“Will you cut it?” Sirius said.

Aurora threw her hands up. “I’ll wait for you to come and beg again.” She turned on her heel and marched off down the corridor, heels striking stone harder than they needed to.

Sirius dropped back into his chair and dragged a hand through his hair.

The week had been complete rubbish. The month before hadn’t been much better.

He liked her. That was the problem, her laugh, her bite, the way she didn’t flinch when he snapped. But somewhere between Hogsmeade dinners and Ministry galas, it had started to constrict him. She wanted plans. Casual dates on the grass, walking in the town, sitting side by side to read together.

He wanted to show up when he felt like it, drag her out for a drink, disappear for three days chasing a lead without someone asking where he’d been.

He didn’t want to spend every spare minute glued to her side.

Well, that didn’t work, did it?

When he first said it, she’d stopped dead and stared at him so cold. Then she’d asked if he didn’t want to be with her, why did he insist on that first date?

That one hit. Because he insisted. He’d been the one to suggest drinks after that first sparring match in the staff room. He leaned in, smirked, told her she could handle one evening without hexing him. He chased after her relentlessly.

Now he’s acting like she’d hauled him into something he never chose. He knew it. She knew it. He didn’t like the way that felt. He’d tried to laugh it off. Said people were allowed to change their minds. Said he didn’t realize it would turn into weekly expectations and calendar slots.

She’d gone very still at that. Then asked him, evenly, if he actually wanted her or whether he just wanted the idea of her when it suited him.

He didn’t have an answer to that question. Instead, he’d done what he always did when cornered. He deflected. He pointed somewhere else.

She’d started suggesting more evenings together. More time. Proper plans instead of “see you when I see you.” She said something once about how it was nice, watching people who actually made space for each other.

He laughed it off then. Now it didn’t feel funny. So when she asked him why he was acting like spending time with her was a burden, a feeling he now admitted was very ugly had risen up.

He said Rosier had nothing else going on. No mates or social life worth mentioning. Just Bathsheda and his job. Of course he could build his whole week around her. What else did he have to fill it with?

Sirius scoffed, told Aurora that not everyone fancied living like that. Said some people needed more than one person in their orbit. The words sounded fine in his head. Out loud, they’d landed wrong.

Cassian, of all people. The boy everyone used to kick around without thinking twice. Hated by the whole school, because he walked about as if he owned the bloody castle. Always acting like the world was beneath him, even when he had nothing to back it up. No real friends. Not because no one tried, but because his arrogance outran his ability, and people got tired of tripping over it.

Now he had Bathsheda at his side and a school that trusted him. And Sirius was the one fumbling. Aurora told him, flat out, that being selective wasn’t the same as being friendless. That Cassian chose his people. That he showed up when it counted.

Then she asked Sirius why that bothered him so much. He hadn’t answered. Because the truth was rotten. It bothered him because if Cassian, loser, loner, coward and easy to bully Cassian, could build something solid with one person and be content with it, then Sirius didn’t get to pretend that constancy was some kind of trap.

It meant the problem might not be the model. It might be him.

He’d muttered something about Rosier always thinking he knew best. About sticking his nose in. About playing house with Babbling while pretending to be above it all.

Aurora stepped back from him then. She said she wasn’t angry about Cassian, she was angry that Sirius always reached for someone else to blame.

That hurt worse than any insult. He didn’t want to be pinned down. He didn’t want to explain why three evenings a week felt like a cage. He didn’t want to admit that part of him panicked when someone started asking for consistency.

Now he sat alone, chair tipped back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. He liked her. That part hadn’t changed. He just didn’t like the version of himself that came with being liked back.

He nearly dropped the half-empty bottle on the floor when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass.

Snape walked in without knocking.

Sirius caught the bottle just before it hit the ground. “For Merlin’s sake.” He set it down harder than necessary. “If you’re here to complain, Severus, I’m not in the mood.”

Snape shut the door. “You will stop making a mockery of my subject in front of your students.”

Sirius leaned back against the desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You told a class of fifth years that Potions’s nothing but stirring and waiting,” Snape said. “You called it kitchen work.”

Sirius shrugged. “If it sounds like cooking, that’s hardly my fault.”

Snape stepped closer. “You will not undermine me again.”

“Or what? You’ll run to Dumbledore?” Sirius said with a smirk. “Go on then. Tell him I compared you to a house-elf with a cauldron. I’m sure he’ll survive the shock.”

“Your incompetence in a laboratory does not make the discipline lesser.”

“I passed, Severus. Remember? I was an Auror.”

“Barely. Slughorn wanted your last name, not your talent.”

Sirius straightened. “Still passed.”

Snape’s mouth tightened. “I brew antidotes that keep this school functioning. I repair damage your lot cause before breakfast. You dismiss that because it doesn’t involve shouting and wand flourishes.”

Sirius’ eyes flashed. “This isn’t about magic. You’re angry because they laughed.”

“They laughed because you encouraged them.”

“They laughed because it was funny.”

Snape said nothing.

“You always lurked about,” Sirius went on. “Listening in, skulking after anyone who looked half as miserable as you.”

Snape went pale.

“You belittle my authority because you cannot tolerate any field that doesn’t reward recklessness,” he said.

“Authority?” Sirius let out a laugh. “Your students look like they’re awaiting execution.”

“Fear produces results.”

“So does interest.”

“At least they learn.”

Sirius stepped forward. “Careful.”

“Or what?”

“Or you stop pretending you’re some misunderstood prodigy because you can slice ingredients neatly.”

“At least I mastered something,” Snape snapped. “You spent seven years coasting on your name and your friends.”

“We earned our marks.”

“By showing off. By making everything a performance.”

“Yeah? Weren’t you obsessed with our performance.”

“I was defending myself.”

“From what? A few jokes?”

“From being humiliated.”

Sirius snorted. “You make it sound like a tragedy.”

“You and Potter made it one.”

Sirius’ jaw tightened. “James didn’t bully you. You gave back plenty.”

“In corridors,” Snape shot back. “Not in front of half the school.”

“Don’t play the victim, Severus. You were dabbling in Dark curses before most of us knew the incantations.”

“And that justified it?”

“I think you chose your path.”

“And Potter?” Snape said quietly. “Did he choose his?”

“Leave him out of this.”

“Why? You were very vocal about him just now.”

“He doesn’t deserve your mouth on his name.” Sirius’ voice rose. “You want to talk about choices? You followed a man who marked children like property.”

Snape straightened. “We’re done.”

He turned for the door. “It was foolish of me to think you could be reasoned with. I’ll speak to the Headmaster.”

Sirius gave a humorless laugh. “Of course you will. Running to teachers and snitching suits you.”

Snape paused, hand twitching. Then he walked out.

The door closed behind him with a bang.

The room felt oddly silent after he’d gone. Sirius crossed the room and grabbed the bottle and slammed his fist down on the desk so hard the wood shuddered.

“Bastard.”

He drank straight from it.

A few minutes later the door opened again, quieter this time.

Harry stepped in. He’d clearly heard the shouting.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Sirius said immediately.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the desk, the bottle, Sirius’ clenched jaw. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Harry just stood there.

Sirius huffed through his nose. “Snape came in. Started a row.”

“About?”

“Everything. My class. His class. The state of the air in the corridor.” Sirius took another swallow. “He’s still the same miserable git.”

He looked at Harry, expecting agreement.

It didn’t come.

“He stormed in here threatening to run to Dumbledore because I had the nerve to call Potions what it is,” Sirius said.

Harry shrugged slightly. “He takes it seriously.”

Sirius stared at him. “You’re not defending him.”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “I just… he’s alright.”

“Alright,” Sirius repeated flatly.

Harry hesitated. “Professor Rosier says he’s a good person.”

Sirius stared, eyes cold. He felt that ugly bite again, hearing his name.

“Rosier says that, does he?”

“Yeah.”

Sirius let out a humourless laugh. “Of course he does.”

“He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it.” Harry said as if that settled it. Like the name Rosier meant absolute. For his girlfriend. For his godson. For half the damn castle thought that was enough.

“You think he knows everything?”

Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your brilliant professor doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Sirius set the bottle down hard. It almost broke the bottle. “You think Snape’s some misunderstood hero? Because he brews a few antidotes and glowers at Slytherins?”

Harry’s voice tightened. “I didn’t say hero.”

“It was Snape,” Sirius said.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“He told Voldemort about the prophecy.” The words came before he could stop himself. He knew it was anger and jealousy made him say it. But he just couldn’t stop them from coming out.

“That’s not- how do you know?” Harry asked.

“You told me what Rosier said. About prophecy and all that.” Sirius swallowed. “After that, Remus and I went to Dumbledore. He told us. Snape was the one who carried it to him.”

Harry went very still.

“Your mum and dad died because of that. Because of him,” Sirius said, voice sharper. “Because he passed it on.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry said, but there was no strength in it.

“He ran straight to him with it,” Sirius pressed. “So don’t tell me he’s good.”

Harry’s hands were shaking. “He’s been helping. He-“

“After,” Sirius snapped. “After he’d already-“

Harry flinched.

“Don’t.”

Sirius stopped. He saw it then, the fracture in the boy’s face. Shock giving way to something worse.

“I need air,” Harry muttered.

“Harry-“

But Harry had already turned. The door slammed.

Sirius stood there staring at it.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Couldn’t even keep my mouth shut after promising Dumbledore and Remus.”

He rubbed his neck and paced across the room. “That’s just fucking brilliant.”

He kicked a chair, it skidded into the wall.

“I didn’t mean-” He cut himself off. Of course he meant it. It was true. But saying it like that, watching Harry’s face as it sank in…

“Idiot.”

He dropped into the chair and hit the desk again. He pressed his hands to his eyes and breathed out slowly. He’d wanted Harry to understand. To see Snape clearly. Rosier too. He lowered his hands and stared at the ceiling.

“Well done,” he said to the silence, and swore under his breath.

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