Earned

July 2, 1993, 12:15 AM, Shrieking Shack, Scotland

Severus Snape

The Shrieking Shack was as desolate and wretched as Severus remembered, its decrepit interior shrouded in darkness and neglect. The wooden floorboards groaned beneath his deliberate steps, the faint sound echoing through the abandoned structure like a whisper of bygone years.

Dust hung heavy in the air, stirred by the occasional shift of movement— rats, perhaps, or the settling of the warped walls. Snape’s sharp, black eyes swept the room, the faint light from his wand barely illuminating the decay around him.

He stood still, listening. There was no wind to creak the shutters tonight, no howl to mask the sound of his own breathing. He found the silence oppressive, though he would never admit it aloud.

The boy— Adam Clarke— stood nearby, his stance betraying a mixture of anticipation and impatience. Snape could sense it in the way the boy shifted his weight, the slight twitch of his fingers as they brushed the sleeve of his robes.

For all his unusual talent and precociousness, Clarke still behaved like a human with all of their flaws, even if Snape still mostly thought that he was a creature of terrifying proportions.

“I believe.” Snape began, his voice cutting through the stillness with the precision of a blade. “I may have found a method to destroy the Gaunt Ring without compromising the Resurrection Stone within.”

The boy’s head snapped up, his curiosity piqued, as Snape had anticipated.

“You’ve figured out how?” Clarke asked, his tone carrying more intrigue than doubt. “What sort of method? You’re not going to use Fiendfyre, are you?”

Snape sneered faintly at the suggestion, his expression as sharp as the shadows cast across his face.

“Of course not. Fiendfyre is a restless and starving abomination— one does not summon it lightly, and certainly not near an artifact of this magnitude. Nor am I inclined to use Basilisk venom, if that is your next assumption. I do not have the requisite access, and to acquire some would invite… questions.“

The boy frowned and nodded, clearly recalibrating his thoughts. “Then what?”

Snape did not immediately answer. He preferred to let the question linger, to let Clarke’s mind churn through the possibilities as they stood in the gloom. Instead, he gave a curt gesture for the boy to follow, striding toward the concealed trap door that led to the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.

“Come.” He said brusquely.

“Fine, but we’ll head to the Seventh Floor to do this. There’s a place where we can work without being caught.”

Snape did not bother to acknowledge the boy’s words, and didn’t even glance back to see if Clarke was following. He knew the boy would.

The passage yawned open before them, its darkness seeming to stretch endlessly into the earth. The air grew colder as Snape descended, his wand light illuminating the narrow, jagged walls. He moved with practiced ease, his footfalls steady against the uneven ground. Behind him, Clarke kept pace, his presence a quiet echo in the confined space.

Snape’s thoughts churned as they walked, his mind carefully revisiting every detail of the method he had devised. Months of research, countless sleepless nights spent poring over ancient texts, and all his efforts hinged on what they would accomplish tonight. Doubt was a luxury he could ill afford, though it lingered like a specter at the edges of his consciousness.

When they reached the base of the tunnel, where the path opened toward the castle grounds, Snape paused. He extinguished his wandlight and turned briefly to ensure the boy was still at his side. He was— of course he was, Snape thought with mild disdain. Clarke’s mismatched eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness, betraying his curiosity.

“Keep up.” Snape murmured, his voice low and sharp as they stepped out into the cold, moonlit air.

His dark eyes scanned their surroundings, searching for any sign of disturbance. Though he knew that the castle was nearly empty this time of year, and Dumbledore was overseas for a few days, vigilance had become second nature— an instinct sharpened by years of danger.

The castle grounds stretched before them in serene silence, bathed in moonlight. Snape’s grip loosened as they approached the castle, though he did not relinquish it entirely. He cast a Disillusionment Charm over them both with a sharp flick of his wand, the incantation murmured barely above a whisper. Adam flinched at the sudden cold sensation crawling over his skin but said nothing, his silence earning a grudging nod of approval from Snape.

Snape led the boy with practiced authority, his hand firm on Clarke’s arm as they ascended from the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow. The castle grounds stretched before them in serene silence, bathed in moonlight. His grip over the boy loosened as they approached the castle, though he did not relinquish it entirely.

They slipped into the castle unnoticed, their presence concealed from the prying eyes of wandering ghosts and enchanted portraits. The air inside was a little warmer than the Hogwarts grounds, though he did not pay it much mind, instead guiding the boy with purpose and steering him away from well-lit corridors and down the more obscure paths.

“Do you have the item to destroy the ring with you?” Adam asked in a low voice, his question cutting through the silence as they moved through the halls.

Snape’s lip curled faintly.

“Of course.” He replied, his tone edged with impatience. “Do not insult my preparation, Clarke. You would do well to focus on leading me to this special location you spoke of.”

Adam said nothing in response, but Snape could sense the boy’s mind working— always working. He was an enigma: too clever by half and entirely too willing to meddle in affairs far beyond his ken. Yet, for all his irritation, Snape could not deny the boy’s utility.

Their journey took them to the upper floors, past suits of armor that seemed to shift in the shadows and staircases that creaked ominously beneath their invisible feet. Snape’s senses remained on high alert, his wand clutched tightly in one hand.

“Something’s watching us.” Adam muttered suddenly, his voice barely audible.

Snape glanced upward, his gaze piercing the darkness. There, far above, the faint outline of the a ghost hovered, his spectral form nearly imperceptible.

“It is the Baron.” Snape said. “He is staring into the distance.”

“No.” Adam said, gaining the man’s attention. “Look. He keeps his general form staring in our direction. He’s been turning ever-so-slightly to match our course. I think he can sense us.”

Snape said nothing for a moment and instead observed the Bloody Baron as well. True enough; the old ghost was watching them.

Mildly concerning. Snape thought, but shook his head. “It is of no consequence. Though he knows we are here, he cannot ascertain our identity. Were he to approach, I would banish him before he got close.”

“Fair enough.” Adam continued forward, acknowledging the admonition as they entered the castle proper. Before long, they reached the Seventh Floor without incident, their presence unnoticed by even the castle’s most perceptive denizens.

Snape halted abruptly near a corner, pulling Adam to a stop beside him.

“We’re away from prying eyes.” He said, his voice low but commanding. “Now, lead me to this special room.”

Adam hesitated for the briefest of moments before nodding.

“It’s just ahead.” He said as they reached a painting of a man attempting to teach a band of trolls how to perform the ballet.

Snape watched as the boy stepped forward, his movements deliberate. His fingers flexed around his wand, his every instinct warning him to remain wary. There was something about this place— this hidden room— that set his teeth on edge. He had been here before, a year and a half ago. He’d felt the power beyond that very wall.

As the boy paced back and forth, muttering under his breath, Snape’s unease deepened. When the door appeared— a solid, imposing barrier that seemed to materialize from the very stone— his grip on his wand tightened.

“This is it.” Adam said, his voice tinged with both relief and apprehension.

Snape didn’t move immediately. He studied the door, his sharp gaze searching for any sign of enchantment or trap. The aura of the room was palpable, its power a tangible force that seemed to press against his senses.

“This place…” Snape murmured, his voice barely audible. “I have studied it before, a barrier leading to a collection of great power. It reeks of magic. Do you take me for a fool, leading me to a place like this, Clarke?”

Adam turned to face him, his own Disillusionment Charm fading as he lifted it with a flick of his wand. His expression was incredulous, frustration flashing in his eyes. “You were the one who called me here, remember? I’m just trying to make our chances the best they can be.”

Snape’s gaze remained fixed on the boy for a long moment, searching for any hint of duplicity. Finding none, he gave a curt nod, though his suspicion did not entirely abate.

“Proceed.” He commanded, gesturing toward the door.

Adam pushed it open, revealing the room beyond. Snape stepped inside, his every sense on high alert. His boots clicked faintly against the stone floor as he advanced into the cavernous room. The chamber was vast, its air heavy with the kind of energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The center was dominated by a massive basin, the surface of its contents glimmering faintly with an unnatural, silvery light. Surrounding the basin were barricades of solid steel, each one meticulously placed, their imposing thickness a testament to the defensive measures taken to protect the user from whatever was going to happen at the center.

The room was an enigma, yet another piece of Hogwarts’ ever-changing puzzle. Snape’s dark eyes scanned the expanse of the chamber, his gaze lingering on the peculiar details. The high, shadowy ceilings stretched above them, broken only by the faint glow of sconces flickering to life without a single word spoken. The room exuded an aura of quiet potential, as if awaiting instruction.

Snape turned to Adam, his expression neutral but his tone sharp. “What is this place?”

Adam, unfazed by the acidic edge in Snape’s voice, offered a casual smile.

“One of Hogwarts’ secrets.” He replied. “It’s called the Room of Requirement. It changes itself to suit the desires of those who enter it. Right now, I wanted a place to access the ring and to test something destructive on it.”

Snape’s lip curled ever so slightly at the explanation. Of course, the castle harbored such secrets. He’d spent years walking these halls, yet every so often, Hogwarts reminded him that it had layers he had not yet unraveled.

He crossed his arms, considering the implications. A place that catered to one’s precise needs— dangerous, yet undeniably useful.

“A curious feature.” Snape muttered, his voice more to himself than to Adam. His calculating mind already turned to how he might use such a space. A private laboratory, perhaps, or a sanctuary free from interruptions. But those thoughts were fleeting, overshadowed by the weight of the task at hand.

His sharp eyes scanned the room once again, taking in every detail. The barricades bore no signs of decay or rust, as though they had been conjured recently and with great skill.

“Care to explain, Clarke?” Snape’s voice broke the silence, cold and cutting. He turned his gaze to the boy, who had halted a few paces behind him, his eyes fixed on the basin.

Adam didn’t respond immediately. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tightness around his jaw, a flicker of something in his eyes— uncertainty, perhaps.

“This is where the ring is hidden.” Adam said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “The defenses are my work. I wasn’t going to leave something like that unguarded.”

Snape’s lips thinned. “Your work?” He repeated, his tone skeptical. He approached the nearest barricade, his fingers brushing against the engraved runes. The magic hummed beneath his touch, potent but stable. He would grudgingly admit the boy’s skill, but that did little to ease his apprehension.

“You sound surprised.” Adam said, his tone carefully neutral.

“I am surprised.” Snape replied sharply, turning to face him fully. “That you would have the audacity to meddle with such power without consulting someone more experienced.”

Adam met his gaze, his posture stiff. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of people I could trust with this.” He said, his voice quieter now. “And it worked, didn’t it? The ring’s still here, and no one’s gotten to it.”

Snape’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. He stepped closer, looming over the boy.

“Do not mistake survival for success.” He said, his voice low and dangerous. “Whatever precautions you take, they are irrelevant if they fail at the critical moment. And you have a history of overreaching.”

Adam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“Is that why you’re here?” He asked. “To lecture me? Or to deal with the ring?”

Snape’s glare lingered for a moment longer before he stepped back, his robes billowing slightly with the movement. He turned his attention to the basin, his wand sliding into his hand almost instinctively.

“What lies within?” He asked, his tone brisk.

“A containment field.” Adam replied. “It’s keyed to me. If anyone else tries to access it, the defenses will activate.”

Snape’s brow furrowed slightly, but he gave a curt nod. “Disengage it, then.” He ordered.

Adam hesitated. His hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for his wand. “Are you sure about this?” He asked, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

Snape’s dark eyes fixed on him, their intensity brooking no argument.

“If I were not sure, Clarke, I would not be here.” He said sharply. “Now do as I say.”

The boy nodded reluctantly and stepped forward. Snape watched as he raised his wand, his movements deliberate but not without a trace of nervous energy. He murmured an incantation under his breath, his voice too low for Snape to catch the words.

Almost immediately, the containment field began to unravel. Snape’s grip on his wand tightened, his senses on high alert. The air in the room grew heavier, charged with a foreboding energy that seemed to seep into his very bones.

As the last of the field winked out of existence, the silvery light within the basin shifted. Something dark and malevolent stirred beneath the surface, its presence unmistakable. Snape’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he prepared for whatever might come next.

“Step back.” He ordered, his voice cold and commanding. Adam obeyed without protest, retreating a few steps back.

Snape approached the basin, his wand raised and his senses sharp. The ring’s power was palpable now, a dark and oppressive force that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He could feel its hunger, its malevolence, like a predator lurking just beyond the veil.

“The containment field was sufficient.” He murmured, more to himself than to Adam. “But destroying this monstrosity is a different matter entirely.”

He inhaled deeply, steadying his mind. The ring had eluded destruction before, its resilience a testament to the dark magic woven into its very essence. But tonight, he would see it undone.

His love depended on it.

“Are you sure you’re ready? This is going to get intense.”

Snape’s jaw tightened. “Do not waste my time, Clarke.”

Adam’s smile widened slightly before he raised his wand, ready to levitate the dark object they had come to destroy. The faintest flicker of anticipation stirred in Snape’s chest, but he crushed it down. This was not a task for idle curiosity. They stood on the precipice of confronting something powerful and dangerous— a fragment of the Dark Lord himself. There was no room for error.

Snape withdrew the glass bottle from within his robes, its contents an acidic green that seemed to writhe and bubble of its own accord. The liquid caught what little light penetrated the room’s gloom, casting sickly reflections across the stone walls. He held it with the careful precision of a man who had spent decades handling dangerous substances, though even he maintained a certain distance from the vessel.

“A Potion?” Clarke’s voice carried that irritating note of curiosity that seemed permanently affixed to his tone.

Snape gave a curt nod, his movements deliberate as he approached the basin.

“The most corrosive mixture I could create without resorting to Basilisk venom.” He explained, his voice carrying the clipped tone of someone who preferred action to explanation. “Which, despite my considerable resources and reputation, proved… prohibitively scarce.”

The potion slid from the bottle in thick, viscous streams, its surface roiling as it made contact with the basin’s bottom. A faint hiss emanated from where the liquid touched the stone, though the enchanted basin showed no signs of damage.

Snape watched the reaction carefully for a moment before flicking his wand at the ring. He wrenched control of the object from Adam, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he lowered it into the bubbling green mixture. A few seconds passed with nothing happening.

“I take it we’ll be waiting a while.” Clarke observed, demonstrating his occasional capability for stating the obvious.

Snape didn’t bother to respond, instead gesturing sharply toward the steel barricade. They took their positions behind it, the thick metal barrier between them and whatever reaction might occur. The minutes stretched on in tense silence, broken only by the occasional bubbling sound from the basin.

Ten minutes. Snape counted them precisely, his internal clock as accurate as any timepiece after years of brewing potions that required exact timing. He raised his wand, vanishing the corrosive mixture with a precise flick.

The ring lay exposed in the basin’s center, and for a moment, Snape felt a flicker of satisfaction at the sight of its partially eaten surface, flaking and corroded.

That satisfaction evaporated instantly as the ring began to repair itself. The metal seemed to flow like liquid, reforming and restructuring before his eyes. Within seconds, the ring appeared pristine, as though it had never been touched by the corrosive brew at all.

“Fascinating.” Clarke murmured, leaning forward to observe. “The soul fragment is literally weaving itself around the damaged portions, reconstructing them. It’s using the threads of its own essence to— “

“Spare me your patronizing observations.” Snape cut in, his voice sharp with frustration. He had not spent weeks developing this particular cocktail of corrosive agents to be lectured by Clarke, no matter how advanced he was. “Yes, we have not eradicated it.”

“I wasn’t— ” Clarke began, then seemed to think better of it. “The necrosis curse is gone, at least. That’s something.”

Snape inclined his head slightly, acknowledging this small victory while his mind was already racing ahead to other possibilities. Yes, they had eliminated one layer of protection, but the necrosis curse had been merely a deterrent, a simple if deadly trap for the unwary.

The true horror lay in what remained: a fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul, capable of possession and corruption far worse than mere death. More than that, it continually kept them from accessing the true treasure— the Resurrection Stone.

He watched as Clarke studied the ring with that unsettling intensity he sometimes displayed, clearly already formulating his next approach. The boy’s expression carried a hint of excitement that Snape found distinctly inappropriate given the gravity of their task.

Yet he had to admit, if only to himself, that they had made progress. The elimination of the necrosis curse opened new avenues of attack, even if his primary strategy had failed.

Still, the sight of the ring reforming itself left him deeply unsettled. He had witnessed many disturbing displays of magic over the years, but there was something particularly grotesque about watching an object heal itself, as though it were alive. In a way, he supposed, it was— animated by a fragment of the darkest soul he had ever encountered.

Snape observed with carefully concealed unease as Clarke’s demeanor shifted, an unsettling eagerness creeping into the boy’s expression. The removal of the necrosis curse had clearly emboldened him, though whether that confidence was warranted remained to be seen.

“Now that the curse is gone…” Clarke began, his voice carrying a note of anticipation that set Snape’s teeth on edge. The boy raised his wand, levitating the ring once again. His next words were not directed at Snape at all, but seemed to be addressed to the very air around them. “Keep away from the ring.”

Snape felt an involuntary shiver go through his spine. He had witnessed Clarke sometimes interacting with nothing in particular, but never considered that he may have been communicating with something.

But what?

The atmosphere shifted palpably in the wake of the boy’s words. The basin that had held the ring began to sink into the floor, stone flowing like water until it vanished completely, leaving the ring suspended in the air before them.

“Stand behind the barrier, Snape.” Clarke instructed, his tone brooking no argument. “Just in case.”

Snape might have bristled at taking orders from a student under normal circumstances, but he had seen enough of Clarke’s hidden side to acknowledge the wisdom of his words. He positioned himself behind the steel barricade, his dark eyes fixed on the scene before him as he further enhanced the barrier with his own magic.

Clarke raised his wand again, pointing it directly at the suspended ring. He stood still, closing his eyes as he mentally prepared for the channel ahead. A few seconds passed, and then a full minute before the boy opened his eyes again.

“Praetexo.” He intoned, casting the Disillusionment Charm. But this was no ordinary application of the spell— Snape could feel the difference immediately. The air grew heavy, charged with a kind of magic that made his skin crawl.

The boy’s entire demeanor changed as he immersed himself in whatever power he was channeling. His typically animated face went still, almost mask-like, as he connected with what he had once termed ‘the void.’

Dramatic naming aside, Severus did not want to feel that power ever again.

Yet, here he was, right in front of it.

Darkness began to gather around Clarke, not the mere absence of light but something more fundamental— a negation of existence itself. It reached out toward the ring like tendrils of pure nothingness, and Snape felt his breath catch in his throat. This was old magic, primal in a way that defied modern understanding.

He had seen enough Dark Magic in his life to recognize its signatures, but this was different. This was something else entirely.

The ring seemed to sense the approaching void. The soul fragment within it stirred, its malevolent presence becoming more pronounced as it faced this new threat. Snape could feel its resistance, its desperate attempt to maintain its integrity in the face of oblivion.

Clarke stood unwavering, channeling that terrible power with a focus that seemed almost inhuman. The void continued its inexorable advance toward the Horcrux, and Snape found himself gripping his wand more tightly, though he knew better than to interfere. The magic building in the room was beyond anything he had encountered in his extensive study of the Dark Arts.

The air itself seemed to thicken, becoming dense with opposing forces— the void’s consuming nothingness and the Horcrux’s desperate will to survive. Snape watched as Clarke’s power began to envelop the ring, his expression unchanged even as sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of controlling such magic.

From his position behind the barrier, Snape could see the struggle playing out before him with terrible clarity. The energy Clarke wielded was not merely attacking the Horcrux— it was attempting to unmake it entirely, to erase it from existence itself.

The soul fragment’s resistance was more violent than Severus had anticipated. Lightning erupted from the ring in a furious cascade, raw and untamed, slamming against the protective shields he had conjured with enough force to rattle his bones. The chamber flashed with blinding white, shadows dancing madly along the walls as the air itself crackled with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t the soul fragment’s power that sent a cold shiver down his spine.

It was Adam.  

The boy stood at the storm’s center, untouched. The lightning twisted and veered away from him as though repelled by something unseen, breaking apart before it could reach him. Severus knew magic— knew its patterns, its logic— but this defied reason. Power pulsed around Adam, not forced or commanded, but woven into his very presence. It should have been impossible. And yet, there he stood, unshaken as destruction raged around him.  

Severus tightened his grip on his wand, jaw set. He would not admit it, not even to himself, but for the first time in years, he felt a whisper of something dangerously close to fear.

A miasma began to form around the point of conflict, neither purely black nor white but somehow both at once, swirling in patterns that hurt the eyes to follow. Snape had witnessed many magical battles in his time, but nothing quite like this collision between existence and nothingness, between soul and void.

The room itself seemed to hold its breath as the conflict reached its peak, the very stones of Hogwarts resonating with the power being channeled within their bounds. And through it all, Clarke maintained his focus, his will bent entirely toward the task of destroying that which was meant to be immortal.

The miasma of black and white writhed around Clarke and the ring in an otherworldly display, a dance of destruction that defied natural law. The soul fragment’s desperate resistance manifested as piercing screams that seemed to exist more in the mind than in the air, its very essence fighting against the inexorable pull of the void.

Clarke stood unwavering, his being fully committed to the magic he wielded. The void’s power flowed through him, consuming everything in its path with terrible efficiency. The Horcrux’s struggles grew more frantic, more violent, but the nothingness continued its relentless advance. Snape had witnessed many dark rituals in his time, but this was something entirely different— a fundamental violation of reality itself.

The soul fragment’s screams reached a fever pitch, its last desperate attempt to maintain its existence in the face of oblivion. Snape could feel its malevolent power thrashing against the void’s grasp, but it was like watching a candle flame trying to resist a tidal wave. The darkness that had once been part of the Dark Lord himself was being systematically erased, not destroyed but rather… unmade.

Then, abruptly, silence fell.

The horrific display of magical energy began to dissipate, the swirling miasma slowly fading into nothingness. Snape emerged from behind the fading, cracked steel barrier, his face pale but his movements steady. His dark eyes fixed on Clarke, who’d fallen to his knees after he attempted to extract something from the remnants of the magical maelstrom.

Not the ring— no, what remained was smaller, darker. A simple black stone.

Snape’s breath caught in his throat. The markings on the stone’s surface were unmistakable. The Resurrection Stone. After all this time, after all his research and planning, here it was; the key to what he truly desired.

One simple turn of the stone, and he could see her again— speak to her.

Lily. The name echoed in his mind like a prayer, a desperate hope he had carried for so many years. His hand twitched at his side, every fiber of his being urging him to reach out and take what he had sought for so long.

The room seemed to fade around him, all his attention focused on that small black stone. Everything else— the lingering traces of void magic, Clarke’s presence, even his own carefully maintained composure— became secondary to the possibility that lay before him. After all these years of guilt and regret, of carrying the weight of her death, he could finally…

His foot moved forward of its own accord, drawn by the promise of redemption, of one last chance to speak to her. To explain. To apologize. All the words he had never said, all the regrets he had carried— they could finally be voiced. The stone beckoned to him, offering everything he had dreamed of since that terrible Halloween night.

Just one moment, after all these years of faithful service, of protecting her son, of working tirelessly to undo my greatest mistake— surely I have earned this much?

The stone represented more than just a magical artifact now— it was the physical manifestation of his chance for closure, for peace, for the conversation he had rehearsed countless times in the depths of his lonely nights.

And so he reached for it.