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Unbecoming though it was of him, Alan Evans had to admit that he envied Tobias Snape.
There were no grounds for envy. Materially, the Evanses were far better off than the Snapes. Even without generous gifts from his father-in-law, Alan earned enough money to afford a colour tv and yearly family holidays to Spain whereas Tobias at most could drag his family to Whitley Bay once every three or four years. Besides, Alan’s girls were beautifully kept and fed and happy while Toby barely managed to clothe and feed his one child.
Neither were they equals in education. Alan, despite his earlier circumstances, had won a scholarship to a fine school. He’d even received specialist training for his managerial position the cost of which was fully covered by the factory. Tobias, on the other hand, had dropped out of school at fifteen. Became the man of his house, he did, supporting his family after his father drunk himself to an early grave.
And their families! Their families were as different as gold was to iron. Alan had his Jean, the daughter of a comfortable proprietor, and two lovely daughters, both were sweet, pretty, good-natured things. Petunia had taken after Jean and would no doubt find a decent husband to support her, and his darling Lily had a rich boy at school wrapped around her finger. Sweet, pretty, good-natured girls and a sweet, pretty, good-natured, obedient wife – it was everything Alan had ever aspired towards!
And yet, and yet he could not help looking out the window with jealousy whenever Toby’s ugly wife waited for his shift to end. Eileen didn’t hold a candle to Jean. Blonde and blue-eyed and endowed in just the right places, his Jean was perfect. Perfect! Jean kept the house tidy and never questioned his decisions and put an effort into her appearance. She had gone so far to alter her wardrobe to suit his tastes better; she did her hair just the way he liked it and following a cleverly placed comment on his part Jean had thrown out all her old frumpy undergarments in exchange for proper lacey lingerie. No man could have a better wife than Alan.
So it was absolutely ridiculous that his eyes should stray to Eileen Snape. Toby’s little wife was pale and slight, with a face much too thin and eyes far too big. Her black hair – which she rarely ever braided or styled – cascaded wildly down her back; her bright, mismatched clothes and ratty capes gave her gypsy airs. She was wild as a gypsy, anyway, with how often she argued with her husband in public. He wondered how often Eileen fought Toby behind closed doors.
Alan would not stand for a wife that talked back. He never struck Jean and never would because she never gave him a reason. Still, it would have been tempting if his Jean had a little of the fire that Toby’s Eileen had.
Yes, Eileen regularly marched into the factory for the sole purpose to scream and holler and wail. The men knew trouble was a-coming if she burst through the doors with an accusatory finger pointing straight at Tobias. Yet no less than berating him she threw herself into his arms, kissing him and practically worshipping the ground he walked on. Moreover, Eileen never let others speak ill of her husband. Not even while sporting the bruises he gifted her.
“Every single thing my husband does is right!” Eileen had proudly declared, her arms wrapped around a flustered Tobias. “I love him.”
Jean had never failed in her wifely duties, but to Alan’s thinking she could have done with loving him more. If she had loved him better, he would not have needed the company of the Spinner’s End girls. For seven quid they gave him what Jean could not, would not.
But one of those girls he held in the higher regard than others. Little Severa Snape. Toby’s little girl. His only child.
Severa was as ugly as Eileen. All the unpleasantness and oddness, irritability and resentment had passed down from mother to daughter. Alan had been blessed with two girls; poor Toby was cursed with his one and only child.
A sense of pride bloomed in Alan’s chest whenever Lily came home from the Snapes’ house with a curious story to tell; like after her visit when she told Alan that the Snapes had margarine at home instead of Lurpak.
Alan had triumphed that day, or so it seemed at the time. Soon of course Lily brought other tales, ones that he liked less and less. Alan did not like that little Severa was the first voice at her church choir. He did not like that little Severa excelled in magic, trumping over Lily in certain subjects. He absolutely did not like that Tobias – him that dropped out at fifteen – taught his little Severa rudimentary Greek and Latin. Spinner’s End children barely spoke English properly. What business had they learning classics?
He wondered if little Severa’s Latin had gone rusty since her mummy killed her daddy and herself last December. Money had to be tighter than ever in the Snape household. If it were not so then Alan would not have heard it whispered at the factory that the girl might be selling her daddy’s medals.
Alan had to repress a smile. The men would not take it kindly if they suspected him of condescension.
But how fantastic would it have been, eh? If Alan could have at least gotten his hands on Toby’s War and Military medals. What a shame it was then that the girl disproved those rumours.
“Money’s tight,” she admitted, “but not that tight. I won’t ever sell the medals, anyway. They were the few things my father was proud of.”
Still, little Severa needed money. That much was clear by her drab shoes and patchy clothes her parents in their kindness had bequeathed her. Alan gladly lent the girl a quid here and there, but frankly it was easier for him to just buy what she needed.
Alan treated her differently. Severa wasn’t like her whorish neighbours, those girls that would do anything for the right price. Severa was as fierce as her mother, and she had principles like her honest daddy. Tobias for all his faults worked honestly and diligently. He never stooped to side-gigs or backhanded deals. Eileen was not so scrupulous. Alan couldn’t say exactly what she did in her free time, but he knew Tobias despaired of her. Alan felt sorry for him. Toby said he did not like beating his wife; though what choice did he have when she acted like a common thief? It was his job to discipline her.
“At least the girl’s not stupid like her mother,” Toby had said, and Alan agreed. Little Severa might look like her mother, but she was cut from her father’s cloth.
Everybody claimed otherwise. They were thrown off by the physical resemblance. Severa had also inherited more of her mother’s misanthropy and suspicious nature. Compared to his wife, Toby was downright amiable. He had friends at the bare minimum, and before they all killed themselves he was close with his siblings. He was normal. His women were not. That was that at Cokeworth. End of story.
However, Alan knew better. Whatever the factory hands might say, and whatever his own women hinted at, Severa had more of Tobias in her than Eileen. Sure, the girl was magic like her mother and had her temper and her looks. People saw them together as a pair – two black-haired freaks with pale skin and large, black eyes. Eileen’s girl through and through, the locals said. Alan was sure that if Eileen was not so damn loyal (or the girl’s nose so prominent) it would have been rumoured that she had cooked up her daughter in a cauldron.
I know better, thought Alan as he stood smoking a block away from the Catholic church. It doesn’t matter that she’s taken so much after her mother. Little Severa is Toby’s girl. She’s got his righteous, principled glare.
He smiled when the girl walked down the street, spotted him, and glared just like dear old clever Toby.
***
Severa liked going to church. It was the one time a week that things generally went well for her. Their house was scrubbed clean and they wore holiday clothes and they got their dinner from the chippy. Her parents could also be trusted to behave themselves. They let Severa buy a few sweets from the corner shop as a weekly treat. Arguments were rare on Sunday.
Standards had dropped since their deaths. To the dismay of the aurors, Severa had insisted on going home for the Easter holidays. She did not trust them to have cleaned the house properly in the aftermath of The Event. And besides, she had…She was expected at Cokeworth.
When Sunday came Severa did her best to recreate the Easters of old. She had scrubbed the house clean and set aside money to go to the chippy in the evening. Then she took unusual pains to make herself look nice. Standing in front of the cracked mirror in the living room Severa brushed her hair, put on her best clothes – a warm pair of black woollen stockings, a knee-length lavender skirt, a white blouse with puffy sleeves, and a neat coat her mother had mended so well you could barely see the threads – and wrapped around her head the crimson scarf gifted to her on confirmation. Afterwards Severa slipped on her shoes, focusing on the knowledge that they were good leather rather than on the fact that they were two sizes too small, and headed to church.
Easter Service went exactly as expected. In the fifteen years he serviced Spinner’s End, the priest had not once altered the sermon. Severa knew it by rote at this point, just as she knew which songs were to be sung. The priest as well did her a favour by stalwartly ignoring her. He had come knocking at her door the day after she came home, to talk about the sins of murder and suicide, and after Severa had shouted at him he let her alone.
The morning could not have been more perfect. In retrospect, that should have been the first hint that he would come looking for her. Not five minutes had passed since Severa bid the churchgoers goodbye when he popped out of the alley like a predatory Jack-in-the-Box.
“Got you groceries,” he said, smiling. “Lurpak, not margarine.”
Severa snatched the bag. Her parents had left her the house and everything in it; and before her uncle drowned himself he handed her a wad of cash amounting to a hundred and thirty pounds. After his death a friend of his sent her fifty more – the remainder of his late siblings’ debt to her dad.
It was not enough. Sure, it would feed her for literal ages in Cokeworth, but Severa had ambitions. She had no intention of marrying a Spinner’s End lad and popping out five kids only to wake up one terrible morning and realise she hated him, the children, and herself.
She wanted a Potions Mastery. A nice, clean house somewhere pretty and green. She wanted to stand tall by Lucius and Narcissa’s side without dirty glances thrown her way. A crappy house at Spinner’s End and a hundred and eighty pounds (admittedly an absurdly inordinate amount of cash) was simply not enough.
“You’re too close to the church,” she hissed. “Father Declan’s taken to watching over me. Won’t be pretty if he spots you near me.”
Mr. Evans shrugged. “He tried to scold me. The authorities took my side.”
Obviously. Being an Irish-born Catholic (compared to an English-born Irishman or, if you were particularly privileged, a regular English Catholic), Father Declan belonged to the lowest stratum of Cokeworth society. Nobody ever took her mother seriously for that same reason too.
“Consider the other girls then,” said Severa lowly. She grabbed his arm and wove through the spiderweb of alleys, hurrying home. “I see Susan Carmody and Deborah Ferguson have been your favourites while I was at school. The shoes they wore at church today – your work?”
Mr. Evans shrugged again. His arm slithered around her waist and pulled her close. Severa tried not to cringe. “You were at Hogwarts. Susie and Debbie were here. A man has needs.”
“Susan’s younger than me.”
“Deborah’s older. It balances out.”
A weight lifted off Severa’s shoulders when they stepped into the tiny living room. The familiar wallpaper was peeling at the corners, and the armchair that was twice her age was a welcome sight. Severa momentarily imagined her father in the armchair, shotgun in one hand and a cleaning cloth in another. Her father had killed men in the war. Spinner’s End respected him for his valour and feared him for his disposition. Sure, the other kids on the street bullied and avoided Severa; but not a soul dared to strike her. In that rare way home was better than school.
The armchair soon disappeared out of her sight. Bits of wallpaper flaked onto her as she was pushed against it. A shiver shot down her spine when a cold, clammy hand slipped up her shirt and pawed at her breasts.
When he whispered, “Dressed all prim and proper for church. You look pretty. Very pretty,” his breath was hot and wet against the nape of her neck.
Severa stood quietly against the wall. The quieter she was, the sooner Mr. Evans would find his release and let her go. Girls here learned his habits quickly, and Severa had been on the receiving end of his touches for some time now.
Crying never assuaged him. Not that Severa ever cried when he touched her. Pauline Stewart a few houses up the street cried all the time. She was a very pretty girl with shocking green eyes – a dark green like the forest; they were not at all like Lily’s – and curly hair the colour of honey that earned her the nickname ‘Little Bee’ and Mr. Evans’ attention.
Mr. Evans left her alone after one touch, but her father was laid off for three months and the consensus was that the Stewarts were responsible for the tension at the factory. Spinner’s End governed itself. It didn’t want the police sniffing around as much as some of the poorest girls depended on Mr. Evans.
Pauline was more of a pariah than Severa. Her weakness belittled her in the minds of the other girls. “Little Bee’s a cry-baby,” they said. “Can’t she suck it up and deal with it?” Mr. Evans allegedly was kind to Pauline. He didn’t make her do many of the things they did; he only wanted to touch her. She should have endured it like they did.
Everybody agreed: Pauline was just a weak, stupid little girl.
Severa rarely cried. The last time she really let the tears flow was in the second year of school. Potter and his friends stunned her with a jinx before hitting her with a bat-bogey and knee-reversal hex. They laughed when she dissolved into tears. They didn’t stop laughing even after McGonagall punished them; and why should they? Detention was all the punishment they got.
Professor Slughorn was worse: he had visited Severa at the infirmary and sighed that boys will be boys. Although that was insulting, the cherry on top came from Madam Pomfrey who implied that they must actually secretly like her.
Since then the only man who made her cry was her father, and he’s been dead these last four months. Well. That’s not exactly true. There was that one time—No. She will not think about it. Not now.
Mr. Evans hastily undid the buttons of her shirt and pulled it off her. He threw it over his shoulder. It landed on the armchair where the cleaning cloth used to lay. Then he pressed his nose against the crook of her neck. “You’re still wearing a training bra?” he murmured while both hands cupped her breasts.
She snorted. “Haven’t got anything to support, have I?” And thank God for that. She’d heard what Black said about the more developed girls and Severa decided that she would rather have him call her as flat as a cutting board.
“Mhm.” Mr. Evans gave her breasts a squeeze before his left hand slid down her torso. He roughly jerked the skirt off her waist, letting it pool at her feet, and grabbed her arse, fondling it rapturously. “Don’t fret,” he said in what she assumed he thought was a reassuring tone. “You’re endowed elsewhere, and some men like it better.”
Grabbing her thigh, he pushed it upwards and pressed it against the wall. He dragged his fingers along the curve of her leg. Then he leaned fully into her. Severa tensed at stiffness between his legs. She heard him undo the buckle of his belt and soon that stiffness was between her legs, poking at—
“You promised not to—”
“I know what I promised,” said Mr. Evans roughly. “I’m not the sort to break my word either. Have I ever tried to make a woman out of you?” He sucked her earlobe; Severa clamped her jaw shut lest any sound eked out of her throat. His hands were groping her, touching her. The right would not leave her breasts alone, and the left busied itself with rubbing the inside of her thighs. “I’ll use your legs. You can’t begrudge me that, Little Miss Snape. See? Won’t even touch your knickers.”
The sensation of it was odd. Severa frowned as Mr. Evans thrust harder and harder. His wet cock stained her legs and knickers. Against her neck gusts of hot breath raised the hairs, and she pursed her lips once he started to kiss, lick, and suck at her throat. Severa never let him kiss her on the mouth. She’d never kissed anybody on the mouth – not even at school with him – and she was not about to have her first kiss taken by Mr. Evans.
He didn’t force his lips on hers, although since she refused him it felt as if he was determined to leave as many hickeys on her as he could. He said they looked sexy on her pale skin. Severa did not believe him.
While Mr. Evans rutted against her, Severa’s mind strayed to better things. She had the chippy to look forward to. Throughout term she had earned money doing her housemates’ homework, and with that extra cash she could splurge for her Easter dinner. The owner was kind to her. He’d ask her about her plans for the future and she’d tell him about the mastery by disguising it as a course at a Muggle university.
The owner of the chippy wouldn’t pry. Severa had known him since she was little. She knew exactly what he’d do: crack a silly joke, praise her father, and congratulate her for being as smart as his own daughter. Then he would pack her order neatly in a cardboard box and tell her to pop in tomorrow too.
Severa had also borrowed a book from another girl at school. A collection of essays on lycanthropy. Severa had practically carried that girl throughout Astronomy the entire term to get her hands on that book and she had a week to read it. I didn’t cry when Black and Lupin pulled that prank, she thought suddenly and proudly.
Tears had brimmed in her eyes when Lupin ran at her in his wolven form, but they never fell so it didn’t count. It was too close, though. Severa never wanted to be in that position again, hence the book. Should Lupin decide that he did actually want her dead, Severa will be prepared.
Mr. Evans’ hips hit her painfully. Severa knitted her brows together and placed another arm against the wall for additional support. Behind her, Mr. Evans clutched at her hips and pulled her in tandem with his thrusts. “Legs together,” he groaned. “Come on, little thing. I’m so close to it, come on now. Come on!”
Her mother had left packets of seeds somewhere in the kitchen. Maybe Severa could find a little plot of land at Hogwarts and make it into her own garden. She would only need a little. Hagrid wouldn’t begrudge her. If he did then she’d go ask Filch; the caretaker didn’t particularly like anybody, but Severa was fairly sure that he didn’t dislike her more than the other students – a rare win for her, really.
Warm, sticky spunk splattered against her thighs and knickers and, worse, the wall. The cock slid between her legs. Severa waited for Mr. Evans to finish grunting against her, or at the bare minimum release her from his grasp. He was crushing her with his weight, and Severa herself was reaching her patience for his—well, she didn’t want to call it enthusiasm, but no other word seemed to fit. Eager hands kneaded insistently at her breasts and stroked her thighs; a hot tongue slobbered at her throat; and the cock, now softening, lingered between her legs with the head dangerously close to her fanny.
Scarcely had Mr. Evans lifted himself off her when Severa slipped past him and dropped onto the armchair. Reaching for her wand (which she kept hidden in her sock), she cast a spell to clean the filth off her thighs. That dignity was reserved for herself alone because she left Mr. Evans to wipe himself with a handkerchief. With his trousers at his ankles and his penis hanging pathetically between his legs, Mr. Evans was not quite as grand here in her living room as he was at the factory.
He pulled up his trousers. “Are you free this Thursday?”
“What do you want?” she bluntly asked.
Mr. Evans smiled at her, green eyes flashing merrily. “I’ve a surprise for you.”
She raised a brow. Surprises from Mr. Evans meant gifts. Last time he had a big surprise for her, Severa walked home wearing a new pale pink coat. “What surprise?” She hoped it was another coat in a more sensible colour.
“It’s a secret.” He lifted her from the armchair and held her in his arms. “All you have to do is wear your mother’s white dress. You know the one.”
***
Never let it be said that Sirius Black was better off by himself than with James Potter. They were brothers, in soul if not in blood. James was definitely a better brother to Sirius than Regulus ever was, and as a brother should he took interest in Sirius’ activities.
With that said, there were occasions on which Sirius preferred to be alone. Like going to the motor shop to get his baby fixed. His motorcycle was acting funny as of late, so funny that Sirius couldn’t keep up with its sense of humour and had to take it to a specialist. Not just any specialist either! A normal Muggle mechanic would probably break his bike or somehow mess with the enchantments Sirius had placed on it. No, he had to go to a very specific mechanic in Birmingham. One that had the skills of a Muggle but the wits of a wizard to properly set his bike to right.
James had offered to go with him. “The more, the merrier, right?” he said, and usually Sirius would agree. But ever since James began dating Lily, he’d become twice as insufferable. He just knew that the second the mechanic kicked them out of the shop, his friend would sigh and swoon and talk about his Lils; and frankly, Sirius couldn’t be bothered to listen to it again. He’d already heard the same sighs and swoons at school and at home. Birmingham was to be his respite.
It was boring without James, though. The mechanic was excellent at his job, but being a Squib he had a short temper with wizards and always without fail demanded that Sirius wait outside the shop until the work was done.
“Douglas, what if I promise not to use any spells?”
“What if I threw this wrench at you?”
Sirius shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, staring dully at the Squib. He wondered if Douglas knew Filch. Surely there must be some sort of Squibs Anonymous to help them cope with their miserable situations. Douglas wasn’t so wretched as Filch – miraculously he bagged himself a hot wife – but he was just as crotchety.
He’s going to throw me out anyway so… Sirius shifted weight from one foot to another. “Hey, Dougie, do you know Filch?”
“Who?”
“He’s the caretaker at Hogwarts.”
“And why the fuck would I know him?”
Sirius shrugged. He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “He’s a Squib.”
“So what? I’m supposed to know him?”
“Most wizards know each other.”
Douglas rose to his feet and snuffed the light at the end of the cigarette. “Pureblood wizards know each other,” he said with a trace of a smirk. “How many half-blood families can you name?” He plucked the cigarette out of Sirius’ mouth and snapped it in half. “I’ll have no smoking in the shop. Get out now.”
Rather than letting Sirius use his own two legs, Douglas spared him the effort and simply shoved him out the door. Unperturbed, Sirius whacked out another cigarette and lit it the Muggle way. Contrary to what James thought, it wasn’t Remus that taught him how to use a lighter.
Sirius blew three smoky circlets. Across the street a group of girls looked at him keenly. Two smiled, two averted their eyes, and one had the boldness to wave at him. He reciprocated the gesture with a grin, chuckling at the blush blooming on her pale cheeks. None of the girls were the right sort of pale, though, and all were various shades of blonde.
Now there’s a problem, Sirius, he thought uncomfortably. As of late, the young wizard noticed a serious problem in his behaviour towards women. He was developing alarming tendencies and experiencing strange thoughts, like an absurd inclination towards monogamy and a predilection for a bloodless complexion paired with black hair and blacker eyes.
It started as a fling. Actually it started as a bet. Way back in fifth year, Sirius and Snivelly were trapped in detention together under the careless supervision of Professor Slughorn. About twenty minutes into their punishment, Slughorn received a letter of invitation from an old friend at the WWN and left them alone for the remainder of the evening because an RSVP won’t answer itself.
With him gone, they were free to use their magic to scrub the cauldrons clean. They would have left the classroom too if Slughorn hadn’t locked it after himself. Sirius tried several spells to break the lock and all failed. Snivelly watched him for a few minutes until she grew bored and shifted her attention on the ingredients on the shelves.
Sirius tried one last spell. It backfired and sent him flying across the room. He slammed against the wall, slid down on the floor, and groaned at the dull pain thrumming across his entire torso. When he looked up at Snape, he saw her pilfering a bit of everything off the shelves.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She didn’t even turn to look at him.
“Looks like you’re stealing.”
Here she paused to throw him a nasty glare. “I’m not a thief, Black. I’m just looking. I’m allowed to look.”
“Yeah, but looking at what?” He got up to his feet and, rubbing the pain out of his lower back, joined her at the shelves. “Powdered asphodel roots, eagle owl feathers, flobberworm mucus…”
“I heard Slughorn recently got his hands on unicorn blood.” She frowned and went to her customary seat in class. Resting her cheek against the palm of her hand, she chewed on her lower and mumbled, “I thought he’d have it here. To show off.”
“Yeah, he would show off unicorn blood,” said Sirius. “But how would he get it, eh?”
“He’s got connections,” she snapped.
“Righty-o, genius,” Sirius folded his arms, “and which of his connections do you reckon would risk living a cursed life to collect a vial of unicorn blood?”
“We don’t know whether killing a unicorn is enough to warrant a cursed life,” she countered. “It’s drinking the blood that does it.”
“What’d you want unicorn blood for?” he demanded. “Just to look at it?”
Snape brought her free hand to her mouth. She gnawed at the already short nails. “Scientific curiosity.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She snorted. “Wow. Your belief matters so much to me, Black. You’re right. It’s so awful that you don’t believe me. I think I’ll go cry about it.” Then she chuckled darkly.
Sirius didn’t like her tone, but he was struck by the flicker of a smile. Snivelly never smiled at him. He always got sneers or smirks, never smiles. Only Evans got her smiles and something about that never sat right with him.
Now he got a smile and a chuckle. Maybe he could get something more out of her before Slughorn returned.
He slammed a hand in front of her and leaned down so close her greasy beak was within a hair’s breadth of his own perfect nose. She quickly drew from him; he caught her wrist. “Let’s make a bet.”
“What?”
“A bet, Snivelly. If you win, I’ll buy you a potions ingredient of your choice.” Quickly he added, “Within reason. Don’t be expecting me to get you unicorn blood or dragon claws.”
“The stuff I want is expensive.”
Sirius laughed contemptuously. “We’re not all dirt-poor like you, come on. I have the money. I’ll get you what you want if you win.”
“And if you win?” she asked. “What’ll you want from me?”
“If I win,” he said, grinning ear to ear, “if I win then you’ll let me have a go at you.”
She slapped him.
“What was that for?” he shouted.
“You’ll have ‘a go at me’?” Snape balled her hands into fists; they shook. “That’s not a fair exchange. If that’s what at stake then I deserve a whole jar of unicorn blood.”
“Maybe if you were a virgin, yeah! But you’re not. Everybody knows that Malfoy kept you as his pet for a reason.”
She scowled. “Don’t bring him into this.”
Sirius rolled his wrists and dropped his open palms in a gesture that proclaimed his point proven. “Fine, I’ll leave your precious Lucius alone. But that hardly changes things. Rumour has it that you take it up the arse from the caretaker.”
“Oh, you mean the rumour that you began?”
“Every rumour has a grain of truth, Snape.” But she was right. Sirius had begun the rumour and it was very funny. “I get your qualms though. I get it.” He straightened his back and licked his lips, already imagining what she was hiding underneath her old robes. “What if I double the offer? Two large jars of an exclusive potions ingredient of your choice?”
She stared at him and Sirius, not for the first time, noted how intense her black eyes were. Pure black to the centre; he had never known Snape to have pupils.
Curious eye colours were not unusual among wizards. Madam Hooch’s were gold, and purple-eyed individuals were infamous for demanding everybody to compliment them.
It was a common enough phenomenon, sure, but Sirius could not help wondering whether the iris itself was black or if Snape had no irises at all. What if it was all pupils? That’d explain why she kept to the dungeons. With the map to help him, Sirius would occasionally spy as she haunted the corridors outside the Slytherin Common Room. He liked how the torchlight played on her alabaster skin. There was something almost pretty about how it stretched tight on her raddled face.
It had grown tighter since she and Lily broke up so to speak.
Snape had mistrust plainly written on her face. Sirius prepared to throw another jar into the deal when she said, “If you promise to leave me alone for a month then I’ll agree to the bet.”
“Deal.” Upcoming Quidditch practices would keep James too busy for proper pranks anyway. “You best hope you wore nicer knickers today, eh?”
She kneed him in the gut, but Sirius took it in stride because thirty minutes later she stood frozen as he stripped her uniform. She was paler underneath it. Sirius threw the robes on the closest chair and nudged her to lie down on the cushions he had transfigured from books.
As a man who got his teenage kicks in every part of the school from lakeside to the Astronomy Tower and almost the kitchens, Sirius couldn’t have cared less if they did it on the stone floor or the polished tables. He even preferred it. It felt rawer and more urgent with the girls that liked him; imagine how insane it would have been if he did it with a girl who hated him!
But Snape had gone still as a statue. She continued to look at him with her freaky black eyes, though there was no spark of contempt that had him excited to fight her. Suddenly, absurdly, Sirius felt as if he held a bird that – if he wanted – he could crush and kill. Her collarbone poked through the skin and the ribs cast a slight shadow on her belly. Running a hand down her back, he felt both a shiver and the bumps of her spine.
“Oh, just get it over with,” she spat.
He nodded. Then he transfigured the books into cushions and set her on them. Snape refused to break eye contact with him and, being himself, he would not let her win even on this. It made things all the more awkward, particularly halfway through the act when she began to cry.
Now Sirius Black never left a girl unsatisfied. Snivelly or not, he would not have it get around school that he made a girl cry from pain instead of pleasure. Putting double the usual effort, Sirius went through every trick in the book until Snape’s pale face flushed red and her eyes blew wide with interest. After they were done, he tried to wipe the tearstains from her face. She would not let him.
“Hurry up and turn the cushions back,” she ordered. “Slughorn will be back any moment.”
“He’s not been back in over an hour.” Sirius bravely reached out to brush the greasy hair from her face. “You’d look better with it tied back.”
“I don’t care how I look.”
“Yeah, that’s obvious to everybody.” He leaned against the desks behind him, watching her. Snape wasn’t the ugliest girl at school if he was being honest. Sure, hers was the freakiest face he had ever seen in his life but her body was banging and – as an experienced hand at this – not a single girl at Hogwarts compared to the sweet, silky sounds he pulled from her throat during their romp. Sirius wasn’t about to leave without securing an encore. “You wanna do it again?”
She frowned. It was not the regular contemptuous look he’d seen daily since their first year meeting. Snape seemed honestly confused. “Now?”
“I wish, but if Slughorn’s not coming for us then one of my friends will.” He folded his arms. “How about same time next week at…” he tutted, “the broom cupboard on the second floor.”
“The…broom cupboard?” She was unimpressed; he would not have it.
“I’d take you to the library,” he said, a slow grin blooming wide on his lips, “if you could be trusted to keep quiet. I don’t mind it though since you moan so prettily for me.”
Snape had stared at him with the intensity of a thousand suns. Although Sirius kept grinning at her, he had a firm grip on his wand lest she tried something. Moments passed. Sirius felt a strange prodding inside of his skull. A touch of headache or the like, and he would have stopped grinning to complain were it not for Snape’s pale ears flushing a brilliant crimson red.
That was in fifth year. Since then Sirius had fucked Snape more than a dozen times. He’d had her in the broom cupboard on the second floor like he promised, in the Gryffindor Quidditch changing rooms and underneath the Quidditch stands, in the prefects bathroom and – on one very memorable occasion when he absolutely had to have her – in a dark, secluded room that he never found afterwards.
Sirius was not a greedy man. Just because he fucked Snape now and then didn’t make them exclusive, especially not when he could and did shag people physically flawless. Muscular boys and girls soft as cream routinely found their way into his bed. It was ridiculous that he should be ‘faithful’ to Snape when everybody knew she had a thing going with Mulciber. And she takes it up the arse from the caretaker.
He barely noticed that she hadn’t come to him for months after the prank at the Shrieking Shack. Her conversation was easily replaced by other girls, girls who weren’t hard on the eye and he hardly missed the way she smirked at him or chuckled under her breath at a stupid joke. There were other conquests to be had. Better, prettier, sweeter.
So why did he seek her after Lily had rejected her apology?
Almost a year had passed since the incident at the lake and Sirius still couldn’t say why he went looking for Snape after McGonagall had shooed her away from the Gryffindor Tower. He had found her by the lake. She was staring at the cold black surface, hands clenched into fists tight enough to shatter her own fragile bones.
He comforted her the only he way knew how. She cried again during and after it, but pulled herself together when he offered her a cigarette. She lit it with a Muggle lighter she’d stolen from her dad. “You can have it.” Then she got up, put on her shoes, and walked back to school.
Dropping the cigarette on the ground, Sirius twisted it with the heel of his boot. He winked at the girls across the street and they giggled. Still got it, he thought proudly.
He needed to flirt more. Sirius had to get his mind off Snape. After the motorcycle that was objective number one. It was bad enough that he thought about her too much. It was unforgivable that she was the only girl he’d had since the start of this term. However delightful her moans were, they were not enough of an inducement to go steady with her when there were scores of beautiful girls waiting for him to reap.
A mop of black hair caught his attention.
Sirius rubbed his eyes. The smoke must have gotten into them because it couldn’t have been her. Yes, he knew that she had gone home for the holidays. He’d assumed she went to some distant relative because who the fuck would let her go home all alone? The entire wizarding world knew that her parents had killed themselves in a passion.
He’d never asked her about it. The one time he tried to broach the subject, her face was stiff with tension. “They’re dead now,” she had said. “Dead and buried. What does it matter?”
And for the first time in their arrangement, Snape let him touch her hair.
So Sirius rubbed his eyes again and gawked. He’d know that greasy head of hair anywhere. He’d know it in the dark or disguised or shrouded beneath the Invisibility Cloak. He’d touched it, smelled it, felt it, and knew by heart how it framed her thin white face and the long white column of her neck. It was her. He knew it.
What, or rather whom, Sirius did not know was the old fuck holding her waist.
***
Her mother had a lot of white frocks. Her father had liked the colour on her, and her mother was fond of it anyway. Severa could have worn any one of them – they all fit her – but Mr. Evans was picky. It had to be this dress or he would have gotten angry. He had never hit her, but Severa had heard from Deborah Ferguson that Mr. Evans was not above a beating. He was like their own men in that way.
Severa never understood her mother’s predilection for white. With their complexion it made them ghastlier than they already were. She said as much to Mr. Evans that night. He disregarded her concerns. “It makes you look purer,” he leered.
So that was how Severa found herself in Birmingham, dressed in a lacy white frock and a pale pink coat. It was a good dress. Expensive. Her father’s sister was a seamstress; he’d had her make it for her mother as a present for their tenth anniversary. That’s why her mother liked wearing it so often. She wore it to Christmas parties and communions and birthdays. She would have worn it weddings, too, if common decency forbade anybody but the bride to show up in a white frock.
The dress was sewn from white linen, plainly cut but richly embroidered with black thread around the sleeves and trimmed with lace at the hem and collar. Her mother was bolder than she and never cared about the low cut of the neckline. Severa was more modest. She’d torn a bit of lace from her communion veil and pinned it to the cleavage.
Mr. Evans did not like it, but Severa reminded him that she had worn the pale pink coat and did her hair just the way he liked it: twin braids plaited with ribbons. He had also insisted that she wore the red ribbons her father had given her the last summer before he died.
Despite what her teachers believed, Severa could be polite. Wasn’t it polite of her to keep quiet instead of asking why he remembered the colour of the ribbons? Her father didn’t like Mr. Evans. He hardly tolerated him at work; Severa doubted they’d ever gone shopping for their daughters together.
Birmingham was a busier city than Cokeworth ever was or would be. There were shops and cafes (not pubs!) and imported cars and buskers. She pointed at a moustachioed man sitting on a stool outside a Costa Coffee. “My dad also played the guitar.”
Mr. Evans smiled. “Did he? I didn’t know Toby was musical.”
“He only played for friends and family.” And you’re neither.
“Do you have his guitar at home? I’d love to see it.”
“Da sold it.” She refused to elaborate.
Severa hadn’t expected the big surprise to be a trip to Birmingham. Mr. Evans just picked her up in his car on Thursday morning and drove. During the ride, he let Severa fiddle with the radio so long as she let him stroke her thighs. Initially Mr. Evans was happy to indulge in small talk with her about the weather and school. When he got tired of that he turned up the radio before guiding her hand to his crotch.
Now that they were here in the big city he promised her a day of fun. After going to the public toilets to wash her hands – a cleaning charm alone wasn’t enough – they walked up the high street where the moustachioed man sat strumming his guitar.
A long stretch of quiet wedged between them as Mr. Evans waited for her to explain why her father had sold the guitar. When he realised that she wouldn’t disclose the cause, his jaw flexed momentarily. “Well,” he said with forced airiness, “we didn’t come here to listen to street musicians. Come, Severa, there’s this lovely bookshop I want you to see.”
He wrapped his hand around her waist. It did not stay there long. By the time they entered the bookshop, his hand had fallen to her hips.
She slipped from his grasp and stood in front of him. “How many books can I get?”
Mr. Evans chuckled. He reached out to pat her head. “They’ve a section for beautiful editions. You can have two of those or several of those thin Penguin classics. Choose wisely, my dear.”
“My choices are always wise,” she said, irritated at his tone. “I’m not a child.”
“Of course not!” Mr. Evans traced the curve of her neck with the tips of his fingers. “I’d expect nothing less than perfect wisdom from Toby’s daughter.”
***
Years of ambushes had left Snape wary and suspicious. Sirius knew that he could not be seen by her or else the integrity of his snooping would be compromised. That’s why despite his personal wishes he had transfigured into a dog. He couldn’t enter the bookshop in this large and hairy body, but he could watch her without alarming her or getting into trouble with the Muggles.
Apparently there was a murderer on the loose that had the local cops on high alert. Merlin knew what might happen if somebody caught him on the heels of an ugly girl. They’d think he wanted to kill because it certainly didn’t make sense for him to want to shag her.
Sirius had to restrain a harsh laugh when he saw Snape in her getup. She looked a little girl in her lacy white dress and pink coat – pink! It didn’t help the situation that the greasy mop of black hair had been brushed and braided, not to mention the red ribbons weaving between the strands.
Personally, Sirius liked his women womanly. If Snape had dropped the coat and unbound those braids it would have been an entirely different conversation because he saw how low that dress was cut. It flattered her figure the way the Hogwarts uniform never did. The frock actually fit her, letting Sirius really enjoy how it hugged her chest.
James would gag to hear it, but Snape’s small breasts were firm and shapely. They always filled his hands nicely during their trysts.
What a relief that the old creep didn’t share his tastes! He showed no interest in Snape’s chest. All his focus was channelled on her arse; he gave her no peace to peruse the shelves, always coming from behind to touch and hug her.
There were too many Muggles around for a hex so Sirius waited for her to slap him. Something terrible twisted in his chest when instead of a scowl or curse Snape smiled at the man. It wasn’t a real smile, but the fact that she showed more civility to some Muggle than to anybody at school grated him.
The creep bought her two leather-bound books. Snape actually grinned to receive the paper bag and thanked the man. He smirked and leaned to kiss her on the cheek. She stiffened and bit down her scowl. “I don’t have these in my library.”
“But Toby built up quite the collection, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said. “He liked to read. He and my mother would take turns reading aloud to each other.”
He kissed her again. “Maybe you could read a few passages to me tonight.”
“If you want.” Her voice was flat. “Is that why you bought the third book for me?”
“Every young actress needs her own copy of King Lear,” he said. “Do you still remember the lines?”
“Of course.”
“Did anybody help you learn them.”
“My dad.”
The old man smiled. He took her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Toby always took such good care of you, didn’t he?”
Snape frowned. “He tried, I guess.”
“Don’t be cross! I won’t have Toby’s little girl unhappy.” He pulled her up the street. “Come on, darling! We’ve a booking at a restaurant.”
“For lunch?” She was incredulous. Was it that shocking? To go to a restaurant for lunch?
“For lunch!” said the old man happily.
Following them was the easy part. The hard part was stopping himself from mauling the old man to death. He just would not stop touching Snape. There was the fondling at the bookshop, but then at the restaurant he played footsie with her and in the alleyway he didn’t even hide his lust. Just pushed her against the dirty brick walls and dug his fingers into the supple flesh of her thighs, sucking hickeys on her neck.
Snape pushed him off her. “We don’t do it outside,” she hissed. “Do I look like Kathleen Mellows to you?”
“Kathy doesn’t let me touch her outside either.”
“With good reason!” He raised a brow and she flailed her arms, frustrated. “Her dad’s far-sighted.”
“Mickey Mellows never leaves his chippy,” complained the creep with a huff.
Even the dullest wand in the shop could see that she was upset. “That’s not the point and you know it. I’m not like those girls. I’m better than them.”
“You are,” he said. “I’d never compare you to them. You’re in a league of your own, Severa.”
“Then treat me properly.” She folded her arms and shrank into herself. “It’s getting late. We better hit the road now if we want to make it back to Cokeworth before your wife gets suspicious.”
The old man laughed as if she’d cracked the funniest joke he had ever heard. “Jean doesn’t get suspicious. Ever. Toby would’ve been jealous. I could disappear for a month on a ‘business trip’,” he winked, “and so long as I got her a jewel or the girls some trinket Jean wouldn’t squeak a word against me. She’s not bold like your mum.”
“Are we staying the night then?”
“We are.”
“Where?”
“In Highgate. I’ve booked us a room in a nice little hotel there.”
Highgate had no nice little hotels. Sirius should know because Douglas derided that area at any given opportunity. His wife had to apologise for him on many occasions so people wouldn’t think he was a racist. According to the wife, poor Douglas had been abandoned at Highgate once it was clear that he was a Squib and his parents didn’t choose the area for its excellent social services. Now that he crawled out of it for good, the mechanic had plenty of insults for the neighbourhood and its (very Indian) residents.
Snape didn’t have the benefit of Douglas’ gossip. “Is it a nice area?” she asked. “Or is it like Spinner’s End?”
“The counsel has plans to redevelop it. You know what that means?” He kissed her cheek. “It means Highgate’s got potential. In five years’ time you’ll be able to laugh and tell your friends how you visited Highgate before it got popular.”
“My friends don’t care about Birmingham,” she said quietly.
“And where are your friends from?”
“Wiltshire.”
The man barked a dry laugh. “Yeah, no wonder they don’t care about Birmingham. You’ll have to show it to them. Be the ambassador for the Midlands in your social circle.”
“Mr. Evans, did you realise what you just said?”
The man, Mr. Evans, kept snickering under his breath while his arms slithered around her. Sirius watched agog as Snape allowed him to fondle her. That’s not her, he thought. Seven years he’d known her and never ever did Snape just let others grab her like that man did. The rumours he spread about her sleeping around with wannabe cultists depended on the sheer absurdity of it.
Obviously she wasn’t a virgin when they shagged for the first time, but she’s no blushing pureblood maiden. It had made school news when Snape bashed Evan Rosier on the head with a cauldron in fifth year. Nobody, not even Lily, knew why she’d done it (although Peter, who was in the girls’ toilets for apparently absolutely normal reasons, claimed she was PMSing that week). It was only months later after Sirius had eaten her out in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch that he asked her about it.
She had looked up at him, big black eyes still wide from orgasm. “He presumed too much.”
“How much?” Sirius had thrown an arm around her naked back. She was small in his arms. “I heard he’s insane.”
“No more insane than you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re inbred.” She chuckled to herself. “At least you were upfront with your advances. Rosier wanted to see what sort of knickers Mudblood girls wear.”
Sirius had started. “Mudblood?”
She had rolled her eyes. “I forgot that you’re delicate. Fine. He wanted to see what sort of knickers half-blood girls wear.”
“That’s not what I meant, Snape.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She had gotten angry at him. “What’s it to you what he calls me? And if you get sentimental on me I’ll strike you with a cauldron next.”
She’d struck him with a hex that very week for an unrelated offense. Sirius liked that about her. Whenever Snape fought, she gave it as good as she got. Why was she letting this old creep rub himself against her then?”
The stab of relief when she pushed that Mr. Evans off her. “At the hotel,” she said sternly.
Mr. Evans bowed his head. “At the hotel, my dear.” He kissed her cheek; she flinched. “Did your daddy kiss you often?”
“No.”
“His loss.”
Mr. Evans extended his arm. Snape refused him, and if he had hands Sirius could’ve clasped them in prayer because thank Merlin. He would have lost his Gobstones if Snape had accepted it.
Now he just had to follow their car to fucking Highgate.
***
Severa thought she knew the meaning of squalor and poverty. Apparently not. Apparently her father had given her the best life because she wasn’t aware of all levels of depravity in the world.
The hotel Mr. Evan had dragged her to was…interesting. Unique, but in the way that kind-hearted individuals tried to be nice about unfortunate things.
A middle-aged man with a receding hairline had given him the keys to their room, and once inside of it Severa wished that she’d just let Mr. Evans grind against her in the alleyway.
The room was not small. It was cramped. Between the bed and the tv and the minifridge there was no space left to stretch your legs; though she guessed that wasn’t the priority here. Her own observations were more focused on the wallpaper, anyway. Severa had no experience with these seedy little hotels, but she had the common sense to figure that maybe fairytale castles and unicorns weren’t the best print choices on the proprietors’ behalf. Bits of…something were stuck on the walls, mottling the pink and purple castles with an off-white. Severa tried not to think about it too much.
Reluctantly taking off her coat, Severa folded it up and cast a spell to protect it from the filth. Pink or not, it was warm and she wasn’t about to lose it. Once she was sure she’d never see Mr. Evans again she would dye the thing black.
“What do you think?” asked Mr. Evans.
“It’s…something,” said Severa. “I would’ve liked it better if the walls were plain white.”
“We can’t begrudge the owners’ tastes.”
Severa glanced at the unicorns prancing on the wall. I’ll begrudge them.
Mr. Evans kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. His legs were spread apart; he leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of his knees. “Do you think you could repeat your performance for me tonight? I really enjoyed you on the stage last summer. You were a gorgeous Cordelia, Severa.”
Nobody could accuse Mr. Evans of mincing words where his wants were concerned.
“I didn’t want to be Cordelia,” said Severa. “I originally auditioned for the part of Regan. She has a bigger role in the play.”
“What role did your father want you to have?”
“Goneril.”
“Goneril!” Mr. Evans pulled Severa closer to him. “Why Goneril?” he asked as his untied the laces of her shoes.
“I don’t know.” Severa lifted one foot then another. He tossed the stockings on the floor. “I think one of his sisters played Goneril.”
“Do you know Goneril’s lines?”
“Bits and pieces.”
Mr. Evans undid the pins around her cleavage. The strip of lace fluttered to the floor. “Do you know her lines from the beginning? When she spoke to her father.”
Severa nodded. “I do.”
He caught her chin between his fingers. “Perform it for me,” he ordered.
Deborah Ferguson sucked his cock. She had to remember that whenever Mr. Evans aggravated her. Private theatrical performances were harmless compared to what he had the other girls do. Severa wasn’t about to become the next Pauline Stewart for something half as bad.
Severa undid her braids, tousled her hair, and tied it into a loose tail with the crimson ribbon. She smoothed the front of her dress. Then Severa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In their production of King Lear, Geraldine Butler had bowed in front of the king. Mr. Evans wouldn’t like that, she thought. He kept complaining after the show that in the London production he saw Goneril had fallen to her knees before her father. He’ll be wanting that.
So Severa knelt in front of Mr. Evans and placed her hands on his knee. “Sir,” she sighed at his feet, “I do love you more than word can wield the matter. Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty, beyond what can be valued, rich or rare, no less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour. As much as child e’er loved, or father found—” she raised herself to cup his face with her hands and forced a hopeful smile, “a love that makes breath poor and speech unable, beyond all manner so much I love you.”
She kissed him on the forehead, and that did it.
Mr. Evans pounced on her much as Mrs. Norris would upon a mouse. He peppered her upturned throat with kisses and hurriedly undid the hooks at the back of her dress. A hand found its way to her breast and squeezed. “And Regan’s?” he murmured. “Do you know Regan’s profession?”
“I do.”
“Say it.”
He wrapped his arms tight around her and sucked at her earlobe. Severa cursed the gasp that escaped her. “Sir,” she dug her nails into his trousers, “I am made of that self-mettle as my sister, and prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love: only she comes too short,” Mr. Evans spread her legs so that she straddled him, “that I profess myself an enemy to all other joys which the most precious square of sense possesses, and I—I find I am lone felicitate in your dear highness’ love.”
“Oh, you’re such a precious thing,” he whispered against her ear. “The best little actress Cokeworth ever saw.”
Severa never saw the dog coming. She only heard the crack of glass and the shouting.
***
It was astonishing what a fist could do. A hex or spell were excellent things, but nothing could beat the sheer ecstasy of swinging a punch at a face that deserved it.
The man was tall and lean, not strong. He was also disadvantaged by the element of surprise and his decrepit age. Whenever he tried to push Sirius off himself, the young wizard jumped back onto him and continued to pummel that self-satisfied face without interruption. He could have kept up that pace until morning.
“Flipendo!”
Sirius flew towards the wall in an instant. The impact hit his lower back hardest and he needed a moment to gather his bearing. When he had sense enough to open his eyes a few moments later, he was aghast to see Snape help that old man to his feet.
“What’re you doing?” he demanded.
“Me?” Snape shot him a furious glare. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes, I am!”
“I should be asking you!” She snatched a few napkins that laid on top of the minifridge and dabbed at the blood spilling from Mr. Evans’ mouth and nose. “Are you alright?”
Mr. Evans shoved her to the side. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “Fucking hell, Jean will notice the blood on my jacket.”
Snape curled her fingers, unsure of what to do. “But you’re bleeding.” She reached for her wand; it was tucked in the deep pockets of her coat. “Mr. Evans, sit down on the bed. I’ve a spell to clean the blood off the jacket and to heal you.”
“If you heal him,” warned Sirius, “I’ll beat him until he bleeds all over that fancy jacket again.” He squinted. “Is that suede you’re wearing?”
“Who cares if he’s wearing suede?” Snape moved to stand between him and Mr. Evans. She puffed out her chest owl-like, glaring up at him with a storm roiling behind her eyes. Sirius couldn’t tell if it was indignation or embarrassment. Does she think I’m going to wag my chin about this? He was offended until he remembered some of the rumours he had spread.
“Severa, darling,” said Mr. Evans, tugging her into arms with a certain roughness, “clearly you know this boy.” He chuckled and fluttered his eyes. “Can I ask how? He’s not a Spinner’s End lad, I can tell.
Her face stiffened with apprehension. “He is a Spinner’s End lad, sir. Nobody outside of Spinner’s End would bother to follow me.” Then with a swagger that impressed Sirius, Severa lyingly added, “I recognise him now! He’s Susan Carmody’s brother. Don’t you know Kevin Carmody, Mr. Evans?”
“Kevin Carmody’s shorter than him.” Towering over Snape, Mr. Evans grabbed her forearm in his hand and tightened his grip. “I know the sons of my men. He’s not one of them.”
Snape tried to free herself: she slapped at his arm and yanked away repeatedly. “Mr. Evans, it hurts.” Her voice was high. It edged on panicky. “You’re hurting me.”
“Where do you know him from? Who is he to you?”
“From school,” said Sirius, fists at the ready. “I’m her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend!”
“That’s not true!” cried Snape. “He’s nothing to me! Nothing! Ask Lily and she’ll tell you that we’re not friends at all, let alone girlfriend-boyfriend.”
“Lily?” Sirius started. “What’s Lily got to do with him?”
Snape’s anger lost its edge. Her glare had softened to a look and while Sirius had expected it to be hurt there was also sadness. Too much of it.
Then Mr. Evans said, “I’m Lily’s father, young man.”
Snape drew in a sharp, broken breath and turned the other way.
Sirius digested the information as quickly as he could, but it was a lot to take in. Baffled and bemused, he barely managed to splutter, “You should be ashamed of yourself! Snape’s the same age as your daughter, you creepy old bastard!”
“But she’s not actually my daughter, is she?” Mr. Evans scowled and shook Snape until she was facing him. “Dear, is he really from your school?”
She nodded. “We’re not friends,” she repeated.
“Because we’re boyfriend-girlfriend,” said Sirius, “because, Mr. Evans, you should probably know that when I’m fondling Snape here she’s very responsive. The way she purrs!” He pressed a kiss to his gathered fingers like a chef. “Why, it’s enough to satiate a starving man.”
Sirius expected Mr. Evans to ask another stupid question or let go of Snape in shock. Instead he raised his hand and – before Sirius even realised what he meant to do – struck Snape so hard she fell to the floor.
“So that’s how it is!” screamed the old man. “Here I take you on a better trip than your father could ever afford, buy you books and coats and groceries, and you repay me by being a slut!”
“Hey, hey, hey!” began Sirius, but Mr. Evans pushed him with a newfound strength.
Clutching her hair, he pulled Snape onto her feet and continued to shout. “I see how it is! This boy of yours—”
“He’s not mine!” cried Snape with tears in her eyes.
“He’s had his way with you! He fucked you, didn’t he? And I bet you spread your legs for him like a whore!” Mr. Evans threw her on the bed. “You’re just like your mother. Were it not for Toby keeping her in line and checking her passions, she would’ve been sleeping with every man on your street. I thought you were your father’s daughter,” he snarled, “but turns out you’re your mother’s whelp. A little slut who keeps herself so pure and clean at home but needs no urging at school. Good riddance that my Lily doesn’t associate with you anymore!”
Sirius wondered if Snape was going to cry. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. Finger-shaped bruises were taking shape on her forearm; a splotch of red swelled where she’d been struck on the cheek. If there was ever an appropriate time for a girl to cry then this would be it.
But she didn’t cry. Although her eyes were wet, her face was dry and her mouth twisted into a nasty grimace.
Mr. Evans was hollering at Sirius to get the fuck out of their room when a series of white and yellow lights flashed behind him. Then came the explosions. Sirius shut his eyes and shielded his ears.
When he had the courage to return to his senses, Sirius found Mr. Evans unconscious on the floor. His suede jacket and shirt were gone, burned to black bits, and burns mottled his back. Snape sat beside him on the floor. She traced the red marks with her wand, casting a strange spell that Sirius had never encountered. A pale blue light shined at the tip of the wand while the incantation itself resembled the flow of water.
Sirius waited for her to finish.
The light dimmed and Severa climbed onto the bed. She was tired. “Do you think I can mend his shirt?”
“I’ve never transfigured a shirt from ashes.” Sirius sat next to her. “Could give it a shot.”
She let out a deep, careworn sigh. “Things were going well before you ruined it. Now look at him.”
When he thought of how Mr. Evans grinned, any sympathy he had for the man’s injuries vanished. “You shouldn’t have healed him.”
“I’m not going to return him to his wife in that condition. Mrs. Evans has enough on her plate without nursing him.”
“So you know the wife as well?” Sirius folded his arms and leaned back on the pillows. “Any other revelations I should know? Is he really Lily Evans’ father?”
“He is.”
“That’s…unfortunate.”
Snape picked up the strip of lace off the floor. She picked at it with her nails, worrying the edges. “Are you going to tell her?” she murmured.
“Will it be so bad if she knew that her dad’s a freak? I know the worst parts of my parents and am the wiser for it.”
“You don’t get it,” said Snape flatly. “Lily’s dad loves her. She doesn’t know anything about his Spinner’s End affairs.”
Sirius kicked Mr. Evans. “He kept mentioning Spinner’s End. Is that where you’re from?” When she kept quiet, he added, “Can’t be a good place if he’s just allowed to roam the streets and have his way.”
That elicited a snort. “Spinner’s End is where men like him go to have fun and where girls like me can earn their keep in peace.” She looked up at him. “You shouldn’t have told him that we had sex together.”
Sirius scowled. “And why’s that? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“A truth that’s going to cost me dear,” she complained. “At least my dad’s dead. If he were alive then Mr. Evans would’ve fired him.”
“I doubt it.”
“And you say that because you know Mr. Evans so well.”
“No, but I followed you all day long,” said Sirius, “and I reckon he’d sooner shag your dad than fire him.”
Snape raised a hand to shut him up. “My mum suspected something. I don’t want it confirmed by an outsider.”
“Alright, but just so you know,” he swivelled his head, “I do think he wants to fuck your dad. Or be fucked by your dad! I’ve seen that picture of him in the newspaper.” He smacked her arm playfully. “Your dad’s liquid fire!”
“Stop talking about my dad!” she yelled.
“What do you want to talk about then?”
“We could start by you explaining that boyfriend nonsense!” Snape shifted to sit at his left, legs criss-crossed and all attention at him. “We’re not dating, we’re not friends. I’m just one of the many girls—”
“Snape,” he raised a hand, “I’m going to interrupt you right there because I have to ask: were you—I mean—so you know—”
She pinched his arm. “Are you going to ask me something or are you going to stutter the night away?”
Sirius shut his fallen mouth, collected his thoughts, nodded (to himself), and said, “He was convinced that you’re a virgin.”
It was her turn to squirm. “Well,” she started, “My parents were devoted to each other. My father vocally disapproved of any extramarital affairs. Mr. Evans said that he’d chastised other men at work for having fancy women. I assume Mr. Evans thought—he keeps banging on about how I’m just like my dad.” Snape bent over the prone body of Mr. Evans. “He wasn’t entirely wrong. I was a virgin when he first pursued me.”
“And when was that?”
“You don’t need to know that, Black.”
“Okay but was it before we,” he moved his hands back and forward between them, “or after?”
She turned towards him. “Before. Ages before our arrangement.”
This was horrific to hear. Sirius pressed his hands flat together and touched his lips with the side of his pointing fingers. “So what I’m hearing is that I took your virginity?”
Snape blinked. “Yes. Are you all right? What’s with the face?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and he did not. His brain was resisting the information. Sirius was proud of his many conquests – he’d slept with virgin girls soft as cream, voracious women who knew what they wanted, and muscular men as fierce as himself – but Snape was—she was a whore! Lucius Malfoy’s pet and Mulciber’s toy and Evan Rosier’s curiosity. She wasn’t a virgin. No. She’s lying.
“I’m not lying,” she snapped. “Why would I lie about this? And for your information, I wish I was still a virgin.” Snape brought a pale hand to her forehead. “Although Narcissa says it doesn’t count.”
“What?” Sirius leaned so close their noses almost touched. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it count? Those tricks I performed for you are guaranteed pleasers with every woman I had.”
“Yes, yes, your sensual wiliness and cunning have been noted.” She pushed him away from herself. “Your lovely cousin insists that because you’re pureblood and I’m not it’s not for real.”
“Narcissa and her bloody books,” he grumbled. “She should keep her pointed nose in her own business. It is real.”
“She’ll be pleased to know that the cherry was popped by a pureblood,” said Snape wryly.
A bud of discomfort bloomed in his chest then. “Is that why you cried?” he asked. “During our detention with Slughorn in fifth year.”
“Awkward, wasn’t it?” Snape slithered off the bed to kneel by Mr. Evans. She searched his pockets for his wallet; once she had it she stole a fiver and a few coins. “I’m not giving you a whole essay on my sexual history—”
“You don’t have one,” he said. “Excluding Mr. Evans, it’s just me.”
“Your friends are going to love that.” She wiped her sniffling nose. “It’ll be the hottest bit of gossip that Hogwarts ever had in our time.” A choked sob frayed at her throat. Her eyes were stern and cold, but the voice shook. “Don’t tell Lily. Please.”
“I’m not going to say anything—”
“And don’t fucking lie to me, Black. You think I don’t know that you’re the one spreading rumours about me and Filch? Or about me and Mulciber? Or me and Malfoy? To hear you talk I’ve been a very busy little madam, sleeping with half the Slytherins and all the old men. What’s next? That Kettleburn lets me polish his prosthetics?”
Even though the rumours were funny, an onslaught of guilt hit Sirius to see Snape work herself up into a red rage. She grabbed her coat and roughly threw it over her shoulders. The money in her hand crinkled unpleasantly; the coins fell to the floor and she cursed, accio-ing them back into her palm.
“I won’t tell anybody,” he said choppily. “Not even James.”
“You’re actually going to tell me you have separate minds?”
“Shut up, I’m trying to be nice here.” Sirius got to his own two feet and moved to stand in front of her. “I’m sorry for spreading those rumours about you. They’re not funny.”
“And what about him?” She pointed at Mr. Evans.
“Yeah, I’m not apologising for that.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Snape, what’re you doing?”
She jerked away from him. “I told you not all of us have rich uncles taking care of us. I don’t like this any more than you do. Shockingly, I have standards too. For what it’s worth, you’re not as unsettling as he is.”
Sirius nearly kissed her on the mouth for that. “Thank you,” he sighed. “Thank you.”
“Stop that,” she complained. “That’s not a compliment.”
“I’ve chosen to interpret it that way.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response. “I’m going to go home. He’ll be fine, right?”
“Nobody’s going to bother him,” said Sirius. “You’ve healed his back and we can pretend the window was already broken. Hell, when he wakes he’ll probably think that you’ve had the craziest sex. That’s why his clothes are torn.”
Snape was unimpressed. “Just so you know the only reason I’m conceding is because you’ve more experience than me.”
“Damn right.” A pause. “How are you going to get home?”
“By bus,” she said as if it was obvious.
“Knight Bus?”
“The Muggle one – what if somebody recognises me on the Knight Bus?” She patted the money in her coat pocket. “The money’s for the fare. I’m owed.”
Sirius shook his head. “No.” He took her hand in his. “You’re not taking the bus this late. A Muggle bus at this hour is dangerous. Haven’t you heard there’s a killer on the loose?”
“And? There’s always a killer on the loose round these parts.”
“Snape, I’m taking you home.”
“We are not taking the Knight Bus together!”
“You bastard, have a little faith in me!”
“I’ll have faith in you when you debunk the rumours!”
“Afraid I can’t do anything about them anymore. They’ve got a life of their own now.”
They bickered the entire journey to the repair shop, and Sirius was ready to just leave Snape stranded in Birmingham, when he noticed how pleasantly surprised she was by his motorbike. “You’re going to take me home on that?”
She sounded happy. Giddy almost
Sirius bowed his head and bowed like a proper pureblood. “Can I help my lady half-blood onto the noble steed, m’lady?”
“You used ‘lady’ twice.”
“Just get on it, will you?”
***
Returning to school was a relief. Severa hadn’t crossed the river since she and Lily had their argument, but though Lily stayed on her side of town her father continued to haunt Spinner’s End. She had forgotten to obliviate him because of stupid Sirius Black talking to her. Obviously nobody would believe Mr. Evans if he accused her of assault, and it would humiliate him in front of the men he managed, none of whom had ever been beaten by teenage girls or caught in hotel rooms with them for that matter.
Still, he stared at her coldly whenever their paths crossed.
A few of the neighbours, mostly her dad’s friends, had noticed. Over the years, Tobias Snape had built himself a circle of bulls. He was a leading member of the local union and stood up for the weaker men. Severa also knew that her father helped them financially; he fought her mother about it. Her mum wondered scornfully how her husband could be so generous when he had nothing of his own.
Her father understood the worth of connections, apparently. His friends pitched together to buy her groceries and fix up the wallpaper. They sent their daughters to ‘play’ with Severa. Judging by how they whisked her away whenever Mr. Evans was on their street, she suspected they accused him of her parents’ death. “If he’d just promoted Toby to foreman,” they grumbled among themselves.
She was touched by their solicitude. It turned out that things were not so bad without Mr. Evans. Mickey Mellows fed her on the house, the Carmodys paid her to help Susan finish her remedial schoolwork, and Deborah Ferguson actually praised her.
“We heard you gave him a good beating,” she had whispered at church. “That’s brilliant! Let him know we’re not all of us whores at Spinner’s End. Call me if you’re going to beat him again – I’ll give him a taste of my right upper cross.”
After all that attention and socialising, Severa yearned to shut up in the school library for a whole week.
She would have liked to go to the library straightaway, but Madam Pomfrey insisted that Severa ate with the rest of the student body at the Great Hall. It was the start of term, it was important to be friendly, she’ll have a lot of catching up to do, and so on. Severa eventually agreed because Madam Pomfrey threatened to escort her to the Hall herself and sit beside her.
That’s how Severa ended up squashed between Mulciber and Avery. The table was bending from the weight of the food atop it; Severa half-filled her plate with a hot cross bun, bits of roast lamb, and sauced vegetables. She’ll finish off her meal with a slice of chocolate cake, and when Madam Pomfrey will ask the ghosts whether she ate a ‘proper meal’ they won’t even have to lie.
“Hey, Snape!” Mulciber threw an arm around her and leaned close. “What’s with the ponytail? Have you finally discovered hairbands?”
She brushed a loose strand behind her hair. Deborah and her mum had walked Severa to the bus station. Mrs. Ferguson had brushed and tied her hair. She’d wanted to braid it, but Severa had to draw the line somewhere.
“Maybe I have,” she said. “What’s it to you? Do you like it?”
Mulciber grinned. “I do. We can see your face for once.”
“Oh, well then, I’d better undo it right now!”
“No, don’t!” he laughed. “Doesn’t she look like a girl now, Avery? The firsties can see that you’re a human like them instead of some—what was it that we called her, Avery?”
“A grindylow?” said Avery.
Mulciber nodded. “Exactly. Your head was so smooth and round – like a grindylow.”
“Eh,” shrugged Severa, “I’ve been called worse.”
As she leaned against the table with her elbow, her head lolled to the side and her eyes caught on the pale, white, furious face of Sirius Black.
Severa straightened her posture immediately. After he’d taken her home that night, Black suddenly lost all his charm and left her at her front door without a word. He had bowed, moved his hands rather awkwardly, and hopped onto his motorbike. They had not interacted since; on the train to school he kept to his friends and Severa shared a cabin with Mulciber, Avery, and – by coincidence rather than intent – Regulus Black.
As far as she knew, she hadn’t done anything that warranted that look. Sure, she told Regulus Black to zip his tongue because his murmurs were pissing everybody off; but the Black brothers didn’t care about each other. Why was he angry?
Black slapped his knees. He pointed at Severa then at himself. She had barely the time to process his angry flailing when he got up on the table and announced, “Can my real m’lady please stand up?”
***
“Sirius,” hissed James, “Sirius, what’re you doing?”
“What I should’ve done earlier,” said Sirius. “But I didn’t have the balls for it then.”
Very wise of him. In the week since he last saw Snape, Sirius had done enough reflecting to secure him a spot among the greatest philosophers. He had thought and ruminated and pondered and he even did a little bit of brooding until he had come to the humbling (but, amazingly, not mortifying) conclusion that he, Sirius Orion Black, had come to fancy Severa ‘Snivelly’ Eileen Snape. Yes, he was very clever for having deduced this, thank you very much.
His initial plan was to corner Snape in the library – because of course she would eventually wind up in the library – when he saw fucking Mulciber laughing with and touching her.
And she tied back her hair, the bastard. Sirius had told Snape on several occasions that he liked her with her hair back. He liked to look at her face. Love hadn’t made her prettier, just as it didn’t make him calmer, but he decided that he liked the strikingness. It revealed the long white column of her neck and highlighted her profile – it was just like her dad’s.
Okay. Maybe he understood Mr. Evans a bit.
Snape stared at him from the Slytherin table. Her hands grabbed onto the edge of the table.
“I repeat: can my real m’lady please stand up?” Sirius winked at her. “Can my half-blood m’lady please stand up.”
Severa shot up to her legs. “I’ve already told you that the ‘m’ in m’lady stands for my! You don’t have to repeat it that much!”
“Got you up, didn’t it?” Sirius laughed, remembering how on their ride to her shithole of a neighbourhood he’d riled her up with increasingly worse grammar. He jumped onto the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables before landing in front of her. Kissing her knuckles, he smiled and said, “You could do better than Mulciber. How about we go to Hogsmeade together next Saturday?”
A series of sighs and shattered cups went off behind him. No doubt his other rides were upset – Sirius had never asked them anywhere this publicly. I might, he thought, if this doesn’t go as planned.
Severa tilted her head to the side. “Is this a joke?”
“No more than Shakespeare is.” He dropped his voice and added, “Sirius’ a-cold. Let’s go to a hovel together and thou canst keep me warm.”
That took her aback. “Did you—?”
“Well, I had to know the context after the…thing. Gotta say I think I’d kill every role in the play.” Sirius smiled hopefully. “So what’d you say, Severa? Are we just going to stand here and wait for McGonagall to come bursting through these doors or will you go on a date with me?” He shot a look at Mulciber. “I’m better than you. I’m better than him.”
“We don’t know that. Mulciber there took me to the Three Broomsticks once.”
“Fine,” said Sirius haughtily. “I understand your hints. I’ll prove myself the better man.” He fell to one knee and kissed her hand again; a handsome blush crept up her throat. “Severa Snape, will you make me the happiest man in the world and go to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop with me?”
She started to laugh. It was a pure laugh without a trace of sarcasm or bitterness. Sirius thought he might like it better than the usual cackle.
“Alright then!” she said. “I’ll go with you. Just get up now and stop making a scene.”
Sirius bounced to his feet. “I always make a scene, Severa.”
“Don’t call me Severa.”
“As my m’lady wishes.”
She shut her eyes and lightly pushed him away. “Get back to your table, dog. Look at them. Your precious Potter is about to have a stroke. Go save your master, go!”
He snapped his fingers into guns. “But we’re on for the date?”
“Yes, we’re on!” Severa pointed at the Gryffindor table. “Black, he’s dying! Go!”
Sirius had a lot of explaining to do that night. James repeatedly told him that he’d been cursed, that he knew Sirius’ heart and this was not it. Peter tittered and insisted that Severa must’ve fed him a love potion, a theory which James accepted instantly, whereas Remus – the only one of them with a cool head – said it was about time.
“You’ve always been obsessed with her,” said Remus. “More so than the rest of us.”
“Mhm. I should’ve asked her on a date earlier.” He smirked at his friends. “What are we exactly? I’ve already slept with her more than a dozen times but this is our first official date. Is there a term for this arrangement?”
Remus was just about to answer him when James walked out of their dormitory. Sirius rolled his eyes and followed him. If Severa thought he was delicate, just wait until she learned more about James’ sensibilities.