Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The shop on the corner of St. Grave was a glowing glass coffin, plastered with billboards like a homeless person with newspapers. Outside, neon lights shimmered in puddles where the London night slowly died. The city seemed frozen, hushed—but not asleep, just lurking.

A small figure in black walked slowly toward the shop, carrying huge boxes carefully, as if each was filled with fragile glass. Shoulders hunched under the weight, and footsteps sounded muffled on the wet concrete.

That feeling—it had haunted him for almost a month now, since he started the night shift here. An anxious, cold sensation like a shadow that never left his side. It lived in every rustle, every movement of the night city, constantly reminding him: someone was watching.

He felt that invisible gaze on him, as if someone was pulling strings from the darkness, tugging them and eavesdropping on his breath. It was not just a feeling—it was a dark vortex of fear squeezing his heart, tightening his mind.

He snapped his head around—and the parking lot in front of the shop was empty. Only neon reflections danced on the wet concrete, and the emptiness seemed even deeper, like a black abyss into which one wanted to fall and disappear.

His heart beat louder, breath caught. His lungs tasted of ice, and his skin broke out in goosebumps. Every movement sounded louder, every step heavier.

He turned again, trying to convince himself it was just his imagination. No one.

His legs trembled with tension, but his mind held him in place as if someone else's hands pulled strings. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder again—silence. The darkness, dense and thick, squeezed the space around him.

Approaching the glass door, he closed his eyes for a second, exhaled, gathering himself into a tiny ball of calm. His palms were cold and sticky as he pushed the door inward. The bunch of keys jingled louder than it should have.

Inside, the shop filled with artificial light, the smell of cigarettes and cheap candy. The sounds of the city stayed behind the glass, and he stepped slowly over the threshold, feeling the night’s silence snap shut behind him like a ghost he could never escape.

Somewhere behind the display windows something rustled, rattled—trash bin, rat, ghost. He no longer flinched. He was used to it.

The 24-hour shop breathed tired warmth. The coffee machine hissed like it was suffocating, the lamps flickered. The floor was sticky. At the register—he was there.

Severus Snape.

Forgiven.

Released under the label "to observe."

No one said it aloud, but he knew. He knew from the looks, from the letters from the Ministry, from the ink scribbles of Albus, who still signed his old-fashioned letters: “With best wishes, Albus Dumbledore.”

He fidgeted with a pack of gum; the smell of food made him sick. His lips were dry. The room was stuffy: the heater worked nonstop, drying the air and nerves. He wore an enormous black hoodie with the hood up. The sleeves reached halfway down his palms, the edges frayed. His hair was long, tangled, black like this cursed night.

Severus looked like a ghost of a teenager stuck somewhere between life and nightmare. Fragile, stretched out, eternally tired—skin pale as if washed by rain, shadows under his eyes heavy as the night sky. He moved slowly, conserving energy as if every step on this war-scorched earth could be his last. His hands, emerging from sleeves too large, trembled from cold or exhaustion—he could no longer tell.

And then—the bell rang.

Clear, metallic, like a bite in the silence. It echoed through Severus’ entire body—tightening his stomach, catching his breath, making his eyes jerk and dart toward the entrance.

They entered one by one—three of them. Young, dressed “right”: leather jackets, plain jeans, shoes with silent soles. They looked like ordinary passersby, random customers at a night gas station, popping in for coffee and cigarettes. But Severus knew. He knew at the first glance.

Aurors.

Their movements were too coordinated, their gazes too sharp. One of them—the one with light brown hair and a simple gray scarf—inspected the room too carefully. The second lazily fiddled with a drawer of chocolates but stayed close to the exit, as if covering. The third—a strong, shaved man with an empty face—stopped by the fridge, but his eyes never once glanced over the bottles.

They said nothing. Not a word.

Severus slowly bent behind the register, pretending to check papers. His breath faltered, as did the rhythm in his chest. The air in the shop thickened like molasses—it was hard to breathe. The space between him and the Aurors felt like a battlefield. As if each of them was a curse held back only by thin politeness.

They watched him. They didn’t hide it. They didn’t smile. They didn’t speak.

Severus knew: they hadn’t come to buy anything. They came to remind. Remind him his freedom was conditional. That his right to stand here among neon lights and cheap packages was fragile, dependent, controlled.

Seconds dragged like blood from an old wound.

The Aurors pretended to look at merchandise. One took an energy drink can, another lit a cigarette—not lighting it. All a performance. A theater of surveillance.

Severus didn’t lift his head. He just stood there in the fluorescent light, thin and translucent, like a prayer no one would hear.

And silent.

The light brown-haired one approached the register with the energy drink. His steps were almost silent, but each felt like a blow to the nervous system. Severus didn’t look up. He felt the gaze—sticky, penetrating through skin like needles under nails.

He reached for the scanner, roughly scanned the barcode. Beep. The numbers on the display glowed dim green. Simple. A normal purchase. Just a can. Just a customer.

He extended the can.

And at that moment—a grip. Lightning fast, predatory. Not strong, but confident. His wrist—Severus’ left hand.

Where the mark was.

Severus froze. Cold instantly spread from his fingers up to his shoulder, neck, heart.

The man said nothing. Just held on. His eyes—light, unreadable, but the gaze pierced through.

Inside everything clenched. His heart seemed to hang between beats. Severus held his breath.

He felt muscles tense beneath the hoodie, as if the mark came alive under his skin—not pain, but a memory. He didn’t know why the man did this. A reminder? A test? A warning?

Nothing was said. No gesture, no hint. Only silence and this disgusting contact, like slime.

Severus tried to free himself—first slowly, then a little sharper, finally jerking his hand away like it was hurt. The sleeve slipped, exposing his forearm, but the mark wasn’t visible—hidden by shadow, fabric, years.

A moment—like through cotton wool.

The Auror stared for another second, then seemed to switch off. Easily, as if on command, he turned.

The other two approached. One—the one who’d been smoking, the other with the empty face—silently patted their leader on the shoulder.

And left.

Without words. Without purchases. Without looking back.

The bell jingled as if nothing had happened.

And again—only fluorescent light, only refrigerators, only neon beyond the glass.

Severus stood by the register, pressing his palm to his wrist, watching the door slowly still in silence.

Near 3:44am, the sound of an engine echoed.

At first—a low, vibrating rumble muffled by the damp air, then laughter. Light, scattered, woven into the rain. Severus didn’t look. He knew what was happening outside: company. Several people, tires crunching on wet asphalt, a door slam, footsteps. Voices—young, lively, too loud for this deserted night.

He didn’t raise his head. Bent by the bottom shelf of noodles, he carefully lined colorful packages in neat rows. Sharp, acidic colors stabbed at his eyes, but his fingers moved mechanically. He felt the tension in the air thicken—as if the city held its breath again.

The bell.

It rang softer than before, as if restrained. Severus continued his work—back hunched, hand in the box, gaze in the tiny void between shelves. The footsteps inside were light, uncertain. One person. The others stayed outside.

Severus moved between the aisles, stocking bottles of water, boxes of cereal, canned soups. He felt the presence of another like a cold touch at the nape of his neck but ignored it—the visitor demanded no attention, and that suited him.

He finished with the boxes. Slowly straightened up, flexed his fingers, and made his way to the register. The customer was standing at the sweets shelf, back turned to him—dark jacket, carelessly tousled hair, fingers idly flipping through packs of gummies. Everything about him looked like an ordinary customer.

Severus switched on the scanner. It beeped expectantly, like a twitchy note. The customer approached.

And only then did Severus lift his eyes.

Sirius Black.

Time thickened—grew sluggish, warped. Sirius’s eyes—gray, piercing—looked straight at him. Without surprise. Without anger. Just interest. Lazy, almost mocking.

Severus didn’t move. Only his gaze. Only the tension at his collarbones. He felt naked.

Sirius placed a pack of cigarettes and the gummies on the counter. Without looking away, he tilted his head slightly.

"You know," he said with a silky smirk, "for a second I thought a pretty girl worked here. Didn't get enough food in Azkaban, so you're making up for lost time?"

The words landed like poison on the tongue. The tone was light, almost teasing—but there wasn’t a trace of a real smile in it. Just slicing metal behind the veil.

Severus didn’t reply. His hand scanned the items automatically—steady, giving away nothing but muscle memory.

"Pathetic." Sirius said.

Severus remained silent. His palms were damp, breathing shallow. He didn’t meet his gaze. But he could feel it. Feel the voices behind the glass. The ones he still heard.

Lily. Potter. Lupin. The Marauders.

Sirius didn’t turn around, but Severus knew—he wasn’t alone.

"Don’t worry," Black smirked, taking the purchase, "I won’t tell anyone you’re serving Muggles now."

Something clenched in Severus’s chest—like someone had placed a block of ice there. Words rose to his throat—sharp, bitter, nearly ready to lash out. He wanted to speak. To say something. Something cruel, poisonous. He wanted to hit back with words, like he used to. Like in school. Like in the war.

But his mouth stayed half-open. Air scraped his throat, lips trembled ever so slightly. Everything inside him seemed frozen just at the edge.

He couldn’t.

Black stood lazily leaned over the counter, like a bored predator watching something small. His eyes gleamed—not with hatred, no, worse—with amusement. He was enjoying this. His voice, his posture, his stare—it all pressed down. Humiliated.

And Severus felt exactly that.

Humiliated.

He looked away, as if from a flash of light. His shoulders hunched beneath his hoodie. His fists clenched under the counter, but even that didn’t help. He knew how he looked from the outside—silent, frozen, helpless. Exactly how Black had always seen him. Exactly how he made him feel—with his presence, his gaze, his contempt wrapped in a veil of lazy bravado.

Severus didn’t know what was worse—this moment, or the thought that it might happen again. That Black might come back. That he’d stand before him once more with that careless smirk and make him feel like this.

He clenched his teeth, but the sound of uneven breath still slipped into the silence.

Then the phrase:

"Always knew you were good at groveling."

A blow without volume, but precise. As always.

Severus pressed his lips together but said nothing. He handed over the change. Eyes down. Toward the floor.

Sirius took the cigarettes, shoved them into his pocket, and walked out without looking back.

The bell jingled again.

The door shut.

Silence. Neon. An empty shop.

Severus remained standing behind the register as if nothing had happened. As if his heart wasn’t pounding too loud. As if he didn’t desperately hope Sirius Black wouldn’t return.

His hand trembled as he closed the register. He wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. He was tired. Everything was too sharp. Even silence was too loud.

Outside, the night hummed. The rain picked up again. Red lights reflected in the puddles like blood in slow motion. Somewhere in an alley—a dog barked. A car drove past, splashing mud.

Severus sat down on the plastic chair. Pulled his feet up, tucked them under his hoodie. He was small, thin—he looked like he could vanish, if he wanted to.

“If he tells them,” thought Severus. “If he tells them, it will be just like before.”

He didn’t get to finish the thought.

Somewhere in his mind—an electric spark. Click. Like a premonition.

Severus turned toward the window. Through the glass—only rain. Silence. Neon. And the street looking back.

He sat in that glass coffin and waited. And hoped. That Black wouldn’t come back.

He didn’t know he was hoping in vain.

Chapter Text

The rain poured down in sheets, cold streams sliding over the asphalt, turning the streets into a viscous, dark sludge. Everything around was gray, as if the world had forgotten about colors: wet facades of peeling buildings, trash floating in the gutters, street lamps flickering with a dull yellow light like sick eyes. The air hung heavy with the smell of dampness, gasoline, and decay.

Severus walked with his head down, hood pulled tightly over his forehead. His boots squelched through puddles; water had seeped through the soles, and the cold had long since reached his toes. He was wet up to his waist and knew he would wear the same clothes to work tomorrow—there was nowhere to dry them. He didn’t look back. He didn’t quicken his pace. Fatigue sat in his body deeper than fear. He moved like an automaton.

Today he doesn't even get home until the morning, as he was forced to fill in for his shifter for the first half of his shift.

The house stood in shadow, between two abandoned buildings—a grim, black structure with peeling walls and a window barred with iron. An old brick building, moldy and soaked to the bone, as if it itself shivered from the cold. The door creaked under his hand, and Severus entered without turning on the light.

The smell was heavy and thick, like mold on stale time. It smelled of dampness, dust, and something metallic. The air was dense, as if it had not been stirred for a long time. A light bulb flickered in the hallway but did not turn on. He moved in the dark, habitually feeling his way.

The floors creaked. The walls breathed with drafts. The house was old, tired, as if hiding away. Somewhere above, the roof was leaking—water dripped into a bucket from the ceiling, each sound marking time. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound drove one mad.

The living room, if it could be called that, was nearly empty. An old couch, sagging and covered with a blanket. A low table, a peeling dresser. Mold on the wall in the corner like a stain from something long dead. A bookshelf with dusty, warped volumes ruined by moisture. The windows were boarded from the inside. Curtains—dark and heavy, like funeral shrouds.

Severus passed the couch without removing his shoes. The sound of the rain outside was louder than it should have been—as if the walls did not protect, but only amplified the noise. Somewhere behind the wall, a scraping noise sounded—either a mouse or the house reminding itself that it was alive, that it breathed.

In the kitchen—silence and mold. Water dripped slowly from the tap, a rusty stream leaving traces in the sink. A cup with yesterday’s tea, murky, almost black. Bread hardened to a stone. Severus didn’t touch it. He didn’t feel hunger. He felt… anxiety. Vague. Crawling on his skin like goosebumps from a look over the shoulder.

Through the monotonous noise of the rain came another sound—a dull, heavy thud, like something falling upstairs. Then—a voice.

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut up…”—drunk, breaking, hoarse. Tobias.

“Don’t yell at me, Tobias, please…” Eileen, barely audible, as if hiding in her words like in a blanket.

Severus froze. Eyes to the floor. Heart slow and dull.
The voices grew louder. Not even words—intonations like a knife on glass. A drunken roar, suppressed answers, a crash—maybe a fist on the wall, maybe something breaking.

His legs moved on their own. He walked slowly, barely breathing.

The stairs creaked under every step as if protesting. The house was alive, and now he knew: a storm was coming.

On the second floor, the smell of hangover, dust, and fear. No light—the bulb had burned out long ago. Only faint light from below cast shadows on the walls, and Severus moved in these shadows—like a ghost in his own house.

Voices behind the door—louder, closer.

“You think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know where your bastard son is hiding?”

“He’s working, please, don’t touch him…”

Severus’s heart clenched. His throat tightened, as if he swallowed water the wrong way. His hand almost reached for the doorknob—almost.
But he didn’t go there.
He walked past.

To his own door.

It opened quietly. The room met him with darkness and hollow, empty silence.
He closed it behind him. Leaned against the door. Closed his eyes.

It was always cold in this room. Even in summer. The walls—nothing. No posters, no photos, no books. Only an old crooked shelf with a few tattered textbooks. A gray blanket, hard as sackcloth. A desk—chipped, ink stains embedded in the surface like traces of old thoughts.

On the windowsill—a jar with leftover candle wax.
Under the bed—nothing. Almost no dust.
Almost everything that could be called “personal” Severus hid inside himself. There was no place here for himself. Only—for waiting out.

Below and above—drafts, rustling, the life of a house where he had no place.
He sat on the bed, clenching his fists. Voices were still audible behind the wall. Eileen again tried to reason. Tobias lost control again.

Severus stared into the darkness.

He wouldn’t help. He wouldn’t save anyone. Not this time.

He would just wait.

Until it calmed down. Until he could go out again.

Everything as usual.

The room remained in darkness—only the faint glow of a street lamp from the window colored the corners. The voices quieted after about ten minutes—Tobias passed out. Mom probably went to sleep too. Severus silently stood in the middle of the room, like a piece of furniture—a stretched-out silhouette, fragile, almost unreal, like a charcoal sketch on worn paper.

He slowly pulled off his wet hoodie—big, loose, soaked on the shoulders and sleeves. It slipped off his narrow shoulders like old skin, exposing pale collarbones and a thin neck. He moved quietly, smoothly, as if afraid to disturb the air. No sharp movements, no creak of the floor—only the soft rustle of fabric, muted and intimate, like a whisper.

His body looked almost fragile in the dim window reflection—ribs visible under the skin, movements restrained and cautious, like someone who knows too well the price of bruises.

He reached for the other clothes lying on the bed—just as shapeless a sweatshirt, soft, long washed to translucency. It smelled of detergent and a little cigarette smoke. Severus pulled it over his head, and it immediately hid everything—curves, thinness, cold. Like armor made of fabric. Sleeves almost to the fingers, length to mid-thigh. Everything so no vulnerable spots remained, so he could disappear. Pants—warm, stretched out, slipping off narrow hips, but familiar. He pulled them on, then sat on the bed, pulling his legs under him.

The whole scene—like a tired ballet performed in the dark.

No applause. No light. No spectators.

Severus didn’t turn on the light. Didn’t want to see the walls. Didn’t want to see himself.
Darkness was salvation. It allowed him to be without form, without anxiety, without memories.
Only fabric on the skin, silence in the chest—and waiting. That the night would end.

Or not.

No matter.

He sat on the bed, knees hugged, feeling how the fabric stretched over his knees, how the sweatshirt touched his chin, shielding him from the world, as if that could save him. The room was quiet—not really, no: upstairs still muffled footsteps and murmurs sounded, somewhere an old pipe creaked, an old board cracked in the wall. But inside this darkness the silence was different. Deep. Personal. Sticky like longing.

Severus dropped his chin onto his knees. Fingers slowly stroked the fabric at his ankle—unconsciously, monotonously, almost like a self-soothing gesture. A lump stood in his throat, not connected to emotion—more with exhaustion, something accumulated, physical.

“Now without the wand,” he thought. “Damn those Ministry bastards.”

They took it away quickly, almost routinely, like confiscating an old broom. “Temporary measure,” they said. “Until the investigation is over.”

Now—no magic.

No spells.

No protection.

And an hour’s walk to work, in the rain. And at home—father. Cameras in the shop, fists at the door.

He tried practicing nonverbal spells mentally—but without a wand, without a focus point, it all seemed like a childish game of pretend. And also—fatigue. He returned drained, his head buzzing, thoughts tangled. Magic required clarity. Strength. And he had neither.

He pressed his forehead to his knees.
And then—a cough.

Sudden. Hoarse, short. From the street.

Too close.

Too clear.

Severus instantly froze. His heart skipped a beat, then plummeted into his stomach. He held still, not breathing. His body tensed so sharply even his toes cramped. He recognized that sound. He had learned to recognize danger not by footsteps, but by breathing. By wrong breathing in the night.

Slowly, almost invisibly, he reached for the window. Movements—careful, quiet, like a little animal hiding in a burrow.
He pulled aside the corner of the curtain—just a millimeter.
And looked out.

The street was empty.

The rain fell thickly, in streams, like threads of oil. Neon signs reflected in puddles, looking like spilled blood. In the distance — a lonely cigarette burned, but it too disappeared. No one around. Only wet asphalt, black windows opposite, and one figure — his own reflection.

Drawing the curtains tighter — so that not a single gap remained, not a hint of light from the street — Severus returned to the bed. He sat down, curling his legs again, shrinking into himself as if trying to disappear into the folds of the gray fabric, into the darkness of the room, into his own body.

For a second, everything froze — only the rain, only the rustle of his breathing, and the rare beat of his heart, uneven like in childhood when he waited to see if his father would come to his door.

Thoughts returned.

Like water breaking through a dam.
Black.

He saw those eyes again — gray, like steel, like ash.

Not angry. Not furious.

Worse.

Mocking.

As if what he had seen was a joke. His job. His weakness. His loneliness.

And he knew — Sirius would tell.

Not right away. Not directly. But he would tell.

He would see Lupin, Potter — and between words, between smirks, between phrases like “Did you know who I saw?”, he would lay it all out. Savoring it. Calmly. Almost without malice. Because they didn’t need malice to remember what it’s like to break him.

He knew how it would be.

Their laughter.

Those looks.

As if he were not a person, but a trash.

There would be “Slytherin slug” again, “snivy” again, “half-blood” again, again tripping and curses behind the corner — only now not in the castle corridor, but in an alley.

And he would be powerless.

He was wandless.
Without magic.
Without the right to defend himself.

He imagined them coming — four of them, grown-up but still the same. How Sirius barges into his shop laughing, how Potter looks at him with the same disgust as before. How Lupin pretends to “just not get involved,” and Pettigrew… no, Pettigrew was dead. But that didn’t change anything.

“I can’t stop them anymore.”

This thought cut into his mind like a blade.
Before, he could fight — with words, spells, malice, rage, his whole cursed will.
And now?
Now he was just a target.

Severus pressed his forehead to his knees, his fingers gripping the fabric. He was thin, almost fragile. In the light, he might have seemed feminine — thinness, sharp wrists, the broken line of collarbones. But now — he was just a tired boy in the body of an adult man who had nowhere left to run.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t know how.
He just sat, feeling the tension hurt his back, his legs trembling.
In his chest — heaviness.
On his tongue — the taste of bitterness.

“If they come…”

He didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t.
It died out like embers under the rain.

Outside the window, the rain was still falling.
And every sound of it was like a step, as if someone was approaching.

’’

The room was cloaked in deep silence, broken only by the soft, even rhythm of Severus’s breathing. Moonlight seeped through the narrow slit of the heavy curtains, casting pale, silvery beams that spilled across the darkened floor like thin, cold fingers. The light found its way to Severus’s resting form, tracing the sharp angles of his face, the delicate curve of his closed eyelids, and the tense line of his jaw. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, thick and heavy, swallowing details and twisting the familiar into something uncertain.

The air hung still, charged with a quiet unease — as if the darkness itself was holding its breath.

Suddenly, barely audible, a slow creak sliced through the silence. The front door, heavy and aged, inched open with deliberate, agonizing slowness. A sliver of darkness stretched from the threshold, a creeping shadow that slithered across the floor like a living thing, hungry and cautious. It moved with the precision of a predator, careful not to disturb the fragile stillness, yet its presence swallowed the moonlight bit by bit.

The shadow glided closer, reaching the edge of the bed where Severus lay curled, vulnerable in his deep sleep. His chest rose and fell, untroubled, unaware — utterly still except for that steady breath. His eyes remained sealed tight, untouched by the shifting gloom invading the room.

The faintest pulse of tension seemed to thicken the air — a silent warning unseen by the sleeper. The shadow lingered, hesitated, as if savoring the moment before something inevitable.

But Severus did not wake.

Not yet.

’’

This night was the same as always — thick, sluggish, as if the world outside struggled to move. Like always, it was a night heavy with unease. The shop greeted Severus with the familiar scent of dust, paper, cheap packaging — and the hated memory of the Aurors’ visit. The lamps above the counter buzzed unevenly, flickering from time to time like the eyelids of an old man drifting to sleep. Everything was as it had been.

He stood behind the register in the same posture, under the same light, in the same silence broken only by the clink of coins and the rustle of bags. The same routine. Night after night. Four days — and none of them had returned. Not Sirius. Not Lupin. Not Potter. Silence. Peace.

He tried to believe it was over. That they had simply gone away.

It was with that thought that he handed purchases to two girls — shampoo, candles, sets of hair clips. He smiled, a little strained, rang up the total, muttered: “Thank you. Have a good night.”

They left, and the door chimed softly behind them. Severus was alone again. The shop fell back into stillness.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his old hoodie. His fingers immediately found the familiar paper — thin, slightly crumpled, cold from the sweat of his palms. He twisted it between his fingers, as he had been doing for days. In his mind, he already knew every swirl of ink.

“You don’t close your doors tightly enough.”

Chapter Text

The night was sultry, as August nights often are — when the city hasn’t cooled down from the day but is already saturated with darkness. The air above the asphalt smelled of hot dust, spilled beer, the smoke of buttered corn, and something sweet — maybe caramel, maybe teenagers chewing gum and laughing too loudly. It all melted into a single hum, warm and sticky, like thick butter in a pan.

The field in front of the open-air cinema was crowded. Cars lined up in uneven rows, trunks popped open, spilling pillows, blankets, legs and arms. Young people sprawled on hoods, some cuddled on blankets. Laughter, chatter, soft music from portable speakers — everything buzzed, lived its own life, as if this night had been carved out of reality and suspended separately — in silence between past and future.

Sirius lounged in a folding chair like someone who didn’t care where he was as long as there was a bottle in his hand and someone speaking nearby. His boots were propped on a tiny table — to James’s irritation, who had just set a bag of chips there.

"You’ve ever been polite?" Potter grumbled, nudging his boots away.

"I have. Once. Didn’t like it," Sirius replied, yawning. His tangled hair stuck to his forehead, and the hand holding the bottle dangled limply, as if it were too heavy to lift.

Lily laughed, took a sip of beer, and — almost out of habit — began explaining:

"In Muggle cinemas, there’s no guarantee someone loud or messy won’t sit next to you. But that’s the charm. It’s a living place. No enchanted sound, no purified air. Everyone’s on equal footing."

Sirius wasn’t listening closely. He was absorbing the atmosphere like an animal sniffing out new territory. The noise, the smells, the stray remarks from the crowd — it was all wild and sloppy, like spilled paint on a floor. He liked it. A world without a façade.

Remus sat nearby, quiet, as always among people. He sipped slowly, thoughtfully, as if the beer were a form of meditation.

"Why’d you even come if you don’t care about the film?" he asked softly, not looking at Sirius.

"I care... about the ambience," Sirius said, drawing out the word. "And the beer. And..." — he glanced around — "all these weird people."

Lily was telling James something about movies, how in the Muggle world they created special effects without magic — explosions, aliens, flight. Sirius caught the phrase: "They just believe it’s possible. Without wands."

He snorted. Not in mockery — more in a strange kind of respect.

The crowd thickened as the screen flickered to life in a burst of white light. Opening credits rolled beneath the blue-tinted night sky. A collective gasp passed over the field — like a breeze. Someone clapped. Children’s laughter, cans popping open, glass clinking — everything merged.

Sirius tilted his head back, looking up — the stars hung right above him, pure and unreachable, and yet they felt closer than usual. He suddenly felt a strange kind of peace. Even surrounded by hundreds of Muggles, with all their smells, shouting, and sweaty palms, it was easier to breathe than in any of the pure-blooded houses where the walls whispered the names of ancestors.

"Don’t you want to understand Muggles?" Remus asked, eyes on the screen but voice aimed at him.

"I don’t know," Sirius replied, finishing the last of his beer. "They’re... adorable. Like kittens in boots. Falling over, building stuff out of matches, and celebrating that it didn’t burn down."

Remus said nothing. He was used to that tone — cynical, a little arrogant. A mask, thin but firm.

"Sometimes," Sirius continued, "I think I’d rather just be one of them. Flip burgers, drive a beat-up van, smoke on the roadside. No Dark Lords, no bloodlines, no marks. Just evening, noise, and a girl on a blanket."

He scanned the crowd — and his eyes caught on someone.

She stood a little apart, by a popcorn truck. Her face — long, angular, with a sharp profile. Thin lips, pale skin made porcelain by the streetlight glow. Straight black hair fell in a loose, careless braid over one shoulder. She wore a grey sweater slipping off one shoulder and dark jeans that nearly blended into the night. She didn’t smile. Just watched the screen like someone who didn’t want to be part of the joy — but couldn’t leave either.

Sirius leaned forward. Something about her... intangible, familiar. Not a copy, not a memory. More like resonance. Like a chord accidentally matching something inside him.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Remus noticed the look but said nothing.

Still watching the girl, Sirius smirked and said:

"I want a date tonight too. Enough of being the saint."

And in his smile, his tone, his posture — there was everything: hunger, boredom, and that perpetual, restless craving with which he looked at life as if it were prey.

He found her a little later, when the sun had fully sunk into a haze of warm pastel, and the screen, glowing dimly, had become the only thing holding people’s attention.

She was standing by the concession stand, peering into a drink fridge like the fate of the world hinged on her choice. The neon light above cast a soft turquoise glow over her cheeks. Thin, precise eyebrows. Long, straight lashes. That same sharpness in the line of her neck — the same cold kind of beauty that Sirius had first noticed and taken for quiet aloofness. She looked cool. Detached. And that, to him, was tempting.

He approached — slowly, like a hunter who didn’t mind being seen, because he knew that being noticed was already half the win.

"Hard decision?" he asked, nodding toward the fridge.

She turned, grinning right away. Not subtly, not with a hint of reserve like he’d expected, but bright and unfiltered — as if his question had genuinely amused her.

"Yeah," she said. "Why is everything either full of sugar or strawberry flavored? I just want something normal."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. A little thrown off.

"What’s normal to you?"

"I don’t know. Something that doesn’t taste like a chemistry experiment. Something not sticky."

She pulled out a plain bottle of sparkling water and shook it a little. "Probably this."

He nodded.

"Practical."

"Or boring," she shrugged. "I’m Liv."

"Sirius."

"Seriously?"

He nodded. Flatly.

"Weird name. I like it."

She looked straight at him. No flirting. Just straight. And he didn’t look away.

They ended up sitting on the roof of her car — an old dark green Honda with a blanket spread over the top. Liv talked about everything: how she lost her license for speeding, how she adopted a turtle that later escaped, how she booked a flight to Iceland instead of Ireland. She laughed loudly, sipped soda through a straw, waved her hands when she spoke. She talked fast, almost too fast, like she was afraid silence would creep in if she paused. And the whole time — she kept looking him in the eyes.

Sirius nodded, nodded again. Smirked once. Laughed once — automatically, not because of the joke.

But something inside him started to stretch out into a strange kind of emptiness. Not warmth, not anxiety — just hollowness. Like walking into a house where it’s bright and warm and full — but there’s nothing to steal.

Everything on the surface. Everything available. No locked doors, no hidden corners, no shadows to slip into. No mystery, no coded glances, no gestures that meant more than they appeared to.

Liv was an open book. Bright cover, big letters. No effort required.

And it was exhausting.

He remembered the way she looked at the kiosk — how he’d assumed she was cold, restrained, maybe dangerous. And how wrong he’d been.

She suddenly leaned closer, smelling of sweet lemonade and sunscreen.

"You’re kind of quiet," she said. "Bored?"

He shrugged.

"Don’t know. Are you?"

"I’m fine. I can talk enough for both of us." She grinned. "Do you ever talk?"

"Sometimes."

She didn’t get offended. Just frowned slightly, then stood, stretched, and said:

"I’m gonna go see who’s playing by the stage. You coming?"

He shook his head.

She left him there.

He pulled a cigarette from his coat, lit it, inhaled.

The film flickered in the background like someone else’s life.

Sirius sat with his back against her car, watching her from a distance — bouncing, laughing, throwing her arms around someone in the crowd. Nothing mysterious. Nothing unattainable. Everything offered — instantly, openly.

He exhaled smoke, narrowed his eyes, and smirked.

Not it. Not for me.

And as if on cue, somewhere in the deeper thought, another figure flickered into view — not Liv. A subtle shift. A slim back. Black clothing that tried too hard not to stand out. A pale neck. A slow, precise movement of the hand — like someone who held too many words to waste them.

Sirius didn’t flinch.

He just smiled again — slower, darker.

Now that might be something.

He stubbed out the cigarette on the bumper, stood up, and without looking back, walked into the other side of the dark.

The crowd near the screen had thickened. It buzzed, laughed, breathed in unison. The air was heavy with the scent of caramel popcorn, cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and something else — something vague and thrilling, like the tension before a storm.

Sirius was making his way back to his friends — slowly, as if he wasn’t in any real hurry to return, but not quite ready to stay where everything had turned out too simple. He shook out his hair as he walked, rolled his shoulders back, and settled into his usual look — lazy, a little feral, with a crooked smile that promised nothing but trouble.

James sat in a folding chair, legs propped on his backpack, while Lily lounged on the ground, leaning against his knee. Remus — as always — kept a little distance, pensive, a bottle in hand. They were murmuring about the start of the film, not even looking at each other — the easy rhythm of old friends who didn’t need to try to be close.

Sirius stopped beside them, didn’t speak right away. His gaze slid across their faces, paused on Lily — she was whispering something to James with a half-smile — then moved to Remus. Remus looked up immediately, squinting.

“Found someone?”

Sirius gave a short laugh, as if the question was silly.

“Of course. She’s got a cute car and a terrible sense of humor. I think I’ll go with her. There’s live music downtown till morning, supposedly.”

James raised an eyebrow, not in surprise — more in quiet amusement.
“Just make sure she doesn’t drive you into the woods and eat you.”

“That’d be entertaining,” Sirius smirked.

“Is that the brunette who wouldn’t stop talking while you completely ignored her?” Lily asked, glancing over her shoulder. “Seriously?”

“The very one,” Sirius confirmed, stifling a yawn. “She worked for it.”

Remus took a sip from his bottle, eyes still on Sirius.

“That’s it? You meet her and take off?”

Sirius paused for a heartbeat. Something flickered in his chest, almost too faint to name. He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Summer, nights, music, a little beer, a little stupidity.”

“You don’t even remember her name, do you?” James muttered.

“She remembers mine. That’s enough,” Sirius tossed back.

He was about to turn away when Lily suddenly said:

“You’re acting like you’re itching for a fight again.”

“I’m just relaxing, Evans,” he said without bite. “That’s legal, isn’t it?”

He walked past them, and only Remus caught the tension in his steps — that tautness, like an overtuned string ready to snap. He almost called after him, but Sirius had already vanished into the dark.

He moved through the crowd and noise, and a thought kept circling in his mind — heavy, like a bullet under the skin:

That rabbit was mine from the start. Maybe James can play with him too — later.

A cold, amused smile tugged at Sirius’s lips.
He knew exactly what he wanted to do in the days to come.

``

Severus sat on a crate, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them like a teenager. His thin elbows jutted out sharply from the too-long sleeves. He was wearing an old violet shirt, slightly too big, with frayed cuffs and ruffles along the edges. The childhood habit of wearing his mother’s clothes had turned into a skill — an ability to mix any garments together and make them work. At least he’d succeeded in something .

He stared at the tin can in front of him — empty, dented, placed like a target.
Stared, furrowed his brow. Focused. Almost stern.
The silence was so dense it felt alive — thick with dust and breath and waiting. You could hear the faint tap-tap of his fingernail against a tooth when he grew anxious, or the soft tearing of skin as he bit at the edge of his thumb without noticing.

He stretched out his hand, fingers tight with concentration.
A deep inhale. In his mind — clear and precise: Wingardium Leviosa .
No sound. No wand. No real chance.

The can twitched.
Jumped.
Tipped over.
Rolled slowly into the gap between two crates.

Severus exhaled through his nose, quiet and irritated. His brow creased. He puffed his lips — just slightly, but seriously. He rubbed his face with his palm. His cheeks were flushed — not from heat, but from frustration with himself.

He didn’t give up. He just… paused.

His gaze slid to the lamp in the corner. He didn’t move, just thought Lumos like it was a plea: Please, light up .
It flickered. Then went dark.

“Come on…” he whispered, barely audible — to himself, with a tone so soft and sad it sounded like he was coaxing a stubborn kitten.

He pulled his fingers back into his sleeves, bit his nail again. His face scrunched slightly, chin trembling.
He didn’t cry — he was just tired.
Tired of this dusty little room.
Tired of someone else’s job.
Tired of not having a wand.
Tired of being forgotten.

He rested his chin on his knees and stared into the darkness between the crates.
In that pose, he looked nothing like a former member of a not-so-ideologically-sound political group with a terrifying name like Death Eaters , and more like a boy stuck somewhere between not yet and no longer .
There was no one around.
And he wasn’t waiting.
He just sat — alone, small in his silence, and stubborn in the fact that he still kept trying.

The bell jingled sharply, like a gunshot. Too loud for the thick silence into which Severus had just begun to sink. He flinched, lifted his head as if surfacing from deep water. His cheek left a crease from his sleeve — he instinctively ran a hand over his face, straightened up, and slowly slid off the crate.

Stepping out of the storage room meant returning to a place lit by dim light, smelling of dust, coffee from the vending machine, cheap chips, and plastic. The store was open 24/7, but at night it felt especially empty — like a hallway after lights out. Shelves stocked with food, toilet paper, soap, batteries, and other necessary junk stood in neat rows, the only sound was the faint hum of refrigerators.

Three men stood by the counter. Severus had seen one of them a few times before — he came in at night for water and cigarettes. The others were new, wearing similarly worn jackets, tired, their hands stained with cement dust. They spoke among themselves in some Slavic language — possibly Polish or Serbian. Their voices were low, but tense, as if afraid to miss something.

Severus approached, habitually preparing the cash register for work.

“Good evening,” he said quietly.

One of the men, the shorter one, nodded and said in broken English, “Good evening. We need… screwdriver, and… uh… glue. For wall. Measure thing too.”

Severus nodded. He knew where all that was — they had a small section for hardware, separated from the main hall. He silently stepped out from behind the counter and gestured them to follow.

The men moved after him. One muttered something, clearly arguing with another. Severus found screwdrivers, tape measures, showed the glue — they nodded, discussing between themselves. He worked quickly, without extra words, but not rudely. Simply precise. Calm. Careful.

When the eldest of them pulled out paper pounds and handed them across the counter, he suddenly paused and looked at Severus with a slight smile.

“You… look like artist,” he said, with an accent but clearly. “Face very elegant.”

Severus froze for a split second. His eyelids twitched, his gaze widened a little. He looked away, but something changed in his face — a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture. A warmth he immediately tried to hide.

“Not exactly,” he muttered, dropping the money into the register.

“No, really. Very beautiful.” The man spoke seriously, even with a hint of admiration.

Severus didn’t answer. Only nodded slightly, as if responding to something from the past, and barely smiled at the corner of his lips. His cheeks flushed — a light, almost painful blush, like someone unaccustomed to kindness.

They left within a minute. One of them said, “Thanks,” and even waved. The bell jingled again, closing the door.

Severus remained standing behind the counter. He hid his hands in his sleeves, ran a finger across his lips as if trying to erase the expression on his face. He didn’t know what to do with it — with that sudden warmth. With that brief remark. With the feeling that, for a moment, someone had seen him.

Severus flinched at the sudden voice that sounded right beside him, like a shadow silently creeping through the silence.

“I always knew you had some kind of daddy kink,” the voice said with a hint of mockery.

Severus spun around sharply and saw Sirius standing there, wearing that same smirking, slightly mischievous grin that always managed to stir both irritation and a strange unease inside him.

Black’s gaze was too calm, too confident — as if he’d been here a long time, as if everything unfolding had been expected. A flood of anxious questions instantly sparked in Severus’s mind: How did he get here? Did he come alone? What did he want? Had he returned for some purpose?

His heart skipped a beat, his mind raced, sorting through possible scenarios. He wanted to run, but his feet felt rooted to the floor. Why was Sirius here? If Black was here, that meant Potter had to be nearby. And Lupin. And, god, everyone else. He was a target for all of them at once — it always had been, always would be.

Hundreds of eyes were always watching him.

He began to feel his breath catch, goosebumps crawling over his skin, and his mind suddenly go blank. He’d gladly endure another panic attack, but he didn’t have time for that. So Severus pulled himself together and gathered his thoughts. It was a matter of habit. The tension in his shoulders eased, his lips pressed into a thin line. He straightened up and looked Sirius in the eye, trying not to show the storm inside.

“I always knew you were a bastard. So, we’re even,” he replied evenly, narrowing his eyes slightly, trying to regain control.

He pretended everything was fine, though anxious thoughts still churned inside. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment to push away the wave of unease, then gently stepped back and returned to his work, carefully arranging items on the shelves. It seemed as if he didn’t notice Sirius’s presence, as if he weren’t even there. But his heart still beat a little faster, reminding him: the predator was right behind him.

“Look at that, now we’re actually talking,” Black persisted, his voice teasing but edged with something sharper beneath.

Severus heard him moving around the store, the soft scrape of footsteps on the linoleum floor echoing too loudly in the cramped, dimly lit space. Despite the sounds, Severus was certain of one thing: the gaze of those foreign eyes never once left him, like a predator stalking its prey in the shadows.

The air between them thickened with an invisible tension, heavy and suffocating, as if the stale scent of coffee and plastic suddenly turned metallic. Each breath felt labored, each movement watched, each heartbeat painfully loud in the otherwise quiet store.

Suddenly, without warning, Sirius stepped closer and then — a swift, subtle motion — he tripped Severus with a quick sweep of his foot.

Severus stumbled forward, crashing into a nearby shelf. Glass bottles of cola toppled, shattering with a sharp, cracking roar that shattered the fragile silence like glass shards raining down.

Pain flared instantly in his hands. He looked down: his palms and fingers were sliced open, thin rivulets of blood trickling between his fingers. The sting was sharp, hot — a sudden reminder of the fragility beneath his composed exterior.

Sirius bent down, wearing an innocent, almost conspiratorial smile, brushing a stray strand of hair back from his eyes. His voice dropped to a mock-soft murmur.

“Careful now, sweetheart,” he said, with a feigned tenderness that made Severus’s skin crawl. “Don’t hurt those delicate little hands of yours.”

The words hung in the air like a taunt, the false concern only deepening the sharp edge of the moment. Severus clenched his jaw, the pain mingling with something colder — anger, frustration, and a pulse of something unspoken, dangerous.

A sharp jolt of anger flooded every fiber of his being. If only he had his wand now, Severus thought bitterly, he would curse that idiot until next month without mercy. But there was no wand in his hand, no power to defend himself—just the sting of fresh cuts and the weight of helplessness pressing down on him.

Severus bent down over the shattered glass, carefully picking up the shards from the floor. Every sharp movement made him grit his teeth from the sudden pain — the cuts burned like fire. He tried to make a quick motion to grab another piece and couldn’t hold back a quiet, angry hiss — sharp and short, like a snake warning before striking.

Sirius turned to him with a smile barely hiding his mockery and said, "What was that hiss? I don’t speak snake."

Severus barely contained his irritation, looking at him with cold contempt, but the pain in his hands made him fall silent and keep gathering the shards, trying not to show weakness.

The air between them thickened, crackling with tension as Severus’s sharp words hung in the stale shop air.

“Surprising, really, Mr. ‘I’m my own cousin,’ that you’re even capable of understanding any language — let alone owning it,” Severus spat out, fully aware that his cutting remark would ignite another spark of pain, but determined not to be humiliated in silence.

Sirius’s eyes darkened, lips curling into a snarl. “Oh, clever as always, Snape. Don't think I care about your filthy mouth. Just like you.”

Severus folded his arms, lips twitching in a half-smile, cold and mocking. “At least I don’t need to hide behind my status and cheap jokes to feel big.”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who spends half his life being a lapdog for purebloods.” Sirius took a step closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Maybe you just like being miserable.”

The words hit like a slap, and Severus’s gaze sharpened. “And you probably like to feel in control at least somewhere in your life. Speaking of kinks.”

Their voices rose, each jab and sneer sharpening the atmosphere like a knife’s edge. The little shop seemed smaller, the air heavier, as if the walls themselves strained to contain their electric hostility.

Suddenly, the soft jingle of the doorbell cut through the charged silence. The three laborers returned, their quiet footsteps and murmured voices grounding the scene back to reality.

Both men paused, exchanging a last heated look — a promise of battles yet to come — before Severus slid back behind the counter, the flicker of uneasy calm settling in.

The men who had entered the shop stopped by the spilled cola, which was now spreading into a sticky puddle across the cold floor. Tension hung in the air — a mix of surprise and unease, as if this small disaster in the modest space had stirred up far more than just a mess.

They exchanged glances. The silence seemed louder than usual, as if every sound could ignite a conflict.

“Are you alright, sir?” one of the men asked cautiously, his voice trembling with restrained concern. “Do you need any help?”

Severus felt a tightness in his chest but tried not to betray his inner turmoil. He lowered his gaze to his hands, covered in cuts, and quietly replied,

“I’m fine, just a bit clumsy.”

He tried to straighten up, but the sharp stings in his palms reminded him of the recent clash. The atmosphere felt suffocating, and Severus struggled to control the trembling in his voice.

One of the laborers shook his head, as if trying to push away his own worries, and said in broken English,

“We forgot tape and stationery… a knife, you know…”

Another man, noticing Sirius, turned to him and carefully asked,

“Are you standing in line?”

Sirius slowly and appraisingly glanced at Severus, whose eyes briefly met his. In this silent exchange lay tension and unspoken rivalry. Then, with a slight smirk, he answered,

“Already got everything I wanted.”

His voice carried confidence and even a challenge — as if he not only confirmed his right to be here but also threw down a gauntlet to anyone who might doubt it.

Severus quietly stepped back to the counter, trying to hide the storm raging inside. Every sound, every glance felt like sharp needles piercing the space around him. Anxiety hung thick in the air — the sense that this meeting was far from accidental and that something even heavier was yet to come.

Severus nodded curtly and began scanning the items the men had brought. His hands still throbbed from the fresh cuts, fingers aching, and every now and then a smear of blood was left on the plastic packaging—he wiped it away automatically before it had a chance to dry. One of the customers noticed but said nothing, merely averting his gaze, as if respecting a man’s silent right to pain.

The rhythmic beeping of the register offered a fleeting sense of calm, almost meditative, drowning out the inner static. Severus focused on the motions as if they could drown everything else out—his thoughts, the pulsing in his temples, the lingering sting of Black’s words. But when it came time to print the receipt, the machine gave only a dry click and flashed an error message across its dim display.

He cursed silently and bent down to open the drawer. He remembered perfectly well putting a fresh roll of receipt paper there earlier, after his trip to the stockroom—just another part of the morning routine. But now… nothing. Just an old pen, a couple of paperclips, and a tattered notebook.

He froze, frowning.

His eyes swept the shop again. The men near the door were murmuring to each other, one picking up a measuring tape and showing it to the other. No sign of Sirius. No voice, no movement, no smug, infuriating grin. As if he’d vanished. But the air still held something—like the faint trace of ozone after a storm, or the lingering smell of smoke in an empty room.

Severus rubbed his temple. His head was starting to pound—a dull, persistent ache growing steadily, pressing at the inside of his skull. He blinked, feeling irritation claw its way up his chest, sharpened by unease. Of course Black might’ve taken the roll. For a joke. On principle. Or simply because he always had to assert dominance—in everything, especially the petty things.

Severus drew in a slow breath, resisting the urge to throw something at the wall. An outburst wouldn’t help. The roll wouldn’t reappear. And the queue still waited. He straightened, turning back to the men.

“Sorry, receipt will be a moment. The roll’s out. I’ll fetch another,” he said with that same cold politeness that betrayed nothing.

He stepped out from behind the counter, each step echoing dully inside his aching head. Still, before he entered the back room, he paused—just for a second. Because he was absolutely certain: somewhere, in the dust of this grim little shop, Sirius Black was still watching.

Chapter Text

He woke up with the sensation that a nail was lodged inside his skull. The throbbing in his temples was sharp, almost tangible, as if something was breaking him apart from the inside. The headache and nausea hit the moment he opened his eyes.

His body felt foreign—heavy, sluggish, as though it had been filled with molten lead. For several seconds, he simply lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, where yellow stains had spread from damp and time like some sickly fungus. What time it was didn’t matter. He didn’t feel like eating again. All he wanted was for no one to touch him, for everything to disappear, to dissolve into a soft, shapeless fog. But that wasn’t going to happen.

He had to get up. He had things to do.

He rose, gritting his teeth, forcing his way through the weakness, and made his way downstairs—slowly, hunched over, as if afraid his brain might shake loose and spill out of his skull with every step.

When he descended the narrow staircase and entered the living room, he wasn’t surprised by the familiar sight: Tobias lay sprawled across the couch in an unnatural position, mouth half open, limbs splayed. The air reeked of sour sweat, stale beer, and the musty stench of an old blanket. Empty bottles were scattered chaotically across the floor and the table. Some clinked against one another as Severus stepped too close. A few had rolled to the very base of the couch, one resting precariously on the armrest, as if Tobias had dropped it at the last moment.

Severus didn’t comment. He just began to clean.

First—the bottles: glassy, warm, sticky to the touch. He gathered them into an empty cardboard box, bending down with effort, the motion grinding the rusty screw of his headache deeper into his skull. Then—the crumpled newspapers, cigarette butts, moldy crusts of bread, and a strange dark smear on the wall that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. He didn’t even want to know what it was. He just grabbed a rag, soaked it in cold water from a bucket, and started scrubbing.

Drunken Tobias snorted and rolled onto his side without waking. Severus glanced at him briefly: his father’s face was swollen, red, stubbled, with dried spit in the corner of his mouth. He snored again. Severus looked away.

It was a ritual. As routine as brushing teeth or tying shoelaces. Clean up. Restore order. Pretend it wasn’t that bad.

He didn’t complain. He just stayed silent and did what needed to be done.

And still, something itched inside him—an awareness, like reality crawling across his skin, sticky and poisonous. He felt like a garbage collector in his own life.

Severus walked over to the bucket, filled it with cold, clean water from the tap, and carried it steadily back into the living room. His head throbbed with every step, but his movements were calm, deliberate — mechanical, even.

He stopped beside the sofa, where Tobias still lay, dead to the world.

Without a word or a hint of emotion, Severus raised the bucket and dumped its icy contents straight onto the man’s chest and face.

The effect was immediate.

Tobias jolted upright with a loud, gurgling gasp, flailing his arms as he coughed and blinked rapidly, disoriented and furious. He glanced around, panting, trying to get his bearings.

“Wh— What the hell? Where— Who—?”

Severus stood with arms crossed, the empty bucket dangling from one hand, eyes cold.

“Tobias Snape,” he began, his tone dry and sharp, “born July 28th, 1938. Resident of Spinner’s End, number seven. Lifelong alcoholic. Occasional domestic menace. Enjoys falling asleep on the sofa and forgetting he has a family.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly.

“Severus Snape. Nice to meet you.”

Tobias stared at him, eyes still unfocused, water dripping from his soaked hair and shirt.

“You little bastard—”

But Severus was already turning away, moving back toward the kitchen. He didn’t care what came next. Not anymore.

“What do you want?” Tobias grumbled, dragging himself into a sitting position. His voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping glass. His chest still heaved slightly from the cold shock. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his wrinkled pants, leaving streaks of water and yesterday’s grime.

From the kitchen came a calm, almost lazy voice:

“You asked me to remind you that you need to go to work today. You’ve still got a shift—or something like that.”

The sound of a sponge scrubbing the counter punctuated every word. Severus was cleaning the kitchen corner, moving methodically, as if there was some ritual in it. His voice had no color: not care, not irritation—just flat fact. The voice of someone who gave up expecting gratitude long ago.

Tobias muttered something in return, indecipherable, something like “damn this morning” and “why the hell did I ask anyway.” Then, scanning the room, he grumbled:

“Where’s your mother?”

“She went out for groceries,” Severus replied calmly, not lifting his head.

“This early?”

“Shop opens at seven. She says it’s less crowded.”

Tobias snorted, then stood and shuffled past the kitchen—slowly, with the uncertain steps of a hangover, steadying himself on the wall. Severus didn’t even turn around: he knew his father would head to the bathroom, splash water on his face, rummage in the cabinet for a razor, curse when he didn’t find clean socks.

“Where the hell are my socks?” Tobias yelled a minute later, having knocked a few shirts from the closet.

“Wherever you left them, that’s where they are. I’m not your nanny.”

“You’re damn right you’re not!” Tobias snapped back, but without heat. The hangover dulled everything, even the anger.

Then came the familiar morning sounds: the creak of the wardrobe, the clink of a belt buckle, running water in the sink. Severus didn’t interfere. He just kept cleaning up the remnants of their shared reality: crumbs, ash, empty packets, forgotten notes with scribbled wages and overdue rent, which no one paid on time anyway.

After a while, Tobias returned to the hallway in a jacket that had long begged to be thrown out. Pulling on his boots, he was muttering under his breath—curses about the factory, life, and his own liver. Severus glanced at him from the kitchen without stopping.

Before leaving, Tobias turned back.

“If your mum comes back, tell her not to forget the beer. It’s Friday.”

Severus finally paused and looked up, expressionless except for a worn-out fatigue.

“Yeah, and what's the difference? Every day is Friday for you.”

Tobias glared at him with irritation but said nothing. He just slammed the door and left.

Severus was left alone in the flat that smelled of damp, bleach, and someone else’s hangover. He silently returned to the rag, wiping down a countertop he had already cleaned. His hand moved in circles, automatic, while his head was empty.

``

The noon sun gradually melted into a scorching heat as James and Sirius stood lazily by the entrance of Lily’s house, waiting for her to come downstairs. The air was heavy with a slow, summer lethargy—no breeze, no shade, just warmth that gently wrapped around the city streets. Sirius gazed at the dreary houses around them—peeling plaster, faded shutters—but in that moment, it felt almost cozy, part of an unhurried life where no one was in a rush.

James paced along the sidewalk, telling the latest news—another Death Eater had finally been sent to Azkaban. His voice was light and slightly mocking, as if the event didn’t touch them personally, but still brought a sense of victory.

“This time, it looks like the case won’t end in another deadlock,” James smirked, glancing at Sirius.

Sirius grimaced but replied, “I can’t believe they still get to defend themselves. What’s next? Handing out candy for good behavior?”

They both laughed—short, sharp bursts—as if trying to shake off some invisible weight. Their conversation flowed calmly, without hurry, in that carefree summer noon when time seemed to stretch and settle into a pleasant laziness.

Sirius glanced around again—rare passersby strolled by, the sun flickered on dusty windows, and the sidewalk beneath their feet was warm and soft. He even wondered how anyone could find peace in this slightly neglected corner.

“When’s that princess going to come down already?” James asked, eyeing the door from which their friend was expected to emerge.

Sirius smiled at the corner of his mouth and looked up at the old shutters, slightly crooked with age.

“Hopefully soon,” he answered, “or this heat’s going to knock me out.”

Their conversation gradually drifted away from grim news and into lighter, more trivial matters. James tossed a small pebble across the cracked pavement, watching it skip and clatter softly before coming to rest. Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze still wandering the worn buildings but less tense now.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the faint rustle of leaves in the stagnant air.

James glanced toward the street. “You planning on hitting the pub after this?”

Sirius shrugged. “Depends. If Lily’s got any patience left for us by then.”

James grinned. “Patience? With you? That’s the biggest joke of all.”

The two shared another laugh. The afternoon stretched lazily before them, filled with small moments of ease amid a world that was rarely so kind.

Sirius’s gaze kept wandering lazily over the street as James kept chatting beside him again, the words blending into a soft background hum. The sunlight caught the edges of broken windows and faded signs, the quiet stillness wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Sirius caught a flicker of movement — a small, familiar shape struggling under the weight of enormous black garbage bags. The figure was clad in an oversized pajama set, fabric billowing around a slight frame.

It was Snape.

His hands were wrapped tightly in bandages and plaster, yet he hauled the bags with determined effort. As he turned toward the curb to drop them off, his sharp eyes met Sirius’s with surprise.

The world narrowing to that single, tense moment — two figures locked in silent recognition beneath the blazing midday sun.

Snape froze comically, his eyes wide and unblinking—caught somewhere between surprise and a flicker of fear. Sirius smirked quietly to himself, the thought flickering through his mind that Severus looked exactly like a rabbit caught in the headlights, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

Sirius kept watching as the small figure carefully stepped backward toward the weathered house, never breaking eye contact with the two young men waiting by the door. Severus’s movements were stiff and awkward, his oversized pajamas rustling with each tentative step.

Then, realizing Sirius wasn’t going to alert James about seeing him, Severus spun around in a strangely exaggerated way, almost like a cartoon character caught off guard, and disappeared behind the creaking old door.

Sirius chuckled softly, still watching the door close behind Severus, amused by the quiet, strange dance they just shared under the bright, indifferent sun.

“— Mate, this isn’t funny, people are dying—” James finally paid him attention, tearing his gaze away from Lily’s window.

Sirius turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in silent confusion. Honestly, he couldn’t have cared less what James was going on about at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, still replaying the image of that small figure in the oversized pajamas, the awkward way Severus had frozen like a frightened animal. The world and James’s words seemed distant, almost meaningless for a second.

Just then, the front door creaked open, and Lily appeared on the steps, her presence cutting through the lazy afternoon haze like a fresh breeze.

The three of them strolled through the lazy afternoon heat, James and Lily close together, whispering softly like they owned the world. Sirius followed behind, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, that familiar cocky smirk playing on his lips. He moved with that careless swagger, like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.

Suddenly, Lily shot him a sharp glance.
“So, how was your night with that girl?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, tilting his head with a lazy grin, clearly pretending he had no clue who she meant.
“Which girl? You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

Lily’s eyes flashed with disbelief and a hint of annoyance.

“You really can’t be serious — that girl! The one you were with at the movie night! How can you not even remember her name?”

Sirius chuckled low, taking a long drag from his cigarette, then flicked the ash carelessly. “Names don’t stick when the night’s more interesting than the company.”

Lily crossed her arms, clearly not impressed. “That’s infuriating, you know.”

James snorted softly, shaking his head but saying nothing. Sirius just grinned wider, enjoying the mild chaos he’d stirred.

The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows over the street as the three of them continued their slow, easy walk — the kind where nothing much needed to be said, but everything felt alive.

James caught the tail end of the conversation and smirked, stepping a little closer to Sirius.

“So, now I’m curious too. Who’s this mystery girl keeping our Sirius entertained?”

Sirius flicked his cigarette lazily, a sly grin playing on his lips.

“A secret.”

He flicked the cigarette ash to the side and smoothly shifted the conversation. “But enough about my scandalous escapades. Lily, tell us about your neighbors."

Lily paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she fixed him with a steady look.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.

Sirius caught the subtle shift instantly.

She’s smart, he thought, clearly guesses what I’m after.

Yet he smiled inwardly, confident he was still one step ahead. Though Lily and Severus no longer spoke, she was still tight-lipped about her former friend.

That was something Sirius could respect.

"Just curious if there are any beautiful girls like you there," he shrugged casually, "Although the house looks more like the crypt of some crazy old woman, where children disappear as soon as they step inside."

Lily frowned, her expression darkening.
"They’re not the most well-off family around. Better not to bother them."

Sirius smirked, undeterred by Lily’s guarded tone. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily between them as he pressed on, eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and genuine curiosity.

“So, what else? Are there any secrets lurking behind those cracked walls? Any interesting characters, maybe a mad cat lady or a mysterious old man who talks to himself?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, like he was trying to peel back layers carefully guarded.

Lily glanced away for a moment, then met his gaze steadily. “Nothing worth mentioning. Just people trying to get by, like everywhere else.” Her voice was calm, but her tight grip on the strap of her bag betrayed a flicker of unease.

James, who had been quietly watching the exchange, suddenly spoke up. “Are there any old folks living there, then? Like an elderly couple or something?”

Lily shook her head. “No, just a teenager with his parents.”

James grinned mischievously. “Sounds like the perfect target for a prank. What do you say, Sirius? Should we give the kid a little surprise?”

Lily’s expression hardened instantly.

“Absolutely not. That’s not funny, and you shouldn’t even think about it.” Her voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.

James rolled his eyes and shot back, “Since when do you get to be the fun police? You’re always spoiling the mood.”

Lily gave him a fierce glare, sharp enough to cut through his teasing. “Maybe that’s because someone has to keep you in check.”

Sirius chuckled softly, sensing the tension rise like static in the air. Wanting to lighten the mood — and maybe pry a little more about Snape — he leaned in with a sly grin. “Come on, Lily, what’s so wrong with a harmless prank? It’s just a bit of fun.”

Lily hesitated, then her voice lowered almost to a whisper. “It’s not the kid I’m worried about, it’s his father. He’s, well, he can be pretty harsh, sometimes for no good reason at all.”

A silence hung for a moment — as if Lily’s words lingered in the air, heavy and out of place in this sunny midday. James, tired of the tension, finally took the initiative and changed the subject.

“Okay, enough of these topics,” he said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “We’re still recovering from the war. No more darkness. I’m sorry.”

Lily nodded, and together they began chatting about everything and anything, then even shifted to looking at houses along the way, joking about someday buying something similar. The light, almost dreamy conversation, full of hope and plans, filled the street.

Sirius stood slightly apart, turning over this new piece of information about Snape in his mind once more. He watched Lily and James thoughtfully, his thoughts circling one thing — how miserable and agonizing a person’s existence could be.

``

Severus slammed the door shut behind him, and for a few seconds, he just stood there, staring blankly at a single point, as if trying to read something invisible. One thought kept spinning in his head like a broken record:

“My mind’s gone crazy from hunger and heat. I’m seeing these fuckers everywhere.”

He involuntarily recalled the faces of his two school enemies — Black and Potter — as if they had become part of this oppressive day, an inseparable shadow in his mind.

Severus took a deep breath, releasing the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. His fingers instinctively reached for the peephole. Cautiously, almost timidly, he glanced outside.

And the fuckers — they really weren’t just in his head.

Through the glass, he saw Black, Potter, and Lily walking away slowly, their figures fading into the summer haze, lively and moving. Severus’s heart seemed to let out a sigh of relief — they were gone, leaving him in peace. But along with the relief came a heavy realization: he couldn’t just, without fear or hesitation, invite Lily for a walk.

That simple gesture, it seemed, was unattainable for him — as if an invisible barrier stood between them, more insurmountable than any spell or battle.

He pulled away from the peephole and slowly stepped back inside, leaving behind the sunny day and the fading footsteps of those who remained strangers to him.

Severus glanced down at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall. The minute hand crept forward slowly, but the one face he hoped to see — his mother’s — was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t coming back from the shop anytime soon. Maybe someday, but definitely not today.

A heavy sigh escaped him, weighty and resigned.

I need to get out before he comes back, Severus thought grimly, already knowing too well what awaited him when Tobias returned from work and found his wife absent.

The silence of the empty house pressed down on him, thick and suffocating, as he started moving toward the door of his bedroom to pick up some clothes and stuff — he needs to be somewhere, anywhere but here.

Chapter Text

Evening had settled over the town softly, almost imperceptibly, as if someone had gently dimmed the light. The air had cooled but still carried the warmth of the day, along with the scent of sunbaked asphalt. Severus walked across the parking lot toward the store, wrapped in an oversized dark blue sweater. It hung loosely on his frame, the collar wide, the sleeves long—it looked like a woman’s sweater. Maybe it was. It was the only thing that had fit him properly in the second-hand shop.

There were only a few cars—scattered dark shapes against the wide, empty stretches of concrete. The overhead lamps flickered weakly, casting long, jagged shadows, like stretched-out figures silently watching his every move. No voices, no footsteps. Just the sound of his own breathing and the faint whisper of his shoes on the dusty ground.

The atmosphere felt off. Too quiet. Too empty. As if someone invisible were observing him from behind the cars or out of the darker corners. Severus instinctively checked to make sure his sleeves hadn’t ridden up and quickened his pace. His fingers curled inside his pockets, shoulders drawn up—not from the cold, but from unease.

He could already see the bright rectangle of light at the store entrance—yellow and warm, like a safe harbor in the midst of the strange, watchful silence that surrounded him.

Severus walked across the empty evening parking lot, heading toward the store where his shift was about to begin. The air was still, thick with leftover heat, as if the day hadn’t cooled down yet. Everything around him was quiet—only a few scattered cars stood like forgotten chess pieces, and the streetlights cast long, uneven shadows, turning the scene into something out of a bad dream.

He wore a stretched-out dark blue sweater, clearly made for a woman—probably was one—but it was the only thing that fit him well when he tried it on in the cramped corner of the secondhand shop. The sweater helped hide his thin frame and the bandages on his hands, and maybe, in some small way, it made him feel a bit safer. Slung over his shoulder was a faded backpack with a frog-shaped keychain dangling from the zipper—a gift from Lily. He’d laughed when she gave it to him once. Now he just never took it off.

His footsteps echoed too loudly, too clearly. At some point, he noticed it—a faint rustling behind him. Rhythmic. Careful. Like someone following him. Severus quickened his pace. The rustling did too. He stopped—and the sound vanished.

His heart pounded in his ears. He stood frozen, eyes scanning the darkening spaces between the cars, the narrow gaps between flickering lights. He could feel it—he wasn’t alone. The sensation was so sharp his fingers trembled.

He turned sharply. His gaze swept the lot—nothing. No figures, no silhouettes, not even a flicker of movement.

“Show yourself…” he whispered, hoarse, like his life depended on it.

But there was nothing. Only the soft clink of the frog keychain on his backpack, as if mocking him.

Severus pushed open the door to the store, the bell jingling above him with a soft chime. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly overhead as he stepped inside, the cool artificial air brushing against his too-warm skin.

Behind the counter stood his shift partner — a girl about his age, kind-faced and always slightly disheveled, like she’d been laughing moments before.

Lana.

She glanced up and smiled when she saw him.

"Hey," she said, reaching beneath the counter. "I left you some instant noodles and grape soda. Figured you’d vanish completely if I didn’t."

Severus gave a weak, almost crooked half-smile — more reflex than anything else — and murmured, "Thank you." He didn’t know how to respond to kindness. Not casually, not like normal people did. But he appreciated it in his own quiet way.

Severus lingered near the door a moment longer than necessary, one hand still resting on the handle. He glanced over his shoulder, gaze narrowing as he looked through the wide front window of the shop. The street outside was still — dusky and quiet, lit by the dying glow of a nearby streetlamp. But the stillness wasn’t comforting. It pressed against the glass like a held breath.

Something was off. He couldn’t say what, exactly — just a low thrum of unease crawling up his spine, something instinctual and cold.

"Everything okay?" Lana asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

Severus didn’t take his eyes off the street. After a second, he gave a short exhale, rubbed his fingers across his temple.

"Might be better," he muttered finally. His voice was low, distracted.

He stepped further inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a muted click. But his back felt prickled, like eyes were still on him.

Lana began gathering her things, glancing at the clock. "I should get going," she said softly, slipping on her jacket.

Severus nodded absently, already turning to check the cash register. The familiar beep and clink of coins grounded him for a moment, but his mind was elsewhere.

As he started arranging items on the shelves with methodical precision, Lana’s voice broke through the quiet.

"Some people came by looking for you," she said casually, eyes flicking toward him. "I told them to come back later."

Severus froze, the weight of her words settling like a stone in his chest. No doubt about it — the Aurors.

Severus gave Lana a brief nod and a quiet “See you later,” as she slipped out the door, the bell chiming softly behind her. The store immediately settled into a hush, punctuated only by the faint hum of the overhead lights.

He moved efficiently, switching price tags on the shelves, his fingers steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. Next, he took out the delivery logs and carefully checked the new stock against the invoices. Methodically, he unpacked boxes—canned goods, bottles, and dry food—and began arranging them on the shelves, aligning each item perfectly.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Severus caught a subtle movement outside the large front window. A shadow shifted behind a parked car just beyond the parking lot, hidden but unmistakable. His breath caught for a moment, every muscle tensing instinctively.

The quiet of the evening pressed in heavier, and the faint sound of the wind felt suddenly ominous.

Someone was out there.

Watching.

Severus froze, listening. The shop remained wrapped in ringing silence, broken only by the occasional hum of the refrigerators and the whisper of the ventilation. He stepped toward the door—slowly, trying not to make a sound. His fingers brushed the metal key in his pocket.

One step. Another.

Outside the glass, behind a parked car, a shadow moved. Barely visible, but unmistakable—it shifted in time with him, as if playing a game of hide-and-seek. Severus tensed, his breathing faltering. He almost stopped, but forced himself forward. He had to reach the door. Lock it. Keep — whatever it was — out.

Another step. He was almost there.

The shadow slid forward slightly, still concealed behind the vehicle. It was too much. Too close.

And then his nerves snapped.

He bolted forward, covering the remaining distance to the door at a run. His heart pounded in his throat. The shadow moved with him, like a reflection. He yanked out the key, jammed it into the lock—the mechanism clicked into place.

And—silence. No one.

He turned sharply.

Asphalt. Cars. An empty parking lot. Only a puddle by the curb trembled under the breeze, reflecting the dim light of a streetlamp.

Severus stood there, breathing hard, trying to control the tremble in his hands. He slowly lowered his gaze, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the thing that had followed him.

Nothing.

"I'm losing my mind," he thought, feeling the pressure tighten around his temples, his stomach twisting with fear and helplessness.

Severus stepped away from the door, one slow step at a time, never taking his eyes off the emptiness outside. He could feel the tension slowly sliding off him, leaving behind a scorched hollowness. He exhaled. One step back. Another. He turned.

And then his body seized in a spasm of fear — right in front of him stood three figures. Out of nowhere. Soundless.

“Bloody hell..!” he gasped hoarsely.

One of them — tall, dark-haired, with an icy stare — took a cautious step forward. The second, with a faint smirk, glanced around the store. Severus recognized him; he had been here recently — the one who’d bought the energy drink. The third — a woman with copper-tinted hair — was scribbling something onto a recording parchment.

“Severus Snape?” the man with the icy eyes said.

Severus swallowed. He knew them. Their faces had flashed in newspapers, reports, in his nightmares.

Aurors.

And they had come for him.

His breathing was shallow, his hands trembling slightly. His heart pounded not from fear, but from the sense that something inside had been clenched tight, gripped in a fist. The panic didn’t scream—it whispered. Constantly. Its voice echoed somewhere deep in his skull, insisting that it had to be his fault. Of course it was. Just because he’d survived.

Because he was still here.

Because he’d dared to go on living.

“But I didn’t do anything,” he thought belatedly, almost plaintively. “I’m just living.”

And still, every time he saw those people in Ministry robes with crests on their shoulders, something in him curled in on itself. Like when he was a child and his father slammed the door coming home. Whatever had happened—you were already guilty. Because you stood the wrong way. Breathed in the wrong direction. Didn’t keep quiet when you should have. Didn’t hide in time.

He swallowed again, feeling disgust, exhaustion, and fear wrestle within him for dominance. He tried to breathe evenly, took half a step back, as if that might give him some nonexistent advantage.

“Yes,” he replied quietly.

“Where were you today between four and seven in the evening?” asked the same Auror, his tone quiet but with each syllable sharpened for interrogation.

Severus blinked, doing his best to keep calm.

“At home. Then came to work. Like every day. Ask my shift partner. Lana.”

“We will,” said the second Auror with a light smirk. His gaze flitted around the shop, as if still searching for something.

“Your wand?” the woman continued without looking up from her parchment. Her voice sounded tired, like someone who had asked this question hundreds of times today.

Severus narrowed his eyes. Then slowly, deliberately, he raised both hands, showing empty palms. “Confiscated.”

“Have any of the remaining Death Eaters contacted you?” the woman asked again, her voice soft but no less insistent. “Any former associates?”

Severus lowered his head, then suddenly raised his gaze sharply.

“No. No one. And they’re not my associates,” he added with a hint of venom.

The man with the icy gaze didn’t respond. He simply turned to the others and gave a short nod. The woman scribbled something else. The second Auror stared at Severus without blinking.

"Recently," said the man with the intense gaze, "there were magical surges recorded near Leicester. The signature was distinctive. Scorch marks, fractured spells. Traces of raw aggression. We believe it's the work of remaining supporters of Lord Voldemort."

He spoke dryly, without expression.

"And you, unfortunately, fall within the area of interest."

"I understand," Severus replied quietly, trying not to give in to the thin wave of panic rising along his spine.

"Have you noticed anything unusual over the past few days?" the woman asked, lifting her eyes from the parchment. Her voice was calm, steady—almost sympathetic. Which only made it worse.

Severus held his breath.
Flashes:
...the feeling of being watched.
...unsigned notes, shadowy figures near parking lots.
...footsteps under the window that seemed closer each night.
...his own growing paranoia, so inflated he began questioning whether he'd locked the front door, turned off the lights, whether he had somehow exposed himself with a glance, a word, a gesture.
All the time — the sense that he was the item on display.

And yet…

"No," he said, evenly. "Everything's been quiet."

It was almost not a lie.

"For security purposes," the woman continued, "and to ensure that you truly have nothing on you, we need to perform a search. Standard procedure in such cases."

Severus tensed slightly. He didn’t argue. He simply gave a short nod, feeling something rise slowly from his stomach to his chest — a mix of disgust, anxiety, and cold shame.

"I’ll do it," the second Auror interjected — the one with the faint smirk and familiar face. "We’ve met before. Might be less scary that way."

Severus looked at him in silence — offering neither approval nor refusal. Then he raised his arms above his head, stretching as if under a spell. His sweater lifted slightly, exposing a narrow strip of pale skin above his waistband.

The Auror stepped closer. The others backed off a half-step, giving him room to work. The man’s fingers first moved lightly, almost professionally, along Severus’s sides, checking the pockets of his trousers, the fabric over his calves. Then slowly slid upward.

Severus clenched his teeth. He felt everything — each press, every awkward pause, every inch of the man’s breath. It wasn’t overtly rough — no. But the grip… the grip was wrong. Not neutral. Not "procedural."

The fingers lingered on his waist. Too long. Too deliberately.

“Sleeves,” the Auror said curtly, and Severus obeyed, allowing him to touch his elbows, check the edges of the fabric.

And then again — the thighs. Just the same. Unhurried. As if this man had forgotten what a boundary meant.

Severus said nothing. He simply stood still, internally frozen like a scorched field — with no right to complain, no room to move.

“All clear,” the Auror finally said, stepping back as if nothing had happened.

Severus slowly lowered his arms. He didn’t look at him. Just exhaled — short, colorless. As if everything he could afford to feel was spent in that single breath.

“We may return if necessary,” the cold one said. “We advise you not to leave town without notification. Understood?”

“Understood.” Severus’s voice was weary. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last few minutes.

They stood a moment longer — like shadows, like an omen — then turned and silently left, dissolving into the darkness. Only the bell above the door chimed softly, pulling him back into reality.

The shift went on as usual. After the Aurors left — without filing a report, without leaving behind any sense of justice — Severus mechanically returned to the counter. The shop kept operating as if nothing had happened. People came and went, buying groceries and hygiene supplies, noodles and soda, something from the household aisle — everything as always. Severus served them quickly, politely but distantly, barely listening to what they said. A headache pulsed somewhere behind his eyes.

He did the inventory, as the routine required: checked the stock, recorded the outgoing goods, entered the day’s earnings into the notebook, and wiped down the shelves. The dust clung to his fingers stickily, as if there was always too much of it, as if it came back every day — or every hour.

During his lunch break, he slipped into the storage room, where no one would disturb him. He shut the door behind him, sat on an upturned crate, and focused. Nonverbal magic. He no longer tried to “impress” anyone — just to succeed. This time, it went a little better: the light flickered on and off; a can of paint levitated, then changed color. Severus tried to slice an old radio, the one they should’ve thrown out long ago but never did. Nothing happened. He didn’t grimace, but a wave of disappointment passed through him.

It didn’t make him feel any calmer.

He leaned the back of his head against the cold wall.

And the thoughts came again.

The receipt tape had gone missing a few days ago. He hadn’t paid much attention — maybe it had run out, maybe someone took it by mistake. But before that, there had been a note. Then came the window. In his bedroom. It had been open when he returned home, even though he remembered closing it. He always closed the windows, especially after dark. Especially in this neighborhood. Especially after being told he didn’t close them tight enough.

He was still trying to explain it with a draft. The wind. The neighbors. His drunken father in a blackout.

Then there was the T-shirt. Grey, thin fabric, almost transparent — old, soft, his favorite. Gone. He’d checked everything: the laundry basket, the closet, the drying rack. Nothing. He’d asked Tobias. The man had sworn he hadn’t thrown anything out or touched a thing.

Severus had simply nodded in silence. But now, as the pieces began to come together, a cold tension rose inside him. Not fear — tension . It didn’t scream. It simply closed its hand around his throat from the inside.

He thought again: what if someone really was watching?

What if it wasn’t paranoia at all?

Who could it be, and what did they want?

His thoughts darted wildly, sharp and disordered, like a disturbed nest of wasps. First — to the mysterious stranger. The one leaving notes, stealing things, opening windows. If it really was someone… then why? What did they want? To toy with him? Scare him? Or — worse — to watch? To choose the right moment?

But as soon as Severus took a deeper breath, his mind veered elsewhere. Aurors. Their cold eyes. Their hands. Their silent authority. The right to suspect. The right to search. The right not to explain.

He was afraid of the unknown. Not in the way pain frightened — this was worse. It paralyzed not the body, but the mind. He could have endured pain, humiliation, even violence — but not the emptiness. The “we don’t know, but you’re under observation.” He could end up behind bars. With no lawyer. No explanation. And, worst of all — without magic.

Without the last thing that had ever offered him protection.

Once, they had promised him something else entirely.

Once, at the very beginning, they whispered of power. Of strength. Of possibilities he had never had. Of becoming great — above schoolyard cruelty, above the dirty fear of his father, above Black with his smile that crumbled all the walls Severus had built inside. Above Potter, who received everything simply because he was Potter.

And he believed. God, how he believed.

He had been foolish. Small. Desperately hungry to belong. To hear someone say, “You’re one of us.”

And now?

Now, there was nothing.

No power.

No ideals.

No home.

Only a dusty back room with crooked shelves, the flicker of fluorescent light, and a cold emptiness inside — one that the fear kept seeping into like a draft through a crack beneath the door.

Severus felt the exhaustion like a heavy cloak settling over his shoulders, pressing down with relentless weight. Every breath was shallow, each movement drained him of what little energy remained. His mind, tangled and raw, struggled to hold onto clarity.

His thoughts drifted again — to Black. The way he had started coming here more often, showing up unannounced like a shadow that refused to fade. Severus didn’t understand why. Didn’t want to. But the very presence of that reckless, unpredictable man stirred something unsettling inside him — a flicker of anger, a twist of fear, and beneath it all, a deep, aching vulnerability.

He looked down at his hands. Wrapped in bandages, still marred by bruises and scratches, the faint purples and reds a silent testimony to recent battles, both physical and unseen. The skin under was tight, almost raw, as if healing had stalled halfway.

And then it came — the sharp tightening in his chest, the dizzying whirl in his head. His heart pounded erratically, hammering against his ribs like a frantic prisoner. His vision blurred at the edges; the room seemed to tilt, walls breathing in and out. His fingers trembled, curling involuntarily.

A panic attack — sudden, unrelenting, cruel.

He pressed his palms flat against the wall, desperate to ground himself, to stop the suffocating wave crashing over him. His breaths came rapid and shallow, a frantic plea for air that never quite filled his lungs.

His mind screamed in silent terror, drowning in a whirlpool of helplessness. The cold emptiness inside was no longer just a void — now it was a storm, and he was trapped in its eye.

He heard the chime of the shop door opening again. Despite the suffocating tightness in his chest and the dizzy haze clouding his thoughts, Severus pushed himself upright. There was no time for weakness, no room for self-pity—not here, not now.

His legs felt unsteady as he stepped out, each movement an effort against the invisible weight pressing down on him. His breaths remained shallow and quick, but he forced himself to focus on the sound.

He scanned the empty shop floor.

No customers. No visitors.

Just silence.

His heart hammered even louder in the sudden stillness, the emptiness around him somehow amplifying the storm raging inside.

Severus stood frozen for a moment, the silence pressing down on him like a physical weight. The frantic rhythm of his heart hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else. He hadn’t slept since that morning, since he woke Tobias for work and hurried through the empty house, desperate to make everything seem normal.

Now every muscle in his body was taut, coiled like a spring ready to snap. The memory of those filthy, possessive hands of the auror lingered like a poison on his skin, crawling beneath it, making him shudder involuntarily. The way the fingers had lingered too long on his waist and hips, the cold, invasive pressure—it was a violation that no official procedure should ever feel like. But it did.

His thoughts spun wildly out of control, a relentless storm of dark whispers clawing at the edges of his mind. Why am I still here? Why can’t I just disappear? Maybe it would be better if I just ended it all—no more fear, no more pain, no more this suffocating cage.

The words echoed inside him, vicious and seductive, tempting him with relief from the crushing weight of exhaustion and terror. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms, grounding him just enough to keep from breaking completely. But the panic surged forward, waves crashing over reason, and the room seemed to close in tighter with every shallow breath.

His knees threatened to buckle.

For a moment, all he could do was stand there, trapped inside his own mind, with nothing but the dark voices urging him to give up.

Again, the sharp chime of the doorbell cut through the heavy silence. Severus barely managed to straighten up before two figures stepped inside. Sirius was there, holding a young woman close against his side. The way he pulled her in—too close, too possessive—made Severus’s chest tighten painfully.

The woman’s face was flushed, a broad, satisfied smile lighting up her features. Her eyes glimmered with that unfocused shine only found in intoxication. Sirius himself looked similarly affected—loose, reckless, far from the controlled and sharp man Severus usually saw.

Severus’s gaze flicked between them, registering the telltale signs: the stagger in their step, the careless laughter that echoed softly between them, the scent faint but unmistakable, sweet and sharp like spilled firewhiskey.

They were drunk.

And just like that, the fragile control Severus had been clinging to slipped further away, replaced by a cold, sinking dread.

Sirius smirked brazenly, his eyes glinting with mischief as he glanced around the shop.

"Where do you keep the condoms?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

Severus didn’t even realize how his tone betrayed him—soft, tired, wounded almost.
“The stand to your right,” he replied quietly, voice brittle, “third shelf down—for the small dicks.”

There was no humor in his words, only a fragile edge, like a thin glass ready to shatter.

The girl next to Sirius laughed softly, wrapping her arms around him, her warmth and lightness filling the space between them. But Sirius barely seemed to notice her presence; his gaze was locked entirely on Severus’s face.

Severus looked unexpectedly fragile—almost cute, in a way that felt like a secret exposed. His eyes were glassy, shimmering with unshed tears, and a faint blush colored his cheeks, a lingering trace of the panic attack that had just passed. He didn’t realize that his eyes were watering, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions he couldn’t contain.

Sirius stared, captivated, and didn’t even respond to Severus’s earlier remark. He said nothing—his usual sharp wit replaced by silent fascination.

Sirius’s eyes flickered with a strange, unreadable expression as he asked, his tone carefully neutral, almost too casual to be genuine, “What’s wrong?”

Severus tensed visibly, his whole body seeming to contract inward, like a fragile creature retreating into its shell. His voice came out low, clipped, and distant: “It’s none of your concern.”

For a moment, the air between them thickened, charged with an unspoken tension that neither dared to break. The faint hum of the shop’s old fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but it felt as if time itself had slowed down, compressing the space around them. Sirius’s gaze never left Severus’s face—there was something searching there, almost reluctant, as if he wanted to pry but feared what he might find.

Then, without a word, Sirius shifted his weight and gently peeled the girl off himself. She blinked, a touch surprised, but quickly recovered with a sly smile.

“Wait outside for a bit,” Sirius instructed quietly, his voice sharper now, cutting through the silence. “It’s stuffy in here. Don’t want you getting any more tipsy.”

The girl’s eyes flicked between the two men, sensing the odd undercurrent in the room. Before stepping toward the door, she reached up and pressed a quick, teasing kiss to Sirius’s lips—soft, lingering just a moment longer than expected. Her eyes sparkled with mischievous delight, then she slipped out into the fading daylight.

Inside, the door’s bell chimed softly behind her, leaving Sirius and Severus alone in the thick, heavy quiet. The strange atmosphere between them lingered, unspoken and unresolved.

Sirius stayed close, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering trace of alcohol on his breath—but Severus’s sharp eyes caught something off. The wildness in Sirius’s gaze wasn’t as blurred as it should have been if he were truly drunk. No, Sirius was carefully holding himself together, even now, like a predator sizing up his next move.

Meanwhile, the girl who had just left—Severus was certain—was far more intoxicated. The way she had stumbled slightly as she exited, the light flush still on her cheeks, the glazed softness in her smile—it was clear she was many degrees deeper into drunkenness than Sirius.

That realization added another layer of unease. Sirius wasn’t just here by chance or in some careless, drunken haze. He was calculated. Focused. And whatever game he was playing, Severus was caught somewhere in its crosshairs.

Sirius’s voice cut through Severus’s spiraling thoughts. “So, you’re still not going to tell me what’s wrong?” His tone was sharper now, almost teasing, but with an edge that suggested he wasn’t willing to let it go.

Severus shifted uncomfortably but kept his silence, knowing that giving in wouldn’t make this any easier. Instead, he let the weight of Sirius’s presence press down on him—heavy, relentless, and oddly intimate all at once.

Severus’s voice dropped to a quiet, almost tired murmur, heavy with the residue of exhaustion and the recent flood of emotions.

“Why do you want to know? To laugh at me some more?”

Sometimes, after episodes like this, Severus felt no better than the small boy he once was — fragile and silently desperate for someone to care.

Sirius’s reply came low and sharp, with a dangerous edge that made the air between them almost electric:

“Only I can make you cry, Sniv.”

For a moment, silence stretched out, thick and charged. The tension grew palpable, folding around them like a shroud. Sirius’s gaze locked onto Severus with the raw intensity of a hungry wolf staring down a trembling bunny.

Severus’s breath caught, voice barely more than a whisper:

“Oh, I’m sorry. It seems you’re not the only one after all.” His eyes began to water more. “Funny, I even got harassed a second time and it wasn’t even by noble Gryffindors.”

The words hung fragile and fragile in the stillness, as if daring Sirius to respond.

Sirius froze for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as the weight of Severus’s words settled between them. It was like a cold splash of reality, unexpected and unwelcome. The fragile vulnerability in Severus’s voice, the tears welling up in his glassy eyes—it struck something raw inside Sirius, something that unsettled the carefully guarded facade he wore.

His jaw clenched tightly. He didn’t like what Severus had just said. Not one bit.

Raised as a Black, Sirius was bred to take what he wanted—without apology or question. The world was his for the taking, and anyone who dared stand in his way was simply an obstacle to be crushed or ignored. Ownership wasn’t just a concept; it was a law. What belonged to him was his, and no one else had the right to touch it.

And now—now this delicate, broken thing standing before him, this fragile version of Severus, had just admitted to being violated, hurt by others.

The beast inside Sirius stirred, a low, guttural growl echoing in his chest. It was a possessive, angry sound—an instinctive reaction to the idea that someone had dared lay a hand on what he considered his favorite, his precious toy to play with.

His voice dropped into a deep murmur, rough and dark: “Didn't think anyone would want to touch you.”

Severus didn’t flinch or even glance at Sirius after his remark. Instead, his gaze remained steady, almost indifferent, as if the words slid off him like water.

“Take what you came for and go to your passion,” Severus said quietly, voice calm but edged with tiredness. “She’s been waiting long enough.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his face.

“Is the little whiner jealous?” he sneered, trying to mask his emotions behind the words.

Severus’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.

“I’d say the same about you.”

The door creaked open again, and the girl appeared in the doorway. She whined a little too loudly, “Sirius, you’re making me wait!”

Sirius snorted, clearly irritated by the interruption, but he quickly grabbed a box of large-sized condoms and handed them to Severus with a smug, wicked grin.

Severus rang up the purchase in silence. The air in the shop felt pulled taut like a string — tense, thick with unspoken emotion. His cheeks were still flushed, his head throbbed from exhaustion, and all he wanted was to collapse into sleep, but he held himself together.

Sirius didn’t take his eyes off him, gaze fixed, ignoring the girl still whining by the door.

When Severus extended the change, Sirius leaned in close and murmured low, with unmistakable provocation, “Bet those clever little hands of yours could put them on real quick.”

Severus snatched his hand back as if burned, shooting Sirius a glare full of indignation and humiliated fury.
Sirius only smirked wider, as though relishing every flicker of the reaction he’d stirred.

Severus was left alone. The door closed behind Sirius and his girlfriend, creaking again as if to remind him — it had all really happened. He didn’t move at once. He just stood behind the counter, staring into the emptiness, into the space that a moment ago had been occupied by Black with his cheeky grin and impossible words.

His heart calmed down, breathing became easier, but a clear feeling lingered that he had just experienced a feverish pre-death delirium. What were they doing with Black just now? Flirting?

That thought came suddenly, like a scalding drop of boiling water seeping under his skin. He clenched his fingers into a fist. His jaw clenched with tension. The world swayed slightly.

He felt something inside him refuse to accept it. Something trembled and hissed like ashes thrown into water.

Nausea hit him suddenly. His stomach tightened painfully, and Severus pressed his palm to his lips. He felt sick — either from hunger or from this crazy, impossible, disgusting suspicion.

“I need a glass of water,” he muttered aloud, pushing away from the counter and heading unsteadily toward the back room.

He didn’t even remember the bell. The door that had opened — but behind it, no one. No customers. No passerby. Just the bell — and emptiness.

And even scarier was the fact that he never heard the second call.

Chapter Text

The wires of the surveillance camera hanging from the ceiling were badly gnawed — copper strands poked out like the jaws of a predator. Nearby lay tiny pieces of insulation, and the smell of dampness and rot from the nearby landfill still lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the cause of this mess.

“Fuck,” Severus muttered quietly, gripping a torn piece of wire. His fingers trembled with fatigue and irritation. He knew that without the camera, the shop would be vulnerable — and that meant even more trouble.

He leaned his elbows on the counter and let out a heavy sigh. The night had been long and grueling: a couple of hours of sleep scattered between rare moments of peace barely eased his exhaustion. But by seven in the morning, when the first streaks of dawn barely touched the windows, Severus felt he might just be able to function again.

The headache that had drilled into his temples all night was almost gone now, leaving only a faint tingling. He slowly stood up, brushing dust off his clothes, and tiredly scanned the empty shop — a small but sole island of calm in his restless life.

Severus carefully lifted the piece of wire as if afraid it might crumble into tiny bits in his hands. He understood that he would have to fix the camera urgently or at least manage without it for a while — otherwise, the consequences could be dire.

With every breath, he felt a heaviness in his chest — a mixture of irritation, fatigue, and anxiety that refused to leave even in these rare moments of peace. But at least his head no longer hurt. And that was a small victory.

Severus pulled an old toolbox off the shelf — something between a school physics kit and a handyman’s makeshift case. He bent over the counter, carefully stripping the wire and beginning to twist the exposed strands together, as if he were handling something important, almost intimate — his fingers steady and precise, not trembling like they had the night before.

He worked with the focus of a surgeon. Not a single mistake. Not a single unnecessary movement. And when the electrical tape wrapped around the splice in its final loop, something inside Severus shifted.

A click. The camera gave a soft beep, then flickered to life. A small red light blinked, then stayed on — solid and unwavering.

Severus straightened up, staring at the camera like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“It worked,” he exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching. Not a smile — just a faint movement, but after the night he’d had, it felt like triumph. “On the first bloody try.”

He closed the box, brushed the crumbs off the counter, and started bringing the shop into order. He wiped the glass display, pulled his uniform back on, checked the shift log, straightened boxes on the shelves, took out the trash. Everything — by the book. The motions were automatic, and that was the beauty of them — routine gave him back a sense of control.

He had just managed to turn on the coffee machine when footsteps sounded outside. The bell jingled — and this time, thank Merlin, it really was someone. Lana walked in through the door.

“Morning,” she yawned, folding up her umbrella. “You still alive?”

“Barely,” Severus rasped, handing her the shift log. “Camera got chewed again. I fixed it. Otherwise, all quiet. Coffee’s on.”

Lana looked at him more closely, concern creeping into her expression.

“Are you sleeping at all?”

Severus nodded as if it were true. He was already untying the apron, his fingers working the knot behind his back on autopilot.

“About fifteen minutes per shift. That counts, right?”

“You’re a damn hero,” she sighed. “Now go. You look like death.”

He gave a dry, amused huff and stepped out into the grey, overcast morning — surprisingly steady on his feet. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he could hold himself together. Maybe even hope for something.

Outside, the weather was overcast, but not grim — the clouds hung low and thick, as if gently shielding the morning sky from any unnecessary light. The air was fresh, slightly damp, smelling of asphalt, leaves, and something faintly metallic. Severus took a deep breath, as if it were the first real one in days. His thin sweater wasn’t warm enough — a chill slid across his skin, making him shiver slightly and pull the sleeves down over his knuckles.

He crossed the deserted parking lot, squinting toward a flickering streetlamp that insisted on blinking despite being dead. The cars stood unevenly, some covered in a layer of grime as if untouched for weeks. Farther off, near the concrete fence, a row of dumpsters loomed — and that’s where Severus saw them.

A pack.

Five or six stray dogs, all different sizes and colors, lean but not starving — alert, alive. They weren’t growling or lunging, just sitting or standing still, as if quietly discussing something in that old, silent language of street creatures. One of them — all black — turned its head and fixed its eyes on Severus.

He slowed but didn’t stop.

The dogs didn’t move closer; they only watched. Their eyes were dark, mirror-like, almost human. Severus felt their gaze on him — like a cold hand sliding down his spine. No aggression, just awareness. Recognition. As if they had seen him before. Knew him.

That black dog gave a short huff, like a scoff.

Severus walked past without looking back. He only tensed his shoulders slightly — not from fear, but from the quiet understanding that he, too, had become part of the city’s wildlife: lonely, worn, surviving out of habit, wearing a thin sweater in a concrete maze.

A rustle. Just the wind.

Severus walked slowly, unhurriedly, as if the air itself was urging him to take his time. The streets were nearly empty—the city was only just beginning to wake, and in this half-sleep, in this gray, muffled emptiness, there was something strangely comforting. A soft light glowed from a few windows—dim and yellowish, like old incandescent bulbs—not breaking the darkness, but rather emphasizing it, making the shadows denser, quieter.

The asphalt was damp and sticky underfoot, as if during the night it had absorbed everything the city didn’t want to remember. Last year’s leaves, blackened by rain and time, lay along the edges of the pavement. Cracked glass from a shattered bottle crunched under his boots. On either side of the road stood rusted garages, sagging wire fences, and concrete walls covered in graffiti long stripped of any defiance. Everything looked deliberately faded, worn down, abandoned—just like him.

He passed through a narrow alley where even during the day people rarely walked. A lone shop sign creaked above a shuttered kiosk that always smelled like sour tobacco and engine oil. Somewhere around the corner, a dog barked softly. A window slammed shut above, but no one looked out.

Severus drew in a full breath. This city didn’t try to offer hope. It made no promises of comfort. But that was exactly what made it bearable—its honesty. It didn’t pretend things would get better. It simply existed. Dim, heavy, real.

This place matched his mood, his body, what was left of him.

He turned into a narrow courtyard—long and enclosed, with peeling facades and a rusted staircase leading to a back entrance. His building—old brick, always reeking of dust and cat urine—loomed ahead like a monument to stagnation. Not a soul around. Only the wind whispering against the concrete.

Suddenly there was a figure in the distance.

Severus rolled his eyes in irritation.

Tobias was coming toward him — hunched over, shoulders slumped in a once-black work jacket. He was smoking, as always, unhurriedly. Just like Severus last night, he was heading to his shift.

Tobias decided to say hello to his son.

“Fucking twink.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Severus,” he said sarcastically.

“Look who’s still alive,” Tobias grumbled, closing the distance at the same slow pace. “I hoped you’d disappear just like your mother did.”

“Don’t count on it,” Severus replied. “It’s just that you haven’t had a heart attack yet, and someone has to pay the water bill.”

Tobias snorted.

“You’re even bitchy like a chick.”

“And you look like mold on the ceiling,” Severus said calmly, already climbing the steps to the house.

“Thanks, it runs in the family,” Tobias snorted back as he kept walking away.

The door creaked.

Severus pushed it open with his shoulder, as if afraid even that movement might cause a crash. But inside, the house was quiet. Ominously quiet — as if the silence itself was holding its breath in the corners.

He entered slowly, habitually stepping around a long-standing grease stain right by the threshold. He kicked off his boots on the fly, tossing them aside, and nudged his slippers on with his toe. Not because he wanted to, but because the dirt on the floor was worse than the slippers.

His eyes swept over the living room. One of the kitchen chairs lay on its side, the backrest broken. Near the wall were shards of something ceramic — maybe a cup or an old ashtray. Severus made a mental note: clean up tomorrow. Not today.

He moved into the hallway. On the wall where his childhood drawing once hung, now there were two dark stains — a casted fist doesn’t leave pretty marks. Next to them, a crack spidered downwards like a web. As if the house itself was tired of enduring.

The kitchen smelled of stale booze, tobacco, and something sour. An empty bottle lay by the table leg, and murky water collected in the sink. The dishes hadn’t been washed since Monday, apparently. Severus didn’t bother counting the days.

He stopped by the table and ran his hand over its surface — sticky.

A deep breath.

A pause.

A long, slow exhale — almost a relief.

Tobias wouldn’t be around today. He was heading to work, sober. Not angry.

That meant Severus would get some sleep.

No one would grab a bottle or his throat. No furniture would fly across the room, no threats whispered inches from his ear.

Today — silence. That meant he was lucky.

Severus brushed his palm over his face, as if trying to erase the remnants of the past. Then he headed to his room, trying not to look at the dents in the walls, not to hear the house creak under his steps. The house knew. The house remembered.

But today — he could just walk past it all.

``

Sirius was bored.

Not the lazy, content kind of boredom where you could lounge on a couch and watch the shadows play across the ceiling. This was the irritating, itching kind — like a mosquito buzzing under his skin, just out of reach.

He sat there, leg bouncing, flicking his lighter without actually lighting a cigarette. The room smelled faintly of coffee, long gone cold. The window was cracked open, and the breeze pushed in the heavy summer air — thick with dust and pavement.

Last night hadn’t brought him any joy.

She was beautiful — truly. Slim, laughed at the right moments, said all the right things. At one point, she even seemed almost interesting. Her lips were soft, her hands confident.

But still — something was missing. He felt it the moment she took his hand outside her building, especially when she leaned in to kiss his cheek, almost sweetly, like she was already hoping for more.

Sirius just stepped back. Said he remembered a meeting. That he had to go.

He got a slap for it. Not a hard one, but an honest one. And he probably broke her heart.

He didn’t feel guilty. Just hollow.

Well — maybe guilt came later. When he was already walking home, with the scent of her perfume still clinging to his jacket and the bitter taste of his own dishonesty on his tongue.

Because all the mood had vanished earlier.

After he saw Snape.

The way Snape had looked at him — like he saw right through him. Like he knew exactly why Sirius was lying, and what he was running from. Like he'd carved Sirius open with nothing but a glance — and didn't even bother to frown.

And now, everything felt fake. The girl — cardboard. The evening — painted. The desire — imagined.

Sirius flicked the lighter one last time, ran a hand down his face, and leaned back in his chair. He was bored. Hollow. And deeply, maddeningly annoyed that it was all because of him.

He didn’t want to remember. Honestly. He didn’t.

But the memory kept slipping in anyway — shameless and sticky, like rainwater sneaking down the back of his shirt.

Snape in the shop.

His eyes had been shining — not with hatred, not with fury. With tears. Almost. The gleam was so vivid Sirius thought, for a moment, that a drop might fall. But no. Severus held it together. As always. Only — his cheeks were pink.

Sirius had frozen then.

Caught that look — wounded, furious, off-balance. And didn’t let go.

God knows how many times Sirius had seen him angry, venomous, smirking like a bastard or glaring like a needle to the skull. But that — that was new.
He looked breakable.

Not just vulnerable — fragile, almost to the point of elegance. Like porcelain with a hairline crack under the glaze. Like you could touch him — and he’d hiss, sure — but he’d still splinter in your hands.

That was what did it.

Sirius remembered how his breath caught in that moment. Not out of pity — no. Out of want. Wanting to break him. To hear his voice falter. To see that fury snap like a pulled string. To feel him tremble — and not from the cold.

He’d left first. Said something snide — he couldn’t remember what. Just remembered how hard it was to walk straight after. The pounding in his ears. That strange tension, clawing from the inside out.

He’d blamed the drink, of course. Too much whisky. Not enough sleep.

But now — it was morning.
He was sober. Cold as tile beneath bare feet.
And the want — hadn’t gone anywhere.

Sirius ran a hand over his face. Then down his chest. Lower.

Fragile. Small. Refracted, like light on broken glass.

God, he wanted.

At some point, Sirius wanted to laugh too.

Not because it was funny—no. But because then he could at least admit, with a clear conscience, that he was going insane.

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, and let out a rough snort. Scratched at his neck, as if that could shake off the remnants of whatever fever dream he was in.

Seriously?

The former heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, drilled from childhood in pureblood decorum and dignified restraint, now sitting half-naked in his kitchen with a morning hard-on, fantasizing about petite crybaby.

Small, neurotic, perpetually venomous Snape.
Who looked like a strong breeze could shatter him into pieces.
Whose mouth never stayed shut at the right moment.
Who whined—in every sentence, in every breath.
Who carried his hatred like a damn banner, waving it through life.
And that —that was what was driving Sirius mad.

“Fuck,” he muttered helplessly. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

James was off with Lily. Remus—at his parents’.
No one else. No witnesses, no salvation.

Only him—and this want.
Raw, sticky, filthy.
Want.

Sirius dragged a hand down his face again—roughly, like he was trying to wipe it all away.

But that image came back anyway.
That glare—wet with rage, maybe even tears.
Those flushed cheeks.
That slender neck he ached to wrap his hand around, just to see— would he tremble?

He swore out loud. Not from anger.
From despair.

He did want him.
And worse— the more he thought about it, the more he wanted.

Sirius leaned back in his chair with a loud exhale, as if he could breathe out everything else — the sticky, intrusive itch crawling under his skin.

He glanced at the clock. Half past twelve.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. Half the day wasted thinking about Snape. That wasn’t just pathetic — it was pathological.

He stood up in one sharp, restless motion, like he was trying to escape from himself. The chair crashed backward behind him, but he didn’t bother to pick it up.

I need to get out.

He tugged on his jeans without bothering with the belt, roughly laced up his boots. Grabbed his leather jacket from the hook by the door — his usual armor. The door clicked shut behind him with a satisfying finality, and the air outside hit his lungs like cold water.

The air was damp, cool, the kind of fog that clung between buildings like a held breath. The perfect day to not think. Just walk — no plan, no direction. Gravel crunched underfoot. Sirius shoved his hands deep into his pockets and set off.

He had no idea where he was going.

He just needed to walk this thing out — like a rabid dog on a leash. Maybe it would burn out. Maybe it would wear itself down.

Maybe it would pass.

``

Sirius had been walking for over an hour. The city was damp, sleepy, bathed in a rare, pale sunlight—it reflected dimly in the puddles, in the murky shop windows, on the wet asphalt. The air smelled of cold smoke, spring dampness, and a certain melancholy, as if everything around was quietly aching.

He hadn’t chosen a route. He just wandered, weaving between streets, until he realized he had turned onto a familiar road.

And he stopped.

Lily’s house. The same as always: neat, with flowers under the windows, well kept even in winter. He froze, allowing himself for a moment an almost tender memory—Lily in the doorway, Lily waving from the porch, Lily laughing with a cup in her hands.

But the memory immediately struck from the other side.

The house opposite.

Sirius slowly turned his head.

He knew Snape lived there. A shabby, peeling facade, like faded skin. Narrow windows with cloudy glass. Curtains gray with dust and time. A house that seemed to not want anyone to look inside.

Yet Sirius stepped closer.

Step by step. Carefully. Almost as if in a dream.

He stopped at the window. Leaned in a little, peered inside—at first, all he saw was his own reflection and dusty smudges on the glass. Then—faint outlines: a room, old furniture, a dirty floor, a chair knocked over on its side.

No sound. No movement.

The house seemed empty.

Dead.

But something breathed in it. Something hidden, lurking in the folds of the curtains, in the cracks of the wallpaper. Sirius couldn’t explain it, but he felt: he was looking not at an empty dwelling, but a silent watcher waiting. Like a beast in its den.

He licked his lips, stepped back, shoved his hands into his pockets.

Severus was here. He knew it.

Sirius swallowed.

It all still looked pitiful.

But felt like a challenge.

Sirius circled the house slowly, his eyes scanning every detail. The peeling paint on the walls, the warped wooden porch steps, the creeping ivy choking the corners of the building. He noticed small things—a broken shutter hanging askew, a cracked flowerpot lying on its side, weeds pushing through the cracks in the sidewalk.

He pressed his ear to the door, then to the windows, listening for any sign of life. Silence. Not even the faintest creak or whisper.

His heartbeat quickened—not from fear, but anticipation.

Finally, after a long moment, Sirius pulled out his wand with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Alohomora,” he whispered.

A soft click echoed through the quiet street as the lock disengaged.

He pushed the door gently, and it creaked open, revealing a dim, musty hallway. Dust motes danced in the thin shafts of light spilling in from the open doorway.

Sirius stepped inside, the wooden floor groaning under his weight.

No footsteps behind him. No voice calling out.

Just the cold, hollow silence of Severus’s house.

Inside the house, Sirius wandered through the dimly lit living room, his eyes catching on the pictures framed along the mantelpiece and walls. He stopped, leaning in to study one in particular.

It was a family portrait — a small, quiet snapshot of a long-gone time. Three figures stood side by side: a mother, a father, and a little boy. The boy was unmistakably Severus, though he looked almost unrecognizable.

Sirius chuckled softly, a dry, almost bitter sound. The boy wore a delicate, frilly blouse that looked like it belonged to a girl. His hair was long and straight, falling past his shoulders — an odd choice for a boy, especially back then. But what struck Sirius the most were those eyes: large, dark, and intense, almost too sharp for a child.

He looked like a little black bat from a shadowy basement—thin, fragile, but alert, with a gaze that seemed to pierce right through you.

Sirius shook his head, still smirking quietly. “Little basement bat,” he muttered under his breath, both mocking and oddly fascinated by the image.

For a moment, that small boy with the dark eyes haunted him more than he cared to admit.

The atmosphere inside the house pressed down on Sirius like a heavy, suffocating fog. Every corner whispered stories of quiet desperation and pain.

The walls bore scars — faded cracks and dark, jagged holes where fists had slammed through plaster in moments of rage. On the threadbare carpet near the doorway, a dried stain of something dark and stubborn caught the light — old blood, stubbornly clinging to the fibers.

Empty bottles—some cheap, some stronger—were scattered carelessly around the living room, their labels peeling and sticky. The air smelled faintly of stale smoke and bitter regret.

Sirius stepped carefully over the scattered trash and broken glass, his boots barely making a sound. He paused, taking it all in: the peeling wallpaper, the cracked furniture, the lingering scent of sorrow that clung to the air like dust.

It was impossible to ignore the truth the house told — this was not a home, but a battlefield where a family barely survived, dragging out a miserable existence stitched together by anger, neglect, and pain.

Sirius’s gaze darkened. They really were just surviving. Nothing more.

And somehow, that realization made the fragile, broken boy in the photo feel even smaller.

Sirius wandered deeper into the gloom of the house, his thoughts tangled and restless. What was it, exactly, that made Severus so compelling? A boy raised in this squalor, surrounded by rage and ruin, with a sharp tongue and worse manners. A laughingstock. A nobody. Strange and rough around the edges.

And yet—he was fierce.

Sirius couldn’t help but respect that. Four against one, and Severus never once backed down. Not even once did he throw in the towel or lower his guard. That stubborn fire, that raw defiance—that was rare.

It was what made Severus interesting. Not some polished charm or easy smile, but the way he fought tooth and nail against everything life had thrown at him. The way he refused to break, even when everything around him was crumbling.

That fight—that relentless fight—was the thing Sirius found himself drawn to, even if it was maddening. It was the spark beneath all the grime and bitterness. And that spark, small and flickering as it was, was enough to hold Sirius’s attention.

Suddenly, Sirius spun on his heel, heart skipping a beat at the sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoing up the narrow staircase. Within seconds, Severus appeared in the doorway, framed by the dim light from above.

Severus wore an oversized, faded t-shirt that hung loosely, swallowing his thin frame and reaching down to the middle of his thighs. He absentmindedly bit into a bright red apple, the crisp sound oddly out of place in the heavy silence that followed.

Their eyes locked.

In that instant, Severus froze as if caught in a trap, pure horror flashing across his pale face — wide, unblinking eyes, lips parting in a silent gasp. His usual guarded expression cracked, replaced by raw vulnerability that seemed almost fragile, like a glass figurine about to shatter.

The house itself seemed to hold its breath.

The oppressive silence settled between them like thick fog, every second stretching unbearably long. Sirius felt the weight of the moment press down on his chest, a tension so sharp it was almost painful.

“Don’t scream,” It was the only thing Sirius could think to say, his voice low and rough.

Then, without warning, Severus took a step back, the apple falling forgotten onto the worn floorboards. His eyes darted wildly, and before Sirius could utter another word, Severus bolted—his thin legs moving with surprising speed—as he vanished up the creaking staircase.

For a brief moment, Sirius stood rooted, watching the fleeting shadow of Severus disappear into the gloom above.

Then, with a steady breath and a surge of determination, Sirius lunged forward, chasing after him without hesitation, the echo of his own footsteps chasing the boy into the darkness.

Severus’s breath came in ragged gasps as panic clawed through him like wildfire. His steps pounded the narrow stairs, but Sirius was quicker — closing the distance with relentless ease.

“Don’t touch me!” Severus’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. Then, louder, “Help! Someone help me!”

Before the scream could break free, Sirius’s hand shot up, firm and unyielding, clamping over Severus’s mouth. In one swift motion, he pressed the trembling boy back against his chest, their bodies flush.

Severus struggled, writhing like a cornered animal, his panic bursting in frantic jerks and kicks. His eyes were wild, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.

Sirius’s grip didn’t falter. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against Severus’s ear, voice low and steady.

“Quiet,” he whispered, voice rough but calm. “Shh, don’t scream.”

Severus’s frantic movements slowed, the tension in his body easing little by little, though the fear still flickered in his gaze.

Sirius held him tighter, a silent promise woven into the silence between them — that here, in this moment, the storm might just pause.

Severus’s heart hammered violently against Sirius’s chest, each beat a desperate plea for escape that seemed to slow with every soothing word whispered into his ear. His body, still trembling, began to slacken as the panic wavered, the sharp edge of terror blunting under Sirius’s firm yet careful hold.

Sirius kept his arms wrapped securely around him, fingers pressing gently but insistently against Severus’s back, grounding him, anchoring him to reality. His voice dropped even lower, almost a murmur, threading through the thick silence of the house.

“Listen to me, i’m not gonna hurt you. Calm down, don’t scream. We don't want to disturb the neighbors, do we?”

Severus’s wild eyes flickered, confusion mingling with the residue of fear. The fight inside him fought to reignite, but the calm in Sirius’s tone acted like a balm, dulling the instinct to run or scream.

Slowly, hesitantly, Severus’s struggling ceased altogether. His body softened, leaning slightly into Sirius, as if the very act of contact was a fragile lifeline he didn’t dare to sever.

For a long moment, they stood like that — one broken, one steady — caught in the fragile space between fear and trust.

Outside, the world moved on unaware, but inside the quiet house, something unspoken passed between them. A tenuous thread, fragile yet real.

Sirius felt the tension in Severus’s body slowly ebbing away beneath his grip, like ice melting under a warm hand. The frantic thrashing became subtle trembles, the ragged breaths evened out. It was as if the storm inside Severus was breaking, leaving behind a fragile calm.

“Alright,” Sirius whispered softly, his voice barely audible over their quiet breaths. “I’m going to let go soon, but you have to stay still. Quiet.”

Severus didn’t answer. Instead, he shook his head slightly, a silent refusal that sent a flicker of concern through Sirius.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Sirius felt it — the faintest pressure of thin, pale fingers pressing against the hand that held him tight at Severus’s waist. They trembled, delicate and pleading, as if begging, without words, for the grip to loosen just a little.

The gesture was so fragile, so human, that Sirius’s heart clenched. He tightened his hold for a moment longer, his fingers curling protectively around Severus’s side, before easing the pressure, careful not to break that silent plea for trust.

“Don’t make me have to immobilize you, Snape.” Sirius said low and steady, his voice firm but calm.

The words seemed to reach Severus like a lifeline. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Severus exhaled sharply through his lips, the panic draining from his eyes. His struggling ceased, his body going still in Sirius’s arms, finally surrendering to the quiet.

Sirius kept him close, feeling the fragile weight of him settle, the rapid pulse beneath his palm slowing.

“Good boy.” Sirius murmured softly, the praise a quiet balm against the lingering tension.

Sirius slowly removed his hand from Severus’s mouth, watching as the boy’s breaths came out heavy and uneven. For a moment, Severus seemed almost calm—then, like a sudden flicker of flame, he jerked away, trying to break free.

But Sirius was faster. He caught Severus just steps from the bedroom door, his grip tightening as he forced him down to the floor with a controlled shove. The weight of Sirius pinned Severus beneath him, their breaths tangled in the tense air.

“Fuck, you’re impossible,” Sirius hissed, voice rough with frustration and something deeper.

Severus barely managed a trembling whisper, his voice raw and desperate: “Don’t— don’t touch me. Let me go…”

Sirius tightened his grip for a moment, then loosened it just enough to let Severus breathe more easily. His eyes locked onto the boy’s desperate gaze.

“I’m not going to do anything,” Sirius said quietly, voice low but firm. “I was just looking around.”

Severus glared up at him, disbelief and anger flashing in his eyes. “What the hell are you doing in my house?” he hissed, every word sharp as a knife. “I don’t believe you.”

Sirius shrugged, his tone casual but with an edge. “I thought the place was abandoned. Easy mistake.”

Severus jerked his head back onto the floor, his face burning with anger and hurt. "Let me go," his voice trembled but sounded firm.

Sirius didn’t move an inch, his gaze sharp and cold. "I’ll let you go only if you stop acting like a hysteric."

Snape looked at him with contempt and shot back, "Hysteric? You’ve been stalking me god knows how long, and now you barge into my house like it’s your own!"

"God knows how long?" Sirius sneered lightly. "Too much honor for a git like you. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I came here for the first time today."

Severus snorted in obvious indignation and drawled sarcastically, "Ah, well then that changes everything!" His eyes sparkled, and his voice dripped with venomous sarcasm.

He jerked his hands sharply, trying to break free, but Sirius squeezed them tighter, leaving no chance to escape. A sharp, threatening hiss escaped — as if Severus was warning him not to treat him like that.

Sirius mentally noted, Even that girl didn’t have wrists this thin… — marveling at the fragility yet admiring how such a person still managed to be dangerous in every movement.

The tension between them hung heavy in the air, thick enough to almost taste. Sirius didn’t loosen his grip; instead, his eyes stayed locked on the face beneath him, tracing every sharp line and subtle flicker of emotion. Severus’s cheeks flushed again, a deep, reluctant red blooming under such intense scrutiny.

Sirius shifted slightly, deliberately settling himself between Severus’s slender legs, creating a space that was both possessive and inescapable. His body radiated a quiet dominance, a silent claim made without words, and Severus could feel it pressing in on him from every angle.

A fierce urge to run flared up inside Severus — to escape this closeness, this suffocating gaze. His heart hammered in his chest as his mind screamed for distance, for freedom. But the walls closing in around him were too solid, the grip too strong.

After a long moment, his resistance cracked. With a heavy breath and a defeated glance up, Severus finally whispered, “I won’t run.”

Sirius’s lips curled into a slow, almost imperceptible smile, as if he’d been waiting for those words all along. He eased the pressure just enough to let Severus breathe but didn’t move away, keeping his presence close and deliberate.

“Good,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Because I’m not letting you go that easily.”

Severus’s eyes flickered with a mixture of frustration and something softer—vulnerability hidden beneath the layers of sarcasm and defiance. He swallowed hard, caught between wanting to pull away and an inexplicable need to stay.

For a moment, the chaotic noise of the world outside the walls faded, leaving only the charged silence between them, thick with unspoken things neither dared to say aloud. After a long moment, Sirius finally loosened his grip, his fingers sliding away from Severus’s waist. Severus gasped softly, chest rising and falling as he took in a shaky breath.

Before Sirius could reach out again, his hand moved toward Severus’s thigh in a gentle, almost possessive gesture, but Severus reacted instantly—his eyes flashing with defiance. With a sudden push, he shoved Sirius away, creating distance between them.

“I said I’m not running,” Severus whispered, voice still shaky but firm, “not that I want this.”

He slid backward, putting space between them, his heart pounding in his ears as he tried to steady himself. Sirius watched him with an unreadable expression, neither pushing further nor retreating completely—just holding the moment suspended.

Severus stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow, his cold gaze never leaving Sirius. "Explain yourself, or I’ll call the police."

Sirius smirked wickedly, his eyes playful, as if this were some kind of game. "Explain? No, I’m not going to. Like I said, the house looked abandoned — so I came to take a look."

They both knew it was a lie. Severus clearly remembered Sirius had seen him once when he was taking out the trash — a memory engraved despite all the hostility. A heavy silence settled in the room — neither dared to break it first, each weighing the other’s words and hidden intentions.

Severus slowly rose to his feet, instinctively stepping back a few paces from Sirius. A cold wave of unease settled over him—being this close to Sirius always made him feel vulnerable, like a small prey cornered by a predator. The lingering tension in the air pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.

Behind him, Sirius rose as well, his tall, broad frame filling the doorway. Severus caught sight of the shadow cast by that imposing figure, and a sharp pang of helplessness struck him deep in the chest. Without his wand, without magic, he was utterly exposed—no spells to defend himself, no shield to rely on.

He realized, with a bitter clarity, just how powerless he really was in that moment.

Severus looked at Sirius coldly and through clenched teeth said, "Get out. And if you even dare tell anyone about everything you saw here—I’ll report you to the Ministry of Magic for using spells for criminal purposes."

He felt Sirius’s piercing, assessing gaze on him, as if he were trying to read every weakness and vulnerability. Suddenly, Severus felt a sharp urge rising inside to shield himself, to hide, to escape from under that gaze.

Sirius ignored Severus’s warning, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What exactly did you mean when you said I’ve been watching you?” he pressed, stepping closer.

Severus’s jaw tightened. “That’s none of your business,” he snapped, voice low and sharp.

“Maybe not,” Sirius replied coolly, “but it does concern the Ministry of Magic you mentioned—and everyone around—if your little political friends are involved in this or you forgot about this little detail?”

Tension thickened between them, each word like a spark threatening to ignite a larger fire.

Sirius’s gaze darkened with suspicion, a slow, dangerous smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you? Don’t think I don’t see it.”

Severus’s eyes flashed with anger, his voice sharp as a knife. “And what if I am? What business is it of yours, Black?”

“Everything,” Sirius shot back, stepping even closer, the air between them crackling with tension. “You think you can keep secrets in your situation? You’re deluding yourself.”

The words sparked a fierce exchange—biting insults flew like daggers.

“You’re a meddling fool who can’t mind his own damn business!”

“And you’re a self-righteous, arrogant bastard who thrives on chaos!”

They stood inches apart, the fight far from over, both refusing to back down.

Severus exploded, the words pouring out of him like venom: "You’re a fucking madman who can’t leave me alone, dragging your selfish little friends who think they can do whatever they want! You bother me at work, break into my home, and attack me — and I’m the one loving chaos? It’s just fucking unbelievable!"

His voice trembled with anger and pain, his eyes blazing — all his exhaustion and fury spilling out in this one powerful outburst.

Sirius smirked, his eyes gleaming with cold wit. “Damn it, Snape, you should be grateful it was me who came in here, and not some gang of marginals or homeless people who’d mistake this dump for a barrack and slit everyone’s throats in your sleep. Shithole like this is the perfect target for those types.”

Severus pressed his lips together, a flame of irritation and humiliation flaring in his eyes. “You better get the hell out of here before I punch you in your stupid face.”

“Then do it, we both know this isn’t the end,” Sirius replied with a mocking smile.

The tension between them grew, their words turning into sharp arrows that cut deeper and deeper. At some point, Severus suddenly caught himself on a strange sensation—his hands, as if on their own accord, pressed against Sirius’s broad chest. His heart pounded wildly, and his mind raced between wanting to push away and not daring to resist. A brief pause hung in the air, filled with tension and an unspoken struggle between them.

Sirius stood so close that Severus had to tilt his head slightly upward to meet those cold gray eyes. The air between them was taut with tension — a mixture of deep hatred and something else, something neither fully understood, like an invisible spark ready to ignite at any moment.

"Yes, that's exactly why I came here," Black whispered, his voice trembling with obsession and madness.

Severus sneered, trying to keep his sarcasm sharp: "To be humiliated and insulted? Interesting hobby you have."

At that moment, he felt Black’s hands on him—light, but possessive, as if Sirius didn’t just want to touch, but to hold him in place, not let him go. Severus’s heart quickened, his breath faltered slightly as Black’s fingers traced a thin line along his hip bones.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the pressure between them deepen, realizing this game was far more than a simple fight—it was something much more complicated and profound.

Severus’s narrow palms, which had been pressed firmly against Sirius’s chest, slowly relaxed and slid down, coming to rest atop the large, broad hands that now gripped his hips. He felt the subtle, deliberate movement of fingers teasing at the hem of his shirt, trying to lift it higher. The air between them crackled with a charged, almost electric tension—raw and undeniably charged with a dark, unspoken desire.

Sirius smirked, his voice low and teasing. "Looks like your hobby is just getting on my nerves, Sniv."

His eyes locked onto Severus’s face, tracing the sharp lines and pale skin. He noticed the scattered constellation of moles, small dark spots that seemed almost like secret marks. A wild, almost manic thought flickered through his mind — to kiss each one, one by one, claiming them with reckless affection.

He craved something more intense, more raw — a spark, a strike, even a slap. The tension wasn’t enough; Sirius felt like he was losing his grip, slipping into madness. Whether it was boredom gnawing at his edges or something deeply rooted in his bloodline, the edge of chaos was creeping closer, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop it.

The charged atmosphere shattered abruptly with the sharp, insistent ring of the phone coming from the parents’ bedroom. Severus, tense and alert, wrenched his hips free from Sirius’s grasp, moving away with a mix of reluctance and urgency. The electric tension between them dissolved into a brittle silence, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

Severus disappeared behind the slightly ajar door of the bedroom, his footsteps quiet but hurried on the creaking floorboards. Sirius hesitated for a heartbeat before following, drawn by a flicker of unease that prickled his skin.

Inside, the dim glow of a lone bedside lamp cast long shadows across the cluttered room. Severus reached for the old-fashioned receiver, fingers trembling just enough to betray his calm facade. He lifted it slowly, pressing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

On the other end, only a faint rustling sound stirred the silence — soft, but unnatural in its persistence. No voice came. No message. Just the eerie whisper of something unseen.

Severus’s breath caught. His face, already pale, seemed to lose all warmth, draining of color under the cold light. His eyes widened, pupils dilating in sudden fear, searching the darkness beyond the doorway as if expecting something to emerge.

Sirius stood frozen near the entrance, watching the subtle shift in Severus’s expression. The air thickened with dread, an invisible weight pressing down, tightening like a noose around their throats. The silence between the rustling noises grew louder, oppressive.

For a moment, neither dared to speak. The room felt claustrophobic, as if shadows were creeping closer, swallowing every flicker of light. Severus’s hand gripped the receiver tighter, knuckles whitening. A shiver ran down his spine.

Sirius’s instincts screamed at him — something was wrong, terribly wrong — but the cause remained unseen, hidden in the trembling quiet. The cold fear that had settled in the room was no longer just Severus’; it seemed to seep from the walls, an unspoken threat lurking just beyond the edge of perception.

Chapter Text

Since Severus had slammed the door shut right in Black’s face, exactly a week had passed. A week — viscous, anxious, with the sensation that something was creeping out of the dark, but never quite surfacing. The house, already unfriendly, now seemed even quieter, as if in waiting. The floor creaked more often, the wind hit the shutters harder, and the phone’s ring became unbearable — even when no one was calling.

Severus barely left the house. Not because he was afraid — though fear was there, dull and stubborn, lodged somewhere under his ribs — but because he felt watched. As if Black was still nearby, as if behind every corner, through the murky glass of every window, a shadow might flicker — a shadow Severus had started seeing more and more often in the reflections of shop windows and car doors. Sirius didn’t show up, but his absence was louder than any presence. The shadow had gone still too.

But Severus waited.

Work was exhausting. People — even more so. Every glance felt mocking, every word — a threat. More and more, he found himself staring at the door, as if bracing for someone to burst through. Who, exactly, he didn’t know.

In the morning after a shift, once Tobias had left and his mother was, as always, nowhere to be found, Severus didn’t sleep. He lay there, listening. For footsteps that never came. For breathing he could feel on the back of his neck. For memories that wouldn’t fade. Again and again, he replayed their last encounter: the harsh hands, the foreign heat, the shadow of something like desire buried beneath layers of rage.

He hated Black. And he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He feared the one hiding in the shadow, but he couldn’t tell anyone. No one would take the word of a former Death Eater seriously — and besides, how could he explain being haunted by something he hadn’t even seen?

All week long, Severus had been practicing nonverbal magic without his wand. At first—with trembling fingers, doubts, and desperate anger that burst out before the spell even took shape. But day by day, he grew more precise, more confident. He could easily light a lamp with just a glance, push an old cup off the edge of the table—and, if necessary, defend himself. At least against someone not too skilled. He could feel the magic flowing through his body, responding to his breath, his gestures, the tension in his jaw. It was encouraging.

But it didn’t save him.

He knew—without his wand, he was still vulnerable. Like a beast stripped of its fangs, he could only scare with a loud growl. The magic inside him churned, but he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t fail him at the crucial moment. Or turn against him.

Two days ago, Aurors came by. He didn’t recognize them right away—they were in plain clothes, polite, but with that special tone that makes you feel like you’re already shackled. This time, the faces were completely different.

“Mr. Snape, have you heard about the incident on Whitechapel Road?”

“No.”

“The tragedy shook the public. It’s in your best interest to cooperate with us voluntarily.”

“I was home. I didn’t go out. What happened?”

They told him—a muggle had been found dead. Burned. The method was clearly magical, something crude, impulsive. No clues. Severus shook his head. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t even left home for three days by then, having arranged a cover with Lana. But, as always, they expected more from him than he could give. Their eyes, their tone, his name—everything carried suspicion.

After they left, he didn’t return to reality immediately. He stared at one spot for a long time, trying to empty his mind. Like back then, as a child, after his father’s visits, when all that was left was to wait for the pain and anxiety to fade.

He knew nothing about that muggle. He hadn’t touched anyone. He just wanted to be left alone.

But peace is a luxury. Especially if you’re Severus Snape.

On his way to work, Severus kept running into the same pack of stray dogs. Their numbers fluctuated—sometimes fewer, sometimes more—and new faces with sharp teeth and hungry eyes appeared in the crowd. They seemed to be waiting for something, watching him, and some eyes stared too intently, as if trying to peer into the very depths of his soul.

In the evening, as he walked across the empty parking lot, the shadows seemed longer and the cold air heavier. The flickering streetlights reflected off the wet asphalt, and each step echoed loudly, making his heart beat faster. Severus caught himself doubting every move: wondering if someone was hiding behind a car, if that very shadow that haunted him would follow. He felt paranoia creeping slowly into his mind, poisoning every moment.

Right after he had thrown Sirius out the door, his phone rang repeatedly. Each time he answered, there was only deadly silence on the other end. Occasionally, strange sounds pierced the quiet—drops falling into water, or the clink of something metallic. The number was untraceable, and no voices spoke. These calls, like the pack on the street, felt far from coincidental—as if someone wanted to remind him they were there, to make him feel vulnerable and alone. Severus clenched the phone tightly, feeling his anxiety grow with every silent hum from the other side.

Today’s night shift at the shop stretched out in a slow, steady rhythm. The overhead lights cast a cold, artificial glow over the aisles, making the shadows cling longer than they should. Severus moved quietly through the narrow passages, his footsteps muted against the worn floor.

He paused by the security monitors, scanning each feed with practiced ease. Flickering screens showed grainy black-and-white images of empty corners and locked doors. His sharp eyes flicked from one camera to another, looking for any sign of movement, any hint of something out of place. The hum of the machines was the only sound, low and constant, like a heartbeat in the silence.

Satisfied for the moment, Severus turned back to the shelves. He wiped a thin layer of dust from the neatly stacked products—jars, boxes, tins—each label worn by time but still legible. The repetitive motion was oddly soothing, a small task to occupy his restless mind. Occasionally, he adjusted an item slightly, aligning it with precision as if restoring order in a world that felt otherwise chaotic.

The air was cool and stale, filled with the faint scent of old wood and cleaning solution. Outside, distant sounds of the city’s nightlife crept in, muffled and indistinct. But inside the shop, it was quiet — almost too quiet — and Severus remained alert, every nerve taut, ready for the slightest disturbance.

From the storage room came a sudden noise — the sharp clatter of boxes tumbling to the floor. Severus paused, his eyes narrowing. The quiet routine shattered, tension prickling along his spine. Without hesitation, he moved toward the source of the sound, footsteps echoing softly in the narrow corridor.

Pushing open the door, he found the mess: several cardboard boxes scattered across the floor. Among the debris he didn’t find the old radio. Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. Lana must have thrown it out after all.

Turning back toward the checkout counter, he resumed his slow, deliberate pace. Then, through the dim light of the shop, his gaze caught a figure. A man dressed in black, hood pulled over his head, stood with his back to Severus near the entrance. The stranger’s stillness was unnatural, like a shadow frozen in time.

Severus froze for a moment, heart tightening. Something about the man didn’t belong — a presence heavy and silent, watching. The shop felt suddenly colder, the artificial lights flickering above.

The man moved slowly from shelf to shelf, his hands brushing over items as if searching for something specific. Severus watched every step carefully, his gaze sharp and unblinking, but the hood remained low, hiding the stranger’s face in shadow. No matter how he tried, Severus couldn’t catch a glimpse of the man’s expression — only the steady, deliberate movement through the aisles.

A sudden cold thought struck him: if this man intended to attack, Severus would be cornered, trapped with nowhere to retreat. His mind raced, calculating the best way to avoid confrontation without revealing his suspicion.

With quiet resolve, Severus stepped out from behind the counter, pretending to straighten a row of products, his movements slow and deliberate. The man didn’t react immediately, continuing his methodical search.

They moved silently through the aisles — the man in the hood, Severus trailing just far enough behind to keep him in sight without drawing attention. Time stretched as they circled between shelves, the quiet only broken by the faint rustling of items and their own footsteps.

Then, suddenly, Severus glanced up and realized the figure had vanished. His heart skipped — the man was gone, as if swallowed by the shadows themselves.

Severus moved backward cautiously, each step measured and silent, his eyes never leaving the place from where the man had vanished. The stale air of the store felt heavier now, thick with tension. His breathing was shallow, heart hammering painfully against his ribs, every muscle taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. Then suddenly, his foot caught against something solid.

He stumbled forward, crashing into a body. The contact jolted him so violently that he spun around on instinct, fist snapping out in a desperate, raw strike aimed at the stranger’s head. Panic surged through him—this was survival, pure and raw.

But the figure was too quick. The man shifted with a fluid grace, barely moving aside, letting Severus’s fist cut through empty air. Silence fell for a brief, suffocating moment.

Then, a voice—low, amused, dangerously familiar—broke the stillness.

“Whoa, sweetheart, is that how you greet all your customers?”

The words hung in the air, dripping with mocking warmth.

Severus froze. His heart slammed harder. Recognition hit him like a blow—Sirius.

But the relief was laced with something far darker. The store, once a mundane shelter, now felt like a cage. The shadows deepened. The distance between them crackled with unspoken threats and buried histories. Severus’s eyes narrowed, searching Sirius’s face in the dim light, questioning what game was being played—and how much more he was trapped in it than he dared admit.

”What the hell, Black?” Severus’s voice was rough, still trembling slightly from the shock, his body tense and unsteady as if the adrenaline hadn’t yet left his veins. His eyes remained fixed on the figure before him.

Sirius stood there in a black hoodie, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and muscular frame, casting him in shadow but revealing just enough to remind Severus of the strength he always tried to forget. For a moment, Severus’s gaze lingered longer than intended, tracing the sharp lines of Sirius’s jaw, the way his stance held a certain reckless confidence — then he jerked his eyes away, though Sirius had already caught the glance and smirked knowingly.

The smirk deepened as Sirius chuckled softly, clearly amused by the fact that he had managed to rattle the usually composed Severus.

“I should be asking that. Not every day someone tries to break my nose or knock out my jaw.”

“Which is actually pretty strange,” Severus snapped back, his voice biting with sarcastic edge, the tension between them thickening the air like a charged storm about to break.

Severus slipped past the man, heading back toward his workstation, but the heavy weight of a presence pressing just behind him was impossible to ignore. Sirius followed like a dark shadow, a slow, knowing smirk curling on his lips.

“What do you want here?” Severus demanded, his voice cold and clipped, not daring to glance back. He squeezed carefully between the cash register and the battery display, ready to reclaim his territory, but a prickling sensation warned him: Sirius had no intention of staying out in the open.

Without hesitation, Sirius stepped forward, trying to cross behind the counter alongside him. But Severus spun on his heel with lightning speed, slamming his palm hard into Sirius’s chest, halting him like a wall.

“I’m not letting you behind the counter. You’re not welcome here.”

Sirius’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he threw his head back, the smugness dripping from his words.

“Just passing by,” he said smoothly, voice low and taunting, “thought I’d drop in on an old friend.”
He pushed again, slow and deliberate, testing Severus’s resolve. A soft, cruel chuckle slipped out. “And I’m not asking for permission.”

Severus’s muscles tensed, refusing to give even an inch.

Sirius stared down at the outstretched hand blocking his way, and then his smile widened, sharp and feral, like a predator circling its prey. With brutal force, he lunged forward, confident—dangerously confident—that he could shatter this fragile barrier Severus presented.

But Severus wasn’t so easily broken. He planted both hands firmly, bracing with all his strength, struggling to hold back the advancing weight pressing into him.

Then, without warning—claws, hands, whatever they were—grabbed him suddenly by the waist and yanked him harshly toward them.

His heart slammed against his ribs, panic flaring hot and wild. A cold wave of danger sliced through his mind like a knife. Frozen, breath caught, he tried to pinpoint the threat looming over him, desperate to grasp what nightmare was unfolding next.

“Gotcha,” Sirius whispered right in Severus’s ear, his breath warm and teasing against the cold skin.

Before Severus could react, a small, wriggling shape shot out from beneath Sirius’s hoodie—a tiny magical octopus, the kind from the joke shop, translucent and twitching with mischievous energy. It slipped under Severus’s sweater, its slimy little legs crawling up his ribs, sending an electric shiver through him.

Severus froze for a heartbeat, then swatted at the creature desperately, fingers scrabbling against fabric. With a frustrated hiss, he finally managed to pull the octopus free from under his clothes, clutching the slippery thing tightly in his hand.

He raised it up, eyes narrowing as he stared at the prankish little beast—then without warning, it squirted a jet of thick black ink right in his face.

The inky splash smeared across Severus’s cheek and nose, stinging cold and unexpected. He blinked through the mess, furious and caught completely off-guard, while Sirius’s laughter rang out, dark and victorious.

Severus felt an icy lump in his throat — that disgusting, long-familiar feeling crashed over him again as he became the target of someone’s mockery. Inside, a storm of irritation and bitterness churned, but he gripped his emotions tightly, unwilling to show Sirius even the slightest vulnerability.

Calmly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, he bent down to the drawer under the desk and pulled out some wet wipes. His hands trembled slightly, but he tried not to reveal it. Slowly, he began wiping the ink stains from his face — cold, sticky marks that seemed to try to etch themselves into his memory.

Sirius stood nearby, grinning broadly, clearly enjoying his little prank. His eyes sparkled with mischief and amusement, but there was something predatory in that fun — as if he wasn’t just playing around, but testing Severus’s limits.

Severus didn’t raise his eyes, unwilling to play along. Instead, he focused on the movements of his hands, trying to erase the stains as quickly as possible, desperate to rid himself of the feeling that he was once again a toy in someone else’s hands.

Severus kept his face carefully neutral, though inside a cold knot tightened in his stomach. With slow, deliberate movements, he reached down to the drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a pack of damp wipes. His fingers trembled just slightly as he peeled one free, but he didn’t let it show.

“Congratulations, very funny,” he said softly, voice low but sharp, as he began to scrub the stubborn black ink from his cheek. The cold, sticky stains seemed to cling stubbornly, as if mocking him.

Sirius leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes sparkled with mischief—and something darker, like he enjoyed testing Severus’s patience.

“How many IQ points did you lose while coming up with such a hilarious joke?” Severus asked, never looking up, focusing instead on removing the blotches as quickly as possible.

Sirius chuckled, the sound laced with venom. “About as many as you did, probably, when you decided to join Voldemort.”

Severus’s hands paused for a moment, the harsh words slicing through the cool air between them. He finally met Sirius’s gaze, eyes cold and steady.

“Keep your poison to yourself, Black,” Severus said quietly. “Besides, you've always been bad at making them.”

Sirius’s smirk deepened, but he said nothing more, letting the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken grudges.

The ink was finally wiped away, but something else had faded along with it — now Sirius could clearly see the large, yellow bruise spreading from Severus’s temple down toward his eye. The discoloration stood out stark and ugly against Severus’s pale skin, an unwelcome testament to some unseen violence.

For a moment, Sirius tensed, his carefree facade flickering. The memory of Lily’s warning echoed in his mind — how she had told him that the neighbor’s father could be cruel, unpredictable.

Severus didn’t meet his gaze. His eyes stayed fixed on the counter, cold and unreadable, as if daring Sirius to say anything.

The tension hung thick in the air, heavier than before. Sirius’s smile faded slightly, the playful glint in his gaze dimmed, replaced by a flicker of unease that he tried to mask. He shifted his weight, his broad shoulders tense beneath the black hoodie, the light catching on the sharp lines of his jaw.

Severus remained still, his posture rigid as ever, avoiding any direct glance. The faintest tightening of his jaw betrayed the storm beneath his calm exterior. His fingers absently traced the edge of the fading ink stains, as if trying to erase more than just the marks on his skin.

Sirius took a careful step closer, lowering his voice to something almost conversational, though his tone was laced with a teasing edge. “Our princess doesn't get along too well with makeup. What is this war trophy?”

Severus’s eyes flickered briefly toward him, guarded and wary, then turned away. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words. Sirius waited, patient but insistent, as if daring Severus to say more.

The bruise throbbed faintly, a silent testimony to something deeper than a joke gone wrong. Sirius studied the tension in Severus’s shoulders, the subtle ways he clenched his fists, sensing the wall he was facing. Yet, despite the tension, there was no rush—just a steady presence, a quiet invitation to break through the silence when Severus was ready.

The air between them thickened, shadows deepening in the corners of the cramped room as silence stretched beyond comfort. Sirius’s playful facade faded completely, replaced by a gravity that seemed to weigh down the space itself. His gaze hardened, sharp and searching, no longer masked by teasing smirks.

Severus shifted slightly, the faintest tremor running through his fingers as they rested on the edge of the desk. His breath hitched—barely perceptible—but enough to betray the storm beneath the calm. For a moment, the walls felt like they were closing in, the stale scent of old paper and dust suddenly oppressive.

Sirius leaned closer, voice dropping to a low murmur that barely broke the silence. “Whatever’s behind that bruise, it’s not just from a careless bump, is it?”

Severus’s eyes flicked up sharply, a flash of something raw and vulnerable breaking through the usual guarded mask. Then, just as quickly, he pulled back, retreating behind the cold barrier of indifference. His voice was barely a whisper, strained and tight. “It’s nothing. Just an accident.”

But Sirius didn’t let him go. He could see the lie in the way Severus avoided his gaze, the subtle clench of his jaw, the faint paling of his face. The weight of unspoken pain hung heavily between them, thick as fog.

“Who was it?” Sirius pressed, voice low but insistent.
For a brief moment, Severus thought he caught a flicker of something like an unhealthy obsession in Sirius’s eyes.

“A man. As usual.”

“Who exactly?”

Severus’s lips curled in a bitter, almost tired smile.

“Want to collab? No problem. You’ve already been a guest at my place.”

The words hung heavy in the air, sharp and laden with meaning. Sirius’s expression tightened, the playfulness drained away completely. He took a slow breath, weighing the truth behind Severus’s curt deflection.

The room grew colder, the tension thicker, as if the past—unspoken and dark—had crept right into their shared space. Neither dared push further just yet, both caught in the fragile balance between confrontation and silence.

The silence between them was suddenly broken by the soft chime of the shop’s bell. Both Severus and Sirius turned their heads toward the entrance as a young man stepped inside, lugging an enormous, overstuffed bag slung over one shoulder. He moved with purpose toward the counter.

Severus instinctively shifted, trying to hide his bruised face behind a curtain of dark hair, the stubborn yellow bruise threatening to reveal itself. He didn’t want any unnecessary questions.

The young man reached the counter, breathing slightly heavy from the weight of the bag. Without hesitation, he pulled out a small, worn clipboard and a package, handing it over to Severus.

“But I didn’t order anything,” Severus said quietly, still avoiding eye contact.

The courier glanced at the clipboard. “The address on the package says this shop, and it’s marked to be delivered to the clerk here,” he said politely, nodding toward Severus.

Severus took the package, his fingers brushing against the cold wrapping. The air between them felt charged, and Sirius watched silently, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Severus glanced up, narrowing his eyes as he asked the courier, “Do you know who sent this?”

The young man shrugged, shaking his head. “Never saw the sender’s face. The package was waiting for me at the hotel room number. Nothing else.”

Without another word, the courier turned and slipped out of the shop, the bell’s chime fading behind him.

Severus and Sirius remained standing in uneasy silence, their gazes fixed on the parcel resting on the counter between them. The air thickened with tension—both men remembered those silent calls, the ominous warnings that came without words but with a weight heavier than any spoken threat.

Sirius broke the silence, voice low but edged with intrigue. “If you don’t want to open it, I can.”

His eyes locked on Severus, unhidden curiosity flickering behind that familiar, dangerous smile. The moment stretched—tense, charged—as if the box held not just a delivery, but a secret waiting to be unearthed.

Severus shook his head slowly, signaling that everything was fine, though his hands trembled slightly as he carefully peeled back the wrapping of the package. Inside, he found a folded note resting atop a small container. Without reading the note, he set it aside gently, his eyes flickering with unease.

Sirius leaned in, snatching the note and scanning its contents aloud with a teasing tone: “You’re not eating well.”

His gaze shifted sharply to Severus, immediately noticing how pale the other had grown. The usual composure was replaced by something raw—something like terror—etched deeply across his face.

“What is it?” Sirius asked quietly, voice suddenly stripped of its usual mockery, replaced by genuine concern.

Slowly, Severus reached into the box again and pulled out the container. It was a modest, unassuming lunchbox—his lunch. The very meal he had prepared himself before the shift started, the one he had forgotten at home that morning.

For a moment, the silence between them was suffocating, charged with more than just the forgotten meal. It was a quiet reminder of something deeper, a crack in Severus’s carefully maintained defenses.

“He was at my place,” Severus whispered, barely audible, his voice cracking like a fragile thread.

And then he remembered that he had once found a strange note in his room. Then he thought for a long time and decided that Tobias had left it. He couldn't get used to the idea of being pestered in his own room. The handwriting wasn't familiar, but Severus didn't remember ever seeing Tobias at a letter. But now he recognizes those small, scratchy letters.

Just like that time.

Someone was in his house with him and Severus has no idea who it was. He can't hear or see him.

But that someone was there.

Immediately, the panic seized him like a vice. His chest tightened unbearably, and his breaths came in short, jagged gasps. The walls seemed to tilt and close in, the air thick and stifling. His hands shook violently, fingers curling as if clawing for something solid to hold onto, but there was only emptiness.

His vision flickered, edges darkening, sounds distorting — even Sirius’s presence felt distant, like a fading echo. The chaotic whirlwind inside him threatened to swallow every rational thought.

Then, through the haze, a calm voice cut through, close to his ear.

“Breathe,” Sirius whispered firmly, stepping closer behind the counter. His hand rested lightly on Severus’s trembling shoulder, grounding him.

Severus tried to obey, forcing slow inhales and exhales, but his chest still felt tight, his body rigid. The panic didn’t lift immediately; it clung to him stubbornly, an unwelcome shadow.

Sirius’s eyes flicked down to the package lying on the counter, his brow furrowing in confusion. He muttered under his breath, “What the hell is this?”

He glanced back at Severus, who was visibly shaking, struggling to steady his breath. “Hey, hey,” Sirius said softly, voice low but steady, “it’s okay. Just keep breathing.”

Severus nodded faintly, muscles taut, hands clutching the edge of the counter like a lifeline. His breaths came slower, but the tremor in his body remained.

Sirius’s expression was a mix of concern and disbelief as he looked again at the mysterious parcel — a silent question hanging between them, thick with unease.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Severus felt the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat begin to ease, though the pounding still echoed painfully in his ears. The sharp, suffocating grip of panic loosened its hold just enough for his ragged breathing to find a fragile rhythm — shallow, yet steadier than before. His limbs, once trembling like leaves in a storm, were now merely shaking with exhaustion, the fight inside him spent but far from over.

He remained pressed against the counter, hands clenched as if holding himself together, but his senses were slowly beginning to realign. It was then that he became aware of Sirius’s presence behind him — a solid, warm presence that contrasted sharply with the cold dread that still clung to his skin. The faint heat radiating from Sirius’s body seeped through Severus’s thin shirt, a quiet but undeniable comfort. The weight of that nearness, the slight brush of Sirius’s breath as he leaned in just enough to speak softly, grounded Severus in a way no words could.

For a brief moment, irrational thoughts slipped through the fog in his mind — thoughts that seized upon the simplest truths as shields against the creeping darkness. With Black, I am safe . The thought repeated like a mantra, fragile but persistent. He is bigger, stronger, taller. That solid frame looming behind him was a bulwark, a fortress against whatever nameless terror prowled beyond the walls of the shop. He has a wand — a weapon. And Severus? He had none of these things. No strength to shield himself, no magic to wield, just the brittle shell of his own frailty.

The contrast was painfully clear. The cold reality gnawed at him beneath that fleeting warmth. The protection he felt was tentative, like a thread barely holding a tautrope in place. The shadows in his mind, the whispers of old fears, crept back into his thoughts like icy fingers threading through his chest.

“What if it wasn’t just at my home?” The thought was a sudden stab, a poison dart in the calm. “What if it’s coming here? What if I’m never safe anywhere?”

The claustrophobia returned with renewed force, pressing in on his lungs, squeezing the air out. The steady warmth behind him now felt distant — an illusion. His vision blurred, the edges dimming once more as the shadows twisted and writhed in the corners of his mind.

His breath caught, now shorter and more desperate than before. The chest tightened, contracting like a trap, refusing to release. Cold sweat beaded at his temples, his fingers flexing spasmodically as the panic surged back, fiercer this time — unrelenting.

Sirius’s hand tightened on Severus’s shoulder, grounding him again, but this time Severus felt himself slipping deeper into the abyss. The warmth was no longer a comfort but a fading light he struggled to reach.

The store around them seemed to dissolve into silence, save for the frantic thumping of Severus’s heart, pounding a frantic rhythm of fear and helplessness. The irrational, terrifying thoughts clawed at him relentlessly: "You are alone. You are defenseless. You cannot run."

And in that moment, Severus felt completely, utterly vulnerable — a fragile shadow cowering beneath the immense weight of a world that wanted to break him.

Sirius’s eyes flicked around the cramped, dimly lit shop with sharp, searching intensity. Every shelf, every shadow, every corner was scrutinized as if the answer to this sudden storm of fear might be lurking just beyond sight. His gaze settled on the floorboards, the windowpanes, the faint glitter of dust motes caught in the uneven light. Nothing. No one else was here.

Turning his attention to the street outside, Sirius peered through the glass. The night sprawled beyond, cool and indifferent, lit only by the intermittent flicker of streetlamps casting long, lazy shadows over empty pavements. The quiet hum of the city was distant and hollow. No footsteps, no figures slipping in the dark—just silence and light.

Then, the tension in his arms shifted. Severus, fragile and trembling in his grasp, began to choke again, breath hitching in shallow, ragged gasps. Instinctively, Sirius lowered his hands from the tense, rigid shoulders down to Severus’s narrow waist. His fingers splayed wide, curling gently but firmly, pulling the smaller man closer, allowing the slight, trembling body to press against his chest. The contact was grounding—not just for Severus, but for Sirius too.

In that tight embrace, Sirius’s mind raced. He had never seen Snape like this—so utterly undone by fear, so broken by some unseen torment. It unsettled him, stirred a fierce protective instinct. What could frighten Severus so deeply, so completely? What ghosts haunted the edges of his thoughts, the corners of his nights? Sirius felt the weight of those questions pressing down hard, an ache settling low in his chest.

He glanced down at Severus’s form, small and fragile in his arms. His own large palms almost entirely wrapped around Severus’s slim waist, fingers barely touching but enough to anchor them both in the moment. The top of Severus’s dark hair brushed just below Sirius’s chin, the contrast between their sizes striking. Severus, so delicate and slight, seemed almost a child here—vulnerable in a way Sirius had never seen before.

An unhealthy thought visited him at that moment.

He's the only one capable of making that little spiteful thing shake and tremble.

No matter from what.

Severus was always unusual. So unusual that he made himself want to be. Want to hurt, want to laugh, want to see what he does and what he's capable of. Want to tear him down, want to kill him. Just want.

Now Severus has a secret admirer. And Severus makes Sirius want to compete with this anonymous admirer to see who can get this little mess the fastest.

“Calmed down?” Sirius asked softly, suddenly feeling slender, cold fingers sliding over his palms. The touch was tentative—fingertips pressing lightly, almost as if asking him to let go. But Sirius didn’t. His grip remained firm, unyielding.

A slow smile curved his lips, his voice light and teasing. “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into something interesting.”

Severus shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to press the back of it into Sirius’s chest. His dark eyes met Sirius’s with a quiet vulnerability that made the air between them taut and fragile. “Why don’t you leave?” His voice was low, almost gentle—a stark contrast to the usual sharpness. ”Why you keep coming back?”

Sirius chuckled, the sound warm but edged with a certain thrill.

“Because for once, I'm having fun.”

Severus slipped out of Sirius’s tight hold, now eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Sirius snorted quietly, clearly annoyed that Severus had pulled away, and made no effort to hide it.

“What do you suggest?” Severus asked, his tone cautious but firm.

“Firstly, we get rid of this trash.” Without hesitation, Sirius strode over to the corner and flung the package into the trash bin with a sharp flick of his wrist. The crumpled box landed with a dull thud, its presence abruptly erased from the room. “Secondly,” Sirius said, casting another quick, deliberate glance around the shop, as if searching for hidden eyes or secrets lurking in the shadows, “you’re going to tell me what exactly is going on here, who was calling you before, and then—well, we’ll try to track down your devoted little fan.” His voice was low, tinged with a dark amusement but laced with determination.

Outside, a sudden rain began to fall, soft droplets quickly turning into a steady drizzle. A pack of stray dogs scattered, seeking refuge under the nearest trees and parked cars, their wet fur glistening in the dim streetlights. Passing vehicles slowed, windshield wipers swiping rhythmically to clear the growing sheets of water.

From the shadows across the street, someone watched intently through the glass storefront. The two figures inside—the taller one steady and commanding, the smaller one tense and restless—stood framed by the flickering lights and the soft blur of rain, their quiet conversation unnoticed by the world around them, but fully observed by the silent sentinel lurking just beyond the veil of night.

Chapter Text

The morning was gray, heavy, and damp from the rain that was still lightly falling, streaking the windows with dull trails. The world outside the shop seemed faded—colorless and silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation of something unsettling, something lingering. Inside, it smelled faintly of damp paper and ink, with a touch of rotting leaves carried in from the street.

Sirius stood leaning against the doorframe, tired and slightly unshaven. His gaze slid over Severus—who was perched on the edge of the counter, arms crossed, hair disheveled, the shadows under his eyes speaking of a sleepless night. The bruise on his face had deepened, now blooming a dark, mottled brown.

“We’ll stop at a motel,” Sirius said calmly, though his tone carried quiet resolve. “Somewhere quiet. We need to figure out what we need to do next.”

Severus looked up, skepticism etched deep into the lines of his face. He gave a small shake of his head, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.

“I need to go home,” he said dully, almost apologetically. It wasn’t demanding, nor firm—just a flat statement, as if that place was the only one left he could return to, regardless of the cost.

Sirius straightened. His face hardened; his voice followed—sharper, but not louder.

“Why?” he asked. “So that man can finish what he started when he put half your face in a bruise?”

Severus flinched. It wasn’t a direct accusation, but it landed like one. Sirius had sunk his claws into a part of his life that had always remained unspoken—never confessed, never acknowledged.

He looked away, retreating into that private maze of thoughts where no one, not even Sirius, had a right to tread. But the silence stretched too long.

“It’s my home,” he finally muttered. “My things are there. My life is there.”

Sirius stepped closer, almost flush with him. His voice softened, holding something close to pleading:

“You call that a life?”

Severus didn’t answer.

The silence that followed was thick, like the fog rolling in from the alley behind the shop — heavy, damp, and choking. Severus stared at the rain-streaked window, refusing to meet Sirius’s eyes. His jaw was tight, but there was a flicker in his expression, something small and raw, like a fault line threatening to split.

Sirius took a slow breath and ran a hand through his damp hair, glancing once toward the door as if he needed to put some distance between himself and the weight of Severus’s silence. But he didn’t move.

“You don’t owe that place anything,” he said finally, voice low and even, though laced with tension. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know that,” Severus replied, quietly. And maybe he did — logically. But logic didn’t matter much when you grew up fearing the sound of keys in the lock and with that, you're caressing the big hand that's stroking your hair and the low voice telling you how he’s proud of you, because you're the first in grades at your fucking school.

He pulled his arms tighter around himself. The counter under him was cold. The bruise ached dully under the skin.

“I just need to pick up a few things,” he added, barely audible. “Then I’ll— then I’ll come back.”

“Come back where?”

Sirius asked it too quickly, too sharply, and for a second, Severus blinked at him like he hadn’t expected the question. Like the concept of having a place to come back to was foreign.

“I don’t know,” Severus said, his voice a cracked whisper. “The shop, maybe. It’s quiet.”

“You’re not staying here alone.”

“Oh, look who it is,” Severus muttered with venom in his gentle voice. ”The boy saviour!” And then, almost tired. ”You’re not my keeper.”

Sirius stepped closer, arms crossed now, looking down at him, frowning like he was trying to do the math of something that wouldn’t add up.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he said. “You think going back there is going to help you sleep better at night? You think he hasn’t already figured out how much power he has over you?”

Severus’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. He hated how true it sounded. Hated how Sirius said it not with judgment, but with a strange, quiet anger — not at him, but at the situation.

At him.

“Look,” Sirius sighed and leaned against the edge of the counter beside Severus, his shoulder just barely brushing against his, “you come with me. We’ll stop by your place, fine. I’ll wait outside, or inside, or on the bloody roof if you want. You get what you need. And then we’re out. Motel, somewhere off-grid for a few days. Until we figure out what the hell’s going on.”

Severus hesitated. The thought of that — of Sirius being there, just outside, in reach — settled somewhere unfamiliar in his chest. Not comfort, exactly. But proximity to it.

He gave a small, reluctant nod. “Fine,” he said. “But you don’t come in.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. “Deal.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer. Outside, the rain picked up again, tapping at the windows like restless fingers.

“And Snape?” Sirius said suddenly. “Next time someone leaves you a meal from your own house or a note in your room while you sleep, maybe don’t keep it to yourself.”

Severus looked at him, tired and pale, but something in his eyes was alive — suspicious, haunted, but alive. He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

``

They walked in silence, wrapped in the dull gray light of early morning, through which a fine, persistent rain seeped. The city felt sleepy and foreign—shop windows still dark, the occasional car humming in the distance, and even the air seemed hesitant to break the silence.

Severus walked slightly ahead, arms were hanging loosely, shoulders hunched—as if the rain could hurt more than the thoughts tormenting his mind. Sirius followed close behind, step for step, restrained, almost quiet. They both avoided looking at each other, as if any attempt to speak could shatter the fragile balance between them.

Severus could feel Black with his whole body. His footsteps were heavier, more confident—he took up more space, seemed like a living barrier between Severus and the world. And despite the irritation, the prickly tension that always clung to Sirius, the fear that had pierced him the night before felt more distant now. As if being with someone—someone with strong hands and a straight back—could somehow block the feeling of being watched. The feeling of being tracked. The one who had left him food. Entered his house. Touched his things.

Sirius said nothing, but cast the occasional glance at Severus. He could feel those glances like heat under his skin. And still, he didn’t turn. The street was the same as ever—old, shabby, with peeling facades. Windows with no curtains, trash in the corners, rusted stairs.

A nearby gate creaked, and from behind a low, chipped fence, a man of about sixty looked out—gray-haired, short stubble, face lined with something heavy. He held a beer bottle in his hand and, spotting Severus, lazily saluted him with it, nodding:

"Morning, lad."

"Good morning, Mr. Barnes."

Sirius paused for a moment, studying the neighbor. The man looked harmless enough—tired, relaxed, almost good-natured. There was nothing in his soft features that suggested cruelty or threat. But Sirius never trusted first impressions. He’d already seen one quiet house with dark corners—and one basement rat with a face decorated by a yellow bruise.

He frowned and silently continued after Snape toward the door.

The doorknob was already in Severus’s hand when a voice called from behind:

"Hey, kid."

They both turned at once. John—still holding the same beer bottle, now about half-empty—leisurely approached the fence and leaned on it with one elbow. Despite his casual posture, there was a certain alertness in his voice.

"Tobias is at my place," he said. "Sitting on the couch, watching football. Seems to be in a decent mood. I was thinking I might take him with me for the weekend, to my brother’s place in Wales. Give you some peace and quiet around here."

Severus lowered his gaze, but something in his face softened. He nodded politely, almost gratefully:

"Thank you, John. That would be good."

"Always happy to help, kid." John smiled warmly, but his eyes had already shifted toward Sirius, standing a little behind. And in that very moment, something changed in his expression—the corners of his eyes tensed, his lips thinned, and the easy smile vanished without a trace.

Sirius noticed the shift immediately. His shoulders lifted ever so slightly—a barely perceptible movement, but the feeling of a predatory, measuring stare filled the air. He didn’t move, just stood there, chin slightly raised, and returned John’s look with a lazy, watchful gaze of his own.

"Hey," said John slowly, cautiously. "That wasn’t you hanging around here the other day, was it? Near the gate? Kept looking at the windows, disappeared around the back?"

For a moment, silence thickened between them.

Severus glanced quickly, nervously, at Sirius. The latter shook his head almost imperceptibly.

"It wasn’t him," Severus said evenly. "He just came by to help."

John looked back at Severus, then at Sirius again. His stare was heavy, as if trying to calculate something.

"Alright," he said at last, not sounding fully convinced. "Must’ve been my mistake."

Somewhere beyond the houses, a low, vague hum suddenly rose—at first indistinct, like the distant sound of approaching traffic, but it quickly became clear: it was voices. A few people came from the direction of the playground—older teenagers, a couple of adults, someone with a can in hand. One of them—a bulky guy in a worn-out hoodie—was the first to spot Severus.

“Well hello, fairy,” he called out, grinning. “Came out to show the newbie where your little flower shop is?”

His friends laughed—not loudly, but with that forced bravado that always reeked of cheap cruelty.

Sirius flinched—as if the air itself had delivered a blow—but didn’t step forward, just tensed. He shot a quick glance at the Slytherin. Severus stood motionless, his back slightly rigid. He didn’t respond.

“You could’ve at least dressed up,” the same guy continued. “Or do you take clients in your homewear? How much, princess?”

The laughter swelled, someone in the back slapped him on the shoulder in encouragement.

Severus, without lifting his head, slowly stepped away from the door. His movements weren’t sharp, but focused. Along the way, he stretched out his hand and, without a word, took the bottle from John’s grip. John reflexively pulled back a little—he hadn’t finished that! He didn’t say anything, just gave Sirius a look and then nodded toward the scene, as if to say, watch and learn, soft hands, this is how we handle things around here .

Severus headed toward the group—calmly, unhurriedly, as if he hadn’t heard a single word they’d said, as if it was just another day and he was merely taking a stroll. But there was focus in his step, a cold clarity. His fingers gripped the bottle neck tighter. He came just close enough—within striking distance.

The laughter began to fade. The guy in the hoodie tensed slightly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Sirius watched intently.

Severus stopped right in front of him. The smug grin on the guy’s face began to fade, turning into unease. The others stepped back slightly, unsure if this was still a joke—or something else.

Severus looked him in the eyes. Calm. Almost gentle.

“How would you prefer it?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper, but in the stillness of the courtyard, it rang clear. “On knees or lying down?”

There was a ripple of reaction behind them. Someone snorted, someone whistled, thinking it was a game, a witty comeback, something fun to escalate. But the guy—the instigator—froze. He tried to smirk, but there was a flicker of worry in his eyes. Still, he managed to say:

“Knees. Since you’re asking so nicely, princess.”

He didn’t even have time to blink.

The kick came fast—dirty, precise, right to the groin. The guy’s body folded like crumpled paper. He fell to his knees, choking, clutching his stomach.

Before any of his buddies could react, Severus had already raised his hand—and with a dry, glassy crack, smashed the bottle against his head. Glass shattered, foam and shards flying. The guy collapsed, swaying, nearly unconscious. His arm stretched weakly toward the ground, fingers trembling.

A moment of silence. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Severus straightened up and turned over his shoulder.

“John!” he called cheerfully. “How much was the beer?”

John, who’d been standing at the gate the whole time, slowly ran a hand down his face. His lips curled into a dry, not quite approving, but not surprised grin.

“Three fifty,” he said. “But for him—five.”

Severus nodded and crouched beside the guy, who was wheezing on the ground. He leaned in, as if to offer comfort.

“You asked how much it costs,” he whispered in his ear. “Now you know.”

"And you?" the black eyes swept over the rest of the company. They instinctively stepped back a little, startled not by the picture before them, but by the oh-so-gentle manner of speech of the man who had just smashed someone else's head in without blinking an eye.

Severus straightened slowly, shaking off the beer and blood from his fingers, and exhaled — calm and measured. A small, satisfied smile played on his lips, almost childlike in its mischief. He didn’t glance back at the group, didn’t toss out a threat or a warning. He simply turned — a light movement of his shoulders, like a dancer — and started walking back toward his house.

He moved easily, as if he hadn’t just left a boy sprawled on the pavement with a shattered bottle and half-conscious breath. As if he hadn’t silenced the entire courtyard with a few words and a single strike. His black hair swayed gently with each step, soft and neat. His back was straight, his stride calm — but carried a subtle defiance, graceful and deliberate. He was completely pleased with himself. Entirely.

Sirius didn’t move.

He watched him — devoured him with his eyes — as if something had cracked open in his chest. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. His gaze was ravenous, burning, fixated on every little detail: the way Severus tossed his hair back, how lazily he stepped over a stone, how — for just a moment — he looked toward Sirius, then away again, as if he knew Sirius was watching. As if he was teasing him.

That was it.

Exactly it.

Sirius didn’t need to wonder. He could feel the tremble rising in his core. That was what he’d always been missing. Not tenderness. Not peace — to hell with that.

Spark. Storm. Madness.

Just like the one in him.

And now he knew:

Severus was his.

Severus didn’t say a word to Sirius — he simply brushed his elbow in passing, and Sirius, without hesitation, followed. John was still standing by the gate, chewing on his cigarette. Severus turned back, as if nothing had happened, and nodded at him in a completely calm, almost polite way:

“Bye, John.”

“Yeah.” John exhaled.

The gate creaked softly behind them and shut with a quiet click. Sirius followed at his heels, never more than a step behind. Severus moved with ease — almost feline — and there was something insultingly graceful about it now, especially with the lingering echo of what had just occurred in every step.

The moment the door closed behind them, silence fell — sharp, unnatural, like every sound had been scrubbed from the air. Only the faint crunch underfoot — old plaster crumbling somewhere — broke it.

Severus stopped in the hallway, glancing toward the sitting room. His gaze moved over the bookshelf, the table, the vase by the wall, the pillow on the couch. He didn’t touch anything — just looked. Checked. As if something was supposed to be gone.

Sirius said nothing. He stood by the wall, partially in shadow, watching. His eyes never left the Slytherin’s figure — shoulders, waist, fingers, hair — he absorbed every detail with hungry attention, as if trying to memorize him down to the last thread.

Severus didn’t turn around.

“I remember telling you to wait at the gate,” he said at last, quietly, almost indifferently. “But the locals would’ve eaten you alive.”

Sirius gave a soft huff, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“How touching.”

“It’s not concern,” Severus replied calmly, walking past, deeper into the house. “It’s caution.”

He glanced back for a moment — a fleeting look over Sirius, cold, but not entirely distant.

“You and they—you’re all mad in the same way.”

In five minutes Severus appeared again in the doorway almost soundlessly, like a shadow sliding out of the corridor’s depths. He looked just the same: a bruise on his face, black hair falling past his shoulders, terribly thin. He leaned against the doorframe, head slightly tilted, watching Sirius with a barely noticeable smirk — not mocking, more like waiting. Then, slowly, he raised a hand and lazily curled a finger, beckoning Sirius to follow.

Without a word.

Sirius stood. Not because he’d been called — but because he’d been led. Severus was already turning, vanishing up the stairs, and Sirius had no choice but to follow.

Upstairs, the air smelled of floorboards — dry, dusty wood, books, and old magic. Severus’s room was small and austere, almost sterile: a neat bed, shelves lined with evenly spaced books, a chest by the wall. Everything about it said: no one lives here — they endure.

Severus didn’t look back. He entered, crossed the room, and stopped by the wardrobe. He pointed at the bed with one finger.

”Sit.”

Sirius smirked, but obeyed like a dog allowed inside the house. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, watching Severus’s every move. The latter opened the wardrobe, tossed his frog-pinned backpack onto the bed, and began packing — carefully, methodically.

Silence stretched between them. Until a voice finally broke it — quiet, cold, almost clinical:

”While I’m packing, you’re going to tell me what all this altruism is about.”

Sirius didn’t answer immediately. Severus turned his head, glancing at him over his shoulder:

”We’re not friends. Not even comrades. So why would you help me?”

Sirius looked up at him. Slowly, tilting his head a little, as if trying to read him through and through.

”What if I said I just felt like it?”

Severus returned to his packing.

”Then you’d be lying,” he said, almost bored.

”Maybe,” Sirius agreed. ”But you’d still believe me. Because there’s no one else left to help you.”

Silence fell again, but now it carried something different — as if someone had subtly shifted the line between rejection and desire.

Severus continued sorting through his things in silence for a while longer. He moved with deliberate precision, selecting only a few items — the bare essentials — and placing them into his worn backpack. Sirius watched, noting how little he took, how practiced and minimal the collection was. Like someone who always packed to leave at a moment’s notice.

"Thank you for the reminder of my unfortunate circumstances," Severus finally said, his voice smooth, almost gentle.

He didn’t turn to look at Sirius.

"But seriously, what is this? Another prank with Potter? Did someone pay you? Did you lose a bet? Or have you finally gone completely mad?"

Sirius let out a quiet laugh — low, amused, a little rough at the edges.

"I told you already, didn’t I? Boredom. Entertainment. Nothing nobler than that."

Severus glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

Sirius tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with something sharp and wolfish.

"Seems to me this mysterious someone you’re running from scares you more than I ever did," he said, voice low, almost purring.

A chill ran down Severus’s spine — not from fear, but from the way the words curled in the air, too close, too knowing. ”I’m losing my favorite game."

Severus let out a long, tired sigh. He didn’t argue, didn’t react with sarcasm or venom — just that one breath, heavy and worn, like someone who’d long since accepted the absurdity of his situation.

Sirius, unbothered, had started poking through the half-packed belongings on the bed. He picked up a faded green long-sleeve shirt, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

"Merlin, do you ever buy anything that doesn’t look like it came from the grave of a Victorian orphan?" he said, grinning.

"Hands off." Severus snatched the shirt from his grip with more irritation than force. "We have a few days. My father’s out of town."

He turned back to his bag, smoothing the folded fabric before tucking it carefully inside. His voice, when it came again, was calm, clipped — businesslike.

"Since you’re so eager to play games with my — how did you put it — fan, then fine. I’ll tell you everything I remember. But not a word to anyone. I’ve had enough of those filthy Aurors sniffing around already."

At that moment, a sharp tapping noise startled both of them.

Their heads snapped toward the sound — the window.

Outside, wings fluttered against the glass. A large tawny owl hovered there, tilting its head in that eerie, too-intelligent way. A letter was tied to its leg, sealed in dark wax.

Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Severus opened the window with a soft creak. The owl didn't wait for pleasantries — it dropped the letter directly into his hands and soared off into the gray evening, wings cutting sharply through the air.

He stared at the envelope for a moment, fingers brushing over the seal.

"It’s from Dumbledore," he murmured.

Sirius raised a brow, clearly surprised. "Dumbledore? Why the hell would he write to you ?"

Severus ignored the tone and carefully broke the wax seal. The parchment inside was smooth, high quality — too formal for anything casual. As he unfolded it, the paper gave off a faint shimmer, and then —

A voice began to speak aloud from the letter, calm and familiar, tinged with affection and careful intent. It was Dumbledore's.

"Dear Severus, I hope this letter finds you in good health and not too burdened by your current obligations. I have been informed that a certain variable has entered your life — one we must locate promptly before it causes further harm."

Severus blinked slowly. His grip on the letter tightened just a fraction.

"Once you’ve resolved the matter, my boy, I will be expecting you in my office for a rather special proposal."

There was a pause, almost a breath.

"I’m terribly sorry that I cannot interfere with your observer status at present, but rest assured — we all hope it will be temporary."

The letter faded into silence, the shimmering ink vanishing from the page. Severus folded it again, far more carefully than he had opened it.

Sirius was still staring at him.

"So," he said slowly, "Dumbledore writes you letters that talks and calls you “my boy” ?"

"Shut up," Severus muttered, slipping the letter into his pocket. His face gave nothing away — but the tips of his ears were slightly pink.

Sirius cocked his head, eyes narrowing with exaggerated delight.

“Are you blushing?”

The smirk spreading across his face was unbearable — all teeth and glee. He stood and stepped closer, like a predator scenting weakness.

“Oh, this is precious,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Should I start calling you something too, then? What about baby?” He pulled a face. “No, too generic. Hm, sweetheart? Pumpkin?”

He was outright laughing now, hands in his pockets, circling the edge of the bed like a wolf around a campfire.

“Sugar plum? No, no, wait— honeycake. Merlin, you’d hex me on the spot.”

He looked like he could go on for hours — inventing the most absurd pet names just to see Severus squirm.

And Severus almost squirm.

Almost, because he pulled himself together and just turned slowly, — his voice calm:

“Call me a pineapple corer for all I care. Just shut your damn mouth.”

Sirius choked on his laugh and wheezed, folding slightly with how hard he started cackling.

“A pineapple—? Merlin’s balls, you’re insufferable,” he managed through his laughter.

“Glad we agree,” Severus muttered, returning to his packing like nothing had happened.

Severus had just zipped the rucksack closed, his movements precise, deliberate — the last motion in a sequence of control — when familiar hands slid around his waist.

He stiffened instantly, flinching as memory surged: cold ink, a laugh, a stupid joke.

But these hands didn’t shove or smear. They held.

Firmly. Quietly.

Before he could twist away or hiss a threat, a low whisper brushed the shell of his ear:

"Someone’s standing outside your window right now."

The voice was quiet, but razor-sharp with tension. Sincerity wrapped in a breath.

"I set up perimeter alerts when we entered. It's not the old man. But I can’t see them — I can only feel them."

Severus froze.

Everything inside him — heart, breath, even thought — paused like a string pulled taut. Not a sound escaped him. The silence in his bones rang louder than the world outside.

The fingers at his waist shifted, subtly sliding beneath the edge of his thin jumper, warm against skin that hadn’t been touched in too long — but the gesture wasn’t crude. It was strategic.

Calming.

"So, love," Sirius murmured, lips barely moving, "pretend we’re too occupied to notice. Laugh, talk. Let them think they’re watching something intimate, something private."

He pulled Severus just a little closer, their bodies flush now, heartbeat to heartbeat.

"Then I’m apparating us to the nearest motel," Sirius said, and there was iron beneath the velvet of his voice. "And after that we can discuss your fan club in peace."

Severus drew in a breath, slow and steady, then let out a practiced, almost scoffing sigh — the kind of exhale he’d use if Sirius had just said something infuriatingly stupid.

Which he often did.

"You're insufferable," Severus muttered, just loud enough to carry past the walls. But there was the faintest upward curl at the edge of his lips, a calculated smirk as he tilted his head, pressing subtly back into the warmth behind him.

"Flattery," Sirius replied easily, voice light as if this were all part of a long-standing game. He moved with practiced casualness, still holding Severus with one arm, while the other reached toward the desk.

Severus, barely moving his lips, gave him a look and nodded toward a small grouping of items: a few slim glass vials, each glowing faintly, and a ring of dull iron keys.

Sirius leaned in a bit, muttering something absurd under his breath — something about "sulky little crybabies and their trust issues" — as his hand slid over the desk. With a deft sweep, he gathered the vials and keys into his palm, then passed them to Severus.

Severus, careful not to seem rushed, slipped them into a side pocket of the bag.

It might have worked.

They might’ve pulled it off.

But then—

From beneath the bed came a low crackle. A burst of static like bones grinding together, followed by the warbled, ghostlike melody of a song long forgotten.

A woman’s voice, distant and trembling, crackled through:

I can't sleep, I can't breathe, til you’re mine completely.

The sound wavered, flickered, cut in and out like the world’s worst signal — but it kept going. The haunting rhythm slithered through the room, wrapping cold fingers around Severus’ spine.

His blood went still.

That wasn’t his radio.

He didn’t have a radio.

The only one he knew — an ancient thing with cracked dials  — belonged to the storeroom at work.

It had been missing.

Severus went rigid in Sirius’ grip.

Sirius noticed immediately. His grip shifted, tightened.

Then Severus heard it — Sirius’ voice again, calm and dark and quick as a spell:

"Time to go."

There was no chant, no wind-up, no signal.

Just a sickening twist of space — and the bedroom vanished in a sharp, silent blink.

The room did not return to silence.

The moment they vanished, a vacuum seemed to settle — not peace, but absence, like breath being held too long. The kind of silence that creaks. That listens back.

The soft hum of dark magic clung to the walls like mold. Dust motes, disturbed by the apparition, hung frozen in the stale air, shimmering faintly in the low light. The door, left ajar, gently swung, hinges croaking with a sound like a dying breath.

From beneath the bed, the radio kept playing.

I’ll find you.

The voice was warbled now, dragged out of pitch, bleeding through a static so thick it sounded wet — like something crawling through wires, trying to imitate a song it didn’t quite understand.

The song skipped.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

And then it began to rewind , screeching backwards as if the room itself refused to move forward, as if something — or someone — was winding time tighter and tighter around a noose.

The air grew colder. The window fogged from the inside.

And something ran down the hallway. A shadow that had no form, but a face and a voice.

It was here.

Whatever it was.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

The air cracked as they reappeared in a narrow alley just behind the motel — the kind of place that smelled like asphalt and sunburnt rust. It was midday, and the heat pressed down in waves, shimmering above the tarmac and biting through their clothes like dry steam. The motel stood squat and peeling against the blue sky, its sign missing several letters.

Sirius didn’t say a word. He grabbed Severus by the elbow, not roughly, but like he wasn’t about to let go, and led them out of the alley and down the street. A short walk brought them to a tiny convenience store nestled between a pawn shop and a nail salon, both closed, both forgotten by time. The bell above the door gave a single anemic ring when they stepped inside.

The cool air hit them like a relief spell. Severus exhaled, eyes adjusting to the fluorescent lighting that made everything look slightly green.

It smelled of plastic, overly sweet detergent, and something fried long ago. Sirius moved through the aisles with casual familiarity, his presence too large for the cramped space. He picked up snacks without hesitation, tossing them into the wire basket. Severus followed silently, hands tucked in his sleeves, eyes scanning the room for exits, cameras, anything off.

Sirius stopped by the noodle shelf, grabbing two packs of instant seafood ramen. Severus froze, barely perceptible, his eyes narrowing.

That was his favorite.

He never told him that.

And here we go. Paranoia again.

He said nothing at first. But when they reached the counter, it hit him. Severus hissed under his breath, voice all sharp corners and sandpaper:

"I could’ve had a seafood allergy."

Sirius didn't even blink. He glanced at Severus, smirk tugging lazily at his mouth.

"Yeah. Could’ve."

"Bastard," Severus muttered, stuffing his hands deeper into his sleeves, but the corner of his mouth twitched — just barely.

They stepped back out into the noon light, which was even harsher now. The heat wrapped around them again like a second skin. Sirius carried the bag of food without offering to share the load, and Severus didn’t ask.

For a moment, they stood there, not moving — sunlight baking the pavement around them, the hum of distant traffic the only sound. And yet, there was something quiet in the way they didn’t speak. Something like understanding. Something like a truce.

At least for now.

Finally, Sirius led them across the parking lot, sun glaring off the hoods of faded cars. The motel looked even more run-down up close — paint peeling, one shutter half-hanging, and the air reeking faintly of chlorine and cigarette smoke.

Inside, the lobby was dim and cooled by an overworked ceiling fan that creaked with every rotation. Behind the reception desk sat a woman in her forties with bleached hair and a permanent scowl, flipping through a tabloid. Her eyes lit up the second she saw Sirius.

"Well, well. Look who finally crawled back from the dead." She grinned, leaning her elbows on the counter. "Didn’t think I’d see your pretty face again."

Sirius smirked like it was a reflex, all charm and arrogance. "You know me. Can’t stay away from the classics."

"You still owe me for the lamp you broke in '97," she added, pointing a chewed-up pen at him.

"Put it on my tab," he winked.

They exchanged a few more words — half-teasing, half-coded history — while Severus stood a step back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

As Sirius signed the check-in form and took the keys, Severus muttered under his breath, “I don’t even want to know how she knows you.”

"Shame," Sirius replied, pocketing the key cards, "because I could tell you all about how many gorgeous women I’ve—"

Before he could finish the sentence, Severus groaned, turned away, and firmly covered his ears with both hands.

"No. Nope. Don’t want to know. Not listening."

Sirius chuckled low in his throat, the sound warm and infuriating.

"Suit yourself, love."

They headed toward their room — second floor, end of the corridor, two separate beds, one light bulb flickering overhead. The silence between them was familiar now. But it didn’t mean the tension was gone.

Not even close.

They stepped into the motel room, the door clicking shut behind them with a tired groan. The air inside was stuffy, laced with stale detergent and old wood polish. One bed sagged slightly in the middle; the other, pushed up near the window, looked marginally newer — cleaner sheets, fluffier pillows, less likely to collapse in the night.

“I’m taking that one,” Sirius declared immediately, tossing his bag onto the better bed like he was claiming land. “I paid, I choose.”

Severus didn’t even bother to argue. He simply stopped in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at him with unimpressed detachment.

“Such chivalry,” he muttered. “The nobility of Gryffindor is truly unmatched.”

Sirius stretched, kicking off his boots with exaggerated satisfaction. “Call it reparations for a day with you, I saw you eyeing the saggy one. You like suffering.”

Severus rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t lodge in his skull. “You know what I like? Silence.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who moans in his sleep,” Sirius grinned.

“Excuse me?” Severus shot him a glare like a scalpel. “You’re confusing me with one of your motel conquests.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You’re much louder.”

Severus made a noise halfway between a scoff and an exhausted sigh, then turned to the small desk by the wall and began unpacking. His fingers moved with practiced precision — small vials, a folded notebook, a wand holster wrapped in oilcloth.

Then he reached for the stack of shirts he'd packed and froze.

They were pink.

All of them.

Pale rose, cotton candy, fuchsia. His entire wardrobe — neatly folded, slightly crumpled from the bag — now resembled the contents of a Muggle Barbie’s closet.

He blinked slowly. Once. Twice.

Then, with the flat calm of a man hanging by the last thread of his patience, he turned toward Sirius.

“Tell me,” he said, voice perfectly even, “how you managed to alter every single item of my clothing while I was in the room.”

Sirius was sprawled on his bed now, arms behind his head, watching with a smug sort of interest.

“I didn’t,” he said, far too casually. “It must’ve been the emotional weight of your angst. Even your shirts needed cheering up.”

Severus stared at him. Then at the clothes. Then back again.

“Change it back or I will smother you in your sleep with a pillow and then hang myself from a doorknob.”

Sirius flashed a grin. “Do it yourself, I’m note your lackey.”

Severus stood motionless for a moment, staring down at the pink button-up clutched between his fingers like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

Well, he had agreed to this. Willingly.

He had let Sirius Black — reckless, loud, irredeemably smug Sirius Black — drag him into this mess because, frankly, there was no one else. No one he trusted, no one with the reflexes or the nerve or the sheer infuriating persistence to handle what was coming.

And now, after barely twenty-four hours in the same vicinity as that demon in human’s clothing, he already wanted to Avada himself just for a sliver of silence.

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

With the sigh of a man sentenced to his own personal purgatory, Severus dropped the shirt back on the bed and pulled the rest of his garments from the bag with slow, methodical resignation. He held out one hand, palm forward, fingers steady in the air.

His voice was soft, clipped, focused:

“Chromareductum.”

A muted shimmer passed over the fabric, a pulse of dull white light — and just like that, the lurid pink bled away. Charcoal grey returned. Deep green. Stark black. His familiar palette slid back into place like the world had momentarily righted itself.

He allowed himself the faintest exhale of satisfaction.

Behind him, Sirius whistled.

“Shame,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head again. “You actually looked kind of approachable in dusty pink.”

Severus didn’t respond.

He just slowly lifted the newly restored black sweater and folded it with pristine precision — like someone preparing armor for war.

Some time later they sat on opposite beds, legs crossed or stretched out — takeout cartons balanced between knees, plastic forks scraping softly with every bite. The small motel room hummed with the rickety air conditioner’s effort, and the scent of cheap seafood and soy sauce hung in the air like a cloying ghost. Sirius ate like he hadn’t tasted real food in a week. Severus, on the other hand, picked at his meal with slow, deliberate movements, more preoccupied with thought than flavor.

“So,” Sirius said, mouth half-full, “start from the top.”

Severus shot him a look — one part exhaustion, one part irritation — but didn’t argue. He set the carton down on the bedside table and drew a steady breath.

“It started with things going missing,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “At first I thought I’d just misplaced them. Simple items — quills, potion vials, a book or two. But they kept vanishing and then coming back. Placed precisely where I usually leave them. The same exact angles. Even a hair out of place was corrected.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Sirius muttered, wolfing down another bite.

Severus continued, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Coughing or footsteps outside the window at night, rustling in the walls, I thought I was going crazy. I thought I'd seen him a couple of times in the parking lot near work. And then there were those calls. Never any voice on the other end. Just static. And sometimes breathing. Deep, slow breathing.”

Sirius glanced up sharply at that.

“And the notes,” Severus added, almost reluctantly. “Folded. Slipped under my door, or left inside my pockets. Always the same handwriting. Long, thin letters. Hooked tails. Deliberate, but unsteady.”

Sirius put down his food. “Can I see them?”

Severus hesitated — just a flicker — then reached down beside the bed. From an inner pocket of his bag, he pulled two creased pieces of parchment, carefully flattened and handed them over.

Sirius took them gingerly, his face darkening as he read. His lips moved in silence, tracing the words, his brow furrowed.

One read:

“You look very pretty today.”

The other:

“You forget to close the curtains, Severus. Do you want me to see?”

Sirius turned them over in his hands, examining the ink, the pressure marks, the slope of each letter. Then he froze, just slightly. His expression twitched — a wince, almost — but quickly smoothed into something unreadable.

“This handwriting,” he murmured, “there’s something about it. It reminds me of someone.”

Severus, still curled up with his knees pulled close, tilted his head. “Who?”

There was a long pause. Sirius stared at the note as though it were a riddle he didn’t want to solve.

“He died during the war,” he said at last, voice suddenly clipped. “No point digging that up.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was weighted. Thick. The kind of silence that settled like a fog and pressed down on your bones.

Severus didn’t push. Not yet. He simply reached forward, took the parchment from Sirius’s hands, and folded it back with unsettling care.

“At first I thought the notes were left by my parents, then I thought someone local was messing with me again,” continued Severus, voice lower now — not from secrecy, but from something heavier, like reluctance, or shame.

He set the folded parchments aside, gently, as if afraid they might move on their own. The room was still — even the air conditioner seemed to hush itself for a beat.

“I grew up with that kind of thing,” he went on, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of his sleeve. “Scratches on the door, broken windows, rocks through the letterbox. Curses scrawled in the dirt outside the gate. I thought maybe it started again. That someone remembered where I lived.”

Sirius looked over, chewing the inside of his cheek, all signs of humor drained from his face.

“And?” he asked, voice soft but steady. “Do you still think it’s someone from town?”

Severus shook his head once, sharply. “No. They were cruel, but stupid. This is obsessive. Meticulous. They know what matters to me. They know how I move, where I place things, how I think.”

His lips curled slightly in distaste.

“The handwriting’s the same in every note — no disguise. That’s not arrogance. That’s familiarity. Like they don’t need to hide.”

Sirius leaned back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. “And still you stayed there,” he muttered, not accusatory — more like disbelief masked as casual detachment.

Severus scoffed quietly. “Where else would I go?”

Sirius looked at him for a moment. Really looked — at the narrow shoulders drawn up in tension, the arms wrapped around his own ribs, the legs folded defensively beneath him like he expected the floor to vanish.

“You could’ve told someone,” Sirius said finally.

Severus snorted without humor. “Who? The Ministry? They’d laugh me out of the room. Dumbledore? He already did too much for me, at least I’m not in Azkaban.”

A pause. Then, very quietly: “And I wasn’t sure it wasn’t in my head.”

Sirius didn’t reply at once. Instead, he reached over to his side of the bed and retrieved the half-empty takeout box, took a mechanical bite, chewed thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said between bites, “if it is someone familiar — and they’re following you that closely — that means they’ve been inside.”

Severus’s eyes flicked up at him. “Inside where?”

“Your house,” Sirius said flatly. “More than once. You said they knew how you set things. That takes time. Observing. Or access.”

Severus went still.

He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe for a moment.

Then, in a near-whisper: “I can’t even guess.”

Sirius met his gaze.

"It's either someone you know all too well and would never think twice about," Sirius said, eyes narrowed, his tone edged with something darker now. "Or someone who is a complete stranger."

Severus’s gaze dropped to the wrinkled bedspread, to the empty carton resting on his knee again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, crinkling the waxy surface.

“And the most terrifying is the first one,” he whispered.

There was a stretch of silence after that. Not just quiet — something deeper. A suspended stillness, like the room itself was listening. Outside, a truck passed on the main road, the dull hum of its engine fading quickly, as if even the world didn’t want to linger here too long.

Sirius finally moved, sitting forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice lower.

“If this person’s been watching you for that long been inside, been in your things, then they’ve had every chance to hurt you. But they haven’t. Why?”

Severus shook his head, expression unreadable. “They don’t want to hurt me. Not yet.”

“That’s even worse,” Sirius muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “This isn’t just some sick game — it’s personal. Like they think they have a right to be near you.”

Severus’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. He looked down at his hands.

“You’re describing half the people I’ve ever met. Everyone thinks they own me in one way or another.”

Sirius stared at him, and for a moment — just a moment — there was a rare flash of something in his eyes. Something almost like pure anger.

“No,” he said. “This is different. This person isn’t obsessed with controlling you. They’re obsessed with being you . With knowing you better than you know yourself.”

Severus swallowed.

And didn’t deny it.

Sirius leaned back against the headboard, his arms folded loosely, eyes studying Severus like he was trying to read a page that kept shifting under his gaze.

“Did you try tracking them? I mean—magically?” he asked, tone casual, but laced with something sharper underneath.

Does he think I am that stupid?

But the question hit Severus like a pin to the spine.

His shoulders tensed — visibly — and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. The room, already quiet, dipped into something heavier. The kind of silence that felt alive, crawling into the corners, pressing in from the walls. Severus sat utterly still, as if deciding between fight and flight.

Sirius’s brows drew together, sensing the shift. “What? What's wrong?”

Severus inhaled slowly through his nose. “If I tell you…” he said, voice low and tight, “you have to swear not to use it against me. Not even as a joke.”

Sirius blinked, visibly caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

Severus looked up at him now — not pleading, not frightened, but something strained was pulling behind his dark eyes. “Swear on your friendship with Potter,” he said, voice steadier. “Swear you won’t use this to humiliate me. Not ever.”

The tension doubled instantly. Sirius’s face hardened — not in anger, but discomfort. It wasn’t a request he liked. Being asked to swear on that felt like a slap and a chain in one.

He didn’t answer immediately. His jaw worked.

But Severus didn’t look away.

Eventually, Sirius exhaled through his nose and gave a single nod, eyes narrowing. “Fine,” he said. “I swear on my friendship with James Potter that I won’t use it against you.”

Something eased in Severus’s posture, barely perceptible. But the weight didn’t leave him.

“My wand was confiscated,” he said at last, quietly. “Pending the end of the investigation.”

Sirius’s head snapped up. “I swear I know the other words too, but what?”

“I can’t perform anything more advanced than the basic domestic charms,” Severus went on, voice clipped now, the shame rising like bile. “Tracking, detection, protective barriers — all forbidden. I’m under magical restriction until the matter is resolved. I’m watched, Black.”

“Wait,” Sirius sat forward again, eyes wide. “So you're living completely muggle now.”

“I’m a person of interest,” Severus said bitterly. “I didn’t tell anyone, because they would think it’s possible I’ve staged this entire thing myself. Attention-seeking, focus shifting, call it what you like. And considering my past—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely toward himself, “—well, you know how eager the Ministry is to believe the worst.”

“Well, it’s really fucked up.”

And the silence that followed didn’t feel oppressive anymore.

It felt like a fuse, lit.

Finally, Sirius let out a long breath through his nose, something between exasperation and resignation, and pushed himself up from the bed. The mattress groaned in protest, and he stretched with a quiet grunt before casually reaching for the hem of his shirt.

“Lie down,” he said without looking at Severus.

He peeled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a lean, scarred torso — pale in the day light, lined with the half-faded ghosts of old curses and battles from old school days and the war. He tossed the shirt onto the bed behind him like it meant nothing and turned just enough to glance back with a crooked grin.

Severus stiffened immediately, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?” he asked, voice sharp with that brittle edge that meant he was seconds away from either bolting or hexing.

“Going to take a shower,” Black said, amusement curling in his voice like smoke. “Foreign concept, I’m sure.”

He was fully topless now, standing there barefoot in worn jeans that sat too low on his hips, looking maddeningly comfortable. “You, on the other hand,” Sirius added, jerking his chin toward the bed, “should try sleeping. Might improve your attitude.”

Severus muttered something under his breath — half hiss, half growl. “Yeah. Sleep. With you around. Excellent idea.”

But even as he snapped the words, he was pointedly not looking directly at Sirius anymore. His gaze kept sliding away, flickering to the wall, the window, the floor — anywhere that wasn’t bare skin or smug expression.

Sirius, catching this, paused in the doorway to the bathroom. His grin widened just a fraction.

“You're blushing,” he said simply.

“No, I’m not.”

“The tips of your ears are red.”

“They’re always red when it’s Sunday.”

Sirius chuckled and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar behind him. The sound of running water filled the space a moment later, hissing low and steady — but not enough to drown out the quiet humiliation radiating from the bed Severus was sitting on.

Despite everything — the tension, the nerves, the lingering fear that any sound in the corridor might be footsteps coming for him — exhaustion eventually won.

Severus had curled up on the far bed, still in the same dark clothes he’d been wearing since morning. His body, wiry and slight, was folded in on itself like something defensive by design: arms tucked in, knees drawn to his chest, face buried half into the pillow, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But the weight of sleepless nights, the adrenaline crash, and the sheer absurdity of the last twenty-four hours dragged him down like a stone into deep water.

The room was dim when Sirius stepped out of the bathroom, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. A thin towel hung from his shoulders, a silent trail of steam following him into the cooler air.

He caught the shape on the bed immediately — small, still, too still — and paused. His eyes flicked over Severus’s form, brows furrowing just faintly. Still in those stiff black trousers, arms clutched like he expected to wake up under siege.

Sirius didn’t speak.

He moved around the room in near silence, the muted hush of bare feet against the carpet barely making a sound. With methodical efficiency, he dressed again — dark shirt, jacket, boots. He grabbed the keycard from the room and slid it into his pocket, casting one last glance toward the bed.

Severus hadn’t stirred. Not even a flicker.

For a moment, Sirius stood there — watching him. Something unreadable flickered in his expression. Then, with a soft exhale through his nose, he opened the door and slipped into the hallway, letting it close behind him with a muted click.

Chapter Text

The house smelled of rosemary, roasted garlic, and the faintest trace of warm butter — the kind of scent that clung to the walls of a place where people were still trying to believe in something like a future.

Sirius stood in the kitchen of James’s house, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up to his elbows, hair still damp from the rain outside. His eyes, darker than usual, flicked between the soft flicker of lamplight and the movement of his friends.

Lily was by the stove, humming under her breath as she stirred something in a pot — something thick and red and fragrant, steam curling around her face. Her red hair was tied up in a loose knot, a smudge of flour on one cheek she hadn’t noticed.

Remus stood beside the counter, sleeves rolled, chopping herbs with slow, careful motions. There was a quiet grace in it, like he was carving out peace with the tip of a blade. His expression was relaxed, though a little tired — always a little tired — but there was warmth in his eyes when Lily teased him about cutting the rosemary too thick.

They talked about silly things. Recipes. The garden James had promised to plant and never did. The new charm Lily wanted to try to keep the dishes clean longer. Remus made a joke about it working on James’s socks, and Lily laughed — a real, warm laugh that bounced against the cupboards like it belonged there.

Sirius didn't join in.

Not yet.

He stood on the edge of the scene like a shadow that hadn't quite decided whether it belonged in the light.

For a moment, his fingers twitched — as if he might speak. But instead, he stepped forward, grabbed a stray apple from the counter, and took a slow bite, the crunch cutting cleanly through the low murmur of domestic conversation.

"Well," he finally said, his voice dry, "look at you. Your lovely-dovely life with James has turned you into proper house elf."

Remus chuckled. Lily rolled her eyes.

"You try feeding three grown-up men on a schedule that changes every week and see what you turn into," she said, without looking back.

Sirius offered a lazy smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked out the window, into the grey sky, his jaw tight for half a second too long.

And then, as if remembering his part in this fragile domestic play, he said, “Smells good. Don’t burn it this time, Evans.”

It was safer to keep things like this — light, teasing, full of familiar roles. No mention yet of Severus. No mention of threats or letters or radios that weren’t supposed to exist.

Not yet.

The kitchen door swung open with a dull thud, and James walked in — wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, hair a mess, looking like he'd only just fully woken up. He stretched, yawned, and lit up when he saw Sirius.

“Finally,” he said, walking over and clasping Sirius’s hand in a firm shake. “Where the hell have you been?”

Sirius let out a short, almost lazy chuckle and leaned his shoulder casually against the doorframe.

“Visited dear mother.”

“How sweet.” James narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you started preaching the gospel of the light side to her.”

“Oh, no,” Sirius smirked wider, eyes drifting to the corner of the room as if gazing out the window, though he wasn’t looking at anything in particular. “She’s devastated over my idiot brother. Not even a tantrum this time. Just sat there in her chair like a ghost, staring into space and quietly humming the anthem of pure-blood Britain. Didn’t even hex me.”

“She must be getting old,” Remus muttered, half under his breath, a trace of sympathy in his voice. “Or you’ve finally outplayed her.”

“She’s just waiting for me to drop dead too,” Sirius said, still with that cheery tone that made the words all the more unsettling. “Gotta admire the consistency. Family values and all that.”

Lily shot him a quick glance over her shoulder, still stirring the sauce. It was clear she knew he hadn’t just come by to chat — something was festering behind the usual sarcasm. But she didn’t say anything. She simply placed the lid on the pot and turned down the heat.

“Hungry?” she asked calmly.

Sirius looked at the window again. Then he approached the table. He was so restless, as if he didn't know where to put himself from the chaos of thoughts that were creating a whirlwind in his head.

”Not at all.” Now he was toying with a chipped mug. “Actually, I was at Grimmauld Place for just under a week,” he said, voice dry, “and it took exactly one and a half days before I remembered why I used to sneak out every other night as a teenager.”

Remus arched a brow, already smirking. “Do tell.”

Sirius sighed dramatically. “So, the first morning I tried making tea. Normal thing, right? Thought I’d ease into the whole ‘haunted ancestral prison’ vibe with something civilized.”

James chuckled. “This is you easing in?”

“Shut it. Anyway — kettle’s gone. Not just moved. Gone. I search the entire kitchen, end up finding it two rooms away — under a chair, of all places. Like it was trying to escape.”

Lily looked over from the stove. “That’s odd.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Sirius continued. “Second day, I decide to clean out one of the old cupboards — figured I’d be productive. Inside? A biscuit tin. No label. Heavy. I open it up…”

He paused just long enough for effect.

“…Buttons. Hundreds of buttons. All the same size. All the same shade of gray. Just sitting there, judging me.”

James grinned. “Maybe it was a Black family heirloom.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sirius muttered. “Probably cursed. I put it back and backed away. Slowly.”

Remus was chuckling now, and Lily shook her head with a smile, handing James a spoon to taste whatever was simmering. “Your house is practically a museum for psychological warfare.”

Sirius grinned, pleased. “Exactly. Which is why I left. House wins. Let it haunt itself.”

He took a sip from the mug — grimaced slightly.

“I think the tea’s cursed too.”

Everyone laughed — not too loud, not forced. Just a soft, familiar sound that filled the kitchen, grounding them all in the moment. Lily’s earlier wariness toward Sirius melted further, and for once, there was nothing sharp in her glance — just warmth.

James reached into the drawer beside the stove with the kind of ease that came from years of knowing exactly where everything was. With a casual flick, he pulled out a battered old pack of cigarettes and tossed it across the kitchen.

“You must’ve missed these,” he said with a crooked grin.

Sirius caught the pack with the precision of someone who'd done this exact thing a hundred times before. He stared at it for a beat — crumpled corners, faint scent of ash and leather — and exhaled like it was a homecoming.

“Merlin,” he murmured, almost reverently, like the pack contained something holy. Then he glanced up at Lily, lips twitching into a smirk. “Sorry, Lily. Hope you know how to fight.”

That earned a round of laughter from all three. Remus chuckled behind his mug of tea, and Lily shook her head, pretending to look offended, but failing to hide her smile.

“I swear I nearly died of stress in that house,” Sirius continued, sliding onto one of the wooden stools by the counter and pulling a cigarette from the pack. His fingers moved with ease — the muscle memory of years past still intact. He lit it with a flick of James’s wand, borrowed mid-motion, then leaned back with a long exhale. Smoke curled toward the ceiling like it was trying to escape the memories with him.

“My own private psychological horror. Even if I’d had smokes with me, I’m convinced Kreacher would've waited in some cursed corridor to hit me on the back of the head with a candelabra — probably the same one I’d be trying to light the damn thing with.”

Lily laughed in spite of herself, turning away just enough to hide the way her shoulders shook.

Remus let out a soft wheeze of laughter, rubbing his temple. “I’m surprised you made it out alive.”

“I didn’t,” Sirius deadpanned, smoke drifting lazily from his lips. “This is just my ghost. The real me’s buried in the basement, right next to the sense of familial affection.”

“Honestly, one day he’s going to write a memoir,” Lily muttered, wiping her hands on a towel, “and we’re all going to get arrested for absurd.”

“Only if you keep cooking like that,” Sirius replied with a wink, eyeing the bubbling pot on the stove. “Then I’ll confess everything just to stay out of your kitchen.”

James threw a dishtowel at him. “Oi. That’s my future wife you’re insulting.”

“She insulted herself,” Sirius shot back. “I’m just the witness.”

But the barbs were soft, full of comfort and long-worn affection. There was a lightness to the moment, fragile but genuine — like the past hadn’t broken them entirely, and maybe the future wasn’t doomed yet.

Outside the kitchen window, the sun slanted through the trees, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. Inside, the smoke from Sirius’s cigarette hung in the air like the punchline of an old joke — familiar, lingering, and strangely warm.

Later that evening, when the sun had finally dipped behind the trees, the house felt especially cozy. The living room was wrapped in a soft half-light, broken only by the warm glow of a lamp and the flickering fire in the hearth. They were all settled in — some on the couch, some in armchairs — surrounded by plates with dinner leftovers, chocolate wrappers, and half-finished glasses of wine. James was fiddling with the Muggle remote, pressing buttons with open suspicion.

“Are you sure it’s not cursed?” he muttered when the TV flickered and turned blue.

“Only if reality TV counts as a curse,” Sirius snorted, stretching his legs out on the coffee table and sipping whisky from a crystal glass. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were still sharp, quietly observant.

Remus, curled up in an armchair, was nursing something far simpler — cola laced with a splash of rum. He was quiet for a moment, watching James scroll through movie titles, and then, lowering his voice slightly, he asked:

“Did you hear about the new attack?”

Sirius shifted his gaze from the screen. Lily raised an eyebrow, sensing the change in tone immediately.

“A couple of muggles,” Remus continued, quietly. “Young. Found dead this morning. All signs point to Dark Magic.”

Silence fell over the room. Even James, who’d been ready to crack a joke about yet another absurd comedy, froze with the remote in hand.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I thought it was over.”

“It’s not that simple,” Remus said, shaking his head. “The ones they’ve caught are being interrogated now. But according to the Aurors, there are still Death Eaters out there. Or worse — new ones trying to follow in their footsteps.”

“Copycats,” Lily said bitterly. “Idiots who don’t even understand what they’re getting into.”

Sirius nodded slowly. His expression sharpened, his features taking on that closed-off, familiar stillness — like a man pulling back behind armor.

“And all while the Ministry’s barely holding itself together,” he muttered. “They’re putting anyone they can on trial just to prove they’re doing something. Sometimes they get it right. Sometimes they don’t.”

“I heard they let someone go last week,” James added, frowning. “Turned out he’d been under the Imperius Curse the whole time.”

“And how many won’t be able to prove that?” Lily said. “How many innocents are already locked away?”

Sirius looked away, reaching again for the bottle and pouring himself another drink.

“This won’t be over anytime soon,” he said. “Feels like the war ended, but somehow everything’s just beginning.”

No one disagreed. Outside the windows, the night pressed close, unnaturally quiet. The fire cracked and hissed. The TV screen blinked in soft silence.

“Well,” Remus finally said, forcing a tired smile. “Enough horror stories for tonight? Maybe we go with something lighter?”

Sirius smirked, though his eyes were still distant.

“Only if there are no Dark Lords, cursed objects, or stupid pupils.”

“So, nothing autobiographical,” James quipped, flicking through the options again.

The first scenes of a film lit up the screen, and they all turned their attention back to the food, the drinks, and the illusion of peace offered by this short, borrowed night.

The movie they eventually chose turned out to be a forgettable horror flick — not scary enough to grip them, not bad enough to laugh at. The kind you only half-watch while the room grows dimmer and the drinks run low. Lily was curled up under a throw blanket, her feet tucked beneath her, absentmindedly swirling what was left in her wine glass. Remus leaned back, eyes half-lidded, the bottle of rum sitting nearly empty beside him. James had gone suspiciously quiet, occasionally chuckling at the absurdity of the on-screen ghosts who couldn’t open doors without theatrical creaking.

By the time the credits rolled, the clock had passed eight, and the room had grown still in that comfortable, post-meal way — like everyone had silently agreed the night had done all it could.

Sirius stood and stretched, his leather jacket slung lazily over one shoulder.

“Well,” he said, checking the time on his watch. “I’m off.”

Lily looked up, surprised. “Wait — you’re not staying here tonight?”

Sirius smirked, flicking a glance toward her as he shrugged on his coat. “Tempting, but no. I got myself a room nearby. Had personal business to attend to.”

James grinned knowingly and clapped him on the back. “Atta boy.”

Remus, ever the contrast, let out a long, exhausted sigh and rubbed his temples.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—”

“Don’t wait up,” Sirius added with mock cheer, already halfway to the hallway.

They all followed him to the door, exchanging the usual half-teasing goodbyes. Lily kissed him on the cheek, and Remus gave a tired, one-armed hug. James lingered.

“Oi, Prongs,” Sirius said as he paused in the doorway. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

James glanced back at the others, then followed him out onto the porch.

The night air was crisp, brushing their faces with the first hints of approaching summer. Porch lights glowed dimly against the darkening yard, casting long shadows across the wood panels. Sirius lit a cigarette and offered James one, but he declined, arms folded, already watching him with a knowing look.

“Alright,” James said, quietly. “What’s going on?”

Sirius leaned on the porch railing, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, smoke curling into the dark. The casual glint in his eyes had faded — he was all tension now, the restless, calculating kind. He flicked his gaze toward the house before speaking, low and clipped.

“Has the map ever turned up?” he asked, watching James carefully.

James tensed instantly. His arms fell to his sides, his easy stance stiffening. He didn’t answer right away — instead, he turned slightly, casting a furtive glance through the window to check if Lily could hear them. Satisfied they were alone, he exhaled sharply.

“I’ve searched everywhere,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every drawer, every damn box in the attic. It’s gone. Last time we had it was that night.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched. He looked away, the cigarette now forgotten between his fingers as his mind worked fast and hard. Finally, he straightened and looked back at James with grim certainty.

“Listen to me, James,” he said. “I’ve got a theory, and I need you to take it seriously.”

James gave a single nod, already pale.

“I think Peter might’ve been tortured,” Sirius continued, voice hushed and urgent. “Anything he knew — any detail — would’ve been worth something to them. And as we both know, the map went missing right after the war.”

James sucked in a breath through his teeth. “What the—” he muttered, stunned. “Merlin, Sirius, I think I get where you’re going.”

Sirius nodded once, his tone colder now. “I’m saying our sweet little Wormtail might not have held out. I’m saying that map — that bloody map we made for mischief and sneaking out after curfew — might be in someone else’s hands now. Someone who’s using it for something a lot darker than sneaking into Honeydukes.”

James’s eyes darkened. His voice came out low and heavy. “You think someone’s using the map?”

“I think someone has been,” Sirius replied. “And not to watch over students. Peter probably told them how to activate it before his last moment.”

Sirius dropped what remained of his cigarette and crushed it under his boot with slow deliberation, as though the weight of his thoughts demanded a ritual. The evening air bit a little sharper now, thick with silence and the distant rustle of leaves. He didn’t look at James right away — just stared out into the dark, jaw tight.

“I read about the Muggle killings,” he said finally, voice low, almost conversational. “When I was at Mother’s.” He said the last word with no particular fondness — more like something he wanted to scrub off his skin.

James shifted. “The ones from last week?”

Sirius nodded. “Yeah. No witnesses. Not a single one. No signs of forced entry, no CCTV footage, nothing.” He turned to James now, gaze focused and sharp. “It’s like the killer knew exactly when and where to strike.”

James crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “What are you thinking?”

Sirius hesitated for a heartbeat, then said quietly, “If it’s not the bloody map, then I don’t know how someone pulled off a murder like that — broad daylight, in the middle of London.”

A pause. A breath.

“I know the Death Eaters used to be theatrical, but this — this feels different. Like someone was watching, waiting. In real time.”

James’s voice was a rasp. “And the map would let them do just that. Help you find a time-”

”When no one will be around.” Sirius gave a grim nod. “Every step, every person. They’d see everything.”

James stood in place, stunned, as though someone had just cracked open his ribcage and dropped a cold stone inside.

The thought—that their creation, something born from youth and brilliance and too many sleepless nights, could now be used as a weapon—twisted in his gut like a knife. He rubbed his hands together slowly, mechanically, trying to force back the chill settling in his bones.

“The Map…” he murmured, almost to himself. “We made it for fun. For freedom. For mischief. Not…” He trailed off, eyes flicking toward the darkened edge of the garden, as if the shadows might offer an explanation. “Not for this.”

Sirius didn’t interrupt. He waited, arms crossed loosely, a quiet weight to his presence. When James finally looked back at him, Sirius stepped closer, serious again.

“I have to go,” he said simply, then added with a gravity rarely heard in his voice, “But listen—be careful. Seriously. If anything feels off, you tell Remus. Watch Lily. Just in case.”

James frowned. “And what about you ?”

For a second, Sirius just looked at him—face unreadable in the low light. Then, like a switch flipping, his features softened into that familiar crooked grin, all teeth and trouble.

“Oh, me?” he drawled, already turning on his heel. “I’m drunk and having the time of my bloody life. Kiss you goodbye, James.”

James rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “ That’s what I hate about you,” he muttered, loud enough for Sirius to hear.

But Sirius was already halfway through the gate, throwing him a wink over his shoulder like a man who carried no weight at all—though they both knew better.

”Love you too, cutie pie!”

”Oh, fuck off!”

``

Sirius walked down the street with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The city was slowly exhaling the last traces of daytime bustle — the sunset had already slipped behind the rooftops, streetlights were flicking on one by one, and the few remaining pedestrians hurried home, as if trying to avoid being out after dark. It was cool. The wind tugged at the edge of his shirt, ruffled his hair.

He turned into a narrow alley that led toward the hotel. The place was nearly deserted — only a few scattered figures passed on the opposite side of the street. A strange, heavy quiet settled in, broken only by the crunch of his boots on the gritty pavement.

Then it hit him —

A sensation. Like a drop of ice sliding down his spine. Not exactly a gaze — attention. Alien, deliberate, thick like the shadow cast by a searchlight.

Sirius stopped.

His eyes scanned the area. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement — a bush near the pharmacy rustled ever so slightly. Somewhere behind him, on the far end of the street, came a dull thud — like someone hammering a nail. Nearby, there was a whisper — brief and muffled, impossible to make out. A car passed, its headlights catching an empty bench and an old bus stop sign.

He bit the inside of his cheek, but a grin crept onto his face — slow, wolfish, lazy.

“Finally showing yourself, huh?” he thought, tilting his head slightly, as if listening for faint footsteps, a breath, a flicker of a gaze.

But the moment he took a step forward, the feeling vanished. Gone, like it had never been there. As if someone, sensing they’d been noticed, retreated back into the dark. Not fleeing — disappearing.

And Sirius knew instantly — he wasn’t being followed for sport. This wasn’t a game.

This was someone who understood fear. Someone who knew exactly when to stop, just enough to keep the panic from igniting.

The grin faded.

He turned and continued walking — faster now. The wind picked up slightly, and it felt as though the city had just held its breath.

``

The room was dim — a streetlamp cast pale shadows on the ceiling through half-drawn curtains. The air was stale, cooled after someone had recently left, and smelled of nothing — sterile bedding and a poorly cleaned carpet.

Severus woke slowly, as if dragging himself out of thick, sticky mud. His eyelids felt heavy, and his body — brittle and uncooperative, as though he'd been run over by a lorry and then reversed over for good measure. His throat was dry, his temples throbbed with a dull ache. He stirred with difficulty, and the sheet slipped off his shoulder with a faint rustle.

“The hell,” he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut before letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

Everything hurt. His muscles ached, his back felt like it was made of bones from different people assembled without instructions. Even his fingers buzzed, as if he'd been casting for hours — or just slept in a terrible, crumpled position, fully clothed.

He propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing, and glanced around the room. Empty. His bag was by the wall, some crumpled paper — maybe a napkin, maybe a note — lay on the nightstand. The place where Black had been sitting was vacant. Silent. No sound from the bathroom, no infuriating breathing of someone else nearby. Severus abruptly realized — he was alone.

He slowly sat up, clutching his head like he feared it might fall off. Then, muttering something obscene under his breath, he slid off the bed and shuffled toward the sink.

He had come back for his sleeping things, and a little later—fresh from the shower—he dried off hastily, threw on his oversized T-shirt, and paced slowly around the room. He picked up a crumpled napkin from the nightstand, scooped up another one lying near the armchair, and tossed them both into the wastebasket. He smoothed the bedsheet, brushed a layer of dust off the edge of the wardrobe—mechanically, as if searching for some semblance of order in his surroundings when there was none to be found inside.

Then he approached the backpack resting by the wall. He unzipped it and pulled out a small, round jar filled with a murky green ointment—his own tried-and-true salve, made for bruises and soreness.

Standing in front of the mirror, he examined his face closely. The bruise beneath his cheekbone had faded to a dull yellow-gray—almost gone, yet still tugging at the skin and reminding him of its presence with every movement of his jaw. Snape squeezed out a bit of the ointment onto his fingers and gently rubbed it into his skin, careful not to aggravate the lingering bruise.

The sting gave way to a comforting heaviness, like the ache was being wrapped in something warm. He winced slightly, straightened up, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

Right after he cast a slow, searching glance around the dim hotel room, half-expecting—half-hoping—to find some kind of note. A scrap of paper, a few words scrawled in that careless, jagged hand that would at least tell him where Black had gone and whether he planned to return.

But there was nothing. No message. No indication that the man had even bothered to consider that someone might wake up confused and alone.

A muscle twitched in Severus’s jaw as his gaze swept over the empty chair and the crumpled bedsheets on the opposite side of the room. He made a sound low in his throat—disapproval, irritation, fatigue—and his eyes landed on his own bed.

It sagged in the middle like a tired apology. Just looking at it made his lower back throb.

Fine.

If Black had disappeared to whatever bar, alley, or idiot errand he fancied, then Severus was well within his rights to claim the marginally more functional bed in his absence.

He pulled his bag closer, unzipped a side pocket, and fished out a battered spiral notebook. A few pages were loose at the edges, others smeared with notes written half-asleep or mid-spell. He found a pen jammed in the lining and clicked it once, then again, more forcefully.

The mattress on Black’s side was at least level. He climbed onto it, tucked his knees under himself for warmth, and rested the notebook on his thighs. The pages opened to a fresh sheet with a quiet crackle.

He started writing.

Unaccounted for — Possible suspects / followers / madmen:

He wrote the heading in sharp, deliberate strokes, then paused.

The list began to build slowly—names of former Death Eaters who had avoided trial, sympathizers who had vanished after the war, his classmates he remembered with cold eyes and too much hunger for power. He jotted down brief notes next to each one: wandless but clever, last seen near Dover, possible ties to the Lestranges. The motion of writing focused him; it gave his thoughts shape and form.

Somewhere in the process, his pen stilled. His brow furrowed.

There was something off about the whole thing. The letters. The timing. The feeling of being watched not in general, but specifically —as if someone wasn’t just following him, but studying him.

His jaw clenched again.

He scratched a new line into the page:

Stalker?

Then beneath it:

Motives: revenge, obsession, intimidation, misdirection?

He didn’t write Barty Crouch Jr. but the name hovered in his mind like smoke. No, Barty was in Azkaban. Rosier and Malciber were dead. Lucius had escaped punishment, Severus had heard, but neither he nor Narcissa would do such a thing. They were full-fledged individuals, stately pure-blooded mages, what was the point of them spying on a poor half-blood?

He leaned back slightly, notebook still balanced on his knees, and listened. The room was quiet. Outside, the wind moved against the window with a faint hiss. There was no sign of Black returning.

Good. He needed time. He needed answers.

And he needed to figure out who the hell was watching him.

The longer Severus stared at the list of names, the more meaningless the words became. Letters blurred, smudged and skittered across the page like insects under glass, and the ache behind his eyes sharpened.

Nothing made sense.

He’d never invited anyone to his home. Not even colleagues. Not even people he trusted—which, in truth, he barely did to begin with. No former student, no Auror, no Order member. No one.

No one could have known where he lived. He was certain of it.

And yet.

The letters. The signs. The misplaced items. The subtle, creeping sense that someone had been there. Not just outside his window or peering through keyholes, but inside.

His front door had never been found open. The wards hadn't chimed once. The windows—never cracked, never broken.

So how the hell were they getting in?

His mind began to spiral. Fast.

What if it wasn’t about him?

He gripped the pen harder, pressing its tip deep into the paper until it left a tiny tear.

Tobias.

No. Useless piece of trash.

Eileen.

His mother.

Yes, of course, he wasn’t the only one wizard in family.

He didn’t know where she was now. He hadn’t in weeks. She was always moving—elusive and unpredictable, sometimes out of caution, sometimes out of stubbornness. She was grumpy and never paid him much attention, but still better than his father. But what if she came back?

What if she walked through the door, dropped her coat on the hook, went to make tea—and someone was already waiting for her?

What if—

He sat up too quickly. The notebook tumbled off his knees and hit the floor with a muted slap. His breath caught.

The cold fingers of panic began to clutch at his chest, slow and firm, like something dragging him under. His thoughts were no longer spiraling—they were thrashing , sharp and incoherent, like broken glass in his skull.

He rubbed at his face, forcing himself to breathe, but his palms were damp. His lungs wouldn’t fill properly.

He needed to know she was safe.

He needed to know someone was safe.

He needed to distract himself.

Anything.

A shift of focus, a noise, a movement. Something to keep his thoughts from circling like vultures.

The idea of fizzy soda arrived suddenly—ridiculous and random, but oddly specific. Cold, sweet, familiar. A reminder of something mundane, something human.

He rose too fast, his knees aching in protest. He shoved the notebook under the pillow, stepped out still wearing his oversized T-shirt and scuffed sneakers, having grabbed a few coins from his pocket on the way.

The corridor outside the room was dim and quiet, the carpet muffling his movements as he made his way toward the stairwell.

He descended slowly, head low. The motel was hushed. The kind of hush that came not from calm, but from absence. No doors opened. No late-night conversations hummed through thin walls. It was as if the entire building was holding its breath.

Severus reached the ground floor and stepped into the soft yellow light of the reception area. A tired-looking man — he was most likely that blonde woman's shifter — was flipping through a newspaper behind the desk, barely acknowledging him. That was fine. He preferred not to be noticed.

To the left of the front desk, partially obscured behind a dusty potted plant, stood a vending machine. Relief bloomed low in his chest.

He didn’t want to go outside. He didn’t trust outside.

The corner shop they’d visited that morning with Black felt impossibly far away. Exposed. Open. With glass windows and fluorescent lights and too many people with curious eyes. No—he didn’t feel safe enough for that.

Not tonight.

He stepped toward the machine, fingers already fishing through his pocket for coins, his eyes scanning the blurry lineup of snacks and soft drinks behind the foggy plastic. Anything. Just something that tasted like not now .

Severus collected a can of soda and a small packet of crackers from the vending machine with a mechanical motion, like his body was moving ahead of his thoughts. The machine clunked and rattled loudly in the quiet of the reception area, its hum underscored by the faint ticking of an old wall clock nearby.

He straightened, holding the cold can in one hand and the crinkling packet in the other, and let his eyes roam the dim, outdated lobby of the motel once more. The laminate floor bore dull scuff marks, the faded rug by the entrance was curled at one corner, and the man behind the reception didn’t even lift his gaze from his newspaper. A silent, unremarkable little world. But something still scratched at the back of Severus’s mind.

No cameras. No charms. Just doors and keys and tired men who didn’t ask questions.

He turned and made his way back up the stairs, each creak of the step under his feet echoing a little too loudly in his ears. He passed the same scratched wallpaper, the same plastic ficus in its corner pot, and reached their room.

The lock clicked under his fingers, and the door gave with a quiet groan.

Still no sign of Black.

Severus entered, shut the door behind him, and exhaled. The room was exactly as he’d left it — dim, silent, faintly smelling of laundry powder and damp carpet. The light from the streetlamp still pushed its tired yellow glow through the gaps in the curtains.

He placed the snacks on the nightstand, crawled back onto Black’s bed — the only one that didn’t feel like a torture device — and sat with his knees drawn up, cradling the soda in both hands. It hissed open with a soft crack. The cold bite of carbonation helped ground him — a reminder that, at least for now, he was alone, and the room was locked.

Still, his eyes flicked to the door again.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Severus was still sitting on Black’s bed, legs tucked under him, the notebook tossed aside, his soda bottle cooling in his hand. He clicked his tongue absently, debating whether to add a few more names to the list—but with every new thought, the noise in his head only grew louder. He reread the last few entries, crossed out one name, wrote down another. The mechanical repetition helped, if only for a moment.

Then—he heard it. A noise.

Somewhere in the hallway, footsteps echoed—muted but distinct. Someone was walking slowly across the old motel carpeting, and Severus, as if on cue, straightened up. He tensed, leaned forward slightly, barely breathing. The footsteps grew closer. Through the thin gap beneath the door, he saw a shadow pass—a crooked, unmistakably human shape. It stopped right in front of their room.

He shrank back instinctively, retreating toward the headboard as though trying to disappear into the pillows. His face sharpened, his eyes alert. He didn’t move.

The door clicked and opened with a dull sound.

Standing there was Black.

He blinked, visibly taken aback to find Severus curled up on his bed, his face stiff with tension. Severus was still gripping the soda bottle, knuckles white around it as though it might explode.

“Well, hello to you too,” Sirius said after a beat, stepping inside. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I come in peace—with dinner.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and dropped a grocery bag onto the nearest table.

Severus let out a slow, steady breath, but he didn’t immediately relax. He needed a moment—to be sure it was really Sirius. That it was just him that’s why he didn’t say anything at first — just stared at Sirius with narrowed eyes, his back still pressed against the headboard. Then, flatly, without emotion:

“What nickname did you give me in first year?”

Sirius blinked mid-motion as he unpacked the grocery bag, pulling out something suspiciously rustling. He turned his head with mild confusion. “What, you mean the shameful one or the deeply shameful one, Sniv?”

Severus’s face flushed at once — a bright, angry color spreading across his pale cheeks like a stain. “ What the hell do you mean there's a deeply shameful one? You bastard.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, full-throated and unrepentant, grinning like someone who had absolutely no regrets.

“Oh, come on,” he chuckled. “You didn’t expect me to say something nice, did you? We were eleven and I was an arrogant little—” He paused, gesturing vaguely. “—well. Still am, depending on who you ask.”

Severus scowled and turned his face away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “arrogant little shit” .

Sirius just laughed harder, shaking his head and tossing a bag of crisps onto the bed like an offering to appease a very offended god. Severus took it and only now Sirius flicked his eyes over the scene before him — Snape, still half-curled on his bed, nestled among crumpled sheets and pillows like he’d lived there all his life. The crisps lay untouched beside him, the notebook crookedly balanced on one knee, and the soda bottle still gripped in one pale hand.

“Well, well,” Sirius said slowly, with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Look who made himself at home.”

“Shut up,” Severus muttered without looking at him, already gathering the notebook and food with rigid fingers, clearly intent on abandoning the bed before the teasing got worse.

“I didn’t even say anything,” Sirius replied innocently, though his voice was dripping with amusement.

“You thought too loudly,” Severus snapped, shooting him a sharp glance as he slid on the bed, half laying now, his knees popping in protest.

Sirius chuckled, dropping into the armchair across the room, stretching out like a man without a single care in the world.
“Yeah, well,” he said lazily, “next time, I'll set up an appointment for you to fight over a better bed.”

Severus huffed, glaring at him as he sat back down on Black’s bed.

“I hope your food is stale,” he said acidly.

Sirius just winked. “Yours probably is. Mine’s charmed.”

Severus didn’t look up as he tore open a packet of crisps with one hand, still perched on the edge of Sirius’s bed like some reluctant trespasser who refused to move out of sheer spite.

“Where the hell have you been all this time?” he asked flatly, crunching down without waiting for permission to question him.

Sirius raised both eyebrows and gave him a sly, crooked smile. “You’re starting to sound like a wife.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Severus muttered, but he still didn’t get up. Not from that bed. Not when his own felt like it had been built entirely out of bent coat hangers and old bones. In fact, he mentally willed Black to forget about his bed entirely and then Severus could afford a little lie, namely to say that Black had chosen the second bed out of gentlemanly motives.

To his relief, Sirius didn’t push it. Instead, he flopped into the armchair again, a little more grounded this time. His grin faded into something quieter, more worn.

“I went to see James,” he said simply, brushing hair out of his eyes. “They were having a film night. Lily made food. It was loud.”

Severus nodded once, absently licking salt from his fingers. “Sounds unbearable.”

Sirius snorted, “You’d have hated every second.”

“I already do,” Severus replied without looking at him, but the edge in his voice had dulled. The silence that settled between them now wasn’t hostile — just tired. Familiar. Almost domestic, in a way neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Sirius stretched out in the armchair, legs sprawled, arms draped over the sides, and glanced toward Severus with a lazy squint.

“So,” he drawled, “what’ve you been doing all this time? Besides stealing my bed and my crisps.”

Severus gave him a pointed look, then held up the battered notebook he’d been scribbling in. “I’ve been making a list. Everyone who could possibly fit the profile of the stalker — even remotely.”

That caught Sirius’s attention. He leaned forward, suddenly more alert. “Yeah? Anyone we know?”

Severus flipped a few pages, then tapped one section with his finger. “I sorted them. Here — these are locals, people from the shop, regulars who drop in too often or ask too many questions. The ones who stare too long. These—” he turned the page, “—are my old colleagues. The ones who still think I owe them something. A few neighbors, too. Anyone who’s ever looked at me too long or knocked on my door more than once without reason.”

Sirius whistled low. “You do know this could be half the population of United Kingdom, right?”

“I said possible suspects, not likable people,” Severus replied coldly.

Sirius grinned. “Touché.”

He reached for the notebook, but Severus snapped it shut before he could grab it.

“Nice try.”

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.” Sirius leaned back again, watching him more closely now. “But it’s good you’re taking this seriously.”

“I don’t have the luxury not to,” Severus muttered. His fingers tapped restlessly on the closed notebook, eyes fixed on the floor. “Someone was in my home.”

Sirius didn’t argue with that. The silence that followed was quiet, but heavy — like something unspoken pressing down on both of them.

Sirius shifted in the armchair, elbows braced on his knees now, fingers loosely laced. The teasing glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something steadier — not quite somber, but unmistakably deliberate.

“My turn to share, I suppose,” he said, voice still casual, but with an edge that wasn’t there before. “I lied. That first time, when I said I was helping you out of boredom.”

Severus arched a brow, but said nothing.

Sirius leaned back again, one arm slung over the back of the chair, watching Severus like someone watching a locked door slowly creak open.

“The truth is — I’ve lost something. Something important. And I have reason to believe it might’ve ended up with the Death Eaters.”

He shrugged a shoulder, too sharp to be careless. “And since all the Death Eaters are either behind bars, rotting in the forest, or chasing their own tails across the continent, it’s a little hard to go knocking and ask nicely.”

His eyes flicked back to Severus, expression sharpening into a smirk.

“But then there’s you. In your tidy little shop. Not in Azkaban, not on the run, not even gagged — which is, frankly, a tragedy. But very convenient. Because now I can ask you everything I need to.”

Severus blinked once, very slowly. His expression didn’t change, but something in the room seemed to tighten — a shift in pressure, or in breath.

“Charming,” he said flatly.

Sirius grinned wider. “That’s what they always say right before I ruin their night.”

Severus tilted his head, his voice cool and biting as ever.
“And what exactly was this item you lost, Black?”

Sirius’s grin thinned into something quieter.
“A map,” he said simply.

There was a beat of silence. Then Severus blinked, feigning confusion with a mocking arch of his brow.
“A map?” he echoed innocently. “Dear Sirius lost his way back to mummy’s manor, or…?”

Sirius barked out a laugh, low and amused.
“You snide little bitch.”

“Then speak plainly,” Severus snapped, though he didn’t quite manage to hide the spark of curiosity behind the irritation in his voice. “If you’re going to accuse me of something, at least don’t dress it up in riddles.”

Sirius watched Severus like one watches an unpredictable animal—interested, but half-expecting to be bitten.

“You know,” he said with a tilt of his head, “I expected more panic. Most people would tend to pale in your situation, we were on the opposite sides of War. They even would cry a bit. Or run. But you…” He gestured vaguely at Severus sitting on the bed, legs crossed, blocky handwriting still visible in the open notebook beside him. “You just sit there making snide remarks like you’re above being gutted.”

Severus didn’t look at him. He was peeling the label off a soda bottle with slow, methodical indifference. “If someone wanted to gut me, they’ve had plenty of chances.”

That made Sirius grin again. A different grin now—one more thoughtful, almost admiring in a reluctant sort of way. “I suppose they have.” His gaze never leaving the small figure on his bed and after some time he finally spoke again. “It’s not just any map. It’s enchanted—shows every person in any place you choose, where they are, in real time. Even the hidden passages. We made it back in school, the four of us. Called it the Marauder’s Map.”

Severus finally looked up, expression unreadable but sharply attentive.

Sirius continued. “The thing is: when it vanished, we didn’t think much of it. Misplaced, maybe. But then everything went to hell. War. Pacts. Death. And by the time I remembered the damn thing even existed, they all were already planning to kill each other and I had to do the same.”

Severus narrowed his eyes, muttering under his breath, “So that’s how you kept catching me off guard.” There wasn’t bitterness in his voice, only dawning comprehension. He looked away again, jaw tight. “I always thought you had some sixth sense. Or were just extraordinarily, infuriatingly lucky.”

Sirius gave a low, dry chuckle. “A bit of both.”

Snape’s fingers tapped silently against the notebook as he focused inward. He was clearly reaching, searching—somewhere in his vast catalog of war memories—for even a scrap of knowledge that might tie back to this object. But nothing surfaced.

“I’ve never heard of anything like that being mentioned. Not even in passing,” he admitted finally. “When did it go missing?” he asked after a moment.

Sirius’s tone turned distant, careful. “Last time we saw it was when Peter was still alive.”

Silence fell like a stone between them. Not the easy sort. It was thick, coiled, pregnant with what wasn’t being said.

They sat in it for a long, breathless moment. Then, as if on some unspoken cue, they both moved past it.

“I wasn’t an important piece,” Severus said, still looking away. “I was a messenger, at best. Information passed through me, sure, but only fragments. If something like that map had been in play—if it had ended up in the hands of other Death Eaters—I’d have known.”

Sirius studied him quietly for a moment, then nodded once. “I believe you.”
And that, perhaps, was the most unexpected line of the night.

Severus blinked, clearly not expecting Sirius to say “I believe you.”
He didn’t comment on it right away, just sat there for a beat too long, as if testing the sincerity of the moment. Then, dry as ever, he said, “Thank you.”

Almost like it was a foreign word on his tongue.

Sirius didn’t dwell. Instead, he nodded toward the notebook still resting beside Severus’s elbow.

“Can I see it again?”

Severus considered him for a moment, then shifted, handing it over with a slight sigh — equal parts resignation and curiosity.

Sirius leaned forward, flipping through the pages, eyes scanning the list of names and annotations until one entry, circled in thick pen, caught his attention.

“‘Auror’?” he read aloud. “You didn’t even write his name.”

“I don’t know it,” Severus answered, tone already sharpening. “He’s one of the ones that come in for inspections. Always with a different partner, always acting like he’s running the place.”

Sirius glanced up, brow furrowed. “And?”

Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He allows himself too much. Comes too close. Lingers. I don’t like how he touches me. His questions are too specific. He looks at me like he’s reading more than paperwork.”He paused. “And he’s at every check.”

Sirius sat back slightly. Tension crept into his shoulders — slow and quiet, but unmistakable. “He was there even during the surprise visits?”

Severus nodded.

“That’s not standard. They usually rotate for integrity.” Sirius’s jaw tightened. “Did he ever show you credentials?”

“Once,” Severus said. “But I didn’t get a good look. It was rushed. As if he wanted me to see the idea of credentials, not the details.”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, lips tight. His fingers tapped once on the notebook before closing it carefully.

“Next time he comes in,” he said, voice low and steady, “stall him.”

Severus gave a humorless chuckle. “What, with polite small talk and tea?”

“Whatever works,” Sirius replied, eyes still on the page. “Because if he’s who we think he might be — then we’ve got a much bigger problem than missing enchanted maps.”

Severus gave a slow, silent nod and reached out to take the notebook back. Their fingers brushed — just a second, the faintest press of skin — but it was enough to make Severus glance up, a flicker of tension in his eyes. He said nothing.

Instead, he let his weight fall back onto the bed with a quiet thud, dropping his head onto the pillow and stretching his legs out fully for the first time in hours. His spine cracked in protest.

“Merlin,” he muttered, shutting his eyes. “I’ve aged three decades.”

Sirius smirked. “You’ve made yourself awfully comfortable there, haven’t you?”

Severus lifted one hand to give him a lazy middle finger in response.

Sirius just laughed and stood up from his chair. “Well, since you’ve claimed the better bed, I’m taking the better shower.”

He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the chair.

Severus groaned immediately and covered his face with both hands.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Sirius asked, feigning innocence as he stepped toward the bathroom.

“That thing. Where you undress like you’re in some cheap romance novel.”

Sirius snorted. “Well, it is a cheap motel.”

Severus didn’t answer. He just lay there, palms still pressed to his face, as if shielding himself from the absurdity of it all.

And Sirius, already half out the door, only chuckled low in his throat.

“You’re welcome for the view.”

”Go fuck yourself.”

``

By the time Sirius stepped out of the shower — towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and clinging to his neck — Severus had already migrated back to his own bed.

The other side of the room looked untouched now. The crumpled wrappers were gone, the notebook tucked away, and even the pillows had been plumped and set at the same odd, uneven angle they’d been in when they’d first checked in. The sheets had been pulled smooth, the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. It was as if Severus had never claimed the space at all.

Sirius paused in the doorway, water still glistening on his skin, and raised a brow.
“Back to your side of the tracks, I see.”

Severus, already under his own blanket, arms crossed and eyes closed, didn’t bother looking up.

“I was merely restoring order. Something you clearly don’t value.”

“Mm. You sure you didn’t miss me?”

“No.”

Sirius smirked and walked past him, dripping slightly on the worn carpet.
Severus cracked one eye open just long enough to scowl at the footprints.

Sirius pulled his wand from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and gave it a casual flick. A fresh set of clothes — neatly folded — appeared on the edge of his bed. Without hesitation, he changed right there in the room, showing no regard for modesty: first slipping into a pair of soft pajama pants that hung low on his hips, then pulling on a fitted T-shirt that clung tightly to his chest and arms.

Severus didn’t look — not really — but his eyes did flicker open for a second, narrowing immediately.

“I didn’t realize you were planning a fashion show,” he muttered, tugging the blanket higher over his shoulders.

Sirius snorted as he rummaged through the grocery bag, pulling out a few bottles of beer. The glass clinked together in his grip.

“Did Sleeping Beauty not get her beauty rest?” he teased, biting off the cap of a bottle and letting it fall to the floor with a metallic clatter.

“You’re doing it again,” Severus sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “A little more of this and I’ll request a second key and relocate.”

“Threatening to abandon me with all the danger and mystery still unsolved?” Sirius looked around with theatrical dread. “I don’t think I’d survive.”

He dropped down onto the edge of his bed, beer in hand, gaze fixed on Severus, who now looked tired but composed — like sleep had been attempted and ultimately rejected.

“Then don’t give me a reason to regret coming back,” Severus shot back, his tone lazy but his eyes sharp as a knife.

Sirius held out one of the bottles toward him, wiggling it slightly in the air like some kind of peace offering.

“Come on. Have one with me.”

Severus didn’t move. “No, thank you.”

Sirius leaned back against the headboard, taking a long sip. “Suit yourself,” he said, though his smirk remained. After a pause, he nudged the second bottle closer, sliding it across the nightstand toward Severus with the tip of one finger.

“I grabbed you strawberry,” he added with mock sweetness. “Thought it matched your delicate sensibilities.”

Severus turned his head slowly, his expression flat. “You realize I’ve poisoned people for less.”

“I’m counting on it,” Sirius replied, grinning. “Keeps things exciting.”

Severus stared at the bottle, then at Sirius. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are,” Sirius said, raising his beer in a small toast. “Roommates by fate, drinking partners by coercion.”

Severus took the bottle and sat up on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He held the bottle in both hands, resting it on his knees.

"Come on, don’t be shy, it doesn’t bite," Black teased, his tone lazy and mocking as he twisted the cap off his own bottle.

Severus’s fingers tightened slightly around the neck of the bottle. His jaw clenched. A faint flush crept up his throat — not from embarrassment, but from barely restrained irritation.

"I hate you," he muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t fond of drinking. In fact, he loathed it. The smell, the taste, the loss of control — it all reminded him too much of home. Of dark, narrow rooms that stank of stale beer. Of shouting behind doors. Of the unpredictable rage in his father’s voice once a glass too many had tipped the balance.

Drunkenness made his skin crawl. He despised the way people laughed louder, moved closer, forgot boundaries. It made him anxious — not the sort of fluttering anxiety he could swallow, but the clawing kind that curled under his ribs and refused to leave.

He stared at the drink like it was a trap.

Black, oblivious or simply ignoring the tension, took a swig from his own bottle and flopped down onto his bed with a sigh of exaggerated satisfaction.

"You're really that uptight, huh?" he said, glancing over with a crooked smile.

Severus said nothing. He only turned the bottle slowly in his hands, the cool glass slick against his palms.

Sirius turned his head lazily toward Severus, eyes gleaming with mischief. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his bottle slightly in the air.

“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “Don’t tell me little Snivellus is afraid of a single drop of alcohol?”

Severus’s head snapped toward him, a dark flicker passing through his eyes. The use of that name — childish, cruel, and so deeply tied to the humiliation of his youth — hit its mark.

His grip on the bottle tightened until his knuckles whitened. For a second, he looked as though he might hurl it across the room — or at Black’s head.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. His voice was low, cold, but a tremor of something else ran beneath it — something older, something brittle. “Don’t call me that.”

Sirius only raised his eyebrows, smile widening. “What? I thought we were having fun.”

“You thought wrong,” Severus snapped, still clutching the bottle but not drinking from it. He stared straight ahead, as if looking at anything else might let whatever was rising inside him slip free.

Sirius shifted slightly, watching him now with something a little less smug. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken things.

“You didn’t grow up around it, did you?” Severus said finally, voice thin and flat. “The way I did.”

It wasn’t really a question. And he didn’t wait for an answer.

"But I’m grown enough to have a drink and unwind," Sirius replied smoothly, utterly unfazed by the sharpness in Severus’s voice. He took another casual swig, his eyes still fixed on him, maddeningly relaxed — like this whole thing was some fireside chat between old friends, not two men with enough buried resentment to fill a graveyard.

Severus huffed, glancing away. His fingers tapped once against the glass bottle on his knees. Then he looked back at Sirius, eyes narrowed.

"Transfigure something into a record player," he said flatly.

Sirius arched an eyebrow. "What, now?"

"Yes, now," Severus snapped. "I can’t stand another minute alone in silence with you. It’s unbearable."

Sirius chuckled, sliding off the bed with exaggerated flair. "You wound me, Severus."

"I sincerely hope so," Severus muttered, watching as Sirius lazily drew his wand from the pile of clothes he’d discarded earlier.

With a flick, the cheap wooden nightstand trembled, morphed, and reformed — reshaping itself into a sleek, old-fashioned record player, complete with softly glowing runes around its base.

Sirius glanced over his shoulder. "What do you want?"

"White rabbit," Severus murmured without missing a beat. ”Jefferson Airplane.”

“I didn’t know you listened to Muggle music,” Sirius smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I always thought you preferred the hissing of snakes or the sounds of solitary confinement.”

Severus rolled his eyes, taking a slow sip of his strawberry beer. Not bad, actually.

The soft strains of the music filled the room, wrapping around them like a gentle cloak. The song’s melody seemed to soften the sterile motel walls, casting a calm, almost nostalgic atmosphere over the cramped space.

Sirius stretched out on his bed, nodding appreciatively. “You know, I didn't think I'd ever say that, but your taste in music isn’t that bad.”

They kept drinking, the bottles gradually lining up beside the beds and on them as the minutes melted into something looser, less rigid. The air in the room shifted — not quite warm, but no longer so cold. Their conversation drifted from sarcasm to strange comfort, the music still humming gently in the background.

Severus, at some point, was staring at the ceiling, the bottle resting lightly on his stomach. “It’s called psychedelic rock,” he said, his voice a little slower, less sharp around the edges. “That first track. Feels like it was composed to match the inside of my skull.”

Sirius glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Your skull, huh? Must be a terrifying place.”

Severus gave a small, crooked smile. “Confusing, mostly. Layers of noise and colors that don’t belong together. But sometimes it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Sirius didn’t answer right away. He just took another sip, watching Severus in the low light, and said more quietly than expected, “Yeah. I get that.”

"You?" Severus asked, arching a brow, skepticism thinly veiled behind his usual cool tone.

Sirius gave a lazy shrug, letting his head fall back against the wall. His voice wasn’t mocking this time — no teasing, no sharpness — just worn honesty. "Too many thoughts. Lost logical connections. Sometimes I don’t want to think at all, so I just let everything spiral. Let it run wild."

There was a moment of strange stillness between them. The kind that wasn't heavy or awkward, but oddly transparent — like a shared language made of things neither had said aloud before.

Severus looked at him. Really looked. And for once, didn't feel like speaking was necessary to be understood.

He glanced down at his bottle and realized it was empty — not that he’d noticed when he’d finished it. The strawberry taste still clung faintly to his tongue, fizzy and artificial, but not unpleasant.

The song changed — a slower, deeper bassline hummed through the air, washing the room in something almost intimate. The dim motel lighting flickered faintly against the scratched surfaces, and the atmosphere turned heavier, hazier.

Sirius leaned forward and tilted his half-full bottle toward Severus. “Want another?”

Severus hesitated. Then, with a faint sigh and a flicker of resignation, he pushed himself off the mattress and took the few reluctant steps toward the other bed. He reached out, fingers just brushing the cold glass neck—

And suddenly, hands closed firmly around his wrists.

Before he could react, he was pulled forward with one swift tug, the motion clumsy and unexpected. He stumbled slightly, ending up too close to Sirius, practically between his knees, face catching the heat of proximity.

Sirius grinned at him with that sharp, feral humor that always seemed one step from dangerous.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and unhurried, “now we’re really having a heart-to-heart.”

The air between them thickened, drawn taut like a thread between teeth. The dim light turned every movement into shadowplay — slow, deliberate, more revealing than either of them intended. Severus didn’t move, but something in his posture shifted, the stiffness in his spine replaced by something tighter, warier. His breathing shallowed.

Sirius slowly let go of his wrist, but his hand didn’t retreat far. Instead, it drifted, like it had a will of its own — sliding down, brushing the curve of Severus’s thigh through the thin fabric of his oversized shirt. The touch wasn’t firm, just present, like a weight he now had to account for.

Severus’s gaze flicked down to the contact, then back up — sharp, unreadable. His lips parted just a little.

“Barbarian,” he murmured coolly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And then, with infuriating grace, he reached around Sirius to grab the bottle, moving as if the proximity didn’t touch his nerves at all.

He took a sip — longer this time — and flinched faintly as the bitterness clashed with the fading strawberry sweetness.

“You have your own,” Sirius mock-complained, watching him through narrowed eyes.

Severus licked his lips and leaned slightly away, still too close, but feigning detachment. “Yours is colder,” he said blandly.

“I am, too,” Sirius murmured.

And for a second — neither of them laughed.

“Don’t tell me girls actually fall for this kind of embarrassment,” Severus sighed, rolling his eyes skyward in a performative gesture of exasperation. He still wouldn’t meet Sirius’s gaze — not directly. His own eyes darted to the corner of the room, then to the window, anywhere but the man beside him, because Sirius’s hand was still there. Still on him. Moving.

It was subtle — a slow, deliberate motion of fingertips against his thigh, like Sirius was tracing invisible lines only he could see. Severus’s jaw tensed, and he pretended not to notice, even as heat bloomed just under his skin.

“There was that woman at reception,” he continued coolly, lifting the bottle again to avoid speaking for too long. “She mentioned something about a broken lamp in your previous room. I can only assume someone tried to crack it over your skull after one of your pathetic punchlines.”

Sirius chuckled, low and amused, and leaned back just slightly, hand still resting in dangerous territory. “That’s not how it happened,” he said, voice thick with mock offense. “It was during a passionate disagreement. There was a lot of movement.”

“Oh, spare me,” Severus muttered, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him — twitching upward as though his scowl had been dented.

He hated how aware he was of the hand. Of the warmth. Of the nearness.

And Sirius knew it.

And Sirius continued talking.

“She was a little manic,” Black said, like it was a compliment. “But very pretty. Think she got upset when I forgot to bring condoms.”

Severus blinked slowly, then tilted his head with a mockingly innocent expression. “Ah. So Potter and Lupin didn’t want to participate?”

Sirius barked out a laugh, full-throated and unrepentant, and his hand — which had been idly resting on Severus’s thigh — suddenly gripped tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt.

“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” he murmured, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“And you’ve got far too many hands,” Severus shot back, not looking at him, but not pulling away either. His voice was quiet but razor-sharp, each word perfectly controlled. “Don’t you ever sit still?”

“Not when I’m this entertained,” Sirius answered. His tone was light, teasing, but there was something else simmering underneath it. Something that made the air in the room shift — tense, close, almost electric.

Severus finally glanced at him then, a brief flicker of eye contact like a test. A spark.

He didn’t say anything.

And Sirius didn’t move his hand.

The air thickened like syrup.

Sirius slowly set his bottle down on the nightstand, the soft clink of glass on wood far too loud in the charged silence. Severus watched every movement, eyes sharp beneath lowered lashes, chest rising with a little more intent now — tension held taut between them like a pulled wire.

Sirius didn’t speak. He just shifted closer.

His free hand — the one that hadn’t been anchored to Severus’s thigh — joined the first. Together, they moved with deceptive ease, one resting against Severus’s waist, the other ghosting up along the curve of his side, slow and deliberate. Fingers traced over the fabric of the thin shirt, exploring the space between familiarity and provocation.

Severus swallowed, but didn’t move away. His posture was stiff, controlled, a coil of resistance not yet unspooled — but his breath caught.

Then Sirius pressed down just slightly — not hard, just enough for his palm to feel the shape of Severus’s ribs through the cotton, to test how close was too close.

Severus gasped — a sharp, involuntary sound, half-breath, half-protest.

Sirius froze for a moment, and something in his expression shifted. It wasn’t amusement anymore. It was curiosity — darker, deeper, something searching. His eyes flicked to Severus’s mouth.

“You always make that sound when someone touches you?” he asked, voice low, more growl than whisper.

Severus exhaled shakily, jaw clenched. “Only when they don’t ask.”

Sirius didn’t move away.

The tension in the room was no longer subtle — it was a living thing now, humming just beneath the skin, crawling along nerves and settling like static between them. Severus’s last words hung in the air, sharp and fragile, like cracked glass daring someone to step on it.

Still, Sirius lingered, hands warm and far too steady for someone who’d been drinking. His gaze didn’t drop this time; it stayed locked with Severus’s, searching — not for permission, not quite — but for the crack in the armor, the sliver of something real.

“Then tell me no,” Sirius said finally, voice even, almost too gentle. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

Severus didn’t.
He could have. It would’ve been easy — a sneer, a shove, a drawled insult — the arsenal was full. But none of it came.

Instead, he looked away first.

His lashes lowered, and he shifted beneath Sirius’s hands — not pulling back, not pushing forward either. Just breathing through it, quietly, like he was trying to decide if he still remembered how to control the room. Control himself.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t cold. It pulsed.

“You’re doing it again,” Severus murmured, his voice rougher now, lower. “That thing you do when you want something, but you’re pretending it’s a joke.”

Sirius let out a breath — not quite a laugh.

“And you’re doing that thing where you act like you're not afraid of anything, but your hands are shaking.”

They weren’t, not quite. But they would be soon.

One of Sirius’s palms shifted, sliding slightly upward, catching on the hem of Severus’s shirt, fingertips brushing skin — deliberate now. Flesh to flesh. Severus inhaled, short and sharp.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Good,” Sirius replied, even lower. “Because I’m tired of pretending.”

And this time, neither of them looked away.

Severus’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. His breath caught in his throat — not from fear, but from the overwhelming pressure of something finally breaking loose inside him. A dam cracking under too much silence, too much restraint.

“I don’t know how,” Severus whispered again, his voice barely above a breath, the faintest tremor betraying how much he wished he did.

Sirius’s eyes softened, but his grip on Severus’s waist stayed firm, grounding him like an anchor in a storm. The air between them thickened, charged and electric, the quiet hum of unspoken things swirling in the small space of the room.

“I will show you,” Sirius said gently, his voice low and steady. ”Come here, love.” There was an unusual tenderness in it, one that caught Severus off guard. The nickname — soft and intimate — sent a flicker of heat straight to the base of his neck.

Severus’s pulse quickened. His heart hammered in his chest like a warning drum. He hesitated, lips parted, eyes flicking up to meet Sirius’s.

“What are we doing?” he asked, voice shaky, uncertain.

Sirius’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Let it run wild.”

Before Severus could process the words, Sirius closed the gap, his mouth pressing gently against his. The kiss was slow, careful — a silent question and answer all at once. It was warm, the kind of warmth that seeped deep into the bones and made Severus’s breath catch.

Severus’s hands trembled slightly as they rested on the blanket beneath him, gripping the fabric, searching for something solid. His body instinctively leaned in, drawn to Sirius’s steady presence.

Sirius’s fingers slid from Severus’s waist, tracing light patterns over his ribs and down toward his hip. His touch was feather-light but confident, deliberate in its reassurance. When one hand pressed just a little firmer, Severus couldn’t help the soft sound that escaped him — a sharp, involuntary inhale, a gasp that betrayed more than he intended.

His cheeks flamed, and for a moment, all his carefully maintained composure crumbled. Yet, he didn’t pull away. Instead, a strange vulnerability settled over him, mixed with something like hope.

Sirius deepened the kiss, lips molding to Severus’s, coaxing him out of the shadows he so often hid within. The room seemed to shrink around them, the only reality the steady warmth of Sirius’s touch and the mingling of their breaths.

Slowly, Severus’s hands found their way to Sirius’s shirt, fingers curling against the soft fabric. The world outside this moment faded — the noise, the worries, the weight of everything else.

”Open your mouth.” Sirius’s lips parted slightly, his tongue slipping gently between Severus’s lips, exploring with a slow, deliberate teasing. The unexpected warmth sent a sharp, delicious shiver through Severus, and a low, involuntary sound escaped his throat.

His breath hitched as Sirius deepened the kiss, the tongue moving with confident urgency, coaxing and claiming. Severus’s hands clenched lightly at Sirius’s shoulders, caught off guard by the raw, intimate sensation that seemed to dissolve every careful barrier he’d built.

A soft moan tumbled from Severus’s lips — unguarded, full of surprise and something tenderly desperate — and for a moment, all the walls around him crumbled under the weight of that fierce, heated kiss.

There was a softness now in Sirius’s voice as he whispered, “Trust me.”

Severus swallowed hard, nodding barely perceptibly. Letting go wasn’t easy — never had been — but something in Sirius’s steady gaze made it seem possible.

As the kiss broke, Sirius rested his forehead against Severus’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between.

“Let me do more.” Sirius murmured.

Severus closed his eyes, heart pounding, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something like peace.

He blushes even more, either because of his anxiety or because he's really embarrassed. A barely perceptible nod. Permission. Permission for both of them: to give in to the irrational, something that's been building up over the years, that came with the traumas, that won't let them think clearly. Something they would probably regret by morning.

“Good thing neither of us needs to be drunk to do things we might regret later,” Severus murmured softly, his voice barely above the sound of their breathing.

Sirius’s lips curled into a crooked smile, dark and certain. “Regret? I don’t know about you, but I never regret a damn thing.”

For a moment, the world outside seemed to pause — the quiet of the room, the faint hum of the night seeping through the window, the steady beat of their hearts syncing in the silence.

Sirius’s hand found Severus’s cheek again, fingers warm and gentle against the pale skin. His eyes searched Severus’s, unyielding and fierce.

Without another word, he leaned in, capturing Severus’s mouth with his own in a kiss that was both a promise and a challenge — bold, hungry, yet tender.

Severus melted into the kiss, the lingering taste of strawberry beer mingling with the warmth of Sirius’s breath. It was a quiet surrender, a fleeting moment where nothing else mattered but this — the closeness, the connection, the undeniable pull between them.

As the kiss deepened, the night wrapped around them like a cloak, shielding them from the past and the future, holding them here, now.

And for once, neither of them feared what might come next.

Chapter Text

Severus was never attractive.

Or rather, not in any traditional sense of the word.

His body was thin—almost too thin—with sharp edges where others were soft. His skin held an olive hue, pale in the winter and golden only under the right light. His hair was black as coal, often falling in stubborn strands that refused to behave.

His eyes were perhaps his most striking feature—large, deep-set, and pitch-black, like two bottomless wells that rarely revealed what stirred beneath.

There was a small gap between his front teeth, a flaw he never bothered to correct. His nose had a slight bump, the bridge uneven in a way that some would call unfortunate, and others would secretly find themselves drawn to.

Scattered across his body were small moles— little dark marks, someone once dared to call them.

Sirius hadn’t noticed him because of how he looked.

It was never about appearance. Not really.

He noticed Severus because of the sharpness of his tongue—how it cut through a room like a blade, how it made even silence flinch.
He noticed the precision of his thoughts, the brutal clarity of his arguments, the way his intellect coiled and struck like a snake.

Severus didn’t beg for attention. He didn’t try to impress.

But he challenged. He provoked.

And that was what made Sirius look. Then listen. Then stay.

What began as annoyance soon turned into fixation. A twisted need to get under his skin, to see how far he could push before Severus broke or bled or bit back.

He would insult him, corner him, rile him up just to watch those black eyes flare with something close to fury—close to life.
Because Sirius couldn’t stand indifference. And Severus never gave him that.

The obsession crept up slowly, then all at once.

It bled into mockery, flared in fights, sharpened in every smirk that lingered too long, in every shove that meant more than hate.

It was messy. Ugly. Intense.

Sirius had always loved the strange, the broken, the brilliant.
And Severus Snape was all of that—wrapped in mystery, bitterness, and barbed wire.

Snape wasn’t beautiful.

Snape was unforgettable.

And Sirius wanted him. Badly. Completely.

Beautiful was boring.

Sirius got bored easily.

He always had.

The system bored him—the expectations, the routines, the endless loop of polite smiles and correct behavior.

Nothing inside the frame ever surprised him.

Normalcy dulled his edges.

Standards bred apathy.

But Severus Snape? Severus had never once been standard. Never predictable. Never designed to please.

He was strange. Sharp. Alive in ways Sirius couldn’t always explain.

Even his appearance—unconventional, asymmetrical—stood out like a curse in a cathedral. While others drowned in sculpted cheekbones, Severus existed in contrasts: all shadows and bone, darkness and texture.

He smelled like old books, like ironed linen and antiseptic salves. Not cologne. Not that disgusting sweet perfume. Not flowers or spice or woodsmoke.

Real. Strange. Memorably his.

And those eyes—deerlike, dark, impossibly long-lashed—had a way of watching the world that made Sirius feel observed, dissected, seen.

Especially when Severus was calm. When, rarely, he wasn’t clenched in tension or warped by suspicion.
In those moments, his face softened into something almost delicate. Rabbit-like. Sweet, even.

It was disarming.

Sirius would never say that aloud, of course. He wasn’t suicidal.

But it stirred something in him. That contrast.

The man who could hex someone into a coma without blinking and yet, in quiet, almost looked like he belonged in a field of wildflowers, blinking at the sun.

Sirius didn’t crave normal.

He craved the unrepeatable.

The kind of wild magic that refused to be named or tamed.

He craved Severus.

That night, when given silent permission, Sirius fucks Severus three times — twice on the bed, and once against the wall, when the smaller figure tries to slip away into the bathroom.

“Animal,” Severus whimpers, voice catching as Sirius leaves another dark mark blooming against the pale skin of his neck.

There’s no protest beyond the words. No real resistance. Just the heat between them, and a quiet, unspoken need that neither of them is ready to name.

Red marks rake across Sirius’s back—thin, deep, left by fingernails in a moment where neither of them had the will or reason to hold back. They run like threads across his skin, reminders of grasping hands and something raw beneath the surface.

Slender legs wrap tightly around his waist, holding him close, as if that closeness alone could anchor the world. The room is warm, heavy with a tension that no words could define. And if Sirius hadn’t cast a Silencing Charm, their moans would’ve certainly disturbed the neighbors.

Severus tries to stifle the sound that threatens to escape him, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth in a desperate attempt at restraint. But Sirius catches the motion immediately.

Sirius had thought of those delicate wrists so often.

If I put my hands around your wrists, would you fight them?

He grabs the slender one, firm but not unkind, and gently pulls it away.

“No,” he murmurs against Severus’s ear, voice low and rough.

Then he guides that hand behind his own neck, settling it there, where he wants it—needs it.

“Hold on to me,” he says.

And Severus does. Fingers curling into Sirius’s hair, his breath shaky, surrendering to the moment without another word.

Severus’s breath catches, and suddenly soft sobs break through his lips. His cheeks flush a deep crimson, and his eyes glisten with unshed tears, shimmering like fragile glass. To Sirius, the sight is intoxicating — broken, raw, utterly exquisite in its vulnerability.

“Wanna cum?” Sirius whispers, his voice rough but gentle.

Severus only nods, barely perceptible.

Without hesitation, Sirius leans in, capturing him in a searing kiss — fierce and tender all at once — sealing the unspoken promise between them.

Sirius had thought of those lips so often too.

If I put my fingers in your mouth, would you bite them?

And Severus bit and fought and hugged and cried and moaned and begged.

He was perfect.

The thrusts grow fiercer, more urgent, and Severus’s breath hitches, he moaned in the middle of a kiss. His body trembles uncontrollably as the wave crashes over him—his third release washing through him like wildfire.

His legs shake beneath him, weak but unable to hold still. Sirius’s voice cuts through the haze, low and approving.

“Yes, like this,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, his fingers tightening their grip, grounding Severus in the storm of sensation.

He keeps Severus lifted, arms locked securely around his waist. The tension hasn’t quite left the air, the hum of shared breath and flushed skin still vivid between them. Severus’s legs dangle, shaky from exertion, and his fingers tighten in the fabric of Sirius’s shirt, grounding himself.

Sirius presses a slow kiss beneath Severus’s ear, voice rough with warmth and adrenaline. “Fuck, love, you don’t even know how beautiful you are like this.”

Severus lets out a quiet sound—half protest, half something he can’t quite name—and turns his face away, the heat in his cheeks intensifying.

“Stop saying things like that,” he murmurs. Then, more quietly, “Put me down.”

Sirius exhales a short laugh, but he listens. He shifts his grip, gently easing Severus down until his bare feet touch the floor. Severus sways a little once grounded, knees weak, but Sirius’s hands remain at his hips—steady, possessive, fingertips lazily tracing the skin there.

The silence between them lingers, no longer heavy but intimate.

Severus draws in a breath, eyes flicking up briefly before dropping again. “Are you always this…active?” he asks, quieter than before.

Sirius gives him that wicked grin again—crooked, dangerous, and strangely fond. “Only when I’m inspired.”

His thumbs sweep slowly along Severus’s sides, anchoring him in the moment. Neither of them moves to pull away.

Severus stood still for a moment, as if unsure whether to speak or vanish into thin air. Whatever storm had overtaken them moments ago was gone now, leaving behind the silence and awkwardness of bare skin and too much awareness. He averted his gaze and swallowed hard.

He tried to act normal.

Tried to breathe like his chest wasn’t tight, like his legs weren’t trembling, like his skin didn’t still burn where Sirius had touched him.

Then, without a word, he began gently prying Sirius’s hands from his hips.

Sirius let him—for now.

Severus pulled down the hem of the oversized shirt, letting it fall low enough to cover his thighs, then took a tentative step back. His voice, when it came, was clipped, brittle around the edges.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

Sirius raised a brow, watching him with lazy interest, still shirtless and impossibly relaxed. “Already trying to escape me, love?”

“I’m just trying to wash.” Severus muttered, turning away too quickly to see the grin that spread across Sirius’s face.

Severus had almost reached the bathroom when Sirius caught his wrist again. Not roughly, but with enough certainty to make Severus freeze.

Sirius pulled him in and kissed him. Deep, slow, unhurried. Not a demand this time, but something softer. A moment stretched too long.

Severus didn’t resist.

For just a few heartbeats, he allowed it. Let himself be kissed, let the warmth of Sirius’s mouth coax the last of the tension from his shoulders.

Then, just as suddenly, he exhaled through his nose, gave a low, exasperated sigh, and smacked Sirius lightly on the chest.

“Enough,” he muttered, though his voice held no weight.

Sirius grinned against his mouth.

And with that, Severus slipped from his grasp, disappearing into the bathroom with a swish of cotton and the quiet click of the door.

Sirius stood alone in the room now, staring after him with an unreadable look, hands still tingling with the shape of Severus’s waist.

Sirius glanced toward the window. A faint blush of lavender had begun to creep over the horizon, painting the tips of the buildings in a soft, reluctant light.

Morning.

He exhaled through his nose, lips still tinged with the memory of Severus’s mouth, and ran a hand through his hair. It was far too early to be awake—and far too late to be standing here thinking about how that little bastard looked when he whispered “Enough” .

They needed sleep. A few hours, at least. Enough to clear their heads, dull the edge of whatever the hell this night had been.

And then?

Then they’d have to deal with it. Not this —never this—but the other thing. The reason they were in this grimy motel in the first place. The invisible admirer from shadow. The trail of erratic magical traces. The sense that something—or someone—was watching, always a few steps ahead.

He rubbed at his jaw, where faint stubble itched against his palm.

“We’ll catch you,” he murmured to himself, almost like a promise. “Sooner or later.”

The bathroom door stayed shut, water now humming faintly behind it. Sirius let himself fall backward onto the bed, arm draped over his eyes.

A few hours. Just enough.

And maybe—if he was lucky—he’d dream of long lashes, warm skin, and a voice telling him to stop, even when it didn’t mean it.

``

They woke up around noon — the room still smelled of dust, cheap beer, and something stubbornly human. It was warm. The sheets clung to their skin. Sirius, tousled and half-awake, grunted softly as he sat up, then stood with a groan and a long stretch, his arms reaching toward the cracked ceiling. His shirt had twisted up, baring the narrow strip of his waist and the scratch marks across his back.

Severus was already sitting on his bed, legs folded beneath him, hair a mess.

With a few lazy steps, Black walked over to the small table by the window. A paper bag sat there, slightly crumpled from the night before. Sirius rummaged inside and pulled out two wrapped sandwiches, peeling back the paper to peek inside. He turned — and nearly bumped into Snape, who had somehow drifted up behind him, silent and bleary-eyed, like a ghost.

The man looked barely awake. Hair wild, cheeks slightly flushed, he stood close, too close, and simply extended one narrow hand forward — palm open — as if begging. The movement was slow, instinctive, and strangely innocent.

Sirius stared.

“Audacity,” he thought.

His brow arched. "You know that’s my food," he finally said, dryly, still holding the sandwiches aloft like an offering he hadn’t decided whether to give.

Severus, unfazed, remained in place. “Greedy,” he muttered, fingers still hovering expectantly.

“I paid for the motel,” Sirius said, now pivoting toward the bed again, “and for your food before that. And the drinks. And, by the way, the condoms.”

“How generous. Truly, a philanthropic icon,” Severus replied, following Black, arms crossed — but his eyes were locked on the sandwiches.

Sirius scoffed, his grin sharpening. “You want them? Come get them.” Then, with all the smugness he could summon, he raised the wrapped sandwiches high in the air, stretching his arm as far as it would go.

“You’re short and bossy, let's see how you do without magic.”

Severus narrowed his eyes like he was calculating a trajectory. Without warning, he kicked Sirius — hard enough to make him grunt and bend forward instinctively, grabbing his shin. In that split second, Severus snatched the sandwich pack right out of his hand.

“Little bitch,” Sirius hissed, straightening up again, but there was a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Severus was already unwrapping the spoils, pretending the entire thing had been perfectly reasonable.

When food were finished, Severus shifted slightly, avoiding the whole sandwiches thing, and cleared his throat softly. “Tonight, during my shift, I’ll review whatever footage the security cameras managed to capture.” His voice was calm but serious. “They often malfunction—rats from the nearby dumpster keep gnawing through the wires. Still, there might be something usable.”

Sirius gave a slow nod, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll help you with that.”

Severus shot Sirius a skeptical look, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re just going to get in the way again,” he muttered under his breath.

Sirius shrugged innocently, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him — he was already itching for another chance to tease Snape mercilessly.

“If the cameras don’t give us anything,” Sirius continued, “we’ll need to take a closer look at that Auror.”

Severus nodded, eyes fixed on the floor, as if replaying every shift where the man had appeared.

“At the next inspection — if he shows up again — you need to pay attention to what he says,” Sirius went on. “If he really knows almost everything about you, he’s bound to slip up eventually.”

“He barely spoke last time,” Severus murmured. “Didn’t even give a name, for that matter.”

Sirius gave a short scoff.

“Then you’ll have to make him talk. Rattle him a little. Push some buttons. Maybe even hint at something only someone close would know — watch his reaction.”

Severus squinted at him slightly.

“What exactly?” Severus asked, his voice low but pointed.

“Something personal, small. People like to feel clever — to show off what they think they know. He’ll slip. They always do.”

Severus nodded slowly, absorbing the words. His hands were folded loosely in his lap now, knuckles white from how hard he'd been pressing them together earlier.

“And when we do catch him?” he asked, lifting his gaze. “What then?”

Sirius crossed his arms.

“That depends,” he said.

Severus frowned. “I don’t have my wand. And even if I did — we’re surrounded by Muggles. You and I both know we can’t use magic here without consequences. Especially me.”

“If he’s not a wizard—” he continued, after a beat, “—and we injure him, that falls under Muggle law. If he is a wizard, and we expose him, we need to do it without any witnesses. Either way, someone’s watching.”

Sirius looked thoughtful now, pacing once across the room before he sat again, this time on the edge of Severus’s bed without asking.

“So we don’t injure him unless we have to,” he said, more to himself than Severus. “We corner him. Question him. Restrain, if needed. But clean. Quiet.”

Severus scoffed under his breath.

“Funny. I don’t remember ‘clean’ or ‘quiet’ ever being your strengths.”

Sirius smirked briefly, but it didn’t last.

“It's as if he knows we're limited in this world.” he said. ”He's tracking you here on purpose - here you're completely helpless, a perfect object of observation.”

The air in the room felt heavier after that. The window rattled faintly in its frame — a gust of wind, maybe, or something else.

Severus broke the silence.

“So we trap him. And if he doesn’t talk?”

Sirius’s voice was flat. “He will.”

They looked at each other for a moment — two men from opposite ends of a war, now sitting in a room where the only thing between them and danger was a faulty lock and a paper-thin wall.

Outside, a car alarm went off and then stopped.

Inside, they kept planning.

They planned, they chatted, they swore and called names.

Every interaction was a spiral since their first school year.

Suddenly, from the other side of the wall came a loud scraping noise, followed by heavy thuds. Someone was moving furniture or something like this.

Severus tensed instantly, the casual noise triggering an uneasy flicker in his chest.

“I didn’t know we had neighbors,” he murmured, his voice low, betraying the sudden prickling at the back of his neck.

Sirius shrugged, unfazed. “Most likely they moved in this night. Not that it really concerned us, we were kinda busy.”

Severus felt a faint flush rise to his cheeks, the memory unwanted but stubborn—their own reckless night, the sharp mix of fear and desire still tangled inside him.

He hadn’t fully processed it yet—that the man who’d once been his school bully, the one who had nearly killed him with the werewolf’s curse, had been between his legs just hours ago.

He was now here, close, intimate.

It was all wildly unhealthy. And yet, no matter how much Sirius could be a bastard, Severus couldn’t deny the raw, rugged beauty and strength in him. The way he moved. The way he looked. The way he presented himself to the world.

And the terrible truth whispered in his mind: everyone wanted him.

Severus thought about the desperate, obsessive need that drove them both and him particularly — the need to belong to someone, anyone. Tobias hated him — and the feeling was mutual — while his mother was lost somewhere unknown, indifferent or absent. 

He hated admitting it, even to himself, but the truth sat like a stone in his gut: he latched onto the smallest sign of attention, clung to it like a lifeline. A glance. A word. A touch that lingered half a second too long. It didn’t take much — it never had. Because for most of his life, no one had really cared. Not in the way that mattered.

He had been an afterthought, a background presence — tolerated, not chosen. Even his mother, in her softer moments, had looked at him like she saw someone else entirely. And everyone else… Well. He’d learned young that people only noticed you when they wanted something. Or when they wanted to hurt you.

So when someone looked at him like he meant something — even if it was brief, even if it was twisted — some part of him refused to let go. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t smart. But it was real.

It was all he’d ever had.

He did know what he was doing this night. At least, he thought so.

He thought that even if later Sirius and Potter laughed at him behind his back, or worse, to his face, in that moment it didn’t matter one bit. He didn’t think he’d ever care.

But now he cares. Oh, he cares so much. He's afraid. He feels the fear of an irrational decision catching up with him. The fear that whispers to him, "You don't know what to do next."

You don't know why you did it. You don't know why you let him. You don't know why Black wanted the same thing, why he started it.

And then a thought — short as a flash of lightning, somewhere in the subcortex of consciousness.

Just for fun.

Sirius did it for fun.

His life was worth nothing, especially if he remembered the story of the Whining Shack.

Everyone just laughed then.

Just like they will be laughing later.

Severus tried to convince himself it wasn’t like Black had much to tell Potter or anyone else — the whole school had already seen him with his trousers down. And Severus assured himself that he was stronger than that. That he handled it and let it go. 

That was a lie.

Now he let Black really see everything.

And Black will tell everything he saw to his precious friends.

Dark thoughts began swirling in Severus’s mind, shadows twisting into bitterness and anger, growing heavier, sharper. The helplessness curled into rage, burning cold and fierce beneath his skin.

Severus’s breath hitched as the anger twisted tighter inside him, a dark coil ready to snap. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms, the urge to break something—anything—growing unbearable. The memories, the shame, the relentless weight of being hunted by his own past—it all bubbled up, raw and suffocating.

He scanned the room, looking for a reason, any reason, to unleash the storm. Then his eyes locked onto Sirius, who was still casually sitting next to him, unaware of the brewing tempest inside Severus.

Without thinking twice, Severus’s voice broke through the silence—sharp, icy, biting.

“Exactly,” he said, the words dripping with sarcasm and pain. “We were busy restocking your collection of new ways to torment me later.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, confused. “What?”

Severus stood up and started wandering around the room, his face a mask of wounded pride and simmering rage. “The stupid paranoid Snape got fucked for a bottle of beer in a cheap motel,” he spat, voice low but cutting.

The room seemed to still, the tension thickening like a dense fog. Sirius’s usual confident smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. But Severus barely noticed — his entire being pulsed with a furious need to lash out, to punish, to protect what little remained of himself from being shattered again.

He hated himself for needing Sirius attention, his affection, hated that the man was the source of both torment and relief, pain and desire. But right now, that confusion melted away, leaving only the raw edge of anger that demanded to be heard — and maybe, just maybe, understood.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sirius asked, his voice low but sharp, eyes narrowing as he watched Severus move around the room.

Severus didn’t answer. Instead, he began to pace, his steps quick and restless. He picked up random items—books, clothes, small trinkets—and arranged them meticulously on the table, then shifted them again, as if the act of organizing might somehow settle the chaos inside him. His jaw was tight, and his fingers trembled just slightly.

“What’s wrong? Wasn’t all this supposed to be for that?” he said, voice rough, barely concealing the bitterness.

“Don’t piss me off,” Sirius said, now getting out of bed after him and stepping forward, his tone warning but not yet angry.

Severus stopped and glanced at him, eyes dark and sharp. “Or what?” he challenged, his voice low and tense.

Sirius hesitated for a moment, searching Severus’s face. “What are you doing, Snape?”

Without hesitation, Severus replied, “I’m packing my things. I want to go home.”

Sirius’s expression darkened, anger flashing across his face. “You are not going anywhere in such state.”

Severus snapped, voice cold and sharp, “You don’t have the right to tell me what to do.”

Now he was bypassing Sirius and ending up near his bed again. He bent down to gather his things, fingers trembling slightly as he folded his clothes.

Suddenly, he felt unfamiliar hands clamp around his waist. He froze.

Sirius spun him around, gripping him tightly, eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

“Don’t touch me!” Severus hissed, struggling to break free, every word laced with raw defiance.

Sirius held Severus possessively, his fingers digging lightly into the thin fabric of his shirt, as if claiming him without words. His grip was firm, unyielding — a silent assertion that Severus wasn’t going anywhere.

“Oh, I see now,” Sirius whispered, his voice low and venomous, laced with a dark amusement. “You’re just scared.”

Severus stiffened, struggling against the hold but finding it pointless. “Don’t talk nonsense,” he spat, voice sharp, eyes burning with stubborn defiance.

Sirius smirked, his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Severus’s ear. “You’re scared you liked it. That it goes against some of your precious principles, right? You argued with Lily about James, but then you moaned under me for hours.”

A flush crept up Severus’s neck, his cheeks burning with a mix of shame and something deeper, more confusing. “Don’t touch me!” he hissed again, voice trembling, but his body betrayed him — inching closer despite the protest.

Sirius didn’t relent. Instead, he pressed a finger lightly against Severus’s lips, silencing the protest. His other hand slid from Severus’s waist to his back, guiding him gently but insistently toward the bed.

“Shh,” Sirius murmured, his voice softening just enough to unsettle Severus even more. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone in this.”

The tension between them hung thick in the air, a mix of anger, vulnerability, and an unspoken something neither dared to name. Severus’s breath hitched as Sirius’s fingers traced small circles along his hip, grounding him even as his mind spun with conflicting emotions.

For a moment, the world shrank to the space between them — raw, intense, impossibly fragile.

Sirius’s breath was warm against Severus’s ear as he leaned closer, his hands moving with deliberate intent now, exploring every inch of Severus’s body without hesitation. The faint sound of his whispered words mixed with the rapid beating of Severus’s heart, creating a tension thick enough to suffocate.

“Come on, love,” Sirius murmured, his voice low and teasing, “What’s with all the drama? Just admit you liked it.” His lips brushed lightly over Severus’s cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. “All those ‘I can’t’ and ‘It’s wrong’—you don’t have to pretend for me.”

His hands slid down to grip Severus’s hips firmly, fingers pressing into the softness of his skin. Severus’s eyes widened as he suddenly realized where they were—the edge of a bed that wasn’t his. Before he could react, Sirius guided him, almost commanding, to sit down.

“Sit,” he ordered softly but firmly, never breaking eye contact. Severus obeyed, every nerve screaming in confusion and something dangerously close to anticipation.

“You really think I spent hours with you just to mock you later?” Sirius’s tone sharpened, laced with a possessive edge. “And James and Remus? I don’t like that you think of them when I’m around.”

Severus’s breath hitched, caught between indignation and vulnerability. The rawness in Sirius’s voice unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. There was a challenge in those eyes, daring him to deny the truth behind his feelings, the tangled mess of fear, desire, and shame that had been building between them.

Sirius’s hands tightened, anchoring Severus to the moment, to the bed, to himself. “Stop pretending you don’t want it,” he whispered, “Because I see right through you.”

For a moment, Severus was silent—his defenses cracking under the weight of Sirius’s relentless, almost desperate insistence. The room felt smaller, the space between them charged with unspoken confessions and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, this was where they could stop hiding.

Severus’s breath hitched again, his chest rising and falling unevenly as the weight of Sirius’s words settled over him like a storm. “I want you. Nothing else.” The simplicity of the confession struck deeper than any grand declaration ever could, raw and unguarded. ”Do you believe me when I say I won't let you go?”

His eyes flickered with uncertainty, but under the pressure of those intense, grey eyes, Severus found himself nodding. A fragile, broken nod — a quiet admission wrapped in whispered sobs. He liked it. The possessiveness. He liked the way Sirius’s strong hands gripped his hips, grounding him, making him feel seen in a way words never could. The roughness of those palms contrasted sharply with the softness of his own trembling skin, and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine.

Sirius’s lips brushed against his, rough yet tender, the kind of kiss that demanded attention and gave no quarter. Severus closed his eyes, leaning into it despite the storm of conflicting emotions inside him. It was intoxicating — the taste of the kiss, the warmth of the hands, the undeniable magnetic pull between them.

But beneath that sweetness, a fierce anger burned inside Severus. He was furious with himself for giving in so easily, for not resisting the flood of desire that had overrun his defenses. How had he allowed himself to be pulled so completely into this—this dangerous, unpredictable thing? The sharp edge of pride wounded him, making his heart ache even as it raced.

Yet even that anger carried its own strange comfort. Because despite the confusion and doubt, there was something undeniably thrilling in surrendering to this forbidden connection. Something that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt before.

And Black was no better. They were both crazy.

His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, struggling to hold onto whatever control he could muster, but his body betrayed him — craving more of the touch, the kiss, the proof that he was wanted.

Sirius’s hands tightened around his hips, grounding him once more. “Tell me,” he murmured against Severus’s ear, “Do you like it?”

Severus’s voice cracked as he whispered back, “Yes, yes.” The words were almost foreign, but the truth in them was undeniable. He liked it — the power of being desired, the heat of Sirius’s touch, the way it filled something empty inside him.

And though part of him seethed with frustration for having lost the fight, for succumbing to something that defied every rule he’d ever set for himself, another part was aching with gratitude — grateful for this wild, impossible moment where he felt wanted, seen, and alive.

Severus’s legs rested heavily on Sirius’s shoulders, the delicate skin of his sharp knees pressing against Sirius’s warm lips. Sirius kissed those knees slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing every contour and crease. The contrast between the soft kisses and the faint sting of his touch sent shivers through Severus’s body.

“Wait, wait,” Severus’s voice cracked, barely a whisper, his hands instinctively clutching at Sirius’s hair, trying to steady himself. “I’m not—”

But Sirius only smiled against his skin, ignoring the protest. His lips traced a path downward, leaving a trail of bruising kisses along Severus’s thighs, marking him like a claim. “You know,” he murmured huskily, voice low and rough, “You just had to ask. I’d have fucked those thoughts right out of you this morning.”

Severus shuddered, caught off guard by the raw honesty in Sirius’s words. His breath came uneven, part shock, part longing, as the weight of the admission settled in. There was something almost tender in the way Sirius spoke—like a promise, a vow that no matter how tangled Severus’s thoughts or fears, Sirius was there, ready to break through the walls.

Sirius noticed the subtle change—the way Severus’s fingers twitched against his hair, the slight tremble in his voice as if he was about to speak but stopped himself. His eyes searched Severus’s face, filled with both curiosity and something softer, more vulnerable.

“What’s on your mind? You look like you want to say something but you’re holding back,” Sirius murmured, voice low and coaxing. He kissed the skinny knee one last time before forcing those thin legs around his waist. His hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Severus’s forehead.

Severus hesitated, biting his lip, and then finally admitted in a breathy whisper, “Can I have one more kiss?”

The words hung between them for a moment, delicate and fragile. Then Sirius’s grin softened into something warm and tender. “Fuck, yes, love. Anything you want.”

His waist was squeezed and Sirius was pulled closer.

He cupped Severus’s cheek with one hand, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss. It was gentle at first, a question and an answer all in one. Severus’s lips trembled against his, then slowly relaxed, surrendering to the sensation. The tension in his body melted as Sirius’s hands moved to rest firmly yet tenderly on Severus’s hips, pulling him closer.

Their breaths mingled, hearts beating out a rhythm that only they could hear in that quiet room. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent but still tender—like a silent promise that no matter what, here, now, they were safe. Severus finally let go of the last bit of hesitation, wrapping his arms around Sirius’s neck, holding on as if afraid to lose the moment.

When they finally parted, Severus’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining with a mixture of embarrassment and something else—something like acceptance. Sirius smirked knowingly and whispered, “See? Not so hard to ask.”

“Also not that hard to shut up and stop acting like a know-it-all,” Severus muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“Me? A know-it-all? You’re just a drama queen,” Sirius countered, a teasing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Severus crossed his arms, a mock glare fixed on Sirius. “Allow a man to overreact without judgment, thank you very much,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcastic politeness. "Now get off me," Severus huffed. "You weigh as much as a bloody elephant."

"Weakling," Sirius snorted, not making the slightest move to shift.

"Not all of us inherited mutant genes and grew up wrestling mountain trolls," Severus snapped, squirming under him.

"Oh really?" Sirius batted his lashes innocently, grinning. "And that... anomaly on your face — how long are we planning to pretend it isn’t there?"

Severus narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Say one more word about my nose and I’ll break yours."

Suddenly, a sharp, panicked scream cut through the air — a woman’s voice from downstairs, shrill and desperate:

"Help! Somebody, please!"

The atmosphere shattered like glass.

Sirius instantly lifted his head, all amusement drained from his face. Severus stiffened beneath him, every muscle tense.

"Did that sound like—?"

"Yeah." Sirius was already moving, pushing off the bed in one swift motion.

They scrambled for their clothes and shoes, no longer thinking about teasing or banter. The ease between them vanished, replaced by something cold and alert. The hallway outside was dim, lit only by the cheap yellow light. They stepped out of their room.

The air was heavy with unease.

From the floor below, footsteps echoed — other guests stirring.

But Severus’s attention snapped sideways — to the room next door. No one had come out of there.

Sirius glanced at Severus, then back toward the stairs. "We check that first," he muttered.

Severus nodded, throat dry.

The corridor emptied as the last footsteps subsided on the carpet on the first floor. The cheap yellow light now illuminated only two doors on the floor.

One was slightly ajar — people were rushing out of it.

And the other was still closed. But the noises were there.

Uneven. Faint. The distinct scrape of something against wood followed by a low, unnatural hum, as though someone — or something — was murmuring just beneath hearing range. Next, a melodic mooing. The sound of thumping and furniture shifting again.

No one will know what went on in that room.

Until it's reset to silence.

Chapter Text

They descended the stairs to the first floor, each step echoing a little too loudly in the tense silence that had settled over the building. As they turned the corner into the lobby, the murmur of voices grew louder, jagged with panic.

A crowd of motel guests had gathered near the worn sofa by the reception. All eyes were fixed on a woman standing in the center of the group, her hands shaking, voice rising with every word.

“They were right here!” she cried, pointing furiously at an open suitcase on the floor. “My bracelet, my rings—gold, all of it! Gone!”

Her hair was tousled, eyes wide with disbelief and fury. She clutched the sides of her head like she couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

A man, slightly older and dressed in a faded flannel shirt, tried to place a calming hand on her shoulder. “You’re tired, you’ve been under a lot of stress—maybe you just misplaced them.”

“I didn’t!” she snapped, yanking away from his touch. “They were in a velvet pouch. In the inside pocket. Someone took them!”

Voices started rising around the room—whispers, speculation, someone muttering about calling the police. The air was charged again, like a storm just about to break. Severus and Sirius exchanged a look, quiet tension simmering between them as they stepped closer to the scene.

A few of the other guests tried to placate her, speaking in low, soothing tones—reaching out with open hands, gentle reassurances.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” someone said.

“You’re probably just misplaced them,” another added.

“Why would anyone here steal from you?”

But the woman only grew more frantic. Her voice, high and sharp, cut through the lobby like broken glass.

“Someone in this damn building stole from me!” she screamed, spinning toward the crowd. “One of you! You think I can’t tell? Someone’s been in my room!”

A ripple of offense and confusion moved through the guests like a wave. People recoiled, eyebrows raised, mouths twitching with disbelief or indignation. A man muttered something about “paranoia.” A woman near the back folded her arms tightly across her chest, glaring as if she'd been personally accused.

The tension thickened, crackling in the air like static before lightning.

Near the edge of the gathering, Sirius stood quietly, eyes scanning the room with a mixture of annoyance and calculation. Without a word, he let out a slow, weary sigh. Then, almost absentmindedly, he reached for Severus, pulled him closer, and wrapped an arm around his waist, resting his chin on Severus’s shoulder.

Severus didn’t flinch or lean in—he just stood there, still and silent, as if the contact were unremarkable, expected.

Together they watched the crowd dissolve into escalating voices, defensive arguments, and growing distrust.

The storm was far from over.

The woman’s voice rose again, sharp with hysteria and accusation.

“Someone here is lying!” she barked, eyes darting across the faces in the room, searching for guilt. “You’re all acting like I’m crazy, but I know what I had in that bag!”

A few guests exchanged uneasy glances. Whispers were beginning—low, suspicious.

Then suddenly, her arm shot out, finger jabbing through the air.

“What about them?” she snapped, pointing directly at Sirius and Severus. “Those two? Look at them—marginals, obviously!”

There was a beat of silence.

Severus blinked once and raised an eyebrow in the sort of expression that could kill a lesser accusation on sight. He didn’t say a word. His stillness was deliberate—knife-like.

Sirius, still with his arm looped around Severus, leaned slightly forward.

Before either could respond, a door creaked open behind the reception desk.

Out stepped the motel’s owner—the blonde-haired woman from before, though even now, the false sheen of her hair looked more brittle than ever, the wig slightly askew under the corridor’s fluorescent light.

Her voice was clipped, carrying authority like a brittle ornament.

“What on earth is going on out here?” she demanded, glancing from the agitated woman to the crowd gathered in clumps around her.

The woman turned, seizing the moment.

“One of them stole from me!” she shrieked. “I’ve been robbed! Gold jewelry! I had it before I went to bed, and now it’s gone! I want the police called immediately!”

The room tensed again, all eyes flicking toward Sirius and Severus.

Sirius tilted his head slowly and muttered, just loud enough for Severus to hear, “You sure you don’t want me to start a riot instead?”

Severus answered with a single, quiet scoff. His arms stayed folded, his eyes half-lidded—watching, waiting. Not the least bit moved.

The owner stepped forward, her heels clicking smartly on the worn floor as she approached the woman.

“I can personally vouch for these gentlemen,” she said firmly, nodding subtly toward Sirius. “One of them is my resident, and he’s definitely no thief.”

Sirius offered a crooked, half-mocking smile. Severus still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Perhaps,” the owner continued, turning back to the distraught woman, her voice adopting a rehearsed gentleness, “you simply dropped them somewhere else. Things get lost it’s happened.”

“I didn’t dropped a damn thing!” the woman snapped, voice rising sharply again. “Maybe if you spent less time fussing with that crooked wig, you’d keep better track of what happens in your dump of a motel!”

A sharp gasp echoed from a few guests nearby. The owner blinked, as if slapped.

Her lips parted, but for a second, no words came out. Then her hand slowly lifted to her hairline, touching the edge of the askew wig with trembling dignity.

“How dare you,” she breathed, voice suddenly brittle with offense. “I open my doors, and this is the gratitude I receive?”

The tension in the room thickened again, guests caught between sympathy, discomfort, and the mounting absurdity of the scene.

Sirius muttered under his breath, “Bloody hell, we’re one insult away from a soap opera.”

Severus leaned just slightly into him, voice dry as desert bone. “I believe we’ve already passed that threshold.” His gaze, sharp and restless, drifted lower — to the ring of room cards clipped to the motel owner’s hip. His eyes narrowed.

“What’s our room number?” he asked quietly, not looking at Sirius.

“Room 102,” Sirius replied, only half paying attention as he watched the argument spiral with mild amusement. “Why?”

But Severus suddenly stiffened. The subtle shift in his posture — the quick, breathless pause — caught Sirius’s attention immediately.

“What is it?” he asked, voice now lowered, alert.

Severus didn’t respond at once. He lifted his hand slowly and pointed toward the keycards hanging from the owner’s belt. One of them was clearly marked in fading black ink: 101.

Sirius’s brow furrowed. “So?”

Severus turned his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “If she has the key to 101 then who’s in that room right now?”

They both instinctively glanced toward the ceiling — toward the quiet, shadow-drenched second floor — as if they could hear the echo of something that had never truly left.

Sirius’s jaw tightened. His eyes were now again fixed on the key marked 101 and there was a flicker of something sharper behind them — calculation.

“We need to check out whoever’s in that room,” he muttered. “If there is anyone.”

Before Severus could respond, a louder commotion flared in the lobby.

“I knew it!” the woman screamed, her voice shrill and cracking. “It was you! You’re covering for the thief!”

She pointed directly at the motel owner now, whose face went from confused to flushed with incredulous fury.

“How dare you!” the owner gasped, clutching at her chest as if the very accusation had knocked the breath from her lungs. “Do you think I need your cheap jewelry?”

The room erupted in voices — accusations, defense, bewildered protests. Guests argued amongst themselves. Someone shouted for the police. Another insisted they all be searched. The woman with the missing jewelry began crying again. The motel owner now looked ready to collapse, fanning herself dramatically, caught somewhere between outrage and full-blown theater.

Severus sighed through his nose and turned his head to Sirius, deadpan.

“Do something,” he said sharply under his breath. “Before they start throwing things.”

Sirius looked at him, eyes wide. “Why me?”

“Because you enjoy chaos,” Severus replied evenly, “so I assume you’re also capable of managing noise entropy.”

Sirius blinked, then muttered, “Noise entropy? What even—?”

“Go,” Severus interrupted, already pushing him slightly forward by the elbow. “Before someone bites someone.”

Sirius sighed and rolled his eyes, but straightened his shoulders and started toward the center of the storm, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth despite the tension.

The noise only grew louder. Voices overlapped in heated waves:

“Call the police!”

“She’s lost it — someone call a shrink!”

“I’m telling you, she’s hysterical—”

“Someone stole from me too!”

The woman at the center of it all — still clutching her empty jewelry box — let out a sharp, theatrical gasp, loud enough to cut through the overlapping noise. Her chest heaved as she stepped back from the crowd.

“I can’t take this anymore!” she cried, wild-eyed. “You think I’m insane? Is that what you want? My death? Fine! I’ll show you what madness looks like. I’m leaving!”

She spun on her heel with an exaggerated flair, clearly expecting the crowd to stop her, beg her to stay, or at least chase after her. But instead—

“Whoa, whoa, easy now,” Sirius said smoothly, catching her by the elbow before she could make it past the reception desk.

His voice rose just enough to cut through the din, drawing every eye in the room. His tone was calm, even casual — but it carried a deliberate authority, like a teacher halting a schoolyard brawl.

“First of all,” He turned his face toward the woman and wrinkled his nose, feigning exaggerated confusion. “Who talks like that?”

A few chuckles sputtered out from the edges of the crowd, nervous but real.

“Second,” Sirius continued, scanning the room with a dry, level gaze, “no one’s going anywhere. No one’s dying, no one’s stealing, and everyone needs to calm down before someone actually starts throwing punches — or worse.”

There was a beat of silence — startled, slightly awkward — before the crowd collectively shifted, tension releasing in small, uncertain ripples.

At that exact moment, the woman drew a loud, breathy gasp — one hand flung dramatically toward the ceiling.

“Unhand me, young man!” she declared with tragic flair, as if she were fainting onstage at a provincial theatre.

But instead of pulling away, she leaned closer, practically collapsing into Sirius’s chest with a sigh that could only be described as melodramatic longing. Her perfume hit him like an overly perfumed slap.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sirius muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to hear. His arms stiffened at his sides, unsure where to put them — or how to escape without causing another scene.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of motion—Severus, standing near the back of the crowd, a hand clamped over his mouth. His shoulders shook in barely contained tremors. At first, Sirius thought it was stress—until he saw the flicker of mirth in Severus’s eyes.

That bastard was laughing.

No, not just laughing—completely losing it. Silently, helplessly, doubled over in quiet, convulsive fits that made his hair slip forward over his shoulder. His pale fingers pressed harder against his lips as if he could physically hold the laughter in, but his body betrayed him with each betraying twitch.

Sirius glared at him over the woman’s head.

“I hate you,” he mouthed.

Severus mouthed back, still shuddering: I couldn’t care less.

The woman clung tighter, sighing dramatically again. “I just don’t feel safe anymore…”

“Right,” Sirius said through gritted teeth. “Let’s work on that. Preferably with some personal space.”

Sirius gently peeled the woman off his chest, his hands careful but firm as he guided her a half-step back.

"Well," he said with forced calm, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt like it might erase the awkwardness. "How about everyone just take a breath and return to your rooms? Or, you know, continue doing whatever it is you were doing before the dramatics started."

The murmuring crowd began to quiet. A few people exchanged glances and nodded. One man gave a theatrical sigh of relief, another woman whispered something about needing tea.

Then Sirius turned back to the frantic woman, his tone lowering just enough to sound reassuring — but not indulgent.

"Let’s start with your room," he said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Just to be safe. We’ll check everything again together."

She blinked up at him, a little dazed, but nodded emphatically. “Yes. Yes, good. With witnesses.”

"Of course," Sirius said smoothly.

A few others chimed in agreement. “That sounds fair.”

“Maybe we all overreacted.”

“It’s been a long night…”

Sirius shot a glance over his shoulder toward Severus, who was still standing back, arms now crossed, amusement quietly flickering across his face.

The crowd, slightly embarrassed now, began to disperse slowly.

Just as Sirius turned toward the hallway to lead the woman back to her room, a voice cut through the lingering murmurs like a knife through fog.

“Darling,” said a man’s voice, tentative but carrying enough to be heard across the lobby.

Heads turned. A man — somewhere in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and a look of weary resignation — stepped into the hall from the corridor. In his hand, he held a small velvet pouch, half-open, glinting with gold and jewels.

“I found them,” he said. “Your earrings. And the bracelet. They were in the desk drawer. Right where you always put them when you’re trying to hide them from the cleaners.”

A beat of stunned silence followed.

The woman froze mid-step. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted from the man to the pouch, and then to the crowd watching her.

“You… what?” she finally asked, voice cracking.

The man stepped closer and gently held out the pouch, as though approaching a skittish animal. “In the drawer. Right-hand side.”

Another long pause. And then, like a deflating balloon, the woman sagged. “Oh,” she whispered. “Right… I suppose… I didn’t think…”

From across the room, Sirius muttered under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He felt more than saw Severus sidle up beside him, looking utterly delighted by the whole performance. “Chaos neutralized,” Severus murmured. “More or less.”

Sirius gave him a look. “Next time, you do the talking.”

“No chance.” Severus folded his arms. “I prefer the show.”

A low murmur passed through the remaining guests in the lobby — a ripple of quiet indignation, annoyed sighs, and muttered comments like “Unbelievable” and “Could’ve fooled me…” The tension was draining now, but irritation lingered in the air like cigarette smoke.

The motel owner made her way over to Sirius with the slow, weighted steps of someone who’d lived through far too many nights like this. Her heels clicked against the tiled floor, and when she stopped beside him, she exhaled heavily, rubbing her temple.

“This business,” she muttered, eyes scanning the now-settling crowd. “Brings in a hell of a lot less money than it takes out of my nerves.”

Sirius offered her a tired, sympathetic smile. “You handled it like a pro.”

“Please,” she snorted. “At this point, I should be charging for group therapy.”

Then her gaze shifted—narrowing slightly as it landed on Severus, who had taken a half-step back without realizing. He stood awkwardly near a potted plant, arms crossed tight over his oversized t-shirt, dark eyes flicking toward her and then away.

She looked him up and down — not unkindly, but with a piercing sort of curiosity that made him visibly tense.

“Well, well,” she said with a smirk, then turned her attention to Sirius. “You’ve got a type, don’t you, pretty boy?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, trying not to grin. “Do I?”

“Oh, yeah. All your exes were built like that one. Pale, pointy, intense. I remember the blondie. And the silent French one.” She tilted her head at Severus with a knowing gleam. “But this one’s your best work so far.”

Severus gave Sirius a slow, withering glance.

Sirius chuckled under his breath and patted her shoulder. “You should get some rest.”

“Rest,” she echoed, waving a hand. “Like that’s going to happen in this asylum.”

Still smiling faintly, she turned and headed back down the hallway toward her room, muttering something about locking the liquor cabinet.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Severus turned to Sirius with a scowl already forming. “ Pointy? ” he asked, disgusted.

“Don’t look at me,” Sirius said, trying and failing to look innocent. “Apparently I have a type.”

They climbed the stairs in silence, their footsteps muffled against the threadbare carpet. The mid-afternoon light streamed through a high window at the end of the hall, casting long, slanted shadows across the walls. It should’ve felt mundane — just another old hallway in just another crumbling motel — but the silence was too still, too stretched.

When they reached the second floor, Sirius casually glanced over the railing. No one followed. No sounds of doors opening or guests moving about below. Just the low hum of sunlight and settling wood.

Severus slowed his pace and scanned the hall. Every door was shut, untouched. No signs of movement. No other guests in sight.

He spoke quietly, his voice flat. “We’re alone up here.”

Sirius raised a brow. “You’re sure?”

“No one else came up. No creaking stairs. No conversations behind the doors. Nothing.” Severus’s gaze flicked to the room across from theirs — 101. “If someone was in there earlier, they’re either gone or they never left.”

Sirius stopped beside him, now facing the same door. The number 101 was crooked on the metal plate, as if it had been struck from beneath. The edges of the doorframe looked worn, slightly warped.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The hallway felt colder now. Still bright, but airless — like the motel itself was holding its breath.

Then Sirius exhaled and muttered, “Let’s get this over with.”

He shifted his weight, hand inching up under the hem of his shirt where his wand was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. His muscles were tense, shoulders squared. He was ready for a fight — or at least for something unpleasant behind the door.

But just as his fingers brushed the handle of his wand, Severus stepped forward and, without a word, crouched lightly in front of the door.

“What are you doing?” Sirius asked in a low voice, sharp with warning.

Severus didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled something from the deep pocket of his pajama pants — a small white card. He held it up between two fingers, flashing it like a magician revealing the final card in a trick.

Sirius blinked. “Is that—?”

“The room key.” Severus looked insufferably pleased with himself.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Sirius hissed.

Severus only smirked. “That’s a secret.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Alright, then. Who taught you that?”

“My father,” Severus replied, tone casual as he lean the key slowly at the lock.

Sirius scoffed under his breath. “Brilliant. Generational mischief. Touching, really.”

The door gave way with a soft, reluctant click — a sound too quiet, too final. For a moment, neither of them moved. The stillness beyond the threshold felt unnatural, like something was waiting just out of sight, holding its breath.

Sirius stepped in first, wand raised and at the ready, every nerve in his body tuned to the silence like an instrument strung too tight. The air was heavier inside — not warm, not cold, just wrong. Like a memory that shouldn’t be touched.

Severus followed, slower, more cautious. The moment he crossed the threshold, his eyes widened — then he slapped both hands over his mouth to stifle whatever noise instinct had tried to rip out of him. His breath hitched audibly through his fingers, and his whole body stiffened, eyes glued to the walls.

“What the hell?” Sirius whispered, the words barely audible as he lowered his wand slightly, stunned by what lay in front of them.

The room was empty — almost. Empty of furniture, of comfort, of anything human — except for the walls. Every inch of them was covered in the same phrase, over and over, scrawled in frantic, jagged script, looping like madness itself:

"Why him?"

The letters were painted in a deep, smeared red, still glistening in places. The stench of iron clung to the air like sweat on skin.

Severus didn’t want to think about what was used to write it.

Not even for a second.

The air in the room felt thick, pressing against Severus’s lungs like wet cotton. His hands slowly dropped from his mouth, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He stared at the writing—those feverish, red letters clawed across the walls—and his mind began to reel.

They’d been just meters away. One thin wall between them and this. Between them and that thing.

The realization hit like cold water down his spine. That person had been there. While they were talking, moving, breathing— he had been writing. Or pacing. Or watching.

Or worse.

Severus’s thoughts began to spiral.

What if he heard us? What if he was listening the whole time? Watching through a crack in the door or a gap in the wall? What if he planned something? What if he came into our room while we were asleep and stood over us? What if he touched something?

He swallowed hard. The coppery stench in the room was unbearable now, crawling into his sinuses, under his skin.

What if it’s not paint? a voice in his head whispered. What if he didn’t just write? What if he tortured someone here?

What if he killed?

Severus pressed a palm against his stomach, trying to will the nausea down. His pulse was racing, a frenzied rhythm behind his ears. He could have killed us. He was that close.

His eyes flicked to the man beside him.

Sirius, jaw tight and wand still slightly raised, scanned the walls like he expected something to leap out of them. The tension in his shoulders was different now—no longer the alert readiness of a duelist, but something deeper. Protective. Instinctual.

And for the first time, Severus felt something like a chill pass through his core.

They weren’t dealing with a harmless admirer.

They were in the den of someone unwell. Unhinged.

Possibly a killer. A maniac.

Sirius moved slowly, carefully, his wand casting a soft glow across the torn-up room. He stepped over a splintered chair, past the overturned nightstand, gaze sweeping the walls with increasing tension. There was nothing else here—no bags, no clothes, no signs of a person having lived in this room.

Just those words.

Just that single, awful question, smeared over every surface.

“Why him?”

The letters looked like they’d been painted in haste, but with a disturbing sense of deliberation—each one uneven and jagged, like the writer's hand shook from too much emotion or too much rage.

Sirius stopped in front of a particularly large word, narrowing his eyes at the drag marks where the writing tool— no, where fingers —had faltered and dipped. The substance glistened faintly in the light.

It wasn’t paint.

He didn’t need to say it aloud. The smell confirmed it: thick, metallic, unmistakably real. Blood. Human blood , by the scent of it—fresh enough that it hadn’t yet turned brown, old enough to dry tacky on the plaster.

Sirius’s throat tightened.

He leaned in closer, noting the shapes of certain letters. The way some of them curled, the overly precise loops of the "h" and "m"… they weren’t random. They were familiar . He’d seen handwriting like this before—old homework assignments, forgotten letters. It wasn’t a match, not quite, but it echoed something. A style. A hand once taught to form words properly, now twisted into madness.

Something cold and slow began to bloom in his chest.

A crawling, sinking sensation like dark ink spilling into clear water.

It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper. Something that whispered: This wasn’t meant to be random. This was personal.

“Why him?”

The question clung to the air like smoke.

The room smelled like desperation and jealousy.

Sirius swallowed hard and stepped back, suddenly aware of the silence behind him. He turned his head slightly and saw Severus still standing near the doorway, pale as parchment, unmoving.

Sirius looked back at the wall one more time. His fingers tightened around his wand.

Someone had lost control in this room.

And someone had meant for them to see it.

He stood in the center of the ruined room, the stench of blood thick in his nose, and let his thoughts spiral in silence.

When the hell did someone even get in here?

The timeline didn’t make sense. No one had come up the stairs after them. No doors had opened. No footsteps echoed through the corridor. And yet, this had been here all along. Just a few feet away from their room.

From Severus. 

His jaw tensed.

And then he remembered it—that flicker, that instinctual shiver down his spine as he approached the motel. That brief, electric tension in the air. He’d felt something. Someone. A presence too silent, too clean. It had vanished so fast he’d dismissed it, swallowed the warning with a quiet snarl.

But now?

Now it was clear.

Someone had been watching him too. And they knew exactly when to disappear.

Sirius’s lip curled slightly as something sharper stirred beneath his skin—not fear, not even anger, but that old, wild thing that had once kept him alive behind enemy lines. That part of him that didn’t flinch. That knew how to hunt.

Because while Severus could sense minds and motives, dissect thoughts with surgical precision—Sirius? Sirius had always smelled blood before it was spilled. 

He could feel the game.

Someone had tested the perimeter, pushed at the edges, like a wolf brushing just beyond the treeline, just beyond the firelight. But they hadn’t stepped closer.

No.

They knew better.

They knew he was here.

And Sirius Black, for all his scars and fractured glory, was not someone you played hide and seek with.

Not without paying the price.

Oh, he was so exited.

He glanced over his shoulder at Severus again, who still hadn’t moved, his fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt, face pale and unreadable. That familiar darkness in Sirius’s chest gave a slow, deliberate throb—protective, territorial.

He turned back to the wall.

“Why him?”

Oh, they would find out.

And when they did—

Sirius would make sure there was no second round.

Severus stood frozen, the metallic tang thick in his throat, burning down to his lungs. The red writing on the walls— Why him? —seemed to pulse, almost mocking in its simplicity. Every muscle in his body trembled with the effort to stay upright. He could feel his heart beating in his fingertips, could feel panic clawing somewhere just beneath his ribs.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Breathe.
In. Out. Again.

It wasn’t working. His knees still felt like they might betray him at any second, folding under the weight of something ancient and awful that clung to the air like mold. A buzzing sound pressed at the edge of his hearing, quiet but relentless.

But Sirius was there.

Just a few feet away, shoulders squared, body still like a drawn arrow. There was something solid about him in that moment—something grounding. And Severus hated to admit it, but that presence... it helped .

He forced one foot to move. Then another.

The floor creaked softly beneath his steps as he crossed to stand beside Sirius. His fingers twitched, and for a moment he thought about reaching out—just lightly, brushing his hand against Sirius’s arm—but he stopped himself.

Still, he was closer now. And somehow, that made it a little easier to breathe.

A bitter thought surfaced in the back of his mind, dry and incredulous.

Imagine that. Finding comfort in Sirius bloody Black.

His lip twitched slightly at the irony. If someone had told him that a year ago—or even a week ago—he’d have hexed them across the room. And yet here he was, leaning on the one person whose brand of chaos somehow made the darkness feel less suffocating.

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move away either.

Finally, Sirius decided to break the silence.

“Little Snive scared of a drop of blood?”

“Keep dreaming,” Severus muttered, voice low and tight.

Despite the jab, Sirius stepped closer, the faintest softness threading through his usually sharp demeanor. He pulled Severus gently toward him, an unspoken reassurance in the movement. The warmth of Sirius’s body was grounding, a small anchor in the swirling storm of anxiety.

“We need to remember—did we see anyone suspicious today, or when we first checked in?” Sirius whispered, voice barely above the tense stillness of the room.

Severus closed his eyes briefly, searching the tangled maze of his memory. Faces blurred and fragmented, but no one stood out. Nothing concrete emerged from the haze.

His mind remained stubbornly blank.

Severus shook his head slowly, a weak, tired movement. The nausea from the metallic scent still churned in his stomach, and he couldn’t bear to look at the blood-smeared walls any longer.

Sirius reached out, lifting Severus’s chin gently with one hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Stop thinking, love,” he said softly, voice low but firm. “Otherwise, instead of one madman, I’ll end up with two.”

Severus wanted to protest — how could Sirius be so sharp-tongued and joking in a moment like this? — but deep down, he felt a flicker of gratitude. Without Sirius here, he would have already lost his grip on reality long ago.

“We need to inform the Aurors,” Severus said quietly, his voice low but steady despite the lingering nausea and weakness that clung to him. His eyes still flickered uneasily toward the blood-stained walls, as if afraid to fully face the horror they bore.

Sirius met his gaze, his expression hardening with resolve. “I agree,” he said simply. He slipped his wand from beneath his shirt with practiced ease, the familiar weight grounding him in the midst of chaos.

The room felt heavier now, the metallic scent clinging to their clothes and skin. Sirius took a steadying breath and raised his wand. From the tip, a bright silver light spilled forth, twisting and shaping itself into a sleek, spectral creature—a Grim. It was a haunting figure, tall and skeletal, with glowing eyes that seemed to pierce the gloom.

Severus’s breath caught. He recognized it immediately—the same ominous creature he had read about in Divination texts, a harbinger of death and warning. Now, that very creature was their messenger.

The Grim leapt into the air, ethereal paws barely touching the floor, and shot out through the open doorway, disappearing like a streak of moonlight. Sirius watched it go, his jaw clenched, the weight of their discovery settling over him like a stone.

“We won’t get much time,” Sirius muttered. “They’ll come fast.”

Severus nodded, fighting the urge to recoil from the room’s oppressive atmosphere. Yet with Sirius by his side, there was a flicker of strength. Together, they waited in silence, ears straining for any further signs of danger.

``

The arrival of Aurors was never marked by dramatic entrance or loud declarations—but rather by something far more unsettling: a sudden, smothering silence that fell over the building like a velvet curtain. It was the kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of the neck rise, that sucked the color out of the air and left only the cold impression of presence. As if every person within a certain radius had, without knowing, fallen under the Imperius Curse—aware only of an inexplicable urge to look away and walk faster, to not get involved .

The moment the atmosphere shifted, Sirius and Severus both knew.

Shadows pulled longer as the Aurors arrived. Not by Floo or Apparition—they were already there, slipping out of corners, stepping in through the front door like they’d always belonged. Clad in dull, almost unnoticeable robes that flickered slightly at the edges, they moved with a deliberate grace that made it hard to remember what exactly they looked like, even seconds later.

They questioned Sirius first.

He stood tall, hands visible, tone calm but sharp. “We heard something—closer to dawn,” he said, voice even. “No screams. Just noise. Low, distorted. Not enough to raise alarm until the business downstairs with the woman and her missing jewelry.”

He glanced to Severus, who stood nearby, arms behind his back, pale but steady. The Aurors had already asked him for his wand. They lingered longer on him— too long. Sirius didn’t like it.

“And after that?” one asked.

“We returned to our room,” Sirius replied. “There was a strange smell. Metallic. The door to the neighboring unit wasn’t locked. It was open. I stepped in, thinking someone might be hurt.”

“You stepped in,” repeated the Auror flatly. “Without notifying the owner.”

“The owner was busy accusing a woman of a mental breakdown,” Sirius answered, unflinching. “I didn’t think wasting time on formalities was the wise choice.”

Severus could feel the stares pinning Sirius. They looked at him longer than they should have. One Auror—tall, with copper-toned skin and pale eyes—kept circling back to Black’s every word, every blink, every pause.

Severus himself was used to this. It never got easier.

But something else caught Severus’s attention—something was missing. Someone.

That Auror. The one who normally accompanied him to every mandated check-in. The one with a clipped voice and slightly condescending manner. He was always there. And yet—tonight— nothing.

Thanks Merlin.

Sirius continued: “We thought it best to notify you, considering the ongoing string of attacks on Muggles.”

A pause. One of the Aurors, a squat man with an unlined face and deep shadows under his eyes, raised a brow. “Ongoing? And how exactly would you know that? It hasn’t been publicly disclosed that the attacks are still happening.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Severus’s gaze flicked sideways, curious to see if Sirius would falter. But the man didn’t even blink.

Sirius shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Same way I know there haven’t been any reports saying they’ve stopped.”

A pause.

Severus didn’t miss the tightening of the Auror’s jaw. Sirius’s answer had been delivered with just enough confidence, just enough calm irony, to make it impossible to challenge without looking like a fool.

The Aurors didn’t like to be perceived as fools.

And they didn’t like Sirius either.

And they certainly didn’t like Severus.

The air grew heavier as one of the Aurors shifted his weight and narrowed his eyes at Sirius.

“And what exactly were you doing here,” he asked, voice measured, “in a motel room—alone—with a known former Death Eater?”

Severus stiffened. The words hit like a slap— former Death Eater , spat with the smooth finality of someone who believed it was a title you never truly left behind.

The question hadn’t even been directed at him, and yet every eye in the room was suddenly fixed on him.

It didn’t matter how long ago it had been. It didn’t matter that it was a teen’s mistake. Then it seemed like a solution to be useful and belonged. Now it was a verdict. All it took was one reminder, one word, and the room tilted. Cold suspicion soaked into the floorboards. Severus could feel it bleeding through the walls.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t look at them.

Sirius, however, turned his head slowly, deliberately, and let his gaze land on the lead Auror.

“Careful,” he said, softly. “He’s standing right here.”

The Auror didn’t flinch. “So are we.”

Another stepped closer, his tone oily with civility. “A man of your standing—your name, your reputation—ought not to consort with his kind .”

Severus said nothing. But his jaw clenched tightly enough to ache.

Sirius raised a brow, his voice calm and clipped. “A man of my standing,” he echoed, “is permitted to do whatever the hell he wants.”

He stepped forward just slightly—not threatening, but undeniably dominant.

“And right now,” Sirius continued, “what I want is for you to stop sniffing around my private business like a bored house-elf looking for gossip. If you have questions, ask them. If you’re finished, leave.”

A pause stretched, brittle and dangerous.

Then the lead Auror gave a small, tight nod. “For now.”

But no one missed the way they lingered just a moment longer—long enough to let their message settle.

They didn’t trust Severus.

They didn’t trust Sirius for trusting him.

And they’d be watching.

Everyone watching everyone, but people keep dying.

What a joke of life.

One of the Aurors stepped forward, a parchment notebook in hand, and spoke in a low, deliberate voice.

“If this is real,” he said, glancing at the writing smeared across the walls, “and it connects to the previous cases, then this would make six.”

He exhaled heavily, the weight of his own words dragging down his shoulders. His eyes swept the room — the dried red streaks, the jagged letters, the metallic stench.

“Dark times didn’t end,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the shadows curling in the corners of the room. Then, more sharply, “Mr. Snape.”

Severus flinched slightly, caught off guard.

“If you know anything,” the Auror continued, locking eyes with him, “Anything at all — now would be the time to speak. You understand the kind of pattern we’re dealing with.”

Severus straightened his spine despite the fatigue, despite the way his stomach still turned at the scent thick in the air.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” he said firmly. “Every detail. I heard the sounds. I felt the presence. I didn't see a face, I didn't hear a name. I don’t know anything more.”

His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. He wasn’t begging them to believe him — just stating a fact, and daring them to challenge it.

The Aurors exchanged brief glances, then began methodically scanning the room. Wand-tips glowed faintly as they passed them along the walls, across the doorframe, over the floorboards. Thin trails of magical residue began to surface — faint, glimmering like veins beneath skin.

One of them frowned.

“That’s strange,” he said after a moment, crouching down near the baseboard. “There’s a trace, alright. Whoever did this — they’re magical.”

He glanced up, brow furrowed. “But the trace — it doesn’t feel entirely human.”

A subtle, shared tension rippled through the group like the pull of an unseen tide.

Sirius turned toward the Auror, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean — not human?”

“No signature pattern,” the Auror replied. “It’s frayed. Off. Like something mimicking the shape of a wizard but not quite getting it right.”

Sirius didn’t answer. But his jaw tightened, and deep inside his mind, that shard of strange information locked itself into place. Not quite human. He filed it away, memorized the phrasing. It rang too loudly to ignore.

It made sense of the wrongness he’d felt earlier — the way the presence had vanished so fast. The way the air had folded in on itself, unnatural and bitter.

Whatever this thing was… it knew how to hide .

And worse — it knew how to play.

“Who could leave a trace like that?” Severus asked suddenly, his voice quieter than before, but sharp — precise.

The room stilled for a breath. The Aurors exchanged glances again, as if silently debating whether to respond. There was always a hesitation when it came to Severus — always that pause before anyone offered him trust.

Finally, the older of the group gave a curt nod.

“Could be werewolves,” he said slowly. “Sometimes vampires. Anything that walks in a shell that looks human, but isn’t, not entirely.”

“They’re classified as humanoid for convenience,” added another Auror, “but magically, they leave behind something… corrupted. A little off-center. Like something's twisted in the core.”

“You forgot animagus,” Sirius interjected, casually. The word cut through the room like a clean blade.

It was enough to shift the focus instantly.

The Aurors’ heads turned toward him in unison. One of them, younger and sharper-featured, gave a dry snort.

“You’re well informed,” he muttered. “Did you read a lot of hysteria-fueled textbooks on magical creatures in your final year?”

Sirius offered a humorless smile.

“I didn’t need to read that rubbish,” he said, voice low and steady. “I knew all of it long before I ever set foot in Hogwarts.”

There was something in his tone — not arrogance, not exactly. But experience. The kind that didn't come from books or secondhand stories. The kind that settled behind the eyes and lingered in the way one moved through the world.

The Aurors didn’t laugh this time.

Instead, a new silence crept in — heavier than the first.

And behind Sirius, Severus remained still, his brows slightly furrowed, as if thinking the same thing Sirius was: if it’s not human, not quite… what, exactly, had been standing — or crawling — just a few meters from them the night before?

One of the Aurors — the older one with silver at his temples — gave a short whistle, and the others stirred into motion. With a few practiced swishes of their wands, the thick, metallic smell in the room began to dissipate. The crimson writing vanished from the walls, pulled away like smoke into nothingness. The stains, the oppressive atmosphere — all scrubbed clean in less than a minute.

Too clean, Severus thought, almost unnerved by the sudden sterility. As if it had all been a hallucination. But he still felt it — the weight of what they’d seen. The imprint it left on the air.

“We’ll file this with the others,” said the same Auror, giving the room one final glance. “If what you’ve told us is true — and I’m inclined to believe it is — then this, in fact, makes six.”

He turned to Sirius and Severus, his expression tight.

“Be careful. Don’t wander alone, especially near the woods or at nights. And don’t touch anything unusual. If you hear anything again — you send word.”

Sirius nodded once. “We will.”

The Auror hesitated before his gaze shifted to Severus.

“Mr. Snape,” he said pointedly. “Your next check-in is in three days. Make sure you don’t forget it.”

Severus inclined his head without a word. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.

“Good,” the man muttered. Then, to the others: “Let’s go.”

With another faint shimmer of magic, the Aurors disappeared one by one — not with dramatic cracks, but with a hush, as though even their departure obeyed the eerie silence they brought with them.

When the last of them was gone, the room was still again. Clean. Neat. As if no blood had ever touched the walls. As if no message had ever been left.

But it had. And both Sirius and Severus remembered every word.

Sirius exhaled slowly and looked at Severus.

“You alright?”

“Not gonna lie,” Severus replied quietly, “Could be better.”

And for now, that would have to be enough.

``

They walked back to their room in silence, the air between them dense with unspoken thoughts. Every step they took down the dim hallway seemed heavier now, more deliberate — as if the floor itself remembered the scene from next door.

Neither of them mentioned the fact that they were separated from that blood-stained room by just one thin wall. Neither asked aloud what might’ve happened if they’d arrived a little earlier or a little later.

The door clicked softly behind them as Sirius shut it, locking it out of habit — or maybe something closer to instinct now.

Severus moved first. He crossed the room and let himself fall onto Sirius’s bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then turned his head just enough to study Sirius with faint, assessing curiosity.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re not stupid,” Severus said, almost as if the words surprised him as much as they did Sirius.

That earned a sharp huff from the man. He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed.

“Well,” Sirius drawled with theatrical offense, “thank you ever so much for noticing. I can also recite the alphabet, and I’m particularly good at not choking on soup.”

Severus rolled his eyes but didn’t suppress the faintest ghost of a smirk. “You just don’t act like someone who knows anything that’s what I mean. Risky behavior. No planning. You act like everything will sort itself out by sheer force of will.”

Sirius tilted his head, as if considering that. “Maybe it will. Hasn’t failed me yet.”

“That’s because someone else is usually picking up the consequences.”

A grin tugged at Sirius’s mouth — not mocking, this time, but something quieter. He crossed the room, and for a moment, it seemed like he might argue.

Instead, he simply sat down at the edge of the bed near Severus’s legs.

“I don’t need to look clever. I just need to make sure nobody dies.”

Severus blinked, the line disarming in its directness.

No one said a word.

There was a stifling silence in the room for a couple minutes. Heads were cloudy, thoughts whirling, the fatigue of everything that was happening felt on a physical level. Severus felt himself falling out of reality.

"What are you thinking about?" The silence was suddenly broken by Black.

He had always been known to break the peace, at least Severus's. But at the moment, Severus was grateful for that.

“He did find me.” He suddenly said quietly. ”Even here. It doesn’t matter how far we run or how well we hide — he always knows. Always closer than he should be.”

A beat of silence passed. Then Sirius said, almost grimly, “This time he spoke.”

Severus turned his head. “Yes.”

“‘Why him?’” Sirius repeated the question written in blood, his voice a soft growl. “That’s not random. That’s not madness. That’s—intent. Whatever they are, they’re angry now.”

Severus’s jaw tightened.

“Muggles.” continued Sirius. ”All of them mutilated, all connected to something. You. Or maybe to someone else.”

“I never knew any of them,” Severus muttered. “I swear it.”

“I know,” Sirius said quickly. “But this isn’t about them. It’s about the message. About sending one.”

Severus’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “He could’ve killed us too. He had the chance.”

Black looked like he didn't care at all. “But he didn’t.”

That truth settled between them like a weight.

“He’s not just hunting,” Sirius said. “He’s performing.”

“And I’m the audience.” Severus’s lips curled in quiet disgust.

They sat in the quiet for a bit, the echo of tension still hanging in the air.

"The Aurors don't know what to do about it. They act on the most primitive clichés." Sirius voiced a thought. There was an obvious sneer in his voice at that moment. ”I've been reading up on the investigation. Searching for witnesses, questioning suspects - it yielded nothing. Today we made sure the trail wasn't entirely human. I bet they started a werewolf sweep, but it’s a mistake.”

"Why?" Severus was actually interested. It was hard to admit, but he liked it when Black stopped being an idiot and finally got to work. They'd been eternal rivals in school, and though Severus had gotten first place, he'd known even then that he wasn't the only one fixing books or creating spells.

Of the two brothers, Sirius Black was more academically advanced than the younger one. Regulus liked Quidditch and didn't like mudbloods. Sirius liked posing in transfiguration classes and didn't like Severus.

The difference has always been pretty simple.

"Werewolves wouldn't get sophisticated and think of ways to kill in an extraordinary way," Black explains. "Tore it up and that's the end of it. Primal and animalistic. But it's - it's like art. It looks like a public execution or statement."

"Look what I am capable of," Severus mumbled, finishing the thought. He and Sirius look at each other, and in that moment, two extraordinary minds truly find solace in each other rather than hatred or endless grief.

”Good," Black praises him.

Severus only grins at that, averting his gaze, but their dialog doesn't end there. ”Speaking of Aurors,” Severus continued, voice soft but distinct, “They definitely didn’t like you.”

Sirius gave a low, dismissive snort. “The feeling’s mutual,” he said, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands.

Severus folded his legs over Sirius's.

Then Black’s tone shifted, darker, steadier. “Anything to do with you is my business. Only mine.”

Severus’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. A faint flush crept into his cheeks before he could stop it. He turned his gaze away, pretending to focus on the curtain fluttering near the cracked window, but his fingers curled slightly against the bedspread.

Meanwhile, Sirius’s hand moved — slow, deliberate — across Severus’s thigh. A light stroke, not demanding, but unmistakably there. Meant to comfort. Meant to remind.

Severus didn’t push it away. He laid still, letting the warmth of it spread through his skin, steadying something inside him that had been unraveling since they found that room.

He exhaled, barely audible.

“Why?” Severus asked quietly, barely above a whisper.

His hand moved, deliberate and a little hesitant, resting a finger atop Sirius’s where it lingered on his thigh. The contact wasn’t to stop him — it was something else. Acceptance. A question wrapped in warmth.

Sirius didn’t miss the signal.

Without a word, he shifted on the bed, stretching out beside Severus. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he turned onto his side, leaning over him slightly — not heavy, not intrusive, just close enough for his presence to settle like a protective veil. His hair, still faintly wild from the long night, brushed against Severus’s shoulder as he hovered, studying the lines of his face.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sirius murmured. His breath was warm where it hit Severus’s cheek. “Why are you still letting me touch you like this?”

Severus didn’t answer. But his fingers — the ones resting on Sirius’s hand — scratch hem slightly.

"I'm tired," Severus said softly, his voice barely carrying in the space between them.
He didn’t look at Sirius, not at first — his eyes were fixed on the wall that separated them from that bloody room, as if speaking to it made the words less heavy. “There have been too many moments in my life when I did things I hated because I thought they were right. Because someone told me they were right. And in the end, nothing changed. Or it got worse.”

Sirius stayed silent, watching him, the tension in his jaw betraying how much he wanted to speak. But he didn’t.

Severus turned his head then, met Sirius’s gaze with something raw and unshielded in his own.

“Do I think it’s right to let a bastard like you — someone who tormented me for years — touch me like this?” A dry, breathless laugh escaped him. “No. I don’t.”

There was a beat of silence. The air between them thick with too much history, too much unsaid.

“But I like it.”

The confession hung between them, fragile and dangerous. Something flickered in Sirius’s eyes — not triumph, not smugness, but something quieter. Understanding. And something darker, too. Something hungry.

His hand moved again, slow, reverent — up Severus’s thigh, then back down, as if mapping a path he already knew by heart.

“Then don’t stop liking it.” Sirius said roughly. His hand moved beneath Severus’s shirt with a kind of reverence, fingers warm against cool skin. They traced over the taut muscle of his stomach — a simple touch, but one that made Severus exhale sharply, his breath catching like a hook in his throat.

Sirius saw it — the way Severus reacted — and something in his eyes shifted. A slow, hungry awareness crept into his expression, laced with something deeper than lust, something unspoken and old.

“Don’t tell me,” Severus muttered, voice tight, colored with a dry sort of resignation, “that you think it’s a good idea to get handsy after we found out a lunatic was practically living next door.”

“Then I won’t tell you,” Sirius replied, without missing a beat.

He leaned in, lips already close enough to feel the trace of Severus’s breath, but before he could close the distance, Severus lifted a finger — long, pale, and slightly trembling — and pressed it lightly to Sirius’s mouth. The pressure was gentle but final.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Severus said.

Sirius stilled. The light coming through the window caught in Severus’s eyes, and for a moment, he looked almost breakable. Sirius’s breath slowed.

“You asked why,” he said at last.

Severus nodded once, his hand falling back to the mattress but not moving away entirely. It hovered there, waiting.

Sirius sat back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes properly. “Because,” he began slowly, “I never stopped thinking about you. Even when we were at Hogwarts. Especially then. And now you're in my hands and I won't let anyone take you away.”

Severus looked away for a second, eyes focusing on a crack in the ceiling. The expression on his face was unreadable — not soft, not cynical. Just tired. Real.

Sirius talks about him like he's his favorite toy.

Perhaps he was.

Outside, the sun lit the parking lot in stark, clear light. Somewhere nearby, a radio was playing faintly through someone’s open window. The world was fully awake — and they were lying in its center, caught in a moment that felt strangely private.

Severus finally met his gaze again. “You’re a madman,” he said. But there was no bite in it.

Sirius’s lips curled into the barest of smiles. “Takes one to know one.”

A beat passed, and then Severus reached up — not urgently, but with intent — and brushed his fingers against the line of Sirius’s jaw. Not to pull him closer, not yet. Just to feel. To be sure.

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

Instead, they stayed there, shoulder to shoulder on a cheap motel bed under the watching daylight, a wall away from horror, and far too aware of how thin the barrier truly was.

“You could pass for a stalker,” Severus murmured, voice low but edged with something dry. “Completely obsessed. And with whom, of all people?” There was a flicker of bitterness at the end, subtle but there.

Sirius let out a soft laugh, too amused for the weight in Severus’s tone. “What if I am one?” he asked lightly, raising a brow. “What if I’ve been following you all along, whispering your name into the walls like a lunatic?”

“I might almost believe you,” Severus replied, dragging the words out slowly. Then, with mock innocence, he lifted a finger to his lips and looked away, eyelashes sweeping down. “But…”

“But?” Sirius’s hand, which had been resting idly, stirred again — fingers sliding up Severus’s side with intent.

“But then that would mean,” Severus continued without looking at him, “that you were jealous of yourself.”

Sirius let out a low chuckle, leaning closer. “I could be. Have you seen me lately? I look fantastic.”

Severus rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Of course. That’s it. I’ve finally figured out how to get rid of you.”

“Oh?” Sirius grinned.

“I’ll just show you a mirror,” Severus said dryly. “You’ll forget I exist the moment you see your own reflection. You’ll stand there all day, admiring yourself until you vanish into narcissistic bliss.”

Sirius leaned in close, his lips brushing Severus’s ear as he whispered, “Wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?” Severus asked, breath catching slightly.

Sirius tilted his head, watching him carefully. “Because now I know about your plan.” he said, drawing the words out with a lazy kind of menace, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

There was a long pause between them. The air seemed to shift, grow thicker — as if the weight of the day, of the room next door, of the six deaths, of the stares from the Aurors, had finally descended into the room with them. Everything unsaid trembled on the edge of that pause.

Then, slowly, Severus reached out. His fingers brushed Sirius’s cheek — light, tentative, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed this kind of softness. The touch deepened, and he used both hands now, cradling Sirius’s face. His thumbs moved across high cheekbones with calculated care.

It should’ve felt gentle. But it didn’t.

It felt like a test.

Sirius held completely still. One of his hands was on Severus’s thighs, not moving, only gripping slightly — enough to show he was there, but not enough to guide or take. Not yet.

“Maybe you want to ask for something,” Sirius said, voice a shade lower than it had been, the humor there but edged in tension now, like a thread pulled too tight.

Severus looked at him. Really looked. The kind of gaze that dissected you, mapped out your scars and smiled at the ugly shapes.

Then, at last, he nodded.

“Yes,” he murmured.

Sirius’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, body leaning in, drawn like metal to a storm. “What is it?” he asked, quiet and rough.

Severus licked his lips, bit down lightly on his lower lip, eyes wide with a mock innocence that didn’t fool either of them.

Then he said, ever so sweetly:

“A large plate of shrimp pasta, hot tea, and cheesecake.”

A long silence followed.

Sirius stared at him. Then blinked.

Then, with a loud groan, he collapsed forward until his forehead hit Severus’s chest, letting out a laugh that was half disbelief and half surrender.

“Fuck you,” he muttered against him, laughter shaking them both.

Severus arched a brow, smug and serene. “You offered. I merely took advantage of your moment of weakness.”

“You are my moment of weakness,” Sirius said, without thinking — then immediately groaned again. “Merlin. I hate myself.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ on the pasta,” Severus said dryly, pushing Sirius away. “You’re paying.”

Sirius only mumbled at the blasphemy. “I’d rather face Death.”

“Too bad,” Severus purred, getting up and starting to change. “You’re facing carbs and capitalism instead.”

Severus was already standing by the dresser, absently brushing off invisible dust from a fresh black shirt before slipping it on with habitual precision. The soft rustle of fabric filled the room while Sirius remained sprawled dramatically on the bed, one arm flung across his eyes like a man afflicted by unspeakable grief.

“Get up,” Severus said flatly, buttoning the last few buttons with the same severity he applied to most of life.

Sirius groaned in reply. With exaggerated effort, he sat up, rubbing a hand down his face. His hair was a tousled mess, thick and unruly from where he’d buried it against Severus’s chest. His T-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of his hipbone and stomach. He looked thoroughly wrecked — and infuriatingly comfortable about it.

“There’ll be pretty waitresses there,” Severus added, reaching for his bag.

“I don’t want pretty waitresses,” Sirius muttered. A second later, however, his lips spread into a sly smile that didn't bode well.“Unless you’re willing to wear a skirt and stockings. Then we can talk.”

Severus stilled for a moment. Then, calmly, he crossed the room and stood in front of Sirius, who looked up with the same evil smirk.

Without a word, Severus placed both hands on Sirius’s face, fingers cool against the rough stubble. He leaned down, close enough for their foreheads to almost touch, then gave him a brief, deliberate kiss — just a soft press of lips that said you’re ridiculous, but I tolerate you anyway.

“Stop talking nonsense,” he murmured against his mouth, lips brushing slightly as he spoke.

Sirius blinked up at him, clearly caught off guard by the kiss more than the scolding. His smirk faltered for half a second, replaced by something quieter, something almost boyish.

Then he grinned again, as incorrigible as ever. “Fine,” he said, standing and stretching with a loud groan. “So you promised.”

”I take back what I said about you not being stupid.“ Severus said, walking to the door.

“You’re so relentlessly rude,” Sirius sighed dramatically, slinging on his worn leather jacket. He slipped the keycard into the inside pocket with a practiced flick, then gave Severus a wounded look. “Have I ever been that cruel to you?”

“Yes?” Severus answered without a pause, raising a single brow with all the condescension of a man tallying long-standing grievances.

Sirius clutched at his chest in mock betrayal, but Severus had already turned to open the door. He reached for the handle, only to be casually nudged — just a little — by a certain someone’s shoulder. The bump sent him stumbling forward with a muted thump against the doorframe.

There was a beat of silence. Severus straightened slowly, turning his head with icy precision, clearly preparing a verbal assault.

Behind him, Sirius was the picture of innocence — one hand in his jacket pocket, the other already pushing the door open like a helpful gentleman.

“Careful, darling,” he said smoothly, not even meeting Severus’s glare. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt before dinner. Are you alright?”

Severus didn’t answer. He simply stared, deadpan.

Sirius gave a wide, false smile. “You’re welcome,” he added cheerfully, stepping past him into the corridor like he was the victim here.

Severus exhaled through his nose. Loudly. And followed him.

They went down to the reception desk, talking quietly. They talked about how this motel was no longer safe and they needed to think about where Severus could stay for the night. The option of going home was mentioned, but they decided to think it over.

“Six killed,” Sirius murmured as they slowed to a halt in the middle of the hallway. The carpeted floor muffled their steps, and the faint hum of the old TV near the window was the only sound breaking the stillness. “Only five made the papers. Who was the sixth?”

Severus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled the key-card from his coat pocket and held it between two fingers, glancing at Sirius.

“Wait a second,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sirius instantly understood. The key-card. It had to go back before someone noticed it missing.

They exchanged a quick look, then both turned their attention down the hallway. No footsteps. No murmurs behind the paper-thin doors. No sign of the owner, just the flicker of static blue light from the television in the corner. A weathered news anchor droned on, ignored.

Severus moved with practiced ease, crossing the short distance to the front desk in silence. The papers were there — untidy, unguarded. He slid the key-card back into the folder, tucking it slightly under a crumpled page so it looked forgotten rather than misplaced.

Just as he let the drawer ease shut with a gentle click, he turned back toward Sirius, giving him a short nod.

“Done,” Severus murmured. “Let’s go,” He said again, brushing past him. “I don’t want to be here when she gets back.”

Sirius fell in step beside him, eyes still flicking over the hallway, but his voice remained casual: “So we’re lying to suspicious officials and sneaking out of motels. Just like the good old days.”

“Your definition of good is appalling,” Severus muttered, not slowing.

They were just about to leave, when the voice on the television rose above the low static. Something in its tone pulled at their attention — too precise, too grim to ignore.

“…still no sign of the missing man. Last seen five days ago in the vici….”

Severus stiffened. His eyes, sharp and cold, locked onto the screen for a long second.

“Black,” he said lowly, but with a weight that demanded attention.

Sirius turned, catching the shift in his tone immediately. “What?”

Severus didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed glued to the screen, lips slightly parted. His entire posture had changed — tense, withdrawn, almost stricken.

“I think we found the sixth,” he said.

Sirius’s brows drew together. “What?”

Severus swallowed, and finally looked at him. His face was pale, but his eyes were hard now. Like he was forcing back something — fear, maybe. Or worse.

“I saw him, the man from news,” Severus said, voice clipped, dry. “Yesterday evening. Here. I thought he was a shift worker or a guest. He was sitting behind the reception desk. Reading a newspaper.”

Sirius’s head turned slowly back toward the screen. “But,” he muttered, repeating the anchor’s words under his breath. “The man went missing five days ago.”

They both stood frozen.

Sirius’s mind was already racing, his expression clouded.  He turned back to him. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” The answer came too quickly. Too certain.

Outside the window, the wind picked up, fluttering a torn flyer against the glass with a soft, frantic tapping. The television volume crackled again, now listing “possible sightings” and “family’s plea for information.”

Inside the lobby, the walls suddenly felt closer. The air stale and wrong. And behind them, somewhere down that thin hallway of identical doors, was a room that reeked of death.

Sirius glanced toward it, jaw tight.

“Then whoever was in that chair last night wasn’t him.”

Severus didn’t answer.

He thought the same thing.

Chapter Text

The hum of fluorescent lights overhead did little to warm the sterile stillness of the night shift. Inside the small convenience store, Severus moved between shelves in silence, methodically restocking the drinks cooler. Each can made a soft clink as he set it into place, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet air. His clipboard rested on a crate beside him, half-filled with scratched notes and supply counts.

Behind the counter, Sirius sat on a stool, cradling a steaming paper cup of machine-made coffee. He looked absurdly out of place here—leather jacket draped over the back of the stool, hair still wild from the motel, dark eyes tracking Severus with a faint, unreadable expression. The coffee was awful, and Sirius knew it, but he kept drinking it anyway. There was comfort in its bitterness. Familiarity in the burn.

Outside, the world had gone completely still. The street was deserted, painted in neon streaks from the flickering convenience store sign and a buzzing motel vacancy light across the road. The parking lot shimmered faintly, reflecting color in oily pools. A pack of stray dogs wandered aimlessly between cars, their shapes barely distinguishable in the shadows, legs thin, eyes glinting when they turned toward the glass storefront.

Severus paused with a box of ramen in his arms. A wave of nausea rolled through him so suddenly he nearly dropped it. He set it down carefully, fingers white-knuckled. The cool air did nothing to settle his stomach. His heartbeat had quickened again.

He glanced out the window, past the glow of the parking lot, then back toward the aisles. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed. But his mind refused to let go of the image: the man from the news—the missing man. Severus had seen him. Sitting at the front desk of the motel, quietly reading the paper. Watching. He hadn’t said anything strange. He hadn’t looked afraid. And now he was gone.

Five days missing. But Severus saw him just last night.

His throat tightened.

It could be anyone, he thought. Anyone and anywhere.

A man behind a counter.

A face in a crowd.

A customer.

A colleague.

A reflection in the window.

He reached for a bottle of water on the counter, unscrewed it with shaky fingers. His palms were damp.

“You alright?” Sirius’s voice cut softly through the quiet.

Severus didn’t answer immediately. He stared out at the dogs, watching them chase each other half-heartedly before vanishing behind a dumpster.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” he muttered finally.

Sirius stood, abandoning the rest of his coffee. “Do you want me to—?”

“No,” Severus cut in, harsher than he meant. “Just—stay there. Please.”

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once and was met with silence.

The night had teeth. And Severus could feel them, pressing close, just beneath the skin of the ordinary.

Severus turned slowly from the shelf, arms crossed over his chest, the faintest crease between his brows. His voice was dry, clipped, carefully devoid of emotion—too careful.

“You could help,” he said flatly.

Sirius leaned back against the counter, arms spread wide as though to emphasize his lack of intention. He blinked at Severus with feigned innocence, then offered a slow, lazy smile.

“Sorry, bunny, but I’m not the one clocked in, am I?”

The nickname hung in the air like the scent of burnt coffee—saccharine and stinging at once.

Severus narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. “You’re the one who insisted on coming. I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

“No,” Sirius said, tapping his fingers along the countertop. “But after you almost passed out in the motel, forgive me for thinking maybe you shouldn’t be alone with your delightful thoughts and a mop.”

“I don’t need rescuing.”

“I never said you did.” Sirius tilted his head mockingly. “But it’s touching that you keep reminding me.”

There was a beat of silence between them, filled only by the low hum of refrigeration units and the soft flicker of the ancient ceiling light overhead. Somewhere outside, a car rolled by slowly but didn’t stop.

“You know,” Severus muttered, turning back toward the stockroom with deliberate steps, “there’s a special place in hell for people who loiter and heckle under the guise of companionship.”

“And I hope they serve vending machine coffee there,” Sirius called after him, smirking. “Because if I’m going down, I’m taking your delightful customer service with me.”

“Tragic,” Severus’s voice floated back from the shelves. “I’ll be sure to request a shared table in the afterlife.”

Sirius grinned into his cup, half-spilled and cooling fast.
Their words were sharp. But every barbed edge came wrapped in ribbon.
That's how they kept from bleeding.

The glass doors chimed faintly as a group of teenagers pushed their way into the store, their laughter too loud for the quiet of the night. Plastic bags rustled, sneakers squeaked on the polished linoleum, and a wave of cheap cologne and bubblegum drifted in with them.

Severus straightened, brushing his hands off on his apron as he approached the counter, ignoring Sirius entirely. His face settled into the indifferent mask of someone who tolerated human interaction only because it came with the job. One by one, the kids dropped snacks and sodas on the counter, their energy obnoxious, chaotic.

Sirius remained where he was by the coffee machine, arms folded, silently observing like a watchdog pretending not to care. One of the girls glanced back toward him, probably no more than seventeen, her lip gloss too shiny under the fluorescent lights. She gave him a flirty, nervous smile.

Sirius raised an eyebrow and winked at her in response.

She giggled and elbowed her friend, who rolled her eyes. Moments later, the whole pack drifted back out into the night, the door chiming behind them as if exhaling relief.

Severus didn’t look up from the register as he spoke dryly, “You know that’s wildly inappropriate.”

“What? I was just being friendly.” Sirius took a sip from his now-cold coffee and shrugged, the very image of false innocence.

Severus rolled his eyes with a sigh sharp enough to cut tile, and returned to the shelves without another word.

Undeterred, Sirius pushed himself up from his seat and wandered into the aisle behind him.

Severus was restocking granola bars, methodically aligning the rows with quiet precision, his shoulders tense but focused.

Sirius followed close behind, his presence intentionally exaggerated. As Severus moved forward, Sirius trailed him—taking every box the man had just organized and casually shifting them out of order. Peanut butter beside blueberry, half the boxes turned backward, one balanced precariously on its edge like a domino just waiting.

Severus paused, feeling the shift behind him. He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing in dread.

“Black,” he said, low and warning, “I just did those.”

“I know.” Sirius was already halfway through destroying another row. “And you did them so well.”

“I will choke you.”

Sirius grinned, looping around the next shelf to mess up the juice boxes.
“Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Severus slammed the box of juice back onto the shelf with a little more force than necessary. "Do you have to do that?" he snapped, standing upright to glare at Sirius, who was now smugly rearranging the packets of gum at the counter.

Sirius barely flinched. "Do what? Breathe? Exist? Walk two feet behind you like some haunting metaphor of bad decisions?"

"You're not a metaphor, you're a parasite." Severus stalked past him, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a hex. "You’re not helping. You never help."

"I wasn’t aware emotional support counted as employment," Sirius replied breezily, following again, too close. "Besides, you love having me around."

"Oh yes," Severus hissed sarcastically, straightening the cigarettes behind the counter now. "It brings me immeasurable joy knowing I have to babysit a grown man who still thinks it’s clever to hit on minors and ruin my shelves."

Their arguments had rhythm now—well-rehearsed, like an old song neither wanted to admit they knew by heart. They circled each other constantly, barbed remarks and exasperated sighs woven between moments that almost felt like something else. Tension and familiarity bound them together in a dance that never moved forward—just one step back, and three more into the abyss they refused to name.

Sirius slouched against the wall with an exaggerated yawn, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m bored.”

Severus didn't even look at him. “Then go entertain yourself elsewhere.”

“You said we’d check the cameras,” Sirius pressed, pushing away from the wall to trail him again. “Remember? ‘We should check if anything shows up,’ you said. That was, what, an hour ago?”

Severus gave a humorless chuckle, crouching to adjust a crate of bottled water. “Yes, and we will. When I finish. In case it escaped your notice, Your Highness , I’m actually working.”

Sirius smirked and leaned on the counter, watching him. “You know, for someone who works retail, your customer service skills are appalling.”

“That’s because you’re not a customer. You’re an infestation.” Severus stood, brushing off his hands, and glanced sideways at Sirius. “And if you keep touching the shelves, I’ll call pest control.”

Sirius grinned. “Would they come this late?”

“I’d make an exception. For you.”

Sirius lounged behind the counter like a man with no obligations in the world, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, an untouched cup of coffee slowly going cold beside him. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only real sound—until Sirius spoke, voice carrying that infuriating lilt he always adopted when he was about to cause trouble.

“Don’t tell me you were jealous,” he said lazily, his smirk sharp and hungry. “That little judgmental face you gave me when I winked at her? Almost sweet.”

Severus didn’t look up from the stack of inventory he was checking. His pen scratched loudly against the clipboard. “I don’t have the capacity to be jealous of something so disposable.”

"Harsh," Sirius chuckled. “But not an answer. You always dodge when you're lying. It’s almost charming.”

“I’m not dodging anything,” Severus said coldly. “I’m just working. Which is more than I can say for you .”

Sirius tilted his head like a predator, amused, leaning forward slightly. “Well, come on, unlike you, at least she looked cute.”

Severus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He shut the clipboard with a sharp snap and turned toward the back room. The tension in his spine was palpable.

“Where are you off to now?” Sirius called after him, too lightly. “Are you going to cry?”

Severus disappeared behind the swinging door without a word.

The silence returned like a cold draft. Outside, the night pressed up against the windows: a world of neon light halos, flickering streetlamps, and the occasional sound of dogs barking in the distance. The parking lot was empty save for trash blowing gently across the asphalt. Inside the store, the air was sharp with chemical lemon-scented cleaner, and behind it, something fainter—sweat, nerves.

When Severus returned, he was carrying a large cardboard box in both arms, stacked high with cans and dry goods. His lips were pale, pressed together tightly; he looked slightly green from anxiety and exhaustion. He didn’t glance at Sirius.

Sirius, who hadn’t moved from the counter, watched him approach like a wolf watches something small and breakable.

Then, under his breath, wand barely visible from beneath his sleeve, he murmured a charm. A faint shimmer spread across the floor—a slick, glistening film, thin and silent.

Severus stepped forward.

His heel hit the spell.

The fall was sudden. Brutal. The box tipped forward with a deafening crash, and Severus went down hard on his side, his wrist slamming against the metal base of the shelf. A sharp, wet gasp left his mouth, followed by a guttural, choked-off curse. The sound of it was wrong—too raw, too real.

Sirius burst out laughing. It started light, but quickly turned into open cackling, unfiltered, cruel.

“ Merlin , Snape! That was gorgeous! You went down almost gracefully!”

Severus didn’t move for a moment. He stayed on the floor, curled slightly, breathing through clenched teeth. His eyes were hidden behind his hair.

“Black,” he said softly, voice trembling—but not from pain.

Sirius wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic. That was comedy gold. You should’ve seen your face—”

“Black.”

His voice cut sharper this time. He sat up slowly, using only one arm, cradling the injured wrist close to his chest.

“I should have you arrested for violating,” Severus whispered, low and flat. “You have no idea when to stop.”

Sirius’s smile didn’t fade. Not completely. But something shifted behind his eyes—like he’d just remembered something private, something unpleasant. “Relax, princess. You’re not made of glass.”

“I’m not made of concrete either,” Severus hissed, rising unsteadily to his feet. His knees shook. “You’re not funny. You’re not charming. You’re pathetic, Black.”

Sirius stood up too, slowly, like someone used to confrontation. “Don’t act like you didn’t love it. You eat this shit up. The arguing. The tension. The attention.”

Severus turned away from him, trembling from the impact and from fury, walking back to the shelves to pick up the scattered cans.

Behind him, Sirius followed.

“Need help, sweetheart?” he asked mockingly. “Poor little wrist too sore to lift a tin of peas?”

Severus grabbed a can without turning. Then another. His hands were shaking.

“Touch me again like that and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Sirius leaned closer, breath ghosting across Severus’s neck. “Oh, Severus. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t even have used magic.”

Severus went still.

And then, without looking, he chucked the can backward, fast and hard. It hit Sirius in the stomach with a dull thump.

“Clean it up,” Severus said coldly. “All of it.”

For once, Sirius said nothing. He crouched slowly, picking up a can.

As he did, his smile returned, lazy and infuriating.

“See? We always find our rhythm again.”

Severus didn't respond. He just walked back behind the counter, nursing his wrist, and ignoring the burn of Sirius's gaze on his back.

The bell above the door gave a delicate ding , slicing through the stale tension like a blade through soft bread.

Both men turned instinctively—Severus from the register, Sirius from where he still lingered near the scattered cans—his expression unreadable, but his shoulders tense, as if the sound had drawn a blade across his nerves.

A man entered, early thirties, clean-cut, dressed in a nondescript brown jacket with a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Severus’s eyes narrowed at first, assessing, always assessing. Then he gave a tiny nod. Recognition. Not a stranger. One of the regulars.

The man returned the nod with an easy, almost shy smile. “Night,” he said pleasantly, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who tried not to be a bother.

“Night,” Severus replied, neutral, but less guarded than usual.

The customer wandered down the aisle with a kind of deliberate casualness, eventually stopping at the shelf with household cleaning products. His fingers hovered over the labels, then he looked back toward the counter.

“Sorry,” he called gently. “Could you help me for a moment? I never know which of these is actually good.”

Severus approached, wiping his hands on a rag as he moved, every step cautious, his injured wrist held slightly closer to his chest.

The man’s eyes caught the gesture. “That looks nasty,” he said, frowning softly. “What happened?”

“Slipped,” Severus said quickly, too quickly.

Sirius, from his corner, didn’t move. But his eyes were sharp now—watchful, cold.

“May I?” the man asked, already reaching out carefully, like a medic asking permission to tend a wound.

For some reason Severus didn’t pull back. The man’s hands were steady, respectful. He examined the wrist with practiced care, fingers moving gently across swollen skin.

“You should ice this,” the man murmured. “Might be a sprain.”

“I’ll survive,” Severus replied dryly, but the stiffness in his voice had softened a degree.

They stood like that for a moment—quiet, domestic in some strange way, like a scene from another life entirely. Severus didn’t flinch or pull away.

Then the man smiled. “Alright. Ring me up for the big laundry powder, the softener, and a roll of elastic bandage if you have one. I’ll pay cash.”

Severus nodded and turned back toward the register.

Behind them, Sirius straightened slowly. His jaw was locked tight, and there was something almost imperceptible in his movement—predatory, restrained. The sound of quiet laughter, of shared warmth, of gentleness—it scraped at something raw in him like salt in a wound.

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets.

“Friendly neighborhood doctor?” he drawled, voice oily and too loud in the quiet store.

The man looked over, startled but polite. “No, just a schoolteacher,” he said with a little shrug.

Sirius didn’t smile. “How sweet.”

Severus didn’t turn around. He scanned the items with a practiced flick of his uninjured hand, placing them into a paper bag with minimal noise. His face was unreadable, but his posture had shifted—tighter, more braced.

“You always this hands-on with the locals?” Sirius asked mildly, but the edge beneath the words was unmistakable.

“Just being helpful,” the man replied kindly, sensing the tension but not understanding it.

“Helpful,” Sirius repeated, almost to himself.

Severus handed the bag over the counter, his fingers brushing the man’s for the briefest second. “That’s eleven eighty.”

The man paid, gave a nod of thanks, and smiled again. “Take care of that wrist, alright? Seriously.”

“I will.”

The bell rang again as the door shut behind him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Sirius laughed, low and bitter. “He’ll be back tomorrow with a damn bouquet.”

Severus didn’t answer. He turned away and busied himself with the receipt drawer.

Sirius’s voice came quieter this time, darker. “Do they always get to touch you like that?”

Severus still didn’t turn.

“This is called kindness and caring for others,” he said finally, voice as cold as the air outside.

Sirius leaned across the counter. “Do you think I can't give you that?”

The words hung between them, heavy with something neither of them had ever agreed to name.

The silence between them stretched thin and brittle, like a pane of glass trembling on the verge of shattering. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow across the floor. Outside, the wind curled around the building with a mournful howl, and a plastic bag danced along the parking lot like some discarded ghost.

Severus moved with rigid purpose, restocking a shelf of canned goods with one arm, his injured wrist held protectively against his ribs. He didn’t glance at Sirius, not once. The muscles in his jaw were taut, his breath carefully controlled—but the set of his shoulders betrayed the tremor beneath the surface.

Sirius lingered by the counter, eyes tracking Severus’s every step. There was no more smirk on his lips now, just a studied tension, like a hunter waiting for something to break.

“Still mad?” he asked lightly, almost playful.

Severus didn’t answer. He reached for another can, slightly overextending—his fingers slipped, and the tin clattered to the ground, rolling a few feet before stopping under a shelf.

He crouched, swearing under his breath.

And then—

A hand caught his arm.

He was yanked up, not violently, but firmly enough that it knocked the breath from his chest. His back collided with Sirius’s torso. Instinctively, Severus twisted, trying to pull away, but Sirius’s arms were already around him—one pinning him at the waist, the other gripping his injured wrist with a possessive carelessness that made Severus wince.

“Let go,” Severus hissed.

But Sirius didn’t.

Instead, with a barely visible flick of his fingers, he summoned his wand, concealing it behind Severus’s shoulder. His movements were precise, practiced—there was no flourish, no glow. Just a dull hum of magic, soft and direct.

Severus’s breath hitched.

A tingling warmth spread through the bones of his wrist, mending cracks beneath the skin, easing inflammation with an almost painful relief. The ache dulled. The throb dissipated. A tightness in his chest twisted—not from the pain, but from the implication.

Sirius leaned down, voice low and close against Severus’s ear. “Don’t tell me I’m not careful with you.”

Severus went still. His pulse stuttered.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge in the back and the persistent rattling of wind against the glass door.

Then Severus pulled his arm free with a sharp twist, now more out of pride than pain. He turned to face Sirius fully, his face pale and cold with rage.

“How considerate of you,” he said, voice a serrated whisper. “To fix what you broke .”

His words hit like a slap, and Sirius flinched—not visibly, but somewhere deep beneath the bravado. His jaw tightened. He looked away for half a second, then back.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered.

Severus scoffed, stepping back, putting space between them. “Save your charity for the next girl who smiles at you.”

And with that, he turned toward the stockroom, spine straight, footsteps clipped, leaving Sirius in the artificial light and the quiet aftermath of something that was not quite an apology—and never enough to be forgiveness.

Sirius didn’t back off. His smirk returned—slow and deliberate—curling at the corner of his mouth with something cruel and entertained behind it. He stepped in again, catching Severus’s wrist with practiced ease and pulling him close, too close. Their bodies brushed, the movement intimate in all the wrong ways.

“Let me go,” Severus said through gritted teeth, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice. “I said—let me go .”

Sirius didn’t.

Instead, he tilted his head mock-thoughtfully and asked, almost casually, “Are the cameras on right now?”

Severus blinked.

His eyes darted to the corners of the store, scanning each camera one by one. Not a single red light. No blinking. No humming. Just dead, matte glass staring blankly down at them.

He looked back at Sirius, voice low. “No. They’re off.”

Sirius’s smile widened. He raised his wand slowly, like it was part of some silent dare.

Severus’s breath caught. “What are you doing?”

Sirius didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned toward the rest of the products stacked in the remaining open boxes—his eyes flicked briefly to the storefront, the cold glass panes streaked with the reflections of the fluorescent lights. The street beyond was utterly still. No headlights. No footsteps. Not even the wind now. Just an oppressive, midnight silence.

With a lazy flick of his wand, Sirius murmured something under his breath. The contents of the boxes lifted into the air—bags of crisps, packs of toilet paper, cartons of juice—and began slotting themselves neatly onto the shelves with eerie precision.

Severus stood frozen, chest rising and falling with measured restraint. His wrist still ached with phantom pain, and now there was something darker threading under his skin—disquiet, too heavy to be named. Something that settled behind his ribs like cold water.

He watched the shelves fill themselves, one item after another, while Sirius stood beside him—still too close, still grinning.

Something about that smile made Severus feel like the cameras weren’t the only things turned off.

Sirius slid his wand back into his pocket with a casual flick, but his eyes never left Severus’s face. His voice was deceptively light, almost teasing, but beneath it lurked something colder, sharper — a tension that tightened the air between them.

“Now that you’re done playing shop boy,” he said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from Severus’s collar, “we can finally check those camera recordings.”

But he didn’t release him.

His fingers curled around Severus’s wrist with quiet authority, holding him like a predator marking its territory. Then his other hand rose, cupping Severus’s chin, forcing his gaze upward.

Outside, the night pressed in thick and heavy against the glass.

From somewhere beyond the dim parking lot came a low, menacing growl — deep, guttural, primal. It slithered through the empty streets like a warning. A pack of stray dogs prowled under the flickering streetlamps, their eyes glinting like shards of glass. One let loose a long, eerie howl that pierced the silence, hanging in the air like a question with no answer.

Severus shivered involuntarily, his eyes darting toward the window, drawn by the unsettling chorus of sounds.

But Sirius’s grip tightened, unyielding.

“No,” Sirius said, voice low and commanding, silk folded over steel. “Look at me.”

His thumb pressed lightly against Severus’s jaw, lifting his face with subtle insistence. The gesture was possessive, meticulous — a silent reminder of who held the power here.

“Don’t you want to thank me for helping you?”

Severus’s brow creased, his voice barely above a whisper. “Someone might see us,” he murmured, glancing again at the glass as if expecting eyes to peer in from the shadows.

Sirius chuckled softly, but there was no warmth in it. “No one’s watching,” he said quickly, too quickly. “No one ever is when it matters.”

Before Severus could argue, before he could pull away or even catch his breath, Sirius’s lips descended on his — harsh, urgent, claiming.

His kiss was a fierce possession, a quiet battle waged in silence. The roughness of his mouth pressed against Severus’s skin stole the air from his lungs. There was hunger in it, the kind that spoke of nights spent chasing ghosts and running from shadows — and the unspoken promise that here, in this moment, he wouldn’t let go.

Severus’s fingers twitched against Sirius’s chest — caught somewhere between resistance and surrender.

He didn’t notice the movement beyond the window.

But Sirius did.

Mid-kiss, his eyes flickered open just enough to catch the faintest movement in the darkened parking lot. A shadow peeled away from the corner of the building, slipping silently like smoke across cracked concrete. It was quick, deliberate — something that didn’t belong here, watching, waiting.

Sirius’s mouth didn’t part from Severus’s, but the grip on his jaw tightened imperceptibly, sharp and sudden.

He was watching.

And the night was waiting.

The shadow slipped silently back into the darkness, melting into the night as if it had never been there. The low, unsettling growls and barking of the stray dogs on the parking lot gradually ceased, fading into an oppressive silence that seemed to stretch far too long. The quiet felt unnatural, like the calm before a storm — thick, heavy, and charged with unseen tension.

Sirius finally broke the kiss, his lips lingering for a moment longer before reluctantly pulling away. Severus’s cheeks burned with a deep flush, his breath shallow and uneven as he tried to gather himself. His eyes searched Sirius’s face, confused and unsettled by the sudden surge of intensity that had gripped him. There was something in Sirius’s gaze — something dark and almost feral — that made Severus’s heart race in a way he didn’t want to admit.

But Sirius’s touch softened instantly. He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Severus’s forehead, his fingers lingering as if trying to soothe the storm just beneath the surface.

“Come on,” Sirius said quietly, his voice low and coaxing, barely above a whisper. “We need to check the camera recordings. There might be something there.”

Severus nodded slowly, swallowing the unease knotting his stomach. He moved to lock the front door from the inside, the sound of the latch snapping shut seeming unnaturally loud in the heavy silence. With a practiced hand, he flipped the small sign on the door: “Break.”

Taking Sirius’s wrist gently but firmly, Severus led him through the narrow passage to the back room. The dim light cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, and the air felt stale and thick with a sense of foreboding.

Sirius’s expression shifted — the sharp edges of his usual intensity softened into something more content, almost like a cat who had just found the perfect sunny spot to curl up in. The tension in his body eased as he slipped his hand free and reached out, fingers intertwining with Severus’s.

Severus felt the warmth of Sirius’s hand against his own, the unexpected comfort in the gesture briefly easing the tightness in his chest. He didn’t pull away. Not this time.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the monitors they were about to watch, but outside, the darkness beyond the windows still whispered of unseen threats and unanswered questions. The fragile calm between them felt like a fragile shield — one that could shatter at any moment.

``

They settled in front of the battered old computer tucked away in the corner of the storage room. The screen flickered faintly, casting a pale, bluish glow over their faces. The machine was outdated, its sluggish hum filling the cramped space as Severus navigated through the disorganized folders of footage.

The recordings were a mess — random snippets, gaps between dates stretching days, sometimes even weeks. It was as if the system had been neglected for years, its memory patchy and unreliable. Severus scrolled through clips with a practiced hand, eyes narrowing at each one, searching for anything out of place.

Sirius stood close behind him, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he watched Severus work. There was an odd softness in the way Sirius’s eyes followed every subtle movement of Severus’s hands, every click and scroll. Severus caught himself glancing up briefly, finding the attentive look almost endearing despite the tension that clung to the room.

One clip showed the parking lot in the early morning, bathed in gray dawn light. A lone figure walked past the flickering streetlamp, head down, seemingly unaware of the camera. Another showed the shop’s front door opening and closing intermittently, a small group of late-night guests entering and leaving with tired steps. A third clip captured a stray dog wandering near the dumpster, sniffing cautiously before trotting away.

Nothing unusual.

Each scene passed with sterile normalcy, the mundane rhythms of the night unfolding in static black and white. No shadows lurking suspiciously, no hurried footsteps fleeing the frame. The recordings offered no clues, no answers.

Severus let out a soft sigh, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. Sirius shifted beside him, fingers still lightly tangled with his, a quiet promise lingering in the contact. For a moment, despite the uncertainty pressing down on them, the silence between them felt almost safe.

The flickering images on the grainy screen showed nothing but mundane scenes — empty streets, deserted parking lots, the occasional passerby — but the absence of any clear sign of the stalker gnawed at Severus's thoughts like a slow poison.

“How is it possible,” Severus muttered, voice low and tense, “that after all this time, with all these cameras, we haven’t caught so much as a shadow of him? Someone who’s been moving through this place, stalking, hiding, killing — and yet he leaves no trace?”

Sirius’s gaze hardened, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. “Either he’s incredibly careful or he doesn’t want to be seen.”

Severus continued scrolling through the scattered footage, his eyes narrowing with every flicker of grainy light. “If he’s so careful, maybe we’re dealing with someone who knows the place better than we do — someone who’s been watching us, knowing where to avoid.”

The thought sent a chill down Severus’s spine. The stalker wasn’t just a random threat anymore. He was a ghost among shadows, always present, but unseen.

Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “Maybe he’s just invisible.”

“The Canterville Ghost,” Sirius said with a mock-serious expression. “I checked.”

Severus shot him a look—half amused, half exasperated—and sighed deeply. Then, with a sudden motion, he tugged gently at Sirius’s collar and pressed a quick, light kiss to his lips.

“I can’t believe I find your references to Muggle culture charming,” Severus said quietly.

“If you keep doing that every time, from now on every line I say will be a reference to—” Sirius started, but Severus cut him off by placing a hand over his mouth.

“No, shut up.”

They fell silent again, the only sound the faint static of the old footage playing on the screen. Sirius leaned forward, his finger hovering over the timeline. “Open this one,” he said quietly, nodding toward a recording dated several months back, near the very end of the archive. “We haven’t watched this yet.”

Severus hesitated for a moment, then clicked the file open. The quality was grainy, the image flickering and blurred in places, but they could make out the back of the store near the exit.

“Was this your shift?” Sirius asked, eyes narrowing as he watched.

“No,” Severus replied without looking away from the screen. “Lana closed the shop that night.”

Their attention focused on the footage: Lana methodically moving through the aisles, checking shelves, and making sure everything was in order. She paused at the register, glanced around the nearly empty store, then walked steadily toward the exit. The camera angle shifted to show her opening the door, stepping out into the dark night, and pulling it shut behind her.

For a while, nothing seemed out of place.

But then, after some time had passed, Severus’s eyes sharpened as Lana suddenly returned through the same door, stepping back inside. The unexpected reappearance made Severus tense; something about it didn’t sit right.

Sirius tensed beside him, eyes narrowing as the footage played on.
“You saw it too?” he asked quietly, glancing at Severus.

“What exactly?” Severus’s voice was tight, laced with unease. “That she’s wearing different clothes, even though she just left in something else?”

Sirius nodded slowly, then added, “And take a closer look at where she’s coming from.”

“Can you slow the video down?” Sirius asked.

Severus pressed the slow-motion button, his gaze sharpening as the frames stretched out in front of them.

At first, the footage showed Lana leaving the store, locking up as usual, and walking straight toward the bus stop. Then the next few frames revealed something unsettling: a figure, clearly Lana but dressed differently, moving along the side of the store. The silhouette was visible through the glass windows.

“There are two of them,” Sirius muttered.

“Or one of them isn’t Lana,” Severus whispered, the weight of the possibility sinking in.

The air between them thickened, heavy with the weight of what they’d just seen. The flickering light of the old monitor cast sharp shadows across Severus’s pale face, highlighting the tight line of his jaw and the sharp flare of his nostrils as he exhaled slowly.

Sirius’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Two Lanas,” he repeated, voice low but tense. “Or someone pretending to be her. But why? And how?”

Severus leaned closer, squinting at the grainy image. The second figure moved with a strange hesitance, almost like a shadow slipping just out of reach. The difference in clothing was subtle but undeniable—a darker jacket, the hood pulled higher.

The silence in the small room was punctuated only by the faint hum of the computer and the occasional soft click as Severus manipulated the playback. Outside, the distant howl of stray dogs echoed, adding an eerie underscore to the unfolding mystery.

Severus’s hand hovered over the controls, trembling slightly, betraying the calm he tried to maintain. “If it’s not Lana then who?” he murmured, more to himself than to Sirius.

“Let’s finish watching. The recording isn’t over yet,” Sirius whispered, his voice barely above the hum of the old computer.

They leaned in closer, eyes fixed on the flickering screen as the grainy footage continued. The second Lana re-entered the store, slipping past the camera’s view almost immediately, vanishing into the shadowy aisles. Minutes passed, stretching painfully long in the dimly lit room.

Severus’s fingers hovered over the mouse, then clicked deliberately, searching for the next clear frame that showed her again. Time slowed as he scrubbbed through the footage, heart pounding with each frame that revealed nothing but empty shelves and cold, silent space.

Then, suddenly, she appeared again — standing with her back to the camera. Severus held his breath. Slowly, Lana turned, and the flickering screen revealed her face.

Her eyes were wild, dark, unblinking.

And then, that smile — a grotesque, twisted grin that cracked across her face like a jagged scar, too wide, too sharp, too insane to be natural.

She held the gaze of the camera, as if daring them to look away, her smile lingering longer than any sane person should.

Finally, without breaking eye contact, she turned and walked out, the soft click of the door locking behind her echoing in the silence of the footage — and the room.

Severus felt a chill creep up his spine as Sirius’s breathing slowed beside him, tension thick enough to suffocate. The smile burned into their minds like a warning, a threat — something dark and deliberate that no one should have seen.

The small room felt suffocating, the stale air thick with tension. The flickering glow of the ancient computer screen cast long, wavering shadows across the peeling walls, echoing the unease that tightened like a noose around Severus’s throat. His chest heaved unevenly, breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps as the horror of the smile on the screen clawed relentlessly at his mind.

That grin was more than unsettling—it was a fracture in reality. It twisted something human into something monstrous, a frozen mask of insanity that seemed to mock the very idea of safety. Severus’s fingers twitched involuntarily, nails digging into his palms as his mind spiraled through impossible scenarios. Who was it? What if it was someone they knew, lost and broken—or worse, someone who was never really gone? The thought churned into a storm of dread that made the walls feel like they were closing in.

Sirius watched him closely, his usual composure shadowed by a fierce, quiet anger. His jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin line as his dark eyes hardened, reflecting a fury not yet unleashed. Yet beneath that fire was a steadiness—a rock amid the rising tide of panic that threatened to pull them both under. He saw the panic spreading across Severus’s face, the tremor in his hands, the way his breath hitched as if the air itself was poisoned.

Without hesitation, Sirius’s hand found Severus’s waist, firm and grounding. The touch was rough but steady, a tether to reality in a moment spinning dangerously out of control.

“Breathe,” Sirius said, low and unwavering, his voice the only calm anchor in the room.

Severus swallowed hard, the panic tightening its grip, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. “I don’t understand anymore. Where is he? Where are the others?” His eyes flicked wildly to the dark corners of the room as if the shadows themselves might answer. “He’s everywhere. In everyone.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and chilling. Outside, the faint sound of distant traffic and a lone dog’s mournful howl seeped through the cracked window, underscoring their isolation and vulnerability. The room felt colder now, the flickering screen a lone beacon in the creeping darkness. Neither moved, bound by the shared dread of an unseen threat lurking just beyond the veil of normalcy.

Sirius’s hand didn’t waver, still resting heavily on Severus, grounding him as the younger man’s breathing began to slow, though the tension in his eyes remained sharp and raw. A crooked, almost wild smile tugged at Sirius’s lips—a dangerous glint flickering in his dark eyes.

“Ha, that bastard knows how to play tag,” Sirius said, voice low but laced with an unsettling humor. His grin twisted, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But the fun ends when we catch him.”

There was a quiet menace beneath the levity, as if the promise behind his words was edged with something far darker. Sirius’s voice softened just a little as he leaned closer, still steadying Severus. “I’ll finish that lunatic. End it for good, i promise, sweetheart.” His eyes shone with a gleam that was both thrilling and chilling, hinting at the kind of reckoning he was prepared to bring.

Severus looked up at him, his voice small but earnest, “Why do you chase him so relentlessly?”

Sirius’s gaze sharpened, the playful edge fading into something colder, more possessive. “I won’t let anyone take my prize from me.” His words were quiet, but their weight pressed heavy between them — a declaration, a warning, and a promise all at once.

Severus’s hands trembled slightly as his mind raced with a thousand worries, the oppressive weight of fear clawing at his chest. His breaths came uneven, shallow, like fragile glass about to shatter. Sirius’s presence was steady beside him—a solid anchor in the storm of his panic.

“I’m not your prize,” Severus whispered, voice barely audible, thick with a fragile vulnerability. “I’m not yours.”

Sirius’s eyes softened, the harsh edges of his expression melting into something tender, almost reverent. His voice was low, a gentle murmur against the charged silence. “You just don’t know it yet, love.”

For a moment, the tension between them softened, a fragile warmth blooming amidst the shadows.

But then—a sudden, sharp pounding echoed from the main hall, slicing through the quiet like a blade. Severus flinched violently, his fingers gripping Sirius’s sleeve without realizing it, clutching for reassurance.

Sirius frowned deeply, muscles tensing as the sound persisted—slow, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. The pounding did not stop, growing louder, more insistent, like something—or someone—refusing to be ignored.

So they went out into the main hall.

Sirius stood as if rooted to the floor, his wand clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Severus’ breath behind him came in short, rapid gasps—like a bird trapped in a cage, wings fluttering in panic. The pounding on the glass door echoed through the room with a dreadful, rhythmic precision: thump-thump-thump , like the heartbeat of something other . Something not human. Something that had worn a human face once and now wore it wrong.

“Bloody hell.” Sirius muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

The girl at the door wasn’t just knocking. She was watching—staring directly into the building, directly at them, like she knew where they stood. Like she had been waiting. Her eyes never blinked. Wide, gleaming from the glare of the display lights, and hollow. Not mad, not scared. Just vacant . Like a doll's.

Severus stepped in closer, his fingers curling into Sirius’s sleeve.

“That’s not her,” he whispered. “It can’t be her…”

“Doesn’t matter if it is,” Sirius said without turning. His voice was steady, but a darker edge rippled beneath it, low and hungry. “Whatever it is, it’s using faces. Ours. Theirs. Playing a hunter.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but every word landed heavy, like iron dropped into cold water.

Then the girl’s hand pressed against the glass—thin, pale, fingers a little too long, almost insect-like. And with that single touch, a crack slithered along the surface of the glass. It looked like a nail had etched it—sharp, deliberate.

Sirius shifted immediately, pushing Severus back behind him with one arm.
“Don’t look at her,” he said grimly. “Don’t let her see that you’re afraid.”

Severus wanted to answer—he wanted to say that it was too late, that fear was coiled tight in his chest and spreading—but then his eyes caught something on the counters.

The receipt tape.

Dozens of rolls of the stuff had been wound around the displays, strung out like ritual bindings. Under the harsh light of the store, words had appeared across the paper in jagged, scrawled handwriting:

"I see you."

"I wear skin."

"Cameras won't save you."

"Doors don't hold."

"Mine."

“Sirius.” Severus almost whimpered.

“I’m here,” Sirius replied firmly, looking at him, his voice anchoring. “Breathe. If it gets too much, look at me. Not at her.”

He raised his wand—not just in defense now, but in readiness, but something had changed.

The knocking suddenly stopped.

A moment of silence—so thick it rang.

Then, without a single sound, the door opened.

No force. No noise.

Just slowly as though pushed by a draft. Though the air in the shop was dead and heavy.

The girl was gone. No steps. No voice. Just gone . And in her place, coiled on the floor, was the trailing end of the receipt tape—creeping like a white serpent across the tiles. Letters began to ink themselves into its surface.

"You almost found me."

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, the tension refused to leave Severus’s bones. It clung to him like a second skin, invisible but suffocating. He had two panic attacks—one in the shower of their motel room, where the hum of the fan sounded too much like static from the camera footage; the second, worse, in the dead of night when the silence felt wrong. Heavy. Intentional. Like the quiet was watching him.

Sirius had shaken him awake, arms tight around his shoulders, whispering fiercely: “It’s not real. You’re here. You’re safe. He’s not in your head.” But even that wasn’t true, not entirely.

After the second incident, they asked the motel manager—an older woman with eyes that had seen more than she ever said—for a new room. Something on the ground floor. Somewhere Severus wouldn’t have to listen to creaking floorboards above, wouldn’t have to wonder if the footsteps were Sirius… or someone wearing Sirius.

Room 97 was smaller, older, smelled faintly of bleach and air freshener, but it was grounded. The windows opened. That was enough.

Sirius came and went. He made himself useful—visiting Lily and James to keep up appearances, checking in with Remus, hooking up with random girls, how Severus thought. Black’s tone was always dry, occasionally mocking when speaking to the Severus, but Severus noticed the way Sirius would always glance back before leaving. Like he didn’t want to. Like something might happen the moment the door clicked shut.

Severus, for his part, stayed behind.

He rested. Or at least, he tried to. Mostly, he sat on the edge of the motel bed with a mug of over-steeped tea, staring at his notes, trying to catalogue what they knew so far. Sometimes he paced. Other times, he answered questions from the Auror Office during their scheduled Floo checks, keeping his tone calm, professional. Detached. He didn’t tell them about the girl. About the receipt. About the smile.

They wouldn’t believe him if he did.

Two more nights passed like that. The motel remained quiet. No knocks at the door. No strange faces peering in the windows. The silence almost felt like a truce.

Almost.

The morning was thick with fog—one of those pale, silvery mists that clung low to the pavement and made the world seem just slightly out of focus. The air was cool, damp enough that it kissed the skin and clung to the edges of Severus’s sleeves as he stepped out of the car. The street was quiet. A bird cawed once, sharp and distant, then nothing.

Severus stood for a few moments in front of his house, motionless.

It loomed before him, silent and still, as though it too had been holding its breath all these days. The windows stared back like dark, empty eyes. No flicker of movement. No light.

He exhaled slowly, trying to settle the tightness in his chest.

He had made Sirius go home the night before. “They’ll start asking questions,” he’d told him. “Lily’s already suspicious, and you know Potter never shuts up.”

Sirius had grumbled, visibly displeased at the idea of leaving Severus alone again. His eyes had narrowed, jaw tight as he shoved his things into the overnight bag. But in the end, he’d agreed, his only condition being: “You call me the second something’s off. The second, Snape. I don’t give a damn if it’s a creaking floorboard or your cat blinking too slow.”

Severus hadn’t said he didn’t have a cat. He’d just nodded.

Now, standing alone in front of the house, he regretted sending Sirius away at all.

The familiar chipped stone steps. The half-dead planter by the door. It all looked exactly the same—and yet, as he gripped the iron gate and pushed it open, Severus couldn’t shake the sense that something inside was waiting . Like the house had digested what happened and simply… absorbed it.

He reached the door. Held the key in his hand for a second too long.

What if he’s inside? What if it wasn’t over? What if Tobias came back—and found more than he could handle?

He swallowed, throat dry despite the mist, and unlocked the door.

It clicked open with a groan.

Inside, the air smelled stale. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Severus stepped over the threshold with the caution of a man entering a tomb.

He half-expected to see a body. A shadow. A girl with glassy eyes and a grin too wide.
But the hallway was empty. The lights were off. And the silence held.

Tobias might be back , Severus thought, pausing just inside. But maybe he hasn’t opened the cellar door.

Maybe he’s still asleep.

Maybe the house is still clean.

He closed the door quietly behind him and didn’t dare call out. Not yet.

The first thing that hit him was the smell.

It was faint, but unmistakable—the acrid, sour edge of stale alcohol clinging to the air like mold. Severus’s nostrils twitched. That scent had lingered in the corners of this house his entire childhood. It was how he always knew whether to expect silence… or shouting.

Tobias is home.

And likely passed out. The snoring from upstairs seemed to confirm it—low, uneven, punctuated by small, rattling inhales. It sounded like a man who’d drunk himself into dreamless oblivion.

Severus sighed quietly and stepped further in.

The floorboards creaked beneath his careful steps. Nothing had been moved. No new shoes in the corridor. No jacket on the rack besides his own. For now, it was quiet.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his bag slung over one shoulder. Once inside his bedroom, he shut the door gently behind him and took a moment to just… stand there . The familiar stale air. The faded curtains. The bed, still unmade from the morning he’d left in a rush.

He exhaled and set his bag on the floor.

He unpacked automatically—dirty clothes into a pile for laundry, notes and reports into the desk drawer. There was something oddly soothing about the small, methodical motions. The sound of a zipper. The soft thud of fabric hitting the bottom of the hamper.

Still, that heaviness hadn’t left his chest.

He changed into a fresh shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and headed back downstairs, needing the rhythm of something mundane—tea, perhaps. Or at least the act of making it.

As he passed the master bedroom, the snoring grew louder. A rough, rattling sound. The door was mostly shut, but just ajar enough that he could see the corner of the unmade bed and the edge of Tobias’s boot resting against the floor.

Still alive, Severus noted grimly, and kept walking.

It wasn’t until he reached the landing at the turn of the stairs that something stopped him.

A sound.

Soft. Muffled. Uneven.

It came from the bathroom.

He paused mid-step. Head tilted slightly, breath catching.

A scrape.

Then a faint splash.

Not the pipes. Not the old plumbing that wheezed when someone flushed. This was something else—something slower, wetter.

His fingers clenched around the banister, knuckles whitening.

The door to the bathroom was closed. No light showed from underneath. But the sound—quiet, methodical shifting, like someone slowly turning something in the sink—didn’t stop.

He took one slow step down. Then another.

His heartbeat had begun to rise again, a slow thud behind his ribs. He felt it in his throat.

Something was in there.

He stood frozen, staring into the dim hallway, not really seeing anything—just the muted shapes of walls, the corner of a framed photo, the warped edge of the bathroom door.

His body wouldn’t move. His breath had shortened again, shallow, catching in his throat like fabric snagged on a nail. Panic bloomed cold and heavy in his chest.

That sound—it had stopped.

And then, without warning, the bathroom door creaked open.

Severus flinched.

Out stepped Eileen.

She didn’t notice him at first. Her movements were slow, tired. She clutched a wet handkerchief in one hand, water dripping faintly from its corners. Her lip was split, the skin swollen and cracked. A deep, purpling bruise was blooming beneath one eye.

Severus blinked.

They looked at each other in quiet shock, the silence between them almost louder than the noise before. Her presence struck him like cold water—sharp, jarring. She was here . She was alive.

But not unbroken.

Not safe.

There was a small, strangely formal smile on her face—one of those empty, practiced expressions people wear when they’ve forgotten how real smiles work. Her eyes were distant, glassy with exhaustion.

“I stayed with friends,” she said gently, her voice frayed at the edges. “I needed a break from the two of you.”

Her words hovered in the air like smoke, bitter and impossible to ignore.

Severus swallowed it down.

He nodded slowly, his face giving nothing away. “Of course.”

As if that didn’t bury something sharp into his chest.

She stood there a moment longer, eyes flicking to the hallway as though she were already trying to escape the moment.

The handkerchief dripped once onto the floor.

Eileen adjusted the handkerchief in her hand, wringing it slowly, absently, as if she’d forgotten she was holding it at all. The silence stretched again, filled only by the distant ticking of the crooked hallway clock. The damp fabric let out another soft drip onto the floor between them.

“Your room still upstairs?” she asked at last, her voice soft, like she was afraid of disturbing something fragile in the air between them.

Severus gave a short nod. “Hasn’t changed.”

She looked past him toward the stairs, then back, offering a faint, awkward smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You always kept it tidy. Unlike, well.” Her mouth twitched in what might’ve been meant as a joke, but landed somewhere between weariness and defeat.

Severus didn’t answer.

There was nothing to say.

He didn’t want to talk about the past—not the part with laughter, not the part with screaming. It all felt equally distant now.

“You’ve grown into such a quiet man,” she said after a moment.

Severus let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it came hollow. “You say it like it’s a surprise.”

“I suppose it isn’t,” she said. Her gaze dropped to the handkerchief. She rubbed at a spot with her thumb, as if trying to scrub something invisible from its fibers. “You were always that way, even as a boy. So careful with your words. Always watching, always listening. And I never knew if that meant you were afraid of something or just smarter than the rest of us.”

Severus didn’t move. His heart beat too loud in his ears. He wanted to reach for her. To ask if she was okay. To ask if she needed help, if she wanted him to stay, if she could, just once, look him in the eye without that flat, distant softness—without that tired detachment like he was a stranger in her hallway.

But he said nothing.

Because he already knew the answer.

“I missed you,” he said finally, barely above a whisper.

She looked up. And for a moment—a flicker—there was something human in her eyes. Sadness. Maybe guilt. Or maybe just fatigue in a different shape.

“I’m here now,” she said.

But it didn’t sound like a comfort.

It sounded like a resignation.

Severus nodded. It was all he could do.

It hit him, then—not with fire or with pain, but with that quiet, cold ache he knew too well: She’s already gone, even standing here.

She was smiling, yes. Her voice was kind. But she wasn’t present. She hadn’t been in years.

And still, he loved her.

He loved her with a kind of sorrow that settled into the ribs like smoke. Because she never hurt him—not truly. Not like he had. Not like others had. She was distant, and broken, and unreachable, but she had once combed his hair and called him clever and pressed his hand too tightly when the yelling got too loud.

And he clung to that.

To anything that didn’t draw blood.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said suddenly, turning away, as though they hadn’t just passed some terrible threshold. As though they weren’t walking on the ruins of something that once tried to be a home.

Severus remained still, watching the hallway where she vanished.

His throat tightened, and he swallowed it down like he always did. Like he’d been doing since he was ten years old.

The house creaked around him, old wood and old ghosts, and behind it all, his mother moved through the kitchen like she belonged to another life.

The washing machine rumbled faintly in the small laundry nook, just down the hall. Severus had loaded it quickly—his travel things from the motel. The detergent was almost gone, and the air smelled faintly of soap and mildew, like all the years he'd spent folding silence into cotton in this very house.

When he returned to the kitchen, Eileen was already seated at the table, one hand wrapped loosely around a chipped mug of black tea. Her other hand rested delicately against her cheek, fingers hovering just beneath the swollen shadow of the bruise beneath her eye. She winced slightly, barely perceptible, as she took a sip.

Severus stood by the doorway, watching her without moving.

“You’re squinting,” he said softly. “It hurts.”

Eileen didn’t look at him at first. Her gaze was focused somewhere behind him, perhaps past him, on the wallpaper, or the window, or a decade that was gone.

“I’ve got a few salves left,” he offered. “I can bring them down.”

She let out a breath—half exhale, half scoff—and finally turned her eyes to him. Her smile was small and crooked, tugged sideways by the split in her lip.

“No need, love,” she said. “If he sees it’s healed, he’ll only hit me harder next time. Best I stretch it out. Makes him wait.”

Severus’s stomach turned, but he said nothing. She had always spoken like this—like her suffering was a ledger she balanced herself, as if managing pain was the same as surviving.

She looked at him again, more closely this time, the way a mother might examine her child after a long absence.

“You’ve let your hair grow,” she murmured.

Severus lifted a hand to touch it unconsciously, tucking a lock behind his ear.

Then her eyes narrowed, sharp and strange. They flicked to his neck.

And her voice—still soft, still calm—cut through the room like glass:

“Get rid of that. Now.”

Severus blinked. “What—?”

“The mark,” she hissed, voice never rising in volume but somehow becoming colder. “On your neck.”

Her jaw tensed. The bruise on her face twitched with the effort of holding back some deeper emotion.

“If Tobias sees it,” she continued, quieter still, “I don’t even want to imagine where you’ve been to come home with that .”

Severus felt the blood rise uncomfortably to his face. He reached up instinctively, fingers grazing the side of his throat. There, unmistakably, was the ghost of Sirus’s mouth—the pressure, the teeth, the recklessness.

A heat surged through his chest, shame and defiance knotted together.

“He won’t see it,” Severus said.

“Make sure of that,” Eileen murmured, and her hand trembled slightly as she raised the mug again.

Then silence fell. A kind of suspended, breathless hush.

She didn’t ask him where he’d been.

And he didn’t offer it.

The tea between them grew cold.

``

That day, Severus devoted himself to quiet things—the kind that didn’t ask questions and didn’t stare too long. He moved through the house like a ghost reclaiming old spaces. There was a comfort in the mundane, in the sound of cupboards opening and closing, the familiar creak of floorboards under his weight, the hush of breath in a home that had known too many screams.

The refrigerator was nearly empty. A half-block of hard cheddar curled at the edges, two withered carrots wrapped in a damp towel, a carton of eggs one day past expiration. Still, he worked with it. He boiled water, chopped what he could salvage, scrambled the eggs with stale herbs, made a small stew from the carrots and a can of something he wasn’t sure he’d bought. The smell filled the house—not good, exactly, but warm, and not unwelcome. Eileen didn’t join him in the kitchen, but she passed through once, nodded in a way that wasn’t unkind, and returned to the living room with her tea.

After lunch, he retreated to his room, setting his wand aside and pulling the old blankets off his bed. Dust coated the windowsill, thick and untouched. The pile of books he’d left behind months ago stood like silent witnesses—some bent open, some stacked unevenly, all abandoned mid-thought. He wiped everything down slowly, carefully. Not because it needed to be done, but because his hands needed something to do. He folded his laundry from the morning’s wash, placed his travel bag back in the wardrobe, and swept the wooden floor twice, the second time with more force than necessary.

Later, Eileen called out weakly from the hallway. “The bin’s overflowing, Sev.”

He found it right where he expected—stuffed with empty beer cans, crumpled papers, cigarette ash that had never made it to the tray. Tobias’s calling cards. The stench of rotting onion skins and cheap tobacco hit him the second he touched the lid. He held his breath, tied the top shut, and carried it through the back door into the pale afternoon light.

The sky was still overcast. Fog clung low to the grass. The street was quiet, only the distant hum of traffic breaking the silence. He dragged the bin out to the curb, returned, and spent the next half hour gathering the rest—discarded wrappers under the couch, broken glass from the hallway lamp that no one had swept up, a stained shirt Tobias must’ve bled through and then forgotten. Eileen never asked for help, but she gave him a tired glance when he passed her in the living room, and for once, that was enough.

Upstairs again, in the narrow hallway outside the bathroom, he paused.

The hole was still there.

About the size of a fist—maybe slightly larger. A split in the plaster wall where Tobias had slammed something, or someone, in one of his fits. It was jagged at the edges, surrounded by faint brown stains and hairline cracks like veins. Severus stared at it for a while, unmoving. He’d forgotten how ugly it was in daylight.

He went down to the basement and rummaged through the shelves—old tools, paint cans with dried lids, a half-empty bag of plaster powder. After some searching, he found a square of plywood that might do. He brought it up, cut it roughly with a charm, and fitted it over the hole. Not perfect, but at least it didn’t gape anymore. At least it wasn’t staring back.

By the time evening settled, the house was quieter. Not peaceful—but quiet in the way that suggested, for now, it wouldn’t fall apart. Severus sat by his bedroom window for a long while, staring out into the misty street, knees drawn up, arms resting on them. He wasn’t sure if Sirus would owl tonight, or if he even wanted him to.

Downstairs, the kettle boiled again. Eileen's voice drifted faintly through the floor, humming something tuneless. Severus closed his eyes. He wasn’t safe. Not really. Not ever.

But for now, he could pretend.

Tobias had slept through the entire day.

The low, animal rhythm of his snoring hadn’t ceased, rising and falling behind the thin walls of the master bedroom like the wheezing of a broken engine. Sometimes there were pauses—deep silences where Severus half-hoped they’d stretch into something final—but inevitably, the breath would catch again, ragged and wet, and the sound would start up once more.

He lived like a parasite. That was the word that came to Severus as he folded the last of his shirts and placed them in the drawer. Not a father. Not a husband. A parasite—feeding off everything around him, draining, consuming, destroying. Eileen cleaned around him, stepped over him, tiptoed past the dark moods and broken dishes, lived in service of his impulses. Severus himself had grown up keeping to the corners, surviving his rage in silence, ducking, apologizing, disappearing when needed. Tobias contributed nothing but weight and noise and a foul presence that clung to the air like rot.

Everyone else worked. Everyone else tried. Tobias just slept and drank and woke up to find more things to ruin.

Severus sat on the floor of his bedroom, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees, fingers flexing with invisible tension. The light was fading. The fog outside had begun to thicken again, turning the small window into a blurred wash of gray and silver.

He stared ahead blankly for a long while.

No wand. That absence was loud. He felt it like phantom pain—a weight that should have been in his pocket, a rhythm that should have lived in his palm. But it wasn’t there. It had been left behind, somewhere far from this house, somewhere safer.

So he imagined it instead. Imagined the feel of it, imagined the movement of his fingers around the familiar grooves in the wood. Imagined the flicks, the motions, the muttered words— Lumos. Nox. Alohomora. Silencio. All of it played out in his head like a memory trying to stay warm.

He missed the focus of it. The clarity.

His breathing slowed. His jaw locked. He reached beside him and pulled out the old journal from beneath the table—its edges frayed, its leather cover soft and worn with time. He flipped to the familiar page.

Sectumsempra.

Even seeing the word written made the air feel heavier. The ink, scrawled in his own sharp hand, seemed darker than the rest of the text—like it had burned into the page rather than soaked into it. He stared at the line. The silence in the room began to swell.

He had no wand. No means to cast it. But the idea was still there, as intrusive and persistent as ever.

His gaze dropped to his own leg.

Barefoot. His trousers rolled up slightly from earlier, exposing a pale patch of shin. The skin there looked almost fragile, too thin for its own safety. The thought came again, unbidden.

What would it feel like?

Not just the pain—but the power. The control. To cut, to curse, to punish. Not someone else. Himself. Just to see. Just to know.

There was nothing else in this room he could practice on. No cursed dolls, no potions ingredients, no enchanted objects. Only books, an old chair, a broken clock.

And himself.

His hands clenched into fists on his knees. The muscles in his arms tensed. His whole body sat in a strange stillness, like it was bracing for something that hadn’t happened yet but might.

No one would know.
No one would see.
It would be small.
It would be controlled.

He pressed his thumb against the bone of his leg, hard, until it ached. The sensation grounded him. A reminder of what could be done. Of what he almost did.

His jaw trembled.

And then—he let go.

Exhaled. Blinked a few times. The pressure lifted.

He closed the journal slowly and pushed it under the table.

The thought didn’t vanish. It wouldn’t. It clung to the edges of the room like dampness in the walls.

But for now, it was only a thought. And thoughts—unlike spells—could still be resisted.

The quiet that followed his decision was a rare thing—thin and fragile, like a film of ice over water. Severus didn’t dare move too quickly, afraid it would shatter. He stayed seated on the floor for a few minutes longer, letting the silence settle again in his bones. The aching pressure in his chest had dulled, the thoughts — the worst ones — receded just far enough to breathe again.

So he returned to practice.

Without a wand, it was reduced to form and discipline. Fingers curled through phantom gestures, lips shaped silent syllables, mind sharp and precise, each imagined flick of magic honed by repetition. In truth, this was how he'd trained himself for years — alone, afraid to cast in the open, forced to build the spell first in theory, until it etched itself into muscle memory.

There was something soothing in it. The rhythm. The focus. He forgot, for a time, the musty smell of the old house, the rising fog outside the windows, the muffled snore behind the bedroom door. It was just him, his breath, and the echo of something more powerful waiting to be reclaimed.

Then — a sharp tap tap against the windowpane.

Severus flinched.

The world snapped back into place like a trap. His chest seized up. For a moment, every muscle in his body locked down, ready for violence. He was already halfway to his feet before he even registered what the sound was.

It’s just the window. Just the glass. Just—

He looked over.

A tawny owl sat perched on the sill, ruffling its feathers against the cold. There was a pale roll of parchment tied to its leg.

He moved quickly, crossing the room and opening the window just enough to let the bird slip through. The air that followed was sharp and clean and cold. Fog drifted inside like a ghost, curling at the edges of the room.

The owl hooted softly and extended its leg.

The parchment bore the neat, slightly embellished script he recognized instantly.

Albus.

He untied the letter and the owl waited, content to perch on the back of the old chair. Severus moved to the bed and sat carefully on the edge, unfolding the message.

My dear Severus,

I hope this letter finds you well—or at the very least, managing. I know that the constant presence of the Aurors may be tiring, perhaps even invasive. If it helps to know: I’ve spoken with their department head and made it clear that your cooperation thus far has been exceptional. The frequency of these intrusions should reduce shortly. In fact, I shall be personally overseeing the next round of reviews.

I also wanted to tell you, as plainly as I can: your insight into the matter at hand has been brilliant. Not only have you aided us with information the Ministry was far too slow to gather, but you’ve done so with a calm mind and a clarity of logic I value deeply. People like you are rare, Severus. Don’t let them make you forget it.

If you find a spare moment, I would be grateful to hear how you’re doing. You are under no obligation to write, of course—but I am always here.

Yours in trust,
Albus Dumbledore

Severus sat still for a long time after finishing.

His eyes hovered over the words “people like you are rare” —a phrase that left a strange, raw tightness in his throat.

He wasn’t used to being seen. Not like that. Not in ways that weren’t transactional or clinical. Not in ways that felt human.

After a moment, he stood. Crossed the room again. He found the drawer where he kept old scraps of parchment and envelopes—most of them half-used or smudged with ink from previous, unsent letters. His hands trembled slightly, but he pressed them flat against the table, calmed his breath, and sat down with quill and ink.

He hesitated. A few false starts.

Then slowly, he began to write.

Headmaster,

Thank you for the letter. The Aurors are tolerable, though the visits are growing tedious. I do appreciate your intervention. It’s made things somewhat more manageable.

I’m... holding up. Home is what it always is—though I’ve had a bit of quiet recently, which is better than the alternative. I’ve taken some time for myself. Practicing, organizing things. It helps.

Thank you for what you said. I don’t often hear such things. I’m not entirely sure I believe them. But thank you nonetheless.

Sincerely,
S. Snape

He stared at the signature for a moment before sealing the envelope.

The owl blinked at him expectantly, and he tied the letter to its leg.

“Take it to him directly,” Severus said softly. “Please.”

It gave a small hoot and pushed off from the chair, soaring through the fog-heavy air and disappearing into the white sky beyond the window.

Severus stood there for a while, arms folded tightly across his chest, watching the mist swirl outside.

For the first time in days, something inside him felt still. Not healed. Not fixed. But quiet.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Severus lingered by the window after the owl vanished into the fog, the cold air brushing against his skin like a reminder—he was alone again. The soft hush of the house settled in around him. A drawer clicked softly closed. The warmth of Dumbledore’s words still clung faintly to his chest, but it was already fading. That kind of warmth never stayed for long. Not here. Not with him.

His gaze wandered across the familiar corners of his room—the peeling wallpaper, the patched quilt, the stack of books leaning precariously on the edge of his desk. He sat back down slowly, his eyes unfocused, mind drifting.

The stalker.

The thought returned like a breath held too long.

It crept in, slow and unwelcome, but he didn’t resist it this time. He leaned into the familiar pull of paranoia—the same spiraling logic that had kept him alive too many times to be dismissed.

Who could it be?

He went over the list again, mentally parsing through names, faces, shadows. But there was nothing. No one.

No former classmates. No vengeful enemies. Those who hated him had better things to do. Or they were dead. Or they would never bother with such precise, obsessive cruelty.

No students. No Order members.
The kids from the shop? They didn’t have that kind of darkness behind their eyes. At least, not that kind.

He blinked hard, rubbing his temple.

There’s no one left.

The realization settled over him like damp cloth. It wasn’t new. Just forgotten for a moment, obscured by distraction and obligation.

He didn’t have anyone. No friends. No casual acquaintances. No confidants.

Even S—
No. He wasn’t going to think about that.

He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, trying to push back the cold crawling under his skin. The kind that came not from the weather, but from the awareness of being watched and not knowing by whom.

Then—
A second knock.

Louder this time.
Not at the window.

Severus jolted so hard he nearly knocked over the ink bottle on his desk. His breath caught in his throat, heartbeat stuttering into a gallop.

He turned slowly toward the sound.

The window?
Empty. Just pale fog pressing against the glass, blank and unmoving.

But the sound had been clear. Sharp.
Like knuckles on wood. Not glass. Not a bird. Not a draft.

His hands clenched the edges of the desk. He strained to listen.

Nothing.

But the silence was different now. Thick.
Like something was waiting.
The air felt wrong. Like it had shifted without permission.

His stomach twisted and something cold and sick slid up into his chest. His throat tightened painfully.

He was being watched.

That irrational, unmistakable certainty—that old terror from childhood—rose again in his bones.

He looked toward the door, almost expecting to see it open on its own. Nothing moved. Still, his fingers twitched in the reflex of a wand gesture—only to remember again: he had no wand.

And then — a phone.

He could call someone. That was what normal people did, wasn’t it?

Call Sirius.
Sirius would pick up. Sirius would come.

But—
His hand hovered in the air.

He didn’t have his number.

They never exchanged them.

Because that would mean admitting something. Something deeper than coincidence. Deeper than reliance. A thread he’d refused to pull.

They saw each other.
Sirius knows where Severus lives.
But they hadn’t traded that one symbol of permanence.

The number. The access.

He didn’t even have Lily’s.
Because of course he didn’t.

His hand dropped slowly to his lap.

A hollow sound echoed faintly in the stairwell below, like a creak or a shift of weight. His heart stopped again.

He told himself it was the house.

But he didn’t believe it.

The silence cracked like a gunshot when Severus’s mobile vibrated sharply against the wooden desk, the screen lighting up in the gloom.

He flinched.

It took a second to process the sound—so sudden, so ordinary—and his hand moved on instinct, yanking the phone toward him as his eyes scanned the screen.

“The best sex.”

His eye twitched.

A wave of heat slammed through his spine. Not fear this time, but something tangling shame and disbelief.

He knew exactly who it was.

Of course he did.

He stared at the name for a beat longer than necessary, scowling as though sheer willpower could erase it from the glass.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he answered.

“What the hell?”  he snapped, voice low and tight.

“And hello to you too, love,” came the response, smooth and laughing, just as insufferable as he remembered. “Open the window so I can get in.”

Severus blinked, dumbfounded for a moment, heart still beating erratically from the earlier knock. ” How did you get my number?”  he hissed, ignoring the request.

Sirius sounded too pleased with himself. “Open the window and find out. ”

“I don’t even know if it’s really you.” Severus turned to glance at the window again, suspicion tightening every muscle. “For all I know, it could be the killer calling me. ”

There was a pause. Then—

”You come so fast if I—”