Sirius Black, the firstborn. The aristocrat. The one raised in a disgustingly rich, respected, and feared family. Sirius Black, the rebel without a cause, who forged his identity by opposing the values of that family. The tall guy, so handsome that girls couldn’t even concentrate on their exams. The popular one, the one who had it all. The one who didn’t have to worry about running away from home because the loving parents of his also-rich best friend took him in. Sirius Black, the one at the top, the one who did whatever he wanted to those beneath him. The one who spent seven years torturing a poor half-blood just out of boredom, for fun, because he could.
Sirius Black, who looked at that poor half-blood as a representation of everything he hated, everything that disgusted him. Despising him for wanting to go to his family’s house, for wanting to gain power that he—let’s be honest—had possessed from birth. Sirius Black, constantly laughing at Severus Snape, calling him Snivellus, mocking his appearance, ridiculing his poor, downtrodden look, encouraging him to go somewhere he’d likely end up dead. Sirius Black, convinced he was doing nothing wrong because Severus Snape was a piece of shit who followed the Death Eaters, and hurting him was completely justified.
Sirius Black, the brave one, the one who would’ve given his life for the good cause, the one who was on the right side from the beginning, who always knew where he belonged, who went to war and gave it his all—so much that he ended up in prison.
Sirius Black, who escapes Azkaban only to end up in another prison. The one who, locked in his family home, starts to see things for what they are. The one who is no longer a help but a hindrance. The one who is just a ticking time bomb for a Dumbledore who never gave a damn about his zeal for the fight. Sirius Black, who suddenly finds himself facing that same half-blood he used to insult, to hit, to hunt down like a predator after its daily meal. There he is, with them. Severus Snape, the Dark Arts freak, the greasy-haired, Malfoy’s lapdog, the one who followed the pureblood supremacists and bears the Dark Mark. The same Severus Snape who was a Death Eater and followed Voldemort, now stands as Dumbledore’s right-hand man.
And Dumbledore trusts him more than anyone. Trusts him so much that, although neither Lupin, Tonks, nor Moody like having him among their ranks, no one dares say a word against him. Only Sirius speaks up, and when he does, everyone scolds him. Because he’s no longer Snivellus; now he’s Snape. He’s a double agent. He’s someone important. He’s a rook, a bishop, a knight, while the others are mere pawns.
Sirius Black wonders why. Why, if he did everything right, if he stood up to his family, if he always defended what was right, he’s now reduced to a broken toy confined to isolation while that piece of shit who did everything wrong is the one who has Dumbledore’s favor. Because Sirius was always one of the good ones, and Severus was one of the bad ones. Because tormenting and mistreating him was justified. But then he realizes it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter who’s good or bad in a war; what matters is how useful you are to those who wage them.
And he has become useless, while Severus is a key piece. And that is the best revenge Severus could have had for all the years of abuse he endured: for Sirius to realize, in the last months of his life, that all his efforts to rebel had meant nothing. In a war against power structures, the aristocratic boy never has a place.*
