Mizumono

He hated to admit it, but there was something comforting about being cooped up in the library, surrounded by endless rows of ancient volumes whose spines held secrets of knowledge. Perhaps it was the only place in Hogwarts where he could lose himself, not only in the words on the pages, but also in the silent solitude that the space offered. That day, however, the routine was slightly interrupted by a small unexpected gesture: a house elf silently appeared, depositing a bowl of fruit salad on his desk. He didn't need much perspicacity to intuit the origin of this treat - it was typical of a certain Hufflepuff, always on the lookout in an irritatingly careful way.

Snape, however, paid no attention to the gift. His focus was on the dense words of an ancient tome on dark creatures, his fingers turning the pages with methodical precision. He wasn't studying anything related to his lessons; those subjects, designed for minds less agile than his own, were a real intellectual torture. No, his interest lay in something much darker: records of Obscurials throughout history, a deep dive into territories where magic and curse intertwined.

With meticulous movements, Severus took a piece of strawberry into his mouth, the freshness of the fruit spreading across his tongue in a sweet, watery flood. The instant was a rare moment of tranquillity, a lapse in which he could lose himself in the simplicity of a taste. However, the peace was suddenly violated by a disturbing sensation. He sensed, with the instinctive precision of someone on the lookout, the presence of someone next to him. He turned abruptly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and irritation as he recognized Sirius Black, leaning invasively over his shoulder, his face marked by that eternal and unbearable air of defiance.

The world seemed to suspend itself for a moment, time frozen in the tension of the gaze they exchanged. The silence that followed was almost tangible, as if the atmosphere around them was compressing under the weight of Snape's displeasure and Black's reckless self-confidence. It was Sirius who broke the tension, not with words, but with a gesture as audacious as it was transgressive.

With a slowness that seemed rehearsed, Sirius raised his hand and, with his finger, wiped away a pink thread of juice that had escaped from the corner of Snape's lips. The touch, however brief, carried with it a trace of invasive intimacy, a calculated affront. Snape remained motionless, every muscle in his body stiffening, his dark eyes shining with a mixture of indignation and a discomfort he couldn't name.

As if the act itself wasn't already unbearable, Sirius brought his finger to his mouth, tasting the remnants of the fruit with a disdainful tease. His gray eyes, full of malice and cruel humor, remained fixed on Snape's as he performed the gesture. There was no hurry in his movements, only an exasperated calm, as if he wanted to prolong the moment, to make it unforgettable.

Severus felt the heat rise from his neck to his face, not from embarrassment, but from a rage that consumed him like liquid fire. And then the Gryffindor walked away with the same insolence with which he had arrived, leaving behind the echo of his mocking laughter and the bittersweet, oppressive sensation of an instant that Snape would like to forget — but which he knew he would never be able to.

The former potions master remained motionless, his cold, calculating gaze following the other's every move, before finally chewing and swallowing the piece of fruit he was still holding. He didn't say a word, but the tension in the air was palpable, as if a storm about to form had found a perfect magnetic field.

Sirius, devoid of any notion of boundaries - or simply determined to ignore them - settled into the seat opposite Snape. He leaned over the table, arms crossed, an almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It was clear that he was ready to provoke further.

"Black," Snape began, his voice laced with biting disdain as he paused his reading and carefully marked the page. The look he cast at the other was as sharp as a finely honed blade. "To what do I owe your... unexpected presence?"

Sirius leaned further over the table, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, as though the veiled hostility was a game he never tired of. "Maybe I just wanted to annoy you a bit," he replied with almost insulting simplicity. "Throw a jinx or two, since you're always skulking about like a bad-tempered shadow."

When Sirius reached out to grab one of the fruits from the bowl, he was met with a swift and precise slap, Snape’s palm striking the invasive fingers with a crisp sound. "Ouch!" Sirius exclaimed, withdrawing momentarily, only to look at Snape with an exaggerated expression of feigned pain.

"Where’s your compassion, Snivellus?"

"It was lost long ago," Snape replied coldly, "especially for people like you."

"Touché," Sirius countered, his tone carrying more amusement than anything else. With a quick movement, he snatched an orange from the bowl anyway, holding it defiantly as he met the other’s gaze. "Did you know," he began, his lazy grin widening, "that I’ve been feeling a strong urge to push you off the Astronomy Tower?"

"Keep your witty remarks to yourself, Black," Snape said in a low voice, dripping venom with the precision of a drop of acid. "Or I might throw myself off the tower. The pain of the fall would be infinitely more tolerable than your company."

Sirius arched a brow, a lopsided smile curling at the corner of his lips. "I’d love to see that..."

Snape’s brow furrowed slightly, a shadow of irritation flickering across his pale face. "What do you want, Black?" he snapped, his patience already eroded.

"Wolfsbane," Sirius replied immediately, his tone almost casual, as if the word didn’t carry the weight he knew it did.

"Absolutely not," came the instant, unyielding response, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

"Snivellus, you didn’t even hear me out!" Sirius exclaimed, his voice thick with frustration.

Snape raised a hand, the authoritative gesture silencing any further argument. "You have one minute."

Sirius took a deep breath, trying to rein in the impatience threatening to spill over. "Fine, damn it... I’ll buy all the ingredients for you, how about that? You’re good at Potions, I’ve seen it, and importing Wolfsbane into Hogwarts is ridiculously expensive."

Snape tilted his head slightly, his gaze assessing Sirius as though he were a particularly annoying specimen trapped in a glass jar.

"And what makes you think I’d help you, your pathetic little group, or a werewolf?"

A heavy silence followed. Sirius bit his lower lip, the gesture revealing a flicker of uncertainty he rarely showed.

"I’ll owe you a favor," he said finally, his voice less defiant, almost reluctant. "How about that? You... can ask for anything."

Snape’s lips curled into a viperous smile, the expression of someone who had just heard a particularly dark joke.

"How precious. You’re selling your soul to the devil for Lupin’s sake."

"Urgh! Just give me an answer already," Sirius growled, the exasperation dripping from every syllable.

A heavy silence settled, like an oppressive fog enveloping the two of them. Though Sirius, the disowned heir of the House of Black, was destined for a future of exile and disgrace, in that moment he still carried the weight of a powerful name. And to Snape, that name was more than just words etched into ancient genealogies; it was a tool to be wielded with precision and caution, a piece on the board he needed to manipulate shrewdly.

"Fine," Snape murmured, his words cold as a carefully wielded blade. "But it won’t be just one favor. While I’m working on this, if I need anything, you’ll make it happen. Understood?"

Sirius tilted his head slightly, the rebellious glint in his gray eyes contrasting with the gravity of the moment. "Deal," he replied, extending his hand across the table.

Snape took a deep breath, his hesitation imperceptible to anyone unaccustomed to deciphering the subtle dance of emotions that flickered across his face. His black eyes met Sirius’s, a brief but charged connection where time seemed to stretch and coil like a serpent. With a calculated motion, he extended his hand, the thin, pale fingers meeting Black’s larger, rougher hand.

The touch was more than a mere handshake. There was something primal in that contact, something that made Snape’s skin prickle almost imperceptibly. Sirius’s fingers were firm, but his grip was measured, as if even then he avoided crushing something he knew to be fragile.

For a moment, Snape’s eyes clouded with echoes of memories he preferred to keep buried. He hated Sirius Black. He hated his arrogance, his mocking laughter, and the way he seemed to embody everything wrong with the world Snape despised. He believed every drop of suffering Black had endured was deserved, though he knew fate had dealt him a disproportionate cruelty.

And yet, even with a heart hardened by years of resentment, an insidious and unexpected truth whispered in his ear, like a dark murmur from the depths of his soul.

Black did not deserve to die.

For all that had happened, for the wounds they had inflicted on one another, Snape could not ignore that simple and uncomfortable reality. The thought was a double-edged blade, cutting as much into his anger as into the hidden core of his compassion. And as he released Sirius’s hand, he allowed himself a moment to wonder if that handshake was a trap he had set for his own downfall—or a fragile bridge to something beyond hatred.