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Hair mussed, tie askew, Remus rushes into the dean’s office five minutes late. It’s his first day of work at Tuft College of Engineering & Science, and the wooden floor groans under his worn shoes like a warning.
A coffee pot—sitting on a table among foam cups and creamer packets—drips slower than the racing of his heart. Its aroma isn’t strong enough to mask the stale musk that has surely been steeping in the room for ages. No one is there to greet him, only desks full of folders and an unmatching assortment of dusty furniture.
He combs his hair and fixes his clothes. "Hello," he calls. The sound flutters through the room as though carried by a bird with a broken wing.
He hears a disturbance, someone shuffling in an inner suite. A door cracks open at the back of the office, and a wrinkled man, slightly hunched with long grey hair pulled back behind his neck, wobbles through it.
"Remus, my boy, it's good to see you've made it," he croaks. Behind half spectacles, the man has red-rimmed watery eyes, brimming with warmth. "I'm Professor Dumbledore." A plaque hangs on the wall near his lumpy frame, informing of his titles: dean of the college, head of the mathematics department, Dr. Albus Brian Dumbledore.
"I apologise for being late, Professor."
The man looks at his wrist watch. "Oh, dear, is it past eight o'clock already?" He winks. "I'm sure no one has noticed. The assistant before you created a delightful manual of your duties and tasks; it's sitting on your desk." He points to the wooden thing between them. "If you have any questions, I'll be right in here, and the intern should be arriving soon. He knows much more than I." Then he turns and vanishes behind a forest of stacked books.
Remus sits in a flat-cushioned chair and glances over the thick binder laying heavily on his new desk, surprised it hasn't dented the weathered surface. But before he can finish reading the cover, the door to the office swings open, followed by a gush of air and a man who could have been mistaken for a shadow.
Clothed in layers of black and grey garments, the man trudges into the room toward the breakfast station without once looking at Remus. His hair, like his jumper, hangs from his body like string bathed in ink. "This morning, it appeared no one was available to start the coffee, so I did. I would prefer not having to do it again." His voice—deep and gritty—rumbles through his chest and neck, out his sharp pale lips, sounding like it hurts for him to speak.
Plainly, Remus thinks, the man is a knob. An unsightly and crooked knob!
“I'll have it done tomorrow,” he says from his desk, watching as the man’s shoulders tighten in response. “First thing in the morning.” And as the man pours himself a cup of black sludge, he continues, “I'm Remus, by the way. The new administrative assistant.” The man says nothing, simply stirs milk into his cup, so he adds, “And who might you be?”
With a flourish, almost spilling his carefully made coffee on the stained rug, the man turns to face him and barks, “Professor Snape, head of the chemistry department.” Then whisks himself away in a smoky blur, the smell of patchouli trailing after him.
“Charming,” Remus announces to no one, mentally reminding himself that unlikable coworkers are inescapable.
He thinks he hears chuckling in the dean's suite, but he isn't sure.
*
As promised, Remus arrives ten minutes early to start the coffee pot the following morning. It means having to wake his son thirty minutes earlier—dropping him off at school before the stuttering line of vehicles becomes a forty-five minute traffic jam—and reading the instructions for ‘using the coffeemaker’ in section 18 (titled miscellaneous tasks) of his workers manual.
“Severus will be pleased,” the dean says after sniffing the air. He gives Remus a wink, the lines in his face showing amusement.
“Do you mean Professor Snape?”
“Yes, exactly. Severus Snape. He's a fascinating fellow.”
“Oh, is he?” Remus asks flatly, hardly showing any care as he skims over a new section of the manual. “I must have mistook his unique qualities for good, ole-fashioned rudeness.”
The man in question arrives a minute after eight, fouling the room with an unsurprisingly dark mood. After tasting the coffee, he sneers, “This is abysmal. Next time, add another spoonful.”
Remus feels himself turn hot, face red. In his mind, he jumps over the desk, slaps the steaming mug of shitty coffee out of Snape’s skeletal fingers, hopefully scalding the sneer off his face, and strangles the greasy git with the grasp of a pit bull's jaw.
Instead, he spits, “yes, sir,” and refuses to glance Snape’s way. He turns another page.
*
Several days later, when Cedric The Intern—who thoroughly models how to navigate the student application system—asks, “Do you have any questions?” Remus responds with, “Do you, by any chance, know how Professor Snape takes his coffee?”
Cedric laughs with his whole face, eyes squinting, a smile showing every single one of his perfect teeth. “No, mate,” he says between chuckles. “He doesn't even fancy coffee. He’s complained for the last year about us not having a tea kettle.” And then, while still beaming, his voice lowers to a whisper, “The kettle is hidden in Dumbledore’s office, and I'm sure he'd let you use it if you asked.”
“What do you mean? Snape has been in here every morning, not even two minutes after eight, to make himself a cup of coffee that he always complains about.” He plasters on a mocking sneer and mimics, “Add another spoonful, the grains weren't ground fine enough, add more water, you used the wrong filter.” He huffs, “It's ridiculous.”
“He must be taking the piss, mate. That coffee pot has been sitting on the shelf gathering dust for the last couple of years… That's so like him. I reckon he gets off on making others' lives a bit harder.”
“We don't even have a bean grinder! I checked! Twice! The coffee is bloody bagged pre-ground.”
Cedric laughs, and it’s an infectious laugh, filled with boyish joy and naivety, so Remus does, too. But then his eyes start to water, as truth often leaks, so he laughs even harder, hoping that when he wipes the tears from his eyes, it'll appear like a different set of emotions.
What he won’t say is that he’s too tired for this shit. He’s tired of being treated like the lowest bloke on the totem pole. And he’s tired of letting others get away with it. It makes him angry.
*
When Remus goes into work the next day, he carries in his jacket a plastic bag filled with mixed spices—a blasphemous combination that would horrify even a mediocre chef. He throws it in with the coffee grains and hopes for the worst.
He tries not to laugh when Snape pours himself a cup of coffee, sniffs the air, and asks, “What brainless action did you take today?” The dour man adds two packets of creamer and stirs, his brow furrowed more deeply than normal.
Remus keeps his head down, his smirk hidden. He stares at a page in the manual he's already read. “I did as you asked,” he grunts, then quietly mumbles, “and a bit more.”
Snape makes a strange noise and spits into his cup. “What in the ruddy hell is this?” he yells, his face coloured—somewhere between a blushing pink and a post-strangulation purple. Remus looks at the wildness of his eyes and thinks he actually looks softened by fear and shock.
“You're the chemist. Figure it out.”
“Not. Coffee.” An inky string of hair marks his sallow cheek. It makes him look vulnerable. It’s a lie.
“Well, nothing poisonous either. Untwist your knickers, will you?”
“Why the extra ingredients?”
“I was told you don't actually fancy coffee. That coffee isn't normally done, especially not daily. And after you hadn't been pleased by my normal brews, I figured I could spice it up a bit.”
Snape rolls his eyes and sputters, chest heaving. He then pours his infected drink back into the pot and throws the cup away. But before he can storm off, Remus asks, “Why make such a fuss in the first place?”
“I may prefer tea, but I genuinely wanted coffee.” He steps toward Remus, his gaze roaming, taking notice of the neat, uncluttered desk. “The coordinator before you had accumulated—due to their brilliance—a long list of responsibilities, and I hadn't wanted to bother them, as they had more important tasks to do. But you…” He looks at Remus with unfiltered disgust, as though he's seeing a horror beyond reason.
“I was on the selection committee,” he continues. “I've seen your pathetic resume, how little you've accomplished, having graduated from an online school with barely a sliver of credibility. I rightly assumed you'd struggle to meet even the barest of expectations, and I figured you could, at the very least, brew a simple pot of coffee.”
“Severus,” Professor Dumbledore says, attracting both their attention. He stands at the entrance of his suite looking weary and disappointed. “That was uncalled for and highly unprofessional. Remus has been learning exceptionally quickly, and I see great potential in him. Do apologise before further action must be taken to right this wrong.”
Snape blinks rapidly and tilts his head down to face the floor, his hair falling like a curtain between them. “I apologise,” he hisses, the words pulled from him painfully, then hurries out of the office.
In the awkward silence, as the dust settles behind Severus, Remus feels a stone turn over in his belly. He needs this job to work out. Desperately. It took months to find it, to be hired. And he can’t afford another stint as a ‘freelancer’. Neither he nor Teddy would survive it.
So, before the day ends, he searches for Snape's office and finds it close by, the door cracked open. Remus knocks and slowly pushes further inside, peering through the widening gap.
Snape sits at his desk, and in the windowless room, under grey lighting, he looks to have aged ten years. “What now?” he moans.
“I just wanted to ask: what can I buy you to drink tomorrow morning? From a shop.”
“Nothing. You've done quite enough already.”
“Please. It will be my apology.” When Snape doesn't answer, he huffs, “Fine, I'll bring you a cup of Earl Grey, and you can add whatever you like.”
*
Teddy whines the next morning, “It's sooo early. No one will even be at school.” He appears in the kitchen puffy-eyed and with his uniform rumpled. His backpack hangs awkwardly from one shoulder. And as always, Remus thinks the resemblance between them is uncanny.
“Yes, there will be, and it's just for today.” Remus hands him a juice and a granola bar and leads him out the front door.
After dropping Teddy off, he stops at a tea shop near the college. They sell fancy kettles and loose leaf tea by the ounce. Neither are things he'd buy for himself. But fuck it, he thinks, adding them to the bill, along with a bundle of filters.
He arrives at work with five minutes to spare, carrying a steaming to-go cup in one hand and shopping bags in the other.
“Fill out a reimbursement form, dear boy,” says the dean when he sees Remus reorganising the refreshments table, unplugging the coffeemaker and positioning the new kettle. “Your predecessor showed a lower tolerance for… guests.”
“Well, it seems my predecessor had the privilege of being well liked anyhow.”
“Oh dear, you're mistaken. You've impressed many of us already. Severus is simply being Severus. He has a contrary nature... I'm sincerely surprised he's made such an effort with you.”
“I'm not sure his efforts are a treat.” Remus huffs.
Dumbledore chuckles, “Perhaps his tone will change in time.” He is about to return to his den when his face flickers with a thought. “Have you met Minerva yet? She'll be glad to know of our change in services. I'll give her a call.”
A minute later, just as Remus has finished his task, Snape strides in with stiff limbs, his hair pulled back in a low bun and a pair of reading glasses sitting on the tip of his nose. “It appears there has been an upgrade to your facilities,” he grunts.
“Same daft me. New kettle,” Remus remarks, his voice flat and dry. He holds out the professionally prepared cup of tea he bought at the shop. “Here. Earl Grey, as promised. There's milk in the fridge and sugar packets on the table.”
Snape’s sharp gaze travels back and forth between Remus and his peace offering. “It better not be spiced,” he says, taking it. He opens the lid and sniffs. The tightness in his stance lessens by a degree. “Thank you.”
The genuine gratefulness in Snape's voice makes Remus want to groan. It feels wrong. Icky. But he isn't sure why. He points to the kettle. “Will that do? I'll start it each morning, but I reckon you can do the rest,” he says gruffly.
“Of course… I suppose those terms are reasonable.” Snape continues to stand, holding his tea in both hands like it's fragile, as though he's waiting for Remus to pull out a document for them to sign. An actual peace treaty.
To Remus's relief, the awkward, stifling stillness between them is interrupted by a petite, modestly dressed woman, entering the office with a slight smirk. “Good morning, Severus,” she greets cheerfully. She looks at Remus. “I presume you're the new administrative assistant. Welcome to Tuft. I'm Minerva McGonagall, the head of biomedical engineering.”
Snape slithers away before Remus can respond.
“I've never known anyone to startle so easily,” she whispers, her tone joking.
“I'm Remus,” he sighs, deciding he likes her already.
*
Severus begins to pop into the dean's office more frequently: once in the morning and again in the afternoon. It's always at the same time, making Remus highly question whether the man's a robot. But there's evidence, tiny as it may be, of warmth and a pulse lurking somewhere behind layers of knife-like edges and easily triggered porcupine quills.
Remus catches Snape staring at him sometimes, and when their eyes meet, the man's face turns red, starting with his toucan nose. He tries to hide his discomfort with a sneer and a mocking remark. (“You stick your tongue out when you're straining your mental capacities. It's highly conspicuous.”) And Remus responds in kind. (“Tell Microsoft your next Windows update should include social skills. Do you want to submit the ticket or should I?”) Or sometimes Remus puts on a high-pitched voice and says, pretending to type on his computer, “I've found another error in the Severus Snape prototype.”
None of his quips are said without the lingering taste of guilt in his mouth. It's sour and bitter and makes him feel like shit—like the kind of person who shouldn't be raising a kid.
But Snape provokes him; draws out all the oily, dark, gunk in his soul, pulling it up onto the surface of his face and corrupting his speech.
*
A couple weeks after Remus buys the kettle, Snape tries—and struggles—to ask him something normal. “Wha–Er–Um—”
“Are you glitching?”
Snape’s nose goes pink and his eyes harden. “What beverage do you fancy?” he spits.
The question takes Remus by surprise. “Whisky?”
“In the morning,” he hisses, while his blush spreads down his neck and up past his widow's peak, “for breakfast.”
“Whisky?” And when Snape doubles down on looking unimpressed, Remus sighs. “I don't usually have breakfast. I'm too busy herding an eight-year-old boy to school… But I reckon, if I had the time and money, I'd like a smoothie. Something actually good for me.”
Looking thoughtful, Snape peers at Remus behind his reading glasses and—without a verbal response—saunters away as though he has an important mission that must be done immediately.
*
Snape places a glass tumbler filled with a pink icy substance on Remus’s desk the next morning. “It contains a banana and mixed berries.”
And Remus notices it doesn't have a shop label on it. “Make it yourself?”
“Obviously.” His face starts to match the drink in colour, and it makes Remus feel a bit victorious. It's becoming one of his miscellaneous tasks to ensure Snape’s pale skin has been graced with blush by the end of the day.
“Why?” Remus asks, genuinely confused by the generosity.
Snape’s spindly hands fidget. His wrists must be double jointed because they twist and bend at odd angles while he tries to form words. “For– For the tea and the kettle.”
Every bit of him is unnatural. And Remus—now that he’s getting used to the man—now that he’s seeing a different side to him—is starting to find all those odd bits fascinating.
“Well, thanks, I suppose.”
“Return the glass when you're finished,” he spits and rushes toward the door.
“Severus,” Remus calls, jolted by his own voice using the man's given name, how funny he sounds using it, “Seriously, mate. Thank you.”
Snape blinks, and it's a noticeable blip on his flat expression. Then he finishes opening the door and does what he's good at: he evaporates like smoke, back into the shadows.
*
“Was it satisfactory?” he asks when Remus drops off the rinsed glass before leaving for the day.
“Well, I was looking for something to complain about, truly, but unfortunately, I came up empty. It was excellent.”
This time, before Severus turns pink, he smiles. He actually bloody smiles. And it changes his whole face, making Remus flinch on the inside, because what the fuck? The smile is a bit wonky, including lots of gum and slivers of his bottom teeth, which are a bit too small for his face. It's there and gone in a moment, probably scared off by Remus’s shocked expression—the kind he would make if he walked in on someone using the loo.
“Thanks again,” Remus says weakly, then leaves before he can make things more awkward.
*
Remus is at the supermarket, Teddy pushing their trolley of non perishable junk food, when he sees Severus, wearing faded jeans and an oversized jumper, picking out fruit. His first thought is to quickly move into the next aisle, but his second one, the thought he gives more attention to, is the desire to goad Severus about, well, anything, starting with his outfit.
“Oi, Teddy, let's go toward the produce.”
“What's produce?”
“Fresh fruit and veggies.” He points in the direction of Severus, near the bananas. “Go, hurry,” he commands in a whispered shout.
“Why?” Teddy asks while he does as he's told, rolling the trolley across the room toward the pears and apples. “Are we getting those little oranges?”
Remus strolls past the berries and pretends not to see Severus until their shoulders bump. “Oh, I'm so sorr— Severus?”
His hair is down, and when he looks up at Remus, an inky strand falls and rests against his nose. Remus feels an itching desire to sweep it behind the man's ear. Instead, he says, “I didn't realise it was you. When did The Blue Fairy turn you into a real boy? Did Dumbledore wish upon a star?”
Severus’s lips twitch, and on cue, his nose starts to pinken. “You should know better than to speak to me in gibberish,” he says, placing a bundle of bananas in his trolley and moving on. “How am I—a man of refined taste—supposed to comprehend your childish references?”
His words have lost their edge; they no longer rip apart Remus’s ego and leave him in tatters. So in response, Remus smirks. “You look nice.” And in his head, he adds words like: approachable, warm, and cosy. He doesn’t sound like he’s goading at all anymore.
“Don't.” Severus says, fidgeting with his hands.
“I'm serious, though. I'm not taking the piss. I like your jumper. You look—”
“Dad,” Teddy interrupts, making Remus feel like a wanker, having forgot his kid for a minute. “Can we get blueberries?” The boy looks pitiful, his eyes begging, as he lifts up an 18 ounce container.
“Er,” Remus groans, “I don’t know, lad. Do they have a smaller size? Go grab one with less, yeah?”
Teddy runs off, leaving the trolley behind.
“That's Teddy, my eight-year-old.”
“I presumed as much, considering he called you ‘dad’.”
When the boy runs back, Remus catches his attention and points to Severus, “This is Professor Snape. He works at the college.”
“Hello,” Teddy says softly, looking only at Severus for a moment before idly gazing around the market, waiting for the adults to finish their chat.
“He's, erm— Well,” Remus says, noticing Severus's discomfort, “we better finish shopping. I'll see you at work.”
They don't get far before Severus says, “Remus,” and it's the first time Remus has heard him say his name. He says it carefully. “If… If I were to bring you another smoothie, is there a flavour you'd prefer?”
“Mango!” Teddy pipes up. “Dad’s favourite flavour is mango, right Dad?”
“Yep,” Remus musses the boy’s hair, “that's right, lad.” To Severus, he says, “You don't have to, though.”
Severus blinks at him, and Remus is learning to interpret his mannerisms, his blinks especially. That specific blink says, ‘I’m speechless and a bit unnerved by you right now.’ So he isn't surprised when the man strolls away.
And when there's a mango shake on his desk a couple days later, that doesn't surprise him either. But he isn't sure what it means. Is it a token of friendship? Of charity? Or of, well, more?
“I see you've got an admirer,” Cedric teases with a brow raised, his eyes gleaming, squinted with amusement.
“Oh, shut it. It's probably poisoned, but I'm poor enough to drink it anyway.”
*
Three smoothies later, Remus asks Severus to get a drink with him.
“I don't drink alcohol,” the man says.
“Well, let's go to a coffeehouse then.”
“You don't drink coffee.”
“I'll try a tea,” Remus huffs, questioning whether he could take back his offer all together, but also wanting to win, to make Severus give in.
And it happens. Severus agrees to go with him to Elsie's Coffeehouse down the street. It's a quick walk from the college, and on the way, Remus struggles to keep up with Severus’s long strides.
“Slow down, mate,” he says while grabbing Severus’s upper arm, making him come to a sudden stop before continuing at a snail's pace. Remus doesn't want to let go, but he does, letting their fingers graze as his hand drops.
Remus orders an herbal tea, but before he can get out his thin wallet, Severus interrupts, saying he'll pay, and adds a cappuccino to the bill.
They sit at a small table, and immediately, Remus’s mind goes blank. He can't remember what people usually talk about on dates. So he nervously taps on the table with the ends of his fingers, and with the way Severus reacts, flinching, it's like each tap is a slap on the man’s wrist or a jab to his side. “Sorry,” Remus says, making himself stop. “I'm just a bit… you know. And all.”
“That wasn't a sentence.”
“Nervous. I'm nervous. I feel like I'm taking a test and already failing.”
A small smile crawls its way onto Severus’s mouth. “You haven't put your name at the top.”
Remus has no idea what he's talking about, but he mirrors the smile.
“That is how you would already be failing,” Severus clarifies, “If you forgot to write your name.”
“Oh,” Remus chuckles, “Yep, I’m pretty sure I've done that before, actually. Bad habit.”
“Well, you're the one who asked for this. How did you suppose it would go?”
“I thought…,” Remus shrugs with his whole being, “Well, I hadn't thought... I hoped I'd get to know you better, and if that went well, we'd do this again on a day Teddy was at his grandmother's so that I could ask you to come back to mine for… extra curricular activities and miscellaneous tasks.”
Severus's nose goes pink, and Remus imagines himself kissing the tip, nibbling at it.
“How—” Severus tries to break the tension, to start a real conversation. “How’s work, then?”
And the question—silly and mundane and not like Severus at all—makes Remus laugh. “Well, one of my co-workers is a bit of a knob, you see. But I’ve very recently discovered I have a thing for knobs.”
“Shall our next outing be to a home improvement store, then?” His dark eyes are filled with mirth, and when Remus laughs again, Severus gives him one of his real smiles—wonky and quirky and adorable—and it stays plastered on his blushing face throughout the afternoon. It makes Remus think he's finally found his cup of tea .