AN: English is not my first language, and this work has been written with the help of ChatGPT. I own nothing.
This is an expansion of Ghosts of the Forgotten, featuring a more level-headed Sirius Black, a less volatile Severus Snape, a more responsible Remus Lupin, and a less petulant Harry Potter.
No intentional character bashing, they are just imperfect people with imperfect relationships trying to navigate an imperfect world.
All of main characters are emotionally dysfunctional in one way or another, and that will be reflected in the story. I'm not sure if that could be a trigger, so you've been warned.
More than one truth was uncovered on the night of the full moon.
The first thing Sirius Black noticed when he broke into Hogwarts wasn't how much it had changed, but how much had remained the same. The castle still carried the scent of old parchment and burning torches, with the distant laughter of students drifting through the halls. He remembered everything—the mischievous pranks, the stolen nights sneaking to the kitchens, James's voice ringing in his ears.
Everything.
So why was Remus looking at him like that when he asked, "Who in Merlin's name is Snape?"
The Shrieking Shack was just as he had left it all those years ago, the floor creaking under his weight as he paced, trying to explain himself to Harry. He knew Peter was here—he had spent twelve years with nothing but the taste of vengeance in his mouth. But then Remus had said something strange, something about a professor, something about Snape, and Sirius had frowned.
"Sirius, now is not the time to joke," Remus said with a look of disapproval.
"I'm not," Sirius had said, confused. "Who's Snape?"
That was when the air had changed. A strange silence fell upon them, thick and suffocating. Remus searched his face as if trying to pull something from his expression, something that simply wasn't there.
"Severus Snape," Remus said carefully. "Our yearmate. The one you—"
A creak on the stairs stopped him. A figure emerged, dressed in black, his eyes sharp as daggers. Sirius tensed—not in hatred, not in rage, but in sheer bewilderment. There was something about this man, something in the way his presence filled the room with a simmering intensity. But Sirius's mind was blank.
"How nostalgic," the man drawled, his gaze firmly fixed on Sirius. His expression had been one of pure, simmering loathing. His lip curled, his fingers clenched around his wand like a vice, his voice dripping with venom.
Sirius had the nagging feeling that he should remember the way Snape moved, the smoothness of his voice, the way his eyes darkened with rage. But it all felt unfamiliar, like meeting a stranger for the first time.
He blinked. His instincts told him to sneer, to bite, to act as though he hated this man. But there was nothing there. It was as if Severus Snape had never existed in his life.
And that unsettled him more than anything.
But there was no time to dwell on it—not with Harry there, not with the truth about Peter finally teetering on the edge of revelation.
Without the raw, simmering mutual hatred between them, Sirius was no longer the reckless, taunting adversary his instincts urged him to be. In turn, Snape regained his composure. The argument was almost clinical—Snape still sneered and brandished his wand, but the seething rage was absent. All that remained was cold, professional detachment
Sirius didn't understand why this should feel...wrong.
Then the full moon rose, and all thoughts of Snape were put aside in the haze of transformation and survival. And then came the Dementors.
The moment their cold breaths filled the air, every inch of Sirius's body froze. The memories he had clung to so desperately—James, Remus, Lily, laughter—were being pulled away, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Darkness crept in, the fog rolling through his mind, drowning him in screams.
And when the Dementors hovered close, their presence a whisper of decay, the answer came to him.
He had felt them take so much over the years—his happiness, his strength, his hope—but this, this was something else. A pulling, deeper than before, reaching into the core of him, scraping at something hidden.
And then—like a dam breaking—it all came rushing back.
Severus.
Not just a name. Not just a blurred figure in the background of his youth.
Severus Snape, with his sharp tongue and his sharper mind. With his scowl that softened at the edges when he thought no one was looking. With the way his eyes burned when he spoke of magic, with the quiet fury of someone who had always been overlooked, always been unwanted.
Severus, who had been his secret.
It had always, somehow, been about Severus Snape.
The realization struck him like lightning, burning through the fog Azkaban had left behind. He had never allowed himself to ponder, not even in the privacy of his own mind. Not when he was sixteen, staring at Snape's empty seat in the Great Hall, feeling a loss he had no right to feel. Not when he was seventeen, watching Snape from across the classroom with something that wasn't quite rivalry, wasn't quite loathing. Not when he was eighteen, standing too close during another argument, heart pounding harder than it should have.
And then Azkaban. The Dementors. The fear of losing everything.
Sirius gasped as the Dementors were driven back by a silver stag, his body convulsing with the force of the realization. He had felt something, something strong, for Severus Snape. Not the hatred he had long pretended it to be, not the careless flirtation he had lavished upon others, not the blind devotion he had given James. It had been something unspoken, something complicated, something he had been unwilling to confront.
And he had been terrified. Terrified that Azkaban would steal it from him, that the Dementors would rip it away. So his magic had done what his heart could not—it had buried Severus Snape so deeply that he had forgotten him entirely.
Because if Dementors took it away from him, if he forgot, then no one would ever remember what he had felt—what he hadn't had time nor will to examine closely. It would have been lost to the void, forever.
The next time he looked at Snape, truly looked at him, something flickered in his chest. Snape was glaring, wand at the ready, his face unreadable.
But Sirius remembered now.
He wished he didn't.
And he pretended he didn't.
Sirius sat in Dumbledore's office, exhaustion weighing him down like a heavy cloak. Flickering candlelight sent long shadows dancing across the room. For the first time in twelve years, he wasn't behind bars. He wasn't running. He was here. They were listening. And most importantly, Harry was safe.
"Peter was the Secret-Keeper—the one who betrayed James and Lily," Sirius said, voice rough from years of disuse. "He framed me. He cut off his own finger, transformed into a rat, and ran."
He looked at Harry, at the boy who was so much like James but carried something else in his eyes—something sharper, more observant.
Harry nodded, his hands clenched into fists. "We saw him change, Professor Dumbledore. Ron's had him as a pet for years. That rat—Scabbers—he's Peter Pettigrew."
Hermione, sitting stiff-backed beside Ron who looked disgusted, added quickly, "Animagi don't appear on the registry unless they register themselves, and we know Peter never did. That's why no one ever suspected. But we should have—no common rat lives that long."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his gaze unreadable. He had listened carefully throughout, nodding along, asking few questions, but now his eyes flickered to Snape, who had remained silent.
Sirius had expected Snape to argue, to sneer, to cut him down with sharp words. But instead, the man only sat in the corner, dark eyes unreadable, fingers curled around his sleeves. Every so often, Snape's gaze would shift to Sirius—not with the burning, familiar hatred Sirius thought he should see, but something else. Something more calculating.
It was unsettling.
Sirius tore his gaze away, steeling himself to maintain the facade. It was better this way. Better to act as if Snape was just another stranger, better to pretend he had never known him at all.
Acting like he hated him would be too dangerous. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to, not anymore.
Dumbledore's gaze returned to Sirius, his voice both gentle and unyielding. "Cornelius Fudge will not take your word alone as proof of your innocence, I'm afraid. We will need more than testimony."
Sirius clenched his fists. He knew this wouldn't be easy. But he had been locked away for twelve years—what was a little more waiting?
Harry straightened in his chair. "Professor, we know the truth. Isn't that enough?"
"I believe you, Harry," Dumbledore said, "but the Ministry is not so easily swayed." He turned his attention back to Sirius. "Still, you have allies now."
Sirius exhaled slowly, his eyes flickering back to Snape against his better judgment. The man was watching him again, still unreadable.
It was almost nostalgic—sitting in Dumbledore's office with Harry, who looked so much like James, and Snape, who looked unimpressed. But unlike before, Snape wasn't hurling accusations at him.
Of all people, Snape held the power to unravel everything. Yet he said nothing.
Sirius wasn't sure if he felt relief—or something far more dangerous stirring within him.
The morning sun streamed through the high windows of Remus Lupin's office, casting long golden beams across the worn wooden floor. The fire had burned low in the grate, embers still glowing faintly, and by the hearth, curled in a ball of shaggy black fur, lay Padfoot.
At first, Remus didn't even register his presence. His mind was still reeling, his body aching from the transformation, but none of that compared to the horror twisting in his gut.
He had forgotten to take his Wolfsbane Potion.
In a school full of children.
The realization struck like ice in his veins. He could have killed someone. He could have—
His breath came too fast, and he pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. No. It hadn't come to that. Somehow, miraculously, no one had been maimed, killed, or turned. But that didn't change the fact that he had endangered everyone. He couldn't stay here.
The rustling of fabric drew his attention, and Remus turned to see Sirius shifting, stretching, then transforming back into his human form. His hair was unkempt, his clothes still torn from the night before, but his sharp eyes found Remus instantly.
"Morning, Moony," Sirius said, voice rough with exhaustion. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Remus's expression, then exhaled. "Yeah, I know that look. You're resigning, aren't you?"
Remus swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I have to."
Sirius scoffed. "No, you don't."
"I forgot, Sirius." His voice was quiet but steady. "I forgot the potion. If it weren't for Severus—"
He stopped short. Sirius didn't react.
Remus frowned, his gaze searching Sirius's face.. "Sirius…"
Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his expression shifting, something guarded settling into his features. "Don't start."
Remus sighed but let it go for now. He had a more urgent question in mind. He sat down, rubbing at his temples. "What happened after I transformed?"
Sirius straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension. "Peter got away," he admitted. "Slipped off in the chaos."
Remus closed his eyes briefly. "Of course he did."
"Dumbledore believes us, though."
That got Remus's attention. His eyes snapped open. "What?"
Sirius nodded. "After the mess settled, I had a chance to explain everything to him. Harry and his friends backed me up—they told him about Scabbers, about how he'd been acting strange, and how he transformed right in front of them." He let out a breath. "Dumbledore said he'll do what he can to clear my name."
Remus let out a long breath, some of the weight lifting from his chest. "That's… that's more than I hoped for."
"Yeah." Sirius smiled faintly. "Not out of the woods yet, but better than running for my life again."
Remus studied him for a long moment, then asked, "And Snape?"
Sirius's expression didn't change, but something in his posture stiffened. "What about him?"
"He was there, wasn't he?"
Sirius gave a nonchalant shrug. "Didn't say much. Just kept giving me nasty glares."
Remus didn't look away. "And you still don't remember him? You seem to remember everything else."
Sirius hesitated, then turned back to the fire. "I don't—," he said at last. "I don't remember a lot of things, Moony. Azkaban isn't exactly known for preserving memories. The Dementors take things from you," he added, voice quieter than before. "Memories, emotions. You don't get to choose what they steal. Maybe I've forgotten more than just him—it just hasn't come up yet."
Remus frowned. Sirius wasn't just brushing it off—he was hiding something.
But Sirius had built walls higher than anyone Remus knew. And now wasn't the time to tear them down.
Instead, he just exhaled. "Well, at least Dumbledore's working on clearing your name."
Sirius nodded, though his focus remained distant, his eyes reflecting the flickering glow of the dying embers. "Yeah," he murmured.
Remus watched him for a moment longer, but let the subject drop.