In the next few days, the castle was filled with a strange kind of excitement.
In the corridors, students gathered in small groups, whispering about the most explosive rumor spreading through the school, Professor Albus Dumbledore had developed an unusual interest in the girls' lavatory on the second floor.
Those who claimed to be "in the know" were all too eager to spread this earth-shattering "secret" far and wide.
"I'm telling you, it's absolutely true!" whispered a young witch, eyes gleaming as she spoke. Five or six students from different Houses surrounded her, each craning their necks, afraid to miss a single detail. "I saw it with my own eyes, yesterday at exactly ten past three in the afternoon, he went straight in and stayed for at least twenty minutes!"
"That's impossible. There must be some mistake."
"Then go see for yourself," the girl declared solemnly. "Every day around three o'clock, he goes there. I swear on my entire collection of Chocolate Frog cards..."
And so, in those days, the corridor outside Moaning Myrtle's old "home of sorrow" became the liveliest spot in Hogwarts.
Urged on by busybodies, students even skipped classes to keep watch near the second-floor hallway. Some pretended to discuss homework, some acted lost, and a few even hid behind suits of armor with telescopes in hand.
When that long silver beard appeared at the end of the corridor, the entire hallway instantly fell silent, broken only by the sound of collective gasps.
Professor Dumbledore, wearing his usual gentle smile, strode lightly toward the door marked "Out of Order."
"What are you all doing here?" he asked, turning to glance at the crowd with mild curiosity. "Isn't it class time?"
The students scattered like startled birds.
They had finally confirmed it, Professor Dumbledore did indeed appear there at a fixed time, enter the girls' lavatory, and remain inside for half an hour.
Even stranger, when he was in there, no spell, not even an Unlocking Charm, could move that door an inch.
The students had no choice but to accept the truth: their long-bearded, highly respected Headmaster had, in fact, gone into the girls' lavatory.
The rumor spread like wildfire. When Snape heard of it from some younger members of his club, he couldn't help but feel a touch of admiration for the Headmaster's dedication and perseverance. To investigate a nonexistent Horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets, the man was even willing to sacrifice his own reputation.
Still, Snape had no intention of clarifying the matter on Dumbledore's behalf. After all, compared to the Headmaster's unimportant "innocence," preserving the secret was far more crucial.
And if someone insisted on spreading rumors that Professor Dumbledore had lost his mind, to the point that things got out of hand, well, he could always write a book titled The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.
Surely, after such a book's release, no one would dare associate the Headmaster's trip into the girls' lavatory with the kind of sordid "White Arm" gossip people whispered about.
Still, Dumbledore's perseverance reminded Snape of something, if even the Headmaster worked this hard, he had no excuse to slack off.
Keeping two "bombs" in his pocket was hardly conducive to peaceful sleep. Tom Riddle's diary was troublesome enough, but the newly acquired golden box was equally dangerous and completely useless to him.
So, taking advantage of the time when Moaning Myrtle was "out haunting," Snape snuck into the Room of Requirement, "a place suited for handling dangerous Dark artifacts."
This time, the Room appeared as a round, windowless stone chamber. The moment he stepped in, the entrance vanished, the wall sealing itself behind him.
The stone walls were covered in ancient runes glowing faint blue.
At the center stood a heavy oak table, surrounded by glass cabinets containing protective gear, dragon-hide gloves, anti-curse cloaks, even a device resembling anti-demon goggles. In the corner, a stone basin continuously released a stream of clear liquid. Snape suspected it was some kind of cleansing potion.
He took out the lead box from his robes and placed it on the table.
Donning dragon-hide gloves, he tapped the lid lightly with his wand.
The lead box opened with a click, revealing the golden one inside.
It looked harmless within its shielding, an ornate jewelry box carved with serpentine designs, emeralds gleaming like eyes in the light.
Snape carefully lifted it out and placed it on the table's center.
"Open," he commanded, holding Tom's diary before him like a shield and fixing his eyes on the emerald serpents.
The golden lid slid open silently. To his surprise, no curse or black magic was triggered.
At last, the object within was revealed, a thick, heavy ring, crudely crafted as though by hand, its gold surface set with a dense, dark stone that seemed to swirl faintly from within.
Most striking of all was the emblem carved into the black gem, the Peverell crest, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows: a triangle enclosing a circle and a line, glimmering faintly in the dim light.
Drawing out the goblin-made dagger that had been steeped in basilisk venom, Snape carefully approached the ring and struck.
The instant the blade's tip neared the gem, the black stone flared with blinding light. Strange colors exploded before his eyes, spreading like spilled ink in water.
The world began to spin...
When his vision cleared, Snape found himself standing on a familiar street, Godric's Hollow, the birthplace of Godric Gryffindor, and the site where the famed wizard-smith Bowman Wright had forged the first Golden Snitch.
Overhead stretched a deep blue sky where the first stars had begun to glimmer.
Night. The air was bitterly cold.
From a distance came screams.
Though he had never been here in person, some dreadful intuition told him exactly where, and when, he was.
Fear seized him. He wanted to flee, but his body moved against his will, drawn toward the cries like a puppet on invisible strings.
Each step felt like treading on cotton; everything around him bore the warped texture of a nightmare.
Turning a corner, he saw the half-destroyed house, the front door blasted open, curtains fluttering in the night wind.
Upstairs, he saw her.
She lay amidst the ruins, red hair fanned out like flames, green eyes staring blankly upward.
Beside her, a baby cried, a tiny boy with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.
Snape's throat tightened, but no sound came out.
As he approached, her head suddenly turned toward him. Her lifeless eyes locked on his, her lips moved: "Help me, Severus..."
A pang pierced his chest, his heart pounding violently. But reason screamed in his mind, This isn't right. The time is wrong. The place is wrong... And everything should already be different.
The scene rippled and shattered like stirred water.
When it stabilized again, he stood in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, surrounded by corpses.
Lavender Brown, mauled by a werewolf, her body twitching faintly; Colin Creevey's young face, pale and stiff, gray dust covering his hair.
Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks lay nearby, faces peaceful, as if asleep under the bewitched black ceiling. Their hands were almost touching, yet would never meet again.
George Weasley, missing one ear, knelt beside Fred's body. Mrs. Weasley shook violently, her face buried against Fred's chest, while Mr. Weasley stroked her hair, tears streaming down his face.
Albus Dumbledore's body, twisted from the fall, lay in a pool of blood; his half-moon spectacles were askew beside him, blue eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
Then, every dead face turned toward him.
"Too many have died, Severus," they whispered as one. "You failed your promise. How many men and women died before your eyes..."
Snape stared at them, suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all.
"What does this have to do with me? I didn't cause this," he thought coldly. "What's next, will you show me a ring and tell me that if I put it on, everything can be undone?"
As if in response, a golden ring appeared, gleaming temptingly in midair.
"Really?" he sneered. "Is that all you've got, Tom? That's the best your imagination can do?"
The illusion shattered, fragments falling away like broken glass.
The world spun violently again. When his senses returned, he was back in the Room of Requirement.
The goblin dagger was still clutched in his hand. The ring lay quiet and broken on the table.
"That's it?" Snape said softly, his tone edged with contempt. "You might have glimpsed some of my fears, my desires. But what you don't understand is that none of that has happened yet." He tightened his grip on the dagger. "And my existence is precisely to make sure it never does."
Without hesitation, he drove the dagger down hard.
The black gem screamed, cracks spreading across the ring like a spider's web. A plume of dark smoke burst forth, twisting into a face of agony before fading into nothing.
Snape exhaled deeply, a strange lightness settling over him. He tossed the ruined ring, along with the Resurrection Stone, into an ordinary leather pouch and shoved it carelessly into his robe.
He had no one he wished to bring back.
"Two Horcruxes down," he murmured. "Three to go... or perhaps, in time, four."
When he left the Room of Requirement, autumn sunlight poured through the high windows, bathing the corridor in golden light. The weather outside was unseasonably clear.
On his way down to the fifth floor, Snape suddenly felt the urge to stop by the library, perhaps to pass the time with some medieval tales of knights and witches in love.
To his surprise, Madam Pince was nowhere to be seen. Highly unusual, the stern librarian usually guarded her domain like a hawk.
The library was eerily quiet, only a handful of students scattered about reading.
Raising an eyebrow, Snape moved silently between the shelves. As he passed near the literature section, faint whispers caught his ear.
He softened his footsteps and followed the sound.
Peering through a gap between the books, he saw Madam Pince and Argus Filch in the aisle's corner.
Carefully adjusting his position behind the shelf, he watched as Pince handed Filch a small pouch.
Filch's face lit up with delight. He reached into the pouch, pulled something out, dropped it on the ground, and, straightening up, hooked the pouch over his arm.
"What are they doing?" Snape strained to see what was inside, but his angle was poor.
Then, something brushed against his leg.
He looked down. Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved cat.
She was clumsily hopping about, chasing a ball of yarn.
"Oh, you darling," Snape murmured, crouching instinctively to stroke her head and wipe the crust from her eyes.
Expertly, he scratched under her chin and patted her haunch.
Mrs. Norris purred, stretching out in bliss.
Just as Snape reached into his robes for the small dried fish treats he always carried, a chill ran through him.
He looked up, straight into Filch's pale, horrified face.
"Ah, Mr. Filch..." Snape said awkwardly, straightening.
"You..." Filch pointed at him, then at Mrs. Norris, speechless with outrage. "You..."
"Please, don't misunderstand—" Snape began.
Filch lunged forward, snatching Mrs. Norris into his arms, holding her up by the armpits, staring into her wide eyes.
Mrs. Norris blinked at him and let out a dainty, coquettish "meow."
"Oh, my sweet one..." Filch hesitated, then hugged her tightly to his chest. Turning to Snape, his expression darkened. "The Trophy Room needs dusting," he said coldly. "Not a single speck left tonight."
"Yes, sir," Snape replied obediently, pulling the bag of dried fish from his robes and handing it over. "Mrs. Norris loves these. They'll make her coat softer and shinier."
Filch glared, snatched the bag, and stomped off, muttering about "students these days" and "not even sparing my cat."
Snape shrugged, pulled out a copy of Tristan and Iseult: Wizarding Edition, and settled by the window.
Outside, the autumn sky stretched clear and endless.
Sunlight spilled warmly over the pages, and for a while, Snape let Horcruxes and war fade from his mind, losing himself in the fiction.
Moments later, Madam Pince emerged from the same aisle, face even sterner than usual as she resumed her patrol of the library.