There will always be a next time.

Grimmauld Place had changed since the war.

Harry had only returned once or twice, and each time, the contrast struck him anew. It was still dark, still creaking, still full of shadows and old ghosts, but something had shifted. The house felt... lived in. Not in the way it had before, when it had been a grim hideout for the Order, but in a way that suggested permanence, however unlikely.

That was how Harry knew—even before seeing him—that Severus Snape was still here.

He had come to check on Sirius, or at least that's what he told himself. But now, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Sirius lean back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table while Snape sat across from him, reading, Harry wondered if Sirius even needed checking up on anymore.

The sight was almost mundane. Sirius muttered something under his breath, flipping through an old Daily Prophet with disinterest. Snape ignored him, his tea half-finished, his face unreadable.

Harry wasn't sure what he had expected after the war. He hadn't expected this.

He cleared his throat. "Didn't expect you two to still be stuck with each other after everything."

Sirius smirked. "And yet, here we are."

Snape didn't look up from his book, but Harry didn't miss the way his fingers twitched slightly against the pages.

It should have been impossible. Sirius and Snape in the same space, in the same house, without hexing each other. Without leaving.

And then it clicked.

Sirius, who kept saying how much he hated this place, hadn't been anywhere else, even after being exonerated. And Snape—Snape, who had spent his whole life standing at the edge of something, never stepping in—was still here.

Now Harry understood the longing look on Sirius's face all those years ago, when he had watched Snape from a distance, wanting something that had never been his to have. And he liked this version much better. Sirius gave him a home, something he had longed for, and he deserved to have his wish fulfilled too.

A minor scuffle broke the moment. Sirius tried to reach for Snape's book, perhaps just to be annoying, and Snape smacked his hand away without looking up.

"For Merlin's sake, Black, must you paw at everything?"

"It's my house," Sirius said with a grin, undeterred. "That means I reserve the right to touch anything in it," he added, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

"It's a miracle it's still standing, then," Snape replied drily, not taking the bait.

Harry watched them for another beat, the realization settling. They weren't gentle with each other, not in the way that stories said love should be. They bickered, they tested each other's patience, but they remained. Sirius, who had always burned too fast, had finally found something steady enough to keep him tethered. And Snape, who had spent years surviving rather than living, had chosen to stay.

The wounds weren't gone. The past still lingered in shadows and unspoken words. But something had shifted. The weight of years, of grief, of resentment, had lessened, even if only a little.

And Sirius—Sirius had noticed something else too.

Over time, Severus had started staying longer. At first, he would always find an excuse to leave. A potions supply he needed. A meeting with Minerva. The need for solitude. But now, the time between his departures stretched, the excuses grew thinner. He still never said anything, never admitted to anything. But Sirius saw it. He felt it.

And he didn't push. Didn't pry. Didn't demand more than Severus could give.

Because he had promised.

"I will have whatever you can offer. And in return, I will give you everything I've got."

Severus Snape had long since accepted that his life was not his own. Every choice he made had been dictated by guilt, by duty, by the ghosts of the past whispering their recriminations into his ear. He had resigned himself to the role of the condemned man, the double agent, the chess piece moved by forces greater than himself. And yet, somehow, despite all logic and reason, he had ended up here—standing in the shadows, watching over Potter, watching over Black, standing at the threshold of something he had never allowed himself to want.

It had started as all things did—with obligation. Potter was an untrained, reckless boy with a dangerous destiny. And Severus, for all his reservations, for all his bitterness, had promised to keep him alive. But something had shifted along the way. The lessons had changed, no longer a means to break Potter down but to build him up. To survive. To win. To live.

And Sirius. Sirius had been a complication, an unwanted distraction, a specter from a past Severus had spent decades trying to outrun. Yet, against all logic, against all self-preservation, Sirius had refused to let him disappear. He had been persistent, infuriating, impossible—and relentless in his belief that Severus was something more than the sum of his sins.

"I can't offer what I don't have," Severus had said, and it had been the truth. He had nothing left to give, nothing soft, nothing easy. But Sirius had never been one for easy. And when he had replied, "Then I will take whatever you can give, and in return, I will give you everything I have," Severus had believed him.

The war had demanded its price, and Severus had paid it willingly. He had spent years balancing on a knife's edge, waiting for the inevitable moment he would fall. But when the dust had settled, when victory had been declared, he found himself still standing. And Sirius was still there, waiting—steady, unwavering. It was both a challenge and a reassurance, a reminder that Severus was no longer standing at the edge of something unattainable, but rather, had stepped into something real. Something his.

There was no grand transformation, no sudden absolution. Severus was still a man built of sharp edges, and Sirius was still a reckless, maddening force of nature. But something had changed. Slowly, quietly, in ways neither of them spoke about, Severus had stopped running.

Sirius had become Severus's tether to the present, just as Severus had been Sirius's reason to look forward instead of back. For all their sharp words and tempers, there was an understanding between them, something unspoken but unbreakable. And Severus, who had spent so long searching for something to hold on to, had finally let go of the past.

Severus had kept his promise, in his own way.

"There will be a next time."

The always remained unsaid, but he kept coming back to Sirius.

Not because he had to, nor because he was bound by duty or penance.

But because, against all odds, against all expectations—he wanted to.

Notes:

I decided to write an extra chapter to delve a little deeper into Severus's motives. I think Sirius, being a Gryffindor, tends to romanticize things, while Severus, ever the Slytherin, is far more pragmatic. (Poor Sirius. But I'm a sucker for vulnerable Sirius—so, poor, poor Sirius.)

Severus didn't truly let himself care for Sirius until much later than it might seem from Sirius's perspective. But he's trying, despite all his flaws. And once Severus cares, he's nothing if not devoted. One day, his feelings for Sirius will not only match but possibly even surpass Sirius's.

So yeah, the extra chapter will be fluff—and therefore even more OOC.