"A complete disaster... too much leniency... utter chaos... I've had enough of it..."
Filch muttered bitterly as he marched ahead, dragging James Potter by the sleeve like a wet rag of disappointment.
Snape followed behind, supporting Pandora gently with one arm.
When they reached the entrance of the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was already waiting.
"Inside, quickly," she ordered. "Professor McGonagall told me you needed medical attention."
After helping her settle each of the three onto separate beds, Filch trudged away, grumbling all the while.
Catching sight of James's bandaged arm, Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Well done with that splint. Potter, why can't you ever be this responsible before dragging your limbs in here shattered?"
"I did it," Snape muttered. "I'm no Healer, but I know the basics."
"Good," she said with genuine approval. "At last, a student who understands primary magical first aid."
Then, her face darkened. "Now if only you three could stop injuring yourselves in the first place."
With swift efficiency, she repaired James's arm in a single motion.
She proceeded to check Pandora and Snape thoroughly, then declared them mostly intact—except for Snape's bruised tailbone, which would require prone treatment.
At his emphatic protest, Madam Pomfrey reluctantly agreed to draw the curtains during the spellwork so the others wouldn't see him sprawled out like a stunned Hippogriff.
"Madam Pomfrey," Snape asked when she was done, lifting his head, "we're fine now. Can we leave?"
"Absolutely not," she snapped. "Professor McGonagall gave strict orders. You are to stay here and rest."
When he looked ready to argue, she added, "Unless you'd prefer a strong Sleeping Draught. I promise—it'll knock you out dreamlessly until morning."
"No need," Snape said quickly, shaking his head so hard it rattled the pillow. "I'll stay. No potion."
Time blurred. The room was silent except for the occasional soft rustle of blankets. Snape felt his thoughts growing foggy. The warm mattress beneath him seemed to pull him down, deeper and deeper…
Then—
"We have to ask them."
"Can't it wait till morning?"
"They'll wake up!"
Snape's eyes flew open.
There were voices outside the ward—soft but sharp.
The light was still dim, the same mellow glow from before. It couldn't have been long.
The door swung open, and Madam Pomfrey strode in, fuming.
Behind her came Dumbledore.
"Back again," he said kindly, with a warm, tired smile. "Quite a lively evening, isn't it?"
"Professor," Snape sat upright at once. "You're back. Is everything all right?"
"Easy, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "You, James, and Pandora—if you feel well enough—I'd like you to come to my office."
Ignoring Madam Pomfrey's silent protest, Dumbledore led them from the hospital wing. They followed him through the quiet castle corridors, still dressed in nightclothes and bruises.
At the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office, the password remained unchanged: Lemon sherbet.
Snape and James knew the place well by now, but it was Pandora's first visit. Her eyes widened as she took everything in.
She crept toward a snoozing portrait of an old headmaster and squinted with one eye to mimic him. When he cracked his eyelid to peek back, she gasped and shut her own quickly.
She even reached out a finger to poke Fawkes. The phoenix launched upward, soaring in a wide circle around the ceiling before landing gracefully on Dumbledore's shoulder, preening its scarlet feathers.
"Take a seat," Dumbledore said. "Pandora, you first. I'd rather not hear the version from these two just yet."
"Okay, Headmaster," Pandora said, still blinking sleepily. "Severus and I went to the secret passage on the fifth floor. We were going to—"
"—I was going to blow it up," Snape cut in. "I asked Pandora to help me."
"You'll speak when it's your turn, Severus," Dumbledore said, not unkindly but firmly.
Pandora continued. "I found traces of ancient magic down there—powerful stuff—but I managed to purge it.
"But then, right as we were about to destroy the tunnel, Inferi started crawling out from the stairwell. Just like Professor Grubbly-Plank showed us in class.
"We were trying to escape when the door opened—and Potter was there. He hit Severus with a Levicorpus.
"Everything was happening so fast. I blasted the bag to collapse the passage before they got us. And then we were… flying."
"Is that accurate?" Dumbledore asked, turning to Snape. "Why did you want the passage destroyed?"
"Professor," Snape said carefully, "Mulciber has been sneaking out almost every night this term. I followed him—he's been using that passage to get to Hogsmeade.
"But I don't know what he's doing once he gets there. So I thought… rather than wait for him to cause trouble, why not destroy the tunnel? Stop him before he does something worse."
"That's… rather extreme," Dumbledore said gently. "You should have come to a teacher. But that raises another question: how did you find the entrance to the passage?"
"Sir!" James suddenly leapt to his feet, face pale, voice sharp with anger. "The Marauder's Map! He used the Map to track Mulciber!"
So much for keeping secrets.
It was understandable—if James was certain Snape had the map, he'd rather see it confiscated by the headmaster than remain in his rival's hands.
Snape, seething with frustration, pulled the folded parchment from his robes and handed it over with great reluctance.
Dumbledore took the parchment, flipped it over in his hands.
"A blank piece of parchment," he murmured.
Then, with graceful precision, he laid it flat on his desk, set his wand against it, and said:
"Reveal your secrets."
Nothing happened.
Snape's heart started to race—not with dread, but with anticipation.
James looked distinctly nervous, hands clenching at his sides.
"Show yourself!" Dumbledore said, tapping the parchment again.
Still blank.
Snape could barely suppress his glee.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, raised his wand once more, and said:
"I, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, command you—reveal what is hidden!"
The surface of the parchment shimmered—like ink being drawn across water. Lines began to emerge, scrawled as if by unseen quills.
Sweat beaded on James's brow.