Some betrayals cut deeper than a knife—especially when the wound was already open.

Sirius didn't know how he got back to Grimmauld Place.

One moment, he was standing in the hospital wing, Dumbledore's voice still echoing in his head—when Severus returns—and the next, he was here, back in the place that was never a home, just a prison with his family's name carved into every cursed inch of it.

He had wanted to stay. He had wanted to be by Harry's side, and he had wanted to wait—as if by sheer force of will, he could ensure Severus came back alive.

But Dumbledore had been insistent.

And Dumbledore was always persuasive.

So now he was here, pacing the halls like a restless spirit, or worse—curled up in his other form, pressed into the shadows, as if he could disappear into them completely.

As Padfoot, time lost meaning.

Hours or days could have passed, and he wouldn't have known the difference.

All he knew was that the house was silent except for the steady rhythm of his own breathing, the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his shifting weight. He let himself sink into the mind of the dog, into something simple and wordless, something that wouldn't feel so much—

And then, suddenly, he smelled it.

The scent hit him before he heard the door creak open, before the sound of careful, deliberate footsteps filled the air.

Familiar.

Bitter, sharp, edged with the remnants of sweat and smoke and the thick scent of potions.

Severus.

Sirius was on his feet before Severus had even fully stepped inside.

He shifted—transformed back into himself in one fluid motion—just as Severus lifted his head.

They stared at each other.

Neither of them spoke.

Sirius took him in—pale, drawn, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. But he was here. He was alive.

That was all that mattered.

And then—

Neither of them knew who moved first.

One moment, they were standing apart, breathing the same air, something unspoken stretching tight between them—

And the next, their lips crashed together, teeth clashing, hands gripping, pulling, tangling.

Severus tasted like firewhisky and fatigue, like something burned down to the bone, something barely holding itself together. And Sirius—Sirius let himself sink into it, let himself drown in it, let himself feel everything in the way Severus clutched at him, in the way their bodies collided like a battle neither of them could afford to lose.

They didn't stop.

Not when they stumbled, not when they fell back against the wall, not when they found their way to the bed in a tangle of limbs and desperation.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was frantic and raw, full of wordless demands and the unspoken terror of facing the uncertainty of life. It was bruising kisses and hands gripping too tightly, breaths stolen between bites and curses, an unrelenting need to prove they were both still here.

And afterward—

Severus stayed.

Like he had promised.

Sirius lay beside him, listening to the quiet sound of his breathing, watching the way the dim light cast shadows across his face.

He wanted to believe something had changed.

But he wasn't sure if tonight's passion meant anything more than a desperate need for proof—for Severus to feel that he was alive, that his body still responded, that he hadn't been swallowed whole by the darkness he had walked back into.

And he didn't know if Severus stayed because he wanted to—

Or if he was simply too exhausted to leave.

And he wasn't sure he could bear the answer.

Sirius woke to an empty bed.

The sheets beside him were cool, the dent in the pillow barely noticeable, as if Severus had never been there at all. For a long moment, he simply stared at the space where Severus had been, willing himself not to feel the sting of disappointment.

He should have expected this. Had expected it, if he were being honest. And yet, it still hurt—more than he wanted to admit.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair and let out a bitter laugh. What did he think was going to happen? That Severus would stay? That he'd want breakfast and conversation?

Severus had done what he always did. Left. Slipped away before the world could lay claim to him. Before Sirius could.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling of Grimmauld Place, an old, familiar ache settling deep in his chest. He told himself it was fine. He'd known from the start that this wasn't anything more than what it was. He could deal with that.

But as the hours stretched on, and the house around him remained suffocatingly silent, Sirius realized something unsettling.

He hadn't just wanted Severus to stay the night.

He wanted him to stay.

He thought of all the times they had danced around each other, sharp words laced with something softer. He thought of the quiet moments by the fireplace, the way their battles had always been more than just hatred. He thought of how it had felt to hold Severus last night—the way his body had fit against his own, the quiet, exhausted surrender of a warrior returned alive.

He had been a fool to think he could be satisfied with physical proximity and not want more.

The realization curled bitter and heavy in his chest.

The next time Sirius saw him, it was at an Order meeting.

Severus was standing across the room, expression cool, posture composed, as if nothing had happened between them at all. As if that night had been nothing more than a moment easily discarded, barely worth remembering.

Sirius clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He had no right to be angry.

But damn it, he was.

The first Order meeting after Voldemort's return was a long one.

Dumbledore stood at the head of the room, his expression grave as he recounted Bartemius Crouch Jr.'s confession and the horrors that had unfolded in the graveyard. Though most of the Order listened in tense silence, Sirius barely registered the words. He had already heard it all the night of the Third Task.

Instead, he watched Severus.

Severus sat with his usual rigid posture, hands folded neatly on the table, his face unreadable. If he was exhausted from the past days—weeks—he showed no sign of it. His dark eyes remained locked on Dumbledore, betraying nothing.

And yet, not once did he look at Sirius.

Not even a glance.

Sirius told himself it didn't matter, that it was just Severus being Severus. But with every second that passed, irritation curled hot in his chest.

Then it was Severus's turn to report.

He spoke with clinical precision, his voice cool and measured as he detailed the Death Eaters's response to Voldemort's return. Many had answered the call—some out of loyalty, some out of fear, and some, he implied with distaste, because they saw an opportunity to regain their lost power.

Voldemort, he continued, had decided to remain in the shadows. If the Ministry refused to believe he had returned, he would use their ignorance to his advantage.

Then Severus said something that made Sirius sit up straighter.

"The Dark Lord is seeking information on the prophecy," he stated. "He wants to know its full contents."

Sirius caught it then—just the briefest flicker in Severus's expression. Something too quick to name.

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "And he expects you to retrieve this information?"

Severus inclined his head. "And other means."

A heavy silence fell over the room. The weight of it pressed against Sirius's chest. He didn't like this. He didn't like that Voldemort had fixated on something concerning Harry. And he sure as hell didn't like whatever had passed over Severus's face in that moment.

Severus wasn't the type to waver. Whatever had gotten to him—it wasn't nothing.

And Sirius intended to find out what it was.

Sirius had been waiting for Severus to slip away. He knew he would—he always did. The moment the meeting ended, Severus was the first to rise, nodding curtly at Dumbledore before making his way toward the door.

Sirius was faster.

He caught Severus in the dim corridor outside, stepping into his path before he could disappear into the shadows like he always did.

"You flinched," Sirius said, his voice low but edged with something sharp.

Severus barely reacted, only arching a brow. "What an astute observation. And?"

"And I want to know why." Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Something about the prophecy is getting to you."

Severus tilted his head as if considering whether to waste his time indulging him. "I don't know what you think you saw, but—"

"Don't do that," Sirius snapped. "Don't lie to me."

Severus scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. "I wasn't aware we had reached the stage where truthfulness was an expectation."

"Damn it, Severus." Sirius ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I—" He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to push past his anger. "Look, I don't give a damn about your spy games, or how many lies you have to tell to stay alive. I just—" He hesitated, then met Severus's gaze head-on. "I care about you. Deeply."

The words left him before he could stop them.

Severus stilled.

Sirius could see the precise moment his mask cracked—just for a heartbeat, just long enough for something unguarded to flicker across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by something cold and brittle.

"You care about me?" Severus repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. "How touching."

"I mean it," Sirius insisted. "I don't care what you've done, or what you have to do. Just trust me. A little."

Severus let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

"Would you still feel the same," he asked, "knowing it was me who passed on the first half of the prophecy to the Dark Lord?"

Sirius felt the blood drain from his face.

Severus watched him carefully, his dark eyes glittering with something unreadable.

"Yes," Severus continued, his voice smooth and cruel, "it was I who set it all in motion. I who made him target the Potters in the first place."

Sirius's breath caught in his throat.

"And when I realized what I had done," Severus went on, as if reciting some dark, inevitable fate, "I begged for one life. Just one." He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "I asked him to spare Lily. Not James Potter. Not Harry Potter. Just Lily."

Sirius staggered back a step.

Severus's lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smirk, wasn't quite a sneer. "Do you still care, Black?"

Sirius stared at him, his stomach twisting into knots. He had thought he knew Severus. Thought he understood the worst of his sins. But this—

This was something else entirely.

He didn't move. He couldn't.

Severus studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, then exhaled through his nose and murmured, "I thought so."

And then he turned and left.

His footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into nothing. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the stone walls, stretching and twisting as if mocking the way Sirius stood frozen in place, his breath shallow, his pulse thundering in his ears.

He felt like he had been hit with a Bludger.

The first half of the prophecy.

Severus had told Voldemort the first half of the prophecy.

It was him. It was because of him.

Sirius pressed a hand against the cold stone wall, his fingers splayed as if it could ground him, as if it could stop the room from tilting.

He had spent so much time watching Severus, studying him, trying to figure out where he stood, what he felt, if anything had changed between them. He thought he had made progress. Thought he had seen something real in Severus, something beyond their past, beyond their bitterness, beyond the way they tore into each other with words and hands alike.

And now this.

The whole reason James and Lily had been hunted. The reason they had died. The reason Harry had been marked. The reason Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban, tormented by his own guilt, by the knowledge that he had sent his best friends to their deaths—

It had been Severus.

His body went numb, his mind spiraling too fast to keep up.

But the worst part—the part that made his stomach twist, that made him feel sick—was the way Severus had said it. The way he had let the words fall so smoothly from his lips. He hadn't flinched, hadn't hesitated, hadn't apologized.

Because he wasn't sorry.

No—he had begged for one life. Lily's. Not James's. Not Harry's.

And Sirius knew, in that moment, that it wasn't grief or guilt that had flickered across Severus's face before.

It had been a test.

A cruel, deliberate test.

And Sirius had failed.

He sucked in a breath, his throat tight, and pushed himself off the wall. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream. To break something. To find Severus and demand—what? An explanation? A justification? A chance to pretend none of this had happened?

But no.

That wasn't what he really wanted.

Because the worst part, the part he couldn't even admit to himself, was that even knowing all of this, even with this truth burning inside him like a curse—

He still wanted Severus to come back.