If a Patronus is the reflection of one's heart, did it reveal who they were, or who they had aspired to be?

Harry hadn't expected Snape to return—not after disappearing like that. Not after the way Sirius and Remus had exchanged those grim looks, their silence thick with meaning. Not after days of endless speculation about whether they had been seen together, whether Snape's life had been put at risk because of him.

One moment, the house was steeped in tense, lingering silence—Remus pacing near the fireplace, Sirius brooding with his arms crossed, and Harry staring down at his hands, replaying the events of that night over and over again.

And then, the fireplace roared to life, and there stood Snape, his expression as infuriatingly unreadable as ever. He had the audacity to act as though he hadn't just disappeared for days, as though he hadn't left them all—left Harry—wondering if he had been caught, or worse.

Harry barely had time to register the sheer absurdity of it before Snape inclined his head toward the adjacent room—an unmistakable signal. A silent question. Are you ready for another lesson?

A bloody lesson!

Harry's frustration flared, hot and immediate. He wanted to shout at him. To demand where he had been, why he had let him worry. But before he could even open his mouth, Sirius stepped forward, voice sharp with barely restrained anger.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Somewhere you couldn't write an owl? Send a Patronus message? Anything?"

Snape turned his gaze toward Sirius with slow, deliberate disdain. "I was unaware I am obliged to report to you, Black. Dumbledore knows my whereabouts."

Harry felt his stomach twist. He couldn't believe he had wasted all that worry, that guilt, on this bastard. Before he could snap out a response, Sirius took a step closer, his anger shifting into something more uncertain. He wasn't just furious—he looked shaken. Like he couldn't believe Snape was standing there, alive and unharmed. Or perhaps like he couldn't believe Snape had the nerve to act so dismissively after vanishing into thin air.

Harry's irritation churned under his skin.

"That's it?" he demanded, stepping forward. "You disappear in front of us, and that's all you have to say? No explanation, no—no anything?"

Snape's eyes flickered over him, cold and clinical as ever. "Do you require a signed affidavit, Potter? I am here now. That should be sufficient."

Harry felt heat rise to his face. "Sufficient?! Do you—do you even realize—?" He stopped himself, pressing his lips together. What was he supposed to say? That he had spent nights staring at the walls, wondering if Snape was dead? That he had been so sure he had gotten him killed? That despite everything—despite his lingering resentment toward Snape, despite the years of animosity and the unwavering loyalty he had once given to Voldemort—the thought of his death had made Harry feel sick?

Snape said nothing. Just looked at him, then at Sirius, then at Remus, before brushing past them like nothing had happened.

"Potter. Your lesson begins now. I expect you to have made some progress."

Harry's frustration reached a breaking point. He could not believe he had spent days worrying—only for him to walk in like nothing had happened. But something was off. Sirius wasn't just angry; he was watching Snape carefully, his gaze filled with something close to disbelief. Like he couldn't reconcile the man standing in front of them—alive and whole—with the moment he had vanished into thin air.

Like he didn't trust that Snape was safe and sound at all.

Remus, who had been silent all this time, laid a hand on Sirius's shoulder, his expression wary. "Maybe we should talk about this later."

Snape arched a brow, already losing patience with their dramatics. Then, with another sharp tilt of his head, he directed his attention back to Harry.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the days of silence, of the tension that had filled Grimmauld Place, of the sinking dread that had settled in Harry's stomach every time Snape failed to show up. Just that same maddening indifference.

Harry clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his wand. Fine. If Snape wanted to act like nothing had happened, Harry could too. But he wasn't about to let him walk all over him, either.

He stormed past him into the room, feeling Sirius's gaze burning into his back. He didn't know if it was directed at him or at Snape.

And right now, he couldn't care less.

Harry was brimming with righteous anger, ready to confront Snape. Ready to let him know he saw through his little game and wasn't playing along anymore.

"Look, I'm not going—"

Snape interrupted with a single, sharp command. "Cast your Patronus."

Harry blinked, thrown off by the abruptness. "What?"

"Are you deaf?" Snape's voice was sharp, laced with cold impatience. "Weren't you the one so eager to show off your new Patronus to all of Muggle London? To the members of the Wizengamot?"

He knew exactly what Snape was referring to—the night he'd stormed out of Grimmauld Place, the Dementors, his Patronus that had changed. The hearing that followed. And Snape's unreadable gaze as he dragged him back inside that night.

"It's not some parlor trick," he snapped, bristling. "What's the point? You've seen it that night."

Snape tilted his head ever so slightly, just enough for Harry to catch a flicker of something in his expression. Something sharp. Something buried deep.

"The point, Potter, is not for my benefit. It is for yours."

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing back the sharp retort burning on his tongue.

Grinding his teeth, Harry lifted his wand. He still wanted to fight, to push back, but something about this felt off—so off that, against his nature, he held his temper. Fine. If Snape wanted to see it so badly, so be it.

The silver doe burst forth from his wand tip, filling the dimly lit room with soft, shimmering light. She pranced forward, hooves clicking lightly against the wooden floor before circling back, sensing no danger. Without hesitation, she leaned into Harry's thigh, nuzzling him gently as if waiting for instruction. But then her luminous eyes flicked upward, settling on the other occupant of the room. Watching Snape with something akin to curiosity.

He could have sworn Snape's eyes darkened just a fraction, his fingers curling at his sides.

Harry braced himself for some kind of reaction. A sneer. A scoff. A cutting remark.

But Snape said nothing. He simply stood there, staring.

His gaze was intense, dark eyes following the graceful movements of the doe. His face, usually so quick to twist with disdain, was carved from stone—guarded. Controlled. But not unaffected.

It wasn't admiration. It wasn't hatred.

It was something else. Something Harry couldn't name.

As if he were memorizing it. Committing it to something beyond the moment.

Harry shifted, suddenly uneasy. "Well? You've seen it."

Still, Snape didn't move. Didn't speak.

The moment stretched, then snapped. His expression shuttered, his posture shifting ever so slightly, as if a switch had been flipped. Whatever had been in his eyes a second ago—whatever strange, unspoken thing had frozen him in place—was gone.

Then, just as suddenly, he turned away, robes swirling behind him. "I've heard you will be gracing Hogwarts with your presence again next year," he said, voice smooth, impassive. "I hope you are ready for another Occlumency lesson. I've been blunt in my attacks and given you plenty of warnings. Now you need to learn to detect subtle invasions."

Harry stared at him. Was Snape seriously pretending none of that had just happened? That he hadn't demanded a Patronus for no reason, hadn't studied the silver doe with something dangerously close to fascination, then fallen eerily silent?

"What?" Harry sputtered. "What was that about? What was the lesson? You're not even going to pretend I actually learned something?"

Snape's expression remained unreadable. "The lesson here, Potter," he said, slow and deliberate, as though explaining something to a particularly dense student, "is that I am the teacher and you are the student. I instruct, and you obey. Unless, of course, you believe you are ready to spread your own wings."

Something about the way he said it—so measured, so cutting—made Harry want to snap back. But then he caught it—a flicker across Snape's face, the faintest tension in his jaw, the barely perceptible twitch of his lip as he spoke the last word.

A crack in the mask.

"No!" Harry shouted. "I demand an answer!"

Snape's gaze flicked toward him, dark and cold.

And then, without a word, he turned on his heel.

"Then the lesson is over."

Harry barely had time to react before Snape was already striding toward the door, robes billowing behind him.

"Wait—"

But he was gone. Just like that. Vanishing into the hallway before Sirius or Remus could stop him. Disapparating before anyone could confront him.

As if he had only come here, after days of unexplained absence, just to see Harry's Patronus.

Harry clenched his fists, his breath escaping in short, frustrated bursts. His doe Patronus—his new Patronus—trotted toward him, nudging his leg lightly. But he barely felt it.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look.

Harry turned toward them, jaw tightening. "What the hell was that?"

Neither had an answer. But Sirius still looked shaken, staring at the empty space where Snape had stood.

"I didn't know your Patronus had changed," Remus said quietly. Then, after a pause, even softer—

"Lily's Patronus was a doe, too."

As if that explained everything.

It didn't.

Sirius had barely shut the door to his room when something in the shadows stirred. He froze, every nerve on edge, his fingers twitching toward his wand. The dim candlelight caught a figure standing against the far wall, arms folded, posture rigid—

Severus Snape.

Sirius's heart slammed against his ribs. Severus looked different—not just grim, which was his default state, but as if he were standing on the edge of something sharp, weighing a choice that couldn't be undone. The air in the room felt charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Merlin's sagging balls! You scared the shit out of me," Sirius burst out, the sudden adrenaline making his voice louder than intended.

Severus arched a single, unimpressed eyebrow, a silent command for him to lower his voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sirius hissed, taking a step closer. "I thought you were gone. You disappeared again—no word, no sign, not even a damn glare in my direction."

Severus didn't answer immediately. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, as though gathering himself. His expression was unreadable, but Sirius knew him well enough to recognize the way his fingers curled against his sleeve—hesitation. Uncertainty. The kind of thing Severus never allowed himself to show.

And then, in one fluid motion, Severus pulled out his wand.

Sirius flinched instinctively, his own wand halfway drawn before logic caught up. Severus wasn't aiming at him—his stance was too controlled, too precise. And then, without a word, he cast his Patronus.

A raven burst forth, its shimmering form flaring bright in the dim room. It glided through the air before coming to rest on the edge of the bedframe, its eyes unnervingly intelligent as it observed them both.

Sirius's breath caught. His mind stuttered, refused to process what he was seeing. When his own Patronus had changed, he had known, deep down, it had something to do with Severus. But this—

His voice came out unsteady. "Has it always been a raven?"

Severus met his gaze, unwavering. And then, in a low, deliberate voice, he countered, "Has yours?"

Sirius's throat was suddenly dry. He swallowed hard and gave a slow shake of his head. "No," he admitted. "It was a huge dog. Like Padfoot."

Severus inclined his head slightly, as if he had already known the answer. Then, after a long pause, as if he was at war with himself, he finally said, "Mine used to be a doe."

Silence. Heavy, deafening silence. Sirius felt as though the floor had been ripped from beneath him. He stared, trying to reconcile what Severus had just admitted. He hadn't expected a straight answer—hadn't expected Severus to say anything at all.

He had no words. Just the raw, gut-punching understanding of what this meant.

Before he could formulate a response, Severus flicked his wand with a sharp, impatient gesture. Their outer robes slipped from their shoulders to the floor.

Sirius barely had time to react before Severus pushed him onto the bed, the movement firm but not forceful. Still, the tension coiled tight in his chest made him resist. "I'm not—" he started, words stumbling over themselves. "I don't—"

He didn't want this night to end like one of those nights. Not after that revelation.

Severus silenced him with a glare before extinguishing the lights with another flick of his wand. "Just shut up, Black."

Then he pulled Sirius against him.

There were no words. No explanations. Just the press of Severus's body, solid and real, his breath measured and steady even as Sirius's own was erratic. Sirius wanted to speak, to demand answers, but he knew that if he did, the moment would shatter. So he said nothing, just lay there, absorbing the rare and fragile truth between them.

Time passed, the silence stretching long into the night. Sirius found himself listening to the quiet rhythm of Severus's breathing, felt the way his fingers occasionally twitched against his sleeve as though battling restless thoughts. The tension never fully left his body, and yet, he stayed. That, more than anything, made Sirius swallow down the thousand questions that burned at the tip of his tongue.

At some point, sleep overtook them both. Sirius dreamed in flickering images—a black dog chasing a raven flying through the trees, a doe watching from the shadows, green eyes he could never escape. When he stirred awake in the early hours, Severus was still there, his presence a grounding weight beside him.

When Sirius woke again in the morning, disoriented and uncertain if the night had been real, he turned his head—and found Severus still there, perched on his elbow, watching him with an unreadable expression.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Questions raced through Sirius's mind, but he hesitated, afraid that breaking the silence would shatter whatever fragile understanding had settled between them.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice rough from sleep. "You're still here."

Severus's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something Sirius couldn't quite name. "Evidently," he murmured.

Sirius nodded, absorbing the weight of that single word. For now, it was enough.

Notes:
Severus Snape, the man who always confessed without words.