Some truths were spoken, others left unacknowledged—but nothing would ever be the same again.

Before Sirius could make sense of anything—before he could untangle the mess of thoughts circling endlessly in his mind—the day of the Third Task arrived.

He didn't have time to dwell on Severus, on the lingering doubts gnawing at him, on the confusion and frustration still twisting in his chest. None of that mattered right now.

Tonight, he had only one priority.

Harry.

So he slipped into his Animagus form and made his way to Hogwarts as Padfoot, weaving unseen through the castle grounds. This had nothing to do with Severus. Nothing to do with the turmoil he had been drowning in for weeks.

This was about Harry. It had always been about Harry.

Sirius had always expected something to go wrong.

Everyone had.

Voldemort had been too quiet. Too still. Everyone was waiting for the storm to break, but no one had expected this.

The Third Task was supposed to be dangerous but controlled. A spectacle. It wasn't supposed to end with Harry staggering out of the maze, bloody, one hand clutching the Triwizard Cup, the other clinging to—

A dead body.

Sirius barely had time to recognize Cedric Diggory before Harry spoke, voice raw, barely comprehensible:

"He is back. Voldemort is back."

The world tilted. Sirius surged forward, his mind roaring with instinct and panic—Harry—but then—

A scent.

Wrong. Something was wrong.

He knew this smell. Bitter, acrid, overlaid with something off. He wouldn't have pieced it together if it hadn't been for Severus, for the way he had complained about missing ingredients, muttered darkly about students sneaking into his stores, speculated that Potter was up to mischief again.

It was Polyjuice Potion.

And it was coming from the judges… Bartemius Crouch.

Sirius hesitated, torn between running to Harry and following his gut—but then he spotted Remus rushing toward the boy, and that made his decision for him.

He lunged.

His teeth sank into Crouch's leg, a sharp, punishing bite meant to hurt, to keep him from running, from drawing his wand. Sirius growled, snapping and jerking, trying to pull the imposter down, to draw attention.

And then—

Severus's gaze landed on him.

Black eyes flicked to Crouch. To Sirius.

Understanding flashed across his face like lightning.

Severus didn't waste time. The moment he caught onto something wrong with Bartemius Crouch, he acted swiftly and efficiently. While the chaos of Harry's return had everyone's attention—while the boy clung to a dead body and gasped out his warning—Severus moved.

He restrained Crouch quietly, a well-placed spell rendering him motionless before anyone even noticed. Sirius, still in his Animagus form, trailed at his heels as Severus guided their prisoner away from prying eyes.

They led him to an abandoned classroom, one that had likely not been used in years, where dust gathered in thick layers over forgotten desks and broken chairs. The moment they were inside, Sirius transformed back into himself.

"We need Dumbledore," he said, straightening. His wand was already in hand, but instead of casting a spell, he called upon his Patronus.

The silver mist formed into a raven, sleek and dark, unlike the familiar shaggy dog that had once leapt from his wand. Sirius barely reacted, though something inside him twisted at the sight. Of course it's changed.

Severus said nothing. He only watched as the raven flew off, its wings cutting through the air in smooth, silent strokes. If he had thoughts about the Patronus, he kept them to himself, his wand never wavering from the frozen figure of Bartemius Crouch.

They waited.

The moment the door creaked open, Dumbledore strode inside, flanked by Moody, Remus, and Harry—pale, bloodied, barely keeping himself upright.

And then, right before their eyes, the Polyjuice Potion wore off.

Crouch's features melted and shifted, the lines of age fading, the hair turning wilder, the eyes sharpening with something manic and unhinged.

It was still Bartemius Crouch.

But it was not the one they had expected.

It was his son.

Bartemius Crouch Jr.

Sirius thought with cold detachment. That's why. He had told Remus to pay more attention to the Map when Severus told him about the stolen ingredients, and Remus had never seen anything.

Meanwhile, Severus wasted no time. He pried the man's mouth open with a firm grip and forced three drops of Veritaserum down his throat. Crouch choked, sputtered—but then, to Severus's irritation, grinned.

"Oh, you didn't need to do that," he rasped, voice hoarse but filled with manic glee. "I want to tell you."

Sirius and Remus exchanged wary glances, but Severus merely stepped back, wand still trained on the prisoner, watching with cold scrutiny as the truth began to spill forth.

Barty Crouch Jr. lay on the cold stone floor, panting, the last wisps of Polyjuice mist fading from his body. His eyes, bright with a feverish sort of triumph, darted between them. Even now, even exposed, there was something gleeful in his expression—like he had won something they had yet to understand.

Severus's lips curled in distaste. "Start talking."

Crouch let out a sharp, breathy laugh. "You already know, don't you?" His voice was hoarse, but it carried the eerie edge of someone who no longer had anything to lose. "It doesn't matter now. He's back."

Harry stiffened, his hands clenched at his sides.

Sirius stepped forward, muscles coiled with restrained fury. "You were supposed to die in Azkaban," he bit out. "How?"

"Father," Crouch spat the word with venom, "rescued me."

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "Rescued?"

"Oh yes, he broke me out. Not out of love, mind you. No, he replaced me with my mother, left her to die in my place, and kept me locked away like a dog." His gaze flickered to Sirius, lips curling in something between a sneer and amusement. "A fate you know well, Black."

Sirius bristled, but Crouch continued, eyes feverish. "I was weak, drugged, controlled under the Imperius Curse for years. But you see… the thing about the Imperius Curse is that if you fight it long enough, if you push hard enough, you start to break through." He let out a breathless, near-hysterical chuckle. "And I did. Oh, I did."

There was a sick kind of satisfaction in his face as he spoke. "And my master found me after seeing the Dark Mark I casted. He knows who has remained loyal to him all these years. He sent Wormtail to help me. The moment I was free, I turned his own curse back on him. Father became the prisoner, hidden under his own roof, watching me drink Polyjuice with his hair day after day taking his place in the Ministry."

His voice dropped to something conspiratorial, something hungry. "Do you know how easy it was? No one looked twice at Barty Crouch—too busy, too obsessed with work, too uninterested in personal matters. I took over his duties. I had access to everything. Every secret. Every connection. Every bit of information my Master needed."

He smiled then, wide and manic.

"But most importantly, I ensured that Potter was chosen."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

"I made sure his name came out," Crouch continued, savoring every word. "I made sure the odds were stacked in his favor—he had to compete, he had to win. And as the judge responsible for placing the Triwizard Cup…" His eyes glittered with triumph. "I made sure it would take him exactly where he needed to be."

A terrible silence settled over the room.

The trap had been there all along.

And they had all played into it.

The rest of the night passed in a blur.

Harry, pale and shaken, sat on the hospital bed, his voice raw as he recounted the horrors of the graveyard. His words came haltingly at first—Cedric's body hitting the ground, the bone-white gleam of Voldemort's reborn form, the Death Eaters circling, the duel, the escape. He clung to the memory of his mother and father's echoes, of their voices guiding him, but the weight of what had happened—of what it meant—pressed down on all of them.

Sirius sat beside him, silent, his hands clenched into fists. He had never wanted to murder someone more in his life.

And then came the next blow.

Crouch was gone. The Dementor's Kiss had been delivered swiftly, without trial, without interrogation—without answers. Cornelius Fudge, in his arrogance and incompetence, had ensured that. The moment he had set foot in the hospital wing, he had dismissed Harry's words, ignored the undeniable proof before him, and sealed their fate.

"Voldemort is back," Dumbledore said gravely. "Denying it does not change the truth."

Fudge scoffed. "It changes everything, Dumbledore. You-Know-Who is not back. This boy—" He gestured to Harry with an almost accusatory flick of his fingers. "—is traumatized. Confused. We will not be swayed by hysteria."

And that was it.

Denial. Stubborn, willful blindness.

Fudge left, and with him, the last chance at immediate action.

Dumbledore, however, wasted no time. He turned to them—Moody, Remus, Sirius, McGonagall—and spoke with the weight of a leader preparing for war.

"The Order must be reformed," he said. "Officially. There is no time to waste. We will need allies. More than before." His gaze swept over the room, considering, calculating. "We must be ready."

Then, his piercing blue eyes landed on Severus.

Severus met the look without flinching. He did not need to be told what was expected of him.

The understanding passed between them in silence.

Sirius felt it like a cold, leaden weight in his stomach.

Dumbledore was sending Severus back.

He knew it made sense. He knew this was Severus's role, his skill, his burden to bear. But it still felt like ice settling in his chest, because no matter how skilled Severus was, no matter how trusted he was in that role—one mistake, one misstep, and he would not be coming back.

And Wormtail and Crouch Jr. had been here, watching Severus when no one knew. Hell, Voldemort had been here himself during Harry's first year. And everyone knew Dumbledore's unwavering trust in Severus. Sirius couldn't imagine how Severus would be able to lie through his teeth and convince Voldemort that his allegiance had never changed during his absence.

Severus rose without a word, his robes billowing behind him as he made for the door.

And Sirius hesitated for only a second before pushing himself up and following.

Severus stopped at the sound of footsteps behind him, half-turning in the dim torchlight. His face was carefully composed, impassive, but something flickered in his eyes—wariness, a quiet warning.

"You shouldn't have followed me," Severus said, voice low. "People might see you."

Sirius ignored that. He took a step closer. "You promised me," he said quietly.

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. "What are you—"

"There will be a next time." Sirius's voice was steady, but his throat was tight. "That's what you said."

They both knew the meaning of the words had changed.

Sirius wasn't asking for anything now. Not for sex, not for affection, not for anything more than the simple promise that Severus would return—alive.

Severus looked at him for a long moment, studying him the way he always did—like he was weighing something in his mind.

And then, finally, he gave a small nod.

Not a promise. But something close.

And then he was gone.

When Sirius returned to the hospital wing, no one asked where he had gone. Maybe they hadn't noticed his absence, or maybe they were too exhausted, too consumed by the weight of the night's events.

Except Remus.

Sirius felt his gaze the moment he stepped back into the dimly lit room. That quiet, knowing look that had always made him feel exposed in ways he hated.

Understanding. Always understanding.

But this time, there was something else behind it. Something softer. Something dangerously close to pity.

Sirius ignored him.

He turned his attention to Dumbledore instead, just in time to hear him say—

"When Severus returns, it will be time for your Occlumency lessons, Harry."

The words landed in Sirius's chest like a dull weight. He had been expecting them. Dreading them.

Occlumency.

Dumbledore had explained the connection between Harry and Voldemort, the danger of it, the way Voldemort could slip inside his mind. He had emphasized the necessity of learning how to protect himself. There was no one better suited to teach him than Severus.

It made sense.

It always made sense.

And yet, Sirius couldn't stop the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. Not because of the lessons themselves, but because of the way Dumbledore had phrased it. When Severus returns.

Not if.

Sirius exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers to unclench.

Of course Severus would come back.

He had promised.