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Summary
It started at Hogwarts, those sharp black eyes, that hooked nose, the way Severus moved. Sirius had mocked him, hexed him, pushed him into the Shrieking Shack just to watch Remus’s wolf nearly tear him apart. But even then, under the cruelty, there had been something else. A hunger. A need to break that icy composure and see what lay beneath.
Azkaban had only sharpened it. Twelve years in a cell, and every night Sirius’s mind had returned to the same image: Severus Snape bent over a cauldron, robes clinging to narrow hips, a tears on his pale cheek. When Sirius escaped, the obsession roared back to life, stronger than ever. He tracked Severus’s movements through the Order. He lingered in the shadows of Grimmauld Place whenever Severus came for meetings. He stole the man’s discarded cloak just to bury his face in it and inhale the scent of potions and bitter herbs.