A/N: Thank you for the views/follows I've had so far! A note on the AU/canon status of this story: I've just replaced the previous chapter with a version which doesn't mention Lucius's connection to the Chamber of Secrets debacle – partly for logistical reasons (which will become clear later), partly for plausibility reasons. In this universe, Lucius hasn't done anything so completely horrendous and stupid. –SS–


Chapter 3

It was hell. That is, it was hell to begin with. To Severus it was as if Lupin had been resurrected from the dead, and he was everywhere: in the corridors, in the library, at mealtimes. They barely spoke – Lupin said hello when they passed each other and Severus gave him a curt nod in return – but when Severus was alone in the evenings he found memories crowding into his consciousness. Images came to the surface of a pale, drawn face hovering in the background while he desperately dodged and blocked hexes from Sirius Black and James Potter. He remembered his increasing suspicions about the adolescent Lupin's monthly disappearances, he remembered spotting Lupin walking with Madam Pomfrey from a high window, he remembered Sirius's smirk as he told him about the knot that would stop the Whomping Willow attacking him. He remembered drawing his wand as he entered the tunnel, his head tingling with the thought of the discovery he was about to make.

Most of all, though, he remembered the huge, angular form at the end of the passageway – its gleaming, bestial eyes – its low growl as it caught sight of him – his triumph melting into terror – and James Potter catching up with him, yelling for him to run – the two them bursting out of the tunnel, sprinting far across the grass and then standing, out of range of the Whomping Willow, bent over and breathing hard – before Severus had strode away without saying a word and gone straight to Dumbledore's office. A couple of days after that, sworn to secrecy and meeting the tired eyes of Remus Lupin in human form once again, he'd realised that Lupin hadn't been in on the plot, he hadn't wanted to endanger Severus's life. But naturally he hated him, almost as much as he hated Black and Potter.

For the first week, that night invaded Severus's mind above all else. His dreams were disturbed by four-legged creatures slinking in and out of shadows, creatures that pinned him down and seemed to tickle him with Lucius's long hair, creatures that laughed with Voldemort's laugh and whispered Crucio in his ear, creatures that burrowed into his trousers and began to lick his cock. He woke up exhausted and sweating. When Flitwick asked him at dinner if he was all right, he snarled a reply, and when he saw Lupin turn curiously in his direction, he rose from the table altogether and stalked out of the Great Hall.

Gradually he got used to it, however. Once his sleep improved and he no longer tensed at the sight of his former classmate, he was able to reason with himself a little. Gallons, oceans of water had flowed under the bridge in the many years since he had last seen Lupin. He himself had become a Death Eater and committed some particularly revolting crimes. Thanks to Voldemort, Lupin had lost all his friends, his life had been ruined, and he was only able to re-emerge now thanks to the invention of the Wolfsbane. But he did not seem at all interested in talking about the past. He gave no hint that he bore a grudge towards Severus; in fact, he was unfailingly cheerful in his greetings, if slightly tentative. To Severus's knowledge he never brought up either Potter, Pettigrew or even Black again, and when the conversation at the staff table turned to the escaped convict, he listened intently, but remained silent.

Whether Lupin was more talkative in the staff room over a Gillywater, whether he ever voiced fears of being murdered by Black in his bed, Severus did not have the chance to find out. The Wolfsbane potion took up all his time – not only the making of it, which required stewing and re-stewing and a form of magical lamination which was very new and rather difficult, but the refinements Severus soon discovered were sorely needed. The author of Warts, Weather and Worries (and werewolves, he added bitterly to himself) had clearly been so eager to get the formula published that he had done a rather shoddy job of finding something that was reliably effective. More than once Severus, an expert Potions master, missed the split second of opportunity he had to alter the temperature, or to add the powdered ramshorn, and had to throw the whole thing out and start again.

His first improvement, then, was to find ways of giving the brewer more time to get things right during the brewing. He ordered in some crates of rosehips, and set about distilling, trying to create a solvent that would slow the progress of the potion at crucial moments. It was tedious work, distillation, but he needed so many different types and concentrations that they had to be made from scratch. Some nights the dungeons echoed with his oaths as he thought of all the other things he would rather be doing. But at least it was a real project, a difficult one, involving long and complicated analysis, which he liked. Once he solved the practicalities of brewing the potion, he wanted to think about redesigning it from scratch, one of his favourite types of research. The base, he thought, was the key: glacial water was easy to buy, and fairly cheap, but there was probably something more effective.

In the evenings he spent hours steadily working, moving vials in and out of racks, checking the rows of cauldrons, weighing rosehips for the distiller, knowing he was doing something genuinely useful. Some nights it was almost a wrench to put out the flames under the cauldrons and go to bed.


Three weeks into term, at about nine in the evening, there was a knock on his classroom door.

Severus was in the middle of adjusting the heat under a row of six cauldrons, and did not even bother to look up, merely using his free hand to arrange some pieces of parchment into a slightly neater pile. 'Enter.'

When he finally tore his eyes away and saw Lupin standing there, he gave a short, humourless laugh. 'I see. The full moon's in two days and you want to check I'm doing what I'm told.'

'What would be the point in that?' Lupin said mildly. 'If you weren't nearly finished, there would be nothing for it – I'd have to find a safe place to go and transform.'

'The Shrieking Shack once more, I suppose.'

'No, I don't think so. It's been quiet too long. There are intelligent people in Hogsmeade – I would be astonished if someone didn't make the connection. I think I would have to go further afield. Dumbledore assures me he has made provision for this, anyway. He has done me an extraordinary good turn.'

'Yes, it is pretty extraordinary of him,' Severus said, checking each of the six cauldrons and making a note on the parchment on the workbench. 'Who was making this potion for you before?'

'I was, actually,' Lupin said, almost apologetically. 'I wasn't too bad at Potions, although I understand you don't think much of this formula. No wonder I found it so difficult.'

'It is difficult,' Severus said. 'It is difficult because it is badly thought out. They've used the wrong base, I think, although it'll take me months to calculate which might be better.'

'Oh dear,' Lupin said. 'I'm sorry I'm causing you so much trouble.' But he didn't sound sorry. In fact, when Severus glanced up to meet his eyes, Lupin looked almost amused.

Severus clenched his jaw with annoyance, and tried to shrug. 'Never mind. If I produce a better version I may make some money out of it.'

'Is that why you agreed to do it?'

Severus looked up at him again. He did not recognise this Lupin at all. Had he ever really met his eyes when they were at school? He felt sure he would have remembered how unusual they were, a pale hazel that was almost golden. He wondered whether they been that colour since birth, or whether the bite from Fenrir Greyback had given them a more wolfish hue.

He tried to think of a way to answer Lupin's question. In the end, he was semi-truthful. 'No. I did it because Dumbledore asked me. You can't expose children to that level of danger.'

He could feel Lupin looking at him, trying to work out what he really thought about a werewolf teaching at Hogwarts. But he was good at this. He bent to look at the fire under one of the cauldrons critically, checked the mixture inside, then put the fire out. As he carried it over to another bench, where his complicated distiller stood, he said, 'What time on Thursday will you need the potion?'

'In the evening, some time before eleven, if that's convenient.' Lupin followed him over and watched as Severus lit another fire under the cauldron and began to fiddle with the spiralling glass tubes. 'You haven't changed, you know. I remember that look of concentration.'

Severus kept his eyes on what he was doing. 'Then you'll also remember that I don't go in much for chatter while I'm concentrating.'

'All right.' He could hear the amusement in Lupin's voice. 'Well, anyway, I only came down to say thank you. I really am very grateful.' Severus watched him from the corner of his eye as he went to the door. 'I'll come down on Thursday for it at eight, shall I?'

'Fine. And Lupin?'

Lupin waited silently.

'If I ever hear again that Boggarts are taking my form in your classes, you will be very sorry indeed.'

He could feel that Lupin was still smiling. 'Sleep well,' Lupin said, before closing the door gently behind him.

As soon as Severus was alone, he went back to the other workbench and retrieved the piece of parchment he'd hidden in amongst the others. It bore Lucius Malfoy's handwriting.

Severus,

Can you come to London this weekend? It has been far too long. A man can only take so much teasing, and I want an opportunity to retaliate.

L.

Severus rolled his eyes. Clearly Lucius didn't keep very close contact with his only son, or he'd have known there was a visit to Hogsmeade scheduled for this coming weekend, for which Severus was required to be present. It was exasperating: the weekend straight after the full moon was the only one he could afford to take off, and that only with great organisation and planning. If only Dumbledore had bothered to take this into account when he scheduled the Hogsmeade visits.

Quickly he scrawled a reply in the negative at the bottom of the note, and read the whole thing over before folding and sealing it. Lucius's third sentence warmed his blood as none of the cauldron fires on his workbench had done all evening. He toyed with the idea of abandoning work for the evening and sinking into his armchair to give his fantasies free rein. Then, reluctantly, he handed his reply to his solemn owl, watched it soar up to the high window and out into the darkness, and went unhappily back to the distiller, which was just coming to the boil.