From firelight to moonlight, silence stretches—unspoken, uncertain, and far too easy to fall into. Not quite a fight, not quite a truce—but something in between.

The second time Snape arrived with the Wolfsbane Potion, Sirius had a plan. Well, if one could call "try to make it less of a disaster than last time" a plan.

He was waiting in the sitting room under Remus's watchful gaze, when Snape stepped through the Floo, potion in hand, dark eyes sweeping the room as if he expected something unpleasant to lunge at him from the shadows. His gaze flickered to Sirius, narrowed slightly, but he didn't comment.

Sirius, feeling the weight of Remus's expectant stare at his back, wasn't about to let the moment pass.

"Long night?" he asked casually, too casually, leaning against the table.

Snape didn't bother looking at him. "Every night is long," he said dryly.

Sirius smirked. "Right, forgot you consider sleep optional."

That got him a glance, sharp and unimpressed. "Not if I can help it."

Sirius hesitated, the familiar itch of old habits creeping in—the urge to provoke, to push, to bait Snape into reacting. But Remus's steady presence behind him kept him grounded. He swallowed down the usual snide remark and instead, with some effort, said, "Didn't thank you. For still brewing the potion."

Snape's expression remained impassive. "Dumbledore instructed me to."

Sirius expected that response, but it still made his jaw tighten. He swallowed down the urge to snap something back and instead shifted tactics.

"There's an old potions lab upstairs," he said casually. "Not sure if the ingredients are still good, but the equipment should work. And the library—well, you might find something interesting. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black did love its rare and obscure texts." His voice turned wry. "You might even find something dark and sinister that matches your taste."

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Snape's eyes—interest, swiftly concealed beneath layers of indifference. He gave the smallest of nods, his expression unreadable.

"I see."

Sirius wasn't sure if that was an acknowledgment or dismissal, but he decided not to press further.

As the Floo flared behind him, he turned to find Remus watching him with that same thoughtful, knowing look.

Sirius frowned. "What?"

Remus shrugged. "Just interesting."

Sirius huffed. "Shut up, Moony."

Remus smiled faintly, shaking his head. "You still know how to get under his skin."

Sirius scowled, but Remus was already walking away, leaving Sirius alone with an odd sense of something shifting—something he couldn't quite name.

Sirius told himself he wasn't waiting for Snape the next night. It was just a coincidence. He just happened to be in the sitting room, sprawled in a chair near the fire, when the Floo flared to life. Pure coincidence.

Snape stepped through the green flames, potion in hand, and barely acknowledged him.

Sirius cleared his throat. "So. Thought any more about the lab?"

Snape paused—not even a full second, just the slightest hesitation. But Sirius caught it. Then, without turning fully, Snape said in his usual clipped tone, "I fail to see why you care."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "I don't. Just seems a waste, letting it sit there unused."

Snape's gaze flicked to him, sharp and assessing. Then, with the same indifference one might use to discuss the weather, he said, "I may examine the conditions at a later time."

Sirius smirked. "Careful, Severus, that almost sounded agreeable."

Snape didn't dignify that with a response. He placed the potion in Remus's hand and swept out, robes billowing behind him. But Sirius had seen it—that brief flicker of interest, smothered beneath carefully crafted indifference.

And for the first time in decades, Sirius felt like he was actually winning at something when it came to Severus Snape. The kind of victory that didn't leave him with guilt and regret.

The rest of the week followed the same pattern. Sirius was always conveniently nearby when Snape arrived, either sprawled in the sitting room, leaning against the doorframe with a drink in hand, or coincidentally passing through the hall just as Snape stepped out of the Floo. Each time, he managed to find a reason—however flimsy—to strike up a conversation.

The fourth night, he made a show of flipping through an old Black family tome as Snape emerged from the fireplace.

"Did you know my dear ancestors had an entire chapter dedicated to brewing poisons? I thought that might be up your alley."

Snape gave him a withering look as he handed Remus the Wolfsbane. "I assume you'd like a demonstration?"

Sirius grinned. "Not unless you've got one specifically for insufferable in-laws. I'd offer it to Narcissa next Christmas."

Snape merely scoffed and left without another word.

The next evening, Sirius was already perched on the armrest of Remus's chair, mid-conversation.

"So, Moony, if you had to pick a favorite Marauder—"

"James," Remus said without hesitation.

Sirius clutched his chest in mock betrayal. "You didn't even pretend to consider me?"

Remus smirked. "Well, at least Prongs never treated my things like a personal tree."

"That was one time—"

Snape entered, potion in hand, casting a cool, dispassionate glance between them.

Sirius turned to him with a smirk. "Relax, Severus, Padfoot is usually well-behaved."

"Discussing favoritism in a pack of adolescent imbeciles?" Snape asked mockingly.

Sirius shot him a lazy grin. "Jealous you weren't in the running?"

Snape exhaled sharply through his nose. "The idea that I would crave the approval of either of you is as laughable as it is nauseating." He shoved the potion into Remus's hand. "Drink it before I reconsider my commitment to brewing it."

Sirius only smirked as Snape left, but when he turned back, Remus was watching him with that same infuriatingly knowing smile.

And the next night after that, Sirius got even bolder.

"Severus, I have been wondering what you're like in the classroom."

Snape stilled. Slowly, he turned back, his expression unreadable. "What," he said, voice clipped, "do you mean by that?"

Sirius hesitated for half a second before forcing a smirk. "Just—teaching. I can actually picture it, you know? You, at the front of a room, lecturing. Commanding attention. Scaring the hell out of some poor first-years." He tilted his head. "Are you any good?"

Snape's gaze sharpened, as if assessing whether Sirius was mocking him. Then, with a quiet scoff, he said, "Perhaps you should ask one of my students. I imagine Potter would be quite willing to enlighten you."

Then, after the briefest of pauses, he gave Remus a pointed glare and said, "Or better yet, ask Neville Longbottom."

Remus looked away, suddenly very interested in the empty goblet in his hand.

Sirius, not getting the reference, barked out a laugh. "Ah, so you do play favorites."

Snape's expression darkened. "No more than others."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

Sirius didn't even try to stop the grin that tugged at his lips.

Remus had wanted to stop commenting on the charade. But once Snape had gone for the night, he couldn't help himself.

"You do realize you're behaving like a third-year pulling a girl's pigtails, don't you?"

Sirius scowled. "That is—what? That's not—" He stopped, huffing. "First of all, I would never do that. Second of all—"

Remus just raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea. The silent message, you have been doing that since school, was loud and clear.

Sirius groaned, slumping back against the chair. "You're ridiculous."

Remus chuckled. "And yet, you're the one making excuses to loiter around the fireplace like a stray dog waiting for scraps."

Sirius threw a pillow at him.

But later that night, alone in his room, Sirius found himself staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of their interactions. He wasn't sure what he wanted out of this little game, but he knew he didn't want to stop.

The evening of the full moon arrived, thick clouds stretching over the sky, cloaking the house in shadows. The air in Grimmauld Place felt heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Sirius was already in the sitting room when Snape stepped through the Floo, as he always did, the Wolfsbane potion in hand. By now, Sirius had stopped pretending it was a coincidence.

Snape barely acknowledged him, only giving a brief nod as he passed by. He placed the potion on the table beside Remus, who took it with a quiet thank you as he always did.

Seizing the opportunity, Sirius spoke up. "Are you staying?"

Snape paused. Not a dramatic pause, not something deliberate—just a brief flicker of hesitation that someone else might not have caught. But Sirius did.

Snape turned, his gaze settling on him with unreadable intent. "Why would I?"

Sirius shrugged. "Maybe because last month, you didn't bolt out of here like your robes were on fire." He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. "Maybe because it wasn't that terrible."

Snape's lip curled, though whether in derision or amusement, Sirius couldn't tell. "How magnanimous of you, Black, to rate my experience for me."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. If it had been that awful, you wouldn't keep showing up here."

Snape scoffed. "I am here because the headmaster instructed me to be."

"Right," Sirius drawled, "and Dumbledore told you to linger and chat, too?"

Snape's glare sharpened, and for a moment, Sirius thought he might snap something biting in return. But instead, Snape only tilted his head slightly, considering him in that unnerving way of his.

Then, as if making some internal decision, Snape turned to Remus. "Have you taken the potion?"

Remus, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, lifted the empty goblet. "Every last drop."

Snape nodded once. His fingers flexed at his sides, tension coiled tight in his frame.

Sirius didn't press. He just waited.

Finally, Snape exhaled, long and slow. "Fine," he muttered. "I will stay."

Sirius smirked. "Try to contain your enthusiasm."

Snape shot him a look that could have curdled milk, but he stayed.

The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows along the walls. Remus lay curled on the hearthrug in his wolf form, his breathing slow and even. The Wolfsbane had done its job—he was calm, docile, his amber eyes half-lidded before sleep claimed him entirely.

Sirius sat slouched in the chair closest to him, watching the rise and fall of Remus's ribs. It never got easier, seeing him like this. Even after all these years. But at least tonight, it wasn't a night of agony.

Across the room, Snape had taken up residence at the old wooden desk, parchment spread before him, quill scratching as he wrote in neat, precise strokes. Sirius had no idea how the man could see anything in this dim light, but Snape seemed utterly engrossed, his dark eyes flickering up now and then to study Remus before returning to his notes.

The curiosity gnawed at Sirius for a while before he finally leaned over, tilting his head in an attempt to read what Snape was writing.

Predictably, Snape angled the parchment away, not even looking up as he muttered, "Do you mind?"

Sirius smirked. "So secretive. Working on improving the formula?"

Snape didn't dignify that with an immediate response. He finished a sentence with a sharp flick of his quill before finally glancing at Sirius. "If there is an improvement to be made, I will be the one to find it."

Sirius hummed, then grinned. "You know what would be the greatest breakthrough of the century?" He leaned forward conspiratorially. "If you could improve the taste." He gestured lazily toward Remus. "Well, at least to him."

Snape gave him a withering look. "I am not a confectioner, Black."

Sirius chuckled. "Pity. You'd make a fortune." He clasped his hands behind his head. "Think about it—patented Potions by Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape. Wolfsbane that doesn't make you gag, Pepper-Up without the steam pouring out your ears, Skelegro that doesn't taste like dragon piss—"

"If you don't stop talking," Snape said flatly, dipping his quill back into the inkwell, "I will hex your tongue to the roof of your mouth."

Sirius barked a laugh. "Didn't know you cared so much about my voice."

"I don't," Snape said, gaze flicking briefly to the sleeping werewolf. "I simply prefer not to wake another intolerable being in this house."

Sirius snorted but relented, sinking back into his chair. The fire popped, the only sound filling the space between them.

Sirius smirked but let the silence stretch. He wasn't foolish—he knew when to press and when to retreat. And right now, Snape had drawn his line.

But that didn't stop Sirius from watching him.

It wasn't intentional, at first. His eyes simply drifted, following the sharp, deliberate movements of Snape's quill as it scratched across the parchment. The firelight flickered over the deep lines of concentration on his face, over the slight furrow of his brow, the way his fingers—ink-stained and sure—tapped against the desk in thought.

Sirius had never allowed himself to observe him like this before.

The way Snape got utterly absorbed in his work. The way his lips pressed into a thin line when he was deep in thought. The occasional, barely perceptible flick of his fingers when he corrected a line of text, as if adjusting an invisible equation in his head.

Sirius should be annoyed. He should be irritated that Snape was so determined to pretend he didn't exist.

And yet.

Sirius sat there, sprawled in his chair, staring.

Not speaking. Not moving. Just watching.

The only sounds in the room were the slow, steady scratch of Snape's quill and the soft, rhythmic breathing of the wolf by the fire.

Sirius had no idea how much time slipped by—minutes? Hours?

But he knew one thing.

He wasn't bored.