The Weight of Knowing

Severina Snape had a Little Black Book.

Actually, she had a series of Little Black Books. No one would be surprised by their existence. No one would be surprised by their contents, either. Page after page, row after row—every single thing that had ever bothered her, since the age of six, was written within.

But the purpose of these notebooks? That would surprise everyone.

Severina Snape had decided long ago—she would not wallow in misery. She would not stew in grievances. She would not let wrongs fester unchecked. No. She would fix them.

Every single thing that had ever dared to bother her, dared to stand in her way—she would dismantle. Piece by piece. Because who else would?

Who in all the world would care enough to do it for her?

She had made herself a vow, the only vow she had ever given: She would never be more miserable than necessary. And misery—she had realized—was proportionate to inadequacy.

So, she would learn. She would grow. She would become larger than all the wrongness in the world.

Writing them down was the easy part. Severina had always been observant. Always aware. Articulating what was wrong—what needed to be changed—had never been difficult. She had barely needed to practice.

No, for her, the challenge wasn’t in naming the problem. The challenge was in solving it. And some problems were… uncomfortable. There were things she hesitated to put to parchment. Things that felt shameful to admit, even to herself. But no one else paid her enough mind to notice. And Severina had learned to make peace with shame. Stripping away pride was easy when there was no one else in the room to see her do it.

Some problems were simple. A faulty quill? That had been solved in first year—proper maintenance, a well-placed, surprisingly intricate charm, and, when a replacement became necessary, a carefully cultivated friendship with the house-elves—one that had, among other things, granted her the location of the Come and Go Room.
She had never lacked for school materials again.

Other problems required more… finesse. Like Cassian Greengrass, whose unfortunate attempts at courtship had sent his object of affection fleeing at the mere sight of him. That had taken a delicate hand.
And rather a lot of clarification.

But then, there were problems that were simply too big. Too entrenched. Problems that, as a child, she had been forced to write down and leave unsolved—grasping at partial answers at best. Because what could she do? Her father, drowning himself in alcohol, spiralling further with every passing year. Her mother, slipping into silence, losing herself in depression. Lupin, cursed to a fate no spell or potion could undo. Even Hogwarts' school brooms, ensuring that students without means would never touch a Quidditch pitch.

Useless suffering.

She hated it.

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But one thing about unsolvable botherations—they provided direction. If nothing else, they told her where to focus, what to study, what she needed to understand next.

When it came to Hogwarts' broomsticks, she had learned. She had researched. She had made herself grasp the intricacies of wizarding law, Hogwarts regulations, and everything in between. For years. Until finally—an idea had taken root. A real course of action. Something viable.

And it had been Black, of all people, who had inspired the revelation.

It had happened during their latest skirmish.

The Marauders had struck first. She had retaliated. And this time, in retaliation, she had done something particularly inspired. She had pulled their Heads of House directly into the conflict. And the results? Oh, the results had been delicious.

Potter—for all his charm and bravado—had found himself negotiating with McGonagall like a common cur at trial. A humiliation that should have left him cowed. And yet—even then, with his pride in tatters, he was still—infuriatingly—arguing for better terms. And listening to him, she knew he would get the terms of his demise adjusted in his favour.

Pettigrew had somehow dug a hole for himself that Severina hadn’t even been aware existed—one that involved Slughorn and the unfortunate phrase: “I’d be honoured.” Even she had almost felt pity for the wretch.

Lupin—well. Lupin had looked… tired. Unsurprisingly.

But Black—Black had been seething. The entirety of his attention, his focus, his anger—fixed solely on her. She had felt it—like the weight of something pressing against her spine, something brimming, blistering, barely contained. He stood there, his gaze heavy, burning with something unresolved, something unrelenting—something that told her he could not, would not, let this go.

Let her go.

And that—that was when it happened. She had felt it unfurl—unwelcome, insufferable—before she could stop it.

That damned smirk. She had been frustratingly unable to school her features into something more dignified, more refined, more elegant, more… her.

It was the worst.

And so, she had turned to walk away—victorious, unbothered, untouchable. With a blithering, uncouth smirk plastered all over her face.

When—his parting shot. "Just like you, Snivellina. Not facing us directly—slithering like a snake to our Heads of Houses."

She did not react. Not outwardly. If anything, the words only broadened that blasted smirk. But they had stuck.

They had circled in her mind for days—weaving themselves into the theatre of her imagination.

Until, one morning—over breakfast of all things—with his eyes glued to her from across the Great Hall, and his voice whispering in her mind—the revelation struck. A plan. For the first time, a real, viable, workable plan—sketched itself out in her mind.

"Just like you… not facing us directly… slithering like a snake."

A slow, curling sensation settled in her chest. Not quite amusement. Not quite satisfaction. But it had been close.

Across the hall, Black was still watching her.

Unknowing. Unaware. Still burning.

Severina reached for her quill and parchment.

She had work to do.

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It came unexpectedly.

He had been watching her again.

Still reeling.

He should have walked away. He knew that. Should have let it go. Let it settle. Let it sink into the back of his mind like every other infuriating, insufferable thing about Severina Snape that refused to leave him alone.

And yet—

When he saw her in the library the following Monday, composed, unbothered, as if she hadn’t spent days tearing apart the system with methodical, unrelenting precision—

He stopped at her table. He shouldn’t have. He did.

Snape glanced up, quill stilling against the parchment. Her gaze flicked over him—slow, assessing. Like she had already predicted exactly what had brought him here.

He opened his mouth—didn’t know what he was about to say. Didn’t even know why he was here, only that he knew now—observation would not reveal an answer.

"…Why?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it. Too quiet. Too honest.

Snape’s brow furrowed slightly. Sirius watched as she studied him, gaze unhurried. Then, as though brushing off dust, she said—"Be specific, Black. What, precisely, do you think requires explanation?"

Something inside him twisted. Because he didn’t know. Didn’t know why he needed to know. Why that need had brought him here.

Honest. Curious.

More curious than he had been about anything in a long time. Because it wasn’t about the brooms. Not really. It wasn't even the fact that she had done it so effortlessly. That she had played a system many times her age, many times her size, many times her power—and she had won. No fanfare. No speeches. No declaration of war. Just a quiet shift in reality.

It was the fact that she had done it in the first place.

Looking into those deep, dark eyes, Sirius—for the first time since he’d known her—felt himself falter. He stood before her—this brilliant, compelling, unfathomable enigma in the shape of an infuriating girl—and his breath caught in his chest. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs. His blood rang in his ears. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to fall into a pit.

He couldn’t help it.

He stepped back. Turned to walk away.

He didn’t make it in time.

She answered.

Just two sentences. "Iustitia Renovata is not exclusive to House Black, Black. Surely, after all your dogged observation these past few days, even you would have realized that."

Sirius froze.

The words slid in like a blade between armour he hadn't realized was cracked. He didn’t turn back. Couldn’t. Just exhaled sharply through his nose and walked away.

His mind latched onto her words with deadly force, though. And though he wished he could focus on the fact that she had apparently known all along he'd been following her—and didn't that open up the necessity of evaluating everything he'd observed, everything he'd been able to observe?—her first sentence blasted on repeat in his head.

He had forgotten about that.

He wished he could keep forgetting. But now, it pressed against the edges of his mind—insistent. Relentless. Unforgiving.

It was instinct now—to fight, to reject, to spit in the face of anything that bore even a passing tie to his family. The Potters had shown him what goodness looked like—what a pureblood name could mean when wielded with dignity, with warmth, with honour. And he had chased it with everything he had. Tried to mold himself into something entirely new. Something worthy. Because nothing about the Blacks had been worthy.

…Right?

His breath came short, uneven.

Iustitia Renovata. The belief that justice was not a fixed ideal, but a living principle. That it was not enough to uphold fairness, dignity, and righteousness—they had to be restored, reforged, wherever they had been lost.

Once, it had been a cornerstone of House Black. Sirius remembered sitting beside his grandfather under the open sky, listening as he spoke of the defining decisions of the Lords of their House—how they had shaped the world, not merely endured it. "We are not keepers of tradition, Sirius. We are its architects. We burn away what has rotted and build anew."

But those memories had been buried. Drowned beneath his mother’s lessons in control. Buried under his father’s quiet, indifferent presence.

His mother had taught him how to command, but never why. His father, when pressed, only muttered vague things before retreating behind his cup.

And yet—this.

This.

Snape had taken one of the building blocks of his family’s philosophy and wielded it with purpose. With precision. With absolute control. And, for the first time, it didn’t feel twisted.

Sirius refused to acknowledge the flicker of something she had shaken in him. But he couldn’t shake it. Not completely.

He told himself he would forget. That it was nothing. That by tomorrow, it would be gone.

He tried to shove it away. Drown it in old rage. But the memories kept resurfacing. Unbidden. Unstoppable. Like something that had been waiting for the right moment to break free.

A steady hand guiding his smaller one under the night sky, tracing the brightest star. "That’s yours, Sirius. The brightest of them all."

Regulus’ little fingers following the embroidered thread of the family tapestry, voice hushed with wonder, with awe. "Look, Sirius. Look how far back we go."

Muted laughter behind closed doors—his aunt scoffing at a long-forgotten duel, recounting how an ancestor had once hexed an entire château in France to glow pink and shimmer for a century. "A Black never tolerates an insult, but we do appreciate theatrics."

The weight of a leather-bound ledger, his grandmother’s—measured, unwavering. "The proceeds will go to the Magical Damage Ward, of course. Never mind what he called you—send the invitation anyway."

Sirius exhaled sharply, eyes flicking up, as if he could escape it. But he couldn’t. Because that—that was what had always been missing.

He should have been angry. That would have been easier. Anger, he knew what to do with. But anger didn’t come. Not this time. Because the problem wasn’t her. Wasn't his family. Wasn't the world.

It was him.

Him, and this weight in his chest. Unmoving. Unshakable. This knowledge that he would never be able to forget. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever.

As he lifted his gaze to the other side of the hall—where he had been picking at his food, ignoring the worried glances his friends kept exchanging—he found her dark eyes already on him.

And as his jaw clenched in renewed fury, watching that damned, maddening smirk take shape on that dangerous mouth— he didn’t know whether he wanted to clutch her close and never let go— or kill her.