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𝙸 >> 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚄𝚂 𝚂𝙽𝙰𝙿𝙴

< 1 DAY >

"I remember you."

His voice is quiet; strained, yet powerful beyond the sound itself. His long, slim fingers are interlocked as he stares his new recruit down from his side of his personal office table, which is bestrewed, yet organized in a way where it nevertheless feels open and flowing. A strong suit of his, of course — organization.

"Before you were this grown-up, I mean," he clarifies after receiving no verbal response. "Before you let your pain control you. When you were just a child."

The man he's looking at is young — the sweet age of twenty-one — thin, respectable, and yet so devoid of energy it seems he could easily pass as the thousand-upon-thousand-year-old Salazar Slytherin himself. He notices with some fond amusement that this young man is dressed head-to-toe in what can only be described as pure, concentrated angst: a flowing black cloak, a form-fitting set of meticulously-crafted clothing, tight sleeves, and a lot of buttons.

"In such an incongruous case, I claim your memory as comparatively tactile," comes the slow, unfriendly reply. Neither of them move for a few moments. The younger man's dark eyes glance almost scathingly around the room, re-observing the trinkets he had last seen just a few years prior, the difference being that then he was a student and now he is not. He's benumbed that his perception of the room hasn't changed since then. Even his clouded childhood memories stay truthful to this space, from the hanging decorative spheroids to the myriad of various hovering golden objects. He sees with a feeling of slight nostalgic adoration that even the quill pens on the desk look exactly how they did when he last saw them.

Both men seem to enjoy the silence. They take solace in absorbing it; one of the many things they have in common. While people like Minerva McGonagall thrive on tumultuous crowds and pointed administration, these two would rather close their eyes and listen to absolutely nothing. It's close to a luxury to be comfortable in this state in such close proximity with another person, so they both revel in it for as long as they can. And this goes on for quite some time until they both hesitantly welcome the occurring observation that they aren't accomplishing much of what they should be.

Finally, the older man shifts through the papers on his desk and speaks again.

"So what exactly is it that brings you here, boy?" he asks with his constant signature manner of completely unbothered nonchalance (knowing exactly why he's here).

"You know exactly why I'm here," the man reflects monotonously, severely disliking being referred to as 'boy'. "I don't like... over-explaining myself."

"Hm," the older man hums in consideration. He takes a file out of his stack of papers and begins to read it aloud.

"'Ninth January, nineteen-seventy-six,'" he narrates calmly, the flickering candle next to him making the page seem to be jumping about. "'For future reference: slightly heightened worry of the wellbeing of Severus Snape'— Does this sound familiar?— 'Constantly seeming to be awaiting something and keeping a strict eye on the windows. From personal observance, nothing has come. Extra quiet. Slightly concerning. Keep tabs.'"

There's a sigh. The young man leans forward and rests his face irritably in his hands. "Why are you reading that?"

"Because, Severus," the older man explains, "I'm making a point, and I'm presenting evidence so your cynicism can't cloud your judgment of it."

Snape takes a long breath in through his nose, moving his head up a bit and resting his jaw in the palm of his finger-tapping hand. Closing his eyes, he waves a loose wrist at the page again in hopeless prompting.