"Deal?" Snape's brow furrowed slightly.
"Yes, a deal," Dumbledore replied, his gaze fixed on the Pensieve. The shallow, clear water reflected the brightness in his eyes. "He'll help train Harry, offer support with all his capabilities, and fight against Voldemort..."
"Voldemort..." Snape's cheek twitched, hesitation in his voice.
As if sensing his inner turmoil, Dumbledore murmured, "Yes, as I've said before, Severus—Tom isn't dead."
He gestured to Snape. "Come. Let's watch. Vaughn provided his memory of the battle in the fourth-floor corridor... Oh, and though I've already restored the corridor, check it again tomorrow. I may have missed something."
Without a word, Snape walked to the Pensieve and lifted the Occlumency block.
As Dumbledore flicked his wand, silvery thoughts fell into the basin like drops of ink, curling into smoke.
In an instant, a corridor materialized before them.
Harry screamed, clutching his scar; Hermione, tearful and terrified, stood protectively in front of him; Vaughan stood firm, shouting "Sectumsempra!"
And at the center—twisted and cloaked in darkness—stood the figure in black robes, a wand raised, green light erupting from its tip.
Snap! Dumbledore clapped his hands. Like insects trapped in amber, the people in the memory froze mid-motion. The image halted.
The black-robed man in mid-Killing Curse—his features barely visible—was unmistakably Quirinus Quirrell.
But Dumbledore and Snape weren't looking at his face. Their gazes pierced beyond it, staring deep within... at what lay hidden behind it.
The Pensieve memory shimmered with a soft, hazy glow, unsettling Snape. His eyes flicked, his pupils trembled.
"You see, Severus," Dumbledore said softly, "Tom has returned. Though for now, just a fragment of a soul, clinging like a parasite to a coward."
The old fear resurfaced—memories of the man Snape once served slammed into him. He had suspected it, sensed that wicked magic earlier... but seeing it—even in memory—made his throat dry, his voice stick.
A storm of emotions churned in him: awe, dread... and deep, unyielding hatred.
Then, Dumbledore clapped again. The scene resumed. Vaughan's Sectumsempra pierced through defensive spells and wounded Voldemort.
Dumbledore's tone brightened. "You've crafted a powerful spell, Severus. And taught a remarkable student—not many can harm Tom."
Snape's expression remained rigid. "...It was Quirrell who got hurt, not him. But he'll hate Vaughn now."
Dumbledore understood who 'he' referred to, and smiled faintly. "At least until he returns fully, Vaughn is safe. And we both know Tom's deepest hatred lies with Harry."
The memory ended, and reality returned.
But Snape's face didn't soften. Cold and tight, he sneered: "Yes. The savior who defeated him... and a boy who injured him while preventing him from stealing the Philosopher's Stone. Two insults he'll never forget."
"What a wonderful combination. Once he returns, perhaps he'll forgive the world—but never these two."
"What better candidates to stand against him?"
Dumbledore listened quietly, then sighed. "Do you think I arranged it?"
Snape gave a crooked smile. "I didn't say that."
But his tone—and expression—said enough.
Dumbledore didn't blame him. Snape's resentment was justified. He had indeed manipulated the man's lingering love and guilt into a chain that kept him teetering between life and death.
But Dumbledore didn't see it as wrong. A former Death Eater had to pay for his crimes—and this was how he atoned.
Still, today was not the time to argue. He exhaled. "Aside from Quirrell letting the troll in, everything else was an accident... Do you remember what I told you? About destiny—Tom and Harry's intertwined fate."
"This unseen force shapes everything. The fate of all beings weaves into a vast net. But sometimes, certain unique individuals appear..."
He looked toward the Pensieve. "Tom and Harry are such people. Entangled. Once they draw close, it's like heavy iron balls dropping into the net. As they roll, the net tears and sinks, pulling the fates of many into chaos—until one of them dies, and the weight collapses."
"What happened today... is that net reacting."
Destiny... Snape said nothing. He couldn't argue. He didn't understand destiny, but he knew it existed. Otherwise, there would be no prophecy... no divination.
He even knew that Dumbledore had once been one of those 'iron balls.'
But Snape didn't want to debate mystical forces. After a long silence, he asked, "Since it was a deal... what did you promise Vaughn in return for training Harry?"
Dumbledore, snapped from his deep thoughts, smiled again. "Ah, that. I must say, Vaughn's ambition truly surprised me. He wants... fame."
Snape: "?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard with a sigh. "He made several demands. No favoritism toward Gryffindor—no extra points. If he accomplishes something, I'm to promote it publicly. And if he excels in Potions, I must nominate him for the Order of Merlin myself..."
As Dumbledore listed the conditions, Snape almost laughed.
The very first demand had dismantled the old man's plan—to use House Points to boost Harry's leadership at term's end.
And yet... Dumbledore had agreed? Why?
What could Vaughan have said that made the headmaster give up his favoritism toward the Boy Who Lived?
Snape left the office, deep in thought—and no closer to an answer.
Behind him, Dumbledore's smile faded. He turned to the Pensieve and switched memories to the conversation between him and Vaughn, just after reviewing the battle in the fourth-floor corridor.
"Albus, have you ever wondered why Voldemort didn't die?"
"Oh, I've searched for that answer," he'd replied with a chuckle. "What do you think, Vaughn?"
It was a lighthearted question. He didn't expect anything. But then—Vaughan answered:
"Horcrux." The memory froze.
Dumbledore walked alone through the illusory corridor the memory conjured. He stared at his own stunned expression, then at Vaughan, the way he'd looked when he said that word.
Thoughts churned: hesitation... disbelief... fear...and a sorrow he couldn't name.