Chapter Text
Endlessly gracious as Remus has always been, he invites the bastard in, seats him in the least rickety chair at the kitchen table, and offers him tea.
“Milk and sugar, Severus?”
Oh, for God’s sake.
“No,” the git mutters, tacking on a bone-dry, “thank you.”
A gloomy silence settles over the kitchen, broken only by the soft tinkling of the teaspoon against Remus’s chipped cup, and Sirius indulges himself in glaring at the hawk-nosed bastard across the table.
Snape comes the eve of every full moon like clockwork, his ridiculous billowing robes flaring about him like sodden wings, spindly fingers clutching a thermos of steaming blue goop. He steps into the crumbling foyer, watches with beady little eyes as Remus chokes the swill down (an ignominy Sirius has decried a hundred times, to deaf ears), and accepts the meticulous notes Remus keeps. There are bitten off instructions from Snape, cross-armed glares from Sirius himself, and magnanimous offers of refreshment from Remus—summarily refused at every occasion.
That is, until today.
“Thank you again for the Wolfsbane,” Remus murmurs into the grating silence. “The new improvements have been—”
Bugger it all. “How’d you do it.”
Remus’s jaw clicks shut at the interruption, and Snape’s eyes flick to Sirius, black and empty like a chasm.
Sirius had promised Remus—not to mention Harry—that he’d bite his tongue. Please, Harry had entreated while Remus glanced anxiously between them, please, just—. Don’t.
Sirius has broken a great many things in his pitiable life—promises, not the least of which.
Snape’s eyes glitter, one inimical brow rising. “I beg your pardon?” he intones.
Sirius snorts a dry laugh. “Oh, I think you’ve been pardoned enough.”
“Sirius,” Remus warns, hands tightening on his little teacup.
“Go on, then,” Sirius grits out unheeding, “tell us.” His jaw clenches tight as he sets his hand on the table, sliding his own cup and saucer aside. A bit of amber tea sloshes over the side—spiced ginger, Moony’s favourite—but he pays it no mind. “How’d you do it?”
A muscle in Snape’s jaw jumps, brow sinking low. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he murmurs, cool and barbed, “as I’ve no interest in reading what passes for your mind.”
Point Snape—but a small one. Sirius hums and leans forward. “S’it a potion, then?” It would be a potion, wouldn’t it? Some foul brew to usurp the will of another, to make him pliable, impressionable, willing to—
Sirius grits his teeth. “Maybe a bit of”—whatsit… ah!—“Amortentia, perhaps?”
Remus curls over his cup. “Padfoot, please—”
No, no. Too easy, too obvious. For all Snape’s an ugly, bloodless sort, he’s sly as a snake in the grass—slithering and slippy, underfoot and above nothing.
“Blackmail,” Sirius bites out, overlong nails digging pockmarks into the tabletop. “S’that it? You, what, promise not to torture the Gryffindors too much, so long as you’ve got my godson on his—”
“Sirius!”
Sirius brings a fist down hard, the clatter of twopenny china silencing Moony’s protest. “How did you do it!”
Snape’s untouched glass has upended, tepid tea pooling in the saucer and dripping onto the warped table.
Snape stares at him with that sharp-jawed blankness that’s always made Sirius want to break the git’s nose. Again.
“I am not here,” Snape murmurs and cuts his gaze away, “for your petty, uninspired insults.”
Sirius gives a raspy laugh at that. “No, of course not. You’re here to gloat.”
Snape’s chin dips to his chest, and he has the good grace—or sense—not to bother denying it.
Sirius feels the vein in his temple throbbing, eyes itchy with outrage, and he wonders idly if the wards Harry drew on the flat will stop him shattering the grotty windows.
He doesn’t dare blink. Won’t give Snape the satisfaction, won’t sicken himself contemplating, picturing, remembering…
The image had burnt a brand into his mind, carved a fault line through the tentative peace he’d found at last. Harry, knelt on the hardwood floor, ensconced between Snape’s twiggy black-clad legs, his torso pressed against Snape’s as skeletal fingers curled over his shoulders, Snape’s inky hair trailing grease onto Harry’s neck as they—
No.
No.
Sirius had failed Harry enough—too much, if he’s honest. He’d failed to protect James and Lily, condemning Harry to the clutches of those horrid muggles. He’d failed him through his years at Hogwarts, let pain and loneliness feed the boy while Sirius himself had hidden away—a dog in every sense.
He’d stood idly by as the babe became a boy, became a man, became a hapless soldier in a war that wasn’t his.
Sirius won’t fail him now.
He leans back in his chair, affecting an air of nonchalance as he situates his wandhand near his pocket.
“So what is it then?” he asks. “Revenge? For what, the”—a derisive snort—“the schoolyard bullying? The stupid pranks?”
Snape’s eyes flick toward Remus for an instant before settling on a burn mark near the centre of the table.
Sirius grits his teeth and shifts forward in his seat, crushing the thread of ancient guilt that uncoils in his stomach. “All these years,” he marvels, “and you’re still the grievous bastard you’ve always been.”
“Merlin’s sake,” Remus grumbles. “Sirius, please—“
“Are you truly so hateful,” Sirius interrupts, leaning across the table, as Snape’s spine goes stiff, “so impotent a man”—the git’s jaw tightens at that—“that you would coerce—“
Snape stands abruptly, sending his chair skittering back, and a tiny wave of cold tea sloshes over the lip of the flooded saucer. Sirius surges up as well, hand hovering at his side, itching for his wand.
Remus looks back and forth between them, head tipped back and eyes wide.
“Go on, then,” Sirius urges. He can feel the thickness in the air, windows rattling, as the tingling sparks of magic pool in his fingertips. It’s the fight he’s been spoiling for, the reckoning he knew would come the moment he saw Snape twined around Harry, limbs and fingers pulling him in like Devil’s Snare.
Snape stares at him for all of ten seconds before reaching toward his pocket. Sirius goes tense, hand pressing down on the firm outline of his wand, and Snape’s hand freezes for a moment, before disappearing into the folds of his robe.
The hand reappears, overlong fingers clutching at their small prize, before Snape reaches out to set the object on the table. He draws his bony hand back, the movement slow, cautious in a way Sirius might’ve called hesitant, were this anyone but Snape.
Wary of taking his eyes off the git, but helplessly curious, Sirius flicks his gaze downward and frowns.
A little crystal vial sits in the middle of the table, its contents blue-white and swirling, glittering in the gloom.
Sirius frowns harder. Are those—?
He cuts his eyes to Moony, who stares wide-eyed at the tiny bottle before glancing up at Sirius, jaw loose with surprise.
Memories, Sirius thinks.
He’s not seen any in years—and never outside of a pensieve—but he’s nearly certain that’s what they are. Not quite liquid, not quite air, shining and churning against the fragile glass of the little vial.
Memories.
…Though he can’t imagine why on earth Snape would be offering up his own.
Sirius shakes his head, fingers still poised over the wand in his pocket. “What’s—?”
“Do not,” Snape interrupts, diction crisp and cold, “misunderstand.” His coal-black eyes flick up to meet Sirius’s, something strange and dark moiling there. “I owe you nothing.”
Bemused, Sirius squints at him and tries to parse whatever it is the bastard isn’t saying. Per usual, Snape’s blank face is no help at all, particularly when he dips his head in an inexplicable nod and turns toward the doorway.
Remus hops belatedly to his feet, reaching a hand toward Snape as he breezes past. “Severus—“
“What are they,” Sirius rumbles, glaring down at the little bottle, its soft glow illuminating flecks of dust in the musty air.
Snape halts at the threshold and tips his chin over a narrow shoulder.
“Consider them a favour,” he murmurs, and Sirius’s brows rise despite himself. “The only one I shall ever grant you.”
Snape turns away again, spine going starkly rigid as he mutters, “Do try not to squander it.”
He steps over the threshold and out of the kitchen, disappearing around the corner in a swirl of black fabric. Sirius listens to the waning footsteps thudding against the creaky floorboards in the hall, clicking across the cracked tile of the foyer.
A bitter draft pours in when the front door opens, and it lingers in the stale air long after Snape’s gone.