"Come on, Professor, you're almost there—just a little more!"
After a barrage of complex spells from Dumbledore, Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem looked even more worn than before, the faint glimmer it once held now almost entirely extinguished. But at last, they could gaze upon it directly without falling under its influence.
Dumbledore was throwing every magical method he knew at the cursed object in an attempt to destroy it.
He stared at the diadem lying on the floor, sweat beading on his forehead, as shifting waves of enchantments surged from the tip of his wand toward the Horcrux.
Snape stood beside him, offering commentary that—while perhaps meant to be encouraging—wasn't always particularly helpful.
Under Dumbledore's overwhelming magical pressure, the diadem began to twist and contort, producing a horrible screech like metal grinding bone. It collapsed into a warped heap under the weight of raw magic.
But moments later, slowly, it reformed itself, returning to its original shape—resting quietly on the floor as if nothing had happened.
"Er… Professor, if this isn't working," Snape said, locking eyes with Dumbledore, "perhaps we ought to head to the kitchens for a midnight snack, get some sleep, and come back when you're less… exhausted?"
Dumbledore's wand twitched. A dangerous tremble.
He didn't answer. He simply raised his wand again.
Crackling bolts of lightning lanced out, striking the diadem. A column of fire surged up around it, then a crushing pressure that ground it to dust.
But each time, the result was the same. The powder would shimmer in the air, then drift back together, coalescing into the diadem once more.
"Professor, I must have misheard you earlier," Snape yawned exaggeratedly. "I could've sworn you said something like, 'If even I can't destroy it, no one can.' I'll just go ahead and forget you ever said that."
A vein in Dumbledore's temple pulsed violently. He said nothing, just shifted stance and cast another spell.
"Do you think we'll sleep at all tonight?" Snape asked, in that insufferably dry voice that suggested he already knew the answer.
"Enough, Severus." Dumbledore's voice was tight with forced calm, though his trembling hand and furrowed brow betrayed his mounting frustration. "Where do you even learn to say things like this?"
"Even if I haven't destroyed it yet, I've learned a great deal," Dumbledore said after a deep breath. "I can now say with certainty that only a few extraordinarily destructive methods are capable of truly annihilating a Horcrux—methods that prevent it from ever repairing itself."
"Yes, Professor, I already knew that. Any actual revelations?" Snape crossed his arms, looking as unimpressed as ever.
"What I mean is—simply smashing or burning it isn't enough. You must—"
"—You must ensure it can never be magically restored," Snape interrupted. "The soul fragment survives only through the enchanted vessel. If that container is compromised, the fragment dies with it.
"Shall I go on quoting Secrets of the Darkest Art, Professor?"
"Er—hem." Dumbledore coughed awkwardly, clearly trying to shift the topic. "Tell me, Severus—how exactly did you find it?"
"Oh, Tom might as well have put up a sign." Snape pointed toward a dusty stone bust on top of a crate. "He left the diadem right next to this hideous sculpture of a half-rotted old wizard. I spotted it instantly.
"It was dangerously tempting. Once I recognized the inscription, I nearly gave in to the urge to try it on."
"Afterward, I began researching obsessively. I finally found references to Horcruxes in the Restricted Section."
"Well then," Dumbledore nodded, "we'll call it a night. I'll take the diadem with me, and we'll find a way to destroy it later."
"Very good, sir. You keep it." Snape gave him a long, serious look. "But even if we manage to destroy it one day, I'd strongly advise against wearing it.
"Horcrux remnants are hardly as harmless as dittany. Whether it's this diadem or whatever we find next, I can't imagine any scenario where putting it on your head benefits you."
"You're more long-winded than an old man, Severus." Dumbledore shook his head, though a smile tugged at his lips.
"Then allow me to return your own words to you," Snape said, "Don't disregard my warnings."
"Very well, Mr. Snape," Dumbledore relented.
Though the Horcrux had not been destroyed, for Snape, this was still good news.
Because now, even if Dumbledore traced the memories from Burke or Ogden to the Peverell ring, at least he wouldn't be foolish enough to wear it while it remained whole.
When Snape awoke, the Black Lake outside his window had taken on a deep green hue. The Halloween Feast was about to begin.
The corridors were thick with the scent of roasted pumpkin, warm and sweet. The aroma made his stomach grumble. He stepped into the Great Hall, which had been transformed—just like every year—with festive decorations in every corner.
Hagrid's oversized pumpkins had been hollowed into massive lanterns—some so large three students could sit inside.
Clouds of fluttering bats circled the enchanted ceiling and the walls, their wings stirring up the flickering candlelight. More bats swooped over the tables like low-hanging shadows, sending flickers dancing across the golden plates.
Snape had barely sat down when, just like during the Welcoming Feast, the platters filled themselves with food.
"Where were you last night?" Abbot took a bite of roasted potato, glancing at him. "You only got back this morning—I didn't have the heart to wake you for class."
"Ah—" Snape yawned, stretching out. "Headmaster gave me the day off."
"Rubbish. Eat something," Abbot laughed, handing him a buttered roll.
Snape dug in. There were still many things waiting for him to handle.
Sometimes he mused—if this were some realm of cultivation or sword immortals, perhaps he could simply pursue ever-greater power and treat the world as a ladder toward ascension.
But this was the only magical world that had haunted him since childhood. And in a way, even if he wasn't the famed "Boy Who Lived," even if his owl-born letter had arrived years too late, wasn't he too, in some twisted sense… the Chosen One?