OWL POST: Albus Dumbledore The ink is splattered in places, and the entire note reeks of Macallan.
Albus,
For God's sake, man, don't send that bloody Patronus of yours on a body unawares. Blasted thing knocked my whisky off my chair arm.
Call on me if you want. I don't care. Horace knows where I am. In London. At his club. In Pall Mall. But if you do, bring the tin of shortbread in the second drawer of my desk. I forgot the damned thing yesterday. Or whenever it was. And I want my bloody shortbread.
Rufus Scrimgeour is pasty-faced gnomefucker, Albus. I want that perfectly clear and in my personnel file. Make certain Horace puts it in there. I said Rufus Scrimgeour is pasty-faced gnomefucker. And he probably enjoys it, the perverted bastard wretch. I hope they bite his prick off one day.
Bring the shortbread. And more whisky. No. They have whisky here. But no shortbread.
Severus
P.S. Majorca, Albus, really? I would expect better of you.