"Come on, Professor, almost there, just a little more effort!"
After a series of complex magical treatments by Dumbledore, Ravenclaw's Diadem looked even more dilapidated, its faint remaining glow gradually fading. But now, they could look directly at it.
Dumbledore was trying every possible method to destroy it. He stared at the diadem lying on the ground, fine beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, as various shifting magical energies poured from the tip of his wand towards the artifact. Snape stood nearby, constantly offering Dumbledore words of encouragement, though his words weren't necessarily having a positive effect.
Under Dumbledore's powerful magic, the diadem slowly twisted and warped, emitting a grating, teeth-on-edge screech as Dumbledore's magic kneaded it into a ball. Yet, after only a short while, it slowly reverted to its original form, lying quietly on the floor.
"Uh—Professor, if you really can't manage it," Snape said, his eyes meeting Dumbledore's, "how about we go down to the kitchens for a late-night snack and some sleep, then come back? You look like you're running out of steam."
At these words, the wand in Dumbledore's hand gave a tiny tremor, as if Snape's comment had thoroughly annoyed him. Dumbledore said nothing, merely raising his wand high once more.
Bolts of lightning crackled and struck the diadem; then, a burst of intense fire erupted, engulfing and continuously scorching it; and finally, Dumbledore forcibly ground the diadem into powder.
But none of these methods worked. Shortly after the magic ceased, the scattered dust slowly coalesced again, and the diadem remained quietly before them.
"Professor, I didn't hear you say 'If even I can't do it, then no one can,' so I'll just forget I ever heard it." Snape couldn't help but yawn again, his voice thick with exhaustion. He was simply too tired.
The veins in Dumbledore's temples throbbed as he silently wrestled with the diadem, his wand constantly shifting through various spell movements.
"Won't you say something, Professor? Will we get any sleep tonight?" Snape's irritating voice piped up again.
"Enough, Severus," Dumbledore tried to keep his tone calm, but from his slightly trembling hand and nearly uncontrollable eyebrows, it seemed he wanted to turn his wand on Snape instead. "Where on earth did you learn such things?"
"Though I haven't been able to destroy it yet, I've made significant progress," Dumbledore said, taking a deep breath. "I can confirm that only a few highly destructive methods can reliably destroy a Horcrux, preventing it from self-repairing."
"Yes, Professor, I know that too. Did you find anything else?" Snape stood with his arms crossed, his face still looking sluggish.
"I mean, tearing a Horcrux apart, smashing it, or grinding it to powder won't work. You must—" Dumbledore was interrupted by Snape before he could finish.
"—you must make it impossible to repair by magic." Snape continued, "The soul fragment within a Horcrux survives entirely dependent on its container, on its enchanted vessel; otherwise, it cannot exist. Shall I continue reciting from Secrets of the Darkest Art, Professor?"
"Ahem, ahem," Dumbledore looked somewhat awkward, clearing his throat twice to try and change the subject. "Severus, by the way, how did you find it?"
"Oh, Tom acted as if he was afraid no one would see it," Snape said, pointing at a plaster bust on a crate. "The diadem was resting right next to that ugly old wizard's broken bust. I spotted it at once. It was quite dangerous at the time; after understanding the inscription, I nearly couldn't resist the temptation to put the diadem on. After leaving, I kept researching what sort of thing it was until I found descriptions of Horcruxes in the library."
"Well then, let's call it a night." Dumbledore nodded, saying, "I'll take the diadem back for now. We'll find a way to destroy it later."
"Alright, sir, you keep the diadem for now." Snape looked earnestly at Dumbledore. "But I suggest that even if we find a way to destroy the Horcrux and do so, you really shouldn't wear it. I don't think the remnants of a Horcrux would be harmless dittany. Whether it's this diadem, or any other Horcrux we might discover in the future, if you wear them, I don't believe it will do you any good at all."
"Why are you even more long-winded than an old man like me, Severus?" Dumbledore grumbled.
"Then let me be long-winded one more time and return your own words to you: Please don't cast my warnings to the wind," Snape insisted.
"Alright, Mr. Snape," Dumbledore replied resignedly.
Although Dumbledore hadn't managed to destroy the diadem on this trip, for Snape, it was still good news. Because it meant that even if Dumbledore followed the memories of Burke and Ogden to find the Peverell ring, he wouldn't be foolish enough to wear it while the Horcrux was still intact.
Snape woke up to the Black Lake outside his window a deep, inky green. The Halloween feast was almost ready to begin. The corridor was filled with the sweet, inviting smell of roasted pumpkin, a scent that immediately sharpened Snape's appetite. He walked through the Entrance Hall into the Great Hall, which, as in previous years, had been transformed with colorful Halloween decorations. The giant pumpkins Hagrid had grown were carved into lanterns, so large that three people could sit inside them. A multitude of live bats flapped wildly around the walls and the enchanted ceiling, their wingbeats mixing with the students' excited chatter. Countless other bats, like low-hanging dark clouds, swirled above the tables, making the candle flames inside the pumpkin lanterns flicker.
Soon after Snape took his seat, just like at the Welcoming Feast, delicious dishes suddenly appeared on the golden plates.
"Where were you last night?" Abbott asked Snape, picking up a roasted potato. "You only came back this morning; I didn't even have the heart to wake you for class."
"Ah—" Snape yawned again. "The Headmaster gave me special permission to miss classes today."
"Stop talking nonsense and eat," Abbott said, laughing.
Snape then buried his head in his food; there was still so much waiting for him to do. Sometimes he would think, if this were a world of fantasy or immortal heroes, he could safely pursue ultimate power and view everything as a step towards advancement. But this was the only magical world that had captivated his soul since childhood. In a sense, even if he wasn't "Saint Potter," even if the "owl post" arrived many years late, wasn't he, too, a "Chosen One"?
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