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When Severus Snape posed the question, Horace Slughorn's previously relaxed expression froze in an instant.
He stared at Snape in shock, his chubby fingers instinctively tightening around the stem of his goblet.
Licking his lips slowly, he asked in a hoarse voice, "What did you say?"
"I asked if you know anything about Horcruxes, sir," Snape replied calmly, as if discussing the weather. He casually flicked his wand toward the door, casting a Muffliato charm, then tucked the wand back into his robes.
"What are you doing with your wand?" Slughorn's tone shifted entirely, no longer warm but laced with suspicion and defensiveness.
"Muffliato, sir," Snape explained with unruffled composure. "To prevent eavesdropping. A distinguished Auror once taught me to 'always stay vigilant.'"
"Fine, fine," Slughorn waved a hand impatiently, "but this isn't something you should be concerning yourself with, boy."
He paused, his voice turning stern. "I know nothing about Horcruxes, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you! Leave now, and don't let me hear you mention this again!"
"You know nothing about Horcruxes, sir?" Snape acted as though he hadn't heard the dismissal, taking a step closer to Slughorn. "I thought if anyone at Hogwarts could offer guidance on Horcruxes, it would surely be you. So I wanted to ask."
"What's that?" Slughorn's face twisted in distaste, his tone dripping with disdain. "Is that so? Well, you're mistaken—utterly mistaken!"
He roared the last words, reaching out to push Snape toward the door.
"Am I mistaken, sir?" Snape refused to budge. "I was also going to ask what I should do about a Horcrux I found in the castle."
Slughorn's expression of disgust faltered, his round face seeming to collapse inward, growing paler and more haggard.
"What did you say?" It was the third time he'd repeated those words today, his voice thick with disbelief.
"I found a Horcrux in the castle," Snape said deliberately, emphasizing each word. "It matches the descriptions I read in a book from the Restricted Section. I believe it's a Horcrux."
"What book?" Slughorn fumbled in his breast pocket, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead.
"Secrets of the Darkest Art by Owle Bullock," Snape answered simply.
"Oh, Dumbledore!" Slughorn exclaimed, uncharacteristically using the headmaster's surname. "That book shouldn't be there!"
"But it is there, sir," Snape pressed on, unfazed. "If I can find it, so can others, can't they?"
"Perhaps," Slughorn muttered, still wiping his pallid face. "Though I know nothing about Horcruxes, as your Head of House, I could take a look at this… thing you think is a Horcrux. Where is it?"
"If you truly know nothing—absolutely nothing—about Horcruxes," Snape said, locking eyes with Slughorn and repeating the words with emphasis, "you wouldn't be so nervous, sir."
"There's no need to trouble yourself, then. I'll go straight to Professor Dumbledore."
"I'm not nervous!" Slughorn's voice was unnaturally loud, stumbling over his words. "Yes, Albus, you could go to him, but I can help you too."
"I'd very much like your help, sir," Snape said. "That's why I stayed late tonight. But we need to be honest with each other, don't we?"
"You don't need to be so clever and curious, Severus," Slughorn grumbled, clearly displeased, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket. "Your curiosity will get you into trouble."
"Those are very dark things, very dark… What exactly do you want to know?"
What does he mean, I don't need to be so clever? Snape thought bitterly. If you old fools were competent, would I need to go to all this trouble?
Watching Pandora run experiments or sipping mead at the Three Broomsticks—wouldn't either be far more pleasant than dealing with these wrinkled old faces?
The entire British wizarding world is sitting around, waiting for a baby to be born, banking on his and his parents' sacrifice, only to quietly rejoice for a moment while still too cowardly to utter Voldemort's name.
Snape's heart ached with frustration. How pathetic. If I don't step up, who will?
Stuck with these Flobberworms, how can we ever fix the wizarding world?
This is for the survival of us all!
Snapping back to the moment, Snape fixed his gaze on Slughorn's eyes. "Out of curiosity, sir, I want to know: can a soul only be split once? Wouldn't splitting it into more pieces be… better?"
Slughorn's hand trembled violently, and the goblet slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor with a loud crash.
"What did you say?!" Sweat poured down Slughorn's face.
His trembling, chubby hand reached into his pocket, taking far longer than before to retrieve the handkerchief. He shakily wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead.
"You—" Slughorn was visibly rattled now, his eyes filled with fear, anger, and, above all, worry. "Why are you asking such questions?"
"Also?" Snape seized on the slip in Slughorn's words. "Has someone else asked you the same question before, sir?"
"No!" Slughorn was clearly regretting this conversation, his voice barely under control. "Don't ask me—I don't know!"
"You haven't answered my question, sir," Snape pressed relentlessly. "I'm just curious why someone would leave a Horcrux so carelessly in a place where anyone could find it."
"Horcruxes are such precious magical objects, so I couldn't help but wonder if the owner might have made more than one. What do you think, sir?"
Slughorn stumbled back a few steps, clumsily bumping into a cabinet. Several bottles on top wobbled, clinking loudly, nearly falling.
"How many times can a soul be split, sir?" Snape continued, undeterred. "What did you and the person who asked you this before discuss?"
"According to the renowned Arithmancer Bridget Wenlock, isn't seven the most magical number? Say, seven pieces?"
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