It was well past curfew. The castle was quiet, dark, filled with the soft creaks and breathy sighs of ancient stone settling. Perfect. Sirius’s boots echoed faintly on the flagstone as he followed the figure ahead of him—lanky, black-clad, trying to walk like he didn’t know someone was following him.

Sirius smirked. Snivellus. Always skulking. Always pretending he wasn’t worth noticing, when Sirius could hardly keep his eyes off him. It wasn’t about the Slytherin-Gryffindor thing anymore, not really. It wasn’t even about Lily. It was about Severus. About the way he flinched when Sirius got too close. The way he looked at the floor, never fought back hard enough, always just enough to make it a game.

He struck fast—cornered him just past the turn by the old tapestry of the troll ballet. One shove, and Severus hit the stone wall with a soft grunt, a flash of panic in those dark eyes before it melted back into something Sirius couldn’t quite name.

“Caught you sneaking off again,” Sirius drawled, stepping in close, hand braced beside Severus’s head, the other catching his wrist as the smaller boy tried to push him back. “God, you’re pathetic,” he added, almost fondly.

Severus didn’t answer. He never did, not when Sirius got like this—too close, too warm, too present.

“Still not washing your hair, I see?” Sirius tilted his head, his mouth tugging into a cruel little grin. “Or do you save that for special occasions? Like full moons and rituals to resurrect your dead social life?”

A shove, half-hearted. Severus’s fingers balled against his chest but didn’t push, not really. Sirius barely registered it. His attention was too fixed on the boy beneath him—the sallow skin, the hollow cheeks, the sharp jaw and downcast eyes. His robe was half-askew from the push. His wrist, fragile and cold in Sirius’s grip.

“Say something,” Sirius murmured, his voice going low, quiet. Almost intimate. His breath ghosted over Severus’s cheek. “Come on. Curse me. Call me a blood traitor. Tell me to fuck off.”

Nothing. Just the heavy weight of silence, Severus’s gaze trained on the floor like he could vanish if he tried hard enough. Sirius’s gut twisted. Not guilt. Never guilt. It was something else.

Want.

He didn’t name it. He wouldn’t.

His thumb traced the inside of Severus’s wrist absently, and his other hand flattened against the wall, boxing him in tighter.

“This—” he breathed, “—this is how I like you. Quiet. Pinned. Looking like you’ve just realized you belong here.”

Severus’s throat bobbed. His hair—stringy, unkempt, utterly him—brushed against Sirius’s chin. The scent of damp robes and potion smoke filled his nose. Sirius swallowed hard.

He was hardwired for destruction, and Severus had always been his favorite match to strike.

Just like this—tucked in a shadowed corner, looking half-broken and holy in his stillness.

Sirius wanted to keep this moment. Stretch it out. Burn in it.