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𝚇𝚅𝙸 >> 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈 𝙾𝙵 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽

< 1 MONTH, 3 WEEKS, 6 DAYS >

It isn't explicitly often that a staff meeting is scheduled on a Sunday, but this one is with more exigency than what is typical. Severus barely listens as McGonagall repeats all the information he already knows, although he does vaguely recall offering to make a polyjuice antidote in bulk for all students to take to verify their identity, and then things are settled and made aware of, and they all leave.

He's sent to give the Slytherin students a brief announcement (which ends up being quite long and dreadfully theatric on his part, intentionally impersonating Macbeth's every stanza in length), telling them to unremittingly be escorted around the school by at least one other student—

"Even if it's to poo?"

"Yes, Grozny; misfeasors do not care what your purpose for being in the hall is and will not halter if you tell them you are out 'to poo.'"

—and apprising them that ancillary guards will soon be placed outside of common room doors, allowing nobody in that is not of their house and asking increasingly intimate questions to confirm their legitimacy, of course, only until the culprit is adjudicated and dealt with accordingly.

"If... any of you happen to... know anything," Severus adds, lifting a brow as he paces slowly back to the door, "your information may save you from being expelled if you are at all enmeshed."

The students are unusually still as he turns tail and leaves the commons once more, their proverbial quipping put to an instantaneous stop as he storms away and they process the staidness of the gravity that they've all been pulled into. Their head of house disappears through the door, and they're left in the thickest silence of the century as far as they've known or cared to exist within. It is hard to know who they can trust. But to Snape, this isn't an unusual feeling at all.

—

Sev

Drop by if able
Not urgent
Bring books?

Rem

—

The letter sits unfolded on his desk, and he stares down at it with a very strange feeling in his chest. His eyes regard it as a Venusian, his hands too addled to touch it.

The parchment is a chasmic and tattered brown, the ink a swift red. It's written in hurried cursive, rushed, scratched and blotchy, carelessly fluid with every turn and fold. It's witless how much he observes about it; how much he cares for the fact that it's been sent to him, to his office, to his hands. His eyes scamper over the abridged locutions, the name abbreviations, Sev, Rem, the lack of punctuation. Typically he would find this to be an irritating flaw, but in this case it seems merely characteristic of the man who sent it. Every part of it sings his name, his sweaters — him.

Snape finally picks it up, placing it on his shelf next to all the items he's gathered from his spell, and, taking heed of their presence, decides that he may as well bring those with him. Perhaps Remus will have some sort of idea on what they are soldered to and why they're showing up in lieu of the object he's been essaying since Voldemort's last attack.

He stacks them in a small box on top of his books from Slughorn and Flitwick, throwing a copy of King Lear on top as well before dressing himself in extra layers and hurrying up to the ground floor and out the door. Minerva, who he passes on his way, regards him with a small tilt of her head and a question of observation.

"Where is it, now, that you are heading off to so intensely?" she interrogates, and Severus barely halters to answer.

"Lupin. Few hours. I'll be back by dark. Maybe. Mind the... children."