Mein Herz

Chapter 4: God Knows I’m Good

02/12/1979

S.B. 

“Didn’t think you’d actually take it, mate.”  

A low chuckle left Sirius’s lips, amusement creeping into his tone. To put it lightly, he hadn’t expected Snape to even glance at the cigarette, let alone pluck it from his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.  And yet, here they were.  

Sirius also hadn’t expected to notice—really notice—how long Snape’s fingers were.  

Now it’s weird, Sirius.  

He gave his head a small shake. No. Not weird. Just… an observation. A perfectly normal, meaningless observation.   

Severus rolled the cigarette between his fingers, testing the weight of it, like he was trying to decide whether it was worth the effort. The soft glow of the moon cast faint shadows against the sharp angles of his face.  

Sirius was still staring. He cleared his throat, pushing past whatever that was.  

"Sure you don’t want to go get a drink? It’s too late to go see Dumbledore.”  

Snape’s gaze flicked up, arching a skeptical eyebrow. “It is?”  

“Yeah.” Sirius stretched his shoulders, trying to ease some tension. “If we showed up now, that old man would probably be sporting a nightgown and rollers. Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson.”  

A scoff escaped Snape, quiet but distinctly unimpressed. He shook his head, rolling the cigarette between his slender fingers, “Bloody hell.”  

Sirius grinned. “That almost sounded like agreement.”  

Snape shot him a pointed look. “Don’t push it.”  

The night air pressed against them, crisp and cold now that they were free of the suffocating cottage. It felt lighter out here, but Sirius couldn’t tell if that was because of the fresh air or something else. He glanced at Snape again, watching as the other man finally lifted the cigarette to his lips.  

"Want me to light it for you?" The words left Sirius’s mouth before he could stop them.  

Snape didn’t answer right away. Normally, he would scoff, sneer, throw some biting remark about how he was perfectly capable of handling a simple task without Sirius’s help. But this time, he just looked at him.  Dark eyes searched his face, like he was trying to gauge Sirius’s true intentions—like he didn’t trust that this was just another casual gesture. Sirius had no idea why that made his stomach twist.  

"Here, I’ll show you." A chuckle escaped as he reached forward, plucking the cigarette straight from Snape’s lips before he could protest.  

For a split second, something flickered across Snape’s expression—surprise, irritation—but he didn’t pull away.  

Sirius slipped the cigarette between his own lips, raising his wand and tapping the end with practiced ease. The ember flared to life instantly. A slow inhale filled his lungs with smoke before he turned his head, exhaling smoothly away from Snape’s face.  

"It’s like drinking out of a straw," he said, voice easy, casual—like he hadn’t just taken something from Snape’s mouth and put it into his own. He smirked as he held the cigarette back out. "You go."  

Snape hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, wordlessly, he took it.  

Sirius watched, barely holding back a grin, as Snape hesitated, cigarette poised between his fingers like it was some kind of cursed object. He had seen Snape wield a wand with effortless precision, handle deadly potions without so much as a flinch, but this had him second-guessing himself.

For a second, Sirius thought he might just hand it back, scoff, and mutter something about how ‘he didn’t need to engage in Muggle vices, thank you very much.’

But then Snape did something surprising. He lifted it to his lips. The movement was slow, deliberate, almost too calculated, like he was trying to memorize the action before doing it. Sirius found himself watching a little too closely as Snape took a breath…

…and immediately choked.

A sharp, violent cough racked through him, and he turned away, clutching the edge of his cloak like that would somehow stop the absolute failure happening in real-time.

Sirius burst out laughing.

“Bloody hell, Snape!” He leaned back on his heels, shaking his head. “That was pathetic.”

Through watery eyes, Snape shot him a withering glare, his face a little pink—either from nearly coughing up a lung or sheer embarrassment, Sirius wasn’t sure.

“Shut up.” His voice was raw, hoarse, completely wrecked by the smoke.

Sirius grinned, still thoroughly enjoying himself. “It’s a cigarette, not poison.”

“I am inhaling poison, Black.” Snape sounded like he was barely restraining himself from hexing Sirius into the ground. He glanced at the cigarette, now resting between his fingers like it had personally offended him.

“Yeah, and you’re doing a shit job of it,” Sirius quipped, still smirking. He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Try again. Less effort.”

For a moment, Snape didn’t move. Sirius could practically see the internal debate happening in his head. On one hand, Snape hated failing at things. On the other, he really hated taking advice from Sirius Black. But then, against all odds, he raised the cigarette again. This time, he took in just enough smoke to let it settle in his mouth before exhaling quickly. It wasn’t perfect, but at least he didn’t look like he was on the verge of dying.

Sirius tilted his head. “Better.”

No response. No sneering remark. Just an unreadable look as Snape handed the cigarette back, rubbing his fingers together absently, like he could still feel the ember’s warmth. Sirius took it without thinking and placed it into his own mouth. 

Before Sirius could say anything else, Severus dusted off his robes, voice firm.

“I should go.”

The words settled uncomfortably in Sirius’s chest, heavier than they should have.

He pulled the cigarette from his lips, frowning. “What? Just one drink. C’mon, this is the first time we haven’t tried to kill each other.”

The joke was meant to lighten the mood, something to make Snape roll his eyes and scoff, something to keep him here just a little longer. But instead, Severus hesitated. It wasn’t rejection, not exactly. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, his posture stiff in a way that showed it wasn’t about Sirius himself—but about something else.

“I don’t…” Severus started, looking away. His jaw tensed slightly before he finally finished, “…I don’t really drink.”

“Oh.” Sirius blinked. “Oh.”

An awkward silence stretched between them. Sirius wasn’t used to feeling awkward. He said stupid things all the time… reckless, brash, whatever came to mind. Usually, he owned it, carried on without caring what anyone thought. But this time, he did care. Because the drink hadn’t been the point. He just wanted company.

It had been weeks since he’d last seen James and Remus properly. Missions, obligations, life—all of it had gotten in the way. And yeah, he was part of something bigger now, part of the fight, but it still felt lonely sometimes. Now, for some reason, Snape—of all people—was the only person here.

It wasn’t the same, of course. Snape wasn’t James, wasn’t Remus. Wasn’t the type to laugh at stupid jokes or throw an arm over his shoulder like it was second nature. But he was someone. Someone who wasn’t an Order member giving him assignments or talking with a stranger in a pub. Someone who wasn’t looking at him like he was the reckless disappointment of the Black family.

Maybe, just maybe, Snape could be a friend. The thought barely had time to settle before Sirius shoved it down.

Instead, he sighed, fingers absently rolling the cigarette between them. “We don’t have to drink. I’m sorry.”

Snape let out a bitter scoff, arms crossing over his chest. “Haven’t ever heard you say that before.” 

The words hit Sirius harder than he expected, landing somewhere deep in his gut. Before he could come up with a response—before he could even begin to understand why that bothered him—Snape continued, his tone dripping with venom.

“Do you believe we’re friends now?” His dark eyes flashed, sharp with something that made Sirius feel uneasy. “One irritating mission for Dumbledore makes us acquainted?”

“I—well—I just thought—” Sirius spluttered, his words tripping over themselves in a way that never happened to him.

Snape scoffed again, interrupting Sirius, “You think I forgot what you did to me?”

Sirius swallowed hard. He didn’t need to ask what Snape was referring to. He knew. 

The Shrieking Shack… Remus. The reckless, thoughtless cruelty of sixteen-year-old Sirius Black. The moment that could have killed him.

Shame coiled low in his stomach, tightening like a fist. He could argue—could say he hadn’t meant it like that, that he hadn’t wanted Snape dead, that he’d just wanted to scare him—but Snape wouldn’t care. And maybe Sirius didn’t deserve for him to care. Sirius bowed his head. His head lowered slightly, fingers tightening against his thigh. If he were Padfoot, his ears would be flat against his skull, tail tucked between his legs.

The words came before he could stop them. Soft. Uncertain.

“I wouldn’t mind if we were friends.”

Snape stilled. Not the sharp, reactive kind of stillness that came before he fired back with a sneer or an insult—but something quieter.

Dark eyes burned into Sirius’s bowed head, cutting through the space between them like a blade.

“What?” Snape’s voice was barely more than a breath.

Sirius swallowed, forcing himself to look up. “I just thought—well—you’re not a bad person.”

Snape’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the air, like the ground beneath them had tilted ever so slightly.

Sirius exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yesterday, I was thinking about our school days. I was a prick to you for no reason.” A dry, humorless chuckle left his throat. “Merlin, I was horrible to you.”

Snape didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched him.

Sirius pushed forward anyway. “I just thought… Maybe we could try to be friends. If you wanted to be in the Order, we’d be seeing each other all the time anyway. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if we didn’t—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “—hate each other anymore.”

Snape’s face was unreadable, his gaze locked onto Sirius’s like he was waiting for something. Some kind of trick. Some kind of punchline.

Sirius let out a slow breath, hands sliding into his pockets. “Look, I’m not asking you to forget anything. I’m not expecting you to wake up tomorrow and think we’re suddenly mates. But…” He hesitated again, this time forcing himself to hold Snape’s gaze. “I’d like to stop feeling like I have to make up for sixteen-year-old me every time I look at you.”

Still, Snape said nothing.

Sirius huffed, shaking his head with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Fuck, maybe this was stupid.”

He moved to walk away, but Snape’s voice cut through the air, stopping him in place.

“Why?”

Sirius blinked and turned to look over his shoulder. “What?”

Snape’s fingers curled slightly against his cloak. “Why would you want that?”

Sirius hesitated.

He could have made a joke. Could have brushed it off, turned it into something easy. But something in the way Snape looked at him—something guarded, suspicious, like he genuinely didn’t understand why Sirius would want this—made him pause. So, for once in his life, he answered honestly.

“Because I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Snape’s expression didn’t change. Not really. But the sharpness in his gaze slightly dulled. He took in a deep breath, glancing down at his robes, fingers brushing over the fabric like he was grounding himself. The silence stretched, heavier than before, not quite tense but not comfortable either.

Then, finally—

“Where did you want to go?”

Sirius blinked. He hadn’t actually expected Snape to agree—not outright, not without another sharp remark or some last-minute reason to retreat back into himself.

He recovered quickly, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Well, I was going to say a pub, but since you’re tragically opposed to having fun, my flat’ll do.”

Snape gave him a skeptical look, arms still crossed. “Your flat?”

Sirius shrugged, forcing his expression into something casual, something that didn’t betray the strange, nagging truth—he just didn’t want to be alone yet.

But then another thought hit him, uninvited.

Snape didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Not really. Sirius had spent the last year deliberately avoiding Grimmauld Place, but Snape’s home—the place he had always returned to—wasn’t just unbearable now. It was empty. Snape’s mum was dead. That house, miserable as it had been, had at least someone in it before. Now, it was just walls and silence. Sirius didn’t know what that felt like. Not exactly. He had left his family, had burned that bridge before they could force him to stay. But Snape hadn’t left—he had lost. And if there was one thing Sirius did understand, it was how loss could make a house feel like a prison.

He looked at Snape again, watching how his shoulders stayed stiff, his arms still locked in that tight, defensive posture. Like he knew what Sirius was thinking. But he didn’t say a word about it.

“It’s late,” Sirius continued, his tone remaining easy, casual. “And I doubt you’re keen on heading straight to Dumbledore looking like you’ve spent the night in a haunted shack.” He gestured vaguely toward Snape’s slightly disheveled robes. “Which, let’s be real, you technically have.”

Snape exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

“I’ve got coffee,” Sirius added, as if listing off luxuries in some grand negotiation. “Books, if you’re into that sort of thing.” His voice took on an exaggerated seriousness. “I even have a chess set, which I’m sure is deeply beneath your intellectual standards, but you might find something tolerable. We could insult someone we mutually hate?”

Snape rolled his eyes, his voice dry, “You assume I’d enjoy spending any further time in your company.”

“You haven’t left yet,” Sirius pointed out.

Snape stilled—just for a second—before quickly masking it, shifting his weight like he hadn’t realized he was still standing there.

Sirius smirked.

That was the first sign he had already won.

“Well?” He tilted his head, eyebrow raised. “What’s it gonna be, Snape? A long miserable night alone, or tolerating my presence for a little while longer?”

A long silence stretched between them. Snape’s jaw tensed, his fingers twitching slightly like he wanted to grab his wand just to have something to hold. He could still say no. He could still stalk off into the night, find some excuse to be alone.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sighed. A small, quiet thing. Barely more than a breath.

“Fine.”

Sirius grinned, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t just because he had gotten his way. 

Sirius pushed open the door to his flat, stepping aside to let Snape in first. As the warm glow of enchanted lamps flickered to life, illuminating the space, Sirius suddenly saw it through different eyes.

It wasn’t filthy—he wasn’t an animal—but it was… scattered. Records piled precariously on every surface, ink-stained parchment half-crumpled on the floor near his desk, a jacket draped over the sofa like he’d just shrugged it off mid-stride. A few empty bottles on the coffee table. The smell of old cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric of the chairs.

He had never been embarrassed about it before. Not with James, who lived in equal chaos, or with Remus, who just rolled his eyes and tidied up without a word. But now, as Snape stood in the doorway, scanning the room with his usual sharp, unreadable gaze, Sirius felt a flicker of something strange. Not quite shame. But close.

He scratched at the back of his neck. Oh, brilliant. Since when do you care what Snape thinks?

“You can come in, y’know,” he muttered, forcing a grin as he kicked aside a pile of books to clear the walkway. “Or are you worried I’ve got a trapdoor set up just for you?”

Snape stepped inside, slow and deliberate, like he was expecting something to lunge at him from the shadows. His gaze drifted from the chaotic stacks of records to the ashtray still half-full on the coffee table, then to the threadbare rug near the fireplace.

“You live like a stray,” he said at last.

Sirius snorted, dropping his jacket onto a chair. “Yeah, well, better than a bloody mausoleum.” He wasn’t even sure why he said it—he knew Snape’s childhood home had been miserable, but it wasn’t like they had ever talked about it. And yet, something told him that Snape hadn’t wanted to go back there tonight.

Snape didn’t argue. He just exhaled quietly and moved toward a chair, brushing off a book before sitting down like he wasn’t sure if he belonged there.

Sirius cleared his throat. “Alright, I meant what I said earlier—coffee, chess, or mutual insults? Dealer’s choice.”

Snape gave him a flat look. “You think offering me a game of chess is going to make me forget who you are?”

“Nah, but it’ll distract you from how bloody awkward this is.”

With a flick of his wand, the faint hum of magic filled the room as the coffee in the kitchen started brewing itself. Sirius leaned against the arm of the sofa, watching Snape as the other man glanced toward the sound, his fingers twitching like he wanted something to do with his hands. 

Minutes later, two cups of steaming coffee hovered into the room. Sirius caught them mid-air, handing one to Snape before plopping down onto the couch. He took a sip, then gestured toward the seat next to him. 

“You can sit here, y’know. The chair looks like it’s older than both of us combined.”

Snape hesitated. Not in an obvious way—but Sirius caught it. The way his fingers tightened around the coffee cup, the flicker of calculation in his gaze. And then, without a word, Snape got up and sat beside him. It wasn’t much. But it was something. 

S.S.

“So… uh,” Black started, shifting slightly on the couch, as if the silence had finally become too much for him. “Wanted to join the Order?”

Severus stared down into his coffee, watching the liquid ripple slightly with the movement of his fingers around the ceramic.

The question wasn’t unexpected. But it still made his grip tighten. He had known this conversation would come eventually. Had prepared for it. He had practiced his answers in his head—ones that would satisfy Dumbledore, the Order, anyone who asked. And yet, here, in this flat filled with the scent of smoke and coffee, it didn’t feel as simple as repeating a rehearsed line.

“Something like that,” he said at last, keeping his tone even.

Black tilted his head slightly. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

A slow, measured breath left Severus’s nose. “It’s practical,” he said, still focused on the mug in his hands. “A logical choice.”

The words felt hollow, even to his own ears.

Black frowned, leaning towards Severus. “Right.” He took a sip of his coffee, still watching Severus, still studying him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we could use more people who actually know what they’re doing.” He gestured vaguely toward him. “You’re good at the whole ‘dark magic, secretive bastard’ thing. Bet Moody loves you.”

Severus let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Oh, yes. I’m sure he’s thrilled.”

He had expected the conversation to drift away. That was usually how it worked—most people didn’t care to press further, didn’t want to. But Black wasn’t most people.

“So, what changed?”

Severus’s grip on his mug stilled. Dark eyes flickered up toward Black, cautious. “What do you mean?”

Black tapped his fingers idly against the side of his cup. “I mean,” he said slowly, “Last time I checked, you weren’t exactly lining up to join Dumbledore’s army. So what made you change your mind?”

Something flickered across Severus’s face—too fast to name, but not fast enough to go unnoticed. He saw the way Black’s gaze sharpened slightly, the way his expression lost some of its usual lazy amusement.

“The war is inevitable,” he said simply. “Everyone will have to choose a side.”

Black studied him, his stare too heavy, too intentional.

Severus didn’t break eye contact, but he could feel the scrutiny, the way Black was trying to pick apart the words, trying to figure out what was being left unsaid.

“I don’t want you to join them.”

The statement was so quiet, so unexpected, that Severus almost thought he imagined it.

He blinked, lips pressing together, asking a question he knew the answer to. “Join who?”

Black gave him a look.

Severus’s fingers curled slightly around the mug. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

“I think,” Black said carefully, “that I know who you used to spend your time with. And I think people don’t just wake up one day and decide to join Dumbledore without thinking about the other option first.”

Silence stretched between them. Severus held his gaze, unflinching, unreadable.

Black sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t care how much we’ve hated each other. I don’t care how much of a git you’ve been.” His voice was steady, but his fingers curled into a loose fist. “But if you’re even considering going to him—” He swallowed. “Don’t.”

The words settled between them, heavier than the silence before.

Severus didn’t look away. “And why would you care?”

Black let out a short, humorless laugh. “Because as much as I’d love to pretend I don’t, I do.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Because you’re better than that. And if you’re thinking about it—if you’re even thinking about it—then don’t. You’re way too smart for that, Snape. Every incentive they try to give you, it all comes with a price. I watched Regulus give everything he had to join them, to be like everyone else in the family—” 

“Black.” Severus interrupted the other man’s rambling, “Why are you telling me this?”

Severus had never seen Sirius Black like this. The man was always loud, always dramatic—an expert in turning every conversation into a show of arrogance, bravado, and misplaced heroics. But this… this wasn’t that. This was real.

Sirius’s breath was uneven, his jaw tight with frustration, but not the usual kind—the reckless, fiery anger Severus had come to expect from him. This was different. Personal.

“I’m telling you because I lost my brother.” Sirius’s voice wavered for the first time, but his eyes never left Severus’s. He was close now, closer than Severus had realized, leaning toward him, searching his face for any sign of understanding.

Severus should have pulled away. Should have sneered, thrown out a sharp remark to put distance between them. But he didn’t.

“I watched him get strung along by Voldemort,” Sirius continued, his voice raw, like the words were scraping against his throat. “By the false hopes and promises of power… of riches. You know what he got? Reg got that blasted mark and a world full of debts to repay.”

The way he spat the words made Severus feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t quite see—something deeper, something broken in Black that had never healed.

The fire in Sirius’s eyes didn’t fade. If anything, it burned brighter. “Despite our differences, I don’t want that for you, Severus.”

Severus. 

Not Snape.

Not Snivellus.

His own name, spoken with conviction, with meaning. Not a weapon, not an insult—just his name. Severus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His fingers curled slightly against his coffee cup, as if holding onto something solid would keep him from slipping into the gravity of this moment.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Sirius Black was not supposed to care. Not about him. Not like this.

He forced himself to look away, staring down at the floor, where shadows stretched long and thin beneath the flickering lamplight. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom.

Sirius let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “This isn’t pity, Severus.”

There it was again. His name.

Severus clenched his jaw. “Then what is it?”

A beat of silence. Sirius hesitated, something flickering across his face too quickly for Severus to read.

Then, softer—more tired than anything else—he said, “I don’t know.”

For the first time, Sirius Black didn’t have an answer. Instead of waiting for a response, Severus searched Black’s face.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. A lie? Some lingering trace of mockery? It would have been easier if Black had been smirking, waiting for some kind of reaction, wanting to get under his skin like he always did. But there was none of that. Instead, Black just looked… tired. Like he had spent too long carrying something heavy and had only now realized how much it had cost him.

Severus looked away. His fingers tightened around his coffee cup, the warmth grounding him as he let the silence stretch between them. The weight of what Black had said still clung to the air, impossible to ignore.

I lost my brother.

The words echoed in his mind, stubborn, refusing to be pushed aside.

Regulus Black. Severus had never been close to him, but he had known him. He had seen the way Regulus had shadowed his family’s expectations, had walked the path they set before him with silent, unwavering obedience. He had seen the way the other Slytherins spoke of the Dark Lord, how they had whispered of glory, of power, of a world where their names would be feared. And Regulus had believed them. Had believed it enough to take the Mark.

Severus exhaled slowly, barely aware that his grip on the mug had gone rigid.

For years, he had told himself that joining the Dark Lord was inevitable. That it was his only path to real power, to real respect. That it was the one place where he wouldn’t be weak, where he wouldn’t be mocked or discarded. But if that were true, why did Black’s words linger.

I don’t want that for you, Severus.

His name again. No malice. No contempt. Just sincerity.

The silence between them had stretched long enough that it felt suffocating. He should say something. Should make it clear that he didn’t need Black’s concern, that he could make his own choices, that he wasn’t some lost cause waiting to be pulled onto the right side of the war.

Instead, the words that came out were quieter than Severus intended.

“You assume I’d be foolish enough to make the same mistake as your brother.”

Black’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look angry. He just sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning back against the couch.

“I don’t assume anything,” Black muttered. “I just know how easy it is to fall into something like that. How easy it is to want belonging so badly you convince yourself it’s the right choice.” He turned his head toward Severus, his grey eyes sharper now, more intent. “But you’re too smart for that. You know as well as I do that the second you take the Mark, you don’t own yourself anymore. It’s his.”

Severus swallowed, staring down into his coffee, watching the ripples settle.

“And you think you own yourself now?” he murmured, not looking up.

Black let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “No,” he admitted, and the honesty in his voice caught Severus off guard. “I don’t think I ever did. My whole life, I was told I had to be a certain way, believe certain things. And when I finally broke free of that, it wasn’t because I was strong—it was because I was lucky.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “James and his family—they saved me. If I hadn’t had them, I probably would have ended up like Regulus.”

The admission rang and then settled between them.

Severus hesitated, then said, “Regulus isn’t weak.”

Black’s gaze snapped back to him, unreadable.

“I know,” he said after a long pause, voice tight. “That’s the worst part.”

Severus forced himself to meet his eyes. “Then don’t assume I am.”

Sirius blinked, then huffed out a small, tired laugh. “I don’t.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I think you’re probably the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. And that’s exactly why I don’t want you to throw yourself into something you can’t get out of. Because once you decide to do something, you commit.”

Severus frowned, unsure whether to take that as an insult or not.

“And you think that commitment should be to the Order?”

“I think that commitment should be to yourself,” Sirius corrected. “Not Voldemort. Not Dumbledore. Not anyone who wants to use you as a piece in this war.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I just—I don’t want to watch you make a choice you can’t undo.”

Severus didn’t have an immediate response to that. He could argue. Could throw Sirius’s own past in his face, remind him of the times he had made reckless choices, had led with his emotions instead of logic. He could claim he had already made his decision, that there was no point in having this conversation at all.

But the problem was…

Somewhere, deep down, he wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.

The coffee cup settled onto the table with a quiet clink, Severus rubbing his fingers together absently as he considered his next words carefully.

“I haven’t made any commitments yet,” he said at last, voice controlled, unreadable.

Something in Sirius’s posture eased, his shoulders relaxing just slightly—though he tried to mask it with a casual sip of coffee.

“Good,” he muttered, finishing the last of his drink. “Let’s keep it that way.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense anymore. If anything, it was… comfortable.

Comfortable? Since when are you ever comfortable with Sirius Black?

The thought crept in unbidden, whispering at the edges of Severus’s mind. It was true. This—whatever this was—was unnatural. He was supposed to despise Sirius Black, to find his presence insufferable, to wish for nothing more than an excuse to leave.

Instead of rejecting the thought outright, Severus allowed himself a rare moment of stillness, of simply existing in the space without the weight of old grudges pressing down on him. Severus found himself watching—not with the usual contempt, but something quieter.

It was unfair, really. At twenty, Sirius Black was handsome. In an effortless, annoying sort of way. The dim lamplight softened the sharp edges of his features, casting shadows against his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. His hair was still a careless mess, falling into his eyes whenever he moved, but it suited him. There was an ease to the way he lounged on the couch, the way his fingers tapped absently against the side of his coffee cup as if they belonged there.

Severus had spent years hating that face. He had never considered what it might be like to look at it without resentment twisting his gut. The realization hit him like a hex to the chest. His stomach clenched instinctively, and he forced his gaze away, irritated at himself, irritated at Black, irritated at the way his own mind had betrayed him so easily. He needed to focus. Change the subject. Anything to keep that thought from taking root.

His gaze drifted, taking in the dim glow of the flat, the cluttered books, the ink-stained parchment scattered on the desk. He had expected the place to be a disaster, but it wasn’t—not entirely. It wasn’t neat, but it wasn’t neglected either. It was lived in, the kind of space that belonged to someone who never stopped moving, who left things half-finished because there was always something else demanding his attention.

Chaotic, Severus thought idly. But warm.

His eyes landed on a guitar propped against the couch, its edges scuffed, well-worn from use.

S.B.

Sirius hadn’t thought about the guitar in weeks. Maybe months. It was just another thing collecting dust in the corner of his flat, waiting for a night where he wasn’t too busy running missions, getting into trouble, or drowning himself in firewhisky to bother picking it up.

But Snape was looking at it.

Not with the usual sneer, not like he was about to make some cutting remark about Sirius’s ability to focus on anything other than being a nuisance. No, this was something different—his gaze wasn’t dismissive, wasn’t critical. It was curious.

“You play?” Snape asked, his voice carefully neutral, like he wasn’t sure why he was even asking.

Sirius smirked, leaning over to grab the guitar by the neck. “What, surprised I have talents?” He strummed an open chord, feeling the familiar hum of the strings vibrate through his fingers. “Beyond being an insufferable git, I mean.”

Snape scoffed. “Mildly.”

That made Sirius grin as he adjusted his grip, fingers finding their place on the frets with muscle memory he hadn’t tapped into in far too long. He strummed again, letting the sound settle into the room, warm and full. Snape was still watching. Sirius didn’t know why that mattered.

He started plucking out a lazy melody, one of the first songs he’d ever taught himself—a Muggle tune, something he’d heard in a record shop when he was younger. A song that had made him feel like there was a world outside of Grimmauld Place, outside of them, waiting for him.

Snape didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t cut in with a comment about how it was pointless or a waste of time. Instead, after a moment, he asked, “What is that?”

Sirius flicked his gaze up, raising an eyebrow. “What, this?” He plucked the next few notes with more intent, watching the way Snape’s eyes followed the movement of his hands. “Muggle music.”

“I know that,” Snape said, exasperated but still listening. “What song?”

Sirius shrugged. “Some old tune I heard in Camden when I was younger.” He played a few more notes, slower this time. A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Very rebellious of me, obviously.”

Snape huffed, but the usual sharpness was absent. “It doesn’t sound like your usual racket.”

“You wound me, Snape. But yeah, I guess this one’s different.” Sirius laughed, tapping his fingers against the wood.

Something flickered across Snape’s face, something Sirius couldn’t quite place.

Then—quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted Sirius to hear—Snape said, “My mother taught me to play the piano.”

Sirius’s fingers froze on the strings. Of all the things he had expected Snape to say, that wasn’t one of them.

He turned his head, blinking. “What?”

Snape didn’t repeat himself, just kept his eyes on the guitar, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee mug. “She played. She taught me when I was little.” His voice was even, but there was something too controlled about it, something forced.

“No way.” Sirius sat up properly, shifting the guitar against his lap. 

Snape gave him a dry look. “Why is that so unbelievable?”

Sirius snorted. “Because I’ve never seen you do anything remotely enjoyable, ever.”

Snape rolled his eyes, but Sirius could tell—could tell—that wasn’t the real reason he didn’t play anymore.

And then, as if reading his mind, Snape exhaled sharply. “I stopped,” he muttered, tone clipped.

“Why?”

Snape hesitated. It was brief, barely noticeable, but Sirius caught it.

Then, with a voice quieter than before, Snape said, “My father didn’t like it.”

That was all he needed to say. Sirius knew what that meant. Knew exactly what that meant.

His grip tightened slightly on the guitar. “Fucking bastard.”

Snape didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Sirius looked down at the instrument in his hands, strumming a few more idle chords. Something about the idea of Snape playing music, of him once having something like that, something that was his, made Sirius feel an odd kind of frustration.

“Still know how?” Sirius asked, keeping his tone light, almost casual.

Snape didn’t answer right away. Then, after a pause—“Probably.”

“You ever think about playing again?” Sirius tilted his head. 

Snape’s fingers twitched against his coffee mug. He didn’t answer, not exactly, but Sirius saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly, like the thought had crossed his mind before. Like maybe, just maybe, he wanted to.

Sirius hesitated for half a second before shifting forward, holding out the guitar.

Snape blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Go on, then.” Sirius wiggled the instrument toward him. 

Snape stared at him.

Sirius smirked. “What, scared of a little six-string?”

“I…don’t play guitar,” Snape responded slowly. 

“Same concept, different shape.” Sirius leaned forward, pushing it into his hands.

The guitar wasn’t meant for hands like Snape’s—long fingers more accustomed to potion work and wandwork than pressing against steel strings. The way he held it was awkward, unnatural, like he wasn’t sure whether to grip it tightly or let it rest against his leg. His thumb hovered near the neck, uncertain, and when he finally pressed down on a fret, the note came out muted, buzzing slightly from improper pressure.

A quiet huff left Sirius. “No, no—here.” He scooted forward, balancing his own mug on the floor before reaching over.

Snape tensed as warm hands covered his, adjusting his fingers without hesitation. Sirius had done this a hundred times before—helped James when he was drunk and fumbling through chords, teased Peter for his complete lack of rhythm, even sat with Remus, who pretended not to care but always looked interested.

But this was different. Snape was letting him.

Sirius swallowed, ignoring the unexpected awareness creeping into his chest. “You’re pressing too hard,” he murmured, thumb brushing against the inside of Snape’s wrist as he repositioned his hand. “You’re not strangling it, mate. Just enough pressure to get a clean note.”

A slow inhale from Snape, though he didn’t pull away. His fingers adjusted under Sirius’s guidance, shifting along the frets. This close, the scent of coffee and something faintly herbal—probably whatever miserable tea Snape drank—lingered between them.

Sirius exhaled, stepping back just enough to let him try again. This time, when Snape strummed, the note rang clearer, fuller.

Satisfaction flickered across his expression, though he masked it quickly. “Better,” Snape admitted.

Sirius grinned. “Look at that. You might not be a lost cause after all.”

A glare cut his way, but Snape didn’t let go of the guitar. His fingers moved again, testing another combination of notes. Hesitant, but willing. Watching him, Sirius found himself leaning in, not for any reason other than curiosity—or so he told himself. “Do you remember anything from when you played?”

“The mechanics,” Snape murmured, gaze still focused downward. “Scales. Finger positioning.” His fingers shifted, as if trying to recall something buried deep in muscle memory. “Not the music.”

The last part was so quiet, Sirius almost didn’t catch it.

A strange, inexplicable pressure settled in his chest. “You played well?”

A pause. Then, “I was… good.”

The way Snape said it—flat, factual—made Sirius realize something. No false modesty, no unnecessary humility. Just the truth. He had been good at it, and he knew it.

Something about that made Sirius hesitate, watching him closely. “You could be good again, y’know.”

Snape didn’t answer immediately, fingers still moving absently over the strings. Something thoughtful passed through his expression, something Sirius couldn’t quite place.

“Maybe,” he said at last, so quiet Sirius almost thought he imagined it.

But he hadn’t.

“Maybe we could nick the piano from Grimmauld Place… take it here or your house. That way you could play again.” Sirius nudged Snape lightly with his elbow, smirking. “Gives you something else to do besides sulk.”

Snape scoffed, fingers still idly resting against the strings of the guitar. “And what, you’d just steal a piano?”

“You say that like it’s difficult.” Sirius stretched out, slouching against the back of the couch, his arm resting against Snape’s. “Couple of charms, maybe a little Marauder ingenuity—easy.”

The unimpressed look Snape shot him nearly made Sirius laugh.

“You’d get yourself hexed before you even made it out the door,” Snape muttered, shaking his head.

Sirius exhaled sharply, something almost like a laugh, though the bitterness in it was impossible to miss. “Yeah, well, that’s if I didn’t smash the damn thing first just to piss my mother off.”

Snape didn’t respond immediately, and Sirius realized, a second too late, that he’d said that out loud. He didn’t regret it—not exactly—but something about the way Snape was looking at him made him shift slightly, suddenly aware of the space between them. Then, instead of some snide remark, Snape’s gaze flicked back down to the guitar in his lap. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to do something with them, but he remained still.

“I already have a piano,” he said quietly.

Sirius blinked. “What?”

A muscle in Snape’s jaw tensed. His fingers moved slightly against the wood of the guitar, tracing over it in a way that felt almost absentminded. “At my house.”

Sirius furrowed his brow, straightening up a little. “Wait—you have a piano?”

“Yes, Black, that’s what I just said.”

“Right, but—you have one and you don’t play it?” Sirius tilted his head, watching him. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Snape exhaled slowly, his grip on the guitar tightening just slightly. “It’s broken.”

Something in his tone made Sirius hesitate before making another joke.

Instead, he asked, “What happened to it?”

For a long moment, Snape didn’t respond. His fingers traced along the edge of the guitar again, the motion oddly careful, controlled. Then, without looking up, he said, “My father broke it.”

Sirius stilled.

The words weren’t said with bitterness or anger. Just fact. Like it was something that had happened long ago, something that shouldn’t matter anymore, but still sat somewhere deep in his chest, refusing to fade. A slow, sharp feeling curled in Sirius’s stomach. He had never seen Snape’s house, but he’d heard enough. Knew enough. Lily had often scolded Sirius for mocking the bruises on Snape’s face when he’d board the Hogwarts Express. She had said he was “clumsy”. 

Knew exactly what that meant.

Sirius swallowed, trying to push down the immediate, fiery rage that bubbled up in his chest. “Can it be fixed?”

Snape blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“The piano.” Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Can it be fixed?”

A pause.

Then, after a moment, Snape said, “…Parts are missing.”

Sirius exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. So we get them.”

Snape finally looked up, brow furrowing slightly. “You say that like it’s simple.”

“I mean, we did just talk about stealing a whole piano. What’s a few parts?” Sirius shrugged, his usual smirk returning, but it was softer now. 

Snape scoffed. “That’s not the same.”

“No, but it’s doable.” Sirius tilted his head. “I could look at it, if you wanted. Fixed up my bike.”

Snape didn’t say anything.

For a moment, his fingers just hovered over the guitar strings again, like he was debating something with himself.

Sirius didn’t push. He just watched, waiting.

And then, finally, Snape muttered, “…I’ll think about it.”

That was as close to a yes as Sirius was going to get.