Old wounds festered, but new scars refused to form. Some ghosts never rested—only returned in silence.

Sirius missed Harry the moment he stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. He tried to tell himself it was irrational—Harry was safe at school, surrounded by friends, they could still owl, and they'd see each other soon enough—but that did little to ease the restlessness creeping under his skin.

Grimmauld Place had always been suffocating, but after Azkaban—after years of confinement—being trapped here again made Sirius's skin crawl. He hated the silence. Hated the dark corners full of old memories. Hated being left behind.

With Harry gone and Remus preoccupied as the full moon approached, Sirius grew desperate for distraction. Which was why, during the week leading up to the full moon, he made a point of lingering every time Snape arrived with Remus's Wolfsbane potion.

Snape had to deliver it daily, as usual, up until the night of the full moon. That meant seven opportunities for Sirius to strike up a conversation—or, more accurately, to provoke Snape until he snapped.

"Ah, Severus," Sirius drawled, lounging against the doorframe as Snape stepped inside. "Right on time. Should I be touched? You've been so reliable lately."

Snape didn't so much as glance at him. "Spare me your theatrics, Black."

"Now, now, don't be like that. We're all on the same side, aren't we? Shouldn't we try to be… civil?" Sirius grinned, knowing full well it wouldn't work.

Snape set the potion down on the table with his usual precise movements, turning to Remus instead. "Make sure you drink the full dose. I don't have time for carelessness."

Sirius snorted. "Merlin forbid you have to waste another moment in our presence."

Remus sighed. "Sirius—"

But Sirius ignored him, watching Snape carefully. He didn't expect friendliness, obviously, but Snape had been more reserved than usual. More… restrained. His usual sharp retorts were either absent or dulled, his patience stretched but not snapping.

It was almost disappointing.

So Sirius tried again the next night. And the one after that. Every evening, he tested a new approach—mockery, forced civility, feigned curiosity. Anything to get a rise out of Snape.

And every evening, Snape responded the same way. A cold look, an exasperated sigh, and then he left as soon as his duty was done.

By the fourth night, Sirius began to wonder if some things would never change—and, worse, if he would keep hoping they would, even knowing better.

On the fifth night, Sirius decided to try a different approach. Instead of needling Snape the moment he arrived, he kept his tone casual, almost conversational.

"You know, this is the longest we've gone without a proper argument. I'm starting to think you don't hate me anymore."

Snape didn't bother looking at him. "Your delusions are worsening."

"Is that so?" Sirius leaned against the table, arms crossed. "Because the old you would have hexed me by now."

Snape exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh but close. "Do you have a point, Black, or are you simply determined to waste my time?"

Sirius shrugged. "I suppose I'm just wondering what's changed."

At that, Snape finally met his gaze. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes sharp as ever, but something was different. Less hostility, maybe. Or just better control.

"You've simply become tiresome," Snape said flatly. "There's no satisfaction in arguing with an overgrown mutt who can barely string a coherent thought together."

Sirius smirked. "Ah, there's the Snape I know. For a moment, I thought you were losing your edge."

Snape's lip curled in distaste. He turned to Remus instead, handing over the Wolfsbane potion without another word.

But Sirius didn't miss the way Snape's fingers twitched slightly when he set the goblet down. He was holding back.

And that intrigued Sirius far more than anything else.

The sixth night, Sirius didn't wait for Snape to speak first, as if he would initiate a conversation. As soon as the man stepped through the door, he said, "So. What do you make of the Triwizard Tournament?"

Snape stilled for half a second—just long enough for Sirius to catch it. Then, with carefully measured indifference, he replied, "I make of it what any sensible person would. It's reckless, dangerous, and a spectacularly foolish decision given the current climate."

Sirius smirked. "Why, Severus, we finally agree on something."

Snape merely gave him a cool glance before setting down the potion. But for the first time, he lingered for a few extra seconds.

Sirius took note.

And for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope—however faint—in understanding Snape.

On the night of the full moon, Grimmauld Place was quieter than usual. The house had a way of absorbing sound, its walls thick with age and secrets, but tonight, there was an added layer of tension. Sirius knew the signs well—how Remus would start pacing earlier in the evening, how his hands trembled slightly even before the transformation began. It was different now that he had the Wolfsbane Potion, but the change was still violent, still something that left Sirius feeling helpless in a way he despised.

He had expected Snape to leave as soon as he dropped off the potion, as he had every other night that week. But instead, for reasons Sirius couldn't quite understand, Snape lingered. Not in a way that suggested he wanted to stay—more like he was hesitating.

Sirius didn't know what made him watch Snape more closely, but when Remus began to transform, he saw it: the briefest flicker of tension in Snape's posture, the way his fingers curled at his sides, as if suppressing the urge to reach for his wand.

Sirius had seen many things in Snape's expression before—anger, disdain, contempt—but never this. It took him a long while to figure it out. It was almost like fear.

And suddenly, the memory of another full moon came crashing back. The night Snape had stumbled into a nightmare he wasn't meant to see.

A sharp pang twisted in Sirius's gut.

He turned to Snape before he could stop himself. "I shouldn't have done it," he admitted. "I wanted to humiliate you, make you think twice before sneaking around us again." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "But I didn't think you'd actually get that far. I didn't think about what it would mean if you did. And by the time I realized—" He stopped himself. "It was stupid. And reckless. And not just because it could've gotten me expelled, or gotten Moony in serious trouble."

Snape's gaze snapped to him, sharp and searching. For a moment, he looked like he might spit back something cruel, something biting. But then his eyes flickered to Remus—now fully transformed, curled in on himself but not mindless, not feral.

Snape had stayed for a reason. Sirius could see it now. He wanted to face this. Not as an accident, not as a victim lured into danger, but on his own terms. Maybe he had realized that the Sirius standing beside him now was different from the boy who had once seen his fear as entertainment. Maybe that made it safe enough to finally look at the thing that had haunted him for years.

Sirius wasn't sure what he expected Snape to say. Maybe a sneer, maybe another storming exit. But instead, Snape simply stared at him for a long moment, then turned on his heel and left without a word.

And somehow, that silence weighed heavier than any insult ever could.

The next morning, Remus didn't say anything. He didn't mention the transformation, didn't acknowledge Sirius's words from the night before, didn't so much as glance in the direction Snape had gone. If he had overheard the conversation, he showed no sign of it. Yet something in the way he carried himself—calm, steady, as if nothing had happened—made Sirius suspect it was intentional.

And yet, when he thought Sirius wasn't looking, Remus eyed him with that same thoughtful expression he'd worn before, the one that made Sirius uneasy. Like he was studying him.

It left Sirius restless, exposed. Worse yet, he was alone with troubling thoughts he couldn't share with anyone.

Over the next three weeks, he agonized over how to approach Snape when he returned. Would he pretend the conversation had never happened? Would he sneer at Sirius like always, reinforcing that nothing had changed? Or—worse—would he simply act indifferent, as if Sirius's words had meant nothing at all?

Sirius had never been good at waiting—recklessness had always suited him better than silence. But this was different. He had spent years hating Snape—or at least, that's what he told himself. Hatred had been easier. Hatred was something he could wield, something he could throw between them like a shield.

Because beneath it, there had always been something else. Something equally strong. Something Sirius had never wanted to acknowledge.

Had he screwed up whatever small progress he had made? Had he said too much? Or maybe not enough?

The waiting was unbearable. But Sirius knew one thing for certain: when Snape returned, he would have to find a way to speak to him again. Because for the first time, the past didn't feel like something already written—it felt like something he might be able to change.

When Snape finally returned with the Wolfsbane Potion, Sirius almost missed it. He had spent the entire day restless, pacing through the house, working himself up over how to start a conversation—if Snape would even acknowledge him.

But when the moment actually came, Sirius was caught off guard by how… normal it was.

Snape swept into the house as he always did, his black robes trailing behind him, expression unreadable. He moved through Grimmauld Place like he had no intention of staying a second longer than necessary. Without a word, he set the Wolfsbane Potion on the worn wooden table near Remus, who took it with a quiet nod.

Sirius, watching from the other side of the room, felt the urge to say something—anything—but Snape was already turning to leave.

Not this time.

"Snape." The name came out sharper than he intended, but it did its job. Snape paused, glancing back, his gaze cold and expectant.

Sirius faltered. Weeks spent agonizing over this moment, only for his mind to turn blank. Every approach he'd rehearsed felt wrong—too much, too little, never quite right. But then he caught it—the flicker of something in Snape's expression. Not fear, not quite. But wariness. Like he was waiting for Sirius to strike.

Sirius took a breath. He hated that look. Hated that it was there because of him.

"I meant what I said," he muttered. "About that night, back at school."

Snape's expression remained inscrutable, but Sirius held his ground.

"I wasn't trying to kill you. I wasn't even trying to hurt you," he continued, quieter now, but firm. "But I did want to scare you. I won't pretend otherwise."

Something flickered in Snape's dark eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps.

"I forgot," Sirius admitted, running a hand through his hair. "How dangerous it was. How dangerous Moony could be for other people. I spent so many full moons with him as Padfoot that I stopped thinking about him as… as what he is to everyone else." He exhaled. "I forgot you wouldn't see him the way I did."

Silence stretched between them.

Sirius could see Remus watching from the corner of his eye, quiet as ever. Snape, meanwhile, had gone utterly still. His gaze was locked on Sirius, unreadable as always, but he hadn't left.

That had to mean something, didn't it?

Sirius swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

The words settled between them.

For a moment, Snape said nothing. Then, finally, he spoke, voice low and measured.

"Noted."

It wasn't forgiveness. Sirius hadn't expected it to be. But Snape still hadn't walked away like previous times.

And that was enough. For now.

After Snape had gone, Remus finally spoke.

Sirius had been expecting it. He'd seen the way Remus had been watching him—thoughtful, calculating. It was the same look he used to get back at school when he was trying to piece together what prank James and Sirius were planning before it happened.

Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in a lazy sprawl, feigning nonchalance. "Go on, then," he muttered. "I can feel you thinking from across the room."

Remus didn't take the bait. He just folded his arms and gave Sirius that patient, knowing look that made him want to fidget. "You remember more than you're letting on, don't you?"

Sirius stiffened before he could stop himself. "What are you on about?"

"The prank," Remus said, voice steady. "You said you'd forgotten how dangerous it was. You told Snape you weren't trying to kill him. That means you remember what happened, you remember why you did it."

Sirius's mouth went dry. He glanced away. "Not much."

"That's not an answer."

Sirius let out a slow breath. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating. Maybe because admitting it out loud made it real.

He rubbed his face. "I remember… flashes," he muttered. "I don't think I wanted to. And saying it would make it real."

"But you do now."

Sirius let his hands drop to his lap. "Yeah," he admitted.

Remus was silent for a long moment before finally sighing. "Sirius, you scared him. Really scared him."

Sirius swallowed, and he knew Remus had wanted to use another word, something much more disapproving than scared. "I know."

He thought back to that evening on the last full moon—to the way Snape had stood his ground in Grimmauld Place, to the flicker of something like fear when he'd seen Remus as a werewolf. And yet… Snape had stayed. He hadn't bolted.

Remus studied him for a beat before exhaling. "I just don't understand you," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "You act like you hate him, but you don't."

Sirius stiffened. "I—"

"Don't bother lying," Remus interrupted, voice mild but firm. "You never hated him, not really."

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it. Because what was he supposed to say to that?

He didn't hate Snape. He never had. But whatever it was that he felt instead—something just as consuming—he wasn't ready to say it out loud.

Not yet.

Remus sighed, shaking his head. "You know, I used to think James was the one who fixated on Snape the most," he mused. "He picked on him because he was jealous—thought of him as competition for Lily. But looking back…" He trailed off, watching Sirius closely. "You were the one obsessed with him."

Sirius's whole body went rigid. "That's bollocks," he scoffed, too quickly.

Remus didn't even blink. "Is it?"

Sirius let out a laugh—sharp, hollow. "Come off it, Moony. James went after Snape every chance he got."

"James saw him as a threat," Remus corrected. "But for you, it's an obsession. There's a difference."

Sirius's fingers curled into fists. He had no answer to that.

Because, deep down, he couldn't deny that Remus was right.

It was always him, wasn't it? James wanted Snape gone, out of the picture, but Sirius… Sirius had wanted to get under his skin. To push, to needle, to unravel him.

And even now, years later, even after everything… he still couldn't let it go.

Notes:

Finally, a whole chapter focused on Sirius and Severus!
I checked the lunar calendar while writing about the full moons in this story and realized that the one in September happened only a week after school started. So, Sirius had a few days less to angst than I originally planned. Oh well.

~.~

Oops, I just realized I got the year wrong when I first wrote this. I'll need to rewrite the chapter a bit to get the lunar cycle right. :/