AN: English is not my first language, and this work has been written with the help of ChatGPT. I own nothing.

To Whoever Finds This,

I don't even know why I'm writing this. Maybe because if I don't, I'll start screaming, and I won't be able to stop. Maybe because I need to tell someone, anyone, even if they never read it. Even if it never gets an answer.

My family is… not the kind you'd be proud to belong to. Not the kind that loves you no matter what. Not the kind that cares who you are, only what you are. They care about blood, power, status, and nothing else. And I hate them for it. I hate everything they stand for.

I tell myself I'm different. That I don't believe what they believe, that I'll never be like them. But then, sometimes, I hear myself saying things, doing things, and I realize—I sound like them. I act like them. It's like I've spent so long being told who I'm supposed to be that, even when I fight against it, it's still there. In me. Like poison in my veins.

And it scares me.

During the school year, it's easy to pretend I'm free. I have my friends, my own life, my own choices. I can laugh and be free and feel like I'm invincible—I feel like I'm myself again, whoever that is. But then summer comes, and I go home, and I turn into someone else. Someone angry and sharp-edged. Someone who lashes out before they can be hurt. I feel like a wild animal backed into a corner, and I don't know if that's who I really am, or if it's just what they've made me.

I don't want to be like them. But what if I already am?

I don't even know why I'm asking this. Maybe just to see if there's anyone out there who understands.

And at the bottom of the letter, beneath the words he'd barely let himself write, a single signature stood out in bold, defiant ink:

—White

.

Sirius stared at the letter in his hands, the words scrawled across the parchment like a confession he hadn't meant to say aloud. It was stupid. All of it. Writing to no one, expecting nothing. But the weight in his chest hadn't lifted, and something told him it wouldn't until he sent it off.

He felt lost—more than he ever had before. Summer had been worse than usual, and that was saying something. Coming back to Hogwarts was supposed to help, but now they were in their O.W.L.s year, and every professor seemed obsessed with reminding them how this was the year that defined their futures. Their futures. As if Sirius had any clue what his was supposed to look like—who he was even supposed to be. He didn't. Not really. And maybe that's why he wrote the letter. Not to get answers. Just to say it. Just to let it out.

He folded the letter and sealed it, pressing his thumb against the wax until it hardened. No name. No address. Just words sent into the void.

The owlery was nearly empty when he arrived, save for the rustling of wings and the occasional low hoot from the rafters. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath as he scanned the perches.

A barn owl, perched high above, tilted its head at him, as if waiting.

"Yeah?" Sirius muttered. "You volunteering?"

The owl fluttered down to land on the railing beside him. Sirius hesitated before holding out the letter. "I don't know who this is for. Just—take it to someone who'll get it. Someone who understands."

The owl gave him a long, considering look before snatching the letter in its beak. With a powerful sweep of its wings, it took off, disappearing into the night.

Sirius leaned against the railing, staring out at the dark sky. He didn't know what he expected. Maybe nothing. Maybe for the letter to be lost, dropped somewhere over the Forbidden Forest or buried under stacks of real mail.

Or maybe, for once, someone would actually hear him. The real him.

The letter arrived during a quiet evening in the library, slipping through the air like a whisper. Severus had been sitting alone in the corner, a book open in front of him, though he hadn't turned a page in ages. His thoughts had been elsewhere—on the latest humiliation dealt to him by Potter and Black, on the sharp words of his housemates when he didn't quite fit into their mold, on the ever-present weight of what was waiting for him at home.

He knew what he was. A nobody with a Muggle last name that no one respected. The only way out—the only real chance he had to escape his miserable childhood—was through his O.W.L.s. Outstanding marks, top of every class, no room for error. He couldn't afford distractions. Not like last year, when his temper had dragged him into every pointless clash with Potter and Black. They loathed each other—always had, since that first train ride—but it had only gotten worse after Lucius and Narcissa, the last Black older than Sirius Black, had graduated. With them gone, there was no one left to shield him from the conflict.

So when the unfamiliar owl landed on the table in front of him, tilting its head expectantly, he tensed. He wasn't expecting mail.

The envelope had no name. No seal. Just a simple, unmarked piece of parchment. Severus hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, then took the letter and unfolded it.

His eyes scanned the words once. Then again, slower.

He felt something tighten in his chest. It was… strange. Too familiar. This person—whoever they were—knew something about living under a roof where love was conditional, where cruelty was expected. They understood what it was to feel like you were being shaped into something you despised.

And yet, something about it put him on edge.

He read it a third time, this time scrutinizing every word, searching for a trick, a lie. Slytherins didn't receive anonymous letters like this. Not ones that bared souls and fears. If someone was writing to him, they had a reason. A game. A motive.

His gaze landed on the signature.

White.

A sneer curled at the corner of his lips. It had to be a joke. Who in this school would sign their name as White? It was too pointed, too deliberate. A lie, or irony, or both. And irony, he knew, was often a weapon.

Still…

He folded the letter carefully, slipping it inside his book. He could ignore it. Forget it. Pretend it never reached him.

But his fingers itched for a quill.

Because the words in that letter weren't just a trick. They couldn't be. No one could fabricate a feeling Severus knew too well himself.

He wouldn't trust this stranger. Not yet.

But he would answer.

.

To White,

You expect me to believe you wrote this without knowing who would receive it? That you just sent your thoughts into the void and hoped for an answer? That's either deeply foolish or a well-placed manipulation. Either way, I find it hard to believe.

But I read your letter. And against my better judgment, I am writing back.

You say you're afraid of becoming them. Of turning into the very thing you hate. That fear is not irrational. It's not unfounded. And it's not unique to you. You can tell yourself you're different, but what does that mean when their voice is already in your head? When you've already inherited their instincts, their worst habits? You recognize the patterns, but recognition isn't enough to stop them. I would know.

You speak of school as an escape. A place where you can be yourself—but what does that mean? Are you certain the version of you that exists here isn't just another performance? Another carefully constructed lie? Or is it simply that school offers you the illusion of freedom, when really, you're just waiting for the next time you'll be dragged back into the same cycle?

Maybe I'm wasting my time responding to you. Maybe this is all some elaborate joke. But if it's not—if you really meant what you wrote—then I'll ask you one question in return.

If you don't want to be like them, then what do you want to be?

—No One

Sirius hadn't expected a response.

For two days, he told himself the letter had probably ended up in the hands of some first-year who wouldn't understand it, or worse, in the fireplace of someone who did and laughed anyway. He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself he didn't care.

Then, late in the evening, an owl, the same barn owl, swooped down in front of him in the Gryffindor common room. It dropped a letter onto his lap, then took off without waiting for a reply.

Sirius stared at the parchment. For a moment, he didn't move. Then, hands oddly unsteady, he unfolded it.

He read the first few lines, and his lips curled into a smirk. Deeply foolish or a well-placed manipulation. He would have been offended—if it wasn't so familiar. The suspicion. The sharpness. The refusal to trust. Whoever this was, they thought like a survivor.

And then he kept reading.

The smirk faded.

Because No One understood. More than that, they had turned his own thoughts against him, forcing him to ask himself questions he hadn't wanted to answer.

Are you certain the version of you that exists here isn't just another performance?

Sirius swallowed, tapping his fingers restlessly against his knee. He hated that question. He hated it because he didn't know.

And the last question—If you don't want to be like them, then what do you want to be?

That one made something cold settle in his stomach.

Because he had no answer.

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glanced around the common room. James was playing chess with Peter, Remus was reading in the corner, everything was normal. But for some reason, Sirius felt like he was standing slightly outside of himself, as if a letter from a stranger had cracked open something he hadn't realized was fragile.

He wanted to respond. He needed to respond.

So he grabbed a quill and parchment and started writing.

.

To No One,

You're suspicious. I get it. Maybe I would be too. But this wasn't a joke, and it wasn't a game. I didn't expect an answer. I wasn't even sure I wanted one. But here we are.

You ask what I want to be if not like them. As if that's an easy thing to answer. It's not. I don't know. I just know I don't want to be this. I don't want to wake up one day and realize I've become everything I was raised to be—someone cruel, someone who believes in things that make me sick, someone who looks down on people for things that don't matter. But if I strip all that away, if I carve out everything I don't want to be… what's left?

You say recognition isn't enough to stop the cycle. You're right. It's not. I see the anger in me, the sharp edges, the instinct to lash out before I can be struck first. I don't like it, but it's there. It's how I survived in that house. And maybe it is a performance—this version of me at school. Maybe I've spent so long trying to be anything but them that I don't actually know who I am at all.

You said you would know. That means you understand. So tell me, then—if recognition isn't enough, what is? How do you stop the cycle when it's already in your blood? Or do you think it's impossible?

And if you don't want to be like them, whoever they are, then what do you want to be?

—White

Notes:

I imagine fifth year was when things went from bad to worse for Sirius—at home and within himself. And because of that, things escalated for Severus at school. Sirius was unraveling, and Severus was the one he took it out on. In canon, this was the year of the werewolf prank, Severus's worst memory, and Sirius's eventual escape from home.
But this story starts at the beginning of that year—before Sirius had done anything irreparable. This time, he wrote a letter instead.