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𝚇 >> 𝙿𝙷𝚈𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰 𝙴𝚃 𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙿𝙷

< 1 MONTH, 1 WEEK, 3 DAYS >

Remus,

You likely have noticed the absence of your jacket. It is in my office, draped over the foot of the bed where you left it. I'll return it to you tonight by the willow; from what you've told me, the physical state of someone on the day of their shift is worse than any surrounding dates, thence making it only logical to not require your walking further than necessary.

I would also like to hear your opinion on this month's Wolfsbane in relation to batches you've been gifted in the past. You needn't reply in writing; this is something perhaps discussed best tête-à-tête. I embrace critique — slander, even; I'm used to it — especially since this is a recipe I will be distributing directly to you for a large amount of the foreseeable future and it must be perfected as soon as manageable.

It's supposed to be cold tonight. I'd advise to bring a coat, but, as aforementioned, that's my job.

S. S.

—

"I understand that I didn't make it clear why I called you in," Albus says as Severus ensconces himself in the chair before his desk, pulling his robes taut beneath him.

"Would such be typical?" the Potions professor interposes in response, though his mordant reply is veneered with the sweet undertone of hesitance. He sees the strain in Dumbledore's features, the apologetic stiffness of his joints. He takes it all in, unease domineering the very rhythm of his lungs.

"I know you have a class in session," Albus says, his voice too light; too forced. "Filius promised to check in on your students for the time being while we discuss some... more important matters."

His centenarian fingers cross between one another as he leans forward on his desk. Snape doesn't say a word. He feels puissant when making the other person speak first. It helps him hide from his own nerves.

"Severus," Dumbledore begins, his artless blue eyes boring into Snape's dark, shielded stare, "I am about to ask of you something very difficult; something that may last your entire life long."

Although the witty remark, "Don't tell me you wish for me to listen to Minerva gushing over Elvis," does initially traverse his wit, Severus holds back from it. The urgency seems too significant to dismiss with a statement of causticity. He doesn't break his silence just as it keeps itself from breaking him in return.

"In the event that Tom returns," Albus explains, his tone slow and waxy as it runs over the ridges of his desk, "I hope you understand that I expect to rely on your loyalty in every possible area."

Severus finally speaks: "Voldemort is not a dangerous term."

"I'm not afraid of it," Dumbledore chuckles. "I like to think of him by the name he had when he once had light left to cling to." His smile fades softly, his eyes dampening as they set themselves back on Snape. "I hope for the sake of your inner peace that you never choose the path he landed on."

Severus taps his left foot inflexibly on the floor. "Because of my lack of inner peace, Albus, I'd never give even an impermanent speculation to such a fatal option. Don't let the worry cross your so fragile conscience."

The headmaster nods, adjusting his glasses where they sit on his loud, indelicate nose, contrastingly delivering his request in such an equally soft and respectful way it's almost too difficult to fully take in. He's not aggressive, not malicious. Nothing is wrong with his demeanor apart from the words they're giving out; a manner that Severus isn't very used to at all.