The dimly lit Potions office was cloaked in an oppressive atmosphere. Snape's expression was as grim as if he were about to lash out. Surrounded by jars filled with animal innards, he appeared even more intimidating, his tightly clenched jaw amplifying the tension in the room.
The sheer weight of the prophecy's implications had utterly transformed his demeanor.
"What is this supposed to mean?!"
He asked again, suppressing his emotions, though his voice carried the undertone of a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Unfortunately for him, Victor, the one being interrogated, remained as unflappable as ever. He leisurely waved his hand, dispersing the lingering mist in the air. Only then did he speak, his words lazily carried across the flickering candlelight on Snape's desk:
"It's the prophecy you asked for, of course."
"Utter nonsense!"
"Do you even realize what you're saying? Bellatrix couldn't possibly escape Azkaban! And that assassination attempt is just—"
Victor cut him off with a dismissive shake of his head.
"The prophecy is as it is, Severus. I merely conveyed the vision I foresaw without altering any details. Whether you believe it or not is entirely up to you."
"If you think I could fabricate such a detailed collection of voices, figures, and events out of thin air, you're welcome to entertain that idea. But you requested a prophecy, and I've delivered one."
Snape's face alternated between pale and flushed as if wrestling with a torrent of thoughts. He stood abruptly, paced a few steps, and then sank back into his chair.
After a long pause, he rasped, "You haven't been to Malfoy Manor? Or stolen someone's Pensieve?"
"Pensieve? What's that?"
"... The dark mist showed a place—Malfoy Manor's dining room. If your prophecy is true, it implies that… damn it."
Snape's face darkened further. He instinctively touched his forearm, then quickly withdrew his hand.
If someone had rolled up his left sleeve at that moment, they would have noticed a peculiar tattoo—a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth. Its edges were faintly red, though the color had already begun to fade.
The burning sensation had been brief, but it was undeniably real.
The Dark Mark was Voldemort's branding for his Death Eaters. As one of them, Snape knew that when the mark burned, it signaled the Dark Lord summoning his followers. The mark only turned black and visible when the Dark Lord was nearby.
And yet, the mark had manifested in response to the prophecy.
This could mean one of two things: either Voldemort had returned, or Victor's vision was closely tied to the Dark Lord.
Neither possibility was easy for Snape to stomach.
This was precisely why Snape struggled to accept the prophecy—if the voice in the mist truly belonged to the Dark Lord, it meant his resurrection was inevitable, just a matter of time. The Death Eaters would reunite, Bellatrix would be broken out of Azkaban, and everything Snape had been working toward for the past decade would be rendered futile.
To make matters worse, the prophecy foretold Voldemort assigning Draco Malfoy the task of assassinating Dumbledore.
The absurdity lay in the obvious—Draco had no chance of succeeding.
But therein also lay the logic. Precisely because Draco would fail, Voldemort could use it as an excuse to punish the Malfoy family, who had distanced themselves from the Death Eaters.
The intricate dynamics left Snape doubting that Victor had fabricated the vision, no matter how much he wished that were the case.
…So what was he supposed to do?
If both the Malfoys and Dumbledore were to meet such grim fates, it seemed the situation had already spiraled beyond salvation.
Under the dim candlelight, Snape's expression was inscrutable.
"This is impossible," he murmured to himself, repeating the words as if trying to convince himself. "Prophecies can't be this… precise."
Nearby, Draco Malfoy's face was equally ashen. He, too, had seen something in the mist—his mother, his home, and himself in the background.
After a long silence, he stubbornly muttered, "Father said Divination at school is all nonsense."
Victor shrugged nonchalantly.
"Think what you want. But remember, Severus, my prophecies have never been wrong."
Turning to Draco, Victor added, "And as for you—" He patted Draco's shoulder casually, causing the boy to flinch. "Why the long face?"
"... Huh?"
"Shouldn't you be thrilled?" Victor's tone was genuinely puzzled. "Ah, the glory of pureblood lineage! You've been entrusted with a significant task by a powerful wizard—surely, this is what you've always wanted?"
Draco slowly lifted his head, his pale face filled with disbelief as he stared at Victor. It was as if he couldn't fathom someone uttering such words.
Victor looked back with genuine curiosity, his confusion unfeigned.
After all, he'd seen Draco sneer at others countless times in the Great Hall, always belittling them for being poor or harping on about pureblood pride. Even someone like Victor, who barely understood the intricacies of British wizarding society, could now list the family backgrounds of a few students, thanks to Draco's frequent tirades.
Wasn't this Draco's dream?
Wasn't this the moment where he should declare, "Mother doesn't trust me, but I'll prove myself for the cause!"
Snape stood abruptly, his expression dark as he brushed Victor's hand off Draco's shoulder and pulled the trembling boy away.
"That's enough. You've delivered your prophecy. The rest is our concern. Stop terrifying my students."
"I'll get you your Obscurus later."
"By next week."
"That's nearly impossible—" Snape's expression twisted. "Do you have any idea how rare they are? I'd wager there aren't three in the entire world."
"I don't care," Victor replied coolly, his gaze sharp. "If you don't deliver, I'll just take something else from you."
Snape clicked his tongue irritably, grabbed a quill, scribbled something on a scrap of parchment, and handed it to Victor.
"This is the contact information for someone who has an Obscurus. His name is Monton, a shady fellow. I don't know how he got his hands on it, but I'll try to have him bring it to Knockturn Alley this week. If he doesn't, you can sort it out with him yourself. Save yourself the suspicion that I'm stalling."
"Now, if you've no other business… leave."
Snape was usually willing to converse with Victor, his "herb supplier," but now he couldn't wait to see him gone.
Victor left without complaint.
As the door to the Potions office shut, Draco remained standing in a daze, his mother's desperate and panicked voice echoing in his mind.
She had never shown such vulnerability before.
She had always been poised and composed, embodying the grace of a pureblood aristocrat. It was only after seeing the vision in the mist that Draco realized even his mother could be driven to despair.
And the cause of her desperation was him.
Someone had assigned him an impossible task, one that could very well cost him his life.
Reflecting on his education and Dumbledore's infamous enemies, Draco naturally deduced who that person was, and the thought made him tremble uncontrollably.
In his haze, Draco finally understood one thing—he was no different from any other pawn in the eyes of that man. Perhaps he was even less.
It was only then that Snape noticed him.
After a moment of silence, Snape retrieved a small vial of green potion from a high shelf and handed it to Draco.
"Drink this," he ordered coldly.
"W-What is it?"
"A Calming Draught," Snape replied impatiently. "Drink it, leave, and write to your father about this. The rest will be handled by the two of us."
At the mention of his father, some of the terror faded from Draco's expression. Hesitating, he finally accepted the ominous-looking potion.
Tilting his head back, he drained it in one gulp.
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