"No thanks—I've got something else to do."
Bathed in the golden hues of sunset, Abbo's face looked unusually flushed.
After parting ways, Snape made his way briskly up to the library on the fifth floor of the castle. He had just over an hour before Madam Pince would close for the evening.
"Good evening, Madam Pince."
It took some effort to locate Irma Pince—dusting away furiously between tight rows of towering shelves, her feather duster tucked into the crook of her elbow like a wand.
"Something I can help you with, child?" she asked, voice as brittle as old parchment.
"I'm looking for editions of The Daily Prophet from the 1940s—specifically between 1940 and 1950."
"Follow me," she said curtly.
She led Snape deeper into the shadowed back corners of the library, where the smell of old ink and mildew grew stronger. Finally, she stopped before a meticulously stacked series of volumes and pointed.
"Here. The entire decade. Be sure to return everything exactly as it was—or you know what will happen."
Snape gave a quick thanks and dragged a stack of bound newspapers to the nearest reading table.
The light outside was already fading, and the enchanted candle globes over the desk flared to life under their protective glass domes.
He flipped through the yellowed pages, fingers tracing each date.
Finally, on the June 15th, 1943 issue, he found what he'd been searching for.
"Shocking Death at Hogwarts Sparks Panic over 'Chamber of Secrets' Legend"
The Ministry's investigation continues following a mysterious death at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on June 13th. According to sources, several students had already suffered injuries in previous unexplained incidents.
Headmaster Armando Dippet stated that the victim's death appeared to be a "tragic accident," and insisted that rumours surrounding a monster from the legendary Chamber of Secrets were "entirely fictional." He confirmed that security at the school had been increased and that every effort would be made to ensure student safety.
However, Governor Cassius Malfoy offered a different view. According to Malfoy, all victims so far have been Muggle-borns.
"I don't wish to criticize the Headmaster or the school's admissions policy," said Mr. Malfoy to The Daily Prophet, "but unless the culprit is found, the Board may be forced to consider shutting the school temporarily for the safety of all."
Sources confirm the Ministry has now dispatched an official investigator to Hogwarts.
We advise all readers to remain cautious and alert. May the young girl who lost her life rest in peace.
Snape kept reading, fingers moving more urgently through the remaining editions.
On June 22nd, he found the follow-up article:
"Hogwarts Attacks Solved: Giant Spider Blamed for Death"
The recent series of attacks at Hogwarts has been attributed to a massive magical spider discovered in the school's Forbidden Forest. Following the beast's removal, the Ministry has confirmed that all students are now safe.
For his role in resolving the crisis, a fifth-year student from Slytherin House has been awarded the Special Award for Services to the School, in recognition of his "extraordinary courage and ingenuity."
The student believed responsible for bringing the monster into the school has been expelled. His wand was destroyed on the spot.
There it was.
Snape carefully tore out the relevant pages, folding them flat and slipping them into the inner pocket of his robes.
He then gathered the remaining newspapers, stacked them neatly, and returned them to their shelf.
Just as he did, Madam Pince's magically amplified voice rang out across the library:
"Closing time! Please pack your things and leave within five minutes."
At precisely eight o'clock, she extinguished the lights with a flick of her wand and began ushering students out with militant precision.
The exiting crowd was mostly Ravenclaws—Snape even spotted Gilderoy Lockhart with his signature golden curls and too-perfect smile, small and smug even then.
Back in the Slytherin dormitory beneath the lake, Snape curled up with a volume of Practical Potioneering Mastery before slipping into sleep.
Abbo still hadn't returned by the time Snape drifted off.
Later that week, in a string of Potions lessons, Professor Slughorn couldn't stop praising Snape's skill.
He declared him one of the most naturally gifted potion-makers he'd seen in years.
After the Fourth Potions Class
After their fourth Potions lesson, Snape told Abbo to go on ahead, while he lingered behind, deliberately taking his time packing up his bag.
Soon, the classroom was empty—only he and Professor Slughorn remained.
"Professor, I was wondering… of all the talented students you've taught over the years, where did they end up working? I'd love to meet someone like that."
Slughorn sighed, a look of genuine regret crossing his face. "Ah, I wish I knew where he was these days. Years ago, I tried to recommend him to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but he turned me down flat."
He shook his head. "To this day, I don't understand why he chose to work at Borgin and Burkes instead. A shame, really. Haven't heard a whisper about him in years."
"Borgin and Burkes?" Snape's eyes widened, his voice tinged with surprise. "That's the shop in Knockturn Alley, isn't it? Specializes in Dark artefacts?"
"Yes, that's the one. Utter waste of brilliance," said Slughorn, tucking the last of his materials into his bag as he ambled toward the door. "Such a promising young man."
He paused before exiting.
"Well, Severus, I'll see you Saturday evening. Don't forget to bring young Abbo along."
"Professor—" Snape called after him, "What was his name?"
Slughorn turned slightly, eyebrows raised. "Hmm? Oh. Right. His name was Tom Riddle."
Saturday Noon
Snape relayed the discovery to Abbo over lunch.
He hadn't meant to drag his friend into anything dangerous. But some inexplicable impulse wouldn't let him keep it to himself.
"So, just like you, Riddle was one of Slughorn's favourites?" Abbo said, quill scratching across parchment. He was working on an essay titled The Principles of Ghost Manifestation, not even glancing up.
"Keep your voice down," Snape hissed urgently. The name itself felt heavy in his mouth. "Do me a favour—don't mention him again. Just call him… 'Little Tom,' alright?"
Abbo blinked. "But he's not—"
"I know he's not that You-Know-Who," Snape cut in. "Just… humour me. Let's call him Little Tom. I'd rather not add another rival on my way to becoming Head Boy."
"Fine," Abbo replied, clearly unconvinced but too tired to argue. "Now give me your notes. This essay's killing me."
Snape pulled a scroll of parchment from his bag and passed it over, then turned back to his own Defence Against the Dark Arts assignment.
For sixth-years, the supposed "free time" they had was anything but free. Their schedules were swamped with endless essays, reading lists, and practice drills.
Every student grumbled about the workload, yet each professor insisted their homework would "only take a few hours," as if time could multiply itself with each class.
By dinnertime, Snape had only managed to finish half his work.
"Maybe we should leave the rest for tomorrow," he said, setting down his quill and stretching his fingers. "Slughorn's little soirée is starting soon."