Mein Herz

Chapter 11: So, This is Christmas

24/12/1979 - 25/12/1979

S.S. 

Christmas Eve morning was quiet, the kind of hush that only snow could bring. It blanketed the world outside in a pale, glowing stillness, muting even the occasional sound of distant traffic. The flat was warm, dim with winter light, and smelled faintly of cloves, pine, and whatever Sirius had burned in the kitchen the night before.

Severus sat curled in the armchair by the crackling fireplace, legs tucked beneath him, a mug of tea so strong it bordered on bitter cradled between his palms. The unfamiliar comfort of safety settled around him like a strange garment—not quite fitting, but not entirely unwelcome. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for reality to come crashing through this peculiar bubble of contentment, yet it remained intact.

A shuffle of bare feet announced Sirius's arrival before he appeared in the doorway—hair a chaotic testament to sleep, wearing a charcoal jumper several sizes too large with frayed cuffs pushed carelessly to his elbows. Despite his rumpled appearance, his eyes carried a certain gleam that Severus had come to recognize all too well.

“Happy Christmas,” he announced through a languid yawn, dropping gracefully beside Severus on the couch. His shoulder pressed lightly against Severus's knee—casual contact that seemed accidental but Severus knew better by now.

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I wasn't aware we were celebrating.”

“We’re not.” Sirius glanced up at him, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Without asking, he reached for Severus’s tea, letting his fingers brush deliberately against Severus's as he took the mug. “But if I have to endure the holiday, I might as well enjoy the company.”

The charged undercurrent in his voice wasn't lost on Severus, who felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest. “You could make your own tea, you know.”

“Yours tastes better,” Sirius replied simply, his eyes never leaving Severus’s face as he took a slow sip. “Everything’s better when it’s yours.”

Severus fought the heat threatening to rise to his cheeks. “Your flattery needs work.”

“Not flattery if it's true.” Sirius returned the mug, his fingers lingering just a moment too long against Severus’s. “Besides, you're blushing, so it must be working.” 

“I am not,” Severus countered, though he knew the denial was futile. He reached beneath the couch, partially to hide his reaction, and produced a narrow box wrapped in unadorned brown paper. “Here. Before you start making more ridiculous statements.”

Sirius’s eyes lit up, but he made no move to take the gift immediately. Instead, he studied Severus's face with quiet intensity. “You got me something.”

“Your powers of observation remain unmatched,” Severus replied dryly, though the sarcasm lacked its usual edge.

With a small smile, Sirius finally accepted the package, his fingers grazing Severus’s palm in a touch too deliberate to be accidental. “Should I be checking for hexes?” He asked, eyes dancing with amusement.

“Not this time,” Severus replied. “Though your constant suspicion is almost flattering.”

Sirius unwrapped the gift with surprising care, taking his time despite his obvious excitement. When he lifted the lid, his expression softened into something genuine and unguarded.

“Cuban cigars?” He lifted one reverently, examining it with appreciation. “These are impossible to find. You know, when they were banned in the states.” His eyes met Severus’s, warm and knowing. “You must have gone to considerable trouble.”

“It wasn't difficult,” Severus lied smoothly, secretly pleased by Sirius’s reaction. “You were two when they were banned in the United States.” 

Sirius set the box down carefully before leaning closer, his voice dropping to a tone that sent a pleasant shiver down Severus’s spine. “You're a terrible liar when you're pleased with yourself.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Severus’s ear with gentle fingers. “Thank you.”

The simple touch felt more intimate than it should have. Severus cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

Sirius held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary before breaking into a grin. “My turn now.” He rose gracefully to his feet, disappearing briefly down the hallway before returning with a rectangular parcel wrapped in deep emerald paper, bound with simple black string.

He kneeled beside the couch, placing the gift in his lap. “It's not as rare as Cuban cigars, but I thought of you immediately.”

Severus unwrapped the gift with methodical precision, aware of Sirius watching him with soft anticipation. Inside lay a set of robes in the deepest black—fabric so fine it seemed to absorb the light around it. Almost imperceptible emerald accents adorned the collar and lining, revealing themselves only when caught by the firelight.

“I—” His voice caught momentarily. “They’re quite remarkable.”

“Custom made,” Sirius explained, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable. “I noticed yours were getting worn.” His fingers brushed against the fabric, coming to rest just beside Severus’s hand. “The emerald reminded me of how you look when you're concentrating on a potion—intense, focused.”

Severus met his gaze directly, caught off guard by the observation. “You notice strange things.”

“I notice everything about you,” Sirius replied simply, without his usual bravado. “Can’t seem to help it anymore.”

The honesty in his voice created a pleasant ache in Severus’s chest. “I don't need expensive gifts.”

“I know,” Sirius said, his hand finally covering Severus’s. “But I wanted to give you something that matched how I see you—elegant, understated, with hidden depths most people miss.”

Severus found himself momentarily speechless, caught between discomfort at being so thoroughly seen and a deeper pleasure at being understood.

“Thank you,” he said finally, the words quiet but sincere.

Sirius smiled—not his usual roguish grin, but something softer. He leaned forward slowly, giving Severus time to pull away if he wished, before placing a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Wear them next time we go out,” he murmured. “I want to be the one standing next to you when everyone else can’t look away.”

Severus rolled his eyes, but the gesture lacked conviction. “Your confidence is alarming.”

“Not confidence,” Sirius replied, settling back on his heels, his eyes never leaving Severus's face. “Just the truth as I see it.”

Sirius grinned like he’d won something and continued, “Try them on later. I want to see how they look when you glare at me in full robes. It’ll really complete the fantasy.”

The moment settled around them like the snow outside—the gentle crackle of the fire, the strange peace of finding shelter in an unexpected place. Neither voiced the thought that hung in the space between their breaths:

This moment is temporary.

And perhaps that was why each small touch, each loaded glance, each careful word felt so precious—this fragile, improbable connection, stolen from a world that would soon enough demand its return.

By evening, the world outside had faded to snow-muted grey, the flat dim and hushed, shadows stretching long across the kitchen tiles. The robes Sirius had gifted him lay carefully folded in the bedroom, waiting for an occasion worthy of them. The Cuban cigars remained untouched, saved for a special moment that Severus suspected might never arrive.

Now Severus stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, wand tucked behind his ear, and a small stack of battered cookbooks open but clearly ignored. The kitchen smelled of something rich and simmering—caramelized onions, thyme, roasted garlic, a faint undercurrent of wine.

It was a dish he hadn't made in years.

Technically, it was French. Though his mother had never called it that—she'd just said it was for when we have something worth celebrating, which had usually meant birthdays that weren't interrupted by shouting, or exam scores he never showed his father. She'd taught him how to make it one spring, slowly and without fuss, in their cramped kitchen that always smelled of damp wood and smoke.

It had been one of the few things that felt like theirs.

Sirius hovered nearby, sleeves rolled up like he might be helpful, despite having no intention of following direction. The morning's tenderness had transformed into playful mischief as he stole ingredients when Severus wasn't looking, dipped his finger into the sauce cooling on the stove, and nearly set a dishtowel on fire trying to “preheat” a pan with his wand. Severus had smacked his hand away three times before finally muttering a repelling charm at the countertop.

“Just—sit. Don't touch anything,” Severus had said, half-exasperated.

Sirius had saluted him with an exaggerated flourish and backed out of the kitchen with mock innocence. He made a show of reading something in the sitting room but kept glancing back, clearly waiting for permission to reenter. To his dismay, Sirius had spilt a glass of red wine on the rug. Still, Severus didn't give it.

He plated the food carefully. Sirius wolfed his down with theatrical delight, complimenting every bite with increasingly absurd praise: “like angels made it,” “better than sex,” “makes the house elves’s cooking look like troll slop.” Severus pretended to ignore him, but his mouth quirked once—just once—at the corner.

Later, they sat curled together on the couch. A low jazz record spun softly in the background, scratchy and warm, the kind of music Sirius claimed to hate but always left playing anyway. The fireplace crackled, throwing shadows across the walls. Sirius dozed with his head against Severus’s shoulder, a blanket tangled around both of them. One of his hands was curled loosely against Severus’s thigh, unconscious but warm.

Severus didn't sleep.

He rarely did—especially not when the air felt this fragile, like one wrong shift might shatter it. But this… this was the closest thing to peace he'd known in a long time. The quiet kind. Heavy-limbed. A rare stillness that didn't feel like waiting.

Towards an early hour of the morning, Sirius shifted, fully asleep now, and Severus slid out from under him carefully, letting the blanket fall back into place.

He moved through the flat barefoot, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. The pipes groaned softly. He stood by the sink, the cold pressing in faintly from the windowpane, the world outside still blanketed in white, just as it had been that morning. The day had passed in a bubble, separate from time itself.

And then—he saw it.

A letter.

Propped on the windowsill, almost obscured by the trailing curtain. Parchment folded once, neatly. Addressed in handwriting he hadn't seen in months but recognized instantly.

Severus.

The water in his glass rippled slightly as his fingers closed around the letter.

He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he stared, mind circling through the day's unexpected gifts—Sirius’s warm eyes across the breakfast table, his mother’s recipe simmering on the stove—all the small pieces of contentment they’d stolen from this strange Christmas.

Something in him already knew.

When he finally broke the seal, the parchment felt heavier than it should, as though it had absorbed something from the winter night—or perhaps from the intent behind it. His hands remained steady only by decades of practiced control.

Severus—

If you’re reading this, I've already gone. There’s something I need to do. Something important, and I’m not going to waste time trying to explain it all. You’d figure it out faster than I could write it anyway. Just know this: I found something. Something hidden. Buried. A part of him, I think. Something he meant never to be found. It’s in a cave, far off the coast. I have the details. I've been preparing. I'm not taking it. I’m destroying it. I don't know if I’ll make it back. If I don't… tell my brother that I love. Tell him I tried to do something good, for once. And you—thank you. For listening, that day. You didn't have to. You never had to. But you did.

R.A.B.

“Black,” he said sharply, reverting to the surname they maintained in public. His fingers dug into Sirius’s shoulder, leaving white impressions in the skin. “Wake up. Now.”

Sirius jolted as if struck, eyes flying open with the instinctive wariness of someone who’d spent too many nights being awakened by danger. Disorientation gave way to immediate alertness when he registered Severus’s expression—a carefully constructed blankness that, to Sirius, screamed alarm more clearly than panic ever could.

“What—? What's happened?” His voice was rough with sleep but his eyes were already scanning for threats.

“It’s Regulus.”

Two words. Just two. But they fell between them like stones into still water, ripples of understanding spreading outward. Sirius was fully awake in an instant, pushing himself upright, the blanket sliding forgotten to the floor. The Christmas fire popped once in the grate, a mockery of celebration.

“He’s gone after something,” Severus continued, voice controlled despite the urgency beneath it, each word precisely chosen. “Something of the Dark Lord’s. A hidden fragment. He intends to destroy it.”

The implication hung between them, unspoken but clear—and himself with it, perhaps.

Sirius stared, motionless for three heartbeats. The clock on the mantle tick-tick-ticked, marking seconds that felt stolen from Regulus’s life. Then Sirius lunged past Severus toward the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the cold tiles. He snatched the letter, eyes darting across his brother’s handwriting—familiar and foreign at once. The neat, proper penmanship of the Black heir, brought up to maintain appearances even in farewell notes.

The color drained from his face so completely that the scar along his jaw stood out like a slash of ink.

“He’s alone,” Sirius whispered, and the horror in his voice might have been mistaken for calm by anyone who didn't know him—by anyone who hadn’t learned to read the subtle tremor in his hands, the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Yes.” Severus’s confirmation fell between them, heavy with shared knowledge of what that likely meant.

Sirius looked up, and something dangerous flashed in his eyes—not quite fear, not quite rage, but the desperate, cornered look of a man who'd already lost too much family to contemplate losing more. His fingers crumpled the edge of the parchment. “Get your boots.”

Severus blinked, thrown by the abrupt command. “What—?”

“We’re calling the Order,” Sirius said, already moving toward the coat rack with determined strides, all trace of the lazy, contented man from dinner erased. His movements were economical now, precise. “Now.”

“They won't believe me,” Severus countered, not moving. His lip curled slightly, old bitterness resurfacing. “Half of them still think I bear the Mark. Potter made that abundantly clear when I was in your closet.”

Sirius paused in the act of reaching for his coat, turning back with a gaze so unflinching it might have cut glass. The lingering softness that usually colored his expressions when they were alone had vanished completely.

“Your left arm states otherwise.”

Severus’s jaw tightened but he said nothing. His hand moved reflexively to his left forearm, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt—touching the absence that had cost him so much. A decision made in firelight and blood, a month ago.

“They'll listen,” Sirius continued, certainty edging his words. “If not to you, then to me. I’ll make them.”

The unspoken promise wrapped around the words was clear: I won't let you face them alone. Not anymore.

Without waiting for a response, he pulled his wand from his coat and stepped into the center of the room. The rug beneath his feet still bore the wine stain from earlier celebrations—a reminder of the evening’s shattered peace. Eyes closed, he summoned something from within—a memory, perhaps—and his face softened momentarily before hardening with resolve. His voice came clear and firm: “Expecto Patronum.”

The silver dog burst forth from his wand tip, luminous and alert, its spectral form casting strange shadows across the walls. Sirius spoke directly to it, each word weighted with urgency: “Emergency Order meeting. Regulus is in danger—vital information. Safe house in the Yorkshire Moors. Immediate.”

The Patronus turned once, as if seeking permission to leave, before vanishing through the wall in a streak of light, taking with it the room’s brief silver glow.

Darkness seemed to rush back in its absence.

Severus remained rooted where he stood, thoughts racing through calculations and possibilities. 

They had at most two hours before dawn. The cave would be on the coast—eastern, likely, given what he knew of the Dark Lord's movements that summer. The tides would be—

“They’ll be waiting,” Sirius said, already pulling on his coat, interrupting Severus’s mental mapping. “And if there's a chance in hell we can reach him in time—”

Severus was moving before Sirius finished speaking, a flash of understanding passing between them that required no words. He strode to the bedroom, their earlier domesticity forgotten as he pulled potion vials from a hidden drawer under Sirius’s bathroom cupboard—healing draughts, antidotes, one small flask of liquid that gleamed with an unnatural violet light. Insurance, for what they might find.

They gathered their things in taut silence, the earlier warmth between them abandoned for the necessary facade they wore in public. Whereas hours before they had been lovers sharing a Christmas meal, now they were reluctant allies—Black and Snape again, bound only by circumstance and shared danger.

Severus slipped his most dangerous potions into an inner pocket, positioned for quick retrieval. Sirius checked his wand holster twice, movements practiced from years of similar emergencies. Neither spoke of what they were both thinking: that Regulus might already be beyond their help.

The wind bit viciously as they stepped outside, snow falling in thin, relentless sheets that stung exposed skin like tiny needles. Their breath clouded before them, disappearing into the darkness. The Christmas lights from neighboring flats cast eerie, colorful reflections on the fresh snowfall—red and green and gold, grotesquely festive against the night’s urgency. 

Christmas Day… I loath Christmas.

Sirius met Severus’s eyes once—just long enough to confirm they were both prepared. Something passed between them, unspoken but understood. Should anything happen to either of them tonight, certain things would remain unsaid. Certain truths would die with them. The war demanded such sacrifices.

Sirius tightened his grip on his wand, knuckles white against the dark wood. “Ready?”

A single nod, sharp and decisive. Severus’s face was a mask again—the one he’d worn for years as a student, features arranged in cool disdain that revealed nothing of the fear beneath.

They turned on the spot in perfect unison, as if they’d practiced this departure a hundred times. The crack of Apparition echoed briefly before being swallowed by the storm, leaving behind only footprints in the snow that were already beginning to fill with fresh powder—evidence of their existence slowly being erased, as if they’d never been there at all.

The Yorkshire Moors stretched before them when they landed—vast, desolate, and buried under drifts that glowed silver-blue in the moonlight. The wind here was merciless, cutting across the open landscape with nothing to break its assault. Huddled against the elements, they trudged toward the safe house—a decaying stone cottage half-sunken into a hollow, its slate roof nearly invisible against the hillside's darkness.

A single light burned in one narrow window.

They stepped inside to find the core Order gathered around a rough wooden table— Dumbledore McGonagall, Potter, Lupin, Meadowes, the Prewett brothers. Lily. Conversations halted mid-sentence as every gaze turned toward Severus.

The room didn't just still—it crystallized, like water freezing in an instant. The air itself seemed to thicken with suspicion and the acrid tang of distrust.

Eyes flicked to his left sleeve, then his face, then Sirius. Lily’s fingers whitened around her wand, her green eyes narrowed to emerald slits. Potter shifted closer to her, one hand at the small of her back, jaw working as if physically restraining words. Lupin remained motionless in the corner, amber eyes unnaturally bright in the firelight. 

Severus did not flinch when Gideon moved deliberately in front of Fabian, hand no longer drifting toward his wand but gripping it openly now. The protective gesture might have been touching if it weren’t so clearly hostile.

“What is he doing here?” Dorcas asked, voice cutting through the silence like a blade through skin.

“I vouched for him,” Sirius replied, tension radiating from every syllable. His hand hadn't left his own wand since entering, and he stood with his weight slightly forward, prepared to move in any direction needed.

“Your judgment hasn't exactly been reliable lately, Black,” Moody growled, magical eye spinning wildly between the two men while his normal eye remained fixed on Severus with undisguised loathing. “Particularly with your choice of... companions.”

The implication hung heavy. Something flashed across Sirius’s face—too quick to identify, gone too fast to analyze—before his expression hardened back into determined neutrality. His shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing.

“Regulus has gone after something,” he announced instead, each word clipped and precise, measured like ingredients for a volatile potion. “Something Voldemort hid. We don't know exactly what it is, only that it's in a cave, and he's gone alone.”

Several Order members flinched at the Dark Lord’s name—a reaction Severus noted with clinical detachment.

“And we’re supposed to believe this?” James asked, stepping forward. The firelight caught his glasses, momentarily hiding his eyes behind twin reflections of flame. “On his word?” He jabbed a finger toward Severus without looking at him directly, as if the very sight might contaminate.

“No,” Severus answered before Sirius could, voice cold and steady as midwinter ice. “On his.” He withdrew the letter and held it out—not to James, but to Dumbledore, who had remained silent in the shadows, observing the exchange with unsettling intensity.

The headmaster stepped forward, creating a small pocket of calm in the charged atmosphere. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world—though everyone knew they did not. He took the parchment, his weathered fingers unfolding it with methodical care.

McGonagall moved closer, reading over his shoulder. Her breath caught audibly, the sound carrying in the tense silence. Her lips pressed into a thin white line.

“That’s Regulus Black’s handwriting,” she confirmed, though no one had asked. “Without question.”

“How convenient,” someone muttered from the back—Benjy Fenwick, his face half-hidden in shadow, a recent scar cutting across his cheek like a pink ribbon.

Lily finally spoke, her voice controlled but brittle, like ice on the verge of cracking. “Why would he contact you, Severus? Of all people?”

The use of his first name sent a ripple through the room—a reminder of what had been before, what had broken. Old history, unfinished and festering. Severus met her gaze without wavering, though something flickered behind his eyes—a ghost of memory, perhaps.

“Because,” he said quietly, “he knew I would listen.”

“Or because you're both cut from the same cloth,” James countered, color rising in his face, spreading like spilled wine across his cheeks. “Death Eater cloth.”

The air crackled with sudden tension—magic responding to emotion before wands could even be raised. A glass on the table cracked, spilling water unnoticed across the worn wood.

Sirius moved with startling speed, putting himself between James and Severus. Not touching either man, but positioned with precise calculation. “Watch yourself, Prongs.”

The nickname—once affectionate—now carried a warning edge that silenced the room. The two men stared at each other, years of friendship suddenly stretched taut across an unexpected divide. Outside, the wind howled across the moors, a mournful counterpoint to the tension within.

“You’d choose him?” James asked, voice low with disbelief. “Over us?”

“I’m choosing my brother,” Sirius replied, equally quiet but with steel beneath the words. “Who might be dying while we waste time with this.”

From his corner, Lupin watched the exchange with unsettling intensity, his gaze occasionally flicking between Sirius and Severus with something unreadable in his expression. He knew what the others didn't—could smell what they couldn’t detect. The way Sirius’s scent clung to Severus’s clothes, his skin, his hair. But he still said nothing, merely tucked the knowledge away like a weapon that might be needed later.

Dumbledore’s eyes moved slowly across the letter, blue irises darkening with each line. When he looked up, every face turned toward him, momentarily united by the gravity of his expression.

“I believe,” he said finally, breaking the tense silence, “I may know the place.”

Sirius stepped closer, desperation bleeding through his carefully maintained composure. A drop of melted snow fell from his hair to his collar, tracking a cold path down his neck. “Then tell us where.”

“I will tell all of you,” Dumbledore replied. “But we must act quickly—and with deliberate care. What Regulus may have found…” He paused, weighing his words carefully as his gaze swept over the divided room. “It's not merely hidden away. It’s protected by magic so dark that to approach it carelessly would ensure none of you return.”

The headmaster’s usual twinkling benevolence had vanished completely, replaced by something ancient and severe that reminded everyone present that beneath the eccentric exterior stood a wizard who had dueled Grindelwald and lived.

“And you expect us to trust him on this mission?” Fabian asked, jerking his chin toward Severus. The firelight cast his scars in sharp relief—reminders of the last time their intelligence had been compromised. “How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

“Because,” Severus said coldly, patience fracturing like thin ice, “if I wanted you dead, Prewett, there are far simpler methods than fabricating elaborate rescue missions. Poisoning your morning tea would suffice.”

The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Someone—perhaps Dorcas—inhaled sharply.

“Show us your arm then,” Moody demanded, magical eye whirring furiously. “Prove what you claim.”

For one dangerous moment, Severus seemed ready to refuse. His lip curled with contempt, his posture rigid with affront. Then, with deliberate movements that betrayed nothing, he unfastened his left cuff and pushed the fabric up to his elbow.

The skin was pale, unblemished. No skull, no serpent. Nothing to mark him as the enemy they all believed him to be.

A collective breath released—not relief exactly, but a fractional lessening of the tension. The room's atmosphere shifted subtly, like pressure before a storm breaks.

“This doesn't make him one of us,” James said, but his voice had lost some of its edge.

“No,” Dumbledore agreed, surprising everyone. “But tonight, it makes him necessary. You will see how valuable Severus can be.”

He unrolled a weathered map onto the table with a flick of his wand, banishing several empty teacups in the process. The parchment glowed faintly as his wand traced a coastline—jagged, forbidding, like teeth ready to devour the unwary.

“The cave is here,” Dumbledore said, tapping a point where black water met sheer cliff. Tiny magical waves lapped at the shoreline, too realistic to be mere illustration. “And if what I suspect is true about what Regulus found…”

He looked up, his eyes no longer twinkling but hard as flint behind the half-moon spectacles.

“...then we are facing something far worse than Death Eaters tonight.”

The map between them pulsed once with an eerie blue light, casting ghostly shadows across their faces. In that brief illumination, old rivalries seemed to fade before something larger and more terrible.

Outside, the wind screamed across the moors like a soul in torment, rattling the cottage windows in their frames. Inside, the Order closed ranks—fragile, fractious, but unified by the sudden weight of understanding: some enemies make even enemies into allies.

Severus felt Sirius's gaze on him for the briefest moment. Back to ‘Black and Snape’ now—just two men silently acknowledging what neither would say aloud: that they might be too late already.

Dumbledore clasped his hands before him. “Then it’s settled. Only two should go. The fewer the better—if we are to have any hope of getting in without alerting the cave itself.”

His gaze landed between Sirius and Severus. “You must decide quickly.”

The cottage door groaned on ancient hinges as they stepped out into the night. The muffled voices of the Order faded behind them, replaced by the Yorkshire moors’ brutal greeting—a wind that didn't simply blow but hunted, finding every gap in clothing, every exposed inch of skin. Snow swept sideways across the darkened landscape, not falling but hurled like shards of glass against their faces. Their boots sank slightly into the frozen earth, which crackled beneath them like shattered pottery.

“Five minutes,” Severus muttered, his breath crystallizing instantly before being torn away by the gale.

They moved beyond the protective wards that cloaked the cottage, toward a lone standing stone that jutted from the moorland like a broken tooth. Its surface gleamed wet and black in the moonlight, ancient carvings barely visible beneath layers of frost.

Sirius fumbled inside his coat, extracting a silver case embossed with the Black family crest—a gift from his uncle Alphard that he’d been unable to discard despite everything. With shaking fingers he withdrew a cigarette, shielding the wandlight flame with a cupped hand. The brief illumination painted his face in stark relief, revealing the hard set of his jaw, the storm gathering behind his eyes that matched the one ravaging the moors around them.

Severus stood beside him, arms folded tightly against his chest, black hair whipping across his face. Neither spoke for a long moment, the howling wind filling the space where words should be.

Then Sirius exhaled smoke and tension all at once, the gray plume instantly shredded by the wind. “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to go.”

Severus turned his head sharply, dark eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You know dark magic better than any of us,” Sirius said, staring at the dark horizon where invisible waves crashed against distant cliffs. His voice carried the weight of something he’d been turning over since they’d seen the map. “You’re smarter with wards, with curses. You need someone who can watch your back properly. I just—” He hesitated, knuckles whitening around the cigarette. “What if I mess it up? What if someone else—Remus, James—”

“They don't know me,” Severus cut in flatly, the words carrying a multitude of meanings. “Not like you do.”

The subtext hung between them—the others couldn’t anticipate his movements, couldn’t read the subtle shifts in his expression that telegraphed danger or discovery. Couldn’t communicate with him in near-silence when stealth might mean survival.

Sirius dragged another breath from the cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating the hollow beneath his cheekbone. “That's exactly why I’m hesitating.”

The unspoken truth rang in Severus’s ears: He cares too much. His judgment is compromised.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the wind shrieking through the ancient rocks and heather. Somewhere in the distance, a fox barked—a lonely sound that echoed across the empty moors.

Then Severus spoke, his voice pitched low, almost too quiet for the storm to carry, yet somehow cutting through it.

“And if you don’t go... and something happens to me... what will you do then?”

Sirius flinched as if lightening struck.

He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers clenched around the cigarette like it was the only thing tethering him to the world, the last ember burning dangerously close to his skin. His gaze turned inward, seeing possibilities he couldn’t bear to articulate.

Then, with deliberate precision, he ground the cigarette out beneath his boot, twisting it into the frozen earth. “Then I go after you. Whether it's smart or not.”

It wasn't a declaration of love—they didn't use such words, even in private—but it carried the same weight, the same finality.

Severus looked away, toward the lonely hills where shadows shifted beneath clouds. His profile in the moonlight was sharp enough to draw blood.

“Then come now,” Severus said, not a request but a truth both of them already knew.

A gust of wind nearly tore the cottage door from Sirius's grip as they stepped back inside. The sudden warmth was almost painful against their numbed faces, bringing with it the smells of woodsmoke, tea, and fear—the particular strain of anxiety that permeated any gathering of the Order these days.

Most had settled into low, urgent murmurs—maps spread across the kitchen table, a few wands flicking through minor enchantments for gear. The tension hadn’t lessened, merely transformed into something quieter, more focused, like a blade being honed. Everyone knew what was at stake now.

Sirius’s hair was wind-mussed and damp at the temples, small ice crystals melting from the ends. Severus’s robes still clung slightly to his frame, sleet having soaked through in patches despite his water-repelling charms. They stood in the doorway for a moment, framed by darkness, looking like soldiers walking back into a war room they never expected to leave again.

Dumbledore turned first, sensing their presence before anyone else. He didn't need to ask the question that hung in the air.

“It’ll be us,” Sirius said, stepping forward. His voice didn’t shake, though something in his eyes had hardened into resolve. “We'll go.”

A beat of silence descended, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Then McGonagall nodded curtly and moved to gather supplies, her efficiency a comfort in its familiarity. Moody grunted something that might have been approval, his magical eye still fixed on Severus with perpetual suspicion.

Lily stepped forward from the shadows, a folded map clutched in her hands. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, something unspoken passing across her face as she looked at Severus. Then, with decisive movements, she handed him the parchment, her fingers brushing his just slightly. Not quite forgiveness. But not the hostility of before.

“You’ll need to Apparate just outside the cove,” she said, eyes serious beneath the curtain of dark red hair. “It should keep you out of range of the primary wards, at least long enough to assess them.”

Severus nodded, silently taking the map, careful not to let his fingers linger against hers. That bridge had burned too thoroughly to cross again.

Marlene conjured a small vial of clear liquid that steamed faintly and held it out to Sirius. “Pepperup,” she said shortly, her usual warmth buried beneath professional concern. “You’ll need it. The water will be worse than freezing.”

Like I didn’t already think of that.

Fabian tossed a dark leather pouch onto the table. It landed with a muffled thud, something inside clinking against metal. “There's a rope, enchanted to stay dry. And a lightstone—though it might be useless down there, if the wards are tuned to dark magic.”

“They are,” Severus murmured, his certainty chilling the room further. “The Dark Lord doesn’t favor illumination where secrets are concerned.”

No one questioned how he knew. Some knowledge came at too high a price to interrogate its source.

Dumbledore stood slowly, his bones seeming to creak with the weight of too many wars, too many pawns taken from his chessboard. “You must both understand,” he said, gaze flickering between them with the intensity of Legilimency, though both men felt no intrusion into their thoughts, “this may be a trap. Or worse—an undoing. The protections in that cave were not designed to be survived.”

“We understand,” Severus said. He didn’t look at Sirius, but he didn't need to. The connection between them hummed with awareness, with acknowledgment of the risk.

“If we’re not back by morning,” he said, eyes meeting James’s across the room, “assume the worst.”

James shook his head hard, glasses catching the firelight. “Don't say that, Padfoot.”

Sirius just offered a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes—the smile of a Black who had been raised to expect tragedy. Severus was now accustomed to that smile. 

Then he turned to Severus, something passing between them that the room’s other occupants couldn't decipher. “Ready?”

Severus met his gaze, obsidian eyes reflecting nothing. “As I'll ever be.”

With a crack that split the air like a thunderbolt, they Disapparated.

And the Order was left behind, standing in the sudden hush of the safe house, watching the empty space where they'd been—a void that seemed to echo with unspoken farewells and the hollow certainty that some who leave never return.