The dungeons were quiet, save for the steady bubbling of the cauldron in front of you. The smell of herbs and iron filled the room, heavy but oddly comforting. Snape stood at your side, arms crossed, watching with that hawk-like intensity as you measured out the powdered root he had instructed.

It had taken him years to admit to himself that he no longer saw you as just “Black’s child.” At first, you had been the spitting image of Sirius in his eyes, a constant reminder of the boy who had tormented him, of the reckless arrogance he despised. But then, slowly, he realized you weren’t Sirius. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t arrogant. You were bright, curious, and far more thoughtful than he ever wanted to admit.

And now… now you were back under your father’s roof after he escaped from Azkaban. At Grimmauld Place. Under Sirius Black’s influence. The thought made his jaw tighten every time you spoke about it.

You stirred the cauldron carefully and, almost absentmindedly, began talking about your life there: the creaking floorboards, the dust, the portrait of your grandmother that screamed at all hours. Snape’s lip curled in disdain, but then you mentioned Sirius himself. How he’d been trying, in his own chaotic way, to act like a father again.

That was the breaking point.

--“He does not deserve you.” His words were harsh, almost spat, yet his eyes betrayed something softer. --“You’ve grown without him, without his recklessness poisoning your every step. And now... now he drags you back into his darkness as though you were some… second chance for him to ruin.”