Snape pulled a broken oil lamp from his bag and tossed it conspicuously atop a nearby pile of junk.
It would serve as his excuse—if anyone ever questioned his reason for being here, he could claim he'd come to discard it.
He moved through beams of dusty light cast by the high arched windows, weaving between towers of forgotten relics in search of one very specific landmark: the mounted troll.
The diadem should be near it.
All around him loomed endless heaps of abandoned objects—so much clutter it made him wonder if Tom Riddle's soul hadn't already frayed beyond repair when he chose this place for a hiding spot.
To think Riddle had truly believed only he could access this room.
At last, the troll.
Snape passed the grotesque figure, eyes scanning the path beyond. A moment later, he stopped.
A large, crumbling Vanishing Cabinet leaned precariously against the wall.
"Wait."
He turned and studied it, wand already in hand.
"Reducto."
The spell cracked like a gunshot, splitting the old cabinet with a thunderous blast. Wood shattered, fragments flung in every direction. The cabinet's front split open like a ruptured fruit.
Snape crouched, collected several splinters into his bag, and dusted his hands off with satisfaction.
"There. That'll keep anyone from using this bloody thing again."
Nearby, a warped wardrobe with a bubbling finish caught his eye.
This was the spot.
Using his wand, he sliced a strip from the sleeve of an old robe and used the fabric to grip the hilt of a rusted longsword perched on top of the pile. He poked through the mountain of junk, carefully sifting through every object that looked remotely like a crown, circlet, or tiara.
Then he saw it.
Tarnished and dulled by age, the diadem sat half-buried in dust and broken glass.
Etched along its base in minute lettering were the words:
"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."
The moment his eyes read the inscription, a surge of longing pierced through him.
He wanted—no, needed—to wear it.
To crown himself with that forgotten wisdom. To let it soak into his skin, into his soul. A power, ancient and thrilling, pulled at his bones.
His knees buckled.
Snape dropped to the floor, trembling, overcome with the force of it. The urge to possess the diadem eclipsed thought. He reached out—hand trembling, fingers stretching toward it.
The second his fingertips brushed its edge, a jolt like lightning shot through him.
His mind spun, every thought crystallizing with unnatural clarity. It was intoxicating. Blinding. He could feel possibilities blooming behind his eyes.
On one side, a hunger for insight, for brilliance beyond all others.
On the other—a trembling voice, his own reason, crying out against it.
As the diadem rose toward his brow, Snape's eyes flew shut. With a shuddering growl, he hurled it away from him.
"Bloody hell," he gasped, collapsing backward. "Why the fuck did that happen?!"
He rubbed his face, breathing hard. "Harry and the others didn't deal with that when they found it..."
"Unless... maybe it was only after the Fiendfyre destroyed it that they handled it safely."
Snape wracked his brain, dredging up every memory of that final battle, every piece of canon knowledge. "Yes. It must've been. I saw the inscription... and everything changed. That's the trigger."
He needed a workaround.
Pulling the robe sleeve off the sword, he raised his wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The fabric floated upward and drifted gently over the diadem like a shroud.
He hesitated.
Even through the cloth, the danger might still linger.
"Wait… I think Harry never touched it before it was destroyed. Not really. Maybe it wasn't just the inscription."
He moved the sleeve aside again, carefully.
Aiming his wand, he tested several spells on the diadem—Revelio, Protego, even Stupefy. Nothing happened. The object sat inert, undisturbed.
He exhaled, frustrated.
Fine. If he couldn't destroy it—not yet—he had to hide it.
Snape raised his wand and cast a complex series of silent levitation charms. Cracked cauldrons, dented trunks, cursed masks, snapped brooms—each rose into the air, spinning slowly like planets in orbit, then descended and stacked neatly over the diadem.
Within minutes, the third rubbish heap to the left of the destroyed Vanishing Cabinet looked just like any other mound of trash in the room.
He stepped back, wiped sweat from his forehead, and pressed his ear to the door.
Silence.
Good.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and slipped out of the Room of Requirement, watching as the heavy stone wall sealed itself behind him, erasing all trace of the hidden chamber.
"Oh, shite—"
A glance at his battered wristwatch sent panic jolting through his gut.
Without another thought, Snape bolted for the stairs.
Just outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Snape skidded to a halt, chest heaving.
He knocked lightly—just enough to interrupt Professor Grubbly-Plank mid-sentence.
"Enter," came her clipped reply.
Snape pushed the door open carefully and stepped inside. "I'm sorry I'm late, Professor. I—"
A chorus of low hissing and stifled laughter came from one corner of the classroom. James Potter wore a grin so smug it could have been bottled and sold as a love potion gone wrong.
Professor Grubbly-Plank shot a glare in that direction—sharp as a hex.
"Name and House," she said, turning to Snape with all the warmth of a wet cauldron bottom.
"Severus Snape. Slytherin."
"This class began five minutes ago, Mr. Snape. I do not tolerate lateness. Find an empty seat."
Snape slung his bag off his back and crept toward an open spot beside Abbo, trying to shrink himself into silence.
"What happened to your sleeve?" Abbo whispered, staring at the ragged edge where fabric had once been.
"Shh—" Snape motioned toward the front of the room.
Professor Grubbly-Plank had begun casting charms to unfurl a series of grim illustrations mid-air—moving images filled with grotesque figures, writhing victims, and twisted, maimed limbs.
"As I was saying," she intoned, "the world beyond Hogwarts is far more dangerous than anything inside its walls."
She gestured with her wand, and the images changed—now they showed real witches and wizards in various states of torment.
"The three Unforgivable Curses are the darkest spells known to wizardkind."
She jabbed her wand toward the images with force.
"Using any one of them on another human being is enough to earn you a life sentence in Azkaban.
"This witch here, screaming and convulsing—that's the result of the Cruciatus Curse. Pure agony. Bones snap. Nerves burn. The mind begins to break.
"This wizard leaning quietly against the wall—he was struck by the Killing Curse. No blood, no wound. Just death."
Her footsteps echoed as she descended from the dais and began pacing the aisles.
"And this one..." She pointed to a final image. "The Imperius Curse. Almost impossible to detect from the outside.
"You'll smile. Speak. Walk. All the while obeying the caster's will. You might be made to curse your best friend. Turn your wand on yourself. Slaughter your own family—without knowing why."
She walked slowly to the far wall, then circled back to the front of the class.
"You must understand what awaits you beyond these walls. This subject is not about tests. It's about survival."
Silence gripped the room like a second skin. No one moved. Even the air felt suspended.
"Now," she said, returning to the front of the class, "there's no need to be afraid."
Her gaze swept across them, firm but not unkind.
"In the weeks ahead, I will do my utmost to prepare you—not just to pass your exams, but to stand against the darkness itself."