Severus Snape straightened slowly.
The moment was subtle, but the change in him was unmistakable.
The grief was gone—sealed away with ruthless efficiency. His shoulders squared. His expression hardened. The man who stood before me now was not the broken guardian of memories, but the Potions Master of Hogwarts.
Then his gaze shifted.
To Blake.
And the hostility that flared there was… visceral.
It was worse than anything I remembered from the stories. Worse than the cold disdain he'd shown Harry Potter in canon. This wasn't irritation or bitterness.
This was personal.
"Why," Snape said coldly, every syllable sharp as broken glass, "did you bring her here?"
Blake stiffened.
The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Didn't you know," Snape continued, voice low and cutting, "my relationship with her father?"
I froze.
For a heartbeat, my mind simply refused to process what I was seeing.
Blake's face drained of color. Her posture remained proud—she didn't shrink back—but the shock hit her hard. She hadn't been prepared for this. Neither had I.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
I opened my mouth to respond—
And then it clicked.
Not Regulus.
Not the Black family as a whole.
Sirius.
Of course.
The reckless one. The golden boy. The Gryffindor rebel who laughed while others bled. The man Snape had hated with a depth forged in humiliation and rage and years of unresolved wounds.
Snape wasn't seeing Blake.
He was seeing Sirius Black standing where she stood.
That realization hit like ice water.
"Uncle Snape," I said carefully, stepping half a pace forward without fully putting myself between them, "she is not Sirius' daughter."
His head snapped toward me.
"What?" he demanded.
"She is Regulus' daughter," I said clearly. "Your friend's."
The words barely left my mouth—
"WHAT?"
Snape's shout cracked through the dungeon like a curse.
Even the cauldrons seemed to shudder.
Blake flinched despite herself, eyes widening—not in fear, but disbelief.
Snape stared at her now, truly stared, as if seeing her for the first time. His expression twisted—shock colliding violently with old assumptions.
Regulus.
The name alone carried weight.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Snape laughed.
Once.
Sharp. Disbelieving.
"Regulus Black," he said slowly, dangerously. "Is dead."
"Yes," I replied evenly. "So is my entire family. That doesn't make their children imaginary."
Blake lifted her chin.
"My father was Regulus Arcturus Black," she said calmly, though her voice trembled just slightly at the edges. "And I will not be mistaken for anyone else."
Something in Snape's expression fractured.
Regret?
Guilt?
Memory?
All of it, tangled together.
His hostility didn't vanish—but it lost its target.
For the first time since we entered the room, he looked… unsteady.
"You look like him," Snape muttered, more to himself than to her. "Not Sirius. Regulus."
Blake blinked.
"These eyes remindes me of..." but snape paused. looked at me. I just nodded. Snape understood.
Snape continued quietly. "The same way of standing when he was bracing himself."
Silence stretched again.
Then Snape turned away abruptly, robes snapping behind him.
"I owe you an apology," he said stiffly, not looking at Blake. "For… assuming."
Blake didn't respond immediately.
When she did, her voice was steady.
"I understand," she said. "But I won't tolerate being judged for a man I am not related to."
Snape closed his eyes briefly.
"…Fair."
The word sounded like it cost him something.
When he turned back to face us, the hostility was gone—but the tension remained, sharp and unresolved.
"Come," Snape said at last.
The sharpness had dulled from his voice, replaced by something weary—but controlled. He motioned toward his desk, and with a flick of his wand, two chairs conjured themselves into place opposite him.
Blake hesitated for a fraction of a second before sitting. Her posture was composed, but the ease she'd carried earlier was gone. She was guarded now—watchful.
I took the other chair.
Snape seated himself behind the desk, fingers steepled, eyes moving between us with renewed calculation.
"Both of you," he said quietly, "may call me uncle in private."
Blake's eyes flicked up, surprised.
"But," he continued immediately, voice hardening just enough, "it is best not to do so in public. Hogwarts has ears. Too many of them."
I nodded. "Understood."
"If you have questions," Snape went on, "or require my help—academic or otherwise—you will find me. Any time."
That alone would have stunned most students.
I chose that moment to speak.
"There is something else," I said. "I wanted to inform you officially—as my Head of House."
Snape's brow lifted slightly. "Go on."
"I've been appointed First-Year Representative."
A pause.
Then—just the faintest hint of something like pride crossed his face before it vanished.
"I've heard," he said. "Word travels quickly in Slytherin."
"As it always does," I replied.
"In the future," I continued, "I may need you to approve a few duels."
Snape blinked.
"…What?"
"Supervised duels," I clarified calmly. "Instead of unsupervised fights. Less injuries. Less points lost. More discipline."
For a long moment, he simply stared at me.
Then he shook his head slowly, lips thinning.
"You've been here less than a day," he said dryly, "and you're already restructuring inter-house conflict management."
I shrugged. "Efficiency."
A reluctant huff of breath escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"And the reason for this audience?" he asked.
"I'd like a classroom," I said. "Free time. Spell practice. First-year Charms—nothing beyond syllabus. Controlled environment."
Snape considered it.
Then nodded once.
"Fine," he said. "I'll arrange one before lunch."
"Thank you."
He stood abruptly, signaling the meeting's end.
"Now go," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Enjoy your first day at Hogwarts. Try not to set the castle on fire before dinner."
"No promises," I replied lightly.
Blake said nothing, but she inclined her head respectfully.
We turned and left together.
As the door shut softly behind us, I glanced back once more.
Severus Snape remained standing behind his desk, hands braced against the worn wood, shoulders no longer hunched under an invisible weight. The shadows of the dungeon still clung to him—but they no longer seemed to own him.
For years, he had been little more than a vessel of regrets. A man sustained by duty, sharpened by resentment, and hollowed out by everything he had failed to protect. He had lived because stopping would have meant admitting that all the suffering had been for nothing.
But now—
There was something different in his eyes.
Not peace.
Not forgiveness.
But purpose.
A small, fragile spark had taken root—born not of absolution, but of continuity. Of bonds remembered. Of a promise that something of what he had lost still endured in the world.
He was no longer standing alone in the aftermath of a war that never truly ended for him.
For the first time in a very long while, Severus Snape was not merely surviving.
He was looking forward.And that—more than tears, more than words—was proof that something inside him had finally begun to heal.