Sirius hadn't expected the letter to fix anything.

He had told himself that a hundred times as he wrote it, as he sent it, as he sat at breakfast the next morning, forcing himself not to look at Regulus.

And he had been right.

Regulus ignored it. Didn't acknowledge it, didn't react, didn't even glance his way.

And that was fine.

Because somehow, this didn't feel the same as when No One had ignored him.

That silence had felt like judgment, like proof that he wasn't worth a response. But this—this wasn't about him. It wasn't about what he wanted. Regulus had every right to ignore him. Every right to be angry.

An apology didn't fix anything.

It didn't undo the hurt. It didn't erase the things he had said, the way he had made Regulus feel.

But Sirius had needed to say it anyway. And maybe Regulus had needed to hear it too.

And later that night, he realized—he needed to say this as well.

So he wrote.

.

No One,

You were right.

I wrote to him. It didn't fix anything.

He ignored it. And that's fine.

Because I think I finally get it now.

An apology doesn't mean anything, not really. It doesn't erase the damage. It doesn't make things right.

But it's not just about the apology, is it? It's about trying. About making the effort, even if it doesn't make everything better.

I've been so used to running from things, from the truth, from the consequences of my actions. But I can't keep doing that. I need to face it, to stop making excuses for myself. I need to fix what's inside me first, before anything else.

And that's on me. Not him. Not anyone else. Just me.

I don't need a reply. I just wanted you to know that I heard you. And I'm grateful—for everything you said, even the harsh parts. Especially the harsh parts. They made me see something I hadn't before.

So… thank you. I'm glad my first letter found you, of all people.

—White

.

Sirius folded the letter and tied it to the owl's leg—the same owl that had delivered his very first message. The same one that had brought No One's words back to him. It felt like more than an owl now. It felt like a tether. A bridge between him and something solid. Something true.

And he sent it off, knowing—truly knowing—that he wouldn't get a response.

And for the first time, that didn't bother him.

Sirius hadn't expected Regulus to say anything. At least, not so soon.

So when he was cornered outside the Great Hall, when Regulus grabbed his arm and hissed, "Why the hell are you writing to Snape this time?" Sirius froze.

Because he hadn't. Not really.

Except—except he had only sent one other letter.

To No One.

And if Regulus was right about it…

Sirius's stomach dropped.

"What?" he said, forcing his voice into something careless, something normal.

Regulus's grip tightened. "You heard me." His eyes were sharp, searching Sirius's face like he could carve the truth straight out of him. "What's the game this time? Sending fake apology letters for a laugh? Seeing if anyone will fall for it? That's low even for you."

His voice was cold. Bitter.

And Sirius—Sirius knew that tone.

Because it was the same one he had once used on other people—on people he thought weren't worth trusting, on people he assumed meant harm before they even had the chance to prove otherwise.

It was a defense, a shield made of sharp edges.

Because Regulus didn't believe in his apologies.

And why would he?

Sirius had never given him a reason to.

But right now—right now, that wasn't even the biggest problem.

Because Snape. Snape.

Sirius's pulse hammered in his ears.

He forced a laugh. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Regulus narrowed his eyes, voice like ice. "Don't insult my intelligence. You weren't even subtle. You sent the letters with the same owl. I saw Snape receive it. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the owl? Or recognize your handwriting?"

His words were sharp, scathing—like he'd caught Sirius with his hand in the cookie jar. And maybe he had. Just not in the way he thought.

Because—the same owl.

Sirius's breath caught.

Of course.

He had never chosen an owl. He'd simply let the same one come to him, again and again, because it had brought his first letter to No One. It had felt like fate. Like magic.

Of course it would be Regulus who had noticed.

And if he had… had Snape?

Either way, it didn't matter. Whether Snape had figured it out already, he would by the end of the day. Because Regulus wasn't the type to let things go—and neither was Snape.

Sirius's mouth went dry as the realization hit him.

If he was this rattled by the truth, what would Snape—No One—think when he found out? The name still didn't sit right in his head, didn't match the letters he remembered. But they were the same person, weren't they? That sharp voice, that brutal clarity—it had always been him.

And if Snape—if No One—thought it had all been a prank, like Regulus clearly did… the fallout would be catastrophic.

The last thing Sirius wanted was for Snape to think he was playing games at his expense again. But worse—so much worse—was the thought that No One might.

"I—" he started.

Regulus's gaze hardened. "If this is some kind of prank—"

"It's not," Sirius said quickly, voice rough with urgency.

Regulus crossed his arms. "Then explain."

Sirius opened his mouth—then shut it again.

Because how the hell could he?

He hadn't even known it was Snape he'd been writing to until just a moment ago. The No One he'd been searching for had been right in front of him all along.

How could he say, Actually, I was writing to someone who understood. Someone who called me out on my bullshit. Someone who made me realize I was turning into the thing I swore I hated the most.

How could he admit, I didn't know who they were, but now I do, and I don't know what the hell to do with that?

Months ago, if he'd found out those sharp words had came from Snivellus, he would've exploded. He would've confronted him with shouts and hexes.

But then Lily had asked if he had ever seen Snape as just another person. And No One had asked if he rationalized his behavior by assigning the blame to his victims.

And… No One had been that victim.

So he just stood there.

And for the first time in his life, Sirius Black had nothing to say.

Sirius took a slow breath, trying to ground himself, to steady the storm rising in his chest. The reckoning with Snape—with No One—could wait. Right now, he owed Regulus an honest conversation.

"I meant it," he said, his voice quiet, his expression earnest, as though willing Regulus to believe him. "I meant my apology, Reg. I was sincere."

He looked at his brother then—really looked at him—open and raw in a way that felt almost dangerous.

"I miss you," he said. "I miss us."

Regulus studied him, expression unreadable.

"I don't want to be like them," Sirius continued, his voice low. "I don't want to keep hurting people just because it's easy. I don't want to be that person anymore."

Regulus was silent for a long moment.

Then, so softly Sirius almost didn't hear it, he said—

"Did you ever think that you made them like that?"

Sirius stilled.

Regulus's gaze was sharp, watching him closely for any sign of reaction.

"They weren't always like that," Regulus went on, voice careful. "Not with me. Not before—" He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "Not before you started fighting them. Before you started giving them a reason to be angry all the time."

Sirius felt the words land like a punch to the gut.

Because he knew, deep down, that Regulus wasn't entirely right. He knew it. Their parents had been cruel long before Sirius had ever talked back. They had been cold, harsh, and sharp-edged people long before he had ever challenged them.

But then—then why had they favored Regulus?

Why had Regulus never been on the receiving end the way he had? Was it because he had pushed back? Because he had made them angry? Was it his fault?

Sirius clenched his jaw, shoving the thought away before it could dig any deeper. "That's not true."

Regulus just huffed, uncaring. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you can't deny that you made it worse."

Sirius opened his mouth, ready to argue, to tell Regulus he was wrong—that nothing he'd done could have created the monsters they lived with. But before he could speak, Regulus added, as if he'd known exactly what was on his mind:

"At least I know for certain you made me worse." And then, softer, almost like an afterthought—but no less cutting:

"You always made it about you," Regulus said. And for a moment, something bitter flickered in his eyes—something old, something festering, like it had lived inside him for a long time. "You stirred the cauldron. You lit the fire. And then you left me in the ashes. I was the one who had to live with the aftermath."

And just like that, doubt crept in.

And Sirius hated that it did.

He saw the flicker of hesitation in Regulus's face—like maybe he hadn't meant to say all of it. Or maybe he had. Maybe he'd always been waiting for the right moment.

Sirius stared at him, disbelieving, but Regulus wouldn't look back. A thought slid in, uninvited and cruel—maybe he wasn't the only one who'd learned a trick or two from their parents.

Sirius wanted to say something—to defend himself, to explain that his choices had never been selfish. That everything he'd done had been to survive.

But the words caught in his throat.

Because Regulus's accusation struck too close to something he couldn't quite deny. Because—what if he was right? What if, in choosing to survive, Sirius had betrayed the one person who once needed him most?

He'd thought he was the one who'd needed saving. It had never occurred to him that maybe Regulus had too.

So he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Regulus standing behind him—still, silent, those storm-gray eyes so much like his own fixed on the floor. As if looking at Sirius might make something crack. As though he couldn't bear to watch him go, but couldn't bring himself to call him back either.

But Sirius couldn't let himself dwell on it.

Because if he let himself believe that, even for a second, if he let himself think that maybe Regulus was right, he wasn't sure what that would do to him. And this time, there was no one to talk him out of it.

Because the only person he wanted to talk to about it—the only person who had ever forced him to see himself, to face the truth, to question what he thought he knew—was No One.

And No One was Snape.

His hands curled into fists.

Snape—No One. No One—Snape.

The names echoed like a loop in his mind, off-balance and wrong—like stepping onto a staircase that had already moved. He couldn't hold the thought steady. Regulus's words were still ringing in his ears, sharp as glass.

Maybe that's why it hadn't hit him earlier. Maybe his mind hadn't let it. Because if he let himself believe both things at once—that Regulus was right, and that Severus Snape had been the one holding him together all along—he didn't know what would be left.

That the person who could flay him open better with words than any spell was somehow the one who had kept him from bleeding out.

If he wrote to No One now—he'd be writing to Snape. And after everything, after all the arguments, he already knew what Severus Snape would say to Sirius Black:

Oh, boohoo. Poor you. Do you think abusers always need a reason to be abusive? Do you think their cruelty was somehow earned? But you do think that, don't you? You think when you are cruel, the others deserve it.

The words didn't belong to No One. They belonged to Snape, the boy who would never flinch away from sharpening the blade when faced him at his worst.

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut.

No. He wasn't going to write. Not this time.

Not when he wasn't sure if No One would ever see the real him again.