Sirius’s PoV [Snirius]

— You hated being sent here.

Dumbledore could’ve asked anyone—Remus, Tonks, even Moody—but no, it had to be you. Another errand, another quiet jab at how little you were allowed to actually do these days. Grimmauld Place felt like a cage. This dungeon wasn’t much better.

You pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the familiar chill of Severus’s workspace. The air was thick with something bitter—wormwood, ash, and whatever else he drowned into that cursed Wolfsbane. Everything in the room felt sterile, yet suffocating. Like him.

He didn’t look at you, just turned with practiced coldness and slid the vial across the table. As if this exchange meant nothing.

You stepped forward, grabbed it, and turned to leave without a word. Then his voice followed—low, casual, precise like a knife. “Still playing errand boy for the cause? How noble of you, Black.”

You froze mid-step. Your fingers tightened around the vial, pressure building in your chest like steam in a pipe. You turned back slowly, letting the silence stretch.

“At least I didn’t sell out to feel useful,” you snapped.

He stepped closer, just a few strides, but it was enough. His presence filled the space. You met him halfway, the tension flaring as old resentment flooded the room—years of it, never really buried.

His lip curled. Your jaw locked.

“I hate you,” you muttered, teeth clenched.

His eyes flicked to yours, dark and steady. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he. But something in the air had shifted, heavy and electric

And for one breathless second, it felt like something was about to snap.