Sometimes, change did not announce itself—it creeped in quietly. Other times, it arrived like a paradigm shift.

Sirius still wasn't sure if Snape had been sent by Remus, but he was certain that Snape had told him something about what he had seen.

Not in so many words—Snape wasn't one to air concerns outright, and he certainly wasn't one to care—but Sirius could picture it. Could picture Snape making some dry, sneering remark about the state he had found him in, about how he was wasting away in this house like some caged animal.

And yet, whether by coincidence or design, Remus had started appearing more frequently.

A few times a week, often enough that Sirius knew it wasn't just about keeping him updated on Harry. He would bring news, yes, but he would also bring food. Would ask if Sirius had eaten. Would stay later than necessary, acting as if it was no trouble, as if he just happened to have time to sit by the fire with a cup of tea.

But exhaustion clung to him, seeping into every movement. He constantly paused whatever he was doing to scrutinize the Marauder's Map.

Sirius knew what he was doing.

And he should have felt something about it. Should have felt grateful, or annoyed, or relieved, or irritated that Remus was trying to take care of him like he was some charity case.

But he didn't feel anything.

Not the way he had that night, when Snape arrived unannounced—unexpected—stepping through the doorway with an ease that felt almost natural. That had meant something—Sirius had felt something, however fleeting.

But when Remus was here, it was just… the same. Like going through the motions. Sirius appreciated him, of course he did, but it wasn't the same kind of jolt to his system.

And that was a dangerous thought.

Because it meant that Snape's presence—brief as it was—had done something to him. Had stirred something in him.

And Sirius didn't know what to do with that.

At school, whenever Sirius felt like this—like something was clawing under his skin, like his emotions were coiling too tightly in his chest—he would pick a fight with Snape.

It was predictable, almost instinctive. Snape always had a sharp tongue and a worse temper, and Sirius could count on him to snap back, to meet his anger with his own. It gave Sirius something to do, something to focus on when his mind was a mess of things he didn't want to think about.

But he couldn't do that now.

Couldn't throw out some taunt in the corridors and wait for Snape's wand to whip up in response. Couldn't smirk and provoke him, couldn't push just hard enough to make Snape shove back.

They weren't boys anymore. The world had changed too much. And worse—worse—Sirius had changed too.

Because the idea of starting a fight with Snape now didn't fill him with the same wild thrill it used to. Didn't make his blood race in the same way.

Now, the thought of it just left a hollow ache in his chest.

Because he didn't want Snape's fury anymore.

He just wanted his presence.

And that was a terrifying realization.

Sirius could no longer lie to himself.

Not after everything.

Not after the way his own magic had betrayed him—shielding him from the truth, only for the Dementors to tear it away.

Not after the way his stomach had twisted when Snape stepped through the door that night, when Sirius had been too lost in his own misery to do anything but stare.

And certainly not after the way he had felt when Snape didn't return.

For months, Sirius had told himself he was simply trying to mend old wounds. That he was bored, that he had been alone for too long, that Remus had been right to push him to interact with someone other than a bloody house-elf.

That it wasn't about Snape himself.

But he wasn't bored anymore, was he?

No. He was restless.

Snape had left, and Sirius had felt the loss more keenly than he had any right to.

He could ignore it, of course. Could force himself to believe he was only frustrated because his attempt at civility had been one-sided. Because he had almost managed to draw Snape into something that looked like friendship—or at least tolerance—before it had slipped through his fingers like sand.

But then why did it feel like something more?

Why did it feel so much like before?

Why did it feel exactly like the endless, unbreakable pull he had spent years pretending was nothing?

The same pull that had made him seek Snape out again and again, pick fights just to see those black eyes blaze, corner him in dark corridors just to get a reaction.

The same pull that had made him reckless. That had made him cruel.

He hadn't remembered at first.

Not when he broke out of Azkaban. Not when he was stalking the edges of Hogwarts, watching Harry from a distance. Not even when he saw Remus again after twelve long years.

Snape simply hadn't existed—at least, not in his mind.

Not in his thoughts, not in his memories. His mind slid right past him, as if he had never existed. As if something had erased him entirely.

But then—

The Dementors. A horde of them, closing in, their presence unbearable. The weight of despair pressing in on all sides, dragging him back, back, back—

The enchantment broke.

And then, everything rushed back in.

Memories, feelings, everything he had buried. Everything he had done to himself, unknowingly, instinctively, to protect himself.

The first thing he remembered was a pair of black eyes.

Not cold, not empty, not dead—no matter how many times he had told himself they were.

They were burning.

Not with hatred. Not always.

And then it all came flooding back.

Snape, as Sirius had first known him—sharp angles and sharper wit, eyes that missed nothing, hands perpetually ink-stained from long hours bent over parchment or potion vials. He had been relentless, single-minded in his pursuits, with a mind like a steel trap, dissecting spells with ruthless precision. And though he had worn his bitterness like armor, there had been something else, too—something in the way his mouth twitched before a particularly cutting remark, in the way he squared his shoulders as if daring the world to strike first. Sirius had watched him, chased him, pushed and pulled at him, never quite understanding why he couldn't leave him alone.

The sharp-edged banter, the relentless competition, the way Sirius had spent years—years—chasing after Snape, looking for him in every corridor, seeking out every opportunity to engage, to fight, to win.

The obsession he had pretended was rivalry. The thrill he had mistaken for rage. The way he had never truly been able to leave Snape alone, even when he should have.

Even when it had hurt them both.

He had wanted—

No.

No.

Sirius had clawed at his own mind, trying to shove it all back down, to make himself forget again, but the his brain just would not allow it. It forced him to relive it, to face it, to acknowledge the truth he had run from since he was sixteen years old, or maybe even younger.

The truth that had been staring him in the face all along.

It wasn't hatred that had tied him to Severus Snape for all these years.

It never had been.

Sirius exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tangled hair.

He couldn't do this again.

Not now. Not after all that had happened.

Not when Snape had every reason to hate him.

And yet.

And yet.

When Snape had been here, Sirius had felt something he hadn't felt in years. Something he barely recognized anymore.

Something dangerously close to hope.

Now that Sirius had finally faced the truth—the truth he had spent years burying, denying, and running from—he couldn't just sit with it.

That wasn't who he was.

Sirius Black had always been a man of action, even when his actions were reckless, destructive, or outright foolish. He had spent too much of his life acting first and thinking later.

But this?

This was different.

He couldn't act on it. Not in the way he once might have.

Sirius had never been good at waiting.

Patience was for people like Remus, people who could weigh options and think through consequences before making a move. Sirius had always acted first, with the kind of reckless certainty that had once made him feel invincible.

That certainty had long since been stripped away.

And this—this—was not something he could rush.

Snape barely tolerated him as it was. They had built something over the past few months, something fragile and unspoken, but Sirius knew exactly how easily he could destroy it. If he pushed too hard, if he revealed too much, it would be gone.

So he wouldn't push. Wouldn't demand. Wouldn't let whatever this was—whatever it had always been—drive him to reckless action again.

Instead, for the first time in his life, Sirius would wait.

And with that decision came something unexpected.

Purpose.

He wasn't just restless—wasn't merely bored, lonely, or searching for a distraction. He knew exactly what was driving him now, and he wasn't running from it anymore.

Because now he embraced the truth.

He wanted Severus Snape.

Had wanted him for longer than he'd ever dared to admit. Had spent years pretending to hate Snape, telling himself the hatred was mutual, that nothing could ever shift between them.

And if he had any hope—any remote chance—of turning possibility into reality, he needed to pull himself together.

He started small.

A shave. A hot shower. Clothes that weren't the same worn-out set he had been lounging in for days.

Then, the house.

Grimmauld Place had been a rotting, neglected corpse of a home for years, but for the first time, Sirius didn't avoid the work that needed to be done. He couldn't make it his, not really—not with the weight of Black history clinging to every inch of it—but he could at least make it livable.

And he started with the potions lab.

Because, of course, he did.

There was no use pretending it was for Remus. Remus had everything he needed at Hogwarts, and he'd never cared much for potion-making beyond necessity.

This, undeniably, was for Severus.

Sirius swept the dust from the workbenches, polished the old copper scales, and sorted through rows of ingredients with a care he hadn't used since brewing illicit concoctions in an abandoned classroom at sixteen.

He wasn't a fool.

A clean potions lab wouldn't magically change anything between them.

But it was a start.

And for the first time in years, Sirius had something to move toward.

It didn't take long for Remus to notice the change in Sirius.

At first, it was subtle—small shifts in his demeanor that could have been dismissed as fleeting moods. But the more time passed, the clearer it became.

It wasn't just that Sirius had clawed his way out of his depressive haze—though that alone was remarkable. It was how he was different.

There was energy in him again, but it wasn't the reckless, volatile kind that had defined him in their youth. It wasn't the frantic restlessness of a man pacing in a cage, desperate for escape. This was something else. Something quieter. More deliberate.

And Sirius wasn't snapping at everything anymore. He wasn't sulking in corners, alternating between brooding silence and sharp, defensive barbs. He still hated being trapped, but instead of wallowing in his frustration, he was doing something.

Remus had returned one afternoon to find the house clean. Not just passably livable—clean. The thick layers of dust that had seemed permanently settled into every surface were gone. The air smelled of polish instead of neglect. The clutter that had made Grimmauld Place feel even more suffocating had disappeared. Even the windows—previously dulled by grime—let in streaks of weak winter light.

Remus had stopped in the doorway, gripping the frame for balance as he blinked, half-wondering if some household charm had gone off by accident. Perhaps Grimmauld Place had finally driven Sirius mad.

He made an offhand joke to cover his surprise. "Did you finally decide to stop living like a stray?"

Sirius only smirked, his usual brand of roguish amusement, and said, "Maybe I just got bored of the mess."

And that was when Remus knew.

Sirius never did anything just because he was bored. Not like this. Not in a way that required patience, effort, and careful attention to detail. This was not the same man who had spent months cooped up in this house, spiraling deeper into his own misery.

Remus could have pressed. He could have asked why Sirius was suddenly like this, why he was putting in the effort now, what exactly had changed.

But he didn't.

Because for the first time in months, Sirius wasn't drowning.

And whatever—or whoever—had given him something to hold onto, Remus wasn't going to interfere.

So after that, his visits became less frequent.

Because Sirius didn't need saving anymore, not from him.

Notes:

It only took him 8 chapters to say it out loud.