"A deal?"
Severus Snape frowned slightly.
"Yes. A deal," Albus Dumbledore replied, his gaze fixed on the Pensieve. The shallow, silvery liquid reflected the light in his bright blue eyes. "He agreed to help guide Harry—to assist where he can—and to oppose Voldemort…"
"Vol—"
Snape's cheek twitched. The rest of the name lodged in his throat.
Sensing his reaction, Dumbledore spoke gently. "Yes, Severus. Just as I told you before. Tom is not dead."
He gestured toward the basin. "Come. Watch this with me. Vaughan has given me his memory of the battle in the fourth-floor corridor. I've already restored the hallway, but there may be details we missed. Go inspect it again tomorrow."
Snape said nothing. He stepped forward and lowered his Occlumency, allowing his thoughts to sink into the Pensieve.
With a light motion of Dumbledore's wand, the memory unfolded.
A corridor materialized.
Harry lay clutching his head, crying out in pain. Hermione stood in front of him, trembling but unyielding, tears streaking her face. And Vaughan—voice calm and precise—cast Sectumsempra.
At the center of the memory stood a dark, twisted figure in black robes. Malevolence radiated from him as his wand released a flash of sickly green light—
CRACK.
Dumbledore clapped sharply.
The memory froze, like insects trapped in amber.
The black-robed man—caught in the instant of casting the Killing Curse—was partially visible beneath the hood.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Yet neither Dumbledore nor Snape focused on the face.
Their gazes pierced deeper—through the body, into what lurked behind it.
The magic of the memory shimmered faintly. Snape squinted, discomfort tightening his features. His pupils trembled.
"You saw it, Severus," Dumbledore said softly. "Tom has returned. Only a fragment now—a remnant clinging to life like a parasite—but he is not dead. And he has already begun preparing for resurrection."
Fear surged up from old memories Snape had buried deep.
Even though he had sensed dark magic earlier—and steeled himself—facing it directly, even through memory, left his throat dry.
Hatred rose strongest of all.
Another clap.
The memory resumed. Vaughan's Sectumsempra tore through Quirrell's shield and struck true.
Dumbledore's voice warmed. "I must say, Severus—you created a formidable spell, and taught a remarkably gifted student. Very few have ever wounded Tom."
Snape's expression remained rigid.
"…The spell struck Quirrell. Not him. But still—Tom will hate Vaughan for it."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "At the very least, Vaughan will be safe until Tom regains his body. And we both know whom he truly despises most."
The memory dissolved.
Snape's voice turned sharp with sarcasm. "Naturally. One boy defeated him as a baby. The other humiliated him, foiled his attempt to steal the Philosopher's Stone, and wounded him. A delightful pair of thorns. Give it a few years—once he's restored, he may forgive others. But those two? Never."
"A perfect duo to oppose him," he sneered.
Dumbledore waited until Snape finished. Then he sighed.
"You believe I arranged all this."
Snape gave a humorless chuckle. "I never said that."
He didn't need to.
Dumbledore understood. Snape had always doubted him—and with reason. He had manipulated Severus's last remnants of love and guilt, binding him with an oath balanced between life and death.
To Dumbledore, morality was never simple. Snape had been a Death Eater. He had committed unforgivable acts.
This, to Dumbledore, was penance.
But today was not a day for old wounds.
"Everything today—aside from Quirrell releasing the troll—was unintended," Dumbledore said quietly. "Do you remember what I once told you? About fate? About Tom and Harry?"
"That unseen force," he continued, "which entangles the world in invisible threads. Most of the time it moves subtly. But sometimes, fate creates individuals whose destinies are like iron weights caught in the web."
"Tom and Harry are such beings. Their paths are bound together. The closer they draw, the more the web twists and collapses—dragging others with them—until one of them dies. Only then does the weight vanish."
"What happened tonight was the disturbance caused by their converging destinies."
Fate.
Snape remained silent. He couldn't deny it.
After all, the magical world had Prophecy. Divination.
And once—long ago—Dumbledore himself had been such an iron weight.
Snape had no desire to linger on abstractions.
After a pause, he asked, "If it's truly a deal—Vaughan helps you train Potter—what are you giving him in return?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Ah. That. I must admit—Vaughan's thirst for reputation surprised me."
Snape: "...?"
"He presented quite a list," Dumbledore continued ruefully. "For example, I may no longer shamelessly award Gryffindor extra House points. If he accomplishes something noteworthy, I must ensure it's publicly recognized. And if he excels in Potions, I am to personally nominate him for the Order of Merlin."
Listening, Snape nearly laughed.
Vaughan's first condition alone derailed Dumbledore's long-standing habit—he had already intended to award last-minute points to Harry.
What puzzled Snape was this:
Dumbledore had agreed.
Why?
What had Vaughan said to make the old man abandon his favoritism toward the Boy Who Lived?
Even after leaving the office, Snape could not find the answer.
Dumbledore's smile slowly faded.
He turned back to the Pensieve and adjusted the memory—
—to one of himself and Vaughan watching the corridor battle together.
"Albus," Vaughan had asked, "have you ever wondered why Voldemort didn't die?"
"I've searched for that answer for many years," Dumbledore had replied lightly. "Do you have a theory?"
He hadn't expected one.
But Vaughan had looked toward Harry and spoken a single word—
"Horcrux."
The memory froze.
In the spectral corridor of memory, Dumbledore now stood alone.
He stared at his own stunned expression. At the way Vaughan's gaze had rested on Harry.
Hesitation surfaced.
Then doubt.
Then fear—
And finally, sorrow.
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