The last bell of the term shrieked, a sound more akin to a banshee’s wail than a summons to freedom. Sirius Black, however, took it as his personal cue. He bolted from the Charms classroom, his worn satchel flapping against his back, nearly tripping Professor Flitwick in the process. His destination wasn’t the Great Hall for the feast, nor the common room for a celebratory firewhisky (yet). It was the end-of-term train, and specifically, the Slytherin compartment where Severus Snape, predictably, would be attempting to fade into the background.
Sirius Black, contrary to popular belief, held a deep, almost superstitious aversion to odd numbers. He found them aesthetically displeasing, geometrically unsound, and generally untrustworthy. It was a quirk he never spoke about, a private neurosis in a life otherwise lived loudly and brazenly. This morning, he’d eaten exactly four sausages. He’d packed two changes of clothes. And now, he was on a mission to ensure their final act of 'harmless mischief' before the holidays landed squarely on an even-numbered target. His target was always even.
He found James and Remus already lurking near the Slytherin car, looking like two poorly disguised nifflers. James, ever the peacock, was leaning against a window, polishing his spectacles with a flourish. Remus, predictably, held a book, though his gaze kept darting towards the door.
“He’s there,” Remus muttered, not looking up. "Just saw him slink in. Alone, naturally."
Sirius grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Perfect. This will be epic. A proper send-off before he goes back to whatever greasy dungeon he crawls into for the holidays."
James straightened. "Alright, Padfoot, what’s the plan? Standard hexing, or are we going for full-scale humiliation? I’m thinking something with fizzing whizbees, maybe turn his hair neon green *and* make it perpetually static-y."
"Better," Sirius said, a glint in his eye. "We follow him home. Find out where he lives. Imagine the material we'll get! We can owl him dungbombs all winter break!"
Remus’s brow furrowed. "That feels a bit… much, doesn’t it, Sirius? And how would we even do that? We'd have to go into the muggle world."
Sirius scoffed. "Details, Moony, details. We're Gryffindors! We improvise. Besides, it’s the only way to get him *really* good. He’ll never see it coming." His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "Think of it, Remus. The look on his face. Priceless."
James, predictably, was already on board. "He’s right, Moony. It’s brilliant! Think of the stories. Snape, caught in his natural habitat, probably brewing potions for gnomes in his backyard. This is the stuff of legend!"
Remus sighed, closing his book. "Fine. But if we get caught by aurors or worse, his *parents*, you two are taking the blame. And I’m not casting any illicit spells in front of muggles."
The train began to move, a low rumble beneath their feet. Sirius felt a thrill, a giddy anticipation that had nothing to do with the upcoming holiday. It was the thrill of the chase, the promise of the unknown. Snape always presented an enigma, an infuriating, sneering puzzle that Sirius was determined to solve, even if it was just to expose his weaknesses.
They waited, peering through the grimy windows, until Snape disembarked at a small, rather drab station in the English countryside. It wasn’t King’s Cross. This was a place of faded brick and a single, bored-looking ticket master.
"Blimey," James whispered, "where are we?"
Snape, thin and hunched, pulled a threadbare, oversized coat tighter around himself. He didn’t look back. He simply walked, a gaunt shadow against the bleak, late afternoon sky.
The Marauders, disguised under disillusionment charms of varying effectiveness (James’s kept flickering around his spectacles), followed. Snape led them through a maze of narrow, winding streets, past rows of identical terraced houses. The air grew colder, the sky darker. The houses here were small, their gardens overgrown, their windows dark. This wasn't the bustling, bright muggle London Sirius knew from the rare visits he endured with his parents. This felt… forgotten.
Snape finally stopped in front of one such house, even more dilapidated than its neighbours. The paint was peeling, the gate hung crookedly, and a single, sickly rosebush clawed at the front door. He fumbled with a key, his movements stiff, almost hesitant.
Just as he pushed the door open, a sound ripped through the quiet street – a bellow, slurred and thick with rage.
"You bloody, worthless *Prince*!"
The Marauders froze. The voice was male, hoarse, and filled with a venom that made Sirius’s skin prickle. It wasn’t a casual outburst; it was a practiced, chilling roar.
Snape flinched, visibly, pulling back as if struck.
"Tobias, no!" A woman's voice, high-pitched and reedy, cried from within the house.
A crash followed, the sickening sound of glass shattering. James gasped. Remus instinctively reached for his wand. Sirius, for a moment, was paralyzed. This wasn’t the harmless fun he’d envisioned. This wasn't even the kind of anger he was used to from his own volatile family. This was something else entirely, something raw and terrifying.
Through the half-open door, in the dim light of the hallway, they saw a man—large, disheveled, and swaying dangerously—holding a half-empty bottle. His face was contorted, crimson.
"You killed her! You killed my Lily! Just like you'll kill me, you little freak!" The man, Tobias, spat. He hurled the bottle.
Snape, still on the threshold, tried to dodge. But he was too slow. The bottle caught the doorframe, exploding into a shower of jagged shards. Several pieces flew inward, striking Snape. One, a wicked sliver, seemed to embed itself in his side.
Snape cried out, a choked sound of pain, and stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the dusty welcome mat. The blood blooming on his side was stark against his dark clothes, a stain that spread with alarming speed.
Tobias laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Not even worthy of your father's name, are you? Severus *Prince*. You're nothing but a worthless *Prince*." He kicked out, aiming for Snape, who curled in on himself, a desperate, thin figure.
The Marauders’ disillusionment charms flickered, strained by their collective shock. What they saw was not the greasy, arrogant, sneering Slytherin they hated. What they saw was a boy, impossibly small, curled on the floor, bleeding, and terrified. A boy they had seen eat barely anything on the train, a boy whose frame, under the oversized robes, now looked painfully, horrifyingly gaunt. He was so thin, so fragile, it felt like a single strong gust of wind might break him.
Sirius’s carefully constructed world, built on pranks and rivalries, suddenly shattered like the bottle on the floor. The chill from the evening air was nothing compared to the ice that had just formed in his stomach. The fight, the pranks, the hatred—it all seemed to drain away, leaving behind a stark, sickening reality. This was not a game. And Snape, bleeding on his doorstep, looked like he might actually break.