September 1st, 1975

"I'm packed, alright? I got my robes and quills and a few books and my broom, what else do I need?" James Potter stood at the top of the stairs, holding his broom tightly, dressed in a loose Gryffindor sweater and white jeans. His father stood at the bottom of the stairs, brows creased, arms folded across his chest. His grey hair was slicked down neatly. James put his free hand to his head. He'd combed it not five minutes ago, by the clock on the wall, and it was already ruffled.

"James, it's your O.W.L year. We need to make sure you have all your books, and all your things. We aren't having you go without, not for a moment," his father reasoned. James made a show of rolling his eyes, picking up his trunk, and striding down the first three steps without a care in the world. Yeah, he knew it was his O.W.L year. Obviously. He wasn't dumb, deaf, and blind. And who did they think he was? He couldn't have failed if he tried.

"James," his father repeated, stepping up one. "You aren't in trouble. If you go back and double check, everything will be alright. You deserve some privacy, we don't want to go through your trunk. We just want you to be prepared."

James made a face. "I appreciate it, Dad, but I double-checked earlier. If I forgot anything, you can just owl it to me." He claimed two more steps before his father advanced by one, like opposing pieces in a game of chess. James huffed. He was planning on meeting Peter early at the station, so they could get a good compartment, check out all the pretty girls while they were on the platform and try to get food off the trolley lady early. Sirius was meant to be getting there earlier too, but James wasn't holding his breath on seeing his mate any time before eleven, thanks to his bitch of a mother. No, maybe that was rude. She wasn't a total bitch. She just had a tendency to act like one. Like with her proclamation of banning Sirius from James' house, effectively forever, because of one teeny-tiny little mishap.

"It's about responsibility. We know you wanted to be prefect -"

"No, I didn't. Prefects have sticks up their ass," James said quickly. He didn't care about not getting prefect; honestly. Why would he want to have to do all those rounds? The only advantage would be getting to spend time with Lily - because he was sure she'd gotten it, Amy and Marlene were two steps too close to being expelled, Alisha couldn't care less, and Mary was prone to crying when people raised their voice. Even then, though, was Lily really worth having to be a prefect? No. And there were no other reasons to go for it. He was cool enough already. What did it matter if Dumbledore thought he was responsible? Not a bit. Not one. He'd gone through all this in the shower that morning. His dad cracked a smile, and then immediately tried to hide it. James took advantage of the lapse in sternness and got down four more steps, now only one away from the older man.

"You should probably talk more kindly about them, James. Didn't you say that girl you're sweet on might've been made a prefect?"

"Maybe, but that's different. Even if she was, she wouldn't be working for The Man. Not like those gits from Slytherin will."

"Slytherins aren't inherently bad."

"Says who? Half the Slytherins are filled with Sirius' cousins, and they're all some brand of shitty."

"Be careful your mother doesn't hear you speaking like that."

The two were now face-to-face, with James just topping his father's height.

"Don't make us snoop, James," the older man said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was older than most fathers, nearing seventy, older than one of Sirius' grandparents. It had never seemed weird to James until he'd gone off to Hogwarts and had realised he didn't actually remember his grandparents, and that that wasn't particularly normal. In his defence, they'd all died fairly young - his mother's parents had only been in their sixties. And he thought that Peter's family was weirder - well, maybe not weirder, it was sad, but more different to the norm than his. His sister had finished her second year before Peter had even been born, and she'd worked in Germany for as long as he could remember. He couldn't imagine having a sibling living so far away, and being so much older. Well, he couldn't imagine having a sibling at all, actually. Sirius always told them it wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but James had resolved that he was going to have at least two kids. James Junior didn't need to be as lonely as he'd been when he was little.

"I have everything I need," James said, finally, and sidestepped the old man, knowing he wouldn't be caught. In the time it took Fleamont to turn around, James was at the bottom of the stairs, rushing through the foyer into his mother's parlour. His steps echoed through the empty house, bought when his parents were young and hopeful, with half a dozen empty rooms for children that never came. Upon coming home for the summer after his first year at Hogwarts, he had decided his new friends were his brothers, and gotten permission to buy four beds and stick pictures of them up in the empty rooms, so that if they ever stayed over, they would have a place especially for them. It was the closest he got - he had no cousins, either, just him. As a child, the manor had seemed so absurdly large, to be utterly without people. He had gotten his mother to do spells to hide his toys around the house, and then he would seek them out in a crude echo of the game for children, not a child. His mother had too many aching bones to chase him about and his father slept through the days more often than not. It was a house for old people, not for him. But he made the most of it.

He burst into his mother's favourite room, where she spent most her days listening to the wireless, occasionally entertaining old school friends or, on rare occasions, her cousins whom she could hardly bear to see for all their children. He had met his second cousins once, a crop of gingers at Hogwarts before he was alive. Today, Euphemia lounged in a floral chair, sipping tea out of a delicate cup patterned with red roses. Upon hearing him, she sat up suddenly, almost spilling her drink onto her long white skirt.

"Jamie," she gushed, reaching out a hand, bracelets clattering on her wrist. "What's wrong, Jamie?" He leaned his broom against a bare part of the wall, laid his trunk down beside an empty chair and flopped into it. It was well-cushioned and patterned in beige upholstery, embellished with cream and brown flowers, with dark cherry wooden armrests. Old tapestries hung on the walls, depicting stories she'd read to James when he'd been little, such as the Fountain of Fair Fortune and the Hopping Pot. Black-and-white photographs captured parts of his childhood, showing him whizzing through the garden on a toy broom, fidgeting in a family photo, which showed the first of two times he'd met his father's cousin Charlus. As he grew older, the pictures turned into colour, courtesy of new technology (which lagged behind the muggles - apparently they'd been colouring photographs for years. Huh). His mother poured him a cup of tea and slid it across the coffee table to him. A fire weakly crackled in the corner.

"Dad doesn't believe that I've packed everything. He wants to check," James said, taking a sip of the drink. "I don't want him to check. I just want to get there early."

Euphemia leaned forward, now keen on the conversation. "Have you packed everything, Jamie?"

"Yeah."

"Why doesn't he believe you, then?" she asked softly, blinking her big brown eyes. James looked at the ceiling and shrugged.

"I dunno."

"Jamie," his mother said, raising her eyebrows and pouting. "You're a clever boy. Why wouldn't he take your word?"

"I guess," he shifted in his seat, "sometimes I guess I...don't pack stuff."

"Mmm," his mother raised the rim of her teacup to her painted pink lips. "And why don't you?"

James made a face. "I dunno. I don't need to, I guess. Like, what's the point? Anyway, Ma, when are we booking? I promised Peter I'd meet him early."

"Soon, Jamie," she assured him. "Why don't you feel you need to?"

The door opened, and Fleamont poked his head in, cheeks red. "James," he said sternly. "I need to check it."

"Oh, go on, Jamie," his mother said. "Best to get it over with."

He lifted up the trunk, carefully placed it on the low wooden table, and unbuckled it, lifting the lid. An extension charm had worked wonders. Piles of magazines, fourteen or fifteen issues high, were squashed between poorly-folded sweaters and robes. There were at least three pairs of boots and only one pair of school shoes, not quite matching, for one had red laces and one has gold. His parents both stood, now, peering into the depths of their son's priorities.

"Must you really take these to school?" his father asked, gingerly picking up a magazine. It was the latest copy of ' Playwitch' , and the front cover gave the elderly man much more information than he cared to know. A witch with golden, feathery hair posed on the cover in a set of black robes, unbuttoned down the middle. Her sunkissed skin glowed orange through the sheer bodysuit she donned. "I hardly think this will aid your learning."

"Dad," James blanched, ripping the magazine out of his father's hands and tossing it back into the trunk.

"What's this?" Euphemia asked, holding up a small square. James lunged towards her, heart racing, and Fleamont folded his arms across his chest. No. Godric's sake, this was something out of a nightmare. He could pack his own bloody bags!

"James," he said. "You're not sixteen until March. I see no reason for you to be packing this until Christmas, at least. Besides, you're at school. To study. Not to-" he gestured to the foil, "-fornicate."

"Dad."

"I understand you're a growing boy, and these days, things are a lot - erm - looser - "

"Dad!" James' face bloomed red, though he still forced a smile, doing his best impression of being easy-going. At this very moment, he was supposed to be relaxing and seeing if any girls had gotten hot over the summer, not having a conversation about sex with his ancient father. The last time things had been so - so like that - had been the summer between his second and third year when his father told him all about being a man and he had nearly died of embarrassment (really - he was certain, for that next year, that his boggart would be his father coughing, and then saying the word 'penis').

It looked like his new boggart would be his dad holding up a condom. "Looser." He shuddered. "Would it kill you to stop snooping? I can pack my own bags. And that's - that's for, Sirius, uh, he doesn't get access to muggle stuff like us, and he'll be sixteen in-"

"Jamie," his mother's voice wobbled. "If you're going to be doing these sorts of things, we just -"

"You're too young," Fleamont cut in. "It's illegal. We'll talk when you're sixteen and not a moment before. You know my parents had me wait until I was wedded in the eyes of the Lord, and your mother had the same rules. There are some radical views out there, and whilst we understand the times are changing, we want you to stick to your principles. Our family's principles."

"It's not the nineteen-hundreds anymore, Dad," James snapped, leaning against the couch. One hand mussed his hair and the other fingered the loop of his jeans. His parents were hardly purists, but some of their other ideas were so annoying. His mother had nearly had a fit when they took him to the train and she saw that the hemlines had been lifted on the girls' skirts, and that they now paired it with a blouse instead of it being a proper dress. "Can we go? I'm gonna be late."

September 1st, 1975

Even from here, he could see the white of his mother's knuckles as she tightly clutched Regulus' shoulder. They were weaving through crowds of people at King's Cross Station, and Mother seemed convinced that the tighter she held onto her youngest son, the less likely he would be to come into contact with some muggle. Father pushed Regulus' trolley with gritted teeth. They would need to wait until they got to the Platform for Kreacher to be summoned, and so his father was forced to do a house-elf's work. Sirius trailed behind them, pushing his own trolley, looking around keenly. Only a few times a year was he permitted to see non-magic people, and here they were in their hundreds, doing their muggle-y things. It was amazing.

Two girls poured over a map, yelling at it, even though they knew it wouldn't answer back. Because it was a muggle map. Muggle men in suits strode along, with briefcases that really only were brief, because there were no extension charms. A woman rummaged in her handbag and her hand hit the bottom; she yelped and pulled back. Here they weren't hunting magical people, there were no pitchforks, no diseases. They were just existing in the same space that the Black family was, and in some way, to Sirius, that felt like a win.

Mother now had two hands gripping her favoured son's shoulders, and held him close. "We'll be there soon," she whispered soothingly. Father appropriately wrinkled his nose as a muggle man approached them, inquiring if they needed any help, and shook his head and hurried away. Only Sirius stopped, with a grin. Excellent.

"Sir," he said, straightening up. The rattle of Regulus' trolley stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father stopped, cheeks turning red, forehead creased.

"Are you needing any assistance, young man?" The muggle asked, frowning slightly, brows creasing.

"I was just wondering if you knew how to get onto the platform," Sirius replied, his smile growing wider. He could see that his mother and Regulus had stopped too. There was practically steam coming out of Mother's ears, and Regulus just stared, like the situation was some set of runes he hadn't yet learned.

"And what platform might that be?"

"Nine and three quarters, sir."

"Huh." The muggle man was taller than him, albeit not by much, and pressed his lips together. "I'm having none of that, boy. That's your family over there, yes? Go ask them if they want you on the bloody platform."

"So you can't tell me how to get onto the platform is, sir?"

"I'm not on any of that shit. Don't go looking for it here. We kick any shady types right off. Off you go! Go catch up with your mother before I tell her what you're asking after!" The muggle shook a fist, and took all of Sirius' might not to laugh until he had run off and regrouped with his family. Mother's lips were tightly pursed, and she looked rather close to exploding.

"Sirius," she said harshly, "what was that? What reason had you for talking to that - thing? And how rude he was. Using that sort of language to a child!" Mr. Black was silent, and would not so much as look at his eldest son. Sirius smirked, exhaling quickly in a half-laugh.

"I was simply ensuring the Statute of Secrecy was working, Mother dearest. You know how I'd hate for our secret to get out," he drawled. "I asked if he knew about the platform, and he didn't know the one I had in mind. So, all is well. Yeah?"

Mother looked as though she might strangle him, with her dark eyes blazing. Her long, spidery digits massaged Regulus' shoulders, cracking the bones. "You idiot," she hissed. "Either you're twice as stupid as I think you are or more clever by half, and one is as bad as the other. That is not how it works. What do they teach you in History of Magic? When I was at school we spent hours studying the law. I suppose Regulus is learning, though, so it's not that school, it's you. Gryffindors. You've no ambition, no talent, no sense of kin. You think those little boys you run with are your family!" Sirius tuned out as she launched into a full lecture on how he ought to reconsider hanging out with Potters and Pettigrews, given their ' awful' history, and how Mr. Lupin was the most talentless man at the Ministry. It wasn't the first time he had heard the nonsense, and by now he knew not to put any stock in it. His ears burned, however, and he longed to backchat, to call her a bitch and a purist and see how she liked it.

"Shut up!" he snapped eventually, after they had passed platform seven and other magical families could hear her spewing her nonsense and he was beginning to fear they might think he condoned it. "There's other people around and I don't want them to think I'm psycho!"

In a moment she had reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her hand wrapped round so tight his fingers already tingled. Her other hand dug into Regulus' shoulder so hard the younger boy was beginning to struggle against her.

"Mother," Regulus said, very quietly. "You're hurting me."

"They are more likely to think of you as a disrespectful brat who talks back and has no sense of the real world. You think everything's all neat and cosy because you're at school. Regulus is younger than you and he already knows what he's going to do with himself. You should be thankful to be related, to be seen with him and I. Talk back once more and you will find yourself without an allowance or an invitation home for the holidays."

His father said nothing, but reached out and very lightly brushed his son's shoulder. Sirius tensed. Father was very good at tender touches and being a man of few words, to the point that some would dare say Mother ran the house. Sirius clenched his jaw and desperately searched for a distraction from his father's breath on the back of his neck. Declan and Connor O'Neill were passing through the barrier, and the Roshfingers were out in full force, with Dale bending over to hear what little Cathy was trying to tell him, and Betty had found Alice Rhysfield, who proudly wore a Head Girl badge. It had gone ten-thirty, and quicker than he could think, more families were appearing to purposefully loiter between platform nine and ten.

Fuck. The first pinch was through the fabric of his shirt, a twist of the skin, sharp nails digging in. It felt as if his father was trying to tear the skin off him. Focus. He tried to find a nice pair of legs to gaze at. Pretty lips. A nice tan. A new haircut. His skin broke. Lucinda Talkalot was a Slytherin, but she was Quidditch Captain and had nice arms. He'd caught Regulus polishing her especially, where she stood in the Slytherin Quidditch Team photograph. His father released, and continued pushing Regulus' trolley as though nothing had happened. Sirius' arm stung to the shithouse. Lucinda Talkalot no longer looked so pretty. Fucking Slytherins.

A woman of his mother's age suddenly rushed over, with a young boy in tow. He looked about Hogwarts age, but there was no trunk in sight. Sirius was forced to stand and wait as his mother gossiped with the lady, who turned out to be Mrs. Fawley, an old school friend. Regulus had the knack for such stupid discussions, asking the boy when he would be going to Hogwarts (next year) and what house he hoped to be sorted into (Slytherin, but of course!). Father nodded in all the correct places, and touched a light finger to the back of Sirius' neck. He winced, and pulled a band off his wrist to tie his hair up. Finally, they were spared, as it was their turn to go through the barrier. Mrs. Fawley said goodbye with much ado. "We do need to meet, Walburga! Be safe, enjoy school, boys!"

He and Regulus had to go through it together. Not only for the sake of looking normal to the muggles, but to the other wizards and witches as well. There was a definite splintering between him and his family, and even his mother would be forced to admit, in time, that her bandaging was not working. Already she had ceased rousing on them for arguing and merely asked that they didn't do it in public. The two stood side by side, careful not to meet the other's eye, and walked very slowly towards their target. Mother's hand flapped at them, and she mouthed something that Sirius couldn't make out.

Regulus could. The younger turned to the elder, and smiled. "Mother will skin you if she sees that poster of a - a muttersickle in your room. I'm not really inclined to stop her."

This was to be an imitation of friendly conversation, then. Sirius smiled back. "I'll care more if you can say it right, dipshit." They continued walking towards the barrier, trying to appear without purpose.

"I don't want to speak words like that," Regulus said. "And you should be worried."

"You've got jack on me, Reg. You couldn't find my stash if I gave you a fuckin' map. Mother hates me besides."

Regulus sighed. "She doesn't hate you. She worries. We all do, Sirius. You got in Gryffindor, which is shitty, but there can be some good people in there. You just ended up with shitty people. We don't want you going down the wrong path and being influenced by mudbloods and blood traitors. Bad advisors can be deadly."

Sirius' mouth opened a little. Whatever had been said inside Grimmauld Place was said inside Grimmauld Place, but not here, at King's Cross. There were a dozen families swanning around, and some of them could've easily been muggle-borns'. And Regulus said it so flippantly! "Call someone a mudblood again, and the moment we get on the train I'll fucking hex your tongue out and shove it up your ass, you grody cunt."

Regulus sniffed, but his words were spoken gently. "Just come along to a meeting, okay? They normally don't let Gryffindors in, but they'll let you, you're a Black. If you like it we can maybe even wing to get the Potter boy in, if he can prove he's not like his family." Even spoken gently, they stung. Sirius glared at him.

"That's what you got out of what I said?" Sirius demanded. The barrier was approaching quickly. "Sorry, Reg, I'm not a purist dickbag like you, and neither are my friends."

"Sirius," Regulus urged. "Time's are changing. You can read, can't you? Read the Prophet. There's killings once a week, at least, and it's never our kind at the receiving end. It's dangerous, and frankly stupid, to be anything else. You're risking your neck. We're the only Black boys left; we can hardly risk our necks by being on the wrong side. Even if you're stupid in the head, just pretend. Some guys do that and nobody says shit about it. Merlin, fine, don't join, be like Father and stay publicly neutral! Mother's heart is breaking, and she can hardly hide the grey hairs. Grey hairs, Sirius. You know how much she hates them, and she didn't hide them today because all morning she was pacing, worrying that you're going to come home with a snapped wand and run off to ride in a muttersickle."

"Fuck off, Reg," Sirius said. He tried to meet his brother's eyes, but Regulus wouldn't look at him straight. Flames crackled in his wrists. "Talk to me at school and I'll cut off your balls." They disappeared through the wall and emerged onto the crowded platform.

September 1st, 1975

Severus pressed his face to the glass, shuffling over as another boy entered. Matthew Mulciber had claimed the compartment for them, and when he saw Severus wandering aimlessly down the train corridor, he had called him in. Two burly sixth years, Bertram Aubrey and Evan Rosier, sat squishing Barty Crouch between them. Corban Yaxley had just shouldered his way in, and shooed Severus to the side to sit down.

"What is that doing here?" Yaxley asked with disgust, nodding his head towards the second year. Crouch wriggled in his seat. It looked as if he'd been dying to have someone ask him that all day.

"I'm going to be like you and join Him."

Aubrey burst into laughter, but Mulciber reached out and ruffled the young boy's hair affectionately. "Nah, you won't," Mulciber grinned. "They'll be no more Death Eaters by the time you're grown up. There'll be us, the important people, and the slaves."

"Who's gettin' slaves?" Selwyn demanded as he entered. "I bags the Head Girl, so I can use her all I want."

"Don't be such a pervert, Silas," Mulciber barked. Since Macnair's graduation the year before, he had taken over the group. "You can't fuck a mudblood. They'll give you some fucking disease or some shit."

"Whatever." Selwyn flopped down into a seat. "Where's Wilkes? I'd say getting blown in the lav, but his pretty girlfriend is waiting for marriage and his slut graduated last year. What's her name?"

"You mean Val? She's gonna breed a lot of little purebloods, I'll bet," Yaxley snorted. Crouch's eyes gleamed as he grasped at a conversation he didn't quite understand. Severus said nothing. They spoke of women in the same manner as his father. It rattled his bones. But it wasn't worth saying. It wasn't as if there were any girls there to hear it, and be offended. "Anyway, he's in a dumbass meeting 'cause he's a prefect, remember? He'll join us later."

"Is that really the plan?" Severus asked softly. Only here did he feel he could voice even half the things he thought, without being smacked or mocked or kicked to the curb. It was as if he had found people of his own kind. People who understood. The only good thing to come out of a muggle was Lily Evans, and it was astonishing, when you looked at people like his father. Muggles. What purpose did they serve? They were lazy wifebeaters and whores who only looked to trample magicfolk. His father punched the magic out of his mother one day at a time to the point she could hardly summon a cup of tea for herself. "Slaves?"

"Dunno," Mulciber admitted. "We already have house-elves, but mudbloods might be a bit smarter. Get them to do our taxes or some shit, I dunno. Maybe," he added with a smile, "we should get the boys to ask for us." He looked around. "Is this place sound-proofed?"

Severus' stomach stirred, and he pulled out his wand, rolling up his sleeves. It had been a long summer, and after the local pub shut down in August because the barman went to jail, He had hung around a lot more. This was the crown jewel of Severus' creations so far. "Muffliato," he whispered, waving his wand. Something in the air changed - the corridor fell silent. He could feel the air against his cheeks, suddenly aware of the empty spaces in the room. It felt thick. He moved a finger carefully, to confirm that no properties of the air had actually changed - it just felt that way. He'd never used it to muffle so many people before. But it could handle this many. Interesting.

"Woah," said Ephraim Gibbon. "Do we learn that this year?"

"It's mine," Severus replied, a note of pride in his voice. "I made it."

"What?" Yaxley demanded. "Bullshit. Most people can't do that in their whole lives. No offence, Severus, but you're not exactly the strongest guy around."

"Let's see," Mulciber cut in. Everyone defaulted to him. He cleared his throat, gestured for them to talk, and stepped outside. The compartment broke into loud chatter, only cut off when Mulciber returned, with Regulus Black, Angus Goyle and another younger boy in tow.

"It works," Mulciber declared. "This is Thorfinn Rowle, Regulus has recommended him."

There was a chorus of "hello"s and "welcome"s directed at the newest member, a third year. Severus again scooted over to make room. The train was yet to leave; out the window he could see children giving tearful goodbyes to their parents, with hugs and kisses and promises of letter-writing. He had been driven by Mr. and Mrs. Evans, which he was thankful for. They still insisted that 'the magical people' should look out for each other, but were surprised that Severus' parents hadn't wanted to see him off. He said nothing. Petunia had not come this year; she was out with Vernon, Lily had said, scrunching her nose. They had spoken of little else on the long trip, apart from a barbed question of where he might be sitting on the train. "With Mulciber?" she'd asked, voice as sweet as honey, but her eyes flashed with anger. He had given her a mumbled yes and she'd huffily replied, "Sit with Mary, and Marlene, and the rest of us. Mulciber is a prat." She didn't get it. She fit in any place she tried, but Severus stuck out like a sore thumb even in places he was meant to be. It wasn't a matter of just sitting with other people.

"Anyway," Mulciber raised a hand. "Macnair and Pyrites got out of this muggle-infested hellhole last year, and joined up. They sent me a letter. Who wants to hear?" There was unanimous begging for the contents of the letter to be revealed, and Mulciber began. "Dear Matthew, I have some pretty exciting news to share. After school finished, me and Arnold decided we'd join up. We didn't want to waste time going to Uni or anything, because who'll need it? The time is now. We shagged our way through the witches in Birmingham, because we heard he was out that way. There's been a spate of killings in Shrewsbury, so we just followed the news, I guess. Went into this real dinghy pub, got a bit pissed and started talking about mudbloods and shit, and the pissy bartender chucked us out. But then this guy, who'd been sitting inside in this big cloak and shit, he came out to us. Asked if we meant it. Asked if we could meet him tomorrow. And now we're gonna be the bigtime. I've put a picture in the envelope. Crabbe's here, and Rookwood. Heaps of older boys too. Do you remember those guys who used to own the school when you were like, a first year? Malfoy and Lestrange and Parkinson and Avery, they're all going up the ranks. He likes them. Hurry up and graduate, man. We miss you."

"I could've told you that much," Black piped up crossly. "One of my cousins is married to Rodolphus Lestrange, and another is being courted by Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix is one herself." Malfoy. Severus remembered the older boy from his first year, a tall, long-haired blond with sharp eyes and a stunning lineage. When Severus had entered the common room, alongside the other first years, he'd been lazing on the couch, like some kind of king, crowned in a silver halo. As each new Slytherin stepped forward, he'd asked them for their name, and their blood-status. Child after child said, "Pureblood," and by the time Severus was asked forward, he'd said the same. Malfoy had known he was lying, but hadn't said anything, thank Salazar. Only later had he asked Severus to come and sit with him, and had blatantly said that there were no Pureblood families by the name of Snape.

"Prince," Severus said, "My mother was a Prince. I don't want to be like my dad. He hurts her and he hurts me."

"I know the Princes," Malfoy replied, eyes murky. "And their daughter Eileen, who ran away, pregnant with muggle spawn. That would be you."

"She wishes she didn't now," Severus said. "She's sorry. I'm sorry too. For being half muggle."

They had struck a deal. If Severus could be clever enough, could prove he was meant to be pureblood, then Malfoy would never utter a word about his father. Their cover story would be that the Snapes were a dwindling family from up north, and that Severus was the last heir. He was never to mention that his mother was a Prince, for risk of someone putting two and two together. As such, Severus had been tutored by him, not only in school subjects but in the ways of the wizarding world. And he owed the man. He always would. Lucius Malfoy was the closest to a father or an elder brother that he would ever get.