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I'M STILL PUTTING THIS ON TOP OF EVERYTHING, SORRY: I am a writer of problematic things; if you are going to engage with my stories you should know this. I am aware that my writing and the ways my characters behave and think can be just that, problematic. I am not approaching it under any delusions. I am not pretending to be a moral authority, nor do I want to be. Objective, absolute morality is not my interest as a writer. I am not writing in a black and white world where the heroes are uncomplicated, always good, never flawed, perfect human beings with no bad qualities and no regrets. Regret is a major theme of mine. As is having to come to terms with the dark side of one’s own nature, or, sometimes, even making excuses and rationalising it. I do sometimes write stories where the bad guys win, and I do so fully knowing that is what I am doing, not concealing from myself or pretending they are good or their behaviour justified, but I try to make it clear when I do. I like to explore trauma and human psychology not an absolute, objective good and evil. If you don’t like that, or your thinking is so black and white you can’t comprehend it, please read no further. Neither this story nor any of my stories are for you. Please be aware that I feel no obligation to be polite if you flame me for the moral character of my content, considering you have been warned.
***
He spends most of the first few days stomping around Hogwarts grounds in his cold weather gear, sulking, but trying not to admit to himself that he is. Prongs went home for Christmas without him. He— he understands, of course he does. There’s some Family business at Hartsbridge Hall that requires the Heir but not— not the Heir of some other Family around. A Family with whom the Potters have— less than cordial relations, right this moment. He wonders if it’s got something to do with the wards— always a tricky business, and not the sort of thing one can risk getting wrong.
Still, it’s only two weeks. It’s not like he was going to go home for those two weeks— in fact he’s seriously contemplating not going home ever again. He’s— he’s not sure he can do it anymore. His mother— his mother hates him, and she’s not shy in letting him know that, and the things she says, the things she does, the casual way she hexes him— he’s not sure he can take it anymore.
When he was little, before Hogwarts, before— before everything— she— she wasn’t like that. Except she kind of was— because even if she’d scoop him up and dandle him on her lap one moment, cuddling and cooing over him, she was snarling at him, pinching the soft flesh of his sides, calling him stupid and worthless the next. A disgrace. Not good enough. No worthy Heir of the House of Black.
He’s always been frightened of her, it’s just that as he’s gotten older he’s stopped wanting her to love him as well.
It was Prongs, becoming his friend, getting to go back to Hartsbridge Hall and seeing how the Potters treat their son that started it. It was— it was learning to reject everything he’s been taught, to reject the Dark, as well, to see it as it is, cruel and savage and sadistic. It was— it was probably that year when Bellatrix cornered him and cast Cruciatus on him and when he told his mother she acted like it was his fault for irritating his cousin, then swept it under the rug and refused to listen if he brought it up again, and she’d hex him if he pointed out that Cruciatus is an Unforgivable, that Bellatrix should be reported for using it, that it doesn’t make it alright just because she used it on Family.
He doesn’t want to be part of a Family that sees no problem in that, in casting Unforgivables, on anyone, but especially not on one of their own.
Also, he’s heard rumours, rumours about Voldemort. He’s heard that even though Bellatrix is married she’s seeing the man, seeing him and her husband knows about it. He’s even heard that she might end up Voldemort’s official Mistress— and his Family act like this is a good thing, even though it goes against everything they’ve ever taught him to value. Voldemort is a Halfblood, to start with, and doesn’t it risk the alliance of the House of Black with the Family Lestrange?
It seems— it almost seems like the power Voldemort offers is more important than his mother’s much vaunted Pureblood principles.
He’s frightened. He won’t admit to anyone that he is, but he is. He’s not sure what’s going to happen, what will become of him, his Family—
It feels like it would be better if he wasn’t one of them. His mother hates him, his father never notices him— and they’ve got Regulus, their quiet, calm, respectful, perfect Pureblood spare. Regulus never gets in trouble the way he does. Regulus never gets upset the way he does. Regulus never has to fight down tears because their mother has spent the last three hours lecturing him on why he’s so awful, why he was a mistake, why she wishes she’d aborted him before he was born and tried again— But then Regulus never gets any of those lectures.
Regulus is back home, undoubtedly getting presents and affection and praise.
His mother didn’t even write to him to protest his decision to stay at Hogwarts. She doesn’t even seem to care, but then— she really actually love him, not really, she never has. He’s just— just a continuation of their Bloodline. Just duty—
No one loves him.
He’s fine— he’s fine— he’s a man and men don’t need to be loved.
He wishes Prongs was here, he always wishes Prongs was here, he always wishes he could be with Prongs. He feels best when he’s with Prongs. He wishes he’d been permitted to go to Hartsbridge. He wishes Moony was here— even if Moony is still angry with him because of that prank with Snape. He wishes Wormy was here— Wormy always makes him feel better, when he’s sad or low or doubting himself Wormy always makes everything so much clearer. He doesn’t want to be here, by himself.
The worst bit is that there really isn’t anyone else worth talking to who has stayed behind. It’s all Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws— most of which, he admits, don’t like him, and of those that do they’re all so boring or pathetic he doesn’t want to spend any time with them— or they’re Gryffindors who think he’s a prick and aren’t afraid to tell him that to his face— or they’re Snivellus.
No, actually, the worst worst bit is that Snivellus is the most interesting person still at Hogwarts.
He’s just turned seventeen, he’s got no girlfriend, his parents didn’t even give him a present for his last birthday, his best mate is back home in the loving embrace of his wonderful Family, he’s bored, he’s lonely, and he’s almost tempted to go find Snivellus to bother just for a distraction, even though he promised both Moony and Prongs he wouldn’t after he almost fed the boy to his second best friend.
It’s not like he meant to. That sounds stupid, but it’s true. He didn’t think it through, what could happen, what it would mean, but— But Snivellus was all upset after that day when Prongs dangled him upside down and ended up showing everyone his privates, and Prongs has been weird about it since, and paying far too much attention to Snivellus, and— and— Evans was angry with Prongs, but then she started softening up to him— and then Snivellus stopped lurking near The Fat Lady trying to talk to her, and— and Prongs got weirder, and— and Evans hates him, and isn’t shy about letting him know, so it’s horrible being anywhere near her, and now Prongs spends all this time he used to spend with him with her instead— and— and— and he was talking to Wormy and it all seemed to make so much sense when he was, but then—
What if Moony had hurt Snivellus? He doesn’t really care what happens to the dark-haired boy, or maybe he just doesn’t want to care what happens to Snivellus, but Moony— Moony is very nearly his best mate. It was— it was so stupid, and sometimes he can’t quite believe he did it, or that he didn’t really get in trouble for doing it. One detention doesn’t seem like nearly enough. It’s like Bellatrix, getting away with casting Crucio on him like it didn’t even matter.
He doesn’t really want to be like Bellatrix— but then he can’t admit to anyone he sometimes worries he is, a bit. He’s not— Sometimes the limits that make sense to everyone else don’t really make sense to him. He’s had to learn them, because— because it’s not so much that his parents didn’t teach them to him, but taught him the opposite, punished him whenever he was too soft, so— so it doesn’t come naturally to him, not not, and he doesn’t know if it ever did, and sometimes he gets it wrong, but when he does Prongs just says he’ll do better next time and Wormy tells him he wasn’t wrong at all and the only one who ever actually tells him off is Moony, but only when Moony gets angry enough.
He shouldn’t want people to tell him off, because it reminds him of his mother, and often he reacts by doing the opposite of what they want— but when he calms down later he sometimes thinks he needs someone to.
Sometimes he hates himself, but he can’t say it, because if he does he either hears you shouldn’t say that from friends or you deserve to from enemies in return, and neither of those actually help.
Halfway through the first week of what feels like a torturous confinement, his skin itching, prickling, the old hunger in him awake and fidgeting through him— the need for attention, for approval, praise, Prongs’ presence— he runs into Snivellus at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forrest, carrying an empty basket.
The other boys startles, lurches backwards, away from him, and draws his wand immediately. This is the first time he’s seen Snivellus, he realises, aside from at meals.
For a second, just a split second, he feels the thrill of the hunt rush through him— but then he thinks how disappointed Prongs will be, and even if Prongs isn’t, even if Prongs makes excuses, how hurt Moony will feel after he swore to stop tormenting the dark-haired boy. Ignoring the wavering point of the ebony wand he asks, trying to sound friendly, ‘What are you up to?’
Snivellus scowls at him, ‘Why is that any of your business, Black?’
‘I’m bored,’ he replies, still trying to remain friendly. It’s almost a relief to come face to face with Snivellus. His last few attempts to talk to anyone hadn’t gone well. He knows he’s fidgety, probably radiating that mad, bad, Black energy— and without Prongs around he seems to turn into an idiot half the time. It’s like he forgets how to properly socialise. How to play it cool. How not to offend people.
‘So you’ve decided to come and torment me, is that it?’ Snivellus snarls, shoulders going up, backing away a few steps as he hunches in on himself protectively.
‘No!’ he argues. ‘It’s just that everyone else left at Hogwarts is so boring.’
‘And I’m not?’ Snivellus scoffs. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Black, I’ve heard the things you and yours say about me.’
‘I still think you’re a creepy little freak—’ he points out, which makes a bark of laughter erupt from Snivellus.
‘You’re just bored enough you don’t care? Really, Black, it’s only been a few days. Surely you can live without your captive audience for such a short amount of time?’
He’s not sure why he says it, because saying such a thing to Snivellus of all people, is asking for trouble, but the words, ‘I’m not sure I can,’ slip out.
Snivellus stares at him, eventually gathering himself enough to say, ‘I didn’t think you were that pathetic.’
‘At least I have friends,’ he argues.
‘Friends that have left you all alone, by yourself, and not even invited you home for Christmas— You sure they’re really friends, Black? Maybe they’re sick of you, like everyone else.’
It— it stings. ‘You’re here too!’ he snaps, ‘No one wants you around either, Sniv! Not even your parents.’
Snivellus laughs, sharp and bitter, ‘Yes, but I’m always here at Christmas. This is the first year you have been too.’
He forces down the anger, the biting rage, the howling sense of rejection— not quite managing it, tone coming out sharp and snippy. ‘If Prongs didn’t have a Family matter to deal with I’d be at Hartsbridge Hall right now. I could have gone home, but I chose not to.’
‘You’re so bloody spoilt,’ Snivellus scoffs. ‘Is Grimmauld Place not good enough for you? Or is it just that your parents aren’t going to the Family Seat for Christmas?’
‘How do you know about our houses?’ he snaps. Is Snivellus stalking him?
Black eyes roll in their sockets, ‘Don’t look at me like that, Black. It came up when I was talking to Reg.’
Reg? ‘You’re friends with Regulus?’ he splutters, incredulous.
A dark brow arches, ‘Why not? We’re in the same House. He’s— He’s not the imbecile that most of our peers are.’
‘You are friends with him,’ he muses. For Snivellus calling someone not an imbecile is high praise indeed. ‘Why didn’t he invite you home, then?’
‘A Halfblood tainting the hallowed halls of Black?’ the other boy scoffs.
‘Oh, yes. You do have a point—’ his mother is particularly stringent when it comes to those matters. She may accept Prongs as his friend— at first delighted at the access to one of the most powerful Families in Wizarding Britain, but once his best mate’s influence on him became clear that delight turned to reluctant acceptance, because as it stands the Blacks do not have the power to risk alienating the Potters— but she is not happy about Moony or Wormy. ‘You’re not missing much, though. Christmas is always awful at home— and Bellatrix will probably be there, and I’m not sure I’d wish an encounter with her even on you.’ It occurs to him, as Snivellus is here, is always here, apparently, at Christmas time— ‘Is Christmas awful at your home too? Is that why you stay?’
The other boy lets out a high, bitter laugh, ‘What home?’ and then, with a shake of that dark-haired head, ‘That’s enough of this, Black, whatever this is. I have things to do, and you— I’m sure you can find a distraction. Why don’t you take your broom up and fly around in circles for a while?’
‘What did you mean by what home?’ he demands, the words sticking in his mind.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Snivellus dismisses.
‘But it does,’ he argues. ‘What did you mean?’
‘Why do you care?’ the other boy snaps, ‘And why would you think I’d tell you? Anything I say to you I’ll hear back, ugly and cruel, as you use it to torment me!’
‘No you won’t,’ he insists, meaning it down to his very soul— even though up to this very moment any vulnerabilities Snivellus did share with him really would be an invitation to use them against the boy later. All of a sudden he’s aware of that fact, how ugly it is, what it says about him. ‘Come on Sniv, truce? Just for now, how about a truce? Anything you say I won’t repeat again, not to anyone, not even you.’
‘You really must be bored,’ the boy grumbles, before a sharp, unpleasant, smile crosses that severe face. ‘Not that you care, Black,’ Snivellus carefully enunciates, ‘But just before Christmas my mother wrote to me and told me she’s left my father, left the country, does not want anything more to do with me, but just thought she should let me know that my dad told her to tell me not to bother coming home, because he doesn’t want to ever see me again either. It was a surprise, let me tell you that— not that all that happened, because I have no idea why they stayed together for so long, but the fact she actually bothered to tell me instead of letting me unwittingly stumble home and no doubt into one of his fists. Good of her, really.’
For a moment he can’t think of anything to say. That— that sounds— Suddenly Snivellus doesn’t look like Snivellus anymore. He looks like a boy, a boy his age, that bitterness, that— that edge of danger, of something mad and brittle, caused by something very like what causes it in him.
At his silence Snivellus rolls his eyes again. ‘It doesn’t matter, they never did Christmas anyway, at least not since my Gran died. Christmas is just like every other day of the year. They get drunk, they shout at each other, she hexes me, and he beats me, that’s it. Sometimes he goes to the pub. Sometimes she locks herself in her room— happy now, Black?’
No. No he’s not. He’s about as far from happy as he can get. ‘What about your Family?’ he asks, a little desperate. There has to be someone who cares about the other boy. ‘I mean— she hexes you, so she’s a witch. Who are her people? Why do they let a Muggle get away with hurting you?’
‘She was disowned when she fell pregnant to him,’ is the reply to that, flat, a simple statement.
Disowned? ‘A Pureblood?’ he squawks, mind racing. Who could it be?
‘She was born Eileen Prince, if that means anything to you.’
Eileen Prince— ‘Merlin’s Beard, Sniv,’ he breathes out. ‘The Princes are one of the most powerful Families in Britain. In Europe. They’re the bloody Potters’ equal—' more powerful, undeniably, than the Blacks— If Snivellus had been recognised, still a bastard, a Halfblood, but a recognised one— His skin crawls. Augustus Prince could make his— and even Prongs’— life a living hell for all of it, the things they’ve done. That he’s done. For— for Moony.
‘And I’m still a Halfblood,’ the boy points out.
‘Yes, but a Prince Halfblood— and your father beats you. A Muggle beats you—’ it’s madness. Utter madness. He stares at Snivellus— examines him— trying to see the Prince in him— and it’s not in his looks— though he recognises that nose now— but it’s certainly in the bearing. In the— in the power— No wonder Sniv is so good at magic. The Princes are notorious for having bred for magical strength— and there are whispers that mixing blood with Muggles can bring out a Bloodline’s power to its full extent. His mother dismisses it as nonsense of course, but— He has met Augustus Prince a couple of times. A short man, slender and neat— hardly an intimidating figure simply to gaze at, but the power radiating off him, and those cold blue eyes, totally without mercy, totally implacable. Once he found himself beneath the man’s gaze in Diagon Alley and he just froze, every muscle locking up, until those blue eyes moved on and the Prince patriarch drifted past as if he was totally immaterial. ‘Do they know?’ he squawks out. He cannot imagine that man surrendering his grandson to a lifetime of abuse at the hands of a Muggle.
Snivellus shrugs, ‘I imagine so.’
A thought races across his mind. ‘Are you poor?’ he blurts out, wincing at the way Sniv flinches back in offense. In his defence he doesn’t mean it like that— It has just suddenly occurred to him that the way Snivellus dresses, the old, tatty clothes, ill-fitting and ugly, and the second-hand books and supplies— He never quite knew what to make of it all. He’s not used to poverty, especially not poverty that speaks with the posh accent Sniv does, or holds itself with the pride of the other boy, or doesn’t seem to have access to the scholarships that other poorer students use to pay for books and supplies— so he had just assumed that the way the boy dressed was a statement about how little Sniv cares about what everyone thinks of him, but if it’s just poverty and a lack of access to anything else— ‘I mean—’ he splutters, hands up to show he means no harm, ‘Didn’t your grandfather give your mother anything when he disowned her? Didn’t he give her an annuity or something?’ it’s the done thing, isn’t it, to at least give some support to a Family’s bastards, in case they are needed later?
He feels kind of sick. He feels terribly guilty. He knows he doesn’t understand things properly, but he knows, has heard again and again, how wrong it is to pick on the poor, the less fortunate. It’s— it’s villainous.
Has he been acting like a villain? Like the bad guy from some story? Had Prongs, his good, his noble, his perfect friend, been acting like a villain too?
‘Why would he give her anything?’ Snivellus asks, still defensive, the words coming out cold and sarcastic. ‘Why wouldn’t he leave her wallowing in poverty, wallowing in her mistake in having me?’
‘I—’ he doesn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ slips out, but that hardly helps, and just gets Snivellus— no, Severus— well, no, Snape, how about Snape— scoffing at him again. ‘I mean it,’ he insists. ‘I— There’s no point trying to explain myself, most of my explanations aren’t very good, and I doubt you’ll care anyway, but I am sorry— I— I’ll try and be better. I’ll leave you alone. I won’t torment you anymore.’
‘What on Earth are you blithering about, Black?’ Snape scowls at him, looking profoundly suspicious. ‘I don’t need your pity.’
‘It’s not pity!’ he squawks, ‘It’s not— I mean— Look, Snape—’ at the use of his actual name the boy flinches, dark eyes going wide and uncertain, ‘I— I get it. I mean— not all of it. I’m still— I’m still a Pureblood, and I’m not poor— or at least not yet, because— because I’m thinking of leaving, of not going back— and I’ll be disowned if I do that— but I’m thinking of it, and part of that is, yes, that I don’t like what my Family stands for, but also— also—’ he gasps in a breath, unable to believe he’s about to tell Snape this— but then Snape told him all that, so— ‘Also, my mother is cruel. My father isn’t, not so much, he just mainly ignores me or occasionally criticises me, but she— she hexes me. She— I’m not good enough, I never was, and— and she’s cruel. She hurts me— and— and my cousin, my cousin Bellatrix she—’ he lowers his voice. He hasn’t even told Prongs. He probably shouldn’t tell Snape— but right this moment he wants someone to know. Someone to know how bad it is. Someone who knows the same kind of badness, who understands ‘—She cast Cruciatus on me and my mother didn’t even care!’
‘Jesus, Black,’ Snape breathes out after a moment. ‘Why hasn’t someone done something? You’re one of Dumbledore’s golden boys—’
‘I haven’t actually told anyone else that thing about Bellatrix,’ he admits.
‘Even so— They must know the rest of it.’
‘Prongs does, or some— as much as I’ve told him,’ he says after a moment. ‘I think the Potters will take me in when I leave home.’ He realises as he says it he’s already decided to do it. It really stopped being an if and became a when years ago now— and, yes, that was when Bellatrix cursed him. That was the thing that broke whatever trust he still had in his mother.
‘You should tell them, then,’ Snape tells him. ‘Cruciatus is an Unforgivable— There have to be consequences.’
He lets out an awkward little sound, an attempt at a laugh, but even the bitter humour of it dies in him. ‘Well, you and I both know there aren’t, sometimes—’ he feels so ashamed again. So guilty— and he knows part of it is just that he feels that way when he remembers the things that have happened to him, even though they happened to him, he didn’t do them— but they’ve always felt like his fault— and sometimes that makes him angry, and sometimes that makes him cruel, but right now it just makes him feel awful— added to by Snape being good in response to his story, not being mocking or contemptuous or turning it back on him and saying he deserved it— even though he has tormented the other boy every year they’ve been at this school. True, sometimes Snape strikes back, and strikes back hard, sometimes more than whatever he’s done really warrants— but he understands that impulse, doesn’t he? The way the pain and rage and sense of helplessness all gets too much sometimes. And nothing Snape ever did to him matches up to— ‘I’m sorry about telling you how to access the Shrieking Shack,’ he admits, voice coming out small and stilted, ‘I’m sorry for encouraging you to do it. I’m sorry for putting you in danger like that— I didn’t think it through. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was an awful thing to do— you could have been hurt, or worse—’
‘Why did you do it?’ Snape snaps, all gentleness gone from him. He looks cold, still, like an implacable statue. Like his grandfather.
He cringes back from the condemnation in that gaze. ‘I don’t have a good reason,’ he admits. ‘I was— Everything was changing and I was so angry and it seemed so easy to take it out on you.’
‘What was changing?’ the other boy demands, before an odd look comes over his face— ‘Is this about Potter? I remember— this was about the time he started spending time with Lils— Lily— wasn’t it? I remember seeing you alone a lot more, or with Lupin or Pettigrew—’ He’s not sure what his face does, but Snape’s clears up. ‘It was about Potter. You were jealous— You were jealous and you took it out on me. You’re such a prick, Black.’
He should protest— but it’s true, isn’t it? Jealous of Evans and jealous— Well, he’s not going to tell Snape he was also jealous of the attention Prongs was paying the other boy. That would be stupid. Still, he was jealous. After the rest of this conversation— after all of it— and why does Snape seem so calm about the idea? He asks him that, ‘Why aren’t you more angry with me about it?’
‘Because it’s a reason,’ Snape says, sounding amused, ‘It’s a stupid, childish reason. It’s something other than you just waking up one day and deciding I no longer had the right to live.’
‘Is that what you thought?’ he asks after a moment. It’s— It’s not a pleasant idea, that Snape just assumed he’d decided it was time for the other to die. It says ugly things about the man Snape thinks he is. The man he appears to be. He doesn’t want to be that kind of man.
‘Yes,’ is the reply, plain and simple. ‘I thought you’d decided to kill me for a bit of sport. I thought Potter had agreed— before losing his nerve— and after it all I didn’t so much think, as know, that no one would have cared if you had succeeded.’
‘I would have,’ he says, voice small. ‘I know you probably don’t believe me— but if I had succeeded— I would have regretted it, and not just because of Moony. I don’t want to be a killer, Snape. I don’t want to be that kind of man.’
‘Then you might want to try a bit harder not to be—’ Snape snaps, then sighs. ‘Not that the way everyone lets you get away with everything is going to help you much. Which you probably don’t want to hear, because I know how much you value bloody Dumbledore’s good opinion—’
‘No!’ he snaps, ‘I mean— Yes, I do— I do value him, what he thinks, I want him to— I want him to approve of me— but you are right. He lets me get away with too much. Everyone lets me get away with too much— and you never did, and maybe that— maybe that made me worse towards you. I don’t know,’ all of a sudden he realises— and as he does it slips out, ‘I hate the way you look at me. You look at me like her— Like I’m nothing—’ the way his mother does. Snape, really, is nothing like Walburga Black, but Snape is also the one person at school who is as unimpressed with him as she is. He shudders, ‘I’m sorry. I— I know you’re not her— I— I do want to do better. I do try to be good— and I don’t want to be allowed to get away with it all— but it’s— I don’t know. I’m messed up, Snape. I really do want to do better— I really do want to be good— but I don’t know how, and I fuck it up, and when I do there's all these excuses— and Dumbledore should have punished me, properly punished me, for what I did, but he didn’t, not really, and I don’t know why? Why? I tell myself it’s because— because I’m not the terrible things my mother says I am, but I don’t really believe it. Is it because of Prongs? Is it because Prongs and I are so close? It can’t be because of me, because I am— I am—’ all these awful things he thinks, all these awful things he’s not even aware he thinks. He hates himself so much—
‘I don’t forgive you, Black,’ Snape says, interrupting his rambling, ‘But I kind of understand it now, and I never understood it before, so that’s something. If you want to do better, then do better. If you can’t make them all stop spoiling you, then you’ll have to be responsible for yourself.’
‘I don’t know I can be—’ he admits, voice rough.
‘You’re a Gryffindor,’ Snape tells him, flatly, ‘Don’t be a coward.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ he protests.
‘It rarely is,’ is the other boy’s reply. ‘Still. It’s the only solution I can come up with. I doubt we’re going to suddenly wake up in a world where people set limits for you when they never have before.’
‘—You’re right,’ he concedes, eventually, feeling a little as if he’s gone mad. ‘I’m going to fail though, aren’t I?’
‘Then you’ll have to keep trying until you succeed—’ Snape replies, and for a moment he’s furious with the other, because it won’t be easy, and it won’t work, but then Snape is talking again and all the rage in him deflates and he feels defeated, dismissed. ‘If that’s all, Black, I’m busy, and I’d like to get back to it.’
‘Oh,’ he breathes out. ‘O—K.’ The fight seems gone from him. He’s not sure why.
He slinks off. He— the rest of the day is horrible. He’s agitated. He keeps thinking about things he doesn’t want to think about. He can barely sleep and when he does, he dreams— he dreams terrible things. He wakes with his cousin’s mad cackling echoing in his head.
He’s going to leave Snape alone. He swears to himself he’s going to leave Snape alone—
Which lasts until after lunch, when he sees the other stomping across the grounds towards the Forbidden Forest again, once more carrying a basket, determined look on his face. He’s scurrying across the snowy ground after Snape before he realises it, rushing to catch up.
‘Black,’ Snape states, an unwelcoming greeting.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks again, echoing the day before.
For a moment dark-eyes examine him suspiciously, before Snape sighs, ‘I am harvesting Potions ingredients from the Forest.’
‘It’s winter,’ he points out.
‘Potions isn’t your best subject, is it?’ the other boy observes. ‘Some ingredients can only be harvested at this time of year, and others— for some ingredients their properties change, sometimes minutely, sometimes significantly, depending on where and when they are harvested.’
‘So you collect things all year round?’ he asks.
Snape nods, ‘It’s free to harvest in the Forest, so—’
‘Can I come with you?’ he asks after a moment, then quickly adds, ‘I’m still bored, and I might be rubbish at Potions, but I’m not that bad at Herbology— and even if you don’t let me help, I can keep you company.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d want my company,’ the other boy observes.
‘I am trying to be a better man,’ he replies. ‘Anyway, as I said, everyone else is boring.’ He feels like a kicked dog, coming slinking back to its owner— but Snape doesn’t lash out, isn’t cruel, is just quiet for a moment.
‘Alright,’ the other boy says, eventually. ‘Just don’t— Don’t—’
Don’t be himself, he imagines that means. ‘I won’t,’ he promises, and hopes he can keep it.
It’s awkward and he’s not sure enjoys himself. Snape really doesn’t let him do anything— but also doesn’t demand he leave the other alone, so he just shadows the boy in the Forest, watching him as he peers around, harvesting this and that and things he would never imagine would be that useful, but apparently are.
When Snape is done he follows the boy until the other tells him he’s going back to the dungeons, at which point he finds himself at loose ends again until later, at dinner, when he sees Snape and can’t stop himself from going over, dropping down into the empty seat beside the boy, shrugging off everyone’s incredulity and trying to act like he has a right to be there. There’s a look in those dark eyes, like Snape is humouring him, like Snape is waiting for him to get bored with him too, and to slink off. He doesn’t. He refuses to.
The next day he plants himself next to Snape at breakfast— and so it goes, until he’s spending almost all his waking hours with the other boy. Eating with him, spending time at the library with him, going off to Hogsmeade with him— where Snape gets so distracted in the bookshop and he gets so bored he actually has to leave the other’s side for a bit and go have a wander himself— and wandering around Hogwarts with him and watching him harvest the strangest things from the strangest places with the calm collectedness of someone who, it seems, really is a Potions prodigy. It makes him sad for Snape. He’s seen how little attention Slughorn gives him, at least compared to anyone of higher status.
After a while they start to talk, not of anything serious at first, just him asking questions about whatever it is that Snape is carefully cutting, plucking, scraping off something, etc. Snape always answers, calm and informative, both what the thing is and what it can be used for. He knows so much— it’s kind of intimidating.
They start talking about more things after he’s kept it all going so long they end up sitting side-by-side for Christmas. He even gives the other boy a rushed present he acquired in Hogsmeade of a few good quills and a couple of well bound notebooks, as well a thick scarf and matching gloves he in a rich green, just a little darker than Slytherin green, because Snape often looks so cold, even if he knows the boy is using magic to keep himself warm, and surprisingly receives some hand harvested Potions ingredients for Potions they’re probably doing next term from a Snape who seems surprised to have received a gift in turn.
They discuss people then, mainly people they mutually dislike. They talk a bit about the coming war— and he’s surprised to find Snape doesn’t seem that keen on Voldemort, for all he’s always assumed Snape would end up on that side of the war. They talk about what they want to do after school— A Potions Master, unsurprisingly, for Snape, and an Auror for him. They even chat a bit about music— and Snape’s taste in music turns out not to be too bad, and, further, he has a good brain to pick about the best Muggle bands. They even creep off into the Forest not to harvest anything, but to share a smoke away from the disapproving eyes of the students. Eventually Snape asks him how Evans is, and after he does his best to answer— even though he doesn’t really know much, considering how much they dislike each other— he risks asking Snape how Regulus is.
He and Regulus don’t talk much. They may be brothers— but it’s like there's always been this uncrossable gulf between them.
Regulus is so very clever he learns. Regulus knows so much about magical esoterica. Regulus is calm and sensible and intelligent and so good to talk to and— and Snape has a crush on his brother. Snape doesn’t say it, but once the idea occurs to him it becomes so obvious. It— at first he doesn’t know what he thinks about it, wants to be disgusted, is disgusted, avoids Snape for a whole morning after he first realises— but then— but then he remembers he’s trying to be better— and— and— and— and he’s being a hypocrite. He thinks of Prongs— tall, handsome, and the way he smells, and the heat of him, and how much he hates Evans— and—
And he goes and finds Snape. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t explain himself, just— just acts like nothing happened. Acts like he didn’t risk slipping, returning to form, for a secret they both share. A similarity— another similarity— both a little too Dark, both born to horrible Families, both— both interested in other boys, in their close friends.
Time passes quickly. Too quickly— Soon enough school is going to start again. The day before everyone else is due back they’re smoking in the Forest again, passing a bottle of butterbeer between them, and Snape says, conversationally, ‘I suppose this is the last time we’ll do this.’
He stops, freezes, cigarette held inches from his lips. He supposed Snape is right. Prongs will be back tomorrow, and Moony, and Wormy, and everyone— but— but— He looks down at the cigarette, then across at the boy beside him. ‘What if it isn’t?’ he asks. ‘Could we do it, do you think? Could we be friends?’
‘Where Potter can see?’ Snape scoffs, echoing his own thoughts.
‘Why not?’ he replies with more confidence than he feels, ‘If I have to put up with Evans hanging off him all the time, he can put up with you and me being friends.’
For a long, long time Snape says nothing, an odd look on his face, before he chuckles— and, oh, Snape isn’t actually ugly. Snape is kind of— kind of attractive, in an odd, dark, severe kind of way. He hopes Regulus sees it. He hopes Regulus looks at Snape and sees the boy as he is, not as everyone says he is. Not as he, Regulus’ stupid older brother, has always said he was. ‘Potter will hate it,’ Snape says, taking the cigarette from him and taking a puff. ‘He’ll hate it and you’ll regret it— but it might be fun. For a while at least, until you get bored again.’
‘I’ve told you before, Snape,’ he replies, taking the cigarette back, ‘You’re not boring.’