As a fellow Snirius fan, I have this proposal : Sirius is obsessed with this poet who writes these most beautiful poems on themes of love,guilt, darkness and remorse that resonates with Sirius too. And Severus is obsessed with this witty novelist who is darkly funny and shrewd and the satire is poignant.
The poet is Severus, the novelist is Sirius (both write under psuedonyms).
This would go hard, not gonna lie. Like, imagine it:
One day Severus decided to buy this book; he doesn’t know why: the cover is lame, nothing he would even pick; the title is infuriating and stupid (he’ll think, “who published this? Who let it get this far?") and yet he still picks it up and puts it in his basket alongside other more respectable books. He will do it because he can, because he can do this sort of thing now. He can afford to waste money on a book that most certainly will collect dust on his bookshelf. And he does. And the book does collect dust on his shelf for months and months.
He’ll pass by the shelf and glance at it, the spine with the moronic author's name dragging a roll of his eyes each time. Snuffles Padfoot. Atrocious. But his curiosity would grow. What kind of story can that kind of book tell? What can someone who willingly pick (a sneer as he think about it) Snuffles Padfoot as their pseudonym share? He wonders and walks away.
It takes another month for him to cave. He reads it on a Saturday a fortnight later, because he is free to do as he pleases with his time and with his money. He is free at least on that. Never of his thoughts, never of his guilt and past, but at least he is free in that regard. He is hooked by the time he finishes the second chapter. The story, the flow of the words, it’s not what Severus expects, and before he knows it, he has ordered two more books to complete the trilogy.
And when he devours those, he buys another, because Snuffles Padfoot has a lot to share. He dwells in many genres, unable to stick to one. He is a storm that can’t be contained. Unwilling to chain himself to a predetermined mold. He is unforgiving and dark in one. Witty and satirical in another. In some others, he is a complete romantic and tragic. His best works lay in adventures, betrayals and revenge. And Severus, as mad as it seemed, feels understood by their characters in a way he never thought another person could ever understand him. It is a foolish feeling but he can’t reign them in. It’s fine, he can let them exist in him, silently.
His life would resume, but his shelf as the years go by, would start to hold more books, most of them with their spines branded by that infuriating name. He would still roll his eyes, but his lips would curl into a ghost of a smile.
And then one day, he’ll buy a new release, sit on his chair on Saturday as he has grown accustomed to doing, open it, and in its dedication will be his own poem. A small snippet of Snuffles Padfoot thought about it, on how The Half-Blood Prince has inspired them.
The novel is for him. For the Half-Blood Prince, for Severus.
And he will hold his breath. He will consume. And his next poem is dedicated to them. To Snuffle Padfoot.
It’s different from what he usually writes. There’s no grief, no guilt, no longing for unrequired love. Not on the one meant for them. Hidden in the last page. His editor would raise an eyebrow, but wouldn’t press. It gets published, and Severus doesn’t hold his breath. Doesn’t wait for a reply, because that’s illogical. And he is not illogical.
But it comes, slow, a year later, in the form of another novel, another dedication. And the back and forth grows. At a snail pace. Two authors connecting through their writing.
The forums grew soon after; their fanbase joined and speculated, and his book sales increased. The poems, their dedications, they get analyzed to a degree that mortifies him. The first cardinal rule of publishing is to not read reviews. It is considered essential for maintaining sanity, focus and productivity. Severus has never had an issue with this rule. And even those low times he had made the mistake of breaking it, he let the hateful words and criticism slide off him like droplets of water. He couldn’t do it for this. And when the “shipping” started… It was almost enough to stop him from whatever this was. Some online dwellers said it was “flirting,” “courtship.” He thought they were idiots.
They were just two writers, forming a connection through their work. Finding understanding in the form of art.
He shouldn’t continue to feed the flames of madness.
But then Snuffles Padfoot drops another dedication on a short story, and Severus can’t help himself.
Imagine Sirius. A hardcore fan of THBP buying his latest book and choking on his morning coffee while reading the poem. He, who had found solace in the emotions of grief, remorse, and darkness in every verse, stumbled with the opposite of that. Of seeing his silly pseudonym on a one-line dedication.
Yeah, this would go hard as fuck—good shit!
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