Chapter 11
Remus Lupin is a lot of things. A Marauder, a Gryffindor, a werewolf. But when it came to Severus Snape? He was more confused than he’d ever been in his entire, tragically complicated life. Utterly, hopelessly confused.
Don’t get him wrong—he’d been having a lot of feelings toward the Slytherin these past three weeks. Ranging from deep suspicion over his recent behaviour, to genuine gratitude for showing interest in Remus’ furry little problem—enough interest to actually make potions for it, no less.
And then there was the completely unreasonable flustered feeling he got every time Snape so much as glanced in his direction. Which, lately, was happening far too often for Remus’ sanity.
But mostly? Yeah—still just confused.
Snape didn’t have a reason to help him. He didn’t even have a reason to keep Remus’ secret. No blood oaths, no magical contracts, not even a pinky swear. And yet here he was— doing both, for reasons Remus could not for the life of him figure out.
Every time he tried to make sense of it, he ended up so mentally tangled he gave himself a migraine. Or maybe that was just the full moon creeping up again and his body throwing a tantrum. Hard to tell at this point.
“Mooney!”
Oh, and his friends yelling from right next to him in the Great Hall? Also not helping the migraine.
Remus looked up from his barely-touched lunch, just to show them he was listening, even if he was slowly disassociating into his mashed potatoes.
“Listen, you don’t have to worry about Snivellus,” James said, puffed up with that usual Gryffindor bravado. “We’re going to be with you, and I’ve been studying up on the most poisonous potion ingredients. The git won’t slip anything past me.”
Remus blinked at him. That was... both reassuring and deeply worrying. Mostly the second one.
Truthfully, he wasn’t too nervous about being poisoned. One—Snape was too smart to try something that obvious. Poisoning Remus with a potion he’d literally told the Headmaster about would be like signing his own arrest warrant. And two—Snape didn’t seem to see this as helping Remus, per se. It was more like... an experiment. A personal project. A challenge. The kind of challenge Snape would rather die than screw up.
And Remus…weirdly…respected that. Admired it, even.
Still, he was nervous. Not about dying horribly, but something possibly worse—like having the Marauders and their favourite lifelong victim in the same room. What could possibly go wrong?
But he had talked to his friends. He’d made them promise—multiple times, with varying degrees of guilt-tripping and threats—that they would behave. That as long as Snape genuinely tried to help with the potion, this wouldn’t turn into a duel-to-the-death situation.
Talking about his friends… well, things had been weird, lately. For him, at least.
Remus didn’t know if he was acting weird enough for them to notice, but he certainly noticed. What Sirius had done—it hurt. Deeply. It cracked something in the foundation of trust he'd built with his friends. With Sirius, for what he’d done—leading Snape to the Shack like Remus was some kind of weapon. And with James, for defending it in the Headmaster’s office. Trying to smooth it over like Sirius had just knocked over a soup bowl, not nearly gotten someone murdered.
And in that room, the only person who had pointed out how utterly messed up the whole thing was… was Snape.
The boy Remus and his friends had tormented since first year. He was the one who called it what it was—using someone’s condition, their curse, as a weapon.
What an absolute nightmare of a situation.
Sometimes, Remus still half-thinks he dreamed the whole thing up. But no. That scarred-up truth was still there, staring back at him like it always would be.
Remus knew what they did was horrible. But he was a coward. A sentimental, stubborn coward. He knew it. Snape knew it. Hell, Snape had even said it. Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the knowledge that they might never fully see him as just Remus and not a monster under the surface—he couldn’t let them go. They’d seen what he was. And they still wanted to be his friends. Hell, they became Animagi for him.
He couldn’t throw that away. He wouldn’t. Even if part of him still winced every time he remembered that night.
Forgiveness was one thing. Forgetting? That was another entirely.
Speaking of friends, Sirius had been side-eyeing him all lunch like he was working up the courage to say something but couldn’t quite spit it out. Probably sulking over the fact that Snape hadn’t shown up the previous night to their usual Secret Petting Session.
Sirius thought it was subtle. It was not. Every Marauder knew. Even Wormtail. They had bets going—Wormtail had five sickles riding on Snape showing up three days in a row. Remus was proud to say that he did end up with Wormtails’ money after Sirius walked into the dormroom last night looking pouty.
Trying to help his friend along, Remus gave him a raised brow, prompting him to just say it already.
Padfoot perked up like a kicked puppy getting told it’s walk time. “We should go now, right? I mean—the bat isn’t even here. So maybe he’s already waiting.”
Remus blinked, glanced over at the Slytherin table, and—sure enough—Snape was gone.
He started gathering his things when his gaze caught on the apple basket in front of him. He hesitated, wondering whether he should take one for Snape. In case he’d skipped lunch. He knew for a fact that Snape didn't mind apples, from that one time Lily had thrown one to him and he ate it, so that seems like a good option.
His face felt a little warm at the thought of Snape actually thanking him for thinking of him. So, naturally, he panicked and snatched the apple and shoved it in his bag like it had offended him.
“Well. I’m ready.”
“Think I’m going to sit this one out, if you guys don’t mind,” Peter said, looking up at them with all the bravery of a wet noodle. His eyes practically pleaded for them not to drag him along.
Honestly? Hilarious. Peter had been weirdly terrified of Snape lately. Remus smirked. “Don’t worry about it, Wormtail. You can stay.”
Peter practically sagged in relief, and Remus turned to the rest of the Marauders, who were still picking up their things.
Actually... maybe this was his chance.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine on my own. No need to accompany me,” Remus added casually, hoping his voice didn’t sound too hopeful. He had a couple of questions he wanted to talk to Snape—he didn’t want drowned out by James’ commentary or Sirius’ general presence.
“You kidding, mate?” Sirius said, already halfway out of his seat and stuffing a final roll in his mouth. “We’re not letting you go alone with him! Who knows what he’ll do to you?”
Remus was pretty sure Sirius pulled a muscle from how fast he stood up.
“Padfoot’s right, Mooney,” James added seriously. “It’ll do you some good to remember not to trust that greasy git. He’s still a dark wizard, if you care to remember.”
Remus rolled his eyes so hard he might’ve seen his own brain. He wasn’t asking for much—but he knew them. Knew they’d be annoyingly stubborn about this.
Fine. Whatever. He gave up and turned to leave the Great Hall.
“Let’s go, then.”
The walk there had been short, mostly thanks to Padfoot walking at a pace that could only be described as dramatically urgent. He wasn’t quite running, but his cloak was swishing like he thought he was storming a battlefield. James shot a look over Padfoot’s back, eyebrows raised as if to say, What’s got his wand in a twist? Remus answered with a look of his own that said, How the hell should I know?
They did get turned around once or twice—none of them were exactly model Potions students, and the dungeon hallways had a habit of all looking the same. Thankfully, the Marauder’s Map came to the rescue, guiding them toward one of the lesser-used student lab rooms.
Remus found himself mildly surprised. He’d assumed Snape would’ve picked one of his usual hiding places—the disused classroom in the far corner of the dungeons, for instance. He’d seen his name there often enough while glancing over the map during patrols. And once, curiosity had gotten the better of him; he’d gone to check and found empty cauldrons still faintly steaming. But apparently Snape had opted for neutral ground today, probably so no one got the impression they’d stumbled into his personal lair.
That was fair.
When they finally reached the door, Remus stepped forward, intending to knock first and give Snape a heads-up. Politeness seemed like a good idea when dealing with someone mixing volatile substances.
Sirius had other ideas.
The door swung open before Remus could say a word. Sirius sauntered in like he’d just been invited to a party.
“We’re here, Snivellous, so put away your dark potion or I’ll personally find a way to deal with it,” Sirius announced cheerfully, grinning like a mad man on a hunt. He pushed open the lab door like he owned the place—because of course he did—and stepped in expecting some kind of dramatic confrontation.
Snape wasn’t hunched over a bubbling cauldron or surrounded by smoke and mysterious ingredients like they’d imagined. He was in the corner of the room, legs crossed under a desk, calmly flipping through a thick book and chewing on a sandwich.
Remus blinked.
“I knew you’d barge in like a troll with a head injury,” Snape muttered without glancing up, taking another bite like this was all very routine.
“Flattered you think of me so often,” Sirius said with a grin, clearly unfazed, already prowling toward Snape.
Remus, meanwhile, took a moment to actually look at the Slytherin—and nearly did a double take.
Snape’s hair, which he had grown out to be longer than it ever was before, was pulled back into a surprisingly neat ponytail. It made him look... different. More focused, maybe. Or just less like he haunted dungeons at midnight. And his clothes weren’t school robes or those oversized black cloaks he seemed to prefer—he was in faded black jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that looked vaguely Muggle.
This might have officially been the most casual any of them had ever seen Snape. It was kind of jarring. It was also kind of... well. Remus wasn’t going to think too hard about why he was still staring.
Snape finally looked up, probably sensing the collective confusion.
“Why are you here already?” he asked flatly. “I said after lunch. There’s still—” he pulled out his wand—James flinched on instinct, hand twitching toward his own— “ten minutes left.” He cast a quick tempus spell and gestured to the floating numbers with mild disdain. “See? Early. You’re early. Shocking. And deeply irritating.”
He gave them all a withering once-over before returning to his book like this conversation had already exhausted him.
“You know,” he added, flipping a page, “I’ve been meaning to mention this for years, but you lot are genuinely terrible at following instructions.”
“Well, we thought we’d take longer getting here,” Remus said diplomatically, though his tone implied someone might’ve power-walked the entire way. He glanced pointedly at Sirius, who was now scooting a stool suspiciously close to Snape’s desk, probably planning to be annoying at point-blank range.
“Might as well get over it, then.” Said Snape, taking one last quick bite of his sandwich and wrapping it while glaring at Sirius, who was still scooting the stool. “Lupin, go next to that cauldron.”
When Remus looked, he noticed there was, in fact, a cauldron—and the potion being brewed looked like it was moments away from bubbling over.
“You already made the potion? What did you need me for?” he asked curiously, trying to get a closer look.
“Like I said, I need samples from you,” Snape replied, getting up from his seat and walking over to the cauldron. “I want to test how strongly your lycan side influences your behaviour depending on how close it is to the full moon. Which is why I asked you to come today—less than a week before.”
“Snivellus, I read about the potion that Damocles Belby is developing,” James cut in from across the table where Snape and Remus stood, arms crossed like he was about to cross-examine Snape in court. “He’s working on helping werewolves too, but he doesn’t need samples from them. He just gives them the potion on the full moon. So why do you need Remus’s samples so badly?”
Huh. Remus blinked. He hadn’t expected Prongs of all people to have actually studied for this meeting. Honestly, he was kind of touched. Sure, it was probably just to show up Snape, but the effort was sweet. In a loud, Quidditch-obsessed, overconfident kind of way.
Snape raised an eyebrow, tilted his head, and gave James a slow, baffled once-over. “Potter, I have to say I’m actually quite impressed. You went out of your way to research this—even if it was just to undermine me. But more importantly... I’m shocked you understood what you read. That must’ve been incredibly difficult for you.”
James glared at him, ears turning an impressive shade of pink. Remus hoped— prayed, really—that he could control his frustration. He didn’t want to have to break up a duel over potions theory.
“Well, we’re smarter than you give us credit for, Snivellus,” James snapped, through clenched teeth.
Snape snorted like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “Right. Then explain why your other half over there is currently poking around in a jar of powdered chimaera bile with his bare hands .”
Remus and James both spun toward Sirius—who was, in fact, curiously prodding a jar of ingredients that looked like they'd been scooped out of a dragon’s septic tank.
“Black, put that back right now and come stand next to Potter,” Snape said, still not even looking. “If you insist on being here, I need to keep an eye on you both so I don’t end up scrubbing ingredients off the ceiling.”
Weirdly enough, Sirius obeyed with no backtalk. Just slinked over to James’s side like a very guilty dog.
Maybe all those nighttime meetings as Padfoot had affected their dynamic.
“Anyway, Potter,” Snape continued, refocusing on the cauldron. “To answer your surprisingly intelligent question—Belby’s potion is designed to suppress the wolf completely during a full moon. Mine is not. I’m attempting something... more nuanced.”
That made Remus frown. Wasn’t full suppression exactly what you wanted in a potion? Snape clearly noticed the doubt and decided to go full lecture mode.
“Well,” he began, “I have a theory that Belby’s approach, while idealistic, can cause more harm than good. For example, imagine you’ve been taking that potion for six months straight—shoving the wolf into a cage. Then one month, you miss a dose. Just one. The wolf comes out after all that suppression, and now it’s not just angry—it’s vengeful. Think about it, Lupin.”
Remus’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.
“The wolf is still a part of you. It doesn’t disappear. It gets trapped. And it builds up. That’s why I’m guessing you experience stronger symptoms as the moon approaches—craving raw meat, snapping at people more, pacing at night?”
Remus blinked at him. That was... eerily accurate.
Snape nodded, “My potion is meant to give both the human and wolf consciousness during the full moon. Let them interact. Let them reach a balance. That’s why I asked you to come in a week early—so the wolf isn’t startled by the shift. I want the transition to be... cooperative, not combative.”
He stirred the cauldron with precise movements as the three Marauders just stared at him, trying to mentally decode the paragraph he’d just dumped on them. Remus finally found his voice.
“But why wouldn’t you want the wolf to be suppressed?” he asked, confused. “If I had access to Belby’s potion, I’d never skip a dose.”
He meant it. He hated the wolf. Hated what it did to him. Any chance to bury it was a win in his book.
Snape looked at him, brow furrowed like he was remembering something unpleasant. Then he met Remus’s gaze, sharp and quiet.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he said. “But, you think that way because you only see the wolf as an affliction. From the wolf’s perspective... that one night a month is the only time it’s free. And even then, it’s barely conscious—trapped and chained. You feel the after-effects—fatigue, confusion, pain. Imagine what it feels.”
He stirred again. “The wolf is part of you. If you suppress it too hard, too often, the backlash will only grow worse. This potion gives both halves a say. Or at least... that’s the goal. I haven’t tested it properly before.”
Remus swallowed thickly.
“But the wolf is dangerous,” he said, quieter now. “It needs to be caged.”
Snape shook his head. “I’m not saying it’s not dangerous. I’m saying it can learn not to be. It’s a part of you, Lupin.”
Then he looked directly at him—really looked —with an intensity that made Remus freeze.
“And from where I’m standing, you’re more of a coward than a danger to society.”
It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t even cruel. It was just... piercing. Like Snape was dissecting him.
Remus suddenly couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know how to respond. Couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even think.
Wow, he thought, a little stupidly, Snape’s eyes are really dark, huh? They were like onyx—deep and unreadable—but somehow... big , too. And the way he was looking up at Remus right now—no malice, no hatred, just quiet, focused curiosity—made something twist in Remus’s chest.
Were they always this... beautiful?
Have they always looked like that? Why hasn’t he ever noticed—
“Seems like you’ve put a lot of thought into this, Snivellus,” Sirius interrupted, voice casual, though something unreadable lingered underneath.
Snape finally broke eye contact and turned toward him. Remus could breathe again.
“Guess I’ve always had a fondness for canines,” Snape said. “Werewolves fall under that umbrella, no?”
Sirius blinked—and promptly went pink. Probably thinking about the many nights he’d spent curled up as Padfoot next to this exact sarcastic Slytherin.
Satisfied, Snape returned his attention to the potion.
“When exactly are you planning to collect these samples?” James interrupted, scowling like someone who’d just realized he was the only one not getting weird attention from Snape. “We haven’t got all day.”
Ah. Right. The samples. That was still happening.
“Now’s good,” Snape said. “Lupin, I need a hair sample, a blood sample, and a saliva sample.”
“I get the blood and hair,” Sirius said, surprisingly helpful, “but why saliva?”
Snape didn’t even flinch. “Ideally, semen would be a better sample—more complex information—but saliva contains some important enzymes and markers, so it’s a suitable substitute.”
“Semen!?” Remus yelped, going crimson.
“Yes, semen,” Snape said, blinking slowly. “As in, male ejaculation?”
Remus made a strangled noise. “I—I—where do I put my samples?”
“Hair and blood go in the cauldron. Saliva goes here,” Snape said, calmly handing him a small vial, as if he hadn’t just mentally detonated Remus Lupin’s entire nervous system.
This potion better work on the first try. Because if it didn’t, Remus was 90% sure he was going to develop heart problems before the next full moon.
Severus Snape had been having an unexpectedly productive time since returning to Hogwarts—if one could call being shoved back into your teenage body while retaining all the memories of your 40-year-old self ‘productive’ and not ‘a cosmic joke.’
Still, things were… going well. Surprisingly well.
He’d been mending his friendship with Lily. Sure, it would never be quite what it once was—there were just too many variables in play, like time, trauma, and the small fact that he was emotionally 40 and spiritually exhausted—but it was on its way to becoming something important again. And this time, he was determined not to ruin it by becoming a blood purist. Not that he ever truly was one to begin with. Just…adjacent.
He’d also somehow started a tentative friendship with Charity Burbage, who now smacked his arm whenever he called her ‘Burbage’ instead of ‘Charity.’ He took that as a positive sign of bonding. She had, quite without asking, also taken up the role of his personal stylist. Every morning, she attacked his hair under the pretense of ‘testing styles’ for their matching outfits for the upcoming Slug Club party in two weeks.
He still hadn’t seen what the outfits looked like.
“I need to try it on,” he had argued, “What if it doesn’t fit?”
“I took your measurements, Severus,” she’d replied, as if he’d personally insulted her honour. “Do you think I failed out of Arithmancy or something? Merlin’s balls, trust a woman!”
She’d smacked his arm again for that. Twice, actually. He was learning to accept this as her love language.
Meanwhile, in Slytherin House, things had shifted dramatically. He hadn’t even hexed anyone yet (well, not seriously ), but just the newfound confidence and the unnerving way he smiled when delivering threats had been enough to keep most of the Slytherins at arm’s length.
Regulus and Narcissa, however, didn’t seem to mind the tension. In fact, they talked to him more now than he remembered from the first time around. It was... nice. Confusing, but nice. Narcissa had even started sitting next to him regularly.
But no matter how many times he reminded himself that he was doing better—objectively, measurably better—his mind kept circling back to what Mulciber had said.
Specifically, what Lucius thought of him now.
He shouldn’t care. Lucius Malfoy had been an arrogant, manipulative bastard in his youth—and not much better in adulthood—but he’d also been Severus’s friend for almost three decades. A complicated one, sure, but still. Now Severus could admit—without vomiting—that he missed Lucius. And, Merlin help him, he valued Lucius’s opinion. It would’ve been easier if Lucius had written him after the whole Mulciber Incident, but of course, he hadn’t.
Narcissa, ever the observant snake she was, had picked up on it immediately. He’d gone very quiet when she talked about her fiancé, and she'd raised an eyebrow at him during lunch the other day like she knew. She probably did.
“You should write to him,” she’d said casually over pumpkin juice. “Don’t let your anxiety fester. It makes your frown lines worse.”
She had a point. He would write the letter. Eventually. Hopefully tomorrow. Maybe.
In other heartwarming news, he’d been exchanging letters with his mother.
He’d sent her two massive food baskets (courtesy of the Hogwarts house-elves) along with a letter asking how she was and whether Tobias had done anything stupid lately.
Her replies had been surprisingly warm. She’d written that she missed Hogwarts food—especially the treacle tart—and thanked him profusely. She also mentioned that Tobias had stopped fighting with the house and was now behaving... well, almost like a person.
Progress.
So yes, all in all, Severus Snape had, in a very short amount of time, dramatically improved his life.
He was alive. He had friends. He had hair that wasn’t constantly greasy. His mother was eating regularly. Narcissa was giving him unsolicited advice. Charity was turning him into a doll she could dress up and style the hair of. And Lily Evans had been regularly talking to him again.
The only thing Severus Snape could reasonably complain about these days—aside from the existential horror of being a teenager again—was that he was willingly locking himself in a room with his former teenage tormentors.
Yes, he’d spun it to the Headmaster as a noble endeavour, a compassionate effort to help the werewolf. And, sure, he was helping Remus Lupin. But Severus was not doing this out of the goodness of his heart.
No, Severus had… other motivations. Petty motivations. Deeply personal ones, rooted in long-held resentment and the burning desire to say a very loud, academic ‘Screw you’ to someone from his past.
It all went back to the year before he graduated Hogwarts. Desperate for a future, he'd sent letters to nearly every Potions Master in Britain, hoping to apprentice under one of them and eventually earn his Mastery. He knew he didn’t exactly have the most sparkling reputation—what with being linked to certain dark families and the rapidly un-closeting of You-Know-Who at the time—but he was brilliant. That had to count for something.
Except, apparently, it didn’t.
Most Potion Masters didn’t even respond. Some likely tossed his letters straight into the fire the moment they saw ‘Snape’ on the envelope. After all, he wasn’t a pureblood—so even the ones who approved of his affiliations didn’t want a grubby little half-blood ‘contaminating’ their pristine, inherited labs.
All except one.
Damocles Belby replied.
And Severus had wished he hadn’t.
Belby had rejected him, of course. But he hadn't stopped there. No, he’d taken it upon himself to explain, in detail, why he didn’t want Severus anywhere near his lab. He questioned his loyalties, his affiliations, and—perhaps most damning—his integrity.
“I work with werewolves,” the letter had said. “And I can’t, in good conscience, bring someone into my lab who associates with those who view them as subhuman.”
Which—fine. Older Severus gets that. It’s actually fair, now that he’s not a dumb seventeen-year-old wrapped in ideology and trauma.
But even so, that letter had cut deeper than any curse, and Belby wasn’t even going to give him a chance. And deep down, Severus had never let it go.
So after the war, in the chaos of rebuilding and teaching and desperately trying not to lose his mind to the next generation of dunderheads, Severus found motivation in the pettiest of places. He began developing new potions— better potions—just to prove what a mistake Belby had made.
One of those potions? A more advanced version of the Wolfsbane Potion.
He hadn’t read any of the academic literature on Belby’s version at first—on purpose. He didn’t want to be influenced by it. He wanted his own creation, free from the taint of Belby’s work. Of course, when Dumbledore had asked him to brew the potion for Lupin during that one memorable teaching year, he’d been forced to actually look at the original formula. And that’s when he realized he had developed something different, and in his opinion, better.
It had taken years —years he didn’t really have, if he was being honest—but by the time the Dark Lord started crawling back to power, Severus had completed it. A new version. A better version. He just... never got to test it.
The werewolves in Voldemort’s circle didn’t want a cure. They liked the violence, the blood, the chaos. Lupin, on the other hand, was far too wary of anything coming from him during that time.
But now?
Now he was here. In the past. With a werewolf who didn’t hate him yet, and a group of Marauders who—against all odds—were more easily manipulated than ever. And suddenly, testing his life’s work didn’t just seem plausible. It seemed perfect.
And if it worked? If the potion succeeded?
Well, wouldn’t that be the most beautiful, poetic ‘fuck you’ to Damocles Belby?
So yes, Severus was doing this for selfish reasons. Petty reasons. Manipulative reasons.
And no, he didn’t particularly care.
He wasn’t trying to be a better person.
He was just trying to make his life better. One calculated grudge at a time.
“You know you don’t have to be here,” Severus said, peering into the cauldron. “I got what I needed. I’ll finish the potion and give it to you on the day of the transformation.”
“Oh. So… we can leave now?” Lupin asked from across the table, sounding almost disappointed.
Severus looked up and immediately felt a prickly discomfort in his gut. The three of them—Lupin, Potter, and Black—had ended up sitting together on the other side of the table, facing him. He was the lone figure standing over a bubbling cauldron. It was far too familiar. Far too classroom.
Absolutely not. That was a life he had escaped and would never willingly return to. Teaching children the difference between slicing and dicing a ginger root was trauma enough for one lifetime.
“Yes,” Severus snapped. “You’re the ones who said you didn’t have all day. So leave me alone.”
“What about the potion?” Potter asked, still planted firmly in his seat, like a stubborn ox. “I thought you were going to give it to Remus now?”
What was with Potter and all the questions today? It was weird enough he had actually read and comprehended the notes for this meeting. Now he was talking to Severus without drawing his wand first? What an utterly ridiculous and unwelcoming development.
“I’ll give it to him on the day of the full moon, right before dinner. I don’t trust him not to lose it,” Severus said flatly. “I need this test to go perfectly. And no, Potter, I’m not withholding it to poison him. That line of questioning is getting exhausting.”
Potter glared and stood up dramatically, “Fine. I’m leaving. Not because I trust you, but because I don’t want to be in a room with you anymore.”
“Finally,” Severus muttered.
The other two stood with him, but before they could go, Severus called, “Wait. Lupin.”
Lupin turned, surprised.
Severus summoned a handful of small vials from across the room, which flew neatly into his hand. He held them out to Lupin. “These are for your headaches and fatigue. One every other day. I want your body in optimal condition before testing the experimental potion—you’ll need to keep up with the wolf part of yourself.”
“Oh. Um—sorry, but even if I take them, they won’t really help,” Lupin said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Potions don’t exactly mix well with werewolf physiology.”
“I know that,” Severus drawled, looking deeply offended. “That’s why I modified them.”
“You—you did? So it’ll work? For me?”
Merlin help him, Lupin actually looked hopeful. Like Severus had just handed him a miracle in a glass vial.
“Just try it, wolf,” Severus said, already bored, already regretting not kicking them out five minutes ago.
Lupin hesitantly uncorked one vial and drank it. Almost instantly, his eyes lit up. “Is it supposed to work that fast? My migraine is… totally gone.”
“That’s because I’m a genius,” Severus said dryly. “Glad we’re all caught up. Now take the rest and get out.”
“Thank you, Snape,” Lupin said, pink rising to his cheeks. He started rummaging through his bag. “I—I know you already ate, but I brought you this. Just in case you skipped lunch.”
He pulled out an apple. A plain, green apple.
Severus stared at it. Then at Lupin. Then at the apple again.
“Moony?” Black said, scandalized, with a hint of betrayal.
“I’m not taking that,” Severus said, recoiling slightly. “Everything you idiots give me ends up cursed, enchanted, or exploding. I’d rather not risk the lab going up in flames.”
“I swear it’s not part of a prank! You can check it.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Severus pulled out his wand and cast a diagnostic charm. Nothing. No hexes, jinxes, or charms. Just a normal apple.
He narrowed his eyes and snatched it out of Lupin’s hand anyway, more annoyed at his own hunger than anything else. He took a step back from the cauldron and bit into it.
He looked up to find all three of them staring at him.
Lupin was smiling like Severus had just given him a compliment. Potter looked irritated. And Black looked oddly furious.
Did they all want the apple that badly?
“For the love of Merlin, leave, ” Severus groaned, rolling his eyes as he chewed.
Lupin beamed and practically dragged the other two toward the door. “Thanks for the potions, Severus!” he called over his shoulder, still grinning like they were mates now.
…Did he just call him Severus?
More importantly, did the werewolf actually think they were friends?
Well. If he did, that’d make it easier to get him to test the rest of his potions. Manipulating him would be a lot more efficient if Lupin thought this was a friendship.
Plus, it will annoy the rest of the Marauders, won't it?
Severus took another bite of the apple and smirked.
Let the wolf think what he wants.