Sirius wasn't sure why he was doing this.

There wouldn't be a reply. He knew that. No One was gone, long before Sirius even had a chance to figure out who they were. The letters had stopped, and that was that.

But tonight—tonight, with his mother's letter echoing in his head, louder than any howler, and Regulus's words still lodged beneath his ribs—he felt like he had to say it.

So he sat on his bed, hands shaking with fury and shame, and wrote.

.

To No One,

You were right.

A bad day came, and I became a bad person. I turned into exactly who you thought I'd be. I did the thing I promised I wouldn't. I let it happen—made it happen, really. I was angry, and I let it win. I said things I meant in the moment and regretted the second they left my mouth.

There's no excuse. No explanation. I knew better. I always know better. I saw it coming, I felt it rising, and I didn't even try to stop it.

So maybe this is it. Maybe this is all I am. Someone who plays at decency on good days, only to come undone the moment things get hard.

Maybe change is just something I talk about to make myself feel better. A story I tell myself so I don't feel completely hopeless. So I can still look in the mirror and pretend I'm getting somewhere. So I don't have to admit the truth—that I'm not really changing. I'm just hiding. Waiting. Hoping the inevitable takes longer to catch up.

And maybe you knew that already. Maybe that's why you didn't write back. You saw it, even then—that no matter what I say, I'll always end up here. That the worst in me isn't something I can bury. It's just waiting. Waiting for the next crack to crawl through.

I don't know why I'm writing this. You won't answer. And you probably have a good reason not to.

But still… a part of me wanted—needed—you to know. That you were right about me all along. That you saw me more clearly than I ever wanted to admit.

And for reasons I don't even fully understand, you're still the person I want to tell when I screw up. When it all falls apart—when I fall apart—it's your words I hear in my head. Still.

—White

.

Sirius folded the letter before he could think better of it, before he could rip it up and pretend he had never written it.

He didn't even know if the owl could deliver it.

But it didn't matter.

He tied the letter to the owl's leg, watched as it took off into the night—toward nothing, toward nowhere, toward No One.

And then he leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, waiting for the shame to settle.

Waiting for the truth to lodge in his chest like a stone—heavy, cold, unmovable.

Severus never intended to open the letter.

When the owl appeared at the window, he had half a mind to ignore it. He hadn't let himself think about White in weeks. It was over. Whatever strange, unintended connection they'd forged had ended the moment he uncovered the sender's identity.

But the owl wouldn't leave. It just sat there, waiting, the way it had all those weeks ago.

So, against his better judgment, Severus took the letter.

He almost didn't recognize the handwriting at first. It was messier than before, more rushed. But as soon as he read the first line, he knew.

And it wasn't satisfying.

He had expected—if this moment ever came—that it would feel like vindication. That Black admitting failure would be proof of everything Severus had told himself.

But instead, he just felt… off-balance.

Because the letter wasn't gloating. It wasn't self-serving or manipulative or anything he would have expected from Sirius Black.

It was vulnerable. Full of guilt.

Maybe this is all I am.

Severus clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the parchment. He should throw it away. Burn it. Let it be proof that people like Sirius Black could never change.

He shouldn't have wanted to write back.

He told himself he wouldn't. That this wasn't his problem. That Sirius Black didn't deserve the courtesy of a reply.

Or if he did, he should have done the Slytherin thing—used that rare flicker of vulnerability, twisted it to his advantage. It would have been fitting, really. Deserved.

But as he read the letter again, a different kind of anger burned in his chest.

Not the old, bitter resentment that had long clung to every thought of Black. No, this was something else—sharper, colder. More personal, but distant, like brushing against a wound he had worked hard not to acknowledge.

Because he knew exactly what it was like to be on the other end of someone's bad day.

And if Black thought that made it excusable—if he thought it meant anything at all—then Severus had a few things to say.

So he wrote.

He told himself it was just to put Black in his place. To remind him that guilt wasn't growth, and that vulnerability didn't earn forgiveness.

He told himself he didn't believe Black ever had a chance. That even if the hard choice stood right in front of him, he'd never take it.

.

If you think admitting that one bad day proves I was right, and that somehow gets you off the hook—think again. If you're capable of it.

While you are at it, ask yourself: Who did you hurt? And what are you going to do about it?

Did they care that you were "just having a bad day"? Would it make it hurt any less for them?

Do you ever wonder the same about those people who made you feel small? Does it help to imagine they were just having a rough time? Does it undo the damage?

I doubt it.

So I ask you—are you going to make it right? Or are you going to sit in your own guilt and confuse regret with redemption?

Do you fix it? Or are you content with the conclusion that you're beyond saving? Do you quit just because it's hard?

Either way, it hardly matters to me. But if all you want is someone to indulge your self-pity and coddle you while you whine, don't bother writing again. You'll only find hard truths here.

—No One

.

He folded the letter, tied it to the owl's leg, and let it go before he could change his mind.

And then he sat back, staring at the empty space where it had been, and wondered if he had made a mistake.

Sirius hadn't expected a response.

He had sent that letter knowing it would go unanswered, knowing No One was gone, knowing he was shouting into the void.

So when the owl landed on his windowsill the next day, a letter tied to its leg, he just stared at it.

For a long moment, he didn't move.

Then, slowly, he reached out, untied the parchment, and unfolded it with hands that trembled more than he expected.

And the moment he read the first line, his stomach dropped.

He read the letter once, then again, his grip tightening, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Because it wasn't kind. It wasn't forgiving. It didn't tell him what he wanted to hear.

It asked him—pointedly, unforgivingly—who he had hurt and what he was going to do about it.

And the worst part was, he didn't have a good answer.

Because No One was right.

The people who had hurt him hadn't cared. His mother's shrill screams had never been followed by any apology or understanding. His cousins had never once hesitated before cutting him down, never thought twice about how their words might wound.

And he—he had always hated them for it.

So what the hell was his excuse?

The words cut into him, sharp and unforgiving. They stung because they were true. Because, despite the pain they caused, he knew exactly what it felt like. He had felt the sting of those very same actions, and yet he'd done them to someone else anyway.

And yet.

Despite all of it—the shame crawling up his throat, the cold bite of No One's words—there was something else, too.

Something he hadn't expected.

Relief.

Because he had expected silence. He had expected confirmation that he was beyond saving. He had expected No One to ignore him, to prove that he wasn't worth the time, that he didn't deserve an answer.

But instead—instead, No One had written back.

Harsh, unyielding, and unwilling to let him wallow in his own misery. But they had answered.

And maybe—just maybe—that meant there was still a chance.

Sirius sat there for a long time, staring at the letter, his thoughts whirling.

Eventually, he stood, found Remus, and asked if they could talk.

Finding Remus was easy. Facing him was harder.

Sirius stood outside the Gryffindor common room, shifting his weight, staring at the stone floor like it might offer him an escape.

Because now that he was here, now that he had decided to fix it, he had to actually say it.

And he had no idea how.

But No One had been right—if he just sat in his own guilt, if he let himself wallow instead of making things right, then what the hell was the point?

So he took a breath, clenched his fists, and walked in.

Remus was sitting by the fire, a book open on his lap, his fingers tapping absently against the page. He looked up when Sirius approached, his expression neutral—too neutral.

Sirius swallowed. Who did you hurt?

"Hey," he said.

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Hey."

Sirius hesitated. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he sat down across from him and said, "I was an arse."

Remus blinked. "That's new."

Sirius huffed a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Guess it is."

Remus shut his book, waiting.

Sirius exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. "I—look, I'm sorry for snapping at you. I don't know if you noticed, but I—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "No. Of course you noticed."

Remus didn't respond, but his silence spoke volumes.

"It's not an excuse," Sirius said, his voice quieter, "but I had a fight with Regulus. Right after I got a letter from Mother dearest." He paused, looking down for a moment. "And I said something. Something I shouldn't have. Something... something they would have said to me."

Remus's expression remained unchanged.

Sirius swallowed. "I swore I wouldn't be like them, but then—I don't know, I was angry, and it just came out and—" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter why. I did it. And that's the only thing that actually matters."

Remus studied him.

And Sirius—Sirius felt exposed, raw in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the way Remus was looking at him now.

Like he had always known this conversation would come.

"Why are you telling me this?" Remus asked finally.

Sirius hesitated before answering, "Because I think... I think I need someone to hold me accountable."

Remus's lips twitched. "And you picked me?"

Sirius shrugged, looking down. "You know how James and Peter are. You're the only one who'll actually call me out when I'm being a wanker."

Remus snorted, unable to hide his amusement. "True."

A pause.

Then, quieter, Remus said, "What did you say to him?"

Sirius exhaled slowly. "Something cruel. Something I knew would cut him deep. From… from past experience."

"And after that?" Remus asked softly.

Sirius rubbed a hand over his face. "Nothing. I just… left. Didn't say another word. Just sat with it. Stewed in it."

He gave a hollow laugh. "At the time, I told myself I was giving him space. But really, I think I was just afraid. Afraid of what I'd see if I looked him in the eye."

After a long moment, Remus asked, "So what are you going to do about it?"

Sirius let out a short, bitter laugh. No One had asked the same question, and he still didn't have an answer.

"What, you want me to write him an apology letter? My mother would probably frame it and hang it next to the house-elf heads."

Remus didn't smile. He simply tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

Sirius sighed, shoulders slumping. "Yeah. Okay. I'll figure it out."

Remus nodded once, then, as if the conversation had already ended, reopened his book.

But before Sirius could get up, Remus said, "You're not them, you know."

Sirius froze, his fingers curling into his palms.

"You might have their temper, their sharp edges," Remus continued, not looking up from his book. "But you're not them."

Sirius swallowed, the weight of Remus's words pressing against his chest. His voice was softer now, quieter. "Yeah. I'm trying."

Remus hummed in acknowledgment, flipping a page. "I know."

Sirius exhaled sharply, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

For the first time since sending that letter, a thought crept into his mind—

Maybe, just maybe, he could still change.

He thought about the letters he'd been exchanging with No One—raw, unfiltered things that cut closer to the truth than he usually allowed. It was easier, somehow. No One had this way of seeing through him—really seeing him. They might not have liked what they saw, but they never looked away. They never lied to spare him or flinched from the ugly parts.

With Regulus, it was different.

There was too much history between them—too many years of silence, of things left unsaid and too often misunderstood. They had been best friends once, before Hogwarts—before everything changed. Now, it felt like there was a wall between them, solid and unforgiving. And Sirius didn't know how to climb it, let alone tear it down.

Earlier, he had said it as a joke—but maybe it hadn't been one at all.

Maybe an apology letter really was the only thing he could offer. One without excuses. Without self-pity. A letter that didn't ask for forgiveness, but simply laid the wreckage bare.

Writing to Regulus would be much harder than writing to No One.

But they were right. He couldn't keep running every time it got hard. Couldn't keep turning away from the right thing just because he was afraid it might hurt.

Severus hadn't expected to find out how Black reacted to his letter this way.

He'd told himself he was done. That it didn't matter what Black chose—whether he pretended the slip had never happened, or abandoned the entire charade of reform and reverted back to his old self. Either way, it wasn't Severus's problem anymore.

And yet—

When the owl landed in front of Regulus Black at breakfast, Severus's eyes immediately flicked to it.

Because he recognized that owl.

It was the same one that had brought him that idiotic letter. The same one that had waited for him at library window, carrying the weight of Sirius Black's self-loathing like it was something precious.

And now—now it was here, in front of Regulus, waiting patiently as the younger Black untied the parchment from its leg.

Severus turned his head just slightly—just enough to catch the way Regulus's brow furrowed as he unfolded the letter. The way his grip tightened. The way his expression shifted—shock, then confusion, then something colder. Dismissive, almost. Severus could practically hear the scoff, even if Regulus didn't make a sound.

But just before he turned back to his own breakfast, from the corner of his eye, he caught one more detail: Regulus didn't throw the letter away. Instead, he slipped it into his pocket.

And Severus knew.

He didn't need to read the letter to understand. Regulus Black was the one White had written about. The one he was trying to make amends with.

So. Sirius Black had actually done it.

For a moment, Severus didn't know how to feel about that.

He had expected Black to do nothing. To wallow in self-pity, to lean into his mean streak, or to repeat the same tired cycle of contrition without real change—dismissing the slip when it got hard and congratulating himself for trying when it was easy. Because anything was easier than swallowing his pride. And Black was nothing if not proud.

But no.

Instead, he had taken the damn advice, and done something about it, likely knowing full well the gesture wouldn't be appreciated.

Severus wasn't moved. It changed nothing.

And yet, as he stabbed at his eggs with a little more force than necessary, an unwelcome thought flickered through his mind before he could shove it away:

Maybe he really is trying.

And he hated himself a little for thinking it.