Padfoot
Chapter 7: Padfoot
09/12/1979 - 10/12/1979
S.S.
Severus hovered behind Sirius, arms crossed as he watched him scrub at the bedding like it had personally wronged him. Water dripped from Sirius’s fingers, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing inked skin and old scars. He worked with surprising determination, brows furrowed in concentration. The domesticity of it was almost disarming—almost.
Tilting his head, Severus finally spoke. “Black,” he said smoothly, stepping just a bit closer. “Care to show me your Animagus form.”
Sirius froze mid-scrub, then turned his head slightly, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “You want to see Padfoot?” His voice had that lazy, amused drawl that Severus always found both irritating and—though he’d never admit it—attractive.
Severus scoffed, arms still folded. “Padfoot.” He let the name sit on his tongue like he was tasting something questionable. “It’s a wonder you didn’t go with Sir Waggington the Third.”
Sirius let out a loud bark of laughter before rolling his eyes. “I’ll have you know, Padfoot is a great name.”
“It sounds like something a five-year-old came up with,” Severus remarked, tilting his chin slightly, a smirk threatening the corners of his lips.
Without hesitation, Sirius turned back to the sink and, with a flick of his fingers, sent a spray of water straight at Snape’s chest.
Severus sucked in a sharp breath, recoiling as the water soaked into the front of his robes. His mouth opened slightly in disbelief before his gaze snapped to Sirius, who stood there grinning, a wicked glint in his eye.
“Oops,” Sirius said, not sounding remotely sorry. “Slipped.”
Severus slowly wiped a hand down his dripping robes, dark eyes burning with incredulity. “You insufferable—”
But Sirius was already laughing, the sound bright and unguarded, filling the tiny flat like it had every right to be there.
Severus knew he should be annoyed—he wanted to be annoyed—but as he looked at Sirius, laughing, completely at ease, he realized with startling clarity that he wasn’t.
Sirius, grinning like an absolute menace, wiped his wet hands on his jeans as if he had not just committed an act of war.
Instead of backing away, Severus took a slow step forward, arms still folded across his chest. “You think this is funny?”
Sirius smirked. “Little bit, yeah.”
Severus exhaled through his nose, leveling him with a cool stare. Then, in one swift motion, he reached down, scooped a handful of water from the basin, and flicked it directly at Sirius’s face. Sirius gasped, blinking through the droplets as they dripped from his lashes.
‘That’s attractive,’ A voice whispered in Severus' ear. However, before he could scold himself for thinking that way, Sirius lunged at him.
Severus barely dodged in time, twisting out of reach as Sirius grabbed for him, laughing so freely that it sent an odd warmth curling in Severus’s chest. He stepped back, hands up, but Sirius wasn’t playing fair. The prat grabbed a soaked pillowcase from the sink and whipped it toward Severus’s arm, sending water splattering everywhere.
“What is wrong with you?” Severus half-laughed, half-gasped, his usual composure shattered. He lunged in return, aiming to swipe the pillowcase out of Sirius’s hand, but Sirius—being the reckless idiot he was—chose that exact moment to shift.
One second, Severus was trying to wrestle a pillowcase from an infuriating man. The next, there was an enormous black dog where Sirius had been, barking loudly, tail wagging in pure mischief.
Severus jumped back with a startled curse, heart lurching in his chest. “Bloody—Sirius!”
Padfoot barked—a deep, happy bark—and then, before Severus could fully react, he charged.
Severus barely had time to move before he was nearly knocked backward by an overenthusiastic Animagus who had clearly forgotten how big he was. He caught himself against the counter, bracing as Padfoot circled him, his thick fur brushing against Severus’s legs.
“You insufferable—” Severus started, trying to regain some dignity, but Padfoot let out a sharp, playful bark and nudged Severus’s hip with his nose.
“Absolutely not,” Severus muttered, stepping away. “I am not playing with you.”
Padfoot tilted his head, dark eyes glinting.
Severus narrowed his own.
Then, without warning, Padfoot lunged—
Not to tackle him, but to swipe at his feet, causing Severus to stumble back against the kitchen table. A victorious woof followed, and Severus let out a noise of sheer exasperation. Padfoot sat back on his haunches, tongue lolling out, tail wagging lazily. He was enjoying this.
Severus huffed. “You absolute idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
Padfoot merely tilted his head again, before stepping forward and pressing his cold, wet nose against Severus’s palm.
The unexpected, deliberate touch made Severus’s heart skip a beat. His fingers trembled, hovering uncertainly over the thick fur of Padfoot. He should have pulled away as he normally would—but instead, he let his fingers brush tentatively over the coarse fur between Padfoot’s ears.
Padfoot emitted a soft, content sound, a quiet murmur of approval that made Severus’s pulse quicken even further. Against his better judgment, he found himself repeating the motion: a slow, absentminded stroke, fingertips dragging gently over the familiar texture. The sensation was unexpectedly soothing—relaxing in a way that both surprised and troubled him.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Severus grumbled, his tone more amused than reproachful. Padfoot responded with a smug little huff and leaned into his touch, as if silently affirming that he was indeed savoring every moment.
Severus sighed heavily, as if this minor act of tenderness were the greatest inconvenience of his life, yet he didn’t stop. Then, in a fluid transformation that Sirius always executed with mischievous flair, Padfoot shifted back into human form. Sirius stood before him, grinning broadly, the remnants of his playful Animagus self still in his eyes.
“I knew you’d pet me,” Sirius declared triumphantly, his voice light and teasing.
Instantly, Severus jerked his hand away, his cheeks burning with both irritation and a tinge of embarrassment.
“That was… involuntary,” he snapped, trying to regain his usual composure.
Sirius smirked, leaning casually forward. “Sure it was,” he teased, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm.
Severus scowled, smoothing down his damp sleeves with as much dignity as he could muster, though his eyes betrayed him.
“You are insufferable,” he spat.
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder—a gesture too familiar, too comfortable—and added with a wry chuckle, “You love it.”
For a moment, Severus opened his mouth to retort, but found himself unable to deny the truth hidden in the warmth of that brief contact.
Severus stood in the doorway of Sirius’s bedroom, arms crossed, watching Sirius wrestle with the freshly washed bedding. What should have been a simple task had turned into an unnecessarily complicated ordeal. Sirius tugged at the fitted sheet—one corner stubbornly refused to stay tucked in—while his grey eyes flicked over his own reflection in a dented mirror.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Severus groaned as he observed Sirius yank the sheet in one direction, only for the opposite corner to slip free. “You’re doing it wrong.”
Sirius paused mid-tuck, his hands tightening around the fabric, and shot Severus a sidelong glance.
“Oh, I’m sorry—do you want to do it?” Sirius asked, his tone teasing but tired.
“Not particularly,” Severus replied with a scoff. “But watching you struggle is painful.”
Sirius huffed, tugging the fabric even harder. “I don’t see you offering any help.”
“I never offer to help,” Severus said, his tone dry.
“Yeah, well. That’s a character flaw,” Sirius snapped, a half-smirk playing on his lips.
Severus remained rooted in the doorway, uncertain why he couldn’t just leave the room and return to the comfort of his own solitude. Instead, he leaned against the frame, watching Sirius with an expression that betrayed a strange, warming tenderness. Sirius’s damp hair clung slightly to his forehead and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal inked skin and old scars—so very human in that moment.
After a beat, Severus blurted out, “How often do you see them?”
Sirius paused, glancing briefly away before frowning. “Who?”
“Potter. Lupin.”
A heavy silence followed, and then Sirius let out a quiet exhale. He sat back on his heels and drummed a finger against his knee.
“Not as often as I should, but what can you do?” He finally said.
Severus studied him. The answer was half-true—Sirius did see them now and then—but it wasn’t the full picture. His usual bravado felt stretched thin, his jokes forced, as if he were trying too hard to pretend nothing mattered.
“You’re agitated,” Severus observed.
Sirius, still sprawled on the bed amid the untidy bedding, chuckled without mirth. “You say that like it’s a new development.”
“This is different,” Severus replied softly.
Sirius sat up, bracing his hands on the mattress. “James and Lily are getting married,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation.
Severus raised an eyebrow. “This surprises you?”
“Not at all. James has been planning this since we were sixteen—the house, the family, everything. I’m happy for them. I really am.”
“But…” Sirius’s smile faltered, not reaching his eyes. “But it feels like everything is moving forward, and I’m still… stuck.”
Severus frowned slightly but remained silent.
Sirius leaned forward again, dragging his fingers over the crumpled bedding. “Had a fight with Remus last time we spoke,” he admitted quietly, “that was fun.”
Severus waited patiently as Sirius’s gaze fell. “He called me a liar,” Sirius continued, voice low and conflicted.
Something in Severus’s chest tightened at the admission.
“Why?” Severus asked gently.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Sirius. “Because I turned him down.”
Sirius’s tone grew softer as he continued, “I spent years pretending I wasn’t—” He gestured vaguely, shaking his head with self-mockery. “Pretending I wasn’t like that. And now, suddenly, I am… apparently interested in blokes.”
Severus’s fingers curled slightly at his side as he absorbed the confession. Sirius’s gaze searched Severus’s face for a reaction, then looked away, lost in his own thoughts.
“Remus called me out on it,” he murmured, “said I’d been running from the truth, and now that I’ve stopped, it’s not him I want.”
As he approached the bed, Severus’s voice came in, quiet but direct, “Seems like you know what you want, hm?”
Sirius blinked, and for a long moment, he studied Severus as if trying to read him like an open book. The tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction, and then, with a softer smirk, Sirius reached over and ruffled Severus’s damp hair.
“Do not—” Severus started, but Sirius interrupted with a light laugh.
“Too late. The moment’s gone.”
Severus scowled, swatting Sirius’s hand away, but for the first time during their conversation, Sirius noticed that the heaviness in Severus’s expression had lifted, replaced by something almost playful. It was as if, in their shared vulnerabilities, a small part of the old rivalry had melted into a fragile understanding.
Sirius broke the silence. “And you?” His voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual teasing edge. “Do you ever see anyone?”
Severus’s eyes flickered down to the scuffed floor before he answered. “Unlike you, Black, I don’t feel the need to surround myself with people constantly.” His tone was even, yet there was a subtle tremor of vulnerability beneath the words.
Sirius snorted, shaking his head. “That’s not an answer.”
A long pause ensued, heavy with unspoken thoughts, before Severus finally exhaled through his nose. “No,” he admitted softly. “I don’t.”
After another moment of silence, Sirius’s voice turned softer still. “Why not?”
Severus tensed, the question striking a chord. His mind flashed briefly to empty halls, to long nights spent in silence, to the crushing weight of solitude he’d long since tried to ignore.
“I don’t see the point,” he said at last, his voice measured and low. “It’s easier this way.”
Sirius paused, then slowly sank back against the mattress, legs stretching out in front of him. “Easier doesn’t always mean better, Snape.”
Without replying, Severus remained by the bed, his gaze drifting over the carefully folded sheets as if searching for something he couldn’t name. Finally, Sirius, with a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, said, “You know, if you ever wanted to start seeing people, I’m right here.”
The statement hit Severus unexpectedly. He rolled his eyes, though a twist of something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. “You loathe sentimentality,” he observed dryly.
“Yeah,” Sirius replied with a playful grin, “but you love proving me wrong.”
Severus let out a slow breath, gripping his wand between his fingers before giving it a sharp flick. Instantly, the bedding lifted, smoothing and tucking itself neatly into place. The duvet settled perfectly atop the mattress, and the pillows fluffed themselves with practiced ease.
Sirius, who had yet to move from his sprawled position on the bed, let out a small, incredulous laugh.
“You’ve been watching me struggle, and you just now decide to do that?” He chuckled, sliding off the mattress and onto his feet.
Severus arched a brow, tucking his wand back into his sleeve. “Someone has to have common sense around here,” he replied lazily.
Sirius shook his head, lips quirking into a smirk. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“So,” Sirius leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re really staying, then?”
Severus hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor as if debating his answer. Pride warred with something quieter, something unfamiliar. When he finally lifted his eyes to meet Sirius’s, he swallowed down the last remnants of resistance.
“If that’s what you want,” he said, voice even, but lacking its usual sharpness.
Sirius's smirk softened into something almost tentative. "It is."
He stepped closer, his tone soft but direct. "Since I told you something, you tell me. Where do you stand on the whole... who you like kind of business?"
The question sent a shiver through Severus. He had always dismissed such talk as trivial—a distraction from more important matters. But now, with Sirius's eyes fixed on him, his carefully constructed defenses began to crack. Memories flashed through his mind: years of denying any attraction, convincing himself that such feelings were beneath him. And yet, Sirius's proximity stirred something he'd thought impossible.
Why now? Severus thought bitterly. Why him?
His entire life, he had buried these thoughts under duty and resentment. He had convinced himself that desire was for others, for those who had the luxury of warmth he'd never been afforded.
"It's..." Severus hesitated, throat tight. He didn't know how to say it.
Sirius leaned in slightly, his expression patient yet intense.
Just say it.
"It's complicated," Severus finally muttered. His fingers curled into his sleeve. "...As of late."
A slow smile appeared at the corner of Sirius's mouth—not mocking, but knowing.
"Complicated, huh?" Sirius repeated, tilting his head. "That's funny. I always figured you'd have a definitive answer for everything."
Severus swallowed hard as Sirius moved closer, the space between them vanishing. Heat crept up his neck. He hated being examined like this, hated that Sirius could see past his walls so effortlessly.
Sirius was right. He should have had a definitive answer ready. He should have dismissed the question with a sneer, to say I don't waste my time with such nonsense. That was the version of himself he had built—the version that didn't want or need.
But that version had never stood this close to Sirius Black.
Sirius, who smelled like firewood and tobacco. Sirius, who had spent a lifetime infuriating him, challenging him, and who—despite everything—had made Severus feel something he couldn't name.
Sirius's expression softened into something gentler than Severus had ever seen directed at him.
"So," Sirius murmured, "this new development—should I be honored?"
Severus forced himself to meet Sirius's gaze with what remained of his usual unimpressed stare.
"...Don't make something of it, Black."
Sirius grinned. "Too late.”
Severus felt Sirius watching him. The weight of his gaze pressed against him like something tangible, something he could brush off if only he tried hard enough. But he didn’t. The room had grown too quiet, their conversation teetering on the edge of something else, something Severus was terrified of.
A slow step forward from Sirius—subtle, measured, but deliberate.
“Complicated,” Sirius repeated, dragging out the word like he was savoring the taste of it. “See, I think that’s just your way of avoiding a real answer.”
Severus tensed, his breath shallowing before he could stop it. His hands twitched at his sides, restless with an energy he didn’t know what to do with. “I don’t owe you an answer, Black.”
A smirk curled at Sirius’s lips, easy and infuriating all at once. “Oh, I know. But I think you want to give me one. You just don’t know how.”
Severus’s jaw clenched. Sirius was too close. Taller, standing just enough over him to make Severus feel the difference in height, in presence. That familiar, infuriating arrogance radiated from him, made worse by the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing.
With a sharp breath, Severus straightened his posture, tilting his chin slightly in defiance. “If you think pestering me with schoolyard taunts is going to unearth some grand confession, you’re delusional.”
A quiet hum came from Sirius, contemplative and amused.
“I don’t need a confession, Snape,” he mused, voice dropping just slightly. “I just like watching you squirm.”
Something hot coiled in Severus’s chest—anger, embarrassment, something far more dangerous. Sirius didn’t stop. He was still watching, still pushing, still stepping into Severus’s space like it belonged to him, like Severus would simply let him. Then, so casually it made Severus’s breath hitch, Sirius brushed his fingers against his wrist. The touch was barely there, fleeting, nothing at all—and yet, it was everything. Severus’s body reacted before his mind caught up. His arm jerked back, pulse hammering, heat rushing to his face.
What the fuck.
“Black,” he snapped, his voice tighter than he meant it to be.
A rich, deep laugh escaped Sirius’s lips, bright and unguarded.
“Relax, Snape,” he said, eyes dancing with mischief. “It’s called flirting.”
Severus’s stomach twisted violently. Every instinct screamed at him to scoff, to dismiss it, to end this ridiculous conversation. But Sirius was still looking at him like that, and suddenly, Severus didn’t know what to do with his hands, his breath, the heat crawling up his neck.
He hated that Sirius could see it. Hated that Sirius knew.
And Sirius did know what Severus was feeling.
That damnable grin widened, smug and reckless, like he had just pieced together something Severus himself wasn’t ready to accept. The realization settled behind his eyes, bright with understanding, with amusement, with a flicker of dangerously close to interest. Then, as if sensing that Severus was at his breaking point, Sirius clapped his hands together, breaking the moment just enough to leave Severus spinning.
“Right,” he said, stretching dramatically. “I think you need a distraction.”
The sudden change in direction sent a rush of irritation through Severus, grounding him, giving him something to cling to.
“A distraction from what, exactly?” Severus asked, folding his arms tightly over his chest.
Sirius waggled his eyebrows, that insufferable smirk returning. “From being a miserable bastard.”
A slow, deep inhale—Severus resisting the overwhelming urge to hex him on the spot. “Charming,” he deadpanned.
Still grinning, Sirius rocked back on his heels, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating, effortless ease as he watched Severus. “We should have dinner,” he declared casually.
Severus blinked, caught off guard. “What?” he asked, his tone clipped yet curious.
“Dinner,” Sirius repeated, his voice laced with playful condescension—as if explaining something to a particularly slow child. “You know, that thing where people sit down, eat food, and actually talk.”
The absurdity of it all rendered Severus momentarily speechless. For a brief second, he wondered if Sirius was serious or merely teasing, but the warmth in Sirius’s tone left him uncertain.
Sirius crossed his arms and tilted his head, eyes dancing with mischief. “Come on. We could both use a distraction.”
Before Severus could protest, Sirius reached out and firmly grabbed his hand. In an instant, Sirius dragged him into the kitchen. Severus tried to yank his arm free, but Sirius’s grip was impossibly tight—as if his hand had been glued to his—and his feet carried him forward without conscious direction.
“Let’s have dinner, yeah?” Sirius repeated, this time his tone devoid of question, almost as if it were a command. He squeezed Severus’s hand briefly before releasing it.
“Dinner?” Severus replied weakly, flexing his hand as if to check it was still his.
Sirius’s gaze softened into a playful, knowing smile as he looked down at Severus. “You probably make an excellent cook,” he began, his voice light yet sincere. “I’ve seen the way you hold a knife, how you stand next to flames that are too hot, and the way you scrutinize every ingredient with that methodical precision of yours.”
His heart pounded fiercely, and an embarrassed flush crept up to the tips of his ears. He shifted his weight, backing into the counter as his throat tightened, words catching in his chest.
Merlin, strike me down… this cannot be happening.
Before Severus could muster a retort, Sirius stepped up, placing a steady hand on the counter to trap Severus’s retreat. His sleeves still rolled up, showing off the muscles lined with ink.
“Oh, don’t brush me off, Snivy,” Sirius interjected with a teasing lilt, his eyes locked on Severus’s, “Cook for us, will you? Better than I ever could, and I’m just dying to know what you’re capable of.”
The invitation, wrapped in Sirius’s characteristic blend of mischief and genuine interest, left Severus momentarily disarmed. Though his pride urged him to scoff, something inside him—a long-dormant part—stirred at the unexpected challenge. In that quiet, cramped kitchen, as the soft clatter of utensils and the warm glow of the overhead light framed their exchange, Severus felt both the sting of embarrassment and the thrill of being seen. That charming smile Sirius gave Severus worked as he brushed past the other man to look at the kitchen’s ingredients.
S.B.
Sirius exhaled slowly, dragging his fingers through his hair as he sat behind the counter, cigarette burning lazily between his lips. The smoke curled in the dim kitchen light, dissipating in the still air. The old flat creaked around them, pipes occasionally clanging in the walls as water rushed through the ancient plumbing. Outside, London's evening traffic hummed distantly, punctuated by the occasional siren that neither of them acknowledged anymore. Yet, no amount of nicotine could distract him from the growing realization that had been clawing at the edges of his mind for days now.
He wasn't just looking at Severus. He was watching him.
His eyes traced the deliberate, measured movements of the other man's hands—the way his fingers curled around the knife handle with effortless precision, the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal the pale skin of his forearms, lined with faint scars. Not fresh ones. Old ones, long healed but never forgotten. The kitchen's yellow light caught on those silvery lines, making them seem almost luminescent against his skin.
Rain began to tap against the window, creating a gentle rhythm that matched the steady sound of the knife hitting the cutting board. The small kitchen filled with the earthy aroma of fresh herbs and garlic, mingling with the lingering scent of Sirius's cigarette. A clock ticked somewhere in the flat, marking time in this strange domestic tableau neither had ever imagined.
His gaze trailed further, down the sharp angles of Severus's shoulders, the subtle shift of muscle beneath his thin shirt as he moved, the way his posture—usually so stiff and guarded—seemed more at ease here, focused on something as simple as chopping vegetables. Severus's dark hair fell forward, partially obscuring his face, but Sirius could still see the concentration in his eyes, the slight furrow between his brows.
Merlin, help him.
Severus wasn't the kind of person Sirius had ever allowed himself to notice this way. He wasn't broad-shouldered like James, or effortlessly charming like Remus. He wasn't the kind of person who drew attention in a room, the kind of man others leaned toward instinctively. But gods—there was something about him, something Sirius couldn't look away from. The kitchen's warm glow softened his typically harsh features, revealed contours Sirius had never noticed before.
Maybe it was the intensity in those dark eyes, the way they burned when Severus was lost in thought. Maybe it was the quiet grace in his movements, the way he seemed to control everything in his space with an effortless certainty. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in Sirius's life, he was looking at Severus Snape and wanting more. He wanted to kiss those scars and drag his teeth along Severus's angular features, letting his tongue slide against his skin. Sirius wondered if Severus would be silent or make soft noises from his kisses.
Steam rose from the pot on the stove, creating a hazy atmosphere in the small space. The refrigerator hummed its low, constant tone. Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the windows, wrapping them in a cocoon of white noise that made the kitchen feel even more intimate, cut off from the world beyond.
His fingers twitched around his cigarette as he realized just how long he'd been sitting there, watching, silent. The ash grew dangerously long, threatening to fall to the tiled floor.
Severus stilled.
The knife paused mid-chop, his fingers resting lightly on the wooden handle, as if some unseen force had told him he was being observed. The vegetables lay in perfect, uniform pieces on the cutting board, testament to his meticulous nature.
Then, without turning fully, Severus glanced over his shoulder.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer."
His voice was dry, laced with amusement, but there was something else there—insecurity. It lingered in the slight tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
Sirius blinked, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing. "What?"
"Muggle saying," Severus scoffed softly and shook his head, turning back to his work. The knife resumed its rhythmic chopping, slightly faster now.
Sirius let out a breath, dragging his hand down his face as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. The ceramic dish was already full of butts, evidence of his recent nervous habit. He needed to pull himself together. What the hell was wrong with him?
"You're quiet for once," Severus noted, voice calm but laced with curiosity. He scraped the chopped vegetables into a small pile with the side of the knife, his movements precise.
Sirius huffed, forcing himself to smirk. "What, miss the sound of my voice already?"
"I wouldn't go that far," Severus muttered, but Sirius swore he saw the ghost of a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. A drop of condensation slid down the window behind Severus, tracing a winding path through the fogged glass.
For a moment, Sirius debated saying something. Anything. But his thoughts were too tangled, too unfamiliar, and it made him restless. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back into his chair as he watched Severus scrape the diced vegetables into a pot. The sound of sizzling filled the kitchen as they hit the hot oil, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam.
"What've you been thinking about?" He asked, as casually as he could manage.
Severus hesitated.
His fingers tightened around the spoon for a fraction of a second before he set it down, exhaling quietly. In the muted light, his face seemed more vulnerable than Sirius had ever seen it.
"…Cooking," he finally said. The lie hung between them, obvious but unchallenged.
Sirius narrowed his eyes, picking up on the hesitance. "Cooking?" The radiator in the corner clicked on, pumping warmth into the chilly kitchen.
A small sigh. "Yes, Black. Cooking."
Severus reached for a jar of herbs on the windowsill, fingers brushing against the potted basil plant that somehow thrived despite the flat's poor light.
Sirius tilted his head, waiting. The chair beneath him creaked as he shifted his weight.
Severus exhaled through his nose, as if debating whether to continue. Then, finally, he spoke.
"I used to cook with my mother."
The admission was quiet, like it had slipped out before he could stop it. The kitchen seemed to grow more still, as if the very air was holding its breath.
Sirius's smirk faded instantly. He hadn't expected that. The rain continued its steady drumming, filling the silence between them.
Staring at him while he thinks of his dead mother? Nice one, Sirius… real classy.
Severus kept his eyes on the pot as he stirred, his movements slower now. The wooden spoon scraped against the bottom in a hypnotic rhythm. "She used to hum when she cooked," he said, almost absently. "I don't think she even realized she did it. Just… little melodies. She'd let me chop things, stir the pot, taste the broth before she added anything."
He hesitated before adding, "It was one of the few times the house was… quiet."
The way he said quiet sent something sharp through Sirius's chest. He knew what Severus meant. Not just silence, but peace. A rare, fragile moment in an otherwise chaotic life. A car honked somewhere on the street below, the sound muffled by the rain and distance.
Sirius swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The kitchen light flickered once, briefly casting strange shadows across the walls.
"Do you miss it?" Sirius asked, voice softer than before. His reflection in the window looked back at him, superimposed over the rainy night outside.
Severus didn't answer immediately. His grip on the spoon tightened just slightly. Steam continued to rise from the pot, carrying with it the rich scent of the stew.
"Yes," he admitted eventually. "But it doesn't matter." His voice was barely audible over the gentle bubbling of the pot.
The clock in the other room chimed the hour, the sound drifting into the kitchen like a ghost as Sirius frowned. "Why not?"
Severus's jaw tensed, his gaze fixed on the pot. "Because it's gone," he muttered. "Because missing it won't bring it back."
The words hung between them, heavy and immovable. A drop of water from the leaky faucet hit the metal sink with a quiet ping.
Sirius wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that missing something meant it mattered. That pretending not to care wouldn't erase the fact that he did. The copper pots hanging above the stove swayed slightly in the breeze from the cracked window.
But instead, Sirius stood from his chair. He grabbed a second spoon and dipped it into the pot, tasting whatever Severus had been making. The rich, savory flavor spread across his tongue, warming him from the inside.
He smacked his lips dramatically, then nodded. "Could use more salt." The wooden spoon clacked against the edge of the pot as he set it down.
Severus shot him a look and a sneer formed on his lips. "Poison is sweet."
Sirius grinned, the tension breaking just slightly. "Worth it."
But as Severus turned back to the stove, Sirius caught himself staring again—at the sharp curve of his jaw, the way the dim kitchen light cast shadows along the ridges of his face. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room, followed by the low rumble of thunder.
Yeah, Sirius thought, heart pounding. He's fucking beautiful.
Sirius couldn’t help but reflect on how different things felt now. Dinner had shifted into an easy flow of conversation—jokes about ridiculous professors, Severus’s sharp observations about people they’d once known, and Sirius filling in gaps of Hogwarts memories that Severus had long since dismissed. It struck him then, how much of Hogwarts he’d never truly noticed—at least not from Severus’s perspective. While he’d been busy with pranks, Quidditch, and wild nights with James and Remus, Severus had existed on the fringes, unnoticed except when he was the target of their mischief. Now, sitting across from him at his own damn table, sharing a meal, their fingers had brushed for a fleeting moment that should have meant nothing. But Sirius noticed.
The warmth of Severus’s skin, so brief in its contact, sent a jolt of something unexpected through him. Maybe it was the domesticity of the moment, or how human Severus looked under the soft, flickering kitchen light—lips twitching in something almost like amusement, dark eyes gentler than usual. Sirius couldn’t help himself.
“Didn’t expect you to eat that much, Snape,” he teased, grabbing the empty bowl from Severus and flicking his wand toward the sink, sending the dishes clattering into a self-washing cascade.
A quiet huff came from Severus. Then, to Sirius’s surprise, a small, rare smirk tugged at his lips. “With all your sniveling earlier, I worked up quite the appetite.”
“Takes one to know one, Snivellus,” Sirius barked a laugh, the sound echoing merrily in the modest space.
“Mutt.” Severus replied, and that word—so simple, so utterly characteristic—made Sirius grin even wider, though he knew it shouldn’t.
The dishes continued their quiet ballet in the sink as Sirius leaned back against the counter, arms casually folded, studying Severus in the shifting light. He took in every detail—the sharp angles of Severus’s face, the way his rolled-up sleeves revealed pale forearms, the faint scars that spoke of old wounds. It hit him then: Severus had changed. Gone was the wiry, sallow boy of their school days. Now, Severus carried himself with an air of deliberate strength, still guarded but undeniably more assured. And Sirius, caught in the intimacy of the moment, craved more.
Before he could stop himself, Sirius said, “Since you’re staying with me tonight…”
Severus tensed, his gaze wary, as if he already regretted this arrangement. But Sirius’s smile only grew. “I could sleep on that horrible sofa, or…” He let his voice drop, watching Severus’s reaction carefully, “Sleep in the bed with you.”
Severus immediately choked on air, his eyes widening and a faint pink tinting the tips of his ears. “What?” he spluttered, his voice cracking.
Sirius bit his lip to stifle a laugh—it was too easy. “And since it’s my house and my bed,” Sirius continued smoothly, clearly enjoying watching Severus squirm, “I think I should sleep with you.”
He wasn’t sure why he said it like that—perhaps to gauge Severus’s reaction, or maybe because a small, stubborn part of him longed to push the boundaries further. The answer was evident in the way Severus’s posture seemed to tighten, as if he might combust right then and there. His arms folded tightly over his chest, his whole body locked as though Sirius had insulted his very lineage.
Sirius took a slow step forward, his smirk daring him on. “Unless, of course, you have a better idea?” he murmured, his voice lowering to something intimate and teasing.
Severus’s nostrils flared, and his jaw tightened—not out of pure anger, but as if he were wrestling with something deeper, something hidden beneath his usual reserve. “You’d be unbearable about it,” he muttered carefully, as if trying to convince himself he wasn’t entertaining the notion at all.
Sirius grinned, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “I’m unbearable anyway,” he shot back.
For a long moment, Severus simply stared at him—Sirius could see the internal war: hesitation, confusion, longing mingling behind those dark eyes. Then, finally, with a heavy exhale, Severus’s shoulders dropped just a fraction. “…Fine,” he murmured.
Sirius’s smirk widened into something almost victorious. “But if you snore,” Severus added darkly, his eyes narrowing with a playful threat, “I will hex you.”
Sirius clutched his chest in mock offense. “Snore? Me? Snivellus, I am a delicate sleeper.”
“You are insufferable,” Severus retorted with a sharp exhale, though his tone was tinged with reluctant amusement.
Sirius laughed—a genuine, wholehearted laugh that filled the room—and for the briefest moment, he swore he saw Severus’s lips twitch, hinting at a smile.
Midnight crept in slowly, the world outside quiet, save for the occasional distant hum of the city beyond Sirius’s window. He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, idly tapping his foot against the wooden floor. How long does one man take to shower?
Severus had disappeared into the bathroom a while ago, muttering something about how he refused to sleep in Sirius’s bed without washing off the grime of the day. Sirius had, of course, teased him mercilessly for it—called him prissy, asked if he needed scented candles and a bubble bath. The door had slammed in his face before he could suggest Severus use one of his fancy colognes.
Now, as the bathroom door creaked open, Sirius looked up—his usual smirk already forming.
And then he stilled.
Severus stood in the doorway, dark hair damp and pushed back, wearing the clothes Sirius had lent him. The shirt, an old Muggle rock band tee, hung loosely on his frame, and the black pajama pants were slightly too big, sitting low on his hips.
Sirius hadn’t thought much when he tossed Severus the clothes earlier, but now, seeing him in them…
Gods...
The oversized fit of the clothes accentuated every lean line of Severus’s frame in a way Sirius hadn’t expected, drawing his attention to the sharp angles of his collarbones and the way his skin, pale and etched with faint scars, almost seemed to glow in the low light. With his hair swept neatly back, Severus’s features—his dark brows arched in perpetual calculation, his angular cheekbones, the intensity of his gaze—stood out like a work of art, raw and unguarded.
Sirius couldn’t help but stare. But he wasn’t the only one.
He noticed, with a thrill, that Severus’s eyes weren’t focused on his face at all. They roamed slowly, deliberately, across the tattoos that spread like a secret map over his torso, lingering at the curves of his ribs and following the subtle rise and fall of the muscles beneath his skin. Severus was looking—truly looking—without his usual scowl or air of disinterest, as if something in Sirius’s presence had disarmed him.
A slow, almost imperceptible eyebrow lifted on Sirius’s face as he fought the smirk threatening to break free. And then, as if realizing he’d been caught red-handed in his admiration, Severus’s eyes snapped away and his jaw clenched, the familiar mask of indifference snapping back into place.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Sirius teased, echoing Severus’s own dry remark from earlier, his tone playful and defiant.
Severus scoffed and rolled his eyes as he crossed the room toward the bed. “I was reading your poor life choices, not admiring them,” he retorted coolly.
Sirius grinned, leaning back on his hands as he allowed himself a moment of indulgence. “Sure, Sniv. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Severus shot him a withering glare before laying down on the opposite side of the bed, his movements stiff and deliberate—as though every muscle was hyper-aware of Sirius’s presence, as if he feared the possibility of letting himself feel something too genuine.
Yet the air between them was undeniably charged. As Sirius settled against the pillows, stretching his arms lazily over his head, he broke the silence in a light, tentative tone. “Alright,” he said, “we should talk about something before we pass out.”
A wary glance passed between them before Severus asked quietly, “Why?”
Sirius turned onto his side, resting his head on one hand. “If we don’t, you’ll just lie there, brooding over some dark thought, and I—well, I’ll get bored.”
A sigh escaped Severus. “Fine,” he muttered, shifting against the pillows. “Pick a comfortable topic.”
Sirius hummed thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Alright, how about this,” he said, a playful smirk emerging. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with challenge. Severus stiffened, his fingers clenching the edge of the blanket as if to anchor himself against the sudden barrage of vulnerability. His expression was impassive, but Sirius caught the flicker of uncertainty in his dark eyes—an almost imperceptible pause where Severus considered dodging the inquiry, then chose not to.
“I—” Severus cleared his throat, his voice low and hesitant. “It’s none of your concern.”
Sirius tilted his head, his smirk fading into genuine curiosity. Severus’s answer was an obvious no. “Really?”
A brief flash of irritation crossed Severus’s face as he shot him a glare. “What? Surprised? I suppose you started snogging people at the ripe old age of twelve.”
Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. “Thirteen, actually,” he teased lightly. After a beat of silence, his eyes grew mischievous as he pressed on, “So, do you want to?”
At that, Severus sharply inhaled, his posture tensing once more. His gaze briefly flickered toward Sirius before darting away, an expression of uneasy uncertainty marring his otherwise impassive features. “When the time is right…” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll consider it.”
Sirius pondered that response, contemplating it as a challenge he wasn’t yet ready to concede. He could have let it go, allowing the conversation to shift to safer topics, but something within him yearned for more—the opportunity to dismantle the barriers.
Instead, Sirius leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur that sent a shiver down his own spine. “What about now?”