There were only a few things in the world capable of reducing Severus Snape to tears: wallowing in a sea of Lily-related angst was certainly one of them, with the murder of Albus Dumbledore coming in a much more distant second. Actually, those two items might comprise the entirety of the list.

At least they would have, up to this point.

Currently, he was standing in a room denoted as a library, contemplating the prospect of spending Merlin knew how long, or quite possibly the rest of his life not seeing another book. As much as he disdained muggle technology, he was well aware of the existence of electronic files and the practicality of such, but Severus was a book-lover of the very traditional sort and the thought of never again experiencing the pleasure of physically touching one was filling him with deep dismay.

He wasn't actually crying, of course. That faint snivelling sound that could be heard was definitely not coming from him. Peering around a shelf, he was able to ascertain that the culprit was that insufferably perky morning person that he'd spoken with on the comm a short while ago, not that she looked especially perky now. Well, it wasn't any of his business.