A beautiful ruin
The whispers were insatiable.
Severus had tasted control, and now the hunger coiled deep in his bones, restless, demanding.
Sirius had been shaken, but not enough.
Not nearly enough.
Severus had seen it in his eyes, in the way his breath had hitched, in the way his pulse had pounded against his throat. It had been intoxicating. But fear faded. Bruises healed.
This time, it had to be worse.
This time, Sirius wouldn’t forget.
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Sirius was unraveling.
Severus could see it—could feel it in the way the Marauder’s gaze flicked toward shadows, the way his shoulders tensed at every sudden sound. There were whispers among the Gryffindors that Sirius had been different lately. Jittery. Distracted.
Severus enjoyed watching it.
“But he’s still laughing.”
“Still breathing.”
“Not enough.”
The whispers were right. They always were.
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The key to breaking someone wasn’t violence. Not at first.
It was isolation.
The slow, creeping feeling that nowhere was safe. He would know.
Severus began small.
A whispered hex that made Sirius trip over his own feet in the middle of the Great Hall. A flick of his wand that made ink spill across his essays. Enchantment after enchantment that made his things disappear—his wand, his shoes, even his robes when he wasn’t looking.
Just enough to shake him.
Just enough to make him question himself.
“Am I imagining things?”
“Is someone watching me?”
Severus made sure he never knew the answer.
Then, he began the dreams.
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Severus had spent weeks perfecting it. A spell so subtle, so insidious, that its victim wouldn’t even know they’d been cursed.
He whispered it one morning in the Great Hall, wand flicking so delicately that no one noticed. A curse that slipped beneath Sirius’ skin like a parasite, burrowing into his mind.
And that night, Sirius dreamed.
The darkness was suffocating. His legs refused to move. Cold, skeletal fingers traced along his throat, tightening, pressing—
He woke up gasping, shaking.
It happened again the next night. And the next.
Each dream worse than the last.
By the end of the week, Sirius had stopped sleeping.
Severus watched the exhaustion settle deep in his bones. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands trembled when he gripped his wand. He avoided empty corridors.
He was afraid.
Severus could barely contain his satisfaction.
“Still not enough.”
No.
Not yet.
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The full moon was two nights away.
Severus had known since third year how the Marauders covered for Lupin. How they fabricated stories, weaved lies so seamlessly that no one questioned them.
Severus had always known.
And he knew exactly how to use it.
The plan was simple.
The execution, flawless.
All it took was a single altered note in James Potter’s handwriting, slipped into Sirius’ bag during breakfast.
“Full moon’s in two days. We’ll meet by the Willow after dinner—Remus wants to see you first.”
Sirius read it that night, sitting alone in the common room, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.
He believed it.
Of course he did.
Severus had made sure he was too exhausted to question anything.
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Severus was waiting.
Hidden beneath the cloak of night, his wand gripped tight. The Whomping Willow loomed ahead, its twisted branches shifting in the wind. The Shrieking Shack sat in the distance, silent.
Sirius arrived just after dinner, his steps cautious, hesitant. He was alone.
Good.
Severus stepped forward. “Looking for someone?”
Sirius froze.
Severus saw the exhaustion in his face, the raw nerves, the restless fear that had been eating away at him for weeks.
“Snape,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
“You look awful,” Severus murmured, tilting his head. “Not sleeping well?”
Sirius tensed. “What do you want?”
Severus smiled.
“Just to talk.”
He flicked his wand.
The ground beneath Sirius’ feet lurched.
The Marauder stumbled back, nearly falling as the dirt twisted and coiled like something alive. The roots of the Willow shuddered, whispering, reaching.
A trap.
A perfect, beautiful trap.
Sirius’ breath hitched.
“You…” His voice was different now. Weaker. “You’re the one who—”
Severus’ wand burned in his grip. “Go on,” he said softly. “Say it.”
Sirius didn’t.
Because he knew.
The whispers shivered with anticipation.
Severus stepped closer, until they were inches apart.
“You think you’re untouchable,” Severus whispered, his voice almost affectionate. “But you’re not.”
Sirius flinched.
It was exquisite.
“You’re afraid,” Severus continued, voice barely above a breath. “Aren’t you?”
Sirius didn’t answer.
Severus leaned in, close enough to feel his breath against his skin. “Good.”
Then—a scream.
Not theirs.
The Shack.
Lupin.
Severus had miscalculated.
The transformation had started early.
A low, guttural growl rumbled through the night air. The sound of something massive stirring.
Sirius’ eyes went wide.
Severus turned to run.
A violent, snarling howl tore through the wind.
Severus had seconds.
His breath came fast, heart hammering. The shadows twisted around him, shifting, curling—screaming.
“Run.”
But he was too slow.
A flash of silver.
Claws.
Teeth.
Pain.
The world exploded into darkness.