Remedial Potions
I'm very dangerously near two weeks (I think). I have managed to stave off my troup-master by reminding her that I managed to publish an actual piece of fanfiction not too long ago which was utter and totally unabashed Remus!worship, and as for the moment, am safe from shunning and eventual eating by dogs.
But just to be safe:
"I'm arse at this," Remus muttered in frustration.
Severus raised one dark brow and flipped to page seventy-three of the fifth-year Potion's book; he kept his silence.
The fact that Remus was arse at Potions was a universally acknowledged fact. For Lupin's grace in the Defense Against the Dark Arts room and the perfect swish of his wand during Charms, his hands grew clumsy around Billywig stings and fairy's wings. His eyebrows knit in an expression of wasted concentration and he inevitably added nightshade at just the wrong time and in just the wrong proportion.
Snape knew better than anybody. After the Disaster of Fourth Year, Remus, James, Sirius, and Peter had been forbidden from partnering together for anything, and in some sick twist of fate, Professor Grimsley had assigned Remus to Snape. "Perhaps, Mister Snape," the graying man had said with a grin, "this will teach you the merits of cooperation." As if Grimsley didn't know that the Marauders' favorite extracurricular activity was to make Snape's life hell.
He'd spent the first three weeks of Potions convinced he would simply throttle Lupin during class. He'd never met anybody so incapable of following simple directions in his life, and for Remus' quiet exterior, the boy had a temper that rivaled that of Severus' own. The surrounding stations in the Potion's dungeon had taken to placing bets on how frequently Lupin and Snape would raise their voices at one another, and how long it'd take before the whole thing came to blows. Snape had the sneaking suspicion that Grimsley found it amusing, and quietly added the Potion's master to his list of people to kill.
Occasionally, the urge to slam Lupin in the face with a cauldron was still strong, but after hours, in the quiet mostly-dark of the Potion's dungeon with the smell of drying herbs effusive in the room and nobody else around, Severus admitted Remus wasn't so bad. Remedial potions, Snape thought oddly, how strange that any Marauder other than Pettigrew would be found in remedial anything. Much less Lupin who was perpetually buried in a book, always paging through one volume or the next, absorbing information with his skin as he traced the lines with his fingertips, mouthing the words as he read. Severus wasn't even sure how he'd been talked into tutoring Remus in Potions, but knew that it had to have involved some sort of scaled down version of the Imperius curse, as he could find no logical reason he'd spend any more time than was already necessary with a Gryffindor, much less a compatriot of the dreaded Potter-Black duo, may they rot in the deepest circle of hell.
But when the firelight made Remus' hair more golden-red than brown, Snape always had to look away. And when Remus succeeded at making a Forgetfulness potion or the correct antidote to something or another, Severus could never quite extinguish the minute appearance of satisfaction at the expression on Lupin's face: grateful surprise, and a sort of wonderment. "It's lavender," Lupin had said once, astounded. "It's supposed to be lavender," Severus had replied. "Mine have always been blue," Remus had mourned for just a moment before brightening again. "It's lovely," he'd added, and smiled the rest of the evening as they'd cleaned up their supplies.
It was for that Severus continued to return, he supposed. He liked to have one of the Marauders indebted to him, Snape told himself. It had to be true. He saw no other explanation.
Remus rolled up his sleeves and brushed a wayward strand of brown hair out of his eyes for what seemed like the twentieth time of the day. He cast a sideways glance to Snape and paused a moment, tongue against his lip in an awkward space of silence before he huffed and said, "You're all right, then?"
Snape looked up sharply. "Excuse me?" he said precisely.
Remus frowned and stared very hard at his cauldron. "All right," he repeated hastily. "From when -- when Sirius and James..."
He trailed off and Snape felt himself flush darkly. He didn't need a reminder of what had happened. He had still had the rash to remind him.
And he'd hated Remus for that, too, in the beginning. At first for being cruel, and later for not doing anything to stop it. Much as Snape had tried to council himself into some sort of equilibrium, he didn't manage to crush the small voice asking for savior in the back of his mind and he continued to entertain the dim hope that one day Remus would simply punch Black and Potter in the face for what they did instead of apologizing later. It was nearly as loud as the part of Severus that insisted he didn't need saving, never had, and wouldn't accept it.
The first time that Remus had apologized for Black and Potter, Snape had nearly poisoned him. The second, he'd grunted and ignored him for a week. The third, fourth, and fifth times, he hadn't said anything at all. It wasn't until halfway through the year, just before Christmas hols, when he saw the tight, angry expression on Remus' face in the hallway, facing down Black and Potter's wicked grins that Severus had realized that perhaps Remus wasn't quite what Severus had always assumed.
"I'll survive," he said lightly, and scanned the ingredients list. Heart of newt, brain of toad, cobwebs, tortise shell powder, Mandrake root, ordinary, unremarkable things that combined to make something much, much more. There was a metaphor in there, Severus decided, and then berated himself; he was turning into Lupin, binding books into every part of life.
Remus stared at him a long time before pushing his hair away from his face again and saying, "I'm sorry." It was lower than usual, and Severus looked up to see Remus clutching the table, eyes closed. "I wish they'd -- " Remus stopped himself, shutting up abruptly and forcing a placid smile to his face before he turned to Severus and said, "Sorry."
Infuriating, Severus decided, was what Remus was. Infuriating and complicated and like a web of contradictory facts, each as true as the last but impossible. Like Remus' scholarship and undeniable streak of mischievousness, his empathy and ability to be cold, the fact that he and Severus managed in a somewhat civil companionship while Remus claimed Black and Potter as best friends.
But that was Remus, Snape supposed, and he'd learned to tolerate the boy.
"You're wasting your breath," Severus said. He held out a short knife to Remus, adding, "The mandrake will need cutting, and I'm not soiling my hands for your incompetence, Lupin."
James would have hexed him; Sirius would have begun to shout; Peter would wilt.
Remus grinned and took the blade, fingertips closing on the point, razor-edge against the grain of his skin and comfortable with it, somehow. He said, "No, Severus. I wouldn't expect it."
Severus stared out the window and listened to the sound of metal on wood as Remus chopped Mandrake. Their first session of remedial Potions had Severus growling and holding Remus' hand to the handle of the knife, giving impromptu instruction on how not to remove a finger or two while preparing Potions ingredients. And as the sun set beyond the hill by the lake, Severus assured himself that the lingering memories of the warmth of Remus' hand, the fine, smooth flesh of his fingers was nothing more than a scattered piece of sensation, a sudden thought that had no place in his mind, and would not remain.
Red light fanned out across the floor, pooling in through the windows and dissolving across the stones, orange and yellow in the corners where the colors had not mixed properly, and Severus found himself studying a bright pinpoint on the windows, with glass running from age. It was quiet in the potions dungeon, and the small windows along the ceilings were distorted, with the viscous substance of glass rolling in subtle lines toward the bottom of the pane, thicker there than at top, brittle and uneven. The diffuse light rippled like water and strange shadows fell about the room, dust floating like gold flecks in the air.
"Snape, I've finished."
Severus blinked, twice, and then turned, suddenly remembering that Remus was there, too. Astounding that, Severus had always marveled, how a boy who would make Sirius Black silent managed to fade so entirely into any moment.
"Finished?" Severus asked, staring at Remus and noting that Remus' eyes were more hazel, really, than boring, ordinary brown.
Remus raised fine, dark eyebrows. He indicated the Mandrake -- still unevenly cut, Severus thought with mild disgust -- neatly gathered on the countertop. "Cutting the Mandrake," Remus said easily, and then added, "You did forbid me to add anything to the cauldron unless closely supervised."
There was a smile in his voice that put Snape off-center. He swept over to Remus' side, and inspected the laid-out ingredients, at the poorly-chopped Mandrake and finely-ground tortoise shell, the fairywings and cobwebs, spidery and white, filmy from preservation, like a sheet of knotted thread and just as delicate.
"It should all be right," Remus said, nearly tense, as if he were concerned.
Severus made a derisive noise. "The last time you said that, I was blue for an hour."
He felt Remus smile beside him, a sudden and unexpected thing, and chastised himself when he allowed himself a half-heart beat skip at that. It was unwarranted, unreasonable, pointless, and foolish besides. If nothing else, Lupin was a Gryffindor, rotten with intention and filled with lust for danger; Severus Snape was far too wise, poised, and clever for that.
"You were blue for five minutes at most," Remus argued. He slid Mandrake root pieces along the side of the cauldron into the slowly-simmering liquid, just as Severus had taught him to do. "And nobody saw."
Severus picked up a large, wrought-iron stirrer and began dipped it into the gray-brown soup, glaring up at Lupin, who still had the damnable smile on his face. "I was blue for an unacceptably long amount of time," he clarified. "And you saw."
A fact which created less dissatisfaction in Severus' mind than it ought to have, so he began to stir the potion and ignored the way that Lupin rolled his hazel eyes, as if he knew how not-brown they really were.
Later, as the potion was fading from pink to silver to gray again, Remus said, "The funny thing is how similar you two really are."
Snape glanced upward long enough to catch the grin on Remus' face. "Who?" he demanded.
Remus leaned forward, balanced on his elbows and continued to smile horribly. Such a horrible expression, really, Snape thought strangely, that it was really quite necessary that he take any means necessary to remove it. Maybe, he could hit him.
Not-brown eyes suddenly turned very green. "Sirius, of course."
"What?" Severus shouted, nearly squawked, but as members of the House of Snape did not under any condition produce sounds requiring the descriptor "squawk," Severus shouted.
Remus only smiled brightly. "It's true," he contended.
Severus was getting lightheaded with rage. All that red-orange light from the windows and the strange water-shadows on the floor coupled with Lupin's inflammatory words and Severus swore that the ground was rippling beneath his feet. It really was becoming imperative that he hit Remus, as quickly as possible, and very hard, too.
"You're daft," Severus managed, holding himself up against the countertop.
Remus peered into the cauldron and stubbornly did not cease to be ridiculous. He said, "You both get angry about the most foolish things. And you're both too clever for your own good." He looked up, hazel eyes almost green in the light. "You're just quieter about it, is all."
Severus could think of nothing to say to that and had a feeling that threatening to hex Lupin would do no good whatsoever, so he decided just to gape in horrified disgust as Lupin ladled the silvery-gray potion into bottles. He continued to do so as Lupin labeled four strips of parchment "Revival potion, remedial potions assignment by R.Lupin," and affix them to the sides of the bottles with concentration, neat and precise.
In the beginning of the year, Remus had written Severus' name along with his own on those labels, until Severus had mentioned he wasn't the one foolish enough to need remedial potions; since then, Remus had left it off. And in some part of Snape's head, it seemed almost as if he hadn't been there at all.
"We're not!" Severus finally said, too loudly, and Remus blinked as he turned around to regard him with those green-hazel eyes. "That bloody buffoon! I --"
" -- Am extraordinarily ugly?"
Severus froze and Remus' eyes darkened for a moment. The voice was unmistakable.
Severus rolled his eyes and cursed in his head, hearing footsteps and then seeing the boy, all five feet ten inches of him dressed in a rumpled school uniform, a green smear on his cuff from snogging one nameless girl the other, Snape was sure, on the Hogwarts lawn. Sirius was wearing his insufferable smirk and didn't bother to acknowledge Severus' existence beyond it, walking into the classroom.
"Sirius," Remus said. He placed his palms flat on the counter. "What are you doing here?"
Black, bane of Severus' existence took two steps forward with his long legs, suddenly too close to Remus, making the smaller boy frown. Severus saw Remus' hands tense on the tabletop and his brows furrow as he cast a sideways glance at his friend.
Sirius, grinning, leaned forward to inspect Remus' work. "Revival potion?" he asked, and then turned, adding, "Those are tough, Remus. Especially for people arse at potions." As Remus narrowed his eyes again and opened his mouth to say something unpleasant -- Snape hoped -- Black's foolish smile widened even more, and he said, "I knew you could do them, though."
And Remus' mouth snapped shut again, with color high on his cheeks, glowering. "If you've nothing useful to contribute, then don't speak at all, Sirius," Remus snapped.
"I was just commenting." Sirius leaned into Remus' side in a puppyish move, and Remus looked away, crossing his arms over his chest.
And it, for some reason, made Severus angry again, feel hot and unsettled. His fingers tightened on the edge of the countertop and he could see nothing but the way that Remus didn't pull away from Sirius at all. How Remus let Sirius press against his side, like packmates seeking warmth.
"I don't remember your being required to stay for remedial potions," Severus bit out.
Remus looked upward, wide-eyed as if he was surprised that Severus was saying anything at all.
Sirius raised his eyebrows and said, "No, I'm much too clever for that."
Remus rolled his eyes and reached across the countertop, gathering the loose supplies and stacking things, putting them in their proper places.
"I'm here," Sirius continued, dropping one arm over Remus' shoulders, "to pick up my friend." He narrowed his eyes at Snape, smirking. "Had to make sure that you hadn't decided to poison our precious Moonshine, Snivellus. Isn't that right, Remus?"
Before Snape had a chance to reach for his wand and hex Sirius blind, deaf, and impotent, Remus shrugged Sirius away.
"Call me that again and I'll break your arm, Black," Remus warned.
This, for some reason, made Severus smile. And when Sirius caught this from the periphery of his eyes, he scowled. With quick, angry swipes, he snatched up the three bottles of Revival potion and stuck them in the pockets of his robe. As if their hands were arguing, Sirius smacked Remus' fingers away from stacking up pages of notes and scrolls, grabbing them in a pile even as Remus made noises of protest.
Sirius, with the grand bravado that had both won and lost the war, put one thick hand on Remus' shoulder and started marching the boy out of the Potions dungeon, deaf to Remus' protests and saying, "Be a dear and clean up won't you, Snivellus darling? Thanks."
It was as their footsteps were already starting to fade that Snape wrenched himself from his spot in the classroom and rushed to the door.
There, just there, beyond an archway and near a flight of steps, Remus had stopped in the hall and turned on Sirius. And the light from the small windows at the top of the corridor were still letting in deep-red light, scarlet streaks that painted the stone and washed across the top of Lupin's head, brown hair golden suddenly, layered with depth and suddenly very beautiful, not ordinary at all -- no, Severus thought strangely. There'd never been anything ordinary about Remus at all.
"I don't see why you have to be such a perpetual dick," Remus said, and snatched his papers away from Sirius, ordering them distractedly and tucking them underneath his arm.
Sirius, who never backed down to anyone, frowned. "It's Snape. We hate Snape."
"You hate Snape," Remus snapped.
The voice in Severus' head fell silent, and for the briefest of moments, there was no savior wanted or needed at all -- there was only the red light fading into darkness in the corners of the hallway and how the stones felt underneath Severus' hands, cool and old, like time frozen.
Remus started to walk away, angry, quick footsteps that were only halted when Sirius jumped and grabbed Remus' shoulder, staring down at Remus' face with some unreadable expression.
And then that same hand, rough and calloused from fights and Quidditch games and pranks at all hours of night suddenly softened, it seemed, and slid down, carefully, haltingly, in one staccato move from Remus' shoulder to the small of his back, settling there with fingers loose and slightly curled. Almost like an embrace, distilled to a touch.
There was a silence here, and Severus knew, instinctively, that he was seeing something not intended for his eyes. Not intended for anyone at all. Not intended, Snape realized, seemed to be his mantra, the most defining phrase of his life -- and it only barely drowned out the urge to lash out, to brush Black's hand away from Remus.
Finally, and in a low, weary tone, Remus murmured, "You're so stupid, Sirius," and didn't pull away.
"Yes, utterly," Sirius agreed, tame and strange, unexpected.
With a sigh, Remus' shoulders loosened and he unwound, melted into where Black had curled that hand against his back. With a similar sigh Remus began to walk again and Black followed, faithful and eager like a dog with his master, his hand never leaving.
It was as the red light fractured, turned purple like night that Severus saw it: Black's fingers splayed out against the rise of Remus' hip, head dipped low to murmur something into the crook of Lupin's neck, just before they disappear into the stairwell.
And the next morning during Potions, when Professor Grimsley took ten points from Gryffindor for leaving station three a mess the day before, Severus felt Remus' eyes on his back, curious and maybe regretful, like there was something to say.
The silence between them broadened, like an arc of night, and Snape spent evenings in the Potions dungeon watching red light turn gold on Remus' hair and the way that sometimes, when reaching for one ingredient or the other, their hands would brush. But the memory of it would never fade, and every time that Remus smiled or teased, it was always there, bright and tangible like a the whetted blade of a knife, the image of Black's fingers, of the graceful curve of Remus' neck, and of that flooded scarlet light scattered across the dungeon floor.
"I'm arse at this," Remus would say.
And Snape would remain silent and silently agreeing.
It was an accepted fact, something everybody knew, and knew would never change.
All feedback is appreciated. Happy reading.
ETA: many thanks to bowdlerized for pointing out the unfortunate fact that I cannot spell. Have fixed errors and also managed to type an entire sentence of my lab report. This is progress indeed.
ETA AGAIN: ...shit. I am so mentally retarded. Sorry, bowdlerized.
But just to be safe:
"I'm arse at this," Remus muttered in frustration.
Severus raised one dark brow and flipped to page seventy-three of the fifth-year Potion's book; he kept his silence.
The fact that Remus was arse at Potions was a universally acknowledged fact. For Lupin's grace in the Defense Against the Dark Arts room and the perfect swish of his wand during Charms, his hands grew clumsy around Billywig stings and fairy's wings. His eyebrows knit in an expression of wasted concentration and he inevitably added nightshade at just the wrong time and in just the wrong proportion.
Snape knew better than anybody. After the Disaster of Fourth Year, Remus, James, Sirius, and Peter had been forbidden from partnering together for anything, and in some sick twist of fate, Professor Grimsley had assigned Remus to Snape. "Perhaps, Mister Snape," the graying man had said with a grin, "this will teach you the merits of cooperation." As if Grimsley didn't know that the Marauders' favorite extracurricular activity was to make Snape's life hell.
He'd spent the first three weeks of Potions convinced he would simply throttle Lupin during class. He'd never met anybody so incapable of following simple directions in his life, and for Remus' quiet exterior, the boy had a temper that rivaled that of Severus' own. The surrounding stations in the Potion's dungeon had taken to placing bets on how frequently Lupin and Snape would raise their voices at one another, and how long it'd take before the whole thing came to blows. Snape had the sneaking suspicion that Grimsley found it amusing, and quietly added the Potion's master to his list of people to kill.
Occasionally, the urge to slam Lupin in the face with a cauldron was still strong, but after hours, in the quiet mostly-dark of the Potion's dungeon with the smell of drying herbs effusive in the room and nobody else around, Severus admitted Remus wasn't so bad. Remedial potions, Snape thought oddly, how strange that any Marauder other than Pettigrew would be found in remedial anything. Much less Lupin who was perpetually buried in a book, always paging through one volume or the next, absorbing information with his skin as he traced the lines with his fingertips, mouthing the words as he read. Severus wasn't even sure how he'd been talked into tutoring Remus in Potions, but knew that it had to have involved some sort of scaled down version of the Imperius curse, as he could find no logical reason he'd spend any more time than was already necessary with a Gryffindor, much less a compatriot of the dreaded Potter-Black duo, may they rot in the deepest circle of hell.
But when the firelight made Remus' hair more golden-red than brown, Snape always had to look away. And when Remus succeeded at making a Forgetfulness potion or the correct antidote to something or another, Severus could never quite extinguish the minute appearance of satisfaction at the expression on Lupin's face: grateful surprise, and a sort of wonderment. "It's lavender," Lupin had said once, astounded. "It's supposed to be lavender," Severus had replied. "Mine have always been blue," Remus had mourned for just a moment before brightening again. "It's lovely," he'd added, and smiled the rest of the evening as they'd cleaned up their supplies.
It was for that Severus continued to return, he supposed. He liked to have one of the Marauders indebted to him, Snape told himself. It had to be true. He saw no other explanation.
Remus rolled up his sleeves and brushed a wayward strand of brown hair out of his eyes for what seemed like the twentieth time of the day. He cast a sideways glance to Snape and paused a moment, tongue against his lip in an awkward space of silence before he huffed and said, "You're all right, then?"
Snape looked up sharply. "Excuse me?" he said precisely.
Remus frowned and stared very hard at his cauldron. "All right," he repeated hastily. "From when -- when Sirius and James..."
He trailed off and Snape felt himself flush darkly. He didn't need a reminder of what had happened. He had still had the rash to remind him.
And he'd hated Remus for that, too, in the beginning. At first for being cruel, and later for not doing anything to stop it. Much as Snape had tried to council himself into some sort of equilibrium, he didn't manage to crush the small voice asking for savior in the back of his mind and he continued to entertain the dim hope that one day Remus would simply punch Black and Potter in the face for what they did instead of apologizing later. It was nearly as loud as the part of Severus that insisted he didn't need saving, never had, and wouldn't accept it.
The first time that Remus had apologized for Black and Potter, Snape had nearly poisoned him. The second, he'd grunted and ignored him for a week. The third, fourth, and fifth times, he hadn't said anything at all. It wasn't until halfway through the year, just before Christmas hols, when he saw the tight, angry expression on Remus' face in the hallway, facing down Black and Potter's wicked grins that Severus had realized that perhaps Remus wasn't quite what Severus had always assumed.
"I'll survive," he said lightly, and scanned the ingredients list. Heart of newt, brain of toad, cobwebs, tortise shell powder, Mandrake root, ordinary, unremarkable things that combined to make something much, much more. There was a metaphor in there, Severus decided, and then berated himself; he was turning into Lupin, binding books into every part of life.
Remus stared at him a long time before pushing his hair away from his face again and saying, "I'm sorry." It was lower than usual, and Severus looked up to see Remus clutching the table, eyes closed. "I wish they'd -- " Remus stopped himself, shutting up abruptly and forcing a placid smile to his face before he turned to Severus and said, "Sorry."
Infuriating, Severus decided, was what Remus was. Infuriating and complicated and like a web of contradictory facts, each as true as the last but impossible. Like Remus' scholarship and undeniable streak of mischievousness, his empathy and ability to be cold, the fact that he and Severus managed in a somewhat civil companionship while Remus claimed Black and Potter as best friends.
But that was Remus, Snape supposed, and he'd learned to tolerate the boy.
"You're wasting your breath," Severus said. He held out a short knife to Remus, adding, "The mandrake will need cutting, and I'm not soiling my hands for your incompetence, Lupin."
James would have hexed him; Sirius would have begun to shout; Peter would wilt.
Remus grinned and took the blade, fingertips closing on the point, razor-edge against the grain of his skin and comfortable with it, somehow. He said, "No, Severus. I wouldn't expect it."
Severus stared out the window and listened to the sound of metal on wood as Remus chopped Mandrake. Their first session of remedial Potions had Severus growling and holding Remus' hand to the handle of the knife, giving impromptu instruction on how not to remove a finger or two while preparing Potions ingredients. And as the sun set beyond the hill by the lake, Severus assured himself that the lingering memories of the warmth of Remus' hand, the fine, smooth flesh of his fingers was nothing more than a scattered piece of sensation, a sudden thought that had no place in his mind, and would not remain.
Red light fanned out across the floor, pooling in through the windows and dissolving across the stones, orange and yellow in the corners where the colors had not mixed properly, and Severus found himself studying a bright pinpoint on the windows, with glass running from age. It was quiet in the potions dungeon, and the small windows along the ceilings were distorted, with the viscous substance of glass rolling in subtle lines toward the bottom of the pane, thicker there than at top, brittle and uneven. The diffuse light rippled like water and strange shadows fell about the room, dust floating like gold flecks in the air.
"Snape, I've finished."
Severus blinked, twice, and then turned, suddenly remembering that Remus was there, too. Astounding that, Severus had always marveled, how a boy who would make Sirius Black silent managed to fade so entirely into any moment.
"Finished?" Severus asked, staring at Remus and noting that Remus' eyes were more hazel, really, than boring, ordinary brown.
Remus raised fine, dark eyebrows. He indicated the Mandrake -- still unevenly cut, Severus thought with mild disgust -- neatly gathered on the countertop. "Cutting the Mandrake," Remus said easily, and then added, "You did forbid me to add anything to the cauldron unless closely supervised."
There was a smile in his voice that put Snape off-center. He swept over to Remus' side, and inspected the laid-out ingredients, at the poorly-chopped Mandrake and finely-ground tortoise shell, the fairywings and cobwebs, spidery and white, filmy from preservation, like a sheet of knotted thread and just as delicate.
"It should all be right," Remus said, nearly tense, as if he were concerned.
Severus made a derisive noise. "The last time you said that, I was blue for an hour."
He felt Remus smile beside him, a sudden and unexpected thing, and chastised himself when he allowed himself a half-heart beat skip at that. It was unwarranted, unreasonable, pointless, and foolish besides. If nothing else, Lupin was a Gryffindor, rotten with intention and filled with lust for danger; Severus Snape was far too wise, poised, and clever for that.
"You were blue for five minutes at most," Remus argued. He slid Mandrake root pieces along the side of the cauldron into the slowly-simmering liquid, just as Severus had taught him to do. "And nobody saw."
Severus picked up a large, wrought-iron stirrer and began dipped it into the gray-brown soup, glaring up at Lupin, who still had the damnable smile on his face. "I was blue for an unacceptably long amount of time," he clarified. "And you saw."
A fact which created less dissatisfaction in Severus' mind than it ought to have, so he began to stir the potion and ignored the way that Lupin rolled his hazel eyes, as if he knew how not-brown they really were.
Later, as the potion was fading from pink to silver to gray again, Remus said, "The funny thing is how similar you two really are."
Snape glanced upward long enough to catch the grin on Remus' face. "Who?" he demanded.
Remus leaned forward, balanced on his elbows and continued to smile horribly. Such a horrible expression, really, Snape thought strangely, that it was really quite necessary that he take any means necessary to remove it. Maybe, he could hit him.
Not-brown eyes suddenly turned very green. "Sirius, of course."
"What?" Severus shouted, nearly squawked, but as members of the House of Snape did not under any condition produce sounds requiring the descriptor "squawk," Severus shouted.
Remus only smiled brightly. "It's true," he contended.
Severus was getting lightheaded with rage. All that red-orange light from the windows and the strange water-shadows on the floor coupled with Lupin's inflammatory words and Severus swore that the ground was rippling beneath his feet. It really was becoming imperative that he hit Remus, as quickly as possible, and very hard, too.
"You're daft," Severus managed, holding himself up against the countertop.
Remus peered into the cauldron and stubbornly did not cease to be ridiculous. He said, "You both get angry about the most foolish things. And you're both too clever for your own good." He looked up, hazel eyes almost green in the light. "You're just quieter about it, is all."
Severus could think of nothing to say to that and had a feeling that threatening to hex Lupin would do no good whatsoever, so he decided just to gape in horrified disgust as Lupin ladled the silvery-gray potion into bottles. He continued to do so as Lupin labeled four strips of parchment "Revival potion, remedial potions assignment by R.Lupin," and affix them to the sides of the bottles with concentration, neat and precise.
In the beginning of the year, Remus had written Severus' name along with his own on those labels, until Severus had mentioned he wasn't the one foolish enough to need remedial potions; since then, Remus had left it off. And in some part of Snape's head, it seemed almost as if he hadn't been there at all.
"We're not!" Severus finally said, too loudly, and Remus blinked as he turned around to regard him with those green-hazel eyes. "That bloody buffoon! I --"
" -- Am extraordinarily ugly?"
Severus froze and Remus' eyes darkened for a moment. The voice was unmistakable.
Severus rolled his eyes and cursed in his head, hearing footsteps and then seeing the boy, all five feet ten inches of him dressed in a rumpled school uniform, a green smear on his cuff from snogging one nameless girl the other, Snape was sure, on the Hogwarts lawn. Sirius was wearing his insufferable smirk and didn't bother to acknowledge Severus' existence beyond it, walking into the classroom.
"Sirius," Remus said. He placed his palms flat on the counter. "What are you doing here?"
Black, bane of Severus' existence took two steps forward with his long legs, suddenly too close to Remus, making the smaller boy frown. Severus saw Remus' hands tense on the tabletop and his brows furrow as he cast a sideways glance at his friend.
Sirius, grinning, leaned forward to inspect Remus' work. "Revival potion?" he asked, and then turned, adding, "Those are tough, Remus. Especially for people arse at potions." As Remus narrowed his eyes again and opened his mouth to say something unpleasant -- Snape hoped -- Black's foolish smile widened even more, and he said, "I knew you could do them, though."
And Remus' mouth snapped shut again, with color high on his cheeks, glowering. "If you've nothing useful to contribute, then don't speak at all, Sirius," Remus snapped.
"I was just commenting." Sirius leaned into Remus' side in a puppyish move, and Remus looked away, crossing his arms over his chest.
And it, for some reason, made Severus angry again, feel hot and unsettled. His fingers tightened on the edge of the countertop and he could see nothing but the way that Remus didn't pull away from Sirius at all. How Remus let Sirius press against his side, like packmates seeking warmth.
"I don't remember your being required to stay for remedial potions," Severus bit out.
Remus looked upward, wide-eyed as if he was surprised that Severus was saying anything at all.
Sirius raised his eyebrows and said, "No, I'm much too clever for that."
Remus rolled his eyes and reached across the countertop, gathering the loose supplies and stacking things, putting them in their proper places.
"I'm here," Sirius continued, dropping one arm over Remus' shoulders, "to pick up my friend." He narrowed his eyes at Snape, smirking. "Had to make sure that you hadn't decided to poison our precious Moonshine, Snivellus. Isn't that right, Remus?"
Before Snape had a chance to reach for his wand and hex Sirius blind, deaf, and impotent, Remus shrugged Sirius away.
"Call me that again and I'll break your arm, Black," Remus warned.
This, for some reason, made Severus smile. And when Sirius caught this from the periphery of his eyes, he scowled. With quick, angry swipes, he snatched up the three bottles of Revival potion and stuck them in the pockets of his robe. As if their hands were arguing, Sirius smacked Remus' fingers away from stacking up pages of notes and scrolls, grabbing them in a pile even as Remus made noises of protest.
Sirius, with the grand bravado that had both won and lost the war, put one thick hand on Remus' shoulder and started marching the boy out of the Potions dungeon, deaf to Remus' protests and saying, "Be a dear and clean up won't you, Snivellus darling? Thanks."
It was as their footsteps were already starting to fade that Snape wrenched himself from his spot in the classroom and rushed to the door.
There, just there, beyond an archway and near a flight of steps, Remus had stopped in the hall and turned on Sirius. And the light from the small windows at the top of the corridor were still letting in deep-red light, scarlet streaks that painted the stone and washed across the top of Lupin's head, brown hair golden suddenly, layered with depth and suddenly very beautiful, not ordinary at all -- no, Severus thought strangely. There'd never been anything ordinary about Remus at all.
"I don't see why you have to be such a perpetual dick," Remus said, and snatched his papers away from Sirius, ordering them distractedly and tucking them underneath his arm.
Sirius, who never backed down to anyone, frowned. "It's Snape. We hate Snape."
"You hate Snape," Remus snapped.
The voice in Severus' head fell silent, and for the briefest of moments, there was no savior wanted or needed at all -- there was only the red light fading into darkness in the corners of the hallway and how the stones felt underneath Severus' hands, cool and old, like time frozen.
Remus started to walk away, angry, quick footsteps that were only halted when Sirius jumped and grabbed Remus' shoulder, staring down at Remus' face with some unreadable expression.
And then that same hand, rough and calloused from fights and Quidditch games and pranks at all hours of night suddenly softened, it seemed, and slid down, carefully, haltingly, in one staccato move from Remus' shoulder to the small of his back, settling there with fingers loose and slightly curled. Almost like an embrace, distilled to a touch.
There was a silence here, and Severus knew, instinctively, that he was seeing something not intended for his eyes. Not intended for anyone at all. Not intended, Snape realized, seemed to be his mantra, the most defining phrase of his life -- and it only barely drowned out the urge to lash out, to brush Black's hand away from Remus.
Finally, and in a low, weary tone, Remus murmured, "You're so stupid, Sirius," and didn't pull away.
"Yes, utterly," Sirius agreed, tame and strange, unexpected.
With a sigh, Remus' shoulders loosened and he unwound, melted into where Black had curled that hand against his back. With a similar sigh Remus began to walk again and Black followed, faithful and eager like a dog with his master, his hand never leaving.
It was as the red light fractured, turned purple like night that Severus saw it: Black's fingers splayed out against the rise of Remus' hip, head dipped low to murmur something into the crook of Lupin's neck, just before they disappear into the stairwell.
And the next morning during Potions, when Professor Grimsley took ten points from Gryffindor for leaving station three a mess the day before, Severus felt Remus' eyes on his back, curious and maybe regretful, like there was something to say.
The silence between them broadened, like an arc of night, and Snape spent evenings in the Potions dungeon watching red light turn gold on Remus' hair and the way that sometimes, when reaching for one ingredient or the other, their hands would brush. But the memory of it would never fade, and every time that Remus smiled or teased, it was always there, bright and tangible like a the whetted blade of a knife, the image of Black's fingers, of the graceful curve of Remus' neck, and of that flooded scarlet light scattered across the dungeon floor.
"I'm arse at this," Remus would say.
And Snape would remain silent and silently agreeing.
It was an accepted fact, something everybody knew, and knew would never change.
All feedback is appreciated. Happy reading.
ETA: many thanks to bowdlerized for pointing out the unfortunate fact that I cannot spell. Have fixed errors and also managed to type an entire sentence of my lab report. This is progress indeed.
ETA AGAIN: ...shit. I am so mentally retarded. Sorry, bowdlerized.