ㅤㅤYou knew.
.
The letter only had two words.
But Sirius understood exactly what they meant.
Snape knew.
Snape knew that he knew.
And Snape had made sure he knew that Snape knew.
Sirius stared at the parchment, heart thudding.
Because there was no question in those words. No accusation.
Just a fact.
You knew.
And Sirius had known.
He'd known since the moment Regulus had said Snape's name. Since the second it clicked into place, sharp and obvious, making him feel like an idiot for not recognizing the odd familiarity sooner.
He had known.
And he had chosen to stay silent.
Sirius exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.
He should have expected this. It was only a matter of time before Snape figured it out. Snape was too smart, too suspicious, too sharp to miss something like this.
Still, the bluntness of the message threw him. It read like a challenge.
But it made sense. While No One never initiated contact, Snape never shied away from confrontation.
The question was:
What the hell was he supposed to do about it?
Sirius stared at the letter for a long time. The words pressed against his chest like a weight.
He didn't know what Snape wanted. A response? A confession? A fight?
He had no idea.
But he knew he couldn't ignore it.
So he picked up a quill and—without overthinking—wrote back:
.
ㅤㅤSo did you.
.
Then he folded the parchment, tied it to the owl's leg, and sent it off before he could change his mind.
Snape's response came quicker than he expected.
.
ㅤㅤSo what now, Black?
ㅤㅤWill you parade your guilt in search of absolution, or quietly abandon everything you only just convinced yourself of?
.
Sirius clenched his jaw.
Because—fuck.
He hated how Snape always cut right to the ugly part of things.
Because that was the real question, wasn't it?
What now?
He didn't have an answer.
So for once, he didn't scramble for one. He sat with the discomfort. Let himself feel it.
Then, quietly, he picked up his quill again.
And wrote something he never thought he'd say to Snape. But maybe it was easier, now that Snape wasn't just Snape.
Now that he was also No One.
.
ㅤㅤI don't know. And I guess I can't ask for your advice anymore.
.
Snape didn't reply.
Not the next day. Not the day after.
And Sirius tried to tell himself he didn't care. That it didn't matter. That he hadn't really expected advice. Not from Snape.
But the silence still stung more than he wanted to admit.
The longer it stretched, the more the edges of memory blurred—until he couldn't tell where Snape ended and No One began. The same sharp observations. The same brutal honesty. The same way of seeing right through him, and never looking away.
And still, neither of them gave him an opening. Not Snape. Not No One.
He didn't even know what kind of opening he wanted. Just… something. Anything. Anything but this silence.
And when their eyes met across the Great Hall, Sirius wasn't sure if there was something unspoken passing between them, or if it was just his imagination.
But he knew this wasn't over.
And maybe it never would be.
At least—not for him.
.
Sirius didn't know if an apology would matter. After all, an apology had only made things worse with Regulus.
And No One had seen everything. Had dug into his worst thoughts, had shown him the ugliest truths, had forced him to see himself, to face what he had done.
No apology could weight more than what he'd already confessed in those letters, the regrets he poured out of his soul.
But that didn't mean Snape didn't deserve one.
And the possibility of it haunted him.
Sirius, who had spent so much of his life doing nothing, finally decided to do something.
.
The package wasn't neatly wrapped. He'd never been good at that sort of thing.
But it was all there:
The books he'd hexed. The cauldron he'd melted. The robes he'd ruined. The stationery he'd nicked and scrawled insults across. All replaced.
And on top of it, a note. Not long. Not dramatic.
.
ㅤㅤI know this doesn't fix anything. But it's the least I can do.
ㅤㅤIt's the only thing I can fix right now.
.
No signature. No flourish. No expectation.
Just something.
He didn't expect a reply.
And for a while, he didn't get one.
Until a few days later, a note appeared on his bed.
Inside, a single line in Snape's sharp, unmistakable handwriting:
.
ㅤㅤNo, it doesn't.
.
Sirius read it once. Then he read it twice.
Three simple words.
But coming from Snape, they could mean a thousand things. He wanted to be sure he understood.
There was a but in that message. He could feel it. Otherwise, Snape wouldn't have replied at all.
And something in his chest, something tight, something he hadn't even realized was there, began to unravel.
He let out a breath and sank onto his bed, staring at the words.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't an offer of friendship. It wasn't some grand moment of redemption.
But it was something.
And somehow, somehow, it felt better than winning the Quidditch Cup.
Because Quidditch was a game.
But this?
This was more real than anything he had ever been given in his life.
.
Nothing changed.
Not visibly, at least.
Sirius and Snape didn't suddenly become friends. They didn't acknowledge each other in the corridors. Years of history couldn't be erased.
Sirius still sat with the Marauders. Snape still sat with the Slytherins.
The world looked the same from the outside, but Sirius had changed.
Something small. Quiet. Real.
And for the first time, he wasn't just blindly trying to be everything his family wasn't.
He was trying to be better.
And people noticed.
James noticed when Sirius pulled him back from a hex, muttering, "Not cool, mate."
Remus noticed when Sirius looked to him not for direction, but for confirmation—no longer asking what to do, just checking if he was doing it right.
Lily noticed when he was brighter, not moping, not sulking, but no longer cruel, either. Still clever, still charming, but without all sharp edges.
Even Peter noticed, when he wasn't the butt of the joke anymore. When the familiar teasing was still part of their friendship, but without the sting of embarrassment it used to leave behind.
But no one said anything.
And Sirius thought maybe that was for the best.
But when Snape was no longer tripped in the halls, when his books didn't go flying, when Sirius's gaze lingered for just a second too long before he looked away…
Sirius found another note on his bed, appearing as quietly as the first.
It was brief, practical, written in the tight, precise script he'd come to recognize all too well:
.
ㅤㅤRome wasn't built in a day. Try not to approach this like a typical Gryffindor.
.
Sirius huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
And for some reason, it felt like the best validation he had ever received.
Sirius knew he was in trouble.
Because this thing—whatever it was—was starting to feel a lot like an obsession.
Obsession was nothing new to Sirius Black.
It had been bad enough when it was just No One. When he had poured his soul into letters, feeling seen in a way he never had before. When he had waited for replies with a mix of dread and excitement, aching for something he couldn't quite name.
That had been dangerous.
But now?
Now he had a face to go with it.
Now he could see Snape. In class. In the Great Hall. Across the library. Everywhere.
He could see the sharpness in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitched when he was thinking.
And Sirius, reckless, emotional, impulsive Sirius, who had always lived on adrenaline, who had never once been cautious about anything, could feel his pulse drumming loudly in his vein every time Snape appeared. Whether in the flesh or in his mind.
Because this was Snape. Snape.
The person who already made his emotions boil even before this whole thing.
The person he had spent years tormenting.
The person who had forced him to see himself.
The person who made him want to be better.
The person who noticed him had been trying.
And Sirius, stupid and reckless and desperate for something real, was hooked.
Snape wasn't nice to him. Not even close.
But Snape challenged him. And encouraged him—whether he meant to or not. He gave Sirius something he hadn't realized he needed.
A reason to try and keep trying.
And maybe, just maybe, Sirius was starting to want more than just No One's approval.
Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to want Snape's.
And that?
That was a whole new level of trouble—even for him.
It meant absolutely nothing.
That's what Sirius told himself.
The letters. The small gifts. The careful phrasing.
He sent them with no expectation of a response.
They were just gestures. Small tokens. Barely a fraction of what he owed.
It wasn't a pursuit. It wasn't anything.
Because there was no way, no bloody way, he was pursuing Severus Snape.
That would be insane.
And yet, he kept visiting the owlery.
Not with confessions. Not with desperate self-reflection like before. Just… thoughts. Passing ones. Small offerings.
.
ㅤㅤSaw a book on defensive theory. Figured you'd like it.
Attached to a package containing the book he'd skimmed, suspecting Snape might already read it. He sent it anyway, just in case.
.
ㅤㅤYou were brilliant in Potions today. Such a shame Slughorn only noticed Evans. Not that she wasn't brilliant.
.
ㅤㅤI was a right bastard in fourth year. Not that you need me to tell you that.
.
ㅤㅤDo you still think I will always be the same?
.
That last one got a reply.
.
ㅤㅤThat's your choice, not mine.
.
And Sirius felt like he'd won something. Even though he knew it wasn't a game. Even though he knew this still meant nothing.
But then why—why did he find himself watching Snape?
Why did he notice the way his brow furrowed when he was focused? The way his fingers tapped the desk when he was irritated? The way his mouth twitched when he tried, and usually failed, to hold back something scathing.
Why did he keep checking his bed for new letters? Why did it feel like disappointment when there wasn't one?
It meant nothing. He was sure of it.
And yet…
And yet, Sirius kept writing.
Sirius prided himself on being observant.
It was a skill honed through years of dodging detentions and pulling off perfect pranks.
Or at least, he thought he was observant.
Because somehow, he'd missed this.
Snape and Regulus.
Sitting together in the library. Speaking in low voices at the Slytherin table. Walking side by side in the corridors, too at ease with each other for it to mean nothing. Snape was never at ease with anyone.
And Sirius, who had spent so long watching Snape, felt like a complete idiot for not seeing it sooner.
He had been sure they were nothing but casual acquaintances. Maybe they had mutual friends. Maybe they shared a few opinions.
But not like this.
Had it started after his disaster of an apology? Had they bonded over their mutual irritation with him?
Sirius could picture it far too easily, and he hated what he saw.
Regulus, cool and sharp when he said, "He thinks one letter changes anything."
Snape, dry and cutting when he replied, "He does have a habit of not thinking."
The thought made something twist in his chest.
Something ugly. Angry. Jealous.
He wanted to lash out. Break something. Say something cruel and do some irreversible damage.
That was the instinct. The old instinct. The one he'd spent months trying to unlearn.
But he didn't let it win.
Not when Snape was watching. Not when Regulus had already made up his mind about who he was. Not after everything.
So Sirius clenched his jaw. Curled his fingers into fists.
And willed the feeling to pass.
He would not slip. Not again.
Later, in the quiet of the dormitory, Sirius caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink.
His hair was a little longer than it used to be. His eyes looked tired. He wasn't smirking. Wasn't charming. Just… staring.
Who even was he, if he couldn't bite back?
There had been a time when he'd made people hurt just because he was hurting.
But this time, he let himself burn—contained the fire inside him. Quietly. Silently.
Without making anyone bleed for him. Without needing anyone to bleed with him.
He didn't know if this new version of him was an improvement. He just knew he didn't recognize the boy in the mirror.
But he could never bring himself to regret sending that first letter.
The one that started everything.