Fascination
Chapter 5: Fascination
05/12/1979 - 06/12/1979
S.S.
Looking down at the mantle, Severus picked up a small photo. His mother smiled softly from the other side of the glass, frozen in time, her eyes filled with a quiet warmth he could barely remember. She had been younger here, before the weight of her life had dulled the sharp edges of her expression, before the years of his father’s presence had drained the light from her entirely. Not until now did he realize how much he truly missed her. Of course, it was hard to let go of the many things she had allowed.
Eileen Snape… He frowned. Prince was such a prettier name.
She was prettier without his father standing next to her. The thought was bitter, but honest.
His fingers ghosted over the frame, tracing the edges before carefully setting it back in its place. He hadn't touched this photograph in years. Hadn't wanted to. But something about tonight—the wrongness of being back in this house alone, the weight of the conversation with Black still lingering in his mind—made him reach for it.
He exhaled sharply, stepping back, rubbing his eyes as if it would dispel the exhaustion pressing at his skull.
The Order.
Dumbledore.
Sirius Bloody Black.
Everything was moving faster than he had anticipated. He hadn't expected to hesitate. Hadn't expected Black to sit there, look him in the eyes, and care in a way that made him feel off-balance. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had joined the Order as a preliminary task, a means to an end, proof to the Dark Lord that he could get close, that he could offer something of value.
But now…
As something unsettling twisted in his chest, a knock at the door shattered his thoughts. Severus stiffened. No one visited him.
His fingers twitched toward his wand before he strode toward the entrance, schooling his face into something blank, something unreadable. With a flick of his wrist, the door creaked open, revealing the last person he wanted to see standing on his doorstep.
Lucius Malfoy.
The flickering lamplight made his pale features appear even more severe, his sharp, practiced smile offering nothing resembling warmth. Dressed impeccably, as always, Lucius looked Severus over once, taking in the sight of him—dark robes slightly wrinkled, tension still evident in his shoulders.
“Severus,” Lucius drawled, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation.
Severus resisted the urge to sigh. “Lucius.”
Glancing briefly around the modest space, Lucius took his time before turning back to him, amusement dancing at the edges of his expression. “Not exactly the grand estate of a Prince, is it?”
Severus didn’t take the bait. “What do you want?”
Lucius hummed, idly running his fingers along the back of a chair, as if bored.
“Well,” he mused, “I had expected to hear from you by now.” His gaze flicked toward the mantle, toward the photograph Severus had just set down. “I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten your task.”
Severus took a slow, deliberate breath and kept his expression still. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Lucius raised a pale brow. “And?”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Severus knew what he was waiting for. Knew what he was meant to say. That he had infiltrated Dumbledore’s trust, that he had gotten closer to the Order, that everything was going according to plan. But for the first time, he found himself hesitating.
Not because he was unsure of where his loyalties should lie—no, he had already made his decision. This was for him, not for the Dark Lord, not for the Order, not for Sirius Black and his ridiculous, genuine concern. This was about ensuring his own survival, ensuring his own place in a world where he wasn’t at the mercy of men like his mother.
And yet—
“I’m working on it,” Severus said smoothly, expression carefully neutral.
Lucius studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into something almost approving.
“Good,” he murmured.
Severus forced himself to hold his gaze.
Lucius smiled, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “The Dark Lord has high expectations for you, Severus. You’ll be a brilliant wizard if you succeed… The Dark Lord will favour you greatly. Don’t disappoint him.”
The words should have made his stomach twist with anxiety.
Instead, all he could think about was how Sirius had looked at him when he had said, Don’t.
Lucius turned toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. “We’ll be in touch.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving Severus standing in the dimly lit doorway, staring at the empty space where Lucius had been. The air in the room felt heavier now. Severus closed his eyes for a moment before stepping back inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.
Without thinking—an act he rarely allowed himself—Severus grabbed a small piece of parchment off the stained coffee table.
The ink bled slightly at the edges as he scrawled out a few words, his handwriting sharp and deliberate. No hesitation. No second-guessing. It was short, to the point, nothing unnecessary. When he was done, he signed his name with a firm stroke and folded the parchment neatly, fingers pressing down along the creases.
A flutter of movement caught his attention. Perched on the rickety stand by an open window, Betsy blinked her round brown eyes up at him, letting out a small, expectant hoot. She was old now, older than he had realized. She had belonged to his mother, a companion from her better days. The last real remnant of her Severus had left.
Approaching her with careful steps, he held out the letter. Betsy ruffled her feathers before dutifully sticking out her leg, allowing him to secure the parchment.
“If you can’t make the trip back, just stay there. He’ll bring you back,” Severus muttered, his voice softer than he intended.
Betsy blinked once, as if considering his words, then nipped at his fingers lightly—a familiar habit, a strange kind of affection.
He sighed after patting her head. “Go on, then.”
With a quiet rustling of wings, she took off through the open window, disappearing into the night. Severus stood there for a long moment, watching the space where she had vanished. Only after the silence stretched thin did he let out a breath, turning away. He had sent the letter without hesitation.
The fact that it was going to Sirius Black was another matter entirely.
The next day, around noon, a sharp knock echoed through the quiet house.
Severus barely had time to register it before another followed, this one louder, carrying an impatient edge that made it clear the visitor wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Then—predictably—came the voice.
“Oi, Snape! I know you’re in there, don’t be dramatic about it.”
Severus inhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the edge of the table before exhaling just as deliberately. Dramatic? He had written a letter. A simple request. It wasn’t as if he had summoned Black with an ominous riddle or a cryptic plea. If anyone was being dramatic, it was the fool standing outside his house, knocking like an overeager salesman.
His feet carried him to the door before he could second-guess himself. With a flick of the latch, he pulled it open, and there—looking as handsomely disheveled as always—stood Sirius Black. His grey eyes glinted with something bordering on amusement, the usual arrogance settling comfortably into his posture, as though arriving at Severus’s house in the middle of the day was a casual occurrence.
But it wasn’t him that caught Severus’s attention first.
Perched on Black’s shoulder, round brown eyes blinking up at him, was Betsy.
The small, aging owl let out a quiet hoot, ruffling her feathers at the sight of him.
“Figured I’d bring her back myself,” Black said, reaching up to nudge her lightly. “She made it there just fine, but she looked like she could use the lift.”
Severus blinked, momentarily thrown. Not because he thought Black incapable of handling an owl—though he wouldn't have trusted him with his—but because there was something undeniably wrong about seeing him with something so small, so unremarkably plain. Betsy was a reminder of his mother, of the world that existed before all of this, before he had to start proving his worth to forces that demanded more than he was willing to give. Seeing her on Black’s shoulder made that world feel too close, too present.
“I’m sure she appreciated that.” Severus muttered, stepping aside and allowing Black to enter before he could acknowledge the warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of her safe.
Black grinned and stepped inside without hesitation. “Yeah, well, consider it a favor.”
Severus simply huffed, his gaze still focused on the owl.
“You’re welcome,” Black drawled sarcastically, smirking as he let his gaze sweep across the house, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets. "Though I have to say—this place is exactly what I expected."
Severus shut the door behind them, rolling his eyes. "What, functional?"
"I was going to say ‘gloomy and brooding,’ but sure, let’s go with functional."
Ignoring him, Severus reached out, and Betsy fluttered from Black’s shoulder to his wrist without hesitation. She let out a quiet, approving hoot, her talons digging lightly into his sleeve. His fingers ghosted over the top of her head, brushing gently over her worn feathers.
"You did well," Severus murmured, softer than he meant to. Betsy nipped at his sleeve in response, tucking her head beneath her wing.
A silence stretched between them, and when he finally glanced up, Black was watching him. Not with his usual smirk, not with amusement or mockery, but with a complemplative expression.
"Didn’t say much in your letter," Black noted after a moment, voice lighter than his expression.
"I said enough."
Black hummed, unconvinced. "You need a favor, then?"
Severus hesitated.
Yes.
But saying it aloud was different.
His eyes flicked toward the cloth-covered piano in the corner, an object that had gathered more dust than use in the past decade.
"I need… parts," he admitted, his voice controlled, as if saying it too carelessly would make it mean more than he intended. Severus hoped that Black wouldn’t make him actually ask for help.
Black followed his gaze, raising an eyebrow. "For the piano?"
A stiff nod followed.
Black considered this for a moment, tilting his head. “And you called me for that?”
“You’re irritatingly persistent and likely have the connections to find what I need,” Severus muttered, keeping his gaze low. “And… you said you could take a look for me.”
That should have been reason enough.
But it wasn’t.
The real reason for this invitation, for this whole absurd exchange, lay beneath the surface of a request that could have been made to anyone else. He needed something far more complicated than replacement hammers. He needed clarity.
His loyalties had been meant to align with the Dark Lord, his path paved from the moment Lucius had first spoken to him about power, about real belonging. And yet, the more time he spent within the Order, the more the lines blurred. The more people like Dumbledore and—Merlin help him—Black pressed against those carefully built defenses, making it harder to tell which side he was truly standing on.
Black grinned. "So you were listening."
Severus scowled. "Barely."
A chuckle left Black’s lips, looking too at ease in a house he shouldn’t have belonged in. "Alright, fine. I’ll help you hunt down your precious piano parts."
"That easily?" Severus arched his brow.
Black smirked. "What can I say? I’m a generous man."
Something about the way he said it made Severus roll his eyes, but—strangely—the weight in his chest lightened. He hadn’t expected Black to refuse, but part of him had braced for it regardless.
Black took a step closer, inhaling sharply like he was about to say something else—but then he stopped, nose wrinkling slightly. His smirk faded just a fraction, his eyes narrowing.
"Is that…?" Black trailed off, his expression shifting from curiosity to cold suspicion. "I know that scent. That’s Lucius’ cologne, isn’t it?"
Damn it.
Severus stopped for a second, his eyes trailing over Black. “How’d you know that?’
"That’s not important," he said quickly, shaking his head.
Severus narrowed his eyes. "It is if you smelled it that easily."
"Maybe I just have a good nose." Black scoffed, looking anywhere but him.
Severus tilted his head slightly. "Like a dog?"
Black’s entire body tensed but he continued to push Severus anyway. “Why was Malfoy here?’
Severus’s mind whirred, formulating a response before Black could draw his own conclusions. "He stopped by," he said evenly, forcing indifference into his tone.
Black crossed his arms, studying him carefully. "Did he now?"
Severus held his gaze, refusing to let anything slip. "It’s hardly surprising. I have old ties to his family."
Black scoffed, shaking his head. "Old ties, sure. But I doubt Malfoy wastes his expensive time paying social visits to you." He took another step forward, gaze pressing. "What did he want?"
Severus sighed, running a hand over his face, stalling for just a moment. He needed to control the conversation, needed to shift the attention off himself—just slightly. His mind latched onto an opportunity, and he took it without hesitation.
"If you tell me how you were able to recognize that cologne…" Severus lowered his hand and met Black’s gaze evenly. "I’ll tell you what he wanted."
Black’s lips parted, then snapped shut, his expression shifting immediately from suspicion to guarded. “You go first.”
“You’re in my house, you go first,” Snape retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You asked me to be here and I brought your old owl back.”
After a second, Severus sighed and grumbled under his breath, “Fine.”
Severus let out a sharp breath, rubbing at his temple. Infuriating. “Fine,” he muttered, voice clipped.
Black arched a brow, clearly pleased with himself, but remained silent, waiting.
Severus crossed his arms, composing his thoughts before speaking. “Lucius…” he started, choosing his words carefully, “was here on behalf of… them.”
He didn’t have to clarify who they were. The very air in the room seemed to shift at the implication.
Black’s entire expression darkened in an instant, his posture going rigid. “Recruitment?” he asked, voice sharp, direct.
Severus inclined his head slightly.
Black let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Of course. And let me guess—he spun some poetic nonsense about power, about how you’d be wasting your talents if you didn’t join?”
It was eerie how accurate Black’s words were.
“Something like that,” Severus admitted, though he didn’t add the part about how, once, he had believed it. That there had been a time when power seemed like the only logical path, the only real chance at survival. But now… now he wasn’t so sure.
Black let out a huff, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing Severus with a look that was somewhere between exasperation and concern.
“You’re not going to, though.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
Severus stiffened slightly, the weight of that expectation pressing against him.
That was the real reason he had called Black here. Not for the piano. Not even for confirmation of his suspicions about Lucius. But for this—for the certainty in Black’s voice, the way he seemed so sure of what Severus should choose. The worst part was, it was working.
Severus drew in a slow breath, suppressing the strange unease twisting in his chest. “I told you what he wanted,” he said instead, pushing back, regaining control. “Now, tell me how you recognized his cologne.”
Black’s jaw clenched. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something sharp, something to end the conversation and move past whatever this was, but the words never came.
Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and muttered, “It’s—look, it’s because I’m an Animagus, alright?”
Black actually winced, as if saying the words aloud physically pained him. His ears tinged slightly pink, and he quickly diverted his gaze, suddenly very interested in the cracks along the old floorboards.
Severus blinked.
Well. That was not what Severus had expected. A slow, knowing smirk crept onto his lips. “You’re an Animagus.”
Black grumbled, dragging a hand down his face, his eyes peeking over his hand. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Oh, I will absolutely look at you however I please,” Severus’s smirk widened, “This is quite the revelation.”
Black shot him a glare, but the usual sharp confidence was missing. “Yeah, well, keep it to yourself.”
“Why? Afraid Dumbledore doesn’t know about your little talent?”
“Oh, he knows,” Black muttered, still refusing to look directly at him. “Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly legal when I first learned.”
That made Severus pause, his mind piecing things together quickly. Illegal Animagus transformation? That would have a year's worth of dedication, patience, and—Merlin forbid—actual intelligence on Black’s part.
“And? What is it?”
Black hesitated.
Severus arched his brow. “You do realize I won’t stop asking until you tell me.”
Black let out a short, frustrated huff before muttering something under his breath.
Severus narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Black actually groaned, dragging a hand through his hair again. “A dog,” he admitted, voice tight. “A bloody great dog.”
Severus stared at him, unblinking. “A dog?”
Black’s scowl deepened, his crossed tightly over his chest. “Not just any dog, Snape. A Grim.”
Severus didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t. His lips parted slightly as if to say something, but then the sheer absurdity of it fully settled in his mind. And—before he could stop himself—he laughed. Not a short scoff, not a dry chuckle, but an actual laugh. It started low in his chest, sharp and unbidden, before breaking free entirely. His shoulders shook, his head tipping forward slightly as a genuine, unfiltered laugh escaped his lips.
Black’s expression flickered with offended irritation. “Oi—”
But Severus couldn’t stop.
All these years. All these years of Black strutting around, acting so above everyone else, with his pureblood arrogance and his reckless self-assurance, and this whole time, his grand Animagus form was just—
A dog.
AGrim, he had said, like that made it better!
The idea of Sirius Black, feared and revered, being nothing more than a glorified stray? It was too much. Severus had to brace a hand on the arm of the chair, his shoulders still trembling with quiet laughter.
Black’s face was priceless. His ears were turning an even darker shade of pink, his mouth opening and closing like he was debating whether to hex Severus or storm out entirely. “Are you done?”
Severus tried to inhale deeply, tried to regain some semblance of control, but another laugh bubbled up before he could stop it. “A dog, Black? Truly?”
“Merlin’s sake, it’s not that funny.”
Severus finally straightened up, exhaling sharply, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh, but it is.”
Black muttered something under his breath—probably a curse—and turned away, shoulders visibly tensing. “Knew I shouldn’t have fuckin’ told you.”
Severus took a moment to breathe, shaking his head as the laughter finally started to fade. “No, no—this is valuable information.” He cleared his throat, still smirking. “If I ever need to get you off my back, I’ll simply throw a stick.”
Black whirled on him, his face bright red, and his eyes flashing. “I hate you!”
That only made Severus smirk wider, taking another step towards him. “Mm. Of course you do.”
The thing was—Black didn’t storm out. He didn’t hex him. He stayed. And Severus found himself enjoying it far more than he should.
“Just let me look at your stupid fucking piano, you lousy son of a—” Black grumbled under his breath, pushing past Severus toward the cloth-covered instrument in the corner. His boots thudded against the floorboards as he stalked forward, jaw tight, still simmering with frustration. “Shouldn’t have told you anything, arrogant bastard, Snivellus.”
Behind him, Severus let out another smug, breathy exhale—the kind that said he was still enjoying himself at Black’s expense.
“You’re the one who insisted I go first, Black.”
S.B.
Sirius scowled, gripping the edge of the dust-laden cloth and yanking it back with more force than necessary. A thick cloud of dust billowed into the air, and Sirius immediately recoiled, coughing into his sleeve.
“Bloody hell, Snape, when was the last time you touched this thing?” He waved a hand through the dust, his eyes stinging slightly.
“I am aware that it has seen better days,” Snape replied smoothly, arms crossing over his chest. He looked completely unbothered, as if the piano’s state of decay was a trivial matter.
Sirius brushed dust off his jacket, still grumbling, before turning back to the instrument. The wood beneath the grime was aged but sturdy, the surface scuffed and marked with years of neglect. The keys—some slightly warped, others entirely out of place—stood in uneven rows. He ran a hand over the top, his fingers brushing across the imperfections.
“It’s a mess,” he muttered.
Snape let out a soft, humorless huff. “Thank my father for that.”
Kneeling slightly, Sirius inspected the lower half, fingers grazing the broken pedals. His anger was still there, still curled in his chest, but his hands were steady, his movements careful.
“What exactly needs fixing?”
There was a pause—too long for such a simple question.
“The hammers are broken,” Snape said at last, his voice quieter than before. “Some of the dampers as well. A few of the strings snapped years ago.”
Sirius glanced up at him, brow furrowing slightly. For the first time since he’d arrived, Snape wasn’t sneering or throwing out insults. His expression was still controlled, still carefully composed—but Sirius could see the tension in Snape’s shoulders reappear. How Sirius wanted to reach out and make some of that discomfort go away. He sighed, pressing one of the unbroken keys. A low, uneven note sounded in response, warbled and thin from years of neglect.
“It’s not beyond repair.”
Snape let out a quiet sound, somewhere between skepticism and hope.
Sirius turned fully toward him, brushing his hands against his jeans. “If you actually want to play it again, we can find the parts. I can try to fix it.”
Snape’s gaze flicked toward him, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You’d do all this because of one conversation about music?”
Sirius scoffed, shaking his head. “No, I’d do it because you clearly care about it.” He tilted his head, looking Snape over. “I might be a Slytherin like you, but I was raised like one. I hate seeing wasted potential.”
Snape’s jaw tensed, his lips pressing into a thin line. Sirius could tell he was searching for a retort, something sharp and dismissive—but he didn’t say anything.
Sirius exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m still pissed at you,” he admitted, voice low but firm. “But I’m not about to let you sit in this miserable little house and waste away when you actually give a shit about something. Something other than potions, something other than the Dark Arts.”
Snape’s lips parted slightly, as if surprised.
“And I really don’t know why I give a fuck,” Sirius went on, gesturing vaguely toward Snape. At this point, Sirius was talking more to himself than the other man in the room. “Maybe because you’re actually bearable when you’re not being a total arse. Maybe because—”
He hesitated.
Because what? Because for the first time in years, Snape had laughed—really laughed. Because Sirius had found himself watching him, had found himself unable to look away. Because Snape’s laughter, sharp and unexpected, had been beautiful.
Because Sirius had dreamt about him. He dreamt about kissing Snape’s long, slender fingers. Those same fingers had clung to Sirius’ back as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along Snape’s pale neck.
Sirius swallowed hard, pushing the thought down as quickly as it surfaced. He had woken up the morning after Snape left his apartment with the hazy remnants of a strange, unsettlingly vivid dream still clinging to his mind. He hadn’t been able to shake it—Snape’s voice, low and serious in the dark, the feeling of being watched, the sensation of standing too close.
And now, standing in Snape’s house, Sirius realized it wasn’t just the dream that had unsettled him.
It was that he liked it.
Sirius shifted his weight, suddenly feeling restless, like he needed to move, to do something in order to keep the heat from rising to his face.
“Point is,” he continued, forcing the words out, “I’m still mad at you, but I’ll help you fix the damn thing.”
Snape’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable as ever. Then, finally, he let out a slow breath. “And in return?”
Sirius huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And in return, you stop being a miserable git for five fucking minutes and actually let me help. And… I want you to play the damn thing.”
Snape’s lips twitched—just slightly—but he looked back at the piano, his fingers brushing against the edge.
“Deal.”
Sirius muttered another repair charm, his wand flicking over the piano’s broken hammers. The wood creaked under the spell, but it wasn’t enough. The strings still didn’t sit quite right, no matter how many charms he used. His hands were covered in dust, the cuts from the broken wood a faint sting against his fingertips, but it didn’t bother him. He was focused on getting this damn thing fixed—getting something right for once.
His black jeans were already streaked with dirt, and his shirt—completely unbuttoned now—hung loosely from his shoulders. The fabric clung to his skin, exposing his tattoos, the ink darker against his chest. The quiet scrape of his hands against the wood was the only sound in the room, but something else seemed to hang in the air, something he couldn’t name.
Behind him, Snape had been standing still for far too long, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. Sirius glanced up at him, a small frown creasing his brow.
“What’s the matter?” Sirius asked, trying to sound casual, even though the tension in the air was getting to him. “You just going to stand there and critique me, or are you going to help out?”
Snape’s gaze flickered over him, but he didn’t answer right away. He looked at the piano, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. “Or is fixing it beneath you?”
The other man's eyes narrowed, but instead of answering, he turned abruptly and headed for the kitchen, his robes swishing behind him.
Sirius blinked, momentarily confused, but he didn’t stop him. He just shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Typical bloody Snape. Can’t even help with a damn piano.”
He continued working on the strings, trying to get the tension right, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the way Snape had looked at him. For a split second, their eyes had locked, and it had been… different. A shift in the air that made Sirius feel like he was on the edge of something—something he couldn’t name, couldn’t place.
But then Snape had just walked away, and Sirius was left standing there with his hands in the piano, fighting his own thoughts.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that Snape returned, a glass of water in hand. He didn’t say anything at first, just set the glass down in front of Sirius, his gaze flicking to the piano and then quickly back to Sirius.
Sirius watched him, unsure of what to say, still caught in the strange tension that had settled between them.
“You didn’t answer me,” Sirius said, a little softer this time. “Are you going to help, or just watch me struggle?”
Snape took a slow breath, his hand lingering at his side. “I don’t see how my presence will make that much of a difference,” he said coolly, though his voice had softened just slightly.
Sirius laughed, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. “Is that really all you’ve got for me, Snape? Self-deprecation and a glass of water?”
Snape didn’t flinch. He merely studied him, his expression guarded. “It’s not all I’ve got, Black.”
There was something in his eyes—something Sirius hadn’t expected. Something more than the usual disdain.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What else, then?” He asked slowly.
For a moment, Snape didn’t answer. He just stood there, almost too still. Finally, he glanced down at the piano, his lips parting as if to say something, but he quickly closed his mouth again.
“Help me fix it,” Sirius said, more gently than he meant to. His tone was steady but higher in his voice. “Please, Severus.”
This time, using Snape’s first name was deliberate.
The night in the cottage, Sirius had realized something—Severus wasn’t just a name. It was a chisel against stone, a small crack in Snape’s carefully built walls. Every time he used it, the edges of Snape’s resistance softened, just a little. And right now, Sirius needed that.
With an exasperated sigh, Snape finally relented, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine…” But this time, there wasn’t quite as much bite in his voice. Then, in a lower mutter, “Mangy mutt.”
Sirius grinned. “I’ll take it.”
Instead of hesitating or standing off to the side like before, Snape moved forward this time, stepping beside Sirius and pressing his fingers lightly against the warped wood. His wand flicked in a smooth motion, sending a shimmer of magic along the broken strings.
Sirius leaned forward, watching as the strings realigned, vibrating softly as the charm settled into place. The dull hum they’d had before faded, leaving behind something steadier—something right.
A slow, satisfied breath escaped Snape’s lips.
“There,” he muttered. “That should do it.”
Sirius pressed a key, and a perfect, clear note rang out. He barely had time to react before Snape—Severus—did something unexpected. Instead of standing stiffly and waiting for some sarcastic comment, he smiled. Not a smirk. Not an amused sneer. A real, genuine, light smile. It was small, but it was there.
Sirius’s chest flipped.
"Bloody hell," Sirius breathed, his grin widening. "It actually works."
Severus let out a quiet laugh—another real one—and Sirius swore for a second that it made the room warmer.
"Of course it works," Severus said, but for once, there was no condescension in his tone. Just satisfaction.
Sirius smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "We actually did it."
Severus didn’t even glare at him this time. Instead, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders back as if the success of the repair had lifted something heavier off of him. He pressed a key, then another, testing the feel of them. The notes were slightly off, but carried on anyway. Severus pressed another key, and the sound was full, resonating through the house.
Something bright flickered behind Severus’s usually guarded eyes. “It needs tuning,” he admitted, but there was something lighter in the way he said it.
A breathless laugh escaped Sirius, light and triumphant. “Yeah, but it’s playable now, isn’t it?”
A nod came in response, and to Sirius’s surprise, the usual stiffness in Severus’s expression had melted away. Not just indifference but genuine happiness.
The piano bench creaked as Sirius dropped onto it, fingers trailing over the keys before pressing down. A jarring, off-key chord rang out, making him wince. “Okay, yeah, definitely needs tuning.”
A chuckle—low and unexpected—filled the space between them. Not a sneer. Not dry, sarcastic amusement. Just laughter. The sound caught Sirius off guard, snapping his gaze toward Severus before he could stop himself. It was rare to see him like this. How often did Severus ‘closed-off, miserable, perpetually scowling’ Snape look like this? Like something had actually gone right for once?
Lingering on that thought for too long felt dangerous, so Sirius forced himself to shake it off. His knee knocked against Severus’s as he grinned. “Come on. You have to play something now.”
Severus scoffed. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I force you.” Sirius smirked, watching as Severus rolled his eyes.
The reaction wasn’t unusual. But the way Severus was still smiling? That was something else entirely.
A quiet sigh followed, reluctant but not resentful, “Fine.”
Severus finally sat beside him, fingers hovering just over the keys, not yet touching the stained ivory. For a moment, hesitation hung in the air. Then, with a soft exhale, he pressed down. The note rang out—full, warm, almost perfect.
A quiet huh slipped from Severus, as if he hadn’t quite believed it until now.
A grin tugged at Sirius’s lips. “Told you.”
Severus shook his head, but there was something alive in his expression now. Something that made Sirius want to keep this moment going.
Because it suited him.
A piece of bread tore beneath Sirius’s fingers as he took another bite of the sandwich Severus had made earlier. Somehow, he had convinced the other man to actually sit down and have lunch with him.
A miracle, really.
“You know,” Sirius said around a mouthful of food, “you could have fixed the damn thing yourself.”
Severus’s eyes flicked upward, unimpressed. “Do you want the truth?”
A smirk tugged at Sirius’s lips. “I am Sirius, aren’t I?”
Severus scoffed, shaking his head slightly before looking down at the sandwich on his plate. His fingers toyed with the crust, not eating, not really even paying attention to the food.
“I haven’t touched it since my father broke it,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I couldn’t.”
The words sat heavy between them. Sirius paused, his gaze drifting from Severus’s downcast eyes to his fingers resting lightly on the table—long, careful, but tense, like they were holding back something unseen.
“That’s it?” Sirius pressed, setting his sandwich down. He wasn’t buying it.
Severus gave a small shrug, but there was something guarded about the way he did it, like he wanted to fold in on himself. “I have other reasons,” he murmured, fingers tapping against the wood.
His voice was steady, but the hesitation in it was unmistakable.
“You might not like them.”
Sirius watched him carefully. Something was off. Something more than just the wreckage his father left behind. Instead of prying, Sirius let Severus come to him.
Another silence stretched between them before Severus finally inhaled slowly, his fingers curling slightly against the table. “It wasn’t just about him breaking it,” he admitted, though he still wouldn’t meet Sirius’s gaze.
A pause. Then, Severus let out a deep breath.
“Every time I looked at it, I thought about...” Severus paused, biting the inside of his lip, “About my mum.”
A sharp ache twisted in his chest, something familiar. Severus hadn’t just lost his mother; he had lost the idea of her long before she was gone. And now, the damn piano was nothing more than a relic of something just out of reach.
Sirius swallowed, not sure what to say to that as his fingers curled into his palm.
“Right,” Sirius said finally, voice quieter now. “That’s a good reason.”
Severus gave the barest nod, eyes still fixed on the table. But Sirius knew there was still something left unsaid.
And then—Severus exhaled, long and slow, as if he had just made a decision. His fingers twitched once against the wood before he finally muttered, “And… I suppose…” He stopped, looking irritated at himself. “Having you here was easier than doing it alone.”
Sirius blinked.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he had heard him right. Sirius had been invited here. This wasn’t just some accident, some obligation. Severushad wanted him here. With that though, Sirius’ stomach flipped, and for once, he had no damn clue what to say. His heart started to beat a little faster the more he looked at Severus.
A slow breath filled Sirius’s lungs, but it didn’t do much to steady the thoughts racing through his head. The words sat there, unspoken, pressing against the back of his throat, waiting for him to either admit them or bury them completely.
Severus had wanted him here. That realization alone had thrown something off balance, something Sirius wasn’t sure he could ignore anymore. The sandwich on his plate had been forgotten, pushed aside as his fingers tapped restlessly against the table.
His mind felt loud, and yet, somehow, the silence between them wasn’t unbearable. That was the strange part. Being around Severus wasn’t like being around James or Remus. There was no easy laughter, no effortless understanding, no reckless fun that spiraled into mischief and adrenaline. But it wasn’t bad, either. In fact, if he was being honest with himself… he enjoyed it. Sirius frowned slightly, shifting in his seat. The realization unsettled him—not because it was unwanted, but because it was new. Unexplored.
His entire life, Severus Snape had been nothing more than an obstacle. A bitter rivalry, a series of sharp words exchanged in dark corridors, a person meant to be pushed and mocked and kept at a distance. But now, Sirius wasn’t so sure.
He glanced up, studying Severus as he picked at the crust of his sandwich, his posture a little less tense than usual. For years, Sirius had only ever looked at him through the lens of their childhood battles, never really seeing him for what he was. But here, now, without the weight of Hogwarts pressing between them, he saw more.
He saw the way Severus moved—controlled, deliberate, as if every small action had a purpose. He saw the way intelligence sharpened his features, the way his eyes held an intensity that could slice through anything in their path. And Merlin, Sirius had envied that once.
At Hogwarts, every time he’d looked at Severus in the classroom, he’d envied the unwavering focus, the self-assured scholar who didn’t need charm or charisma to command respect. He envied the way Severus always had an answer, always carried an air of knowledge that Sirius had never quite managed to grasp himself. Even the way Severus spoke—the elegant, precise way he wove words together—had made Sirius bristle with something he hadn’t understood at the time.
He understood it now. It had never been hate. Not really. Maybe it had been jealousy. Or maybe it was fascination.
Sirius exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair before finally speaking.
“This is—” He hesitated, searching for the right words, for a way to admit it without making it too obvious. “It’s different.”
Severus’s gaze flicked up, mildly curious. “What is?”
“This,” Sirius said vaguely, gesturing between them. “Us. I don’t—” He shook his head, huffing out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t hate being around you, Sna- Severus.”
An amused scoff left Severus. “High praise.”
“I’m serious.” Sirius leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “It’s not like being with James or Remus, yeah, but…” He shrugged, unsure of how to phrase the next part without sounding ridiculous. “It feels like—like maybe this is a chance to turn a new leaf or whatever.”
Severus didn’t respond right away. His fingers still toyed with the edges of his plate, his expression unreadable.
Sirius sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t know what I’m saying, alright? Just—being here, fixing the piano, talking like actual adults instead of hexing each other on sight—it’s nice.”
A strange silence settled between them. Severus wasn’t sneering, wasn’t scoffing or immediately shutting him down. He was just listening. And for once, Sirius didn’t feel like he had to fill the silence with something clever or charming. He just let it sit.
Severus finally let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
Sirius smirked, but it wasn’t his usual cocky grin. “Yeah. But you’re still here.”
Instead of arguing, Severus finally looked up. His gaze flickered upward, lingering for just a second too long as it trailed from Sirius’s exposed forearms, up his neck, before finally meeting his eyes. Sirius caught it and felt it.
A slow, amused smirk tugged at his lips.
“I’m just glad you have your shirt buttoned,” Severus muttered, his voice dry, but not quite as sharp as usual.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head in a lazy, exaggerated motion. “Oh? Didn’t like the view, Snape?”
Severus rolled his eyes, but Sirius saw the corner of his mouth twitch, saw the way his fingers flexed slightly against the table before stilling. That was new.
A few quiet minutes passed as Sirius finished the last of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, his mind still lingering on everything that had been said—and everything that hadn’t.
Severus barely touched his own food, still idly picking at the crust, his fingers methodically tearing small pieces off. He wasn’t looking at Sirius, but the air between them felt heavier than before. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made Sirius hyper-aware of every small movement, every flick of Severus’s fingers, every shift of his posture.
Sirius set his plate aside and stretched, cracking his neck as he sighed. “Well,” he said, standing, “I should go.”
Severus looked up then, brows furrowing slightly. “Oh?”
Something flickered in his expression.
Was that disappointment? Definitely not that. Severus Snape didn’t feel disappointed over Sirius Black leaving.
But there was something there. Something that made Sirius pause for half a second longer than he should have before brushing it off.
“Yeah,” Sirius said, running a hand through his hair. “Got some things to take care of. Dumbledore’s probably expecting a report or something. And I don’t think you’d appreciate me hanging around here all day, now would you?”
Severus scoffed sarcastically, pushing his plate away. “Definitely not.”
Sirius grinned. “Didn’t think so.”
He made his way toward the door, slipping his wand into his pocket as he went. Footsteps followed behind him, steady but unhurried. When he reached the door and turned, Severus was right there. Closer than expected. Close enough that Sirius had to stop himself from stepping back.
The afternoon light streamed through the narrow windows, casting a soft glow around them, catching the edges of Severus’s dark hair, turning it nearly black-blue in the daylight. His face was shadowed, but Sirius could still see the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight furrow in his brow as he studied Sirius in that way he always did—like he was trying to pick him apart, unravel him thread by thread.
You should leave. Now.
But his feet weren’t moving.
He swallowed, forcing himself to keep it casual, to ignore the fact that his pulse had quickened just slightly. “Walking me out, Snape? How polite of you.”
Severus didn’t immediately respond. His gaze was unreadable, but his arms were still crossed, posture tense—hesitant, almost.
“Just making sure you actually leave,” he muttered.
Sirius huffed a laugh, but his voice felt quieter than it should have. “Right. Of course.”
Neither of them moved. For a moment, Sirius let himself look—really look.
He allowed himself to look at the way Severus’s lips parted slightly, like he had something to say but wasn’t sure if he should. At the way his fingers curled subtly against his own arms. At the way the light hit his face, softening him, making him look almost like someone Sirius hadn’t spent half his life fighting.
Something unspoken filled the space between them. Sirius’s chest felt tight, something twisting inside him in a way that was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. His breath caught slightly as his eyes flickered, just for a second, down to Severus’s mouth.
The realization hit him fast and hard, a sudden, sharp thing that made his stomach drop. The space between them felt dangerous now, like if Sirius leaned forward even an inch, there would be no pulling back. But he didn’t. Instead, he forced himself to exhale, forced a smirk on his lips, forced the moment to pass before it could turn into something he couldn’t explain.
“Well,” Sirius said, stepping back and reaching for the door handle. “Guess this is where you tell me to piss off.”
Severus blinked, just once, before his expression settled back into something more neutral. “Right. Piss off.”
Something in Sirius’s chest ached, but he ignored it.
With a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he pulled open the door and stepped out into the afternoon light. “See ya, Snivvy.”
What Sirius didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known—was that, as he stood just behind the threshold, there was a part of Severus that wanted him to turn around, to lean back in and kiss him.