Chapter Text
Inside 12 Grimmauld Place, things were quiet—almost too quiet. Sirius Black was a caged beast in his own home, trapped within the walls of his grim childhood house by necessity. The Order of the Phoenix used it as a base, but people came and went. Only he stayed, an exile in his own right, tormented by the ghosts of the past and the knowledge that the world still saw him as a criminal.
It was no wonder, then, that when Severus Snape appeared to deliver news, Sirius latched onto the opportunity for some form of stimulation—any form.
"Ah, Snivellus, gracing us with your greasy presence once again. Don’t you ever wash your hair, or does the Dark Lord prefer his spies to look like they've just crawled out of a cauldron?" Sirius sneered from his seat in the drawing room, arms lazily draped over the back of the chair. His eyes gleamed with mischief, the only real amusement he'd had all day.
Snape paused at the threshold, his dark gaze flicking over Sirius with disdain. "Ah, Black. How charming. I see your talents as a schoolyard bully remain undiminished by age or circumstance. How... predictable."
Sirius grinned, a wild, reckless look in his eyes. "Predictable? I was just warming up. You're a walking joke, Snape. Honestly, it’s too easy."
Snape walked into the room, his black robes trailing behind him like a shadow. "Easy? Perhaps," he said with a cool smirk, "but it seems you're the one with too much time on his hands. Stuck in this decrepit house with nothing to do but pine for the days when you were actually useful. Tell me, Black, how does it feel to be totally irrelevant?"
Sirius stiffened, but his grin never faltered. "Oh, don’t worry about me, Snape. At least I'm not skulking around pretending to be something I'm not. How's that double life treating you? Do you ever get confused which side you're really on?"
Snape's lips curled in a sneer. "Unlike you, Black, I have no difficulty discerning my loyalties. I know who I serve, and it's not my ego, unlike some.."
The words stung more than Sirius wanted to admit. He hated how Snape could cut through him with a few sharp words, words that always seemed to hit the sorest points. His temper flared. "Your "loyalty "? Don’t make me laugh. You're only here because Dumbledore trusts you for reasons none of us can understand. But I don’t trust you, Snape. Never have, never will."
Snape moved closer, his dark eyes flashing with anger. "And your trust, Black, is something I have never sought. I do what I must to ensure the Dark Lord’s downfall. That’s more than you’ve done rotting away in this house. You might as well be dead for all the good you’re doing..."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, charged with years of animosity and grievances. But Sirius refused to back down, even though Snape's words struck a nerve. He shot up from his chair, stepping toward Snape, his face inches from the other man’s. "Careful, Snivellus. You’re forgetting who you’re talking to."
Snape stood his ground, his expression as cold and unyielding as stone. "Oh, I know exactly who I'm talking to, Black. A reckless fool who thinks he's still a young man playing at rebellion. You were never good enough to be a real threat, and now... now you're nothing but a bitter relic of a war you lost long ago."
Sirius’s jaw clenched, and for a fleeting second, he thought about drawing his wand. He knew Snape had hit too close to the truth for comfort. The rage simmered under his skin, but somehow, he managed to reign it in. Instead, he smirked, though it was a brittle thing.
"Funny," Sirius said, his voice dangerously low, but before he could continue, a cold voice broke through the tension.
"Enough!" It was Remus, standing at the doorway, his eyes weary but stern. "We have a war to fight, and this—this constant bickering—isn’t helping anyone."
Sirius’s gaze flicked to Remus, then back to Snape. He could see the contempt in the other man’s eyes, but also something else—something like... respect? He wasn't sure. Either way, it didn’t matter.
"Fine," Sirius muttered, stepping back. "Let him run off back to his dungeon..."
Snape straightened, his expression once again impassive, but something flickered in his gaze as he glanced at Sirius. "I have more important matters to attend to than indulging your childish games, Black," he said coolly, before sweeping out of the room, his robes billowing behind him.
As the door clicked shut, Sirius let out a breath he hadn’t realized he'd been holding. Remus approached him, a tired look on his face.
"Sirius, you have to stop this," Remus said quietly. "He's risking his life every day. We need him."
Sirius didn’t answer right away. He stared at the door where Snape had just exited, his mind replaying their exchange. He hated Snape—he always had. But he couldn’t deny that there was something about their interactions, a strange kind of... tension that went beyond their mutual hatred. It was infuriating.
"I know.." Sirius muttered eventually, though his mind was still on Snape.
He hated him...
Days blurred together at 12 Grimmauld Place, the monotony of Sirius Black’s confinement slowly eating away at his sanity. People came and went, bustling through the halls, murmuring about the war, about Voldemort’s latest move, about Harry. But Sirius stayed, left to wander the rooms of his ancestral home, sorting through dusty relics and cursed objects while the weight of his isolation pressed on him.
He found ways to pass the time. Cleaning, organizing, and purging the house of its dark remnants became a daily routine. Kreacher was no help, muttering about blood traitors and filth as Sirius tried to rid the place of the wretched memories. And then there was the drinking.
By nightfall, Sirius often found himself nursing a bottle of firewhisky, slumped in one of the old, decrepit armchairs by the fire. The alcohol dulled the sharp edges of his frustration, numbing the pain of feeling caged and useless while others fought outside.
And then there was Snape.
Whenever Snape arrived with news from the front, Sirius made it his mission to provoke him, to drag him into their old rivalry. It was the only entertainment Sirius had left, the only thing that made him feel alive. He waited for Snape’s visits, anticipated them even, eager for the exchange of insults that seemed to be the only thing he could control in this miserable existence.
One evening, as Sirius stumbled into the drawing room, half-drunk and glass in hand, he found Snape standing there, delivering his report to Moody and Remus. Sirius swayed slightly, a smirk curling on his lips as he approached.
"Ah, Snivellus," he drawled, slurring just a little, "here to grace us with your presence again, I see. What’s the news? Gotten yourself killed yet, or are you still too slippery for even that?"
Snape didn’t even turn to look at him at first. "Still resorting to alcohol to cope, Black? How... unsurprising." His voice was cold and clipped as usual.
Sirius snorted, taking a swig from his glass before slamming it down on a nearby table. "Oh, come on. You live for these moments. Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy a little back-and-forth. This is the most fun you get, isn’t it, Snivellus?"
Remus shot Sirius a warning look, but Sirius ignored him, moving closer to Snape. His mind was hazy from the drink, and the edges of his temper were fraying.
Snape’s dark eyes finally flicked toward him, his expression one of disdain. "If by 'fun,' you mean wasting my time with your juvenile attempts at provocation, then yes, Black, I'm absolutely thrilled to be in your presence."
Sirius grinned, though it was more of a snarl. "Always so quick with the words, aren't you? Bet you rehearse these comebacks in your little potions lab. Do you ever stop being so damn smug, or is that just your natural state?"
Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "It’s called intelligence, Black. Something you wouldn’t understand, given your impressive lack of it."
Sirius’s grin faltered, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. He stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "Big words for someone who spent most of his school years hiding behind his greasy hair. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what a coward you are, Snape."
Snape's face tightened, but he didn’t back down. "And I haven’t forgotten how reckless and idiotic you were, Black. Nor am I blind to how you’ve wasted your second chance at life. Pathetic, really."
Sirius’s hand clenched around the glass, his knuckles turning white. His breath came quicker, anger and the alcohol mixing into something volatile. "You don't know a damn thing about what I've been through."
Snape's gaze hardened. "Oh, but I do, Black. I know all too well what it’s like to live with regrets and to be surrounded by people who think you're worthless. The difference between us is that I don’t wallow in it."
Sirius felt something snap inside him. Without thinking, he shoved Snape hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back a few steps. "Shut your mouth!" he snarled, his voice rising.
The room fell into a tense silence. Moody glanced between them, his magical eye whirring, and Remus stepped forward quickly, grabbing Sirius by the arm.
"Sirius, stop," Remus said, his voice firm but calm. "You're drunk. This isn't helping."
But Sirius was beyond reason, his anger boiling over. He shook off Remus’s grip, pointing a finger at Snape. "He’s the one who doesn’t belong here! How can you trust him, Remus? He’s a snake—a Death Eater! He’s never been on our side!"
Snape stood tall, brushing off his robes where Sirius had shoved him. His voice was low, dangerous. "I risk my life every day, Black, while you rot in this house, drinking yourself into oblivion. I serve the Order. What do you do, besides nurse your self-pity?"
Sirius's fist clenched, and for a split second, he considered throwing a punch. But then, as if the fire in him had burned out all at once, he exhaled sharply and dropped his hand. His shoulders slumped, and he turned away from Snape, stumbling back toward the chair.
"I hate you.." he muttered under his breath, though the words sounded weak, even to his own ears.
Snape watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he spoke again. "The feeling is mutual," he said softly, though there was something almost weary in his tone.
With that, Snape turned on his heel and swept out of the room, his black robes billowing behind him.
Remus sighed, sitting down next to Sirius, who had collapsed into the chair, his face in his hands. "You need to stop doing this to yourself, Sirius," Remus said quietly. "It’s tearing you apart."
Sirius didn’t respond. He just sat there, the firewhisky still burning in his throat, the weight of his bitterness and rage pressing down on him.
Sirius stopped drinking.
He told himself it was because he wanted to, to set a good example for Harry, because he had to regain some control over his own life. But deep down, he knew the real reason was different. The last time Severus Snape had looked at him—really looked at him—something in that gaze had pierced through his drunken haze. It wasn’t just the usual disdain, the usual contempt. There had been something else, something he couldn’t name but couldn't shake. Disappointment, maybe. Pity? Whatever it was, it had been enough.
The bottles of firewhisky sat untouched on the shelves, collecting dust alongside the remnants of his family's dark legacy. Sirius kept his hands busy instead. The house was getting better, little by little. He’d thrown out or neutralized most of the cursed objects, scrubbed clean the grime of decades, and forced Kreacher to stay away from the more dangerous relics of the Black family. It wasn’t much, but it kept his mind occupied, kept the creeping frustration at bay.
Each day was a little quieter in the house, but not quiet enough. His mother's portrait still hung on the wall, larger than life, screaming curses at him whenever he passed. She would shriek about his ungratefulness, his blood betrayal, his disloyalty to the Black name. Each tirade was louder and more vicious than the last.
Today, Sirius stood in front of her, arms crossed, staring up at the gaudy, oversized portrait. She looked so regal, so proud, so... cruel. Her mouth twisted into a snarl as soon as she saw him.
"Filthy blood traitor! I should have strangled you in your cradle! Disgusting vermin, befouling the house of my fathers! And look at you now—fraternizing with your kind—men! You’ve brought shame on this house—"
Her voice grated against his skull, but Sirius didn’t move. He just stood there, brow furrowed, deep in thought. He’d tried every spell he could think of to get rid of the damn painting, but none of it worked. Whatever old magic his family had used to bind her to the wall was stubborn and vicious. Still, he refused to give up.
Sirius's wand twitched in his hand. He took a step closer, and without really thinking, flicked his wrist. "Silencio," he muttered, knowing it probably wouldn’t work, at least not for long.
His mother’s voice cut off abruptly.
For a moment, Sirius blinked in shock. Had it worked? His breath caught in his throat as he took a tentative step closer. But before he could reach out, the spell snapped, and her voice returned, louder than before.
"How dare you! Filthy, unnatural—"
Sirius turned away from her, rubbing his temples. He was used to drowning her out by now, focusing on the problem at hand rather than her vile words. He raised his wand again, trying another charm. There was a faint spark, a crackle of magic, and then—just a tiny sliver of the painting, no bigger than the size of his thumbnail, tore from the canvas.
His mother’s curses reached a fever pitch. "Disgusting! Bent for men, just like that filthy blood traitor! Is this how you repay your family?! You’re no son of mine—!"
But Sirius wasn’t listening anymore. He stared at the tiny tear, astonished that something—anything—had finally worked. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, but it was progress.
"Sirius Black." came a cool voice from behind him, cutting through the noise.
Sirius flinched, spinning on his heel to see Severus Snape standing in the hallway, his arms full of glass potion bottles. His black eyes flicked from the shredded corner of the painting to Sirius himself, assessing him in that calculating way he always did.
"What do you want, Snape?" Sirius snapped, the tension in his voice betraying the irritation that always flared when they were in the same room.
Snape raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the portrait where Walburga Black still shrieked like a banshee. He didn’t comment on it. Instead, he gestured to the potions in his arms. "Remus requested these." Snape replied smoothly, his voice sharp and measured.
Sirius scoffed. "Remus isn’t here. You can leave them in the kitchen."
Snape’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes lingered on Sirius a moment longer, cold and unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away toward the kitchen, his black robes swishing behind him. Sirius watched him go, jaw clenched. There was something about the way Snape moved, the way he occupied the space with that silent, brooding confidence, that always set Sirius on edge.
He told himself it was hatred, the remnants of their old schoolboy rivalry, the fact that Snape had always been insufferable and self-righteous. But lately... lately, he wasn’t so sure. There was something magnetic about the man, something that made Sirius’s eyes follow him even when he didn’t want them to. He hated how aware he was of Snape’s presence whenever the man was in the house, how his pulse seemed to quicken for no reason at all.
With a frustrated growl, Sirius turned back to the painting. "Right," he muttered to himself, "let’s try this again."
He pointed his wand at the painting, muttering another spell, but his mother’s screams only grew louder. Sirius’s jaw tightened, but he kept at it, trying spell after spell, determined to rid the house of her presence once and for all. Each attempt shredded another tiny fragment of the portrait, but it wasn’t enough.
"You’ll never be rid of me, you filthy traitor!" his mother howled. "I’ll haunt this house long after you're dead, mark my words!"
Sirius didn’t stop. He knew Snape was somewhere in the house, probably watching, probably judging, but he didn’t care. He kept casting, kept focusing, until finally, with a sharp flick of his wand, a larger piece of the painting tore away, leaving a visible jagged hole in the canvas.
His mother’s voice faltered for the briefest of moments, and Sirius grinned triumphantly. "Got you, you miserable hag."
But the triumph was short-lived. The remaining parts of the portrait flared with magic, and before Sirius could react, his mother’s face twisted into an even more grotesque expression. "You think this makes you free? You’ll always be a failure, Sirius. Bent for men, nothing but a disgrace—"
Sirius’s wand trembled in his hand, but he forced himself to stay calm. He’d heard these insults a thousand times before. They didn’t matter.
"Silencio." came a low voice from the shadows of the hallway.
Sirius turned, startled, to see Snape standing in the doorway once again. His wand was raised, and the portrait’s voice was suddenly, blessedly, silenced.
Snape lowered his wand, his dark eyes meeting Sirius’s. "If you're going to remove her, Black, do it properly. You’re not half as clever as you think you are."
Sirius’s lips twitched in frustration, but before he could retort, Snape added, "I’ve seen your attempts. Destructive, yes, but unrefined. You're acting on impulse, as usual."
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. "And you’re acting like you know everything, as usual."
Snape didn’t respond. He simply crossed the room and stood in front of the painting, examining it with a clinical detachment. Sirius watched, his frustration simmering, but for some reason, he didn’t lash out. Instead, he found himself standing next to Snape, both of them staring at the portrait as if it were some kind of shared enemy.
"Old magic.." Snape murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dark, but not unbreakable. You’ve weakened it already. But there’s more to be done."
Sirius blinked, surprised. "You can break it?"
Snape’s lips curled into a faint smirk. "I can do many things, Black. But whether I choose to help you is another matter entirely."
Sirius bristled, but before he could respond, Snape turned away, moving toward the door. He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. "If you really want to rid yourself of her," he said, his tone cool and measured, "you'll need more than brute force. Think about it."
And then he was gone, leaving Sirius standing in front of the portrait, his mind spinning with frustration, confusion, and something else entirely.
For the first time in weeks, Sirius’s thoughts weren’t consumed by his isolation or the 'war' outside. Instead, they were consumed by the man who had just walked away.
It had been a couple of days since Sirius and Severus’s last encounter in front of the portrait, and the house had been quiet, at least by Grimmauld Place standards. Sirius found himself lounging in the library, sprawled lazily across the old, battered divan with a book that he wasn’t really reading. The air was stale, as it often was in the house, and though he’d stopped drinking, the gnawing restlessness remained. At least the quiet was somewhat tolerable—until, of course, it wasn’t.
The familiar shriek of his mother’s voice reverberated through the house, sharp and grating. Sirius closed his eyes, groaning as he listened, already knowing that someone from the Order had just entered.
"Filth! Perverted filth! Tainted half-blood disgrace! How dare you sully the house of my fathers!" The words cut through the walls, and Sirius strained his ears to catch more of it, curious as to who had triggered such a vitriolic reaction.
Walburga’s screeches took on a specific kind of venom, worse than usual. She continued, her voice dripping with malice, "You should be ashamed, you disgusting half-blood! Just like my good-for-nothing son, bent for men! I see the resemblance—oh yes, with that cursed Prince nose! Cast away, tainted filth, perverted and foul, probably taking it up the arse from other worthless men—"
Sirius’s eyes snapped open, a deep frown creasing his face as he pushed himself up from the divan. That was... new. Sure, she was always foul, but there was a precision to her attacks this time. Sirius could feel his pulse quicken. Sirius muttered under his breath, his curiosity piqued. She had never been this cutting before, unless it was towards him.
He rose from the divan and made his way toward the hallway, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards. But just as he was about to reach the door to the hallway, the screaming stopped abruptly, cut off mid-curse. Sirius froze in his tracks, blinking in surprise. That never happened. His mother’s portrait never shut up on its own. His pace quickened, a sense of unease mixing with curiosity.
When he turned the corner into the hallway, what he saw made him stop in his tracks.
Snape stood there, his wand raised, his face an unreadable mask of calm. But the portrait—Walburga Black, the portrait that had tormented Sirius for years—was in pieces. Shredded. Torn apart by a single, vicious spell. The jagged remains of the canvas hung loosely on the wall, frayed and ripped. The frame that once housed his mother’s likeness was now nothing more than a shattered memory of her sneer.
Sirius just stood there for a moment, staring at the torn remnants of his mother’s portrait. The silence that followed was almost deafening after the years of her constant tirades. It was over. She was gone.
Snape’s wand lowered, and he said nothing, merely looking at the remains of the portrait with something like cold satisfaction. The air was thick with tension, but it wasn’t the kind Sirius was used to between them. For a few moments, neither man spoke.
Sirius blinked and let out a low whistle, stepping forward to inspect the carnage. His lips twitched into a grin, wild and unrestrained. He didn’t even care how it had happened, not really. What mattered was that it had.
"Well, well," Sirius drawled, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, "I wanted to see why she was being extra foul today, but it looks like you’ve already taken care of it."
Snape didn’t respond, his eyes still fixed on the remnants of the portrait as if he were making sure it wouldn’t come back.
Sirius glanced at him, then back at the shredded canvas. "You know," he said after a beat, his tone lighter than usual, "I could kiss you for this."
Snape’s head turned sharply toward him, his brow furrowing slightly in what looked like mild shock. Sirius grinned wider, feeling a burst of something dangerously close to elation. It wasn’t often he felt anything so light-hearted these days. He didn’t give Snape a chance to respond before he practically skipped back to the library, his mood lifted in a way that surprised even him.
"Cheers for that, Severus!" Sirius called over his shoulder as he disappeared back into the room. And he realized, with a small sense of victory, that he hadn’t called him Snivellus. Not even once.
Snape, however, remained standing in the hallway for a moment longer, his wand still in his hand. His face was still as impassive as ever, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes.
With a quiet, controlled exhale, Snape turned and followed Sirius into the library. He had come to deliver a letter to Moody, after all, though the destruction of the portrait had been... satisfying. He would never admit that aloud.
When Snape entered the library, he found Sirius lounging on the divan again, as if nothing had happened, though there was a lightness to him now that hadn’t been there before. Sirius glanced up as Snape entered, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity.
"Didn’t think you’d follow me, Severus..." Sirius said, his voice smooth.
Snape’s face remained impassive as he approached, holding out the letter. "This is for Moody," he said curtly. "I trust you’ll see to it that he gets it."
Sirius took the letter, his fingers brushing briefly against Snape’s. There was a spark there, something Sirius couldn’t ignore, but he did his best to keep his expression neutral. "Of course." he said, though his tone was a touch more playful than necessary. "Anything else you want to destroy while you're here? There’s still that cursed tapestry in the next room, if you’re feeling particularly destructive today."
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, though there was no real malice behind the look. "No, Black. I think I’ve done quite enough for today."
Sirius chuckled, leaning back against the cushions, his hand idly playing with the edges of the letter. He watched Snape for a moment, taking in the way the other man moved, the way his robes swirled around him. There was something different about this moment.
"You never told me why you did it."
Snape’s gaze flicked toward him, dark and unreadable. "Because she was a nuisance." he said simply, his voice as cold and clipped as ever.
Sirius smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yes she was."
Snape turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, Sirius spoke again, his voice softer this time. "Thank you." he said, his words quiet but sincere. "For getting rid of her."
Snape paused for the briefest of moments, but he didn’t turn around. "Don’t mention it." he said, his voice barely above a whisper, before sweeping out of the room.
Sirius remained on the divan, staring after him, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and something else he couldn’t quite name. It was strange, this shift between them, and for the first time in a long while, Sirius didn’t feel the need to taunt or insult Snape. He didn’t even feel the usual bitterness that always bubbled up around him.
Instead, all he felt was a quiet sort of gratitude..
The days passed with a strange new rhythm at Grimmauld Place. Sirius, having abandoned his usual vices, found a new sense of purpose. He threw himself into cleaning and fixing the house with more vigor, turning each corner of the dusty, dark mansion into something almost livable. Without the haze of firewhisky clouding his thoughts, he felt clearer, sharper, and—though he would never admit it—better. There was still a weight of isolation on his shoulders, but he found that he could manage it now, focus on things that were within his control.
And then there was Snape.
Sirius had come to realize something curious about the man. For years, they had exchanged nothing but barbs, insults flung back and forth like hexes in the schoolyard. But recently, Sirius had discovered something even more effective than mocking or provoking Severus Snape: being nice.
It had started almost accidentally. The first time Sirius hadn’t insulted Snape when he entered the house, Snape had seemed thrown off, as if waiting for a punchline that never came. Then, the next time, Sirius hadn’t engaged in their usual verbal sparring, and again, Snape had been left floundering, his sharp retorts losing their edge without the usual fuel.
Sirius had found that he enjoyed it—seeing Snape unsure of himself, caught off-guard by the absence of hostility. So, he leaned into it, turning the tables in a way that was both amusing and oddly satisfying.
It was a morning like any other when Snape arrived to deliver his usual report, his robes billowing as he swept into the kitchen where Sirius was making a poor attempt at breakfast. Sirius didn’t bother with pleasantries anymore, not in the traditional sense. Instead, he turned to greet Snape with a calm smile, something he knew would disarm the man far more than any insult.
"Good morning, Severus," Sirius said smoothly, stirring the eggs in the pan with casual ease. "Care for some breakfast? I’m no house-elf, but I haven’t managed to burn the place down just yet."
Snape’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, as though waiting for the inevitable sneer. He glanced briefly at the eggs, then back at Sirius. "I see you’re still wasting away in this miserable house," Snape remarked coldly, but there was an edge of uncertainty in his tone, as if unsure how Sirius would respond.
Sirius shrugged, flipping the eggs in the pan with a grin. "Yeah, well, it sucks, doesn’t it? But, you know, it is what it is. I make do. Keeps me busy, cleaning this place up, fixing things. What can one do?"
Snape blinked, clearly caught off guard by the easy agreement. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, his usual biting retort stuck somewhere in his throat. Sirius could see the gears turning in his head, the flicker of confusion as Snape tried to recalibrate his approach. It was delicious.
Sirius continued, undeterred by Snape’s silence. "Honestly, though, this place has more rooms than I know what to do with. I’ve cleaned most of them up, but there’s still so much space. If you ever need a room to work in, you know, potions or whatever, feel free. There’s plenty of room for your little experiments."
Snape’s mouth twitched, a flicker of something crossing his expression—surprise, perhaps, or disbelief. "You’re offering me a room in this house?" he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
"Why not?" Sirius replied with a casual shrug, wiping his hands on a towel. "Moody says you need a place to work on something secret, some potion for the Order. Seems like a good idea. I’ve got nothing but space. Take whichever room you want."
Snape’s eyes narrowed again, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but there was no sarcasm, no hidden insult lurking behind Sirius’s words. Just simple, genuine agreement. It was almost unsettling.
"Very well," Snape said slowly, his voice guarded. "I’ll take you up on that."
Sirius smiled, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. "Great. It’s settled, then."
For the next several days, Snape came and went, setting up his potions lab in one of the rooms Sirius had cleaned out. The house felt different with Snape’s presence there—tense, yes, but not in the way it used to be. Sirius no longer sought out every opportunity to provoke him. Instead, he found himself intrigued by how much more easily he could get under Snape’s skin by not engaging in their usual hostility. It was far more entertaining to see Snape falter, unsure of how to react when Sirius agreed with him, or worse, when Sirius was kind.
One afternoon, as Snape worked quietly in his makeshift lab, Sirius wandered through the house, feeling strangely restless. He’d shaved that morning, something he hadn’t done in days, and even spent time fixing his hair. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time—just that it made him feel better, more like himself. It was a small thing, but it lifted his mood in ways he hadn’t expected. He felt lighter, more present.
He found himself wandering into the room where Snape was working, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Need anything?" he asked, his voice easy and conversational. "I’m heading to the kitchen."
Snape didn’t look up from the cauldron he was stirring, his face lit by the dim glow of potion flames. "No," he replied curtly, though there was a slight pause before he added, "Thank you."
Sirius grinned at that, the rare flicker of gratitude from Snape more satisfying than he would have expected. "Alright, well, just let me know if you do," he said before turning to leave.
"Sirius." Snape’s voice called out, stopping him in his tracks. Sirius turned, one eyebrow raised, waiting.
Snape hesitated for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes meeting Sirius’s. There was something different in his gaze now—not quite the venomous contempt that used to fill the air between them, but something quieter, something almost... reflective. "Why?" Snape asked, his voice low, but there was no malice in the question. "Why are you... like this now?"
Sirius blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected Snape to ask him outright. He tilted his head, considering the question, then shrugged. "I got tired of fighting you." he said simply. "And to be honest, it’s more fun seeing you like this—unsure of what to do when I’m not insulting you every five seconds."
Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, the two of them stood there in silence, neither of them moving. Then, Snape returned to his work, the conversation left hanging in the air between them as Sirius left the room.