The Silent Hunt
Sirius knew. Had known for days now. And if he were being honest, it was only because he had been watching her—watching her with an intensity that felt like something sharp and hollow was carving through his ribs, leaving him restless, burning, and—
No.
Not desperate.
But hatred was cleaner than this.
Still, he told himself that was all it was. That it was fury, nothing more—that the only reason he was trailing her every move, dissecting every glance, was because he couldn’t stand how she had dismantled them.
Because she had left them humiliated. Because she had left them reeling.
Because she had left them.
Sirius had been in enough fights to know what losing felt like. Losing wasn’t what unsettled him. Losing wasn’t the problem. It was what came after. He should have expected this. He knew she wouldn’t bask in victory like they would. Severina Snape didn’t gloat. She didn’t linger. She won. Then she moved on.
And that—that was the worst part.
Not the losses. Not the embarrassment. Not even the occasional trip to Madam Pomfrey. It was that she never saw them as worth her time. Not rivals. Not opponents. Just obstacles in her way.
It made Sirius want to drag her back into the fight.
Which was why it was unbelievable—infuriating—that it had taken her only two days to be scheming over something else.
Sirius had caught the first hint of it mid-glower, gaze already locked onto her as she sat at breakfast. She wasn’t watching anyone. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual—she rarely paid anyone any mind unless provoked—but there was something off this time. As she reached for her quill, parchment beside her plate, the tension in his spine coiled tighter and the slow bloom of realisation came.
She wasn’t just ignoring people. She was elsewhere.
Quill twirling between her fingers. Parchment placed beside her plate. Left hand absently lifting her cup to sip her tea, gaze flicking between words mid-motion, never pausing, never breaking rhythm. Then—writing. Not idly. Not in the smooth, measured way she usually did. This was something else. Something relentless. Something that took all of her.
His stomach twisted. A quiet unease crept into his gut, insistent and unwelcome.
He knew how Snape worked. She gave everything her full attention—every moment of the day weighted with equal importance. Always fully present, as if presence was a discipline unto itself. She would master spells with the same intensity she ate her toast. It was what made her so godsdamned dangerous. But now? Now, she was writing while eating. And not even this she did in the distracted, half-aware way most students scrawled through breakfast.
Her right hand moved furiously across the parchment, ink bold, precise. Her left hand still curled around her tea, lifting in perfect time between sentences, like a clockwork mechanism running parallel to her mind. Like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. Like her body had been dragged into motion by something deeper, something she couldn’t set down.
Sirius’ grip turned iron without thinking, bits of his toast flaking away, unnoticed.
Severina Snape didn’t multitask. Not unless she couldn’t stop herself. Not unless something had rooted itself so deeply inside her that she couldn’t let it go.
Something in his chest went taut, sharp and unwelcome.
What was it? What could possibly matter to her?
He didn’t know. But he would find out.
And for the first time in years, he would be doing it alone.
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There was an unspoken rule among the Marauders.
Never go after Snape alone.
Not because it was unfair. Not because she played dirty. But because, every time they thought they had the upper hand, she proved them wrong.
She was too dangerous.
Too damn clever.
Even at their strongest, she had taken them apart piece by piece.
And their last battle had been the worst of them all.
James had been forced to barter with McGonagall, arguing, pleading, negotiating—anything to keep his Quidditch career intact.
In the end, he’d barely managed to talk her down to nightly detentions, a miserable trade-off but better than being suspended off the team.
Peter had gotten off with barely a week’s punishment—probably because McGonagall was too horrified to prolong the memory of him, red-faced and stammering, accidentally halfway into propositioning Slughorn before the potions master gently stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and the words, “My dear boy, I’m flattered, but I do believe you’ve lost the plot.”
Sirius had walked away with nothing.
Nothing but the echo of her smirk—sharp, silent, curling in the back of his mind.
He hated how much he remembered it.
James wouldn’t even let him say her name right now. Not while he was still working off his punishment.
Peter had sworn her off completely.
And Remus—well. Remus had never been keen on tangling with Snape in the first place, and with the full moon approaching, he wasn’t about to start.
Which meant Sirius was on his own. No one left to stop him. No one to talk him down. No one to tell him this was a terrible idea.
And it was.
Because if she had already moved on, if she had already forgotten, then why the hell was he still thinking about it—about her? Why couldn’t he let it go? Why did the mere hint of her interest snare his own?
It didn’t matter. He needed to know.
So he broke the rule.
And he followed her.
Sirius was careful. He had to be. Snape wasn’t stupid. She was a creature of habit, yes—but only when she wanted to be. When she knew she was being watched, she made herself predictable. That was part of the game.
But now?
Now, she didn’t think anyone was watching. And that made her dangerous in an entirely different way. So Sirius moved carefully. Tracked her with measured steps, keeping just far enough away that his presence never pressed against her senses.
She never glanced over her shoulder. Never paused, never slowed, never broke stride. Because she didn’t expect him. Not so soon. Not alone. And that—that was her mistake. Because she should have.
As he followed her, he couldn't help but feel that something felt off. It wasn’t that she was keeping secrets—she always kept secrets. It wasn’t even that she was hiding something specific. It was that she wasn’t hiding at all. She wasn’t even making the effort. She walked through the castle unhurried, undeterred, unconcerned. As if she had long before decided that no one would ever care enough to look closely.
And that, more than anything, made Sirius’ stomach curl.
The castle moved around her, oblivious. Students rushed past, preoccupied with their own problems. Professors glanced at her and saw nothing unusual. Not a single person noticed her quiet, methodical course through the halls. Except him.
Again, he wondered—why the hell was he here? Why was he trailing after her—thinking about her—when he could be anywhere else?
But as he followed, as he watched—as he uncovered exactly what she was doing—his agitation vanished.
Something else took its place. Something heavier. Denser. Something that curled inside his chest and clenched like a fist.
This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t another skirmish in their endless battle of pride and retaliation. This was Severina Snape making the system fold to her will.
And Sirius—Sirius should have wanted to stop watching.
But he didn’t.