Severus
Severus had come to the conclusion that nothing in his life was ever truly fair.
He could think of a million reasons that supported this view- starting with his abusive childhood, then being placed in a house full of blood supremacists, and, of course, the relentless bullying that had tormented him for seven fucking years.
Oh, but there was more, because the worst always came last.
Sirius fucking Black— heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, professional asshole, and the number one Slytherin-hater— had somehow managed to show up at his doorstep, of all places, asking for help.
Help? Severus thought absently, his mind racing as he watched the hunched figure standing outside his flat. This can’t be good.
“What happened, Black? I always thought you’d rather die than ask for my help,” Severus drawled, forcing a note of indifference into his voice while his mind spiraled with questions. Had You-Know-Who attacked? Was Harry safe? Had something happened to Dumbledore? To Lupin?
There was no reason, no good reason, that would drive Sirius to crawl to his house in the middle of the night dressed like that—wearing nothing but a loose, ragged shirt and pants that looked even worse than Severus’s own. For a moment, he couldn't help but feel a sense of incredulity. Hell, his clothes are in worse shape than those I used to wear in our Hogwarts years.
"If you could just shut up and help a man who's on the brink of insanity, maybe I'd be able to answer your questions," Sirius muttered, his voice strained, almost choking on the words. His breath was ragged, as though he had run a marathon— or perhaps had been through something even worse. The desperation in his tone gnawed at Severus’s resolve, though he would never admit it.
Despite his best efforts at feigning indifference, Severus found himself helping Black inside his flat; his mind screamed at him to just leave the idiot outside and pretend none of this had ever happened. But no- here he was, once again lowering his own standards for someone who had made his life hell and would certainly continue to do so.
Well, joining the Order really did change something in me, he thought bitterly. This was what he got for doing the "right thing": ending up as a glorified babysitter for someone who had never, ever shown him an ounce of respect.
As he guided Sirius to the worn armchair near the fireplace, Severus couldn’t help but feel a flicker of resentment. He had made a choice 15 years prior, to fight for a cause he believed in, to do anything in his power to protect the son of someone he had failed, someone dear to him.
Severus shook off the fleeting thought, quickly pushing aside any trace of sentimentality, there was no time for that. His mind snapped back into focus as he crouched beside Black, assessing the situation with the clinical detachment he had perfected over the years.
He didn’t have the luxury of indulging in self-pity or nostalgia—not now. Being a natural Occlumens helped for sure.
“What’s wrong with you?” Severus asked sharply, his voice as cold as the room. Even the fireplace couldn't quite shake the feeling of being submerged in freezing water. If his father were alive, he would probably say the flat reflected the inside of Severus’ mind—bare, cold, and untouched by anything resembling warmth. But he never really saw him as anything more than a convenient punching bag, so perhaps that was all Severus deserved.
He didn’t wait for an answer, his gaze flicking to Black’s ragged state. His body language alone spoke volumes—there was a reason why Sirius came to him instead of going to that werewolf of his.
“Spit it out, Black,” he added, his patience already wearing thin. “I don’t have time for you to waste.”
Sirius just watched him with defiance, a spark of arrogance still flickering in his eyes, even if he now resembled a walking dead. Whatever had happened to get him into this state, it wasn’t something Severus was meant to know. Black wasn’t asking for sympathy or understanding, he didn’t want to include Snape in his plans— he just wanted help. Nothing more.
No way, not again.
Severus wasn’t about to repeat the same mistakes of the past. He needed facts, cold, hard facts—not whatever tangled emotions Black might be hiding.
With a steady, calculated movement, Severus leveled his gaze with Sirius’, locking his eyes in place with his own. He could feel the energy shift, the subtle pull of Legilimency building in his mind. He focused, refining his concentration, carefully probing into Black’s thoughts, doing his best to avoid causing more damage than necessary.
Before Sirius even had a chance to comprehend what was happening, Severus was in, diving into Black’s mind with the precision of a practiced Legilimens. The raw emotions swirling there hit him with force, but Severus kept his composure; he needed control, he needed answers.
*******
Severus watched as the images flickered before him, flashes of memory, each one clearer than the last, yet still incomplete. He moved through them with ease, picking apart the threads of Sirius’s mind. Each memory he encountered felt like a jarring reminder of their tangled past, and Severus didn’t bother hiding his distaste, hoping that Sirius felt all of it.
Snape was quickly redirected on his tracks. A memory came sharply into focus: the familiar, unmistakable setting of Hogwarts; a young Sirius - probably about fifteen years old - smiling, taunting, surrounded by the echoing laughter of his friends. It wasn’t an unfamiliar situation, they were always so quick to make Severus the joke, the target, at making him feel as if he has never been good enough, as if he would never quite fit in. Well, he didn’t.
The memory hit with the sting of years of torment, the scene had been replayed far too many times in Severus’s mind already. It was a familiar ache, one that never truly went away, no matter how much time passed.
The Marauders were gathered in the Great Hall, their usual spot at the Gryffindor table. Sirius stood proudly at the center, the embodiment of everything Severus loathed: his charm was effortless, infectious, drawing in the others like moths to a flame; they laughed at his every word, at his every jest. The table trembled with the ripple of amusement that spread through the crowd, all at Severus's expense.
"Look at Snivellus, trying to act like he belongs," Sirius’s voice echoed in the memory, cutting through the noise of the hall. His words were sharp, dripping with mockery, the cruelty of them perfectly measured, meant to wound. And it worked. The laughter that followed was like a searing hot knife digging deeper in Snape’s flesh, fueled by that same hate that Sirius seemed to spread so easily. It was like a disease, spreading from one student to the next, infecting and turning everyone against Severus, just because he was an easy target. The laughter was so loud, so overwhelming, Snape locked his head to his shoes and ran toward the door. “Look at him, running like a girl”. Another roar of laughter, even from his own house table.
Severus could almost feel the heat rising to his cheeks, the humiliation all over again, the feeling of being just a figure to laugh at, a target to torment, a walking joke. And Sirius, of course, was at the heart of it, always the ringleader, always the one to make sure that Severus felt the weight of that scorn.
His stomach twisted, as though he could still feel the insults being flung at him, even now.
It was one of the many memories that never let go, a part of him that lived on even after all these years. The boy had never given Severus the luxury of forgetting, of moving on.
Severus tried to push it aside. The memory didn’t matter anymore, he quickly forced his thoughts back on course. He had no time for this, he was here for answers.
Despite all his efforts to follow a precise lead, other memories presented themselves in front of him. Who knew that Sirius was this good at creating different Paths? He was raised as a Black, Severus reminded himself.
Another scene unraveled, and Snape let it happen. He was tired and Legimency required a lot of mental effort, even for an empty head as Sirius’.
This time, he was on the Quidditch pitch. Severus could almost feel the chill of the wind and hear the thunderous noise of the crowd as Sirius soared through the air, laughing, effortlessly mocking Severus’s failed attempts at flying. First year flying lesson, the start of everything.
The memory was fleeting, more of a snapshot, just enough to send the raw sting of humiliation coursing through Severus’s veins. He could almost see himself, helplessly struggling to stay on his broom, while Sirius and his friends reveled in the show of it.
As Severus moved deeper into the layers of Sirius’s mind, the memories began to feel thinner, more superficial. The high points, the victories— everything he expected from Sirius.
Nothing to reveal what he was really hiding. Severus could sense the barrier, an imponent obstacle between him and the one memory that Sirius refused to show him.
He pushed, just enough, careful to not make Sirius go mad. The wall slowly fell, and Severus had the sudden feeling it wasn’t what he was searching for, he belonged there less than he belonged anywhere else in Sirius’ mind.
This memory didn’t belong in this string of carefree, reckless moments. It was quieter, darker- calmer, in a strange, fascinating way. Much softer than all the other memories
He found himself in a dark alley, right outside of Grimmauld Place, The Black’ ancestral home.
He quickly made out the outline of Sirius’ body, and of someone else that stood before him, taller and leaner. A flicker of something passing between them- something far more real than the public displays of affection that he used to show off his newest conquest.
Severus couldn’t quite make it out at first, the memory so clouded with distance, but then it cleared.
The scene was intimate, tender even, filled with a quiet understanding that Severus hadn’t expected to see. The conversation was soft, almost inaudible, but there was a rawness to it; a fleeting touch, a word that slipped between them, and Severus realized, with a shock, that the connection between them was something Sirius had hidden even from his own thoughts—something so deeply buried, he had almost erased it entirely.
Sirius and Remus sharing and intimate moment. And, for some reason, it was something Black decided he didn’t want to remember.
But Severus caught it, saw that brief, rare moment of vulnerability.
He wasn’t supposed to know this, Severus thought, his mind almost recoiling at the realization that he had stumbled onto something real, something meaningful to Sirius, something that should be kept private.
It was a side of Sirius Black he had never seen, one that was far too human, one that seemed far too complicated for that jock that made his life a living hell. This part of him was hidden from everyone, even from himself, behind layers of cocky arrogance, teasing, and rebellion.
He tried to shake his thoughts and not pay much attention to the memory. It still wasn’t what Severus was here for. His mind snapped back to focus.
He needed the memory he sought. The one buried beneath all the noise, all the distractions. The one he had to pry from Sirius’s locked mind, the one he was still hiding it.
Whatever it was—whatever had driven him to crawl to Severus’s door in the middle of the night—was something far darker than the jokes and the teasing, deeper than the surface-level memories of his time at Hogwarts, more important than the memory Black hidden behind a wall.
Severus pressed harder, taking advantage of Sirius’ shock at reliving the memory. He reached further, digging into the recesses of his mind, determined to find that one thing that had driven Sirius to seek his help, to cross a line he never had before.
And then, a crack appeared.
Severus felt it- the fragment of fear, of desperation, the raw edge of something far more dangerous than he had anticipated. It was fleeting, but it was there, just for a moment. A glimpse into something deeper, darker than the carelessness Sirius had shown him for years.
Severus’s mind immediately latched onto it, eager to pull the thread, to unravel whatever it was that had brought Sirius to this point.
But just as quickly as it had appeared, the fragment vanished, slipping through his fingers like smoke, dissolving before he could fully comprehend it. It was gone, leaving Severus grasping at thin air, unable to pinpoint exactly what it was or why it had felt so important.
Sirius had already regained enough composure to slam up the walls in his mind, erecting a barrier so thick and impenetrable that Severus felt the instant shock of being cast out. The mental connection snapped, and Severus was left standing there, on the outside, still reeling from the fragments he had glimpsed.
Sirius’s voice broke the silence, thick with pain and frustration, cutting through Severus's thoughts like a knife.
“Having fun, are you?” he spat, the words bitter. “How about you stop peeking into people’s minds like a freak, and instead help me not die from blood hemorrhaging? Can you even cast a healing spell, or is your soul too corrupt to even think of it? Shit, I should’ve gone to St. Mungo’s.”
Severus didn’t respond immediately. The words stung, but they were nothing new, the same taunts, the same venomous attitude. Yet something about the desperation in Sirius’s voice- the ragged edge, the strain of pain- pulled at him, made the usual biting retort die on his tongue.
With a sigh, Severus moved toward him, his usual indifference replaced by something colder, more detached, yet undeniably efficient. His wand flicked, and he muttered the incantation with practiced precision, as if it was everyday work, the healing spell stabilizing itself and latching at Sirius’ body. The blood loss was serious; if left unattended, he could bleed out right here, and this could cost him Dumbledore’s trust.
There was no time for sarcasm or grudges.
“If you survive this,” Severus muttered, barely glancing at him as he worked his wand in precise movements, “you’ll owe me more than a mere ‘thank you.’”