fatalist

Call me Chimera or Ruin. She/her. 23 years old. Burdened with too many spicy takes, too little patience, and a knack for finding the cracks in fandom. If you’re here, it’s probably because:

You’ve wandered too close to the edge of the HP abyss (me).

You’re looking for someone to unravel the fanon-fueled hysteria (welcome, you poor soul).

You can’t stop staring at the metaphorical car crash of my takes (understandable).

I love a good, unhinged debate—so if you’ve got it in you, drop your sweet thoughts in the comments, anonymously in my inbox, or don’t hold back and jump right into my DMs.

Metas (Also known as: My scream into the fandom void with the intensity of someone who doesn’t sleep enough.)

General: The Marauders Fanon Delusion Fanon Overreach and ‘The Song of Achilles’ Unpacking the Classist Shade in the Wizarding World: 1 2

Characters:

Lily Evans: Not a Saint, and It’s Time We Stopped Pretending 1 2

Sirius Black: More Complex Than Your Fanon Daydreams. Peter Pettigrew: A Look at the Marauders’ Weakest Link.

Barty Crouch Jr.: Why Is Everyone Screaming Slytherin? Severus Snape: Looks Aren’t the Problem—Your Obsession Is.

The boy who cracked Voldemort’s secret, turned against the Dark Lord, and gave his life to strike a decisive blow for the greater good. Sounds impressive, right?

But don’t let the fanon fever dream—or the Chalamet cheekbones—fool you.

1. The Fanboy Who Bought His Own Propaganda

How did Regulus get into this mess in the first place? He wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming into Voldemort’s inner circle. He wanted it. This was the boy who looked at Voldemort’s genocidal cult and thought, “Yes, this is my moment.” Voldemort wasn’t just a leader to Regulus—he was an idol, a pure-blood messiah, promising everything Regulus had been raised to worship.

His parents weren’t even Death Eaters themselves. Walburga and Orion preferred to clink their glasses from the sidelines, content to watch the chaos from their pure-blood balcony seats.

But Regulus? He wanted center stage. For him, the Death Eaters weren’t a prison—they were a playground. He signed up for the dark glamour, the exclusivity, and the chance to be on the frontlines of Voldemort’s “vision.” Regulus wasn’t coerced or manipulated—he was all in, fully convinced he was playing for the winning team.

Until, of course, Voldemort stopped being the star of Regulus’s dark power fantasy. And when reality set in, Regulus had a change of heart. But did he admit, “I was wrong”? Did he stand up and fight for the people he’d helped oppress? No. He folded.

2. The Master Plan That Wasn’t

Regulus was practically spoon-fed the truth about the Horcruxes. Voldemort’s most guarded secret was gift-wrapped and dumped at his feet, courtesy of a tortured house-elf.

And this wasn’t just any secret. This was the kind of revelation that could’ve turned the entire war around. But instead of responding with precision, foresight, or even basic competence, Regulus managed to botch it at every possible step.

Step 1: He stole the locket.

Stealing the locket sounds like a bold move, right? On paper, it’s the kind of Gryffindor-level defiance fandom loves to romanticize. But in reality, it was a tactical nightmare.

Regulus didn’t just take the locket from a location Voldemort’s obnoxious ego would’ve eventually exposed. No, he took it and hid it in Grimmauld Place.

Instead of leaving it in the cave, where someone might’ve uncovered it, Regulus thought, “You know what? Let me stash this in my creepy ancestral house, where only my guilt-ridden, traumatized house-elf knows it exists.” Revolutionary thinking, truly. Because when dismantling a Dark Lord’s immortality, the best plan is obviously to make the Horcrux even more inaccessible, right?

The only reason the locket ever surfaced was because Harry inherited Grimmauld Place. If not for that stroke of luck, the locket would’ve sat there, untouched and invincible, for decades. Maybe centuries.

Or worse—as we saw happen in canon—it could’ve been stolen, passed from hand to hand like a cursed trinket, and lost forever. Voldemort would’ve cackled his way to world domination while the wizarding community fought a battle they couldn’t ever win.

Step 2: He didn’t destroy it.

Destroying a Horcrux isn’t easy—I’ll give Regulus that. But did he even try? Or did he just hand the locket to Kreacher with the world’s vaguest instructions, essentially saying, “Figure it out, sweetie,” before marching off to die dramatically?

Kreacher, bless his loyal, trauma-ridden heart, spent decades torturing himself trying to destroy an indestructible object with no tools, no guidance, and no real chance of success. He tried everything he could think of, punishing himself endlessly for failing a task that was never within his power to complete.

Regulus doomed him. Instead of empowering Kreacher to carry out his wishes, Regulus turned his act of “redemption” into a lifelong burden for someone who had no choice but to carry it.

Step 3: He told no one.

Now here’s where Regulus truly shines in sabotage disguised as sacrifice. Whether it was arrogance, misplaced pride, or a refusal to meaningfully contribute to Voldemort’s downfall, he ensured that the secret he uncovered—the one that could have turned the war on its head—was buried right alongside him.

Perhaps the poor boy couldn’t stomach the idea of contacting Dumbledore or joining the resistance. Maybe the thought of lowering himself to grovel before the Order, confessing his sins, and actually helping was too much for his delicate pure-blood ego.

But what, then, compelled him to entomb such precious knowledge alongside his corpse? Would it have killed him—again—to ensure Kreacher delivered the locket and its significance to someone who could actually do something about it?

Instead, Regulus left behind nothing but a moody breakup note to Voldemort that helped absolutely no one.

“I hope you will be mortal once more.” Oh yes, that glorified Dear John letter. Maybe he thought his scathing parting words would haunt Voldemort forever. Perhaps Tom was meant to reread it late at night, questioning his life choices.

3. What Could Have Been

Regulus had options. So many options. The fact that he chose the least effective course of action is almost impressive in its sheer incompetence.

He could’ve swallowed his pride and gone to Dumbledore. Say what you will about the man, but Dumbledore was Voldemort’s greatest fear for a reason. Armed with Regulus’s intel, Dumbledore could’ve started breaking apart the Horcrux network years earlier, crippling Voldemort before Harry was even born.

He could’ve warned the Order. Regulus could’ve shared this revelation with his brother. He could’ve even scrawled a quick, anonymous note: “Voldemort made Horcruxes. Here’s one.” That alone could’ve shifted the entire war.

He could’ve destroyed the locket himself. With access to cursed objects, forbidden magic, and centuries of pure-blood knowledge, Regulus had the resources to figure it out.

If Regulus had simply done nothing—if he had left the Horcrux untouched in Voldemort’s lair, waiting for someone more competent to find it—it still would’ve been a better choice than what he did. At least then, it wouldn’t have been stashed in a location even less traceable than Voldemort’s own cursed lake.

4. The Fallout of Failure

Regulus didn’t just fail—he left behind a colossal mess for others to clean up.

Kreacher suffered for decades. The loyal house-elf blamed himself for a failure that was never his fault. Regulus didn’t just abandon the locket—he abandoned Kreacher to a lifetime of guilt and self-inflicted punishment.

The Order fought blind. Deprived of any knowledge about Voldemort’s Horcruxes, the Order spent years floundering in the dark, waging desperate battles against Death Eaters while the true key to victory—Voldemort’s immortality—remained untouched.

The Trio cleaned up his mess. Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent months hunting down a Horcrux that could’ve been destroyed decades earlier. Their entire mission to find and destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes was prolonged and made infinitely harder.

5. Fandom’s Saint of Aesthetic Suffering

In the end, Regulus was just a boy who stumbled onto a world-shattering discovery, fumbled it completely, and left behind a legacy so utterly useless that it took sheer dumb luck to untangle long after his dramatic exit. Regulus’s actions didn’t just delay Voldemort’s defeat—they actively sabotaged the resistance.

But none of this matters. Fandom doesn’t love Regulus for his actions—it loves him for his aesthetic.

What I can’t—will not—ever stomach is the sheer audacity of some people to dictate how others should imagine characters. The nerve. It’s as if they’re so puffed up with their own sense of importance, so absolutely convinced that their view of the world is the gospel truth, that they feel entitled to impose it on everyone else. Well, let me save you some time—you’ll get nothing from me but a resounding ‘bloody sod off.’ Maybe try therapy if you’ve got that much pent-up energy.

The fandom debates on the matter of attractiveness—dear God, they’re relentless. The second a character’s ‘ugliness’ is even hinted at, the discourse spirals into some surreal parody of itself. And when it comes to Severus Snape, well, that’s where people have really outdone themselves. That’s where the madness truly reaches its peak. You’ve got one half of the fandom—rabid ATYD fanboys and fangirls, mostly—ready to pounce on any art or fancast that doesn’t fit their atrocious vision of Snape with the chant, ‘THIS IS TOO PRETTY TO BE SNAPE!’ And then you’ve got the other half of the fandom who take it upon themselves to issue a rallying cry for ugliness, as if they’re campaigning for some higher cause. ‘Don’t be afraid to picture Severus as ugly as he truly is. I prefer him that way,’ they say, as if they’re handing out some kind of badge of moral superiority for embracing ugliness.

Well, hold on a second—define ‘ugly’ for me, would you? While you’re at it, define ‘pretty.’ I’d love to see you try to box up something as subjective as human attraction into neat little labels. What do you mean he isn’t beautiful? Do you think there’s some universal truth about what constitutes beauty? Have you ever heard of this tiny thing called tastes?

Because here’s the reality: tastes vary. What’s pretty to one person is ugly to the next. Yet, somehow, these people have convinced themselves that conventional beauty is the only standard worth recognizing. It’s almost as if they’ve been so brainwashed by mainstream standards that they can’t comprehend any other version of reality.

And even when you do talk about conventional beauty, do you really think everyone’s swooning over the same faces? Take Ben Barnes, for example—an actor practically deified by parts of the internet. Do you think he’s universally adored? Brace yourself—because he’s not. There are people out there who think Barnes, despite all his fanfare, has a nose far too ugly for anyone’s liking. And guess what? That’s fine. Because beauty is subjective. It always has been; it always will be.

Yet, in fandoms, you’d think some people were personally appointed to enforce these ridiculous beauty standards, insisting that everyone must imagine the characters the only right way. Let me let you in on a secret: just because a narrator calls a character ‘ugly’ doesn’t mean jack. Writers, same as anyone else, have their own bloody preferences. Sure, they can project those tastes onto the page, but at the end of the day, it’s just that—tastes. Nothing more.

Now, take Snape. What do we actually know about his so-called ugliness? A large, hooked nose. That’s it. And from that, you want people to conjure up some grotesque, monstrous image? Give me a bloody break. Who even gets to decide what’s ‘large’ and what’s not when it comes to appearance? It’s subjective, like everything else in beauty. You like a nose that’s straight and button-sized, or maybe you prefer someone who’s practically noseless, like Voldemort? Well, good for you. I’m not here to judge. But do me a favor—keep your pristine, perfectly upturned little nose and your narrow standards of beauty out of my business.

And here’s the funny thing—the absolute hysteria over Snape’s greasy hair. You’d think the guy walked out of a swamp the way people go on about it. But guess what? There are plenty of characters with greasy hair that fans are practically wetting themselves over. Need an example? Loki Laufeyson. That’s right—the Loki. The man’s got exactly the kind of lanky, greasy hair that should, by your standards, render him disgusting. Yet, somehow, there’s a whole legion of fans swooning over him like he’s some fallen god of beauty. Suddenly, greasy hair is mysterious and sexy.

Let’s not forget—Loki is played by none other than Tom Hiddleston, whose appearance is hardly what you’d call ‘conventional.’ He’s not some pretty boy with chiseled features, and yet, there’s no shortage of people who are ready to kneel at the sight of him. So, what happened there? Where’s all the hand-wringing over his greasy locks? Oh, that’s right—there isn’t any. How inconvenient for you and your narrow-minded standards of beauty. It’s almost as if your little squeaks about ugliness are soaked in nothing but shallow, prejudiced nonsense.

Fine, sure. But to shove him into Slytherin? That’s bloody lazy. Worse, it’s dead wrong on every level that matters.

As Sirius put it, it was a “nasty little shock” for a man like Crouch Sr.—a ruthless crusader against Death Eaters and their pure-blood supremacy filth. But if Junior had been sorted into Slytherin, the shock would’ve hit with the force of a blunt spoon, not the gut punch it clearly was. Slytherin, home of Death Eater wannabes, would’ve set alarm bells ringing in Crouch Sr.’s head. He would’ve been preparing his “I knew this was coming” face right after the Sorting—a bloody bright red flag waving in his face.

And word would’ve spread. If the son of one of the Ministry’s most relentless Death Eater hunters had slithered into Slytherin, people would’ve talked. People would’ve wondered. It’d be irony so sharp it could draw blood—Crouch, the man so desperate to stamp out darkness, watching his own heir settle into the snake pit. It’d reek of defeat, right where it stung most.

But no. The shock told a different story. It wasn’t the expected disappointment of a son straying down a dangerous road; it was the stunned disbelief of a man hit where he least expected. Barty Jr.’s fall into the Dark Arts came from nowhere—or at least nowhere his father could’ve foreseen. No whispers. No ominous signs. Just a good little boy turning bad when no one was watching.

See, if Barty had been sorted into Slytherin, no one would’ve asked “how did this happen?” No soul-searching, no hand-wringing—just a shrug and the usual mutterings about Slytherin breeding dark wizards. The wizarding world would’ve talked for about five minutes before collectively shrugging and saying, ‘Well, there’s Slytherin for you.’ Simple. Easy. Neat.

But here? People are confused. Baffled. Almost pitying. The surprise reflects the public’s belief that Barty wasn’t bound for darkness, which is a far cry from how they might react to a Slytherin, whose behavior they’d likely see as an inherent part of their nature. With Barty—a boy who had that clean, respectable look—they’re left staring at the wreckage, wondering where it all went wrong.

Oh, and that’s where it gets fun. Sirius Black—who would rather join a knitting club with Kreacher than entertain the idea of a good Slytherin—actually hesitates to condemn Barty Jr. Why? Because Junior wasn’t a Slytherin. That’s the crux. Sirius has never been one to mince words about Slytherin; his bias is carved into his very bones, thanks to growing up surrounded by them. The fact that he’s hesitating? That’s bloody significant. That’s the lack of Slytherin stench working its magic. Without that mark, there’s room for doubt. Room for pity. Something no Slytherin would ever be granted, not from Sirius Black.

Now, imagine Barty had been sorted into Slytherin, hanging around with the likes of Regulus, who practically had “Voldemort’s fanboy” stamped on his forehead. Would Sirius have hesitated then? Not a chance in hell.

Hate to be the killjoy here—but no, not really. If you’re going to drown me in this ridiculous headcanon, pulling it from every half-baked corner of fandom, then you’re practically begging for this. It’s not exactly shocking that the fandom, with its talent for boiling characters down to their most shallow traits, has latched onto the idea of Barty being a Slytherin. Fans love to scream about how canon is too prejudiced toward Slytherin; then they turn around and double down on the same damn stereotypes they claim to hate.

Slytherin has become this lazy shorthand for villainy in their heads, reducing complex characters to cardboard cutouts of what they should be. Instead of appreciating Barty’s complexity, the fandom stuffs him into the Slytherin box, slapping on the label “Death Eater” like it’s a personality trait. Because for them, Death Eater equals Slytherin, and to hell with nuance.

But here’s the point: Barty’s story is all about nuance. What makes his fall so stomach-turning is that no one—no one—saw it coming. And when it hits, it hits—a proper, jaw-dropping shock. The insistence on cramming him into Slytherin? It misses the point entirely, ripping away the layers that give his arc its weight.

By the way, I hope you are very well.

Thank you for the perfect cue. Time to roll up my sleeves and dissect the bane of the Harry Potter fandom: Peter Pettigrew.

Why did he betray the Marauders? I like the phrasing. Because behind it, the real question to ponder is lurking. Did Peter ever betray his friends, or did he just betray the Marauders, the twisted idea of inclusion that he never really had? Oh, don’t get me wrong—there’s no denying that James and Sirius were practically the poster boys for friendship. No argument there. We’ve all heard that tear-jerking speech from Sirius: “I’d rather die than betray my friends.” And fair enough; Sirius had every reason to be an emotional wreck—he was talking about James, the only person he ever truly gave a damn about. Sure, we don’t know everything about their golden years, but what we do know makes it painfully clear: James and Sirius? They were a two-man act, a bond so tight it was as if they shared the same heartbeat.

But where on earth did this idea come from that someone else—anyone else—was ever part of that special bond? The books paint a pretty stark picture if you care to look. There was the alpha pair leading the charge, while the other two trailed behind, playing supporting roles. Look at how they chose Pettigrew to be Secret Keeper in the first place—not because they thought he was capable or smart, but because they figured no one would suspect him. Translation: “We don’t think you’re much good for anything, Peter, but hell, no one else does either, so maybe that’ll save our skins.” And yet somehow, fans cling to this rose-colored myth of brotherhood. Four souls, brought together by some unshakable bond of loyalty. Let’ get real here. There’s a very good chance that Peter didn’t even see James and the gang as friends. He was just along for the ride, hanging around like a dodgy uncle at a family reunion.

People love to reduce Peter’s Animagus form to a symbol of cowardice and betrayal, but they miss the real significance of what a rat actually represents—survival. And at his core, that’s exactly what Peter is—a survivor. Strip away all the noise, the grand ideals, and lofty heroics that everyone around him seemed so fond of, and what you’ve got left in Peter is raw instinct. He wasn’t guided by some deep-seated belief or conviction. No grand moral compass pulled him one way or another. He’s the embodiment of the quintessential “baby boy” trope—the “please take care of me” type. (Sorry, Regulus, but the Chalamet fancast isn’t enough to hold the title. Hand over the badge.)

What Peter craved more than anything was protection. It didn’t matter whether it came from James Potter or the Dark Lord himself. The man just wanted someone bigger, stronger, meaner to pat him on the head.

Pettigrew was already used to playing second fiddle to James and Sirius, who were so full of themselves they practically had their own gravitational pull. So when Voldemort strutted onto the scene, another powerful, arrogant tosser demanding followers, was it really such a massive shift for Peter? Hardly. It wasn’t life-changing. It was just a change of scenery. He did what he was best at: finding the biggest bully on the block and pledging his allegiance to survive. Sirius and James had been grooming him for it for years without even knowing.

It’s easy work, bashing Peter. Man’s got a face like a rodent and a spine to match—hardly the makings of a tragic anti-hero, is he? Sorry, Peter, but “pretty privilege” isn’t swooping in to save you like it did for Slytherin Skittles. If Pettigrew had even a hint of good looks, we’d have a library of fanworks trying to paint his redemption. But with a face like that? Not a chance. Instead, we get a convenient scapegoat for the fandom to rally against, letting the poster boys soak up all the angst. The sacred friendship betrayed! A tale for the ages, and people can boo-fucking-hoo about it for eternity.

Little did Sirius know, Harry was one Hagrid away from following the Dark Arts prodigy agenda.

I always felt something different in the dynamics between them, although some passages went unnoticed and I couldn't connect some points very well. That's when I saw a brief comment from you about the complexity of their relationship and how it gives goosebumps to anyone who dares to research further. I was intrigued and needed to read more from you about this, so I sent you the question

I came running to read your response as soon as I saw you posted it and... Oh, that was amazing. Although my approach to Snape is more romantic and sentimental (I'm in love with him and I love him, so I'm completely biased towards him), it's very rewarding to read a rational, intelligent, objective, direct and less biased analysis. You have given me incredible intellectual pleasure and it has been a real treat to read about. I love delving into everything surrounding this complex man and the complexities of his interactions with the most powerful and manipulative wizards of his time.

I can only think about how Snape was so exceptional that he became irreplaceably precious to the two most powerful wizards on both sides of the war. How he was the fundamental player in this war, as he gained the power to influence his two masters, who completely trusted him. Even so, as you discussed, it seems that he gained power of influence over Voldemort almost immediately, whereas with Albus it was built over the years. Of course, Snape always had more affinity for darkness than light, but he ended up being recognized by both.

(By the way, wasn't Lucius Malfoy another one who protected Snape almost immediately as soon as Snape was sorted into Slytherin? What do you think was behind that? Lucius saw Snape as just a brilliant but vulnerable boy? An easy target and promising for the Dark Lord? Or did he also see something more in Snape? After all, Snape was invited to Malfoy's mansion as a family friend and became godfather and private tutor to Lucius' son. What's more: could Lucius' opinion of Snape have influenced Voldemort? Or did Voldemort's predilection for Snape raise Lucius's opinion?)

Anyway, reading your response gave me a lot of new feelings and insights and I was hoping that the text would never end (unfortunately the text ended, but what I read will certainly be enough to leave me sleepless for a few nights). I really, really want to read more of your thoughts on this topic and everything you have to say, I can even pay for your working hours (ok, unfortunately I can't). But please feel encouraged to post your thoughts on them whenever you want, because from what you've said, you still have a lot more to say.

I'll probably only be able to think about it for the next few days. And by the way, why aren't there fanfics about this? People are missing out on something extremely valuable to explore. In the absence of fanfics, I ask you: what are your personal theses for the reasons that lead Snape to gain privileges with Voldemort? I just want assumptions, just what you think or what would make you satisfied as an explanation

Anyway, thank you so much again ❤️ you made my day and now my obsession is well fed (and much hungrier)

It’s a paradox—being in such a sprawling fandom, yet feeling like I’m wandering alone with my little reflections more often than not. So, isn’t that the sweetest bloody thing—hearing my take on Snape and Voldemort hit home for you? Got me grinning wide enough to split my face clean in half, and trust me, that doesn’t happen often.

When it comes to Lucius Malfoy and his role in shaping Snape into a Death Eater, unfortunately, I can’t say much. The trouble is, my memory of their interactions in canon is a bit hazy, so my perspective isn’t exactly reliable. It would probably be best to keep quiet about this amusing peacock lover until I reread the books, which is in my immediate plans. But then, when has better judgment ever stopped me from tossing a little fuel on the fire? I can’t resist the urge to stir the pot.

The way I see it now, Malfoy—who was a few years older and comfortably entrenched in the upper echelons of the wizarding world—would have no trouble sizing up Snape for what he was: a scrawny kid with a dangerous gift, a mind for dark magic, and, most importantly, not a single friend worth counting on. An outsider. Vulnerable. All ripe for exploitation. Lucius was sharp enough to realize that while Snape might lack the natural charisma to climb the ladder on his own, his brilliance in potions and the dark arts could make him invaluable. So, Lucius played his hand expertly.

But you’ve raised a compelling question: did Lucius’ influence on Voldemort shape Snape’s rise, or was it Voldemort’s favor that swayed Lucius’ attitude toward Snape? Likely a bit of both. I assume Lucius had a knack for spotting rising talents and knew when to cozy up to someone with potential. He could’ve easily whispered a few words to Voldemort in Snape’s favor, spinning the boy’s talents in the most flattering light. Yet once Voldemort started grooming Snape, you can bet Lucius would have fallen right in line, ensuring his regard for the young wizard was well-known. By the time the Dark Lord took a more personal interest in Snape, Lucius would have been perfectly positioned to ride that wave.

Still, I can’t help but think Malfoy would never have seen it coming: someone he deemed lesser rising so high. That kind of reversal must sting, don’t you think? Watching a kid who once lingered in the shadows suddenly become a key player in the very game you thought you controlled. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and I imagine it would gnaw at him, lurking in the back of his mind like a persistent itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

It’s a shame I never paid the proper attention to the dynamic between Snape and Malfoy in canon. I’m a sucker for Snucius content, though, and I practically pounce on any decent fanfiction featuring them. I’d happily indulge in anyone’s reflections and headcanons about their twisted relationship—it’s my not-so-guilty pleasure, and I’ll own that without a second thought.

Now we’re circling back to my favorite pastime—unpacking the inexplicable yet utterly breathtaking relationship between the snake and the bat. I have to say, your whole “romantic and sentimental” angle on Snape? Adorable. Though my own metas often resemble a cold vivisection—slicing things open to expose the guts and see how they work—don’t let that fool you: my personal view of Snapemort is as romantic and sentimental as it gets.

I’ve crossed paths with more than my fair share of people in this fandom who wouldn’t know canon if it came up and knocked them flat on their backs. They get gaslighted so fast it’s almost like they’re begging for it—like canon’s some blurry afterthought they just can’t be bothered to keep straight. So in my metas, I’m constantly fighting not to let the canon get tangled up in the wild mess that is my headcanon. I try to delve into the cracks and shadows, and find something that feels like truth. But up in my head? Forget about decent—this concept doesn’t even exist in here. My imagination is as twisted as the characters I’m dissecting.

Now you’ve signed up for this—my own romantic and sentimental take on Snapemort. So, Moon Prism, give you strength. Here we go.

The tension between Severus and Tom wasn’t just about power, it was about identity. Here was a boy who, like Voldemort in his youth, was shunned by the world, brilliant but unloved, wearing his heritage like a festering wound. Tom Riddle saw himself in Snape, and that, for someone as narcissistic as the Dark Lord, was the ultimate form of attraction.

Voldemort didn’t love Snape—he couldn’t love anyone in the traditional sense—but he could covet him. He could hunger to possess that fractured reflection of his own soul. In the end, Voldemort bends for Snape again and again, not because of Severus’s skill or loyalty, but because he sees in him something far more irresistible—himself. A shadow, a twisted echo of everything Voldemort despises in his own nature, or maybe everything he adores—who’s to say? The truth could be both or none at all.

Voldemort wasn’t merely grooming Snape for power; he was grooming him as a personal obsession. He wanted to control Snape, to mold him, to shape him into the perfect instrument of his will. But deep down, perhaps he knew he never fully could. And that only made the obsession stronger.

Maybe it’s a matter of souls, twisted and broken as they are. Maybe there’s something cosmic, some fucked-up string of fate that ties them together, a soulmate bond gone rancid. Or maybe it’s simpler. Maybe it’s just the raw, magnetic pull of power and cruelty, a dynamic that thrives on dominance, fear, and that unspoken tension. There’s something primal in the way Voldemort circles Snape, the way Snape stands just that little bit straighter in the presence of the only man in the world who can destroy him with a word. It’s all there in the pauses, in the quiet moments where one wrong move could mean death—or something far worse. That razor-thin line between obsession and control, submission and defiance. Could be that. Could be something else entirely.

That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? They’re never just one dull thing, never some tired trope you’ve seen beaten to death a thousand times before. It’s that constant churn of possibilities that keeps me restless, on edge, always hungry for more. They breathe life into the idea that stories can be unpredictable, that characters don’t have to fit neatly into boxes, that two men with such deep, twisted histories can be everything at once: allies, enemies, crooked reflections of one another. Maybe even something darker, something that defies the lines we’re so used to.

As for fanfics — you’re absolutely right. The world is sleeping on some seriously juicy material. At this point, I could devour just about anything that puts those two in the same room. Give me soulmate AUs where they’re bound by destiny, torn apart by the weight of prophecy. Give me porn without plot, where all their schemes, all their calculated moves, fall away until nothing’s left but raw need and lust, tangled up in shadows. Hell, give me crack fics where nothing makes sense, yet somehow—it still works.

I’m desperate for more of it—more fics, more theories, more art—because it’s never enough to stew in these thoughts alone. I want to see what everyone else has simmering in their heads, to be blindsided by a take I never imagined, to be pushed by a version of their dynamic that’s raw, savage, and utterly thrilling. It’s not just speculation—it’s about feeding the fire, stoking it higher, until we’re all swept up in the chaotic, breath-stealing storm that is Snape and Voldemort. Two men so alike they could rip each other apart or drag one another closer, and either way, you know it’s going to hurt like hell.

I know it’s a bit presumptuous to keep my hopes high for the sudden spawning of Snapemort content. Best to roll with the punches. Truth is, I made my peace with the constant oversight of these two in the HP fandom ages ago. If folks didn’t spare their enigmatic relationship a thought back in the early days, it’s hard to expect much now, especially with parts of the fandom becoming a bloody nuisance, twisting everything into some fanon nightmare. Ah, there’s my grumpy old man alter ego rearing its head again—apologies for that.

Whatever it is that lingers between Tom and Severus—power, manipulation, some dark bond none of us can fully grasp—it naturally ignites chaos in the mind of the beholders. And if you’re eager to feel that burn, I’ll gladly embrace you in it. To you brave, reckless souls, I say this: your wish is my command.

So, here we are, picking apart how Severus Snape—mudblood, poor, and bruised from the heavy hand of a Muggle father—managed to land himself a spot at the table with the most rabid pack of blood purists you’ve ever seen. A table, mind you, he had no business sitting at. The Death Eaters, that tight little clique of privileged purebloods, had no real reason to let in this scruffy little outsider. Sure, Snape was useful. Very useful. His skills were sharp as knives, and he could do their dirty work, get his hands filthy so they didn’t have to. But useful doesn’t mean welcome. Useful doesn’t mean accepted. You know who else was useful? Fenrir Greyback and his mangy lot. They brought terror to the doorsteps of half the wizarding world, and did Voldemort’s cause no small service. But did they get a place at the inner circle? Did they get respect? Hell no. They were the dirt beneath the boots of the real Death Eaters. Useful filth. And then there’s Snape, embodying everything these purists claim to despise—a half-blood with a tainted surname, living in squalor, dragged through the muck by a Muggle brute of a father. By all accounts, Death Eaters should have spat in his face and tossed him out like yesterday’s rubbish. But no. Not only does he get a seat at the table, he rises. He’s placed on a pedestal, standing closer to Voldemort than some of the most loyal, purest-blooded lackeys in the room. Voldemort, in all his cold-blooded glory, didn’t just tolerate Severus. He raised him up, right in front of their sneering, offended faces. Now, here’s where it gets really interesting. If you think Voldemort did this out of some sense of gratitude, you’ve missed the point entirely. Tom Riddle doesn’t do gratitude. That kind of sentiment is beneath him, an alien concept. Voldemort doesn’t reward; he uses. Deeds done in his name are expected, not appreciated. You’re not going to get a pat on the back from a man who thinks the world owes him its loyalty. Snape’s service should’ve earned him nothing more than a brief reprieve from pain. A loosening of the noose around his neck, if he was lucky. That’s Voldemort’s way—keep them all desperate, keep them all afraid. So why did Snape, of all people, get raised up? Why did he, the least likely among them, become a favorite?

Mind, it’s not just me declaring Snape as Voldemort’s favorite. That dark, twisted bond is laced into nearly every interaction between the two, as if something unspoken and festering passes between them. But it’s Narcissa Malfoy who lays it bare. A woman born into the highest echelons of pure-blood privilege, the very foundation on which Voldemort’s so-called supremacy stands, doesn’t hesitate when she calls him “the Dark Lord’s favorite, his most trusted advisor.” Let that sink in.

Here is the wife of Lucius Malfoy, a man whose lineage is steeped in the darkest of traditions. But when her family’s future is on the edge of a wand, when her son’s life dangles by a thread, she doesn’t rely on Lucius, doesn’t turn to Bellatrix. No, she comes to Severus, because deep down, she knows. They all do.

It’s something more insidious, something that slips through the cracks in the floorboards of Voldemort’s ideology. He is the one Voldemort trusts, the one Voldemort leans on, the one whose counsel can shift the dark winds of fate. That is real power, raw and untouchable. Narcissa sees it—how could she not? Even with all her aristocratic pride, even with the weight of her name and her family’s legacy pressing down on her, she understands that none of it means a damn thing next to what Snape has. Narcissa, with her family’s long, proud heritage, has to grovel before someone who, by the very logic of Voldemort’s cause, should be inferior. But Snape is different, and everyone knows it. They may not say it, they may not even want to admit it, but they know. He operates outside the lines, above the fray, immune to the very rules that were meant to keep people like him down. Snape, the half-blood, the one with the muddied past, holds a kind of sway that no one else in Voldemort’s ranks can claim.

Oh, there comes the bitter irony of Peter Pettigrew. After years of scraping and groveling, thinking he’d earned his place in the Dark Lord’s favor, Peter is handed over like a rag for Severus to wring out. Peter, one of the smug Marauders who’d gleefully hounded Snape through school, reduced now to something just shy of a house-elf, bowing and cringing under Snape’s very roof. A cruel twist of fate, no doubt arranged with Voldemort’s signature malevolence. Was this some attempt to plant a spy in Snape's house? Maybe, if you take it at face value. But think for a moment—Voldemort, who couldn’t pry Snape's treachery from his skull with all the power of Legilimency, putting his trust in Wormtail to do the job? The rat that couldn't outsmart a dormitory prank, never mind a master of deception like Severus?

No, this isn’t espionage; this is karma. Cruel, twisted karma orchestrated by the Dark Lord himself. You can almost picture Severus watching Peter scuttle about his house, casting him those withering, superior glances—knowing full well that Tom has given him this indulgence, this little taste of vengeance. Snape treats Wormtail with open contempt, because he knows he can. He knows it’s allowed, expected even. It’s as if the tables have turned in the most bitter of ways, a humiliating reversal of fortune. Pettigrew, who once revelled in Snape’s humiliation, now reduced to the lowest of roles, while Snape—Voldemort’s golden boy—sits at the top. Isn’t it delicious? You’d have to be blind to chalk it up to coincidence. Moreover, Pettigrew’s fate is all the proof you’ll ever need that Voldemort’s rule isn’t founded on something as simple or sentimental as loyalty. Loyalty? Sacrifice? Please. Pettigrew’s life was one long, groveling act of desperation to stay in the Dark Lord’s good graces. You bring your master back from the brink of death itself, and still, all you get is contempt. Voldemort demands service, sure. But service? Guarantees nothing. And when you set Severus and Peter side by side, the question gnaws at you. Why? Why is Snape the favored one, the exception, the enigma in Voldemort’s otherwise brutal, predictable hierarchy? What makes him different? There’s something between them—something that doesn’t follow the usual logic of power and punishment. Voldemort doesn’t just tolerate Snape’s defiance; he rewards it, bends the system to accommodate it. Something unspoken, something hidden behind the masks they both wear, grants Snape a level of favor that Pettigrew could only dream of.

What’s crucial to grasp here is that Voldemort doesn’t spare anyone. His entire ideology is rooted in cruelty, in domination, in the ruthless obliteration of all who oppose him. He doesn’t just eliminate enemies; he obliterates them, wipes them from existence without a second thought. And yet, here’s the anomaly: Lily Evans, mother of Harry Potter, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a Muggle-born witch, is offered a chance to live. Live. This decision, however, is directly tied to Snape. Snape had begged Voldemort to spare her, and it is this plea—Snape’s plea—that softens the Dark Lord’s otherwise unyielding cruelty.

To truly grasp the enormity of this act, we need to take a step back and consider Snape’s position in all of this. Remember, Severus was just 21 years old when he found himself pleading with Voldemort, one of the most dangerous dark wizard in history, to spare Lily Evans.

Snape wasn’t the imposing, confident figure we often associate with him thanks to Alan Rickman’s performance—he wasn’t a man exuding quiet menace, seemingly capable of standing toe-to-toe with Voldemort. No, at this point in canon, he was barely more than a boy, a young man fresh out of Hogwarts, with no powerful lineage or wealth to protect him.

And yet, despite this—despite the sheer imbalance of power between them—Snape dared to approach Voldemort. Voldemort. With a plea. Not for himself, but for a Muggle-born witch. At best, Snape’s request might have been laughed off, dismissed as the desperate wish of a foolish young Death Eater. But it wasn’t. For some reason, Voldemort didn’t just tolerate Snape’s plea—he actually acted on it.

Consider how critical this moment was to Voldemort’s larger agenda. At the heart of his entire scheme is a singular, consuming fixation: the annihilation of the child prophesied to be his undoing. Harry Potter is Voldemort’s obsession, the one threat he must eliminate to secure his dominion. The Potters were no longer just enemies—they were the key to his future, and Harry was the focus of his most crucial mission. In this context, sparing anyone even remotely connected to Harry was an extraordinary risk. Leniency wasn’t just unnecessary—it was dangerous. By showing mercy to Lily, Voldemort risked undermining his own carefully constructed agenda. And this wasn’t a moment where Voldemort could afford to make mistakes.

This unprecedented act of “mercy,” this concession Voldemort granted Snape, became the very thing that led to his downfall. Had Voldemort simply killed Lily Evans on the spot, as he did James, she would never have had the chance to sacrifice herself for Harry. The protection her sacrifice invoked—the ancient magic that saved Harry’s life and turned Voldemort’s killing curse back on him—would never have existed. Voldemort, the cold strategist, fell because he didn’t bend for anyone—except, inexplicably, for Snape. And that single, dangerous deviation cost him everything. That’s how it’s all started.

And there it is— how it’s all ends. Voldemort’s final words to Severus Snape before he executes him. But pay attention to how he begins. “Clever man,” he calls him. He suggests that Snape might’ve already known the truth of the Elder Wand’s treachery. Tom would never acknowledge someone’s cleverness if it undermined his own intellectual abilities. If he implies that Snape may have already unraveled the mystery of the Elder Wand, it undoubtedly indicates that Voldemort had recognized Snape’s crucial role in the wand’s problems long before. It’s not just idle chatter or casual flattery. No, it’s a bloody confirmation that Voldemort himself had long ago pieced together the mystery of Snape’s involvement with the wand. This wasn’t some last-minute realization that forced his hand. It wasn’t ignorance that delayed Snape’s death, not at all. It was deliberation. Voldemort, for all his cruelty, wasn’t stupid. He suspected, long before that moment, that Snape was at the center of the problem with the wand’s loyalty. He just chose not to act on it until the very last moment.

He held back from executing him, searching for any other way around the wand’s limitations, trying to find a solution that didn’t involve killing Snape. But when it came down to it, when all other options were exhausted, Voldemort finally made his move.

And what does he do? He delivers a speech. A bloody speech, full of regret and excuses—“I regret what must happen.” Does that sound like the Voldemort we know? The Dark Lord who kills without a second thought, who carves his empire from the bones of the disobedient? Hell no. This is the man who thrives on fear, on swift, brutal punishment. And yet, here he is, delivering justifications like some guilty executioner. This isn’t Voldemort’s usual method. This isn’t the whip coming down fast and hard. This is something altogether more… hesitant.

That speech, soaked in rationalizations, tells us everything we need to know. Snape’s death wasn’t just business—it was personal. It’s a messy, ugly end to the unexplainable dynamic between them. Even at the very end, Voldemort is bending, twisting, trying to justify his actions to the one man who had managed to worm his way under his skin. And in that second, we see something rare—a glimpse of the complexity in their relationship. Voldemort’s usual ruthless efficiency is absent.

His “I regret it,” spoken once more, stands out like a blade in the gut, sharp and unexpected, slicing straight through Voldemort’s usual cold indifference. The Dark Lord, who has never spared a thought for the wreckage in his wake, lets these words hang in the air, unnatural as they are. A man who’s never known the weight of remorse now offers something that almost feels like regret. Not true regret, of course—Voldemort doesn’t have the luxury of feeling something so weak, so human. But still, It’s not a sentiment he offers to anyone else. It’s almost as if Voldemort doesn’t know how to process this lingering attachment, as though Snape’s mere existence demands something from him that Voldemort is incapable of giving. Snape occupies some strange corner of Voldemort’s mind, twisted and dark it may be, that not even the Dark Lord himself seems to understand. Despite the fact that I’ve painted a whole canvas of tangled thoughts on the strange relationship between Severus and Tom, I’ve barely begun to tug at the thread of their inexplicable dynamic. There’s so much more I could unearth, layers of intrigue and tension that ripple through every scene between them, and I could easily go on for hours about the small, delicious details woven into their story. But, as it happens, my full-time job is already sharpening its knife and aiming for my back, so I'll have to bring this whole saga to a close with the following quote:

For me, the intensity of this scene speaks volumes about their relationship, capturing the very essence of what makes these two so bloody fascinating. The way their gaze alone can make Death Eaters flinch under the weight of their unspoken understanding. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s something colder, something deeper. As though they’re witnessing a bond forged in the dark, a grim understanding that none of them can ever be a part of.

Your curiosity could very well unintentionally land me in a Flynn Rider situation—cornered with a dozen sharp knives pointed at my throat, and for that, I’m more than ready to kiss you on both cheeks, anon. My recklessness be damned; let’s unfold this matter.

Sirius is an entitled arse, no two ways about it. He’s got that privileged, arrogant swagger of someone who’s always had things handed to him, even if he spent half his life rejecting it. He’s all rough edges and volatile intensity, the kind of man who’s survived more by luck and sheer defiance than by any real plan or sense of caution. Characters like him, they’ve got a way of sinking their claws in me, whether I want to or not. Because here’s the thing: Sirius’s short appearances in the books pack more emotional depth than some characters got in entire arcs. In just a few scenes, I saw a man constantly wrestling with his own worst instincts, fiercely loyal but destructively so, and trapped in a past he cannot—will not—let go of.

But let’s get something clear from the outset: I refuse to acknowledge the fever dream version of Sirius that certain corners of the internet have conjured up. You know, the one where he’s some delicate, ethereal twink who twirls his hair and faints at the sight of Lupin. What even is that? That’s not Sirius Black—that’s like trying to shove a feral dog into a tea party dress. It’s laughable, but more than that, it’s a betrayal of who he really is.

His bite, his bike, his relentless defiance—it’s not a costume or an aesthetic; it’s who he is, deep down to his bones. That raw, untamed energy, that edge—it’s woven into the very marrow of his bones. The Sirius Black from the books exuded raw masculinity. He was all bruised knuckles and fiery glares, a man who looked like he could break you in half but might settle for a well-placed punch instead. Unpolished, angry, and unapologetic to his last breath. Stripping all that away to turn him into some hysterical femboy with fluttering lashes doesn’t just miss the point—it actively distorts the very essence of the character.

So, no, I won’t acknowledge this fanon revisionism—or more accurately, fanon distortion. That’s not Sirius Black. And with that out of the way, we can return to the real Sirius Black—the one built from book flesh and bones, the man we actually know.

What intrigues me about Sirius is that he’s constantly at war with himself. The guy stormed out of his aristocratic, silk-sheeted home and straight into the muck and grime of rebellion. And rebellion is a funny thing—it’s loud, it’s violent, but it’s not always about breaking free; sometimes it’s just a different way to cage yourself. He chose to reject his family’s ideals, but the methods, the temperament, the sheer ferocity—that stayed with him. In his desperate attempt to be their opposite, he becomes just as volatile, just as dangerous. He’s trying to kill the part of himself that was shaped by his family, and yet, you can see it, can’t you? That same cruel streak, the same hunger for superiority. Only now it’s turned against anyone who dares remind him of where he comes from. It’s a brutal thing to watch, someone trying so hard to break the chains, only to forge new ones from their own fury.

Then there’s Severus Snape. If there’s anyone who can drag Sirius’s demons out into the open and force them to dance, it’s him. Sirius looks at Snape and sees everything he despises, everything he’s spent his life trying to drown, smother, burn out—the shadows of his family’s poison. Snape is like a living relic of the Black family’s cursed bloodline, a walking monument to what Sirius could have been, should have been, if he’d just bent the knee and stayed in line like a good Black boy. There’s no escaping it. Snape is a mirror that shows Sirius all the worst parts of himself, twisted into something cold, bitter, and unrelenting.

And Severus? Every time Snape looks at Sirius, it’s like staring into a mirror reflecting everything he’s ever wanted but never had. There’s that deep, gnawing resentment—the kind that comes from watching someone like Sirius, a privileged boy born into power and status, toss it all aside like it meant nothing. Sirius had everything Severus spent his entire life yearning for: a sense of belonging, the kind of respect that comes with a name, the freedom to be reckless without consequence. To see someone carelessly discard what he, Severus, would have fought tooth and nail to possess—it’s like being taunted by the very life he’s always dreamed of, but could never reach. Every time their paths cross, it’s not just personal hatred fueling that rivalry—it’s the bitterness of watching someone waste a treasure Snape has been denied his whole life.

They despise each other because, at their core, they’re fighting the same battle. They both want to escape their pasts, their pain, but they’re both trapped by it. Observing their dynamic is like watching two men rage against the same storm from opposite directions, and both of them lose in the end.

For all of Sirius’s darkness, there’s one light that never flickers: his absolute, unwavering loyalty to James Potter. James wasn’t just a friend—he was the family Sirius chose for himself, the anchor Sirius wrapped his entire identity around. Black would’ve followed James into the jaws of hell without a second thought, no questions asked, no hesitation. Sirius’s rebellion wasn’t just against his family’s twisted values; it was a revolt in the name of the bond he shared with James, a bond stronger than blood.

So when he finally clawed his way out of Azkaban, broken and ragged, it wasn’t just freedom he sought—it was the ghost of the only person he’d ever truly cared about. James was dead, but in Sirius’s mind, that bond was still alive, and he clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. But the world had moved on, and Sirius—stubborn, proud Sirius—hadn’t. He was trapped in the past, unable to let go of the life he had lost. He smothered Harry with his expectations and projected James’s image onto him. In Sirius’s eyes, he wasn’t just mourning James—he was still trying to save him. Still trying to fight a battle that had ended long ago. Shackled to a memory, a ghost, Sirius was living on borrowed time. His desperate need to relive those days with James blinded him to the truth—that Harry wasn’t James, and the past couldn’t be resurrected. And in the end, Sirius’s death wasn’t a tragic loss; it was inevitable. A man like him, still fighting ghosts, still raging against a world that had moved on without him, was always destined to fall. His death wasn’t the end of a life—it was the final note in a song that had been playing since the day he lost James Potter.

Lily, as a beautiful and charming Gryffindor who is beloved of the very well connected Slughorn and the headmaster and the wealthy pureblood James Potter, actually seems to have more room for social mobility than teenage Severus as they look towards adulthood despite him being nominally more privileged as a half blood. All dependant on patronage of course, so that’s problematic in itself, and patronage won’t save anybody from terrorists in the end. Lily to her immense credit recognises this in joining the Order when she could’ve kept her head down. But that tension isn’t nothing when it comes to unpicking their dynamic.

There’s a reason I’ve been steering clear of the whole Snape and Voldemort dynamic, despite how relevant it would be to just about every discussion I’ve had about Severus. See, if there’s anything in the series that haunts me—keeps me tossing and turning at night—it’s that twisted, enigmatic relationship between Tom and Severus. Not just what’s written plain as day in the books, mind you. I’m talking about what’s lurking beneath, the things left unsaid. Because Snape is indeed Voldemort’s exception, and not only in being let into a circle that’s usually locked tight for purebloods. No, Tom crosses lines for Severus over and over again, bending his own rules. I refuse to chalk that up to bad writing; there’s something deliberate about the way their interactions stand out. Voldemort’s treatment of Snape falls right out of step with the essence of Tom’s character. That alone not only leaves acres of space for interpretation—there’s a bloody demand for it. In any other fandom, their relationship would’ve been taken apart a hundred ways already—fanfiction, art, endless headcanons. But here, Snape’s entire existence got reduced to Lily Evans, and fans call it a day. Meanwhile, his massive, fascinating dynamic with Voldemort just sits there, untouched, quietly shaping the entire outcome of the story. As I said at the start, once I get going, there’s no reining me in. So, hands up—I’ll stop myself here. Maybe one day I’ll dive into the complexity of their relationship in a proper meta, but for now, I’ll spare you from my rambling about that deliciously controversial relationship.