A Professor of Magic at Hogwarts
Chapter 601: Unforgotten Memories - (2)

Someone shouted, like a wounded beast barking madly. Then Harry found himself in a strange new world. Before he could react, scenes of memories rushed in:

- It was Snape, younger than now, kneeling in ruins, holding a woman in deep grief. A baby sat on a crib next to them, with a lightning-shaped scar on its forehead.

- The scene changed. On a desolate, cold mountain top in the darkness, there was a conversation that might never be known —

"That... that prophecy... that prophecy... Trelawney..." Snape's face was pale.

"Ah, yes, you conveyed it to Voldemort, how much did you tell him?"

The mountaintop disappeared. This time, it was in Dumbledore's office.

"I thought... you would... ensure her safety..."

"She and James trusted the wrong people... her son is still alive, with eyes exactly like hers, exactly the same. If you love Lily Evans, don't let her sacrifice be in vain. Help me protect Lily's son."

"...Don't say it out loud, Dumbledore! Only you and I should know! You swear!"

Still in the office, but clearly not the same day, closer to the present as Professor Snape is mentioned in the conversation. Dumbledore raised his right hand, addressing Snape with a grim expression, "Felix is still young, he doesn't understand—or perhaps doesn't want to understand—that everything comes with a price... Rest assured, it can't kill me."

"But what about the boy? When do you plan to tell him that he is a Horcrux, and his only purpose in living is to die?"

"Not yet," Dumbledore said sternly, "I've made some preparations, but they are far from sufficient. Now is not the time to tell him."

The office disappeared, and a new scene formed slowly. Harry had time to reflect on the memories he had just seen. He realized he was a Horcrux—destined to die. Then, he found himself bathed in gentle sunlight, seemingly on a peaceful afternoon, tinted in rosy hues. Harry stood on the edge of an almost deserted playground, behind the bushes, not far from him stood another boy.

At first, Harry almost thought it was a forgotten childhood memory of his own, as the boy looked remarkably like him—lean body forced into oversized, outdated clothes, long, messy black hair.

But the next moment, Harry changed his mind. The boy covertly watched two girls playing a game. One of them—Harry stared at her with intense green eyes—held a withered flower. The girl opened her palm, and the flower revived, blossoming in her hands.

"Enough!"

A voice exploded in Harry's ears, and he was pushed by a tremendous force, falling to the ground. He opened his eyes to find Snape hunched over, swaying a few times before finally kneeling on the ground. It was the same scene Harry had seen in the memory, but now, there was nothing in Snape's arms.

Snape and Harry breathed heavily, staring deeply at each other, as if meeting for the first time.

Harry's mind was in chaos, the impact of the dreadful truth he had extracted from Snape's memories was more intense than the previous mind-reading attempts. Snape was the culprit behind his unfortunate fate. Snape's feelings for Lily, Snape's Patronus, and Snape's conversation with Dumbledore— he was a Horcrux, destined to die.

He realized he was a Horcrux. Harry stared at Snape, everything made sense now—his scar, his Parseltongue, his unusual connection with Voldemort. Dumbledore knew, Professor Snape might know too, but they didn't say anything.

That's why they treated him so well. Harry thought bitterly, people are always more forgiving towards the dead.

"Harry, Harry! What's wrong?"

Harry lifted his head, gazing vacantly at Ron and Hermione. Ron glared at Snape with hostility, shouting, "What did he do to you? Harry, what did he do?"

Harry took a few deep breaths, trying to suppress the tumult of emotions. It wasn't the time to think about this now; he had to make decisions quickly. However, the effect wasn't very evident.

"Oh—please, there must be something useful—" Hermione searched through her beaded bag, pulling out various bottles and jars, but Harry stopped her.

"I—cough—I'm fine," he muttered, his throat feeling tight.

Harry stared at their faces, slowly standing up. He looked at Snape, who was sitting on the ground, and spoke hoarsely:

"So—continue."

"Con-continue?" Snape said slowly, his reason seemingly frozen by the cold floor, unable to comprehend this simple sentence.

"Yes, you heard right, Professor Snape, we continue." Harry said almost coldly. He couldn't understand why he could still remain calm; maybe he just wanted to see that person too much.

At that moment, his scar suddenly, without any warning, began to hurt. He was dragged into another person's perspective—Voldemort's perspective.

Harry looked at the 'other' himself with envy.

He was waving a beautiful and deadly wand, showing off, how free! Powerful magic was released without any reservation. The snake-wood wand emitted a pleasant, soft hum, matching its owner's mood. Voldemort was in high spirits; for the first time, he had the upper hand against Dumbledore, gaining absolute advantage.

"Your power has diminished too much, Dumbledore! You seem to have some tricks up your sleeve, but your body can't hold on anymore!"

Voldemort hissed like a snake, changing positions continuously. Terrifying black flames condensed from the snake-wood wand, and once they touched the trees, rocks, and soil in the valley, they immediately turned into decaying ashes.

Dumbledore breathed heavily, eyes half-closed, beads of sweat forming on his wrinkled face.

His physical condition was as expected, precisely sliding into a low point tempting enough for Voldemort's greed. But Dumbledore had miscalculated one thing—

Voldemort finally completely controlled the wand left by his ancestor Salazar Slytherin, unleashing its full power.

While the old wand in Dumbledore's hand contributed limited power.

As Voldemort said, he indeed had some tricks up his sleeve, but revealing them took a bit of time. Calmly, almost with a touch of elegance, Dumbledore waved the old wand, resisting powerful curses coming from all directions.

But whether it was Voldemort or Harry hiding behind him, they could see that the old man seemed truly old now, dull, and his tiredness was not an act. His reactions were not as sharp as his opponent's, facing the relentless attacks seemed challenging.

Why didn't he summon Fawkes? Harry thought emotionlessly, staring at Dumbledore. Did he (and Voldemort) gaze at this man behind all the current events? Permanently altering their destinies?

He plotted all this just to make himself die.

At this moment, Harry and Voldemort's emotions seemed to overlap. Waving the snake-wood wand, breaking a piece of land, cutting off a protruding rock wall, the immense magical power almost split the sunken valley into two, and broken wood and soil were lifted high. More evening light poured in from the crack in the valley. Voldemort (Harry) squinted slightly, gazing at the old man stumbling as if about to fall.

He looked so powerless, as if any ordinary killing curse could kill him.

The snake-like face revealed a sinister smile, excited to the point of bursting. Years of desire—years of mortal enemies lying before his eyes, what a wonderful taste. He slowly raised the wand—

"Harry! Harry!" At Hogwarts Castle, Ron and Hermione shouted his name. Just now, Harry suddenly became motionless, his eyes filled with intense hatred.

"Don't disturb him!" Snape got up from the ground.

"But—" Hermione looked at Snape helplessly, then at Harry, making way. When Snape finally saw Harry's condition, he took a sharp breath. Harry's green eyes were veiled with a layer of blood red, pupils gradually disappearing, turning into a pair of snake-like eyes.

"Harry! Wake up!" Ron shouted into his ear, regardless of the consequences.

Harry opened his jaw, lips moving.

A few hundred kilometers away, someone with a similar mindset was making the same movements—

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Protego!"

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