3Disclaimer: First written in 2009. Not mine then. Not mine now.
A/N: You're going to be sick of the rewrites, but there's so much I've learned since having a lot of these thoughts and so much I'd like to do to fix them. In light of current events, I quite fancied a bit of Snape.
He has not seen this man sat at the opposite end of the table for many years. He is still shabby and wiry and greying, but somehow more than he has ever been. He is pale as the moon and sickly with it. His coal black eyes only emphasise his deathly pallor. His smile is small and soft. There is something hatefully tragic about Remus Lupin. He is torn between disdain and disbelief.
The new Defence teacher shudders, but almost passes this gesture off as a mere roll of his shoulders, aware of his eyes on him. Snape's smirk is not an expression of the joy this brings him. He is surprised to find that he gets no enjoyment out of Lupin's unease. It merely fuels his loathing – as does Lupin's otherwise pointed ignorance of his glare. Snape cannot quite decide whether this is a crippling weakness or great strength of character. A lesser man might turn that soft smile down the table and focus its weak beam on Snape. A greater man might return his stare.
"It's pink," he hears Flitwick cry. "You can't possibly eat it. It's practically raw."
"That just how I like it – so rare a decent vet could put it back on its feet."
Much more than his shabby appearance and sickening good humour, Snape hates his charm. In the first year he spent sat at the far end of the staff table, not one of his former professors attempted to make conversation. It is his first day and the werewolf has them eating from the palm of his hand. McGonagall is trying very hard not to smile and Flitwick looks as though he is living a waking wet dream. Happily, Filch looks equally displeased. Snape is heartened by this sudden solidarity and his attention is finally diverted by a plate of lamb chops.
At the other end of the table, Lupin breathes a small sigh of relief.
It is shortlived.
The plaque on the door of Classroom 31 already reads Professor R.J. Lupin: Defence Against the Dark Arts. Snape does not knock before pushing open the door with perhaps more force than necessary, but this is a classroom and he believes he is justified in entering unannounced. He sweeps into the room, making an entrance entirely wasted on his absent audience. There is a lot, in fact, that appears to be absent in this room. It is devoid of study material – not even desks can be found here. His footsteps echo around the room and it almost sounds as though he is tap-dancing on the ceiling when he climbs the short flight of stone steps at the back of the room.
The office is kept private by a heavy wooden door. It is closed and this time, while he suspects its mild-mannered and soft-spoken occupant would not too firmly object, he knows waltzing in would be crossing a line.
His knock goes unanswered. Perhaps another man might have been deterred by the stillness of the night and the lateness of the hour, but another man would not have been Severus Snape. He pushes the door open tentatively. This room is also dark and empty, but he can make out a large desk pushed into the far corner of the room. He's not even started teaching yet and it's already hidden until a pile of scattered paperwork. Boxes litter the floor. Lupin will be expected to teach in eight hours and Snape cannot help but wonder when his things are going to be put away. He turns suddenly and winces as his elbow comes into sharp contact with the brass horn of a gramophone. It becomes a dull and throbbing ache and certainly does nothing to improve his mood.
There's only one door between them now. It's not until he takes a deep breath, his clenched fist poised inches from the door, that Snape realises he is steeling himself, but this conversation has to be had. The knock, yet again, goes unanswered.
"Absolutely ridiculous," he mutters to nobody in particular. It's the middle of the night. A teacher, unless on duty, ought to be found in their quarters. He has always been against this appointment. He knew this would happen.
He hears a slight creak and the whisper of a spell before light from the tip of Lupin's wand shines too brightly in his face. He winces and averts his eyes.
"Severus?"
"Do you think you might perhaps point it somewhere else?"
Lupin immediately drops his wand arm. "Severus, it's one o'clock in the morning." Dimly lit, his face is haggard with exhaustion. His smile is one of relief, but his hunched shoulders and tensed muscles have not yet relaxed. "I thought you were…"
Snape raises an eyebrow and hums his disapproval. "I was rather hoping for a quick word."
"Can it not wait until breakfast?"
"No."
"Right. Fair enough." Lupin puts out the light of his wand and with a small hand motion, each candle in his quarters is lit. "Come in."
Really, he would much prefer to say his piece in the darkened office where he can feel safely superior, but he cannot think of a satisfactory excuse to stay put. The next room is far more settled and homely. The bed has recently been leapt out of, but otherwise, it is neat and looks deceptively as though Lupin has been in residence for years. His books have been stacked in a line along the windowsill, his dressing gown hangs on the back of the door, and photographs have been stuck to the walls. Snape does not approach them for a closer look, catching sight of a young Potter beside the lake and deducing everything he needs to know.
Lupin shakes the empty kettle. "Tea?"
"This isn't a social call."
"Suit yourself. You haven't seen the cups about on your travels, have you?"
Snape only stares at him in wonder. He has fried bigger fish than Remus Lupin with his icy politeness and yet, here it is strangely ignored as though they are great friends.
"It is a wonder, for a man in such financial trouble that he cannot have his hems stitched, that you can be so careless with your possessions."
Lupin's smile is tight and doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, it's like that when you move, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't know; I've held down this job for quite some time."
Lupin's smile has become a thin line. "Is there anything I can do for you this morning?"
"I'm watching you, Lupin."
"I can't promise I'll be terribly interesting, but I have a got a fish. He's interesting enough."
Snape's gaze follows Lupin's to a large tank in the corner of the room which harbours an ugly purplish-black fish with bulging eyes. It lurks behind the weeds Lupin has provided, staring almost menacingly out of them.
"Fascinating."
"For my second years. He likes his food live, but I thought that might be a bit much for the first week. I've got some rat's blood. It's around here somewhere."
Snape smirks. "Dark creatures are something of a specialty, are they?"
"Ironic, isn't it?"
Snape raises an eyebrow in response, but says nothing.
"Well, if that's all…" Lupin clasps his hands together. There is an air of a formal goodbye floating around the room, but Snape does not bite the hook.
"I'm afraid not."
Lupin's long fingers rub the sleep from his eye. He is fighting a yawn. He looks like a very large child. "I'm so sorry, have a seat." The kettle whistles and he turns to pour before Snape can answer him with only a withering glance.
"I won't be staying."
"Excellent."
Silence.
"I meant…" Lupin turns to face him, his mouth gawping in mortification. "I'm very tired. I didn't…"
"Oh, spare me." Snape's lips curl into an unpleasant smile. "If I hear so much of a whisper of Black's name about this castle-"
"Excuse me?" There is none of the almost bashful apology in his voice. He takes a step towards Snape and the floorboard creaks menacingly under him. "Before we go any further, are you accusing me of aiding and abetting a mass murderer?"
"No."
"Good." It is practically spat at him. "If you think I am going to put the boy in danger…" He trails off, biting his lip as though to silence himself.
Snape draws himself up to his full height, his back iron-straight. "As long as we understand one another."
As quickly as Lupin's temper was provoked, it has morphed into guilt. "I had no part in it. I didn't know…"
"I don't want to hear it."
Lupin ignores him. "And we agreed to put it behind us." It had been a formal affair in the Headmaster's office – Lupin, mortified, and Snape, determined to be offended. "You agreed."
Snape's derogatory laugh is breathy and nasal. There is no humour behind it.
"Right. A formality," says Lupin, smiling grimly. "Just as long as we understand one another. Goodnight, Severus."
"I'm afraid I have not quite finished."
"Oh I think you've made your point quite clearly. If there is anything further you wish to add, I'm sure you will be more than happy to do so in the Headmaster's office on record? Perhaps at the same time I might voice my own concerns on the subject of your loyalties." His gaze travels slowly down Snape's arm, coming to rest just short of the mark. Snape suspects he is calling his bluff, but in his fury and indignation, he seethes all the same. "But I suggest that, instead, we leave the past where it belongs."
He holds out his left hand. Snape glares at it.
This time, Lupin's squirming unease brings him genuine glee. "Goodnight." He turns on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he slams the door.
Game, set and match.