Chapter 678: The Second Snape
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Having gotten the answer he wanted, Tom was in a noticeably better mood.
Dumbledore could clearly tell. Taking advantage of the rare opportunity, he brought up a question that had been bothering him.
"Tom, your combined spellwork in the canyon was truly remarkable. There’s something I’ve never quite understood, though. Specifically, the aspect involving spatial displacement..."
A headmaster seeking advice from a student was something few people would believe if they heard it.
Unfortunately, the problems Dumbledore was struggling with were likely questions that only Tom could answer.
Whether it was the pressure of recent events or simply the rapidly changing times, Dumbledore had rediscovered his passion for magic.
And because of that, he wasn’t about to let pride get in the way of learning, even if the teacher happened to be one of his students.
Tom answered readily, explaining his insights without hesitation.
Some parts Dumbledore could follow, and each revelation left him deep in thought. But as the discussion continued, more questions arose.
The deeper layers of the theory touched upon tiers of magic Dumbledore had never encountered before.
"Professor, the details aren’t what’s most important." Tom first tapped his temple, then his chest. "You need to change the way you think."
"If wizards are meant to embody miracles, then why not dream a little bigger? Why not use your own magic to replace some of the things the world normally takes for granted?"
After leaving those words behind, Tom departed.
There was no point saying more. The final step was something Dumbledore would have to comprehend on his own.
In truth, Tom had practically laid the path to the Legend-tier out in the open for him.
The value of that knowledge was immeasurable.
Yet Tom had shared it anyway. And he expected nothing in return.
Suppressing the path upward could only lead to one outcome: the gradual decline of the wizarding world’s overall strength. A future where it would also be dull.
True inspiration was born when countless powerful individuals challenged one another, when brilliant minds collided and sparked new ideas.
The wizarding world wasn’t anywhere close to producing someone capable of competing with him. That was simply impossible for now.
But raising the ceiling of wizardkind as a whole? That still held promise.
Which was why Tom had no intention of hoarding knowledge for himself. For those he acknowledged and respected, he was willing to reveal certain higher-level secrets.
...
..
At the same time, on the third floor of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—
This was the Department of Magical Infectious Diseases, responsible for treating magical plagues, parasitic infestations, fungal infections, and similar ailments.
Snape lay pale-faced in a hospital bed.
Standing before him was a short, plump healer witch.
The moment he realized his own potions weren’t working, Snape had immediately come to St. Mungo’s.
Madam Pomfrey wasn’t as skilled as he was. So there was no point wasting time at Hogwarts.
At that moment, the healer frowned deeply and muttered to herself.
Snape’s condition was simply too strange.
She flipped through the examination results, her brow furrowing even further, "...There’s no trace of any magical pathogen, and no signs of inflammation. Yet his overall body temperature remains abnormally high. It doesn’t matter what fever-reducing potion we use, nothing works. It’s as if his body has become immune to the medicine itself."
Listening to the healer’s muttering, Snape struggled to open his eyes.
The fever had left them swollen and bloodshot. Even when he tried his hardest to widen them, they opened only to narrow slits.
"Just tell me..." he rasped. "Can it be cured or not?"
"I’m sorry, but we’ll need to observe you a while longer." The plump witch offered an apologetic smile. "Professor Snape, the good news is that your condition has remained completely stable."
"The bad news is that it’s too stable."
She hesitated before continuing. "In my experience, no healing spell or medicinal potion is capable of breaking that stability right now."
Snape’s expression darkened immediately, "Could I have been cursed?"
He wasn’t an idiot. He had provoked petty Riddle yesterday, and today he was bedridden.
He’d believe Voldemort had turned into a saint before he’d believe Tom had nothing to do with this.
Not that he thought Tom was trying to kill him. Still, the prospect of spending an unknown length of time lying in a hospital bed was hardly something he could accept.
Especially when nobody could say how long that "unknown length of time" might be.
His plan was simple. If St. Mungo’s could cure him, great.
If not... then he’d have no choice but to return to Hogwarts and swallow his pride in front of that brat.
After some thought, the healer decided Snape’s suspicion wasn’t entirely unreasonable.
Unfortunately, magical diseases were her only specialty.
So she transferred him to the fifth floor, the Spell Damage Ward.
After another round of examinations, the doctors once again ruled out the possibility of a curse.
Even so, Snape remained there while the healers searched for some way to disrupt the bizarre equilibrium inside his body.
Perhaps, they theorized, medicine wasn’t necessary at all. Maybe his immune system would eventually correct the problem on its own.
In reality, however, Snape’s instincts had been right.
It was a curse.
And the true cause of his bedridden condition was one of Morgan’s legendary curses.
As a master of dark magic capable of making even Merlin suffer, Morgan’s curses were naturally far beyond anything St. Mungo’s could detect.
So... Snape could just lie in that hospital bed and enjoy a few more days of rest.
...
..
The next morning at Hogwarts, after breakfast, Tom headed first to Snape’s office and collected several teaching materials.
Only then did he leisurely make his way to the neighboring Potions classroom.
This period was shared by fifth-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.
The room buzzed with excitement.
Students were eagerly speculating about which professor would be replacing Snape for the day.
One thing everyone agreed on was that they didn’t care who it was. Any substitute would be an improvement.
The fifth-years were under enormous pressure because of their upcoming O.W.L. examinations. A break from Snape was a rare blessing.
Then the classroom door opened.
Tom walked in carrying a briefcase and casually made his way behind the teacher’s desk.
The room instantly fell silent.
Tom flashed the startled girl a faint smile.
Then his expression hardened.
In a voice every bit as sharp as Snape’s, he barked, "What are you all staring at? Is the textbook written on my face?"
"I have seen more intelligence in a sickle of Flobberworms."
"Well... I can’t say I’m surprised. I should have expected no more from you."
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