Hogwarts: From Little Wizard to White Lord

"A trade?"

Snape's brow furrowed slightly.

"Yes. A deal," Dumbledore replied, his gaze fixed on the Pensieve before him. The shallow, silvery surface reflected the sharp glint of his blue eyes. "He would help me train Harry, lend his abilities where needed, and stand against Voldemort…"

"Fu…" Snape's jaw tightened, his words halting.

Sensing the turmoil beneath his silence, Dumbledore said softly, "Yes, as I told you before, Severus Tom is not dead."

With a gesture, he beckoned Snape closer. "Come. See for yourself. Peter has given me his memory of the battle in the fourth-floor corridor… Oh, and I've restored the damage to the corridor, but I may have missed a few details. Check it over tomorrow."

Snape said nothing, but crossed to the Pensieve, lowering his mental defenses.

Dumbledore flicked his wand. Wisps of thought inky, trailing spilled into the basin, curling into smoke.

In an instant, the scene of the corridor unfolded before them.

Harry, clutching his scar and crying out in pain. Hermione, pale but defiant, standing protectively in front of him. Peter, his voice ringing out as he cast Sectumsempra.

And at the corridor's heart the center of the memory loomed a dark, twisted figure in black robes, his wand flaring with a deadly green light.

Bang!

Dumbledore clapped his hands, and the entire scene froze, figures suspended mid-motion like insects in amber.

In the still frame, the black-robed man's face was clear enough to name.

Quirinus Quirrell.

But neither Dumbledore nor Snape lingered on that face. Their gazes seemed to pierce through it, seeing into what lay within and behind it.

The Pensieve's memory shimmered under a hazy glow that made Snape's skin prickle. His eyes shifted restlessly; his pupils trembled.

"You see, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, "Tom is back. He's nothing more than a fragment of soul now a parasite clinging to a feeble host but he is alive. And he is preparing to rise again."

The memory stirred something deep in Snape's mind an old, ingrained fear of his former master, as sharp and suffocating as the day it was born.

Even though he had already sensed that foul magic earlier, nothing prepared him for the reality of facing it directly even in a memory. His throat felt parched, words refusing to come.

Emotions boiled within him: awe, fear… and a deep, consuming hatred.

Dumbledore clapped his hands again. The memory came alive once more. Peter's Sectumsempra slipped past the Shield Charm, striking Voldemort's host.

Dumbledore's tone lightened. "I must say, Severus, you've created a remarkably powerful spell and taught it to an equally remarkable student. Not many can wound Tom."

Snape's face was expressionless. "…It was Quirrell who was injured, not him. But yes… he will hate Peter for it."

Dumbledore understood who "he" referred to. He gave a faint smile. "At least Peter will be safe until Tom is fully restored. And we both know the one he hates most is Harry."

The short vision faded, and they returned to the present.

But Snape's expression remained unchanged. His voice was dry, tinged with acid. "Yes… the Boy Who Lived, who defeated him once, and the boy who ruined his attempt to steal the Stone humiliated him. The perfect pairing. Give it a few years. He might forgive others… but those two? Never."

"A perfect match for him," he added, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Dumbledore listened without interruption. When Snape fell silent, he sighed, almost regretfully. "You think I arranged this?"

Snape's lips curled faintly. "I never said that."

But the look on Snape's face was enough to betray his doubts.

Dumbledore knew well that Snape had always carried a prejudice against him justified, perhaps, given the methods he'd once used to bind Snape to his cause.

He had taken advantage of the man's lingering love and the last shreds of his kindness, forcing him to walk the knife's edge between life and death.

In Dumbledore's view, there was no right or wrong in it. Snape had been a Death Eater, had committed countless atrocities in service to the Dark Lord. Now, forcing him to act as a double agent was nothing more than ensuring he atoned for those sins.

But today was not the time to reopen old wounds.

Dumbledore sighed. "Everything that happened today aside from Quirrell smuggling a troll into Hogwarts was an accident. Do you remember what I told you before? About fate… the fate binding Tom and Harry."

"This unseen force weaves through every part of our world. The destinies of all things are knotted together into a vast net. And sometimes, into this net are thrown unique, heavy weights."

"This is the bond between Tom and Harry. They are tied to each other. Once they draw near, it's like dropping two iron spheres into the net wherever they roll, the net will sag and twist with them, dragging the threads of countless other lives into the pull. Only when one sphere is gone will the net settle again."

"What happened today… was the net being tugged. The fate of Tom and Harry is being disturbed."

Fate…

Snape couldn't refute the metaphor. He'd never seen fate, but he knew it existed.

After all, there were prophecies, and Divination had a place in the wizarding world.

And he knew that Dumbledore himself had once been an "iron sphere" in that net.

But he had no desire to linger on such abstract mysteries. After a moment's pause, he asked instead,

"Since it's a deal Peter helping you train Potter what are you giving him in return?"

Drawn out of his musings on fate, Dumbledore's tone turned almost light. "Ah, yes. That. I must say, Peter's appetite for fame and fortune is… remarkable. He asked me to find ways to increase his renown."

Snape: "?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard with mock distress. "He set quite a few conditions. For example, I'm not to award Gryffindor extra points on his account. If he does anything noteworthy, I'm to see it's made known publicly. If he achieves any success in Potions, I'm to personally nominate him for the Order of Merlin…"

As Dumbledore went on with his half-complaints, Snape found himself fighting the urge to laugh.

That first condition alone wrecked one of the headmaster's earlier plans awarding Harry last-minute points to cement his standing as Gryffindor's leader.

And yet… Dumbledore had agreed to all of it.

Why?

What could Peter have said to make the old man willingly abandon favoritism toward the so-called savior?

Snape still hadn't found an answer by the time he left the office.

When the door closed behind him, Dumbledore's smile faded.

Turning back to the Pensieve, he touched his wand to the surface and switched to another memory

The private exchange he'd had with Peter as they watched the memory of the fourth-floor corridor duel.

"Albus, have you ever wondered why Voldemort didn't die?"

"Oh, I've been searching for that answer for years. What are your thoughts, Peter?"

He had asked the question with a smile, never expecting a real answer.

But that smile froze the moment Peter replied:

"Horcrux."

The memory froze in place.

Within the illusory corridor formed by the Pensieve, Dumbledore walked slowly, his robes whispering against the stone.

He looked at his own recorded expression stunned, caught completely off guard.

And he looked at the way Peter's eyes had shifted toward Harry as he spoke that single, terrible word.

A storm of unspoken thoughts churned within him.

Hesitation. Doubt. Fear.

And, most of all… a deep, unshakable sadness.