By the time the python fully slithered free from the skull, the bone was etched with fine, web-like cracks. The serpent glanced back at the fractured relic, now a deep granite gray where it had once gleamed pale white.
With a resounding crack, the python lashed its tail, shattering the skull into fragments that dissolved into swirling dust.
Vizette staggered as memory shards flooded his mind. The onslaught was overwhelming—his vision blurred to black, and he toppled backward.
Snape's left arm trembled violently, but he lunged forward, catching Vizette's shoulder just before he hit the floor. Sweat beaded on the Potions Master's forehead, and the veins in his eyes burned red.
Dumbledore swiftly took over, waving his wand to conjure a soft bed beneath Vizette. "The Dark Mark has flared again?" he asked gravely.
Snape nodded, yanking up his sleeve. "Worse than before—like the Cruciatus Curse, but fleeting."
The mark on his arm glowed like fresh ink, pulsing before it began to fade. He twisted his limb, inspecting it closely. "Gone again... just like last time."
In moments, the Dark Mark vanished entirely, leaving his skin unmarked, as if it had never been.
"Vizette... what in Merlin's name happened?" Snape's gaze fixed on the unconscious boy, his face a storm of conflicting emotions. "One crisis after another..."
"That depends on whether you're willing to trust him, Severus," Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. "I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt."
Snape tugged his sleeve down and wiped his brow. "Even if it costs you your life? Even if he slips a Killing Curse into your back?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "If that's my fate... Have I ever told you? To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."
"An adventure?" Snape's voice sharpened, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features before his usual scowl returned. "Where does she venture to in that case?"
"I don't know," Dumbledore admitted with a sigh. "Perhaps once, it was possible. But now... who can say?"
"You want to find out, don't you?" Snape sneered. "To see if this 'adventure' leads you to her."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly. "And you?"
Snape's lids lowered, dodging the question. "So what now? Back up... or deeper in?"
Dumbledore scanned the chamber, then examined the statue once more with his wand. "We retreat for now. Unraveling this will require the Heir's insight—perhaps even drawing him out to reveal himself."
---
The Skele-Gro reeked like rotten eggs, but the Dreamless Sleep Draught was even worse, thick and bitter as sludge.
For Harry, the bone-regrowth potion burned like swallowing live coals, scorching from throat to gut. The sleeping draught hit like a bucket of ice shards, freezing him from the inside out.
Trapped between fire and frost, he alternated between blistering heat and numbing cold. His arm throbbed as if swords twisted in the marrow, the agony unrelenting.
Madam Pomfrey had explained it was the bones knitting back together—hence the draught to knock him out and dull the pain. Whatever the reason, Harry barely registered drifting off amid the torment.
He jolted awake to a fresh wave of pain, sharper now, as if the new bone structure was settling into place. Shapes blurred in his vision, and a distant chant echoed: close your ears, plug them tight.
A faint buzzing hummed in his ears, amplifying every twitch in his regenerating arm. Groaning, he lifted his head.
Madam Pomfrey loomed over him, her face thunderous. Harry knew that look from his previous Hospital Wing visits—she was furious.
Two familiar figures flanked her: Dumbledore, nodding sagely and gesturing as if in a casual Transfiguration lecture, and Snape, arms folded, interjecting with barely concealed impatience—like their own Potions classes.
Harry's good hand rose to his forehead. Warm, but no fever. Not a hallucination.
Blinking hard, he spotted Vizette on the bed opposite, pale and still. That explained the Healer's ire.
But why couldn't he hear her tirade? The words seemed to form, yet silence reigned.
Am I dreaming?
Rubbing his eyes, Harry caught Snape whirling to glare at him. A chill snaked down his spine; he ducked his head under the covers.
Definitely a dream. Madam Pomfrey scolding Snape? Like the git was the student?
The draught's haze pulled him under again, and Harry yawned into oblivion.
---
In truth, Madam Pomfrey was livid.
"Right before the Christmas holidays, and Vizette's back in the Hospital Wing! You brought Harry in fine as you please, and now the boy's collapsed?"
Snape crossed his arms, jerking his chin at Dumbledore. "Ask him."
"A trifling matter, Poppy," the Headmaster said smoothly, pinching thumb and forefinger together. "You examined him yourself—the lad was exhausted and out like a light the moment his head touched the pillow."
Snape snorted derisively.
Madam Pomfrey's brows shot up. "As Potions Master, surely you can spot fatigue? Why not send him straight to his dormitory?"
"Ask him," Snape shot back, repeating the deflection. "The esteemed Headmaster preaches that danger shadows every wizard's path. So we let Vizette chase risks, do we?"
Dumbledore raised his hands placatingly. "Now, now, both of you. The boy's safe here under your care, Poppy. Severus, your concern is noted, but let's not alarm the patients further."
Snape's lip curled. "Concern? Hardly. Just tired of these endless interruptions."
As the argument simmered, Harry stirred faintly on his bed, oblivious to the tension. Outside, the castle braced for holidays, but in the Hospital Wing, mysteries—and pains—lingered unresolved.
—