He set the pieces, played the game, and pushed until the lines blurred—but in the end, who did he truly trap?

It started with a letter.

Sirius hadn't set out to write to Severus. It had been an impulse, a fleeting thought scrawled onto parchment before he could talk himself out of it.

Severus,

I've finally started renovating this old mausoleum. Try not to keel over from the surprise.

Tell me, do potions ingredients expire after a decade of gathering dust, or should I just assume everything in this house is as cursed as the rest of it?

He hadn't truly expected a reply. But three days later, a tightly folded piece of parchment arrived, carried by a nondescript owl.

Most ingredients will be useless. Dispose of anything that has changed color or emits an odor. Avoid direct contact with anything stored in unlabeled vials. Don't touch anything unless you are sure.

No greeting, no signature. Just cold, clinical precision. Still, Sirius counted it as a victory.

So he wrote again.

Severus,

What's the purpose of the strange, rune-carved contraption I found buried in the potions lab? I assume it's not decorative, though knowing my family, I wouldn't put it past them.

Once again, Severus replied with clipped precision, offering nothing beyond the bare essentials.

It is a catalytic stabilizer for volatile brews. If it is in working order, it may be of use. If not, discard it.

Sirius spun his quill between his fingers, a slow smirk creeping across his face. It was a game now, and he was enjoying it far too much.

The next letter was deliberately casual.

Severus,

I found an entire shelf of books in the library that hiss when I get too close. Charming. Any idea what I'm dealing with? Come check it out yourself if you've got the nerve.

Severus's reply ignored the invitation entirely.

Do not attempt to handle them. If the bindings are serpent-etched, they are likely hexed to repel intruders. Approach with extreme caution, or better yet, leave them alone.

Sirius grinned. Severus hadn't taken the bait, but that was fine. He had patience now.

So he kept writing.

Some letters carried genuine inquiries—questions about long-forgotten equipment or peculiar artifacts lost beneath layers of dust and time. Others, however, were less subtle.

Severus,

I've uncovered a cauldron in the cellar that looks old enough to have brewed the first-ever potion. It's got an ominous sheen to it, so naturally, I thought of you. Fancy a look?

No response.

Severus,

You should be so lucky that I am still capable of writing. I nearly lost a limb to a cursed book. A limb. The least you could do is confirm whether it was a tragic accident waiting to happen or just a spectacularly bad Tuesday.

Nothing.

Severus,

You're probably too busy skulking in dungeons to appreciate it, but the library here is wasted on me. Someone with an actual brain might find something interesting. Unless you're afraid of what you might discover.

Still nothing.

Sirius wasn't discouraged. If anything, the silence was proof that Severus was reading every word, choosing to ignore him rather than engage. That was fine. He could wait. He kept on writing.

And then, finally—just when Sirius had given up expecting an answer—the Floo roared to life one late evening.

Sirius looked up from the chair by the fire, heart giving an odd, traitorous lurch as Severus Snape stepped through the flames, brushing soot from his sleeve as if entering Grimmauld Place was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Severus fixed him with a flat, unimpressed stare. "You are insufferable."

Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out lazily. "Took you long enough."

Severus shot him an unimpressed look before striding past. "Try not to make me regret this, Black."

Oh, Sirius was definitely going to make the most of this.

Trailing behind Severus as he examined the lab, Sirius kept up a steady stream of commentary, punctuated with wild gestures.

"You have no idea how much of a disaster this place was," he said, spreading his arms dramatically. "There was enough dust to make a second werewolf out of it—Remus actually sneezed when he saw it."

Severus shot him a flat look. "Compelling."

"And some of this equipment? Bloody antique. Do you know how hard it was to clean without breaking everything? I had to be delicate, Severus. Delicate."

Severus's lips twitched, but he said nothing, instead inspecting the neatly organized shelves.

Sirius, watching him closely, tilted his head. "Didn't expect me to actually manage it, did you?"

"I expected you to lose interest halfway through."

"Well, you'd be wrong. Again." Sirius smirked.

Severus hummed noncommittally, running a hand over a particularly well-preserved cauldron.

Sirius, deciding that was practically a compliment, grinned and moved on.

"Oh, and this?" He gestured wildly at a particular corner of the room. "Nearly lost my sanity trying to figure out what this thing does. Look at it! It looks like it belongs in a bloody torture chamber!"

Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's a distillation apparatus, Black."

"For what? Extracting the essence of suffering?"

Severus did not dignify that with a response.

In the library, Sirius had entirely too much fun showing off.

"And this," he declared, plucking a thick leather-bound book off the shelf and dropping it onto the table with a heavy thud, "is the monster that tried to kill me."

Severus arched a skeptical brow, but the moment his fingers grazed the cover, the book shuddered.

Sirius grinned triumphantly. "See? It wants blood."

Severus muttered something under his breath, drawing his wand with practiced ease before casting a containment charm over the book.

Sirius huffed, shaking his head. "Show-off."

"You invited me to do this," Severus said dryly.

Sirius couldn't even argue.

But as Severus skimmed through the book, expression unreadable, Sirius found himself just watching him—watching the way he focused, the way his long fingers turned each page with practiced precision.

And for the first time in years, Sirius felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Severus skimmed the cursed book with the same scrutiny he'd give a volatile potion, his eyes sharp, expression unreadable. Sirius, who had long since abandoned any pretense of doing anything useful, leaned against the bookshelf and watched him.

Not subtly, either.

"So?" Sirius prompted, crossing his arms.

Severus didn't look up. "So what?"

"So, was I actually in mortal danger, or did I just imagine that part?"

Severus sighed, turning a page with deliberate care. "No, Black, you were not in mortal danger. However, this book does contain a rather nasty entrapment hex. Had you opened it improperly, you might have been forced to relive the worst moments of your life in an endless loop."

Sirius blinked. "Huh."

Severus finally glanced up. "Would you care to tell me how you discovered this particular tome?"

Sirius grinned, leaning in as if he was about to share a grand secret. "Well, you see, I pulled it off the shelf. And then I opened it."

Severus closed the book with a dull thud and exhaled slowly, as though counting backward from ten.

"You're impossible," he muttered.

"And yet, here you are," Sirius shot back, still grinning.

Severus rolled his eyes but didn't immediately leave, which Sirius took as a victory.

Severus spent the better part of an hour browsing through the library, half-examining books, half-mentally cataloging what was worth his time. Sirius trailed behind, offering completely unnecessary commentary and—when that failed—finding ways to make his presence known.

"I reorganized some of the shelves," he said at one point, with far too much pride for someone who had done the bare minimum. "Took ages."

Severus flicked his wand, scanning the bindings. "You've put Divination: Sight or Scam? in the section on magical theory."

Sirius peered over his shoulder. "Oh. Well. You can't say it doesn't belong there."

Severus gave him a deeply unimpressed look before promptly levitating the book back to its proper place.

Sirius smirked. "Admit it. You've missed me."

"I assure you," Severus said coolly, "I have not."

But he didn't leave.

That was enough.

Severus eventually asked to see Regulus's room with a grave expression, and for once, Sirius left him alone. He knew those two had been friends, and Severus probably never really had the opportunity to mourn Regulus, a Death Eater killed for having second thoughts. His sentiment wouldn't be appreciated by either side of the war.

Sirius wondered if Severus himself felt like that too. Being a Death Eater turned spy didn't really make him trustworthy in the eyes of either side.

When Severus came back out, he tried even harder to engage him in conversations hoping he could make Severus feel less alone, just as Severus had unknowingly done for him.

Severus left sometime after midnight, citing "better things to do than humor your inane prattling" as his reason. Sirius let him go without argument, though he watched him disappear into the Floo with a faint feeling of loss.

The house felt empty again.

And yet—something had undeniably changed.

Sirius sat in his chair by the fire, fingers drumming absently against his knee. His thoughts, always so prone to restless spirals, kept circling back to one thing.

Severus had come back.

Sirius had spent years pushing, prying, throwing every bit of reckless, desperate energy he had into breaking through that wall, and now—now Severus had stepped inside his space, had chosen to spend time here, with him.

That meant something.

Didn't it?

Sirius exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. He had no idea what game they were playing—if it even was a game—but he knew one thing for certain:

He wanted more.

And for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he wasn't afraid to acknowledge it.

Sirius kept writing to Severus, of course he did. He's determined to find ever more creative ways to lure him back to Grimmauld Place.

Severus,

I'm remodeling all the bedrooms. Do you want to come over and claim one before I rid them of their Slytherin heritage and drown them in Gryffindor red and gold? You never know when you'll need to stay over.

No response.

Severus,

There's quite a lot of potion ingredients I can gather while de-pesting this place. I'll offer them to you for free, of course, if you drop by with Hogwarts' special shepherd's pie.

Silence.

Severus,

I found a robe in the closet billowing on its own, and I thought I'd uncovered one of your most well-kept secrets. It nearly choked me to death when I tried it on. I think you need to teach it to behave like yours.

Nothing.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the blank parchment before him, tapping his quill against the desk in thought. Severus could ignore him all he wanted, but Sirius wasn't about to give up that easily. If subtlety didn't work, he'd simply have to up his game.

Severus,

I see you've ignored my last letter. I'll assume you're either trapped beneath a collapsed shelf of cauldrons or you've finally drowned in one of your own noxious brews. A tragedy, truly.

I'd hate to impose, of course, but if I don't get a break from rattling around in this mausoleum soon, I might be left with no choice but to visit Hogwarts myself. Imagine the scandal. I'd be forced to drop in on dear old Moony and Harry, make a right spectacle of myself. Dumbledore would probably just sigh and offer me tea, but I doubt Minerva would be quite as forgiving. The children would talk about it for weeks—Black haunting the halls once again! Can't have that, can we?

Save me from such a fate. Come over and explain to me why I shouldn't do something so reckless.

Sincerely,

Sirius Black

Perhaps it was the threat—half jest, half something Sirius might very well follow through on—that finally did it. Because a few nights later, Severus arrived.

Sirius was nursing a drink by the fire when the Floo roared to life, green flames casting flickering shadows across the dimly lit room. He barely had time to set his glass down before Severus stepped through, robes settling around him like storm clouds, his expression already full of irritation.

Sirius grinned, leaning against the doorway. "I assume you're here to save me from making a spectacle of myself?"

Severus gave him a slow, measuring look. "I'm here to ensure you do not do anything so profoundly idiotic that it would force me to intervene."

Sirius's grin widened. "So you do care."

Severus exhaled sharply, brushing soot from his sleeve. "Dumbledore ordered you to stay put."

Sirius smirked but remained silent. He got what he wanted, it wasn't a good time to push.

Severus came with a stack of parchment and a tired expression, his dark robes still smelling faintly of the potions classroom. He barely glanced at Sirius before making his way to the large wooden desk in the study, unceremoniously dropping the papers in front of him.

Sirius sprawled across the sofa, arched an eyebrow. "Bringing work over? How domestic of you, Severus. Should I fetch you a lamp and a cup of tea?"

Severus didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he pulled out a quill and started grading with sharp, efficient strokes, his eyes scanning each essay with clinical detachment.

Sirius watched him, a slow grin forming. "You do realize," he drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "that we both know my letters were just an excuse to get you here. And yet, here you are."

Severus didn't look up. "Your persistence is as insufferable as ever."

"And yet," Sirius echoed, smirking. "Here you are."

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't the sharp-edged kind they used to wield like weapons. It was something else entirely—something that settled rather than unsettled.

Encouraged, Sirius decided to push his luck.

"You know," he mused, watching the way Severus's hand moved—quick, deliberate, controlled—"I've always admired your hands. Precise. Steady. Makes sense, considering how much time you spend brewing things."

Severus continued grading, not so much as a flicker of reaction on his face. "Flattery will not earn you forgiveness for your many, many shortcomings."

Sirius grinned. "Who said anything about forgiveness? Maybe I just like paying you compliments."

"Then consider using your breath for something more useful, like silence."

Sirius chuckled, taking that as a small victory. Undeterred, he rose from the sofa and made his way toward the cabinet, retrieving a bottle of wine and another glass. He poured one without asking, then held it out to Severus expectantly.

Severus finally paused in his work, glancing up at Sirius, then at the offered glass. For a moment, Sirius thought he would refuse.

But then, without a word, Severus took it.

Sirius clinked his own glass against Severus's before settling back into his chair, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. "See? I knew you had it in you."

Severus exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if already regretting his decision. "I am beginning to suspect you have no actual intention of letting me work."

"Oh, please, don't let me stop you," Sirius said, leaning back with an exaggerated stretch. "I'm perfectly happy watching."

Severus's quill stilled for half a second before resuming its steady movements.

He never told Sirius to leave.

And Sirius counted that as another victory.

Sirius, drunk on success, had been emboldened. He flirted shamelessly, half-expecting Severus to shut him down with a sharp remark or a well-timed glare. But Severus did neither. He didn't react, didn't acknowledge the teasing for what it was. Nor did he reject it.

That should have warned Sirius, but he was too caught up in the game to notice. Too caught up in the way Severus remained, in the way he didn't recoil when Sirius leaned just a little too close.

And then, somehow, Severus didn't leave.

Sirius wasn't entirely sure how they got there. Maybe he was too handsy, or he leaned in too much. One moment, he was talking, the next, he was pressed against something—maybe the wall, maybe the table—and Severus was on him, against him, inside him. There was no tenderness, no slow unraveling of emotions, just the heat of it, the press of bodies, the sharp pleasure that left Sirius gasping.

Somewhere in the haze, he thought that if he had known it would be this easy, if he had known that all his denial had been for nothing, he wouldn't have wasted so much time.

But then it was over.

Severus stood, straightened his clothes, gathered his belongings and made for the door.

Sirius, still sprawled where Severus had left him, pushed himself up on one elbow. "Stay," he said, voice rough, throat dry.

Severus didn't even pause as he reached for his cloak.

"I don't see the point. You already got what you wanted. Isn't this what you had been trying to hint at," he said, tone unreadable, cold. "That you are lonely. And you need company."

The words landed like a slap, knocking the breath from Sirius's lungs.

Severus thought—

Oh.

He thought that the letters, the invites, the excuses to get him here—he thought all of it had just been about this. A desperate bid for someone to warm Sirius's bed, to fill the space Remus had left.

Sirius felt something sink in his stomach, heavy and leaden. The bitter taste of it burned at the back of his throat.

He had been so damn pleased with himself, so sure that he had managed to coax Severus into something real. But it wasn't real, was it? Not to Severus.

Just a moment of indulgence, easily discarded.

Sirius wanted to say something, to explain, to make Severus see—but the words wouldn't come. His tongue felt thick, useless. And Severus was already pulling open the door.

So Sirius did nothing. Said nothing.

Just watched Severus walk away.

Notes:

I'm truly sorry :(
Moral of the story: Don't pursue a relationship when you're depressed and stuck in your mother's house.