Honeydukes was bursting at the seams with Hogwarts students, the candy shop buzzing like a mini marketplace under the golden afternoon light.
Rows upon rows of shelves overflowed with the most succulent sweets imaginable: plump chocolate balls, fiery Pepper Imps that made your mouth puff smoke, glistening pink coconut ice, barrels of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans...
After paying for their treats, Snape and Pandora bundled up again, wrapping scarves around their faces and pulling on gloves. They stepped out of the warm, sugar-scented haven and into the biting wind, paper bags rustling with the weight of candy.
The cold struck them like a blade. Wind screamed down the narrow streets, lashing their cheeks and turning every step back toward Hogwarts into a battle of will.
Snape walked with his brow furrowed, his mind heavy and grinding with thought. Each gust of wind seemed to tug the news deeper into his bones.
Caractacus Burke—co-founder of Borgin and Burkes, the infamous purveyors of Dark artifacts—had lost his memory entirely last month. Sent to St Mungo's.
Snape reviewed everything he'd done since his arrival in this timeline. None of it, to his knowledge, should have directly affected Burke's fate. In the original events, it was always Borgin manning the shop anyway. Burke's sole appearance had been as a pale, ghostlike memory summoned from Dumbledore's Pensieve.
But when, precisely, had Dumbledore retrieved Burke's memory?
That question began to gnaw at him.
Of all the memories Dumbledore had shown Harry—Bob Ogden's, Hokey the elf's, Morfin Gaunt's, and Slughorn's altered recollection—Burke's stood out. It hadn't been immersed through the Pensieve like the rest. No, Burke had spoken his memory aloud, delivering it personally.
A creeping thought struck Snape like a jolt of lightning.
Had Dumbledore already visited Burke and extracted that memory by force?
Had Burke resisted too strongly, his magical strength forcing Dumbledore's hand? Had something gone wrong—so catastrophically wrong that Burke's mind was destroyed in the process?
Snape's steps grew heavier.
Nearly everyone whose memory Dumbledore had sought had ended up dead. Hokey had passed soon after giving hers. Morfin was gone. Ogden too. Even Slughorn—though still alive—was elusive, wary.
Could it be coincidence? Or, given the accelerated timeline, had events already begun shifting too far from their natural order?
The thought chilled him more than the wind. He didn't want to entertain darker theories—but they clawed at his mind regardless.
Regardless, he needed to be careful. More than careful. He couldn't let Dumbledore discover the truth about him, not under any circumstances.
Worse still, he had to find a way to stop Dumbledore from venturing alone to the Gaunt Shack... from putting on the Peverell ring.
If Dumbledore fell early, the entire war could collapse into chaos. Snape could already envision the madness that would follow. He might have to charm, coerce, or even kidnap allies—possibly flee the country entirely.
Maybe to Australia.
Lately, the headmaster had been absent from the staff table with increasing frequency. Merlin only knew how far along he was in his investigation.
The Elder Wand and Invisibility Cloak were already in Dumbledore's possession. If he added the Resurrection Stone, all three Deathly Hallows would be united in his hands.
What might that mean for the timeline?
"Oi, Severus, what're you brooding over?" Pandora's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. She waved a mittened hand in front of his face.
They had reached the castle gates without him noticing.
"Nothing," Snape muttered, shaken. "Let's go inside."
Her concerned face didn't help. If anything, it deepened the sense of dread in his chest.
The wind howled behind them like a warning.
The following day, Snape found himself scanning the corridors and courtyards, hoping to catch sight of Dumbledore. But the headmaster was nowhere to be seen.
Even at the next Slug Club gathering, Dumbledore's absence was noted.
Snape, as always, brought a tin of candied pineapple—Horace Slughorn's most favoured indulgence, one once praised by Tom Riddle himself.
"If you keep bringing me these, Severus, I daresay you'll have a fine future at the Ministry," Slughorn beamed, waving a sugar-dusted finger. "Yes, yes—head of a department within fifteen years! Maybe even ten. I have excellent contacts, you know."
Snape smiled faintly and nodded, listening as Slughorn launched into another winding tale of magical high society and half-true anecdotes of long-gone glory. All the while, Snape waited. Watching the gold clock on the professor's desk tick toward eleven.
Finally, the clock chimed.
"Oh, gracious me, is it that late already?" Slughorn lamented. "Time flies, my dear children! Off to bed with you all. And Black—if you don't hand in that essay tomorrow, you'll be spending the weekend in detention, Quidditch or not."
The students stood and began filing out in an orderly procession.
Slughorn rose creakily from his armchair, collecting the empty goblets and humming to himself.
But Snape stayed.
He had a question to ask—and he needed the answer tonight.
He couldn't let this uncertainty linger. Dumbledore was absent, yes—but that wouldn't last. Snape had to be ready.
He was nearly certain the headmaster hadn't approached Slughorn yet. Given the way the timeline had advanced, it was unlikely Dumbledore had made the connection from the diary to the existence of multiple Horcruxes.
Which meant Snape had a narrow window.
He cleared his throat.
Slughorn looked back, surprised to see him still standing there. "Quickly now, Severus. You don't want anyone thinking you're wandering the halls past curfew."
There was something oddly pointed in that comment, but Snape brushed it aside.
He inhaled slowly. "Sir, I wanted to ask you something."
"Then ask, my boy, ask!"
Snape looked straight into the older wizard's eyes and asked, evenly:
"Professor, do you know anything about… Horcruxes?"