Chapter Text
The first time Severus Tobias Snape and Sirius Orion Black met, there was nothing discreet about it — at least, not for Sirius. For the rest of the compartment, it was just another thin boy entering with clothes far too simple for that kind of trip, carrying a worn suitcase and a gaze far too sharp for someone of eleven; but Sirius did not see poverty, did not see inadequacy, did not even see the glaring contrast between that boy and everything he himself represented — he saw perfection, raw and unexpected, like one of those stellar explosions he had heard adults mention in boring conversations: rare, violent, impossible to ignore. Severus’s eyes were so dark… in a way that reflected almost no light, that seemed simply to absorb it, and within them existed something Sirius recognized almost immediately, something that made him tilt his head slightly, intrigued — ambition, pure and sharp, the kind of thing that should not exist so clearly in a child, but that pulsed there nonetheless, alive, promising, worthy, in his mind already shaped by the pride of the Black lineage, of a consort worthy of him.
Sirius had grown up having everything he wanted, and that was never questioned — not when he cried until he received a gift he didn’t even know the name of, not when he decided he wanted a brother simply because his cousins always had someone to play with, not when he demanded attention, space, devotion; the world, until then, had always bent, even if reluctantly, and that built in him a silent, unshakable certainty that wanting was the same as possessing, that desiring something was the inevitable first step to having it. So, when Severus Snape entered that compartment and hesitated for a second before choosing a seat — a single second, but enough for Sirius to notice every detail, every microexpression, every calculation — the decision was already made before any word was spoken: that boy would be his.
“You can sit,” Sirius said, as if granting something, his voice light, almost bored, but his gray eyes fixed too intently, too attentively, shining with an interest he rarely allowed himself to show so openly.
Severus observed him for a moment longer than expected, evaluating, measuring, and there was something in that gaze that did not retreat, that did not feel intimidated by Sirius’s impeccable clothes, his naturally haughty posture, the name not yet spoken but already heavy in the air; it was irritating, a little, the way he did not seem impressed, as if he were used to analyzing and discarding before even considering.
Severus was about to sit when he hesitated — not out of doubt, but by choice — and instead of simply accepting the seat, he leaned slightly back, turning toward the corridor, as if Sirius ceased to be the immediate center of his attention the instant another priority imposed itself. It was a small movement, almost banal to any inattentive observer, but for Sirius, who was already watching him with a nearly predatory focus, it felt like an unexpected rupture in the natural order of things.
“Lily,” Severus called, his voice low but firm enough to cut through the train’s chatter. “I found a carriage.”
The girl appeared almost immediately, as if she had already been nearby, and there was something in the way she approached — direct, comfortable, without hesitation — that established, without need for explanation, that she belonged to the space around Severus long before Sirius had even been considered. Lily Evans entered the compartment with lively curiosity in her eyes, quickly assessing the environment, the people, and for a second her gaze crossed Sirius’s, recognizing something she could not yet name, but she did not linger; it was Severus who received her full attention, and he, in turn, leaned slightly toward her, reducing the distance between them naturally, instinctively, murmuring something no one else could hear. Sirius saw the movement, saw the closeness, saw the way her response came quickly, interested — and something inside him tightened.
It was not a feeling he was used to.
Because Sirius Black had never needed to compete for attention.
And yet, there he was, watching as Severus Snape — the boy he had decided, without margin for contestation, would be his — directed words, glances, and small gestures to someone else, as if that were perfectly acceptable.
As if Sirius were not there.
Severus had not yet fully sat down when Lily Evans threw herself down beside him in the compartment, and this time he did not hesitate to take the seat next to her, as if that space had, from the very beginning, been meant for the two of them; there is a naturalness in the way they settle, shoulder almost brushing shoulder, that speaks of an intimacy already built, of previous conversations, of a bond that does not need to be introduced — and yet, it will be. Because now there are others there.
For a brief moment, silence settles in, not uncomfortable, but expectant, as if everyone were, in some way, aware that this small improvised group is about to define itself.
It is Lily who breaks it first.
"I’m Lily Evans!" she says, with an open, direct smile, the kind of warmth that does not ask permission to exist. "I’m Muggle-born. I hope you don’t mind that."
She does not hesitate when she says it, does not soften it, does not measure the others’ reactions before claiming what she is, and there is a subtle firmness in her voice that makes it clear there is no shame there, only truth. Her eyes move from face to face, curious, attentive, and when she leans slightly toward Severus, it is almost like a silent invitation.
"Severus Snape," he adds, his voice more restrained, lower, but no less steady. "Half-blood."
There is no further explanation, no attempt to elaborate or justify; Severus offers only what is essential, as if each word were chosen carefully, as if there were no need to give more than what he considers sufficient. Even so, his eyes travel across the others in the compartment, observing reactions, noting details — learning.
"Remus Lupin," the more mild-looking boy says next, with a slight nod of his head, as if he does not want to interrupt the natural flow of things too much. "Also half-blood."
There is something understated about him, almost deliberately faded, but not weak — just… careful. His eyes meet Lily’s for a moment, gentle, before drifting away.
"Peter Pettigrew," the next one hurries to say, as if afraid of losing the moment. "Pure-blood."
He speaks too quickly, and there is a certain relief in his expression when he finishes, as if that simple declaration were, in some way, important enough to be said without delay.
Then, inevitably, attention turns to the last two.
James Potter smiles before he even begins, as if he were already far too comfortable in his own skin to worry about first impressions.
"James Potter," he says, almost with pride, the name coming easily. "Pure-blood."
There is no explicit arrogance there, but there is confidence, a slight expectation of recognition that is not quite demanded, only… assumed.
And then Sirius.
He does not speak immediately.
For a second, he simply watches — Severus, mainly, the way he listens, the way he registers every detail, the way he does not seem particularly impressed by any of the names so far. It is curious, almost fascinating, and deeply irritating.
"Sirius Black," he finally says, and unlike the others, his name is not merely an introduction; it carries weight, history, expectation, even if no one there, except perhaps Severus, fully understands the extent of it. "Pure-blood."
There is a subtle pause afterward, as if the air had adjusted itself around those words.
Because “Black” is not just a surname.
It is a legacy.
One of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight. Older even than the Potters.
And yet—
Nothing.
No real reaction.
No spark of immediate recognition, no sign of deference, no awe.
Severus simply watches him for a moment, evaluating, and then looks away, as if he had decided something internally and that was enough.
It is the first time Sirius Black introduces himself — truly introduces himself — and does not receive exactly what he expects in return.
And that should be an insult.
It should bother him, provoke him, wound his carefully cultivated pride.
But instead, something different settles in.
Something sharper.
More interesting.
Because, for the first time, it is not about being recognized.
It is about being… chosen.
And while Lily resumes the conversation lightly, pulling a comment here, a question there, and Remus responds calmly, James joins in with enthusiasm and even Peter ventures to participate, Sirius finds himself doing something he has never needed to do before:
Pay attention to every small movement of Severus Snape.
To the way he speaks little, but observes a lot.
To the way he leans slightly toward Lily when answering, as if she were the axis around which he chooses to turn — for now.
To the way he simply… does not look at Sirius enough.
And it is in that detail, small and persistent, that something new begins to be born within the Black heir.
It is no longer just interest.
It is a challenge.
Inside the compartment, the other boys follow the new dynamic with more open curiosity. James Potter watches everything with evident interest, an easy smile forming on his lips as if he were already enjoying that small improvised gathering; Peter Pettigrew seems more cautious, looking from one face to another as if trying to understand where he fits; and Remus Lupin, silent, attentive, perceives more than he shows, his gaze resting for a moment on Severus and Lily before softening when she, noticing his attention, addresses him with a naturalness that breaks any initial formality. The conversation between the two begins in a calm, fluid way, and quickly creates a new axis of attention within the compartment — an axis of which Sirius, once again, is not part.
And that is… unacceptable.
Because Severus does not look at him.
Not enough.
Not as he should.
How dare he? Sirius Black was there, willing to give him all his attention and Severus simply... did not care.
There are moments, brief and almost accidental, when dark eyes pass over him, but never linger, never settle, never show that kind of interest that Sirius, even without admitting it out loud, already expects, already considers due. Instead, Severus divides his attention between Lily, the window, the other students, as if Sirius were just another — and that possibility, that simple idea, ignites something dangerous beneath the controlled surface of the Black heir.
So he does what he has always done when something does not fit his expectations:
He takes control.
"Have you thought about which house you’ll be in?" Sirius interrupts, his voice cutting through the flow of the other conversations with a practiced lightness, but carrying beneath it an intention far too clear for anyone who knows how to observe.
It works.
Attention shifts, even if only partially, and this time Severus looks — not for long, but enough — and that is already more than Sirius had a second ago.
"Gryffindor!" James says first, almost before he has even finished thinking, his easy smile widening as if the idea pleases him immediately. "It just seems… right, you know? Courage, action, that sort of thing. My parents were there, it’s where they fell in love..."
There is a vibrant energy in him, something impulsive, and it is easy to imagine that he would truly fit there, as if he had been born ready for it.
"I think so too," Lily adds, thoughtful but excited, her eyes shining with genuine curiosity. "I mean, I don’t know exactly how it works, but… it seems like a good place."
She exchanges a quick glance with Severus as she says it, as if seeking confirmation, or perhaps just sharing the thought, and he does not respond immediately; he only watches, absorbs, as if organizing the information before committing to any answer.
"Hm…" Remus murmurs, more to himself than to the others, but loud enough to be heard. "Gryffindor seems… interesting. But I’ve heard Ravenclaw values intelligence, and Hufflepuff… well, loyalty isn’t exactly a bad thing."
There is a slight hesitation in his voice, not from insecurity, but from genuine consideration; he does not choose impulsively, does not cling to an idea just because it sounds good — he weighs, compares, analyzes.
"I just… hope I don’t end up somewhere bad," Peter blurts out, with a nervous laugh that is not exactly funny, but not ignored either. "Anywhere’s fine, as long as… well, as long as I can keep up."
James shoots him a quick glance, almost automatic, as if he had already decided something about him, and then leans back again, far too relaxed to worry about negative possibilities.
Sirius listens to all of this with an expression that shifts between boredom and interest, but his eyes, inevitably, always return to the same point.
Severus.
Who still has not spoken.
And that, more than anything else, bothers him.
"And you?" Sirius asks, direct this time, without pretense, his attention sharp as a blade. "Are you going to stay silent or have you already decided?"
There is a slight weight in the question, something that tries to provoke, to pull a reaction, and for a moment Severus does not answer; he only lifts his gaze, meeting Sirius’s with that same contained intensity, as if evaluating not only the question, but the intention behind it.
Then, finally:
"Slytherin."
The word falls simply, without hesitation, without doubt.
And it makes sense.
It makes sense in a way that is almost irritating in its precision.
Ambition, cunning, strategy — everything in Severus points in that direction as if it were already inevitable.
Lily frowns slightly, turning to him with a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Really?" she asks, tilting her head. "I’ve heard it’s… kind of…" she hesitates, searching for the right word, but does not finish.
"Selective?" Severus suggests, cool, but not offensive. "Demanding."
He shrugs, minimal.
"It makes sense. My mother was there, I want to be part of it too."
And it does.
Sirius watches that with renewed attention, something shifting inside him with that confirmation; it is not a surprise, not exactly, but hearing it out loud makes everything more… concrete.
More distant.
And he does not like that.
"I want Gryffindor!" Sirius continues, as if the decision were already carved in stone. "That’s where I’m going."
James raises his eyebrows immediately, leaning forward slightly with renewed interest, as if that information were more intriguing than expected.
"Really?" he asks, a smile beginning to form. "Isn’t your whole family in Slytherin?"
There is a brief silence after that, the kind of pause that carries weight, history, expectation.
Sirius could answer in several ways.
He could repeat what he has heard his entire life, could accept the path already laid out, could fit perfectly into the image everyone expects of him.
But Sirius Black was never made to be predictable.
"Well, yes..." he says, with a slight shrug that tries to seem indifferent, but does not completely hide the defiant glint in his eyes. "They’re all there."
He pauses, brief, calculated, letting the information settle before continuing, his voice gaining a firmer note, more personal, more… his.
"And that’s exactly why it wouldn’t be any fun!" Sirius mutters, the disdain surfacing naturally. "The Black path in Slytherin is already set, it’s easy, it’s… common."
The word sounds wrong in his mouth, like something he refuses to accept for himself.
"And I’m not common," he adds, now without any attempt to soften his own conviction. "I’m extraordinary! I need the spotlight, and Gryffindor is perfect for that!"
This time, when the silence comes, it is different.
More attentive.
Heavier.
And, for a second — a single second that Sirius clings to as if it were victory — Severus’s eyes remain on him a little longer than before, analyzing, recalculating, perhaps reconsidering.
It is not enough.
But it is a start.
Because, on the other side of that brief eye contact, there is something Sirius recognizes again, something that draws him in as much as it irritates him: Severus is already thinking ahead, already choosing his own path, a path that has nothing to do with spotlights or easy recognition.
A path that, Sirius realizes with sudden and uncomfortable clarity, will probably take him away from him.
Slytherin.
The realization does not come as a surprise — it fits perfectly with everything Severus seems to be, with the quiet ambition, with the contained control, with the way he observes before acting — but that does not make the idea any more acceptable.
Severus Snape was not meant to stay away from him.
And Sirius, even without yet knowing how, decides it there, in that cramped compartment of the Hogwarts Express, surrounded by voices, laughter, and futures just beginning to take shape:
this will not be an obstacle.
It will be a challenge.
----/----/----/----/----
The Great Hall of Hogwarts is larger than anything most of them have ever seen, and even so, it is not the size that impresses the most — it is the details. The enchanted ceiling reflecting a sky that does not quite belong to the world outside, the floating candles casting soft light over long tables filled with older students, the curious gazes that turn toward the new ones, assessing, judging, anticipating. For some, it is dazzling. For others, intimidating.
For Severus Snape, it is… information.
His eyes move across everything with quiet attention, absorbing patterns, registering behaviors, understanding dynamics before even becoming part of them. He is not dazzled, he does not shrink — he learns.
Beside him, Lily Evans tries to hide her wonder, but cannot completely; her eyes shine, her steps are slightly quicker, as if she were eager to discover exactly where she will fit in that new world. Ahead, James Potter already seems far too comfortable, looking around with open curiosity, while Peter Pettigrew stays close, almost glued to him, and Remus Lupin observes with that characteristic calm, as if cataloging every detail in a more subtle way.
And Sirius Black—
Sirius does not observe Hogwarts.
He has enough cousins to already know how to describe every corner of this castle without ever having set foot on its enchanted stones.
He observes Severus.
Even surrounded by something that should hold his attention, even before a scene that marks the beginning of something grand, his gray eyes return, repeatedly, to the same point, as if there were something there not yet resolved, something he refuses to let slip away.
The separation has not happened yet.
Not yet.
But it is about to.
The Sorting Hat rests on the stool ahead, old, seemingly harmless, but carrying a weight that everyone feels, even without fully understanding it. When the names begin to be called, one by one, the hall fills with applause, murmurs, expectations being confirmed or broken.
Sirius barely pays attention to the first ones.
Not until—
"Evans, Lily."
The name echoes through the hall, and there is a small silence before Lily steps forward, taking a deep breath, her shoulders slightly tense. She casts a quick glance at Severus before going up, as if searching for something — support, perhaps, or simply proximity — and he returns it with a minimal nod, almost imperceptible, but enough.
The Hat touches her head.
A pause.
And then—
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The table erupts in applause, and Lily smiles, relieved, walking quickly to her place, still absorbing the impact of the choice. Her eyes search for Severus again, as if wanting to share that moment, but it is already too late — the flow continues.
"Lupin, Remus."
Remus walks with more calm, as if he has already made peace with any possible outcome. The Hat takes a little longer this time, murmuring softly, perhaps undecided, weighing.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
More applause, more acceptance.
"Pettigrew, Peter."
The nervousness is evident, almost palpable, and when the result comes — "GRYFFINDOR!" — there is such relief in his expression that it is visible even from a distance.
"Potter, James."
James steps up with confidence, as if it were just another inevitable step, and the Hat barely touches his head before announcing—
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The table celebrates as if it already recognizes him, as if he already belonged there before arriving.
And then—
"Black, Sirius."
There is a shift in the air.
Not large, not explicit, but enough.
The name carries weight, and the hall feels it.
Sirius stands with a straight posture, every movement calculated without seeming forced, and for a brief second — a single second — his eyes meet Severus’s. There is no smile, no gesture, only that direct, firm contact, as if something were being said without words.
Then he sits.
The Hat barely touches his head before beginning to speak, and, unlike the others, Sirius listens.
Arguments.
Suggestions.
Paths.
Slytherin.
Tradition.
Legacy.
Ease.
And then—
"No," Sirius thinks, with a firmness that admits no argument.
It is not about what they expect from him.
It never was.
The Hat seems to consider that, to weigh it, to adjust—
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The hall reacts, divided between surprise and approval, but Sirius is already on his feet, already stepping down, already taking his place as if it had always been where he was meant to be.
Even so—
His eyes return.
They always return.
"Snape, Severus."
This time, the silence is different.
More restrained.
More attentive.
Severus walks to the stool without haste, without hesitation, as if that moment were merely the confirmation of something he already knows. There is no search for glances, no need for support — he does not look at Lily, does not look at Sirius, does not look at anyone.
He sits.
The Hat touches his head—
And, for a moment, everything seems to… stop.
Because the Hat speaks.
More than it did with the others.
Lower.
Longer.
As if it were exploring something deeper, more complex.
Ambition.
Hunger.
Sharp intelligence.
Control.
And then, of course—
"SLYTHERIN!"
The green and silver table erupts in applause, welcoming him immediately, as if recognizing something valuable, something promising. Severus stands, removes the Hat, and walks to his new place without looking back.
Without looking at Sirius.
And it is in that moment that the separation finally becomes real.
Different tables.
Different houses.
Different paths.
Sirius watches as Severus sits among the Slytherins, already being absorbed by that new environment, already beginning to belong in a way that does not include him.
And something inside him refuses to accept that.
He leans back slightly, his gaze still fixed, still calculating, still deciding — because, for Sirius Black, distance has never been a definitive barrier.
Only a temporary obstacle.
"Hey," he calls to Severus, low but firm, drawing the attention of a few older students at his own table. "You’ve got some of mine cousins in Slytherin."
A few glances turn, curious.
"And why are you telling me that?" the dark-eyed boy asks, genuinely curious.
"Tell them," Sirius continues, his voice taking on an almost casual tone, but carrying far too much intention, "that you’re my friend. They can help you."
He does not need to say the names.
But he does anyway.
"Narcissa is the kindest, talk to her if you need to."
There is a brief silence after that, followed by a nod here, a comment there — nothing official, nothing declared, but enough.
Enough to plant something.
And Sirius, finally, looks away.
But he does not give up.
Because, on the other side of the hall, beneath floating lights and among voices that begin to blend into a new routine, Severus Snape is exactly where he wanted to be.
And Sirius Black—
Sirius has simply decided that it changes absolutely nothing.
----/----/----/----/----
The first weeks at Hogwarts pass too quickly for those still trying to understand how everything works, but slowly enough for patterns to settle — and Sirius Black notices every single one of them, especially those involving Severus Snape. It is not difficult, in truth; Severus quickly becomes a constant presence at the Slytherin table, always in the same seat or close to it, always with books at hand, always surrounded by an attention that Sirius considers… excessive. That is how he notices the other boy for the first time.
He is not extraordinary.
He does not have a name that carries weight, does not have a particularly imposing posture, has nothing that, in Sirius’s eyes, justifies what happens next — and yet, it happens. The boy leans over Severus during dinner, getting closer than necessary, pointing at something on a piece of parchment, speaking too quietly for others to hear. Severus does not pull away. Worse: he responds. He leans in as well, reduces the distance, murmurs back, and for a brief moment there is something there that looks dangerously like… complicity.
Sirius feels it before he understands it.
Something fast, hot, unpleasant.
His body reacts before his mind can catch up, his posture stiffening slightly, gray eyes fixing on that interaction with an intensity that should not exist for something so small. He does not hear what James is saying beside him, does not notice when Peter laughs at something, does not respond to Remus’s calm remark — all that exists, in that moment, is the improper closeness between Severus Snape and someone who should not be there.
Not like that.
Not in the place that should be his.
"Who is that?" Sirius asks suddenly, his voice low, but carrying something that does not go unnoticed.
Remus follows his gaze, attentive.
"I don’t know," he answers calmly, "but he just looks like a housemate."
"Just."
The word echoes in an irritating way.
Because it does not seem like “just.”
Not when Severus does not pull away.
Not when he allows it.
Not when… he completely ignores Sirius’s existence.
"He’s too close," Sirius murmurs, more to himself than to the others, but loud enough for James to raise an eyebrow, curious.
"You barely know Snape," James comments, half amused, half confused. "Since when does that bother you?"
Sirius does not answer immediately.
Because the answer is not simple.
Not logical.
But it is clear.
Since the moment Severus entered that compartment.
"Since now," he says at last, dry.
On the other side of the hall, Severus turns his head slightly, as if he had felt something, as if he were being watched — and, for a second, his eyes meet Sirius’s.
But they do not stay.
They slip back to the parchment, to the other boy, to anything that is not him.
And that—
That is enough for Sirius to understand, with uncomfortable clarity, that this is not just passing irritation.
It is jealousy.
And he does not like to share.
It does not take long for Sirius to find a solution — or something close to it.
Severus may be in Slytherin, may be surrounded by people Sirius does not directly control, may even choose where to direct his attention… but that does not mean Sirius will remain in the dark.
He never has.
"You know Severus, don’t you?" Sirius asks his cousins casually one night, as if the subject carried no weight at all.
Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa — his closest cousins — look at him, curiosity reflected in their eyes. "We do. Why?"
Sirius shrugs, leaning against the wall with a false nonchalance that does not fully convince anyone.
"Nothing much. I just… want you to keep an eye on him for me."
"And what exactly is so special about the little raven? Besides those striking eyes and frightening intelligence?" Bellatrix asks, studying Sirius.
"Well, he’s mine. He just doesn’t know it yet..."
There is a brief, evaluative pause.
"And what exactly do you want to know?" Narcissa asks, amused by the possessiveness radiating off Sirius in waves.
Sirius tilts his head slightly, as if organizing the answer in a simple way, when in truth every detail has already been considered.
"Everything."
The word is spoken without exaggeration, without dramatization — and that is exactly why it carries more weight.
Routine.
Friends.
Classes.
Who he talks to.
Who he does not talk to.
If he laughs.
If he smiles.
If he allows anyone to get too close.
It is not difficult.
Pure-blood families communicate, observe one another, use one another with almost automatic ease, and Sirius, despite his resistance to tradition, still knows exactly how to move within it when he wants something.
And he wants.
So the information begins to come, little by little, fragmented, but enough.
Severus spends more time in the library than in the common room.
Excels in Potions.
Speaks little.
Observes a lot.
And—
Does not get close to many people.
Except, occasionally, a few housemates.
The information should not bother him as much as it does.
But it does. And he wants to change that. Desperately.
The first shared class happens sooner than Sirius expected.
Potions.
It is fitting, in a way.
The classroom is different from the others — colder, more enclosed, with the constant smell of ingredients that range from interesting to unpleasant. The students settle in pairs or small groups, and there is an inevitable rearrangement when different houses share the same space.
Sirius walks in already searching.
Not consciously — or at least that is what he would say — but his eyes find Severus before he even realizes he is looking.
And there he is.
Already seated.
Already prepared.
Already… engaged.
Not alone.
The girl is already there, Lily, leaning in again, too close, speaking softly, while Severus responds with that same contained attention Sirius has learned to recognize.
Something inside him tightens immediately.
No.
He moves before thinking too much, crossing the room with determined steps, completely ignoring any attempt from James to pull him elsewhere, until he stops directly beside Severus’s table.
Too close.
Intrusive.
"Can I sit here?" Sirius asks, but does not wait for an answer before positioning himself, his eyes fixed on Severus with an intensity he does not bother to hide. "I’m not very good at Potions..."
Lily does not hesitate, but she is clearly surprised, looking from Sirius to Severus as if searching for some reaction, some instruction.
Severus, in turn, simply lifts his gaze.
And, for a moment—
There is recognition.
Not warmth.
Not welcome.
But recognition.
"Well, you’ve already sat down..." he replies, simply.
It is not an invitation.
But it is not a direct rejection either.
And that is enough.
Sirius takes out his materials.
The space is tight, forced, three people where there should probably be two, and that forces proximity — not with the redhead who has everything he wants, but with Severus.
Closer.
As it should be.
The class begins, and it quickly becomes clear, to anyone paying attention, that Severus is not there to try.
He already knows.
He answers before being called on, identifies ingredients with precision, corrects small mistakes in preparation with a confidence that does not match his age. The professor — attentive — notices, praises, watches with greater interest.
And Sirius—
Sirius cannot decide what bothers him more.
The fact that Severus is brilliant.
Or the fact that he does not look at him while showing it.
"You’re going to get the ratio wrong," Sirius murmurs at one point, leaning slightly closer, nearer than necessary, his eyes following the movement of Severus’s hands.
Severus does not pause.
Does not hesitate.
"I won’t," he replies, dry.
And he does not.
Of course he does not.
The silence that follows is short, but heavy, and Sirius feels something strange forming beneath the constant irritation — something that comes dangerously close to… admiration.
He does not like that.
But he does not pull back.
Because, as he watches Severus work — precise, focused, distant from everything that is not his own objective — Sirius understands something that shifts, even if subtly, the way he sees that dynamic:
This is not going to be easy.
And, for the first time—
He wants it not to be.
The days fall into their own rhythm at Hogwarts, shaping habits before anyone even realizes it, and Sirius Black begins to recognize Severus Snape’s with an almost irritating precision. Not because he wants to admit it, but because he cannot avoid it. He knows at what times Severus is usually in the library, which corridors he passes through most often, at what moments he allows himself to stop — even if only briefly — to talk. And, inevitably, there is a pattern that repeats more than any other.
Lily Evans.
It is not a surprise, it should not be. Sirius has seen it since the first day, since the train, since the way Severus leaned toward her, as if she were a fixed point in a world still being arranged. But seeing is different from feeling, and feeling… is something else entirely.
Because Lily does not have to compete.
She simply… has.
Severus’s attention comes easily to her, naturally, almost automatically. He listens to her, responds, explains, sometimes even softens his tone slightly — a subtle change, but noticeable enough to someone who is constantly watching. And Sirius watches.
Too much.
"You’re looking again," Remus comments one afternoon, without judgment, simply stating it, as he flips through a book he is clearly not fully reading.
Sirius does not look away immediately. Across the courtyard, Severus and Lily are sitting too close for his liking, leaning toward each other, sharing a parchment, murmuring something that makes Lily smile — not loudly, not exaggerated, but enough.
Enough to bother him.
"I’m not," Sirius replies, automatic.
Remus does not insist.
He does not need to.
Because the answer does not change the fact.
"She talks too much," Sirius adds after a moment, as if that explains everything, as if it were a valid justification for the discomfort slowly growing inside him.
"Or maybe he likes listening," Remus suggests, still calm.
Sirius finally looks away, but only for a second before fixing his gaze right back where it should not be.
"He doesn’t," he says, firmer now. "He just… got used to it."
The logic makes sense in his head.
It has to.
Because the alternative—
The alternative is that Severus chooses her.
And Sirius does not accept that yet.
It is not as if he does not try.
In fact, he tries too much.
It starts with small interruptions, “casual” encounters in corridors he already knows Severus will pass through, comments thrown at the exact moment Lily is about to speak, questions that do not need answers but demand attention.
"Snape," Sirius calls, leaning against the wall as if he were there by chance, though he arrived seconds earlier. "Haven’t you gotten tired of the library yet?"
Severus stops.
Looks.
Evaluates.
"No."
Simple.
Direct.
No opening.
And still, Sirius continues.
"Must be boring," he adds, tilting his head slightly, eyes fixed, trying to pull something, anything.
"It isn’t."
Another short answer.
Another barrier.
And then Lily appears beside Severus, as always, as if that space naturally belongs to her.
"Maybe it would be for you," she comments, crossing her arms, a slight challenge in her voice. "Not everyone needs… distractions all the time."
Sirius smiles.
It is not a kind smile.
"And not everyone needs constant company," he shoots back, his gaze sliding briefly to her before returning to Severus.
It is subtle.
But it is not.
And Severus notices.
Of course he does.
"It’s not a need," he says, cold, controlled. "It’s a choice."
The word weighs more than it should.
It burns, actually.
Choice.
Sirius holds his gaze for a second longer, something tightening inside him in an uncomfortable way.
Because, once again—
It is not him.
With time, the discomfort stops being occasional and becomes constant.
Lily is always there.
Always present.
Always occupying a space that Sirius, even without ever having had it, already considers his.
And that makes him… restless.
More impulsive.
More direct.
"You spend too much time with her," Sirius blurts out one day, without introduction, without context, simply letting the sentence fall between them as they walk in the same direction by chance — or perhaps not so much by chance.
Severus does not stop.
Does not slow down.
"That’s none of your business."
"It could be."
The answer comes too quickly.
Instinctive.
And Severus finally stops.
Turns.
Looks.
This time, truly.
"It isn’t," he repeats, lower now, firmer. "And it won’t be."
There is a brief silence after that, the kind that stretches longer than it should, carrying something neither of them names.
Sirius should step back.
Should laugh, turn it into a joke, ignore it.
But he does none of those things.
"You don’t look at me," he says suddenly, his voice lower now, less performative, more… real. "Not the way you look at her."
The words slip out before he can stop them.
And, for a second—
There is something different in Severus’s gaze.
Not softness.
Never that.
But something that comes close to understanding.
Too quick to be caught.
"Maybe because I don’t want to," Severus replies, immediately returning to control.
And that is enough.
More than enough.
Sirius laughs, but there is no humor in the sound.
"You will," he says, almost like a promise, almost like a challenge.
Severus does not respond.
He simply turns—
And walks away.
Without looking back.
And Sirius stays there for a second longer than he should, watching, absorbing, feeling something rearrange inside him with uncomfortable clarity.
This is no longer just about wanting.
It is about not accepting not having.
And, for the first time, Sirius Black begins to understand that maybe—
Maybe Severus Snape is the only thing in the world that does not come easily.
And that is exactly why he cannot stop.