The sun had just begun to illuminate the majestic castle of Hogwarts. Its majestic towers were gleaming faintly gold in the first light of dawn. The vast green grounds below were shimmering under the gentle warmth, bathed in a serene golden hue that only early morning could bring.
High in the topmost tower, an old man with a long silvery beard was sitting quietly at his desk.
Albus Dumbledore had just finished his tea and he set the delicate cup back onto its saucer on his desk with a soft clink. He was gazing absently through the window when he felt a familiar presence beyond the door.
Without turning his head, he said, "Come in."
The door opened with a slow creak, and a man dressed in fluttering black robes entered the room. His greasy hair, hooked nose, and perpetually disdainful smirk announced his identity long before he spoke.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he smiled warmly.
"Ah, Severus. Please, have a seat," he said.
"Would you care for some tea?" he asked, gesturing toward the teapot.
"No, thank you, Headmaster," Snape replied curtly, his trademark sneer faintly tugging at his lips as he sat down opposite Dumbledore.
Dumbledore gave a faint hum of amusement and, with a small flick of his wand, vanished his teacup from the table.
"I believe," said Snape, folding his hands neatly in front of him, "that you did not call me here at such an hour merely to offer me tea."
"Always the impatient one," Dumbledore said with a sigh.
He gestured lightly toward the folded newspaper lying on his desk. "Have you seen the news this morning?"
Snape's eyes flicked toward it briefly.
"I have, Headmaster," he said flatly. Then he fell silent. Years of dealing with Dumbledore had taught him the value of speaking only what was necessary. And never more. The old man had a habit of forcing you to speak more and say what he wanted to know.
"Hmm." Dumbledore made a thoughtful sound, clearly expecting more of a response. When none came, he leaned back slightly in his chair. "What is your opinion?"
"On what?" Snape asked, thinning his lips. "On the attack by the Death Eaters or their rather gruesome demise?"
Dumbledore sighed deeply, not moving further into this topic.
"Around an hour ago," Dumbledore began, "Arthur Weasley paid me a visit."
Snape raised an eyebrow.
"I was rather surprised," Dumbledore continued, his voice calm and unhurried. "After all, he should have been with his children at the Quidditch World Cup final. But it turned out his visit was quite important."
Snape waited in silence, his expression unreadable.
"Arthur did not stay long," said Dumbledore. "His children were still waiting for him at the campsite. But before leaving, he handed me two memory vials. One of his own, and another belonging to his youngest son, Ron Weasley."
Dumbledore's hand made a small, almost absent gesture, and two slender glass vials appeared on the desk with a faint shimmer of magic.
"If you would, Severus," Dumbledore said, nodding toward them.
Snape inclined his head and rose silently. Taking the first vial, he crossed to the Pensieve resting on a nearby pedestal. He uncorked the vial, poured its silvery contents into the basin, and leaned forward.
The surface rippled like liquid mercury before swallowing him whole.
For several minutes, the office was silent. Then, at last, Snape's head broke through the silvery surface, and he straightened, his face pale and eyes wide with disbelief.
"What did you see?" Dumbledore asked softly, though the twinkle had vanished from his eyes.
Snape took a slow, measured breath before replying.
"In all my years of serving both sides," he said finally, his voice low and strained, "I have never seen that kind of magic."
"What do you think now, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, a faint trace of amusement curling at the edge of his tone. Snape had avoided this question a couple of moments earlier but now he had to.
Snape's expression was still clouded with disbelief.
"Who is he?" he demanded, his voice lower than usual but edged with genuine shock. He had read about the mysterious man in the reports, the one who had slaughtered an entire group of Death Eaters but seeing him in action within the memory was something else entirely. It made Snape realise just how severely he had underestimated that man's power.
"A dangerous man," Dumbledore said softly, his tone unreadable. "A very dangerous man. And a mysterious one."
"Even the top wizards in our world could not take him on," Snape remarked, his expression still of shock. "Only the elite among the elites, people like you, the Dark Lord, or Professor McGonagall might stand a chance."
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling faintly, offering no firm comment on the matter.
"I would not last more than a few minutes against him," Snape admitted, his voice tense but honest. For all his arrogance, he was no fool. He was a master of both light and dark spells, skilled in duelling, and yet, he knew his limits. What he had seen in the memory had shaken even his confidence.
"What about the Ministry?" he asked after a pause.
"Well," Dumbledore folded his hands. "I do not have much information about their internal discussions yet. But according to Arthur, the Ministry has not been able to reach any firm conclusion."
"The voices within the Ministry," Dumbledore went on, "are too many and too divided. And the identities of those killed complicate things further."
"The pure blood faction would be seething. Thirteen of their kind, slaughtered in a single night."
Snape gave a slow nod, understanding the gravity of it.
"Why do you not take a look at the second memory?" Dumbledore suggested after a pause.
Snape frowned and picked up the second vial.
"And what exactly is in this one?" he asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
Dumbledore simply smiled and said nothing.
Snape huffed quietly and poured the vial into the Pensieve before lowering his face into it once again.
Moments later, he emerged but this time, the composure was gone. His eyes were wide with horror, and the colour had drained from his face. He had not been shocked this much even after witnessing the mysterious man killing the death eaters so brutally.
His body was trembling, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He sank into the nearest chair, clutching the armrest for support.
"What… what is that?" Snape asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"You know it yourself, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes. "After all, you once had a very close encounter with it."
Snape swallowed hard. He was aware. Very well aware.
"The crest of the Potter family!" he muttered in disbelief. "The family magic of the House of Potter. Why does that brat have it?"
"Ah," said Dumbledore, his tone almost amused, "you surely remember, do you not? Charlus Potter used it once and nearly killed you."
Snape's eyes darted upward, the memory flashing vividly before him. His jaw tightened.
"And why should Harry not have it?" Dumbledore continued smoothly. "He is a Potter, after all."
"And quite a powerful one, too," Dumbledore added. "It has not been many days since he produced a corporeal Patronus. A feat even some of the greatest wizards struggle with."
Snape did not respond. His face was pale, his expression haunted. He had spent years underestimating the boy, dismissing him as a reflection of his father's arrogance. But what he had seen in that memory. Harry Potter was something else entirely.
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