It's both. That's the problem. A few days and a dozen years, at the same time.

"Of course."

Charles' hand slips off the frame, and he backs a step into his room, implicit invitation to be followed. He hasn't had an opportunity to aggressively make it the little den of hermity misery it could be -- the other bed is only slightly disturbed from things being set down on it, the other unmade, his belongings more or less packed away. The little care package that Severus had given him for Christmas is stowed out of sight.

There's a book on the bedstand, planted open and face down. A glass. A liquor bottle, half empty, is tucked out of the way between bed and stand. A teacup is apparently being used as an ash tray, but the ventilation in the room has done its part in ridding the room of smoke, and he doesn't have enough of them to do much damage. Other tell-tale bits of not tidying up after himself.

The datapad he'd been playing is picked up from where it had been tossed aside on the tidier bed, on the other hand, switched off from its idling.

"You've condemned them, haven't you?"