himself between Snape’s thighs, taking his cock into his mouth and working him with mechanical rhythm.

The strange thing was—despite the cold indifference of their exchange, the mechanical motions of their coupling—Sirius never softened. On the contrary, he was harder still. His body, against his enemy, seemed to carry its own treacherous will.

He worked Snape with his mouth until the latter tugged gently at his hair to stop him. Sirius lifted his eyes; Snape had raised his upper body, watching him intently.

“Take this,” Snape rasped, handing him a familiar small jar. “If I feel the slightest displeasure, I’ll lock you in here. You may spend your time imagining what your precious little brother… might be enduring.”

The threat filled Sirius with white-hot rage. He snatched the jar through clenched teeth, while Snape spread his legs. With painstaking care, Sirius prepared him, pressing and stroking in the precise places that would heighten his master’s enjoyment. The black-haired man narrowed his eyes, a pleased hum escaping him.

And then—Sirius lifted Snape’s legs to his shoulders, pushed inside, and began to move. If—if they had not been enemies, if nothing had soured between them, if they were still what they had once been—Sirius would have said it was perfect, as though he were made whole again.

He shut his eyes and surrendered to the vision, drowning in the sounds Snape made—sounds he knew so well. He imagined he was with the Slytherin he had once loved; imagined that man had not been murdered by the one beneath him now; imagined the body he entered was still that same beloved; imagined that these hands had never been stained with innocent blood.

Opening his eyes to a narrow slit, he saw the other man lying back, eyes closed. What was Snape thinking? As his sex-slave moved inside him without affection, was Snape, too, retreating into the past? Did he remember the bond he and Sirius had once built, the bond he himself had destroyed?

Sirius cast off the pointless questions and focused on the task. Snape wanted release from his body; Sirius would give it. He reached to grasp Snape’s rigid cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. Snape twisted on the bed, the sounds from his throat louder now. And then, just as Sirius remembered so well, Snape’s legs went taut, his passage clenched, and his whole body shuddered as he came.

But Sirius remained hard.

Once, he would have gone on until he spilled himself inside. Not now. He would not admit that his enemy’s body could wring such fierce pleasure from him. He withdrew, kneeling between his master’s thighs, suppressing every urge to finish, his eyes cold and empty as he stared down at the Slytherin lying before him.

Snape lay gasping, eyes closed. Then his lashes fluttered, and he slowly opened them. His black-onyx gaze, hazy with release, locked on Sirius, lips parting faintly as if shaping his name. Sirius’s cock twitched at the sight.

Snape’s gaze dropped to Sirius’s still-hard erection—and to the icy contempt in his eyes. In an instant, the fog of passion cleared. It was as if he suddenly recalled who he was, where he was. All expression folded away, hidden behind a mask, armored beneath a hard shell.

“You did well,” Snape said at last, rising from the bed and sweeping his discarded robe over his shoulders. “Your brother will live to see tomorrow.”

“Thank you for your mercy, my master,” Sirius replied, his voice flat.

Snape stood with his back to him, breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling, but said nothing more. Then he left Sirius’s chamber.

Afterward, Sirius stumbled into the bathroom, seized his still-aching cock, and worked himself roughly until he spilled onto the floor.

The next morning, Molly brought him a hearty breakfast. Snape dismissed her and stood at the doorway, watching Sirius eat.
“How much you eat, your brother in the dungeon eats just as much,” Snape told Sirius, who had no appetite.

Snape pressed against his weakness, and Sirius admitted defeat with hatred. He forced himself to finish every bite of breakfast, and then lunch. In the afternoon Snape appeared again, this time leading him out into the corridor. His gaoler, Amycus Carrow, stood there waiting with a face full of impatience.

“In light of your… rather satisfactory performance last night,” Snape said. Carrow and the two hulking guards exchanged looks and gave contemptuous snickers. “You may move about freely until sundown. Amycus,” Snape said to the guards. “If Black misbehaves, you may remind him appropriately—but take care not to damage… my property.”

Carrow shrugged and agreed. Snape nodded in satisfaction and left without so much as a glance at Sirius.

Ignoring the guards’ whispering, Sirius went straight down to the dungeons to see his brother.

He had already accepted that this was the life awaiting him. Until the chance for revenge came, Sirius could only coexist with reality. He ate every meal; trained his body in the bedchamber by day; visited Remus and Regulus in the dungeons in the afternoons; endured the crude mockery of the Slytherin guards; returned to his chamber before sundown to await his master; and, if Snape required it, had sex with him.

Their coupling was devoid of warmth—mere routine movements. Sirius would meet every demand Snape made of him. And truthfully, at times Sirius wondered if this was what long-married husbands and wives felt when they lay together at night.

Old spouses—he and Severus Snape. The thought, without reason, stabbed Sirius with pain.

Spring passed, and summer arrived. One morning in early June, before leaving, Snape told him that he would accompany him that evening to Lucius Malfoy’s house.
“His son has reached his first year,” Snape said coldly while adjusting his wizard’s robes. “There will be a banquet.”

Sirius could not fathom why Snape would bring a sex toy to a banquet; they were hardly a married couple in any true sense. But that evening, Sirius nonetheless dressed himself in the most suitable set of clothes from the wardrobe.

“Suitable” meant a bare neckline, fabric clinging tightly to his body, his figure fully displayed. Sirius wanted to be sure he looked like a bona fide whore—he wanted Snape humiliated.

When he stepped out of the room, Amycus Carrow was chatting with Goyle and Crabbe. The three of them widened their eyes at Sirius’s wanton attire. They glanced at each other, and Carrow was the first to laugh.

“Honestly, Black, you really can adapt to your new role,” Carrow said.
Sirius shrugged indifferently. “What, don’t Slytherins dress like this in summer?”
“Slytherins aren’t as shameless as you Gryffindors,” Carrow sneered. “A man lying with another man…”
“Then you ought to try it,” Sirius replied provocatively. “Perhaps you like men more than you think.”

Carrow flushed scarlet, his expression disgusted. “Move. Snape wants you taken over.”

Head high, Sirius strutted through the castle. When the guards called him Snape’s sex toy to his face, Sirius answered with mocking smiles. They only dared use their tongues—none dared lay hands on him. Snape’s orders were one reason; Sirius’s skill another. After one witless Slytherin guard had tried to attack him and ended up pinned to the ground by Sirius’s bare hands, they seemed to remember that this fallen Gryffindor had once been a warrior feared on the battlefield.

Only when Sirius stepped outside the castle did he realize how long it had been since he had set foot beyond Hogwarts. By then it was nearly dark. On the curfewed streets not a single civilian could be seen—only Slytherin soldiers patrolling everywhere. Carrow, walking ahead, nodded to each guard they passed, and from the looks Sirius received, it was clear every one of them knew who he was.

He walked on beneath eyes full of malice and mockery, resisting the urge to bow his head and hide. Let them look. Let them know what kind of appetites Voldemort’s first general possessed.

They entered the Malfoy estate—once belonging to the Lupin family. In the front courtyard Sirius encountered the first familiar face: Snape’s mother. At her side was the woman Sirius would never forget, the mad Bellatrix Lestrange.

Snape’s mother frowned, her eyes scanning Sirius’s wanton attire from head to toe. Pressing her lips in dissatisfaction, she finally chose to turn her gaze aside as if she had not seen him. Lady Lestrange, by contrast, ogled him boldly, clicking her tongue in exaggerated delight.

“Eileen, just look at the company Severus keeps,” Lady Lestrange shrilled. “People like this, where we come from, would already be shut in an iron cage and dropped to the bottom of a river.”

“And where’s your cage, then?” Sirius shot back.

Her eyes widened in disbelief that Sirius dared answer her so. And perhaps it was only Sirius’s imagination, but he thought he saw Snape’s mother lower her head and stifle a quiet laugh.

Lady Lestrange whipped out her wand and pointed it at Sirius, screeching, “I told you these Gryffindors need a lesson—they’re too stupid to know their place!”

Sirius braced himself for the curse. He knew all too well how cruel this woman could be. But Snape’s mother reached out to grip her wand arm, speaking humbly, “Lady Lestrange, my head aches again. Please—give me more medicine.”

Sirius stared at the two women before him, puzzled. If he wasn’t mistaken, Snape’s mother seemed genuinely afraid of Bellatrix Lestrange—though she was clearly the elder of the two. Lady Lestrange cast her a dark, scornful glare, and the older woman shrank back.

“You’re insufferably tedious,” Lestrange sneered. “Fortunately Tobias will be back soon. Let him deal with you and your son.”

If it was possible, Snape’s mother looked even more terrified. “Tobias is coming back?” she asked in a whisper.

“Ah, you hadn’t heard?” Lestrange’s lips twisted into a delighted smile. “A courier only brought the news today. He’s won a great victory. The heads of the Flitwick family now hang from the city walls. There is no longer a Ravenclaw kingdom.”

Sirius could hear the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Slytherin had won, swallowing the three greatest kingdoms of Ozerpia aside from itself. King Voldemort had achieved his dream of dominion over the entire continent. Sirius’s fingers trembled, fury flushing his face.

“Tobias will go straight back to Slytherin, won’t he?” Snape’s mother still pressed. “He—he won’t be coming here?”

“Why ever not?” Bellatrix said, suddenly exultant. “His son is lord of Hogwarts lands. Of course he’ll come see his wife and child.” She seemed almost giddy now, as though awaiting some spectacle. “I can hardly wait to see Tobias’s face when he learns of Severus’s… pet. I daresay he won’t stop at breaking Severus’s legs this time. Perhaps he’ll strip him bare and bind him to a pillar, let the crowd pelt him with stones.”

Her excitement was grotesque; Snape’s mother had gone deathly pale. Sirius lowered his gaze, eyes blazing with anger.

“I don’t strike women,” he said, his voice low and cold. “But if I did, I’d dearly like to break your legs and let you taste that pain yourself.”

He knew he shouldn’t provoke her, but her words—her contempt toward Snape’s mother, her gloating over Ravenclaw’s fall, her anticipation of Snape’s suffering—were enough to make his blood burn.

Snape’s life was his. No one else had the right to touch him.

Bellatrix raised her chin, wand flashing back into her hand. This time Sirius was ready. He fixed his eyes on her lips, catching the incantation as she spat it. Before the Cruciatus Curse could strike him, he dove aside, dropped low, and swept her legs. Bellatrix Lestrange had barely begun to scream before she crashed heavily to the ground, her wand flying from her grasp. Sirius wrenched her arm behind her back; she writhed helplessly, howling in pain.

“Mr. Black!” Snape’s mother clutched his shoulder in alarm. “Please—don’t!”

At that same moment, he heard a familiar, furious voice.

“Let her go, Black! What do you think you’re doing?”

Sirius released her and got to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes. He realized that nearly the entire Malfoy estate had gathered in the courtyard. Snape strode forward to help Lady Lestrange up, but she slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me, you filthy half-blood,” she shrieked, summoning her wand and leveling it at Sirius. “Crucio!”

Sirius collapsed, his face smashing into the dirt as his body writhed in agony. The curse broke only under Snape’s counter-spell. Gasping, Sirius clawed his way upright, while Snape stood between them, fury radiating off him.

“You dare lay a hand on what is mine,” Snape’s voice was low and dangerous. “As lord of Hogwarts, I can have you expelled from my lands at any moment.”

Bellatrix’s hair was in wild disarray, her face contorted with rage. “Arrogant little Snape,” she hissed. “I’ll report this to the Dark Lord—that you collude with Gryffindors to humiliate me. When your father’s army arrives, we’ll see if you dare defy Tobias instead of groveling at his feet, begging him not to thrash you and Eileen bloody.”

All color drained from Snape’s face; his lips turned white. He looked as frightened as his mother at the mention of Tobias Snape. Meanwhile, their host, Lucius Malfoy, came striding forward, displeasure written across his pale features.

“This is Draco’s birthday celebration,” Malfoy said curtly. “Settle your feuds elsewhere.” He cast Sirius a cold glance. “Severus, why is he even here?”

“You said guests might bring a companion,” Snape replied stiffly.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, his chin tilting upward, his gaze sliding over Sirius with aristocratic disdain. “It seems someone does not know how to dress for a formal occasion.”

Sirius only shrugged. Snape’s eyes lingered, dark and unreadable, on Sirius’s deliberately bared collarbone and chest. But before the silence could thicken, Snape’s mother stepped forward—and to Sirius’s astonishment, unclasped her cloak and fastened it over his shoulders.

“This is better,” she murmured.

It wasn’t better. The cloak was far too short and unmistakably feminine, but at least it covered his exposed skin.

Malfoy sighed, long-suffering. “So be it. Come in, quickly—the banquet is about to begin.”

Inside, Sirius found himself seated between Snape and his mother, with no utensils before him. He suspected Snape feared he might stab someone. Instead, Snape fed him slowly by hand, and Sirius obeyed. Over the past months they had grown used to each other’s roles, each adjusting to the strange shape of their bond. It was the Slytherins, rather, who seemed at a loss over what to do with Sirius. In the end, they followed Eileen Snape’s example—ignoring him altogether, pretending he wasn’t there.

The hall buzzed with talk of Hogwarts’s harvests, taxes, new shops. Some murmured about the latest courtesans in Flower Street. Hypocrites, Sirius thought bitterly. They mocked Snape for keeping a male whore, while whoring themselves with women freely.

At the head table, Lucius Malfoy’s young son Draco—the day’s celebrated child—was shoveling pudding into his mouth with both hands, his golden hair sticky and his cheeks smeared. Watching the boy, Sirius was suddenly pierced by memory of Harry. If Harry had lived, he would turn one at the end of next month. What would he have been like? Safe and pampered, like the young Malfoy? Or like little James had been, racing through the castle, leaving mischief in his wake?

A pang cut through him, sharp and unbearable. Sirius clenched his fists beneath the table, swallowing his rage. Harry had never been allowed to grow up—because of the demon sitting at his side, who had lied and deceived them all…

“…So, Tobias’s army will reach Hogwarts from Ravenclaw territory in about half a month?” one of the Slytherin officials asked, pulling Sirius’s thoughts back to the present.

“Yes,” Snape replied flatly. “They’ll encamp on the outskirts. I’ll arrange for my father and a few close lieutenants to stay within the castle.”

“Tobias is remarkable,” Bellatrix said with a gleeful laugh. “He’s conquered nearly all of Ozerpia. And you too, Severus—you’ve matched his triumphs. He needs an army. You only need to spread your legs to achieve the same.”

The hall fell into a heavy silence. Shame and fury surged into Sirius’s face. Bellatrix’s words were nothing new; he had heard Slytherin soldiers whispering them in the castle corridors, their lewd theories of how Snape had gained King Potter’s trust and betrayed him.

Beside him, Snape suddenly brushed Sirius’s hand in reassurance before withdrawing. Then he rose, calm and deliberate, his voice a velvet-edged blade.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, Lady Lestrange,” he said. “The lands of Hogwarts do not welcome traitors who slander the Dark Lord.”

She shot to her feet, livid. “Who are you calling a traitor?”

“Whom do you think, Bella?” Snape’s voice was low, silken. “While I accepted the King’s secret mission, fought alone to earn the Gryffindors’ trust, and fulfilled the task entrusted to me—what have you done for His Majesty’s ultimate cause? Some truths are plain enough; there’s no need to spell them out. My loyalty to the Dark Lord is beyond question. I will not allow you to defile it here.”

Sirius, his head bowed in shame moments before, lifted it now to watch Bellatrix. Her wide jaw trembled; her eyes darted between him and Snape.

“Very well,” she spat, flinging down her napkin before storming out of the Malfoy manor.

Snape’s gaze swept the hall, sharp and commanding. “Does anyone else have doubts about the Dark Lord’s designs—or my loyalty to him?”

One by one, heads lowered—including those of Lucius and his wife. Sirius guessed they all feared being branded traitors themselves. Snape gave a faint, satisfied snort, sat back down, and calmly resumed his meal.

But Sirius, for many reasons, found that he could not eat a bite.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen — Sirius Black

Tobias Snape’s army did indeed arrive on the outskirts of the city toward the end of June. The sheer number of men demanded vast amounts of food, and as Sirius moved through the castle he often overheard the Guards grumbling in private about their reduced rations.

“They’ll rest here for about a month,” Molly told him. “After that, some will return to Slytherin with Tobias Snape, and some will remain here.”

Sirius wondered whether the Gryffindor Guards who had once been sent to serve in the Slytherin army had managed to survive, or whether they had already perished in a war that had never been theirs. From Regulus, he had learned that Kingsley Shacklebolt had fled on the very first day, found their father, and joined him. Because of that, Regulus had also learned of the upheaval in the city—and of Sirius being imprisoned by Snape.

He knew Kingsley’s talents well enough; the others might not have been so fortunate. Yet, truth be told, compared with having one’s throat cut in sleep or a head lopped off on the execution ground, joining Slytherin’s army at least meant one more chance at life. Sirius sometimes could not help but think that, in a way, Snape had saved their lives.

In early July, Sirius was carrying Wolfsbane potion down to the dungeon for Remus—this new task a reward from Snape for good behavior—when he passed the gates and saw Tobias Snape striding into the castle with several of his men.

It was not Sirius’s first time facing Tobias Snape. The man’s powerful frame and brutish face had always left a deep impression. But before, their meetings had been on the battlefield. Now, that former enemy swaggered openly onto the soil that had once belonged to Sirius’s own country, and the old hatred stirred restlessly inside him again.

He turned his back and walked away, allowing himself, for once, to be a coward.

That night, Snape returned to his chambers but did not seek Sirius out. From his seat, Sirius could see the Lord of Hogwarts, weary-faced and heavy-footed, collapse straight onto the bed and fall asleep without even changing his clothes.

It was the same for many nights. From Molly he heard that the elder Snape was, in her words, “a damn fool impossible to please.”

“All the servants are run ragged with his demands,” Molly scoffed. “He insists on the finest ingredients, his bathwater must be just the right temperature, the bedsheets must be changed daily, and not a speck of dust is to cling to the window ledges. When you pass him you must bow, never look him in the eye. He’s constantly shouting. I don’t know how his wife and son can stand it.”

Sirius remembered how Bellatrix Lestrange had endlessly spoken of Tobias Snape’s violence toward his wife and child, and how both Snape’s mother and Severus himself had shown such dread at the thought of Tobias arriving at Hogwarts.

“Perhaps,” Sirius said, stroking his chin, “they endure it simply to survive.”

“There’s worse than that,” Molly muttered, her face twisting with disgust. “He and his officers—when they see a girl they fancy, they just drag her off to their rooms. Many of them are young girls not yet betrothed.”

Sirius knew well enough the vices of Tobias Snape’s army. His gaze fell, and he asked quietly,

“How does Snape deal with it?”

Molly looked at him. The anger on her face shifted into something closer to pity. “He’s terrified of his father.”

A few days later, while Sirius was training his body in his chamber, a furious shout rang from outside. He moved to the window and looked down into the courtyard. There they were—the Snape family.

The first to catch Sirius’s eye was Severus Snape, standing tall and defiant despite the swelling bruise on his face and the puffed lip. Sirius thought he knew very well who in this place would dare to strike the Lord of Hogwarts. Then his eyes went to Snape’s mother, crumpled on the ground in tears.

And towering above them all, the cause of it, stood Tobias Snape, massive as a wall, his right hand still clenched into a fist.

“You’ve shamed me, Severus!” the elder Snape roared. “How did I sire such an unnatural wretch? And you, Eileen—what sort of mother are you, not to have noticed the boy was a sniveling, perverse demon?”

Snape’s mother wept bitterly, while the young Snape, one hand pressed to his bruised face, glared up at his father with black eyes full of hatred. Sirius glanced about—the garden was empty. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike must have withdrawn to a safe distance to watch the spectacle.

Tobias swung again. Severus flinched back but still took the blow, this time falling hard to the ground. The old man drew a long knife from his belt and leveled its point at his son. The Lord of Hogwarts stared wide-eyed at the weapon before him.

“I should have killed the pair of you long ago. If not for the Dark Lord himself granting the marriage, I’d have cut the filthy Prince bloodline out with my own hands. As if raising a wolf in the dungeons weren’t vile enough—now this!” The Slytherin commander spat on the ground. “Soon the whole of Slytherin will know that Tobias Snape’s son is a pervert who lies with men. How am I supposed to hold my head high?”

“Tobias, Severus is the Dark Lord’s most valued servant,” Eileen Snape cried, throwing herself between her husband’s blade and her son. “Entrusted with the heaviest of duties. Even if not for Severus—think of the King’s great cause!”

“The King’s great cause is long fulfilled. I placed Ravenclaw’s diadem into his hand myself. With the Seven Treasures, King Voldemort is already the supreme ruler of the continent of Ozerpia.” Tobias Snape said with pride.

The aged mother shook her head desperately, then suddenly dropped to her knees and began striking her forehead against the ground.

“Tobias, he is your own flesh and blood.”

“He is not my son. My son would not fuck other men,” old Snape spat. “Out of my way, you hideous old woman. Sons can be begotten again. But this degenerate, this unnatural wretch who carries my blood—I will end him with my own hand, here and now.”

Sirius’s fingers whitened where they dug into the window frame. He turned away from the sight, crossed the room, seized the single heavy wooden chair, and dragged it back toward the window.

In that brief time, the scene in the courtyard had shifted. Sirius saw Severus Snape draw his mother behind him and lift his head, baring his throat to his father’s blade. His eyes shone with a fierce light, his face set in grim resolve; all trace of fear or cringing had vanished.

“I am not abnormal,” Sirius heard his master say. “Sirius says I am perfectly normal. But you are right about one thing—I have no father such as you, cruel and inhuman. I would sooner call myself Prince than bear the filthy, fallen, shame-stained name of Snape.”

Tobias Snape’s face flushed scarlet. He raised his right hand high, ready to bring the blade down.

From the high window, Sirius swung up the heavy chair and hurled it down with all his strength.

The invisible barrier warded against Sirius himself, but not against a chair. The wooden missile struck Tobias squarely; his long knife went spinning as he toppled backward, crashing to the ground. Blood streamed from his head as he lay stunned, staring up at the window ledge where Sirius leaned out, grinning in wild triumph.

“Allow me to correct you, Commander Snape,” Sirius called down. “I can’t vouch for all else, but when it comes to bedding men—Severus is perfectly normal.”

Blood ran into Tobias Snape’s eyes; he blinked hard, trying to see more clearly.
“And who the devil are you?” he demanded.

“I am Sirius Black, eldest son of Orion Black, Commander of Gryffindor. Yes, the very same Sirius Black who held the border against you, barred your army from advancing a single step, sent your troops fleeing in disgrace, and left you beaten again and again.”

At those words, Tobias Snape shook with rage, trembling from head to foot. He scrambled upright, snatched up his fallen knife, and leveled the point upward toward Sirius.

“You dare—you filthy, shameless Gryffindor cur! Come down here and face me! I’ll kill you with my own hand!”

“As much as I’d love to,” Sirius drawled in the tone he knew best for stoking fury, “I’m afraid that won’t work, Commander Snape. Didn’t Severus tell you? I’m his prisoner, locked up in this place with nowhere to go.” He lounged against the window frame, deliberately insolent. “So do me a favor—don’t kill Severus just yet. That’s my job.”

The elder Snape stood below, chest heaving like an enraged bull. Severus only stared at Sirius, eyes wide, his expression unreadable.

“Very well,” Tobias growled at last. “If you won’t come down, then I’ll come up and cut you down myself.” He shoved Severus aside and strode toward the castle, brimming with murderous intent.

“Captain Crouch,” Severus said suddenly, his voice sharp and cold. “Vice-Captain Baldwin Freeman.”

The two officers of the Guards seemed to appear from nowhere, standing rigidly at attention as they awaited orders.
“Lord Snape,” they said.

“Escort Commander Tobias Snape out of Hogwarts Castle,” Severus ordered, each word like hammered iron. “By whatever means necessary. At once.”

Tobias Snape froze, turning back in disbelief to stare at the young lord. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Severus replied, his face shadowed and merciless, his voice icy and stripped of all warmth, his gaze the same, “you had best get the hell off my land this instant—or my men will break your legs and throw you out.”

“You dare speak to your father that way!” Tobias Snape roared, his voice shaking with rage. “Let’s see who ends up with a broken leg!”

Severus kept his hands clasped behind his back. Sirius noticed the tremor in his fingertips, a betraying flicker of fear—but the young man never let it show. His body stood ramrod straight, a shield in front of his mother.

“You are my father, and gave me half my blood. For that, I honor you,” he said in a low, steady voice. “But now you seek to harm what is mine.” Severus paused, lifting his gaze toward the windowsill where Sirius leaned. Sirius only arched an eyebrow in return. Severus shot him a hard glare before turning back to Tobias. “I swore an oath: by any means, I will protect them. No one will hurt them.”

The young Lord of Hogwarts raised his wand. In an instant, ropes snaked around Tobias Snape, binding him fast. Two of Severus’s men hoisted the immobilized commander, who spat and howled, powerless.

“When I report this to the Dark Lord, you’ll taste his punishment!” Tobias thundered.

“You’ll have to wait in line,” Severus replied coolly. “I daresay Bellatrix Lestrange has her complaint prepared ahead of you. But I fear you will both be disappointed. The Dark Lord still needs me—to complete his final work.”

Carried on the shoulders of the guards, all his authority stripped from him, Tobias barked curses. “Final work? What more is there? I delivered the last of the Seven Divine Treasures to the King! What else remains for you?”

Sirius perked up at that, but Severus said nothing—only ordered Crouch to carry his father back to the encampment outside the city, and decreed that not one of Tobias’s soldiers was to set foot inside without his permission.

As the disgraced commander was borne away, Sirius couldn’t resist shouting. “Hey, Tobias!” he called. The guards halted, and old Snape raised his head, glaring. Sirius fluttered his lashes, touched a finger to his pouting lips, and drawled with shameless insolence: “I forgot to mention—I’m fucking your son.”

The elder Snape shook with fury, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed in a faint. Sirius burst into laughter, watching the three men disappear, before turning his gaze down toward the courtyard.

Severus Snape was staring up at him, his dark eyes fathomless. Sirius met that gaze, letting his smile fade. He realized that for all the time Tobias had remained within the castle, he and Severus had never once spent the night together.

Now Tobias was gone. And whatever hatred Sirius still harbored for the younger Snape, at this moment there was only one thing he wanted to do with him.

That night Severus came to Sirius’s chamber. And whether it was Sirius’s imagination or not, they were both more fervent than usual.

The following day, after Sirius left the dungeons where he had been chatting with two prisoners, he found Severus’s mother waiting at the exit. Eileen Snape gave a slight nod to Amycus Carrow, who was shadowing Sirius.

“Mr. Black,” she said softly. “Will you walk with me by the lake?”

Sirius cast a glance at his gaoler. Carrow shrugged, stepping back to give them space. Frail and small, Eileen’s figure seemed even weaker beside Sirius’s stride. He remembered, unbidden, the sight of her on her knees in the courtyard, begging Tobias to stop hurting her son—and of the black-haired boy who had stepped in front of her, shielding her from his father’s blows. Perhaps this was their daily reality. Sirius did not know what to feel about it.

They walked in silence until they reached the lake. Eileen sat down beneath a tree, motioning for Sirius to sit as well. Carrow stood far off, already restless, no doubt wishing for dinner.

“Amycus,” Eileen said kindly, “go on and eat. I’ll bring Mr. Black back.”

Carrow hesitated. She smiled, waving. “Mr. Black won’t throw me into the lake. I have my wand.”

Sirius shrugged. “I don’t kill old women.”

Carrow muttered assent and left. Sirius waited, curious what this frail woman had dismissed her guard to say. She began at once, speaking to the rippling lake.

“Mr. Black,” she said. “Do you know the three great families of Slytherin?”

“Malfoy, Black, and Evens?”

Eileen narrowed her eyes, a faint smile touching her lips. “Yes. But once there were four. Malfoy, Black, Evens—and Prince.”

Sirius remembered the name. Only yesterday Severus had told his father he would rather bear Prince than Snape.

“Prince was your maiden name?”

She turned to him, eyes glinting—the same dark eyes as her son’s. “Yes. Now the name Prince means traitor, turncoat, enemy of the King. My grandfather and father betrayed King Voldemort, and the entire house was condemned. Severus… always wanted to restore our name. He believed that if he proved enough loyalty, fulfilled enough tasks, the King would change his judgment. That we could rise in Slytherin again, and live a little better.”

“And he succeeded,” she said. “He completed every mission, became Lord of Hogwarts, and restored our family’s honor. My parents were freed, though still confined to the Prince estate. Better than prison, at least.”

“His success came at the cost of Gryffindor’s king and kin,” Sirius muttered, fists clenching.

Eileen pressed her lips together. In her hand, Sirius noticed, lay a pendant. If he was not mistaken, it was Severus’s heirloom. She stroked the engraved cauldron-and-spoon design, silent under Sirius’s anger, before speaking again.

“Severus is more Prince than Snape. A Prince never abandons what he has resolved to do.” She sighed. “I know he is planning something. He says nothing—but as his mother, I know. Mr. Black, I understand what Severus has done to you. But yesterday…” She fixed her deep gaze upon him. “I felt I could trust you.”

She placed the pendant in his hand. Sirius stared.

“This is the Prince family’s heirloom,” she explained. “Before my father was imprisoned, he entrusted it to me, saying: give it to the one you truly love, the one with whom you would share your life. Tobias was never worthy. When Severus left Slytherin, I passed the pendant to him, along with those words. On the day I arrived at Hogwarts, he gave it back. He told me, ‘Mother, I have found the one I love. But he will never love me back. He will never accept this gift.’”

Eileen grasped Sirius’s hands tightly, her eyes pleading. “I know who my son meant. I know your hatred. But for the sake of an old mother’s wish, accept the Prince pendant.”

Sirius curled his fingers around it. He hated Severus for destroying his king and country, hated his selfishness and cruelty. But beneath the hatred, if he were honest with himself, he knew he still—

“I will keep it,” Sirius said quietly. He slipped the cord over his neck, letting the cool metal rest against his chest. “You should rest, Madam Snape.”

“Eileen,” she said, rising with his help. “Or Prince.”

Sirius smiled faintly. “Very well, Eileen. Let’s return to the castle.”

That night Severus saw the pendant on Sirius’s bare chest. He said nothing, and Sirius did not mention it. Both knew that some barriers between them would never fall. The past was gone; what remained was to play their roles, and wait for what future might come.

Late in July, one morning before leaving his chamber, Severus told Sirius he would be gone for several days.

“The King has work for me,” he said lightly, buttoning his coat, face aglow with pride. “I don’t know when I’ll return. Lucius will manage the castle. Peter will oversee things.”

Sirius’s throat burned with anger. “So eager to do your King’s dirty work? Not surprising—you killed Lily and Harry, after all.”

Severus gave no reaction; he was used to Sirius’s venom, and everyone else’s. In the end Sirius could do nothing but sneer. When the Lord of Hogwarts beckoned, he still crawled into bed.

“You probably wish I’d die on the mission. Then you and your brother would be rid of me.”

“No,” Sirius said, lips curling. “I want to kill you myself. So don’t you dare die.”

Severus studied him a long moment, then nodded firmly. “Agreed.”

He pulled on his cloak. “Stay here. Don’t do anything foolish without my leave.”

Sirius frowned. “So with your permission, I can do something foolish?”

His master shot him a glare and swept out.

Left behind, Sirius wondered what the Slytherin king still required, having already conquered most of Ozerpia. Voldemort was already lord of the continent; the submission of small nations was only a matter of time.

He recalled Severus’s words to Tobias—that mention of the Dark Lord’s “final work.” Perhaps that was what he was about to undertake.

Whatever it was, Sirius felt certain—it would claim more lives.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen — King Voldemort

The dream Lord Voldemort had plotted for years was finally about to come true.

Upon his head rested the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw; at his neck hung Salazar Slytherin’s locket; at his waist gleamed Godric Gryffindor’s sword. King Voldemort stood upon the border where the kingdoms of Slytherin and Ravenclaw met, gazing out across a vast expanse of plain scattered with countless earthen mounds. This had once been a battlefield. Here Slytherin soldiers and Ravenclaw soldiers had clashed at close quarters, and here their dead were hastily buried—or in some cases, left exposed to rot under the open sky.

It was the perfect place, and this was the perfect moment.

Tonight, he would master death and grant immortality. After this night, no one upon the continent of Ozerpia would dare stand against him. He would become the eternal king of this land—forever and unending, life after life, age after age.

King Voldemort tilted his face upward. Above, the cloudless night sky glittered with innumerable stars, a crescent moon their only light. Yet such beauty was nothing he cared to admire. It was what was about to unfold that stirred his heart.

His gaze shifted to the two loyal attendants who had come with him. One stood at his left, one at his right: the fiercest of Muggles, and the keenest of wizards. This father and son were indispensable to the empire he was about to forge.

Tobias Snape, long blade in hand—the blade that had slaughtered uncounted lives—stood to Voldemort’s left, eyes blazing, his whole frame radiating his devotion to his king. Severus Snape stood on the right, wand in hand, back straight, silent as ever. He did not question, though he could not yet guess what his king intended—what his king intended him to do. He obeyed, as always.

At Voldemort’s feet sprawled his pet, a massive venomous serpent, tongue flickering in and out.

“You are my most trusted, most faithful servants,” King Voldemort declared into the silence of the field of bones. “Tobias—you crushed the Kingdom of Hufflepuff and brought me the Cup. You crushed the Kingdom of Ravenclaw and brought me the Diadem. And you, Severus—you destroyed the Kingdom of Gryffindor and brought me the Sword. That Voldemort stands where he stands today, he owes to the toil of you both, father and son.”

The two glanced at one another, and Voldemort could feel the mutual disdain and loathing that passed between them. Their quarrels were of no interest to him. Tobias had mentioned a few things; Bella had, too. But the petty grievances of these two Snapes were beneath his notice.

According to the reports of Peter Pettigrew—whom Voldemort had placed at Severus’s side to watch him closely—Sammir Prince’s grandson had comported himself at Hogwarts Castle in a disciplined, measured fashion, often scolding other followers for failing in their loyalty to the king. Voldemort had once wondered at Severus’s decision to keep Orion Black’s son alive. Yet Peter assured him that Severus was exceedingly cruel to his pet, Sirius Black: that he treated the once-renowned warrior with contempt, forcing him to dress like a whore and suffer public humiliation within the castle walls.

This, Voldemort deemed, was proof enough of Severus Snape’s loyalty. He had elevated Severus because he needed him—needed his aid to accomplish the final work. The debt of the Prince line—of Sindey and Sammir—was not yet paid. The Seven Gods’ precept was clear: bloodline continues, surname endures, honor shared, sin borne together. This was what Severus must render to the great King Voldemort.

“For your devotion and service to me, you shall now be part of my ultimate work,” Voldemort went on, “and witness the hour when the Dark Lord becomes the immortal sovereign of all Ozerpia.”

Under his cold, cutting gaze, the father and son at last stepped forward together. They bent low, showing reverence and thanks, and Voldemort accepted their homage with satisfaction.

“My king,” Tobias said, still bowed, “you are already the supreme ruler of Ozerpia.”

Severus bent quickly as well, fearful that his own obeisance might seem less than his father’s. “My king,” he murmured in his low, soft voice, “you are already the undying legend of Ozerpia.”

At this, King Voldemort’s pale lips curved into a vast smile. Fools—none of them yet understood what future he would bring to this continent. When he said immortal, he meant it in its most literal sense.

“You will see,” Voldemort whispered. “You will become part of it.”

He lifted his eyes once more to the vault of the heavens. The hour had come. It was time to begin the first step.

King Voldemort flicked his wand, and Hufflepuff’s little golden cup appeared in his hand. He continued to flick the wand, and five small silver-glowing orbs floated into the air, forming a circle before his eyes.

So beautiful. King Voldemort nearly said the words aloud, even though they were fragments of his soul. Narrowing his long, red eyes, he admired for a moment the way his soul danced, then lifted his wand, drew the first fragment close, and affixed it inside the cup.

“Nagini,” King Voldemort called softly. His pet raised its body toward him and opened its mouth. Voldemort held the cup near Nagini’s fangs and let it receive the proper dose of venom. “Good girl,” he praised in a low voice, then turned his gaze upon his younger servant.

Severus Snape, who had been watching the entire process with black eyes full of doubt, lowered his lids as he felt the attention of his king upon him.

“My king,” he said quietly.

“Come here, Severus,” King Voldemort said in the same gentle tone he used for Nagini. “Come before me.”

The young wizard stepped forward a few paces. Voldemort handed him the golden cup, smiling faintly, speaking softly. “Drink, Severus.”

Severus stared at the liquid in the cup, and at the silver orbs floating in it, then lifted his head. “My king?”

“When the king commands you to drink, you drink,” Tobias Snape barked.

The black eyes blinked. Voldemort saw what little color was in his servant’s face slowly drain away, his lips turning white with fear. Voldemort was considering how to force the soul fragment into him if Severus refused, when the young man raised the cup and drank it down in a single swallow.

His whole body tensed, his teeth clenched hard, and when he returned the cup his hand was trembling.

Voldemort placed a second fragment of soul into the cup, again took venom for it, and handed it to Severus.

“Drink,” he said softly.

Severus looked at the cup, hesitating; the hand that held his wand gave a small tremor. Voldemort wondered whether the young man might dare strike against him. Clearly not. Severus accepted the cup and drank down the second fragment.

When Voldemort gave him the third, the youth was holding himself tightly, shivering. His tear-filled eyes looked at the Dark Lord, and he shook his head faintly.

“I beg you, my king,” Severus said in a trembling voice.

“Your grandfather begged me as well,” Voldemort said. “Your mother also begged me. Did I forgive them? Drink. This is the responsibility you must bear.”

The grandson of the Prince family blinked; this time his hand trembled so badly as he took the cup that Voldemort thought he might spill it. After swallowing the third fragment, his legs could no longer hold him; he slowly sank to his knees, head bowed, breathing heavily.

For the fourth fragment, Severus did not reach out his hand. Voldemort had Tobias seize his son’s head and force it upward. Severus widened his eyes, clenched his teeth, and stubbornly refused to open his mouth. Tobias drew a short dagger from his boot, pressed its sharp edge against his son’s lips.

“Open your mouth, you wretch,” Tobias growled harshly. “Or I’ll pry it open—and cut out your tongue with it.”

Severus shut his eyes; a single tear slid down from the corner. He opened his mouth, and King Voldemort poured the fourth soul fragment inside.

The fifth fragment of soul was comparatively easier. By now Severus had collapsed onto the ground, curled tightly like a fetus. When Tobias brought the cup to the young man’s lips, he had no strength left to resist, letting his father pour the contents into his mouth.

King Voldemort put Hufflepuff’s little golden cup back into his robes, lifted his wand, aimed at the young wizard on the ground, and began to chant an incantation.

The effect was immediate. Severus, who had been lying there trembling quietly, suddenly shook harder and screamed in agony. His eyes flew wide, his hands clawed desperately at his throat as he rolled back and forth on the ground. Across the silent wasteland, the screams of Severus Snape were all the more terrible.

King Voldemort knew that the fusion of souls required time. He conjured a solid, ornate chair, sat upon it at ease, and waited.

At his feet, the young wizard writhed until his voice gave out. His body convulsed, his face twisted in a grotesque grimace. His fingernails tore bloody scratches across his own cheeks. He opened his mouth wide, yet no sound came forth. Thin streams of blood seeped from his nostrils and the corners of his lips, mixing with the sand and smearing his face until he was filthy all over.

After a long stretch, the vessel for the fusion of souls at last ceased rolling and stopped trying to scream. Severus lay on his side, trembling only now and then. His black eyes, identical to those of his mother and grandfather, stared unfocused into the distance. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, King Voldemort might have thought him dead from the ordeal.

Then Severus’s torn, bloodied lips opened, and from his mouth emerged a great silver sphere. King Voldemort stretched out his hand, and the orb hovered above his palm. Looking closely, the orb was formed of five joined parts, the seams bound with black threads that glimmered faintly in the night sky.

“Tobias, look,” King Voldemort said in a voice full of affection. “All of your son’s magic is here. Do you see those black shining threads? Just as I expected—his magic is very powerful, enough to let the soul fragments complete their fusion within his body. Had it been anyone else, they would have died halfway through.”

“This is what we ought to do for you,” old Snape replied, without so much as a glance at his son who still trembled on the ground.

King Voldemort cupped the soul with both hands, murmuring incantations as he drew it toward his chest. The sphere glowed brighter, quivering as though eager to return to its master. Then, with a brilliant flash, it sank into the King’s heart and was gone.

King Voldemort’s appearance began to change. Black hair sprouted from his once-bald scalp, his nose lengthened, his lips grew fuller, his eyes widened. He was almost handsome now, nearly the likeness of a young Tom Riddle Gaunt. Tobias stared in shock at his king, unable to believe what he saw.

But King Voldemort wasted no time admiring his restored form. Since learning that collecting the four treasures of the Seven Gods would allow one to master death and gain immortality, he had waited for this moment. Now, with a whole soul and immense power, it was time for the next step.

He spread the fingers of his left hand, removed the ring from his middle finger, and with magic extracted the black stone set within it. Then he opened the golden locket at his chest and placed the stone inside.

“Watch, Tobias, Severus,” King Voldemort said, holding Gryffindor’s sword in his right hand and Hufflepuff’s cup in his left. “Watch the final work you have accomplished for me.”

The King rose from his chair, lifted high the sword and the cup, gazed up at the star-filled sky, and began to chant the spell described upon the family’s parchment. The words were long, meaningless, without sense, yet Voldemort had studied them endlessly since the day he acquired the parchment. He recited them again and again, sang them again and again, over and over without pause, until—

The crown upon his head shone with golden light that enveloped all of him; the locket at his throat cast a gray radiance across the entire burial ground; the cup in his left hand hummed; the sword in his right shot a beam of silver-white light straight into the heavens.

King Voldemort’s form shifted once more. His skin turned silver-white, his hair turned silver-white, his eyes became silver-white, his lips became silver-white. In the dark night, he seemed to glow.

Tom Riddle Gaunt had become the legendary Night King, the Undying—he had gained immortality.

At the same time, strange rustling sounds rose all around, like claws tearing through the soil, bodies struggling to crawl out of the earth. The Night King swept his gaze across the plain. Where there had once been silence and emptiness, skeletons now stood one after another, more still clawing their way free from mounds of dirt. The entire valley filled with the dead—White Walkers, the White Walkers—standing motionless before their master, waiting for his command.

The Night King knew that farther away, across the whole continent of Ozerpia, every corpse not yet wholly rotted had risen, now made into White Walkers under his dominion.

It was as if he could hear the terrified screams of the people of Ozerpia who bore witness to this night. Even those who had not seen it with their own eyes would, by morning, awaken to find the land crawling with the dead and know the truth.

They would know who their new king was. They would know to whom they now owed their fealty. They would know what awaited any who dared oppose the Night King.

“My King,” Tobias Snape suddenly dropped to his knees. His massive, powerful frame was trembling. “This… this is…”

The Night King lowered himself slowly into the ornate chair behind him, and with a gesture summoned his army of White Walkers to gather at his feet. The sight only deepened Tobias’s fear; he all but curled in on himself. On the ground, Severus Snape’s unfocused eyes began to regain clarity, and like his father, he looked upon the scene with mounting dread.

“From this night forth, there is no King Voldemort,” the Night King declared. “There is only the immortal Night King, supreme ruler of Ozerpia. And all of this, I owe to the two of you.”

“Oh, my King.” Tobias lifted his head, no longer in fear but in genuine awe and devotion. “I rejoice for you.”

“Yes, I know. And I shall grant you immortality, Tobias.” The Night King raised his hand, bit into his own finger, and smeared silver blood across Tobias’s brow.

“Thank you, thank you, my King,” Tobias said, with utter sincerity.

The Night King then turned his gaze to Severus Snape. The young man was slowly rolling onto his side, crawling forward to retrieve his fallen wand. The Night King watched with curiosity—what did Severus hope to do, stripped of his magic? What could he possibly do now?

Severus lifted the wand with painstaking slowness and aimed it at his own heart. His weakened, trembling fingers did not cease to shake.

The Night King did not know that at that very moment, far away in the castle of Hogwarts, the Prince family pendant pressed against the slumbering chest of Sirius Black began to shine with light.