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𝚇𝚅𝙸𝙸 >> 𝚁𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙵𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙴𝙶𝙸𝚅𝙴𝙽

< 1 MONTH, 4 WEEKS, 1 DAY >

He can recall the feeling of Voldemort's dry palms cupping his cheek, his glaring eyes gouging deep into his throat. He can remember his superciliously airy voice, the smell of his mephitic, rotting teeth, the flare of his flat nostrils against his own face. His fingers fuzz in remembrance of the false comforts brought by his words. They were comforts he only accepted because of what he was starved of by his parents, of course; because he hadn't known any better, there were years when he thought they were real.

As Snape looks back on these things, he finds himself more inclined now than ever to address himself to Albus Dumbledore's behest. He feels he is in such debt to the goodness of the world that becoming his inside man may be in the best interest of his own fate — his own vengeance, perhaps. He might find it rather constructive to turn against what he's known, to threap at it, to make it feel just as alienated as it made him. In a perfect world, he would never have joined at all.

He laves the glass on his office window with a soft cloth, his fingers furrowing its edges as he scrubs away the gray blanket of dust until the light shines through so brightly it might as well be spring. He sits in his chair and feigns that this is so, desiderating for the snow to wash itself away before the daylight presumably will, although he knows this is a false hope. Like most things, a dream is useless when attached to no logical pull.

So one must naturally focus on accomplishable things. Things you can easily pursue to obtain because it makes sense that one can grasp them. Or, even more so, Severus decides it may be best to center himself on mere facts rather than hopes. Facts he likes and does not have to ask fate for. Facts that already are.

For example, he knows that very nearby, Remus Lupin is approaching Hogwarts on foot, clinging to his old fedora with one hand as he battles against the wind. He is moving efficiently, properly, like a businessman in his light brown overcoat as he enters the school and moves to the dungeons forthright, no longer bothering to hide from students or staff or to make himself known to them either. Those who notice him already know, and those who know nothing don't see a thing.

He no longer knocks. He opens the door and walks right in, as if Snape's home is his very own. In the past few weeks, it has become very close.

"Severus," he says warmly, hanging up his things as Snape stands to greet him, lighting the fireplace as he passes it. "Hello."

"Remus," Snape replies, and stops a few steps away from him, his posture impliable and solid as he looks over him, although he certainly isn't uncomfortable. He has merely a confidential ring of personal space around him that he will not shorten when not necessary, and from this Lupin is not exempt. "You received my letter."

"Yes," Remus confirms, and Severus nods.

"And you were clearly available."

Lupin shrugs. "I am rarely not."

Neither of them say anything else concatenated to this statement, so they stand there by the door, Severus looking at the floor and Remus watching him do it.

"How is your eyebrow healing up?" he asks, bending down to have a look at it. Snape flinches at the closeness at first, although he doesn't step back as Lupin looks so meticulously at his cicatrized skin.

"It's..." Severus replies apprehensively, "not as deep as it seemed when covered in blood. An inconsequential scratch, resulting in a meager healing process. Minimal signs of infection."

"I see," Lupin replies. "And what about you?"

Snape pauses. "What?"

"How are you?"