"...A deal?"

Snape's brows knit slightly.

"Yes. A deal," Dumbledore replied, his eyes fixed on the Pensieve. The shallow basin held crystal-clear water, reflecting the flicker of candlelight in his bright eyes. "He offered to help me guide Harry, provide assistance where he can, and oppose Voldemort."

"Vol–" Snape flinched, lips twitching. He stopped himself before finishing the name.

Sensing the tension behind Snape's silence, Dumbledore murmured softly, "Yes, just as I told you before, Severus… Tom is not dead."

He gestured toward the Pensieve. "Come. Watch with me. Vaughn shared his memory of the battle in the fourth-floor corridor. I've already restored the scene, but there may still be traces I missed. Check again tomorrow."

Snape said nothing. He silently approached the basin and dropped his mental barriers.

With a flick of Dumbledore's wand, thought became vision. Threads of shadow, like ink swirling in water, descended into the basin and formed smoky tendrils.

In the blink of an eye, the corridor took shape.

Harry, clutching his head in agony, screamed. Hermione stood before him, trembling and tearful, yet defiant. Vaughn's voice rang out, clear and sharp, as he cast Sectumsempra.

At the heart of the memory stood a figure cloaked in black, twisted, dark, wrong. His wand flared with emerald light.

Crack!

Dumbledore clapped once, and the memory froze. Figures locked in place like insects trapped in amber.

The man who cast the Killing Curse was now perfectly still, his face barely visible.

Quirinus Quirrell.

But neither Dumbledore nor Snape paid attention to that face. Their gazes pierced through it, as if seeing not the man but the thing behind him… the presence within.

The magical glow that bathed the memory made Snape's pupils narrow. His eyes darted, unsettled.

"You see it now, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. "Tom has returned. He may be only a shard of what he once was, a parasite clinging to a feeble soul… but he is not dead. He's preparing to come back."

The memory of that fear, ancient and buried deep, seized Snape like a cold wind rushing through an open door.

He had sensed that presence before, felt its magical weight. Still, standing here in its shadow, even as a mere echo, left his throat dry.

Worship. Terror. Hatred. All of it surged up at once.

Then Dumbledore clapped again. The scene resumed.

Vaughn's Sectumsempra sliced through a Shield Charm, wounding Voldemort where Quirrell once stood.

Dumbledore chuckled with sudden delight. "Severus, I must admit, you created quite the spell. And you've trained an impressive student. Not many can say they've hurt Tom Riddle."

Snape's expression remained wooden. "He struck Quirrell, not him. But now that Tom's been hurt… I guarantee he despises Vaughn."

Dumbledore's smile hinted at irony. "At least until he regains full form, Vaughn should be safe. And as we both know, Harry will always be his greatest hatred."

The memory faded. Their thoughts returned to the present.

Snape's face remained grim, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Of course. One killed him. The other humiliated him by interfering with his plans for the Stone and managed to injure him. A perfect little duo. I'm sure he'll forget everyone else in time, but those two? Never."

"An ideal pair to oppose him, wouldn't you say?" Dumbledore said, not without a tinge of melancholy.

He waited a beat before continuing, lowering his voice. "You think I arranged it all?"

Snape gave a soft, ambiguous chuckle. "I never said that."

But the look on his face made it clear.

Dumbledore knew Snape had always distrusted him, and perhaps with good reason. The methods he'd used to keep Snape loyal were… not kind.

He had exploited what little love and goodness remained in the man, binding him to a cause through guilt and desperation.

To Dumbledore, it wasn't so much a question of right or wrong. Snape had served Voldemort. He had helped commit unspeakable crimes. Asking him to walk the knife's edge now was simply… balance.

But this wasn't the time for that argument.

He sighed. "Everything that happened today, except for Quirrell smuggling in the troll, was an accident. Do you remember what I told you? About destiny. About Tom and Harry's intertwined fates."

"There are forces we cannot see, Severus. Fate winds through the world like a vast web. Most threads drift quietly. But now and then, a singular weight falls into it. And where that weight rolls, the web bends and collapses."

"Tom and Harry are those weights. Whenever they come near each other, that web shifts. Lives are pulled toward them. Events spiral, and nothing can stay on its course until one of them dies."

"Today was one of those spirals. A disturbance in the pattern."

Destiny.

Snape didn't answer. He had no words for it. He'd never seen destiny with his eyes, but he couldn't deny it existed. Prophecies, visions, impossible coincidences, magic left too many traces to ignore.

And he knew that Dumbledore himself had once been a weight upon that web.

But he didn't want to dwell in such abstract, mystical nonsense.

Instead, he asked the question that had been gnawing at him.

"If this was a deal… Vaughn helps you with Harry. What are you giving him in return?"

Dumbledore, pulled from his musing, brightened. "Ah. That's the interesting part. Vaughn's demands were… unexpected. He wants me to increase his fame."

Snape blinked. "What?"

Dumbledore ran a hand over his beard, looking genuinely troubled. "He had a list of conditions. No blatant favoritism toward Gryffindor during House Cup season. If he does something impressive, I'm to help publicize it. And if he makes any notable achievements in potions, I'm to personally nominate him for a Merlin Order commendation."

As Dumbledore continued listing the terms, Snape's lips twitched.

The very first demand had already ruined Dumbledore's plan to shower Gryffindor with last-minute points and make Harry look like a born leader.

But what confused Snape most was that Dumbledore had agreed.

Why?

What had Vaughn said to make this old schemer shift his priorities? What did he know?

Even after leaving the office, Snape still couldn't figure it out.

Once Snape's footsteps faded down the stairs, Dumbledore's smile disappeared.

He turned back to the Pensieve, adjusted it, and loaded a different memory.

The conversation he'd had with Vaughn while reviewing the corridor battle together.

"Albus, have you ever wondered why Voldemort didn't die?"

"Oh, I've pondered that for years. Do you have a theory, Vaughn?"

He had smiled when he asked that, fully expecting a childish guess or a silly remark.

Then Vaughn answered.

"Horcrux."

The memory froze again.

Dumbledore stood alone in the dreamlike corridor, staring at his own stunned face from that moment.

He watched the boy's eyes drift toward Harry as he said the word.

So many thoughts, so many feelings pressed on his chest.

Doubt. Hesitation. Fear.

And something colder, deeper.

Sorrow.