Snape and Dumbledore materialized inside a room so densely packed that it resembled both a magical curio shop and an overgrown greenhouse.
Glass-fronted cabinets brimming with enchanted trinkets stood shoulder to shoulder with bookcases laden with gilt-edged tomes. Shelves cradled brass orreries and celestial globes, while copper planters overflowed with luxuriant, exotic plants. The scent of perfume and parchment lingered heavily in the air.
In front of them, an exceedingly plump old witch was fussing before a jewel-encrusted hand mirror. With a large powder puff in hand, she dabbed her already rosy cheeks until they shone like overripe apples.
Madam Hepzibah Smith wore a gaudy pink gown layered like a wedding cake, and an elegant ginger-colored wig perched askew on her head. Her skirts flared out around her, making her look less like a person and more like a melting dessert.
At her feet, Hokey the house-elf was kneeling, carefully fastening the dainty satin shoes around her mistress's swollen ankles, her fingers trembling with painstaking effort.
"Tch tch tch," Snape muttered, unable to hide his disdain. "Tom's taste is worse than I thought. Clearly, he's done pretending to work for what he wants."
"How do I look?" Madam Smith cooed, turning this way and that to examine her reflection from every angle.
"Stunning, ma'am," squeaked Hokey at once.
"Absolutely wealthy, ma'am," Snape echoed, only to catch himself. "No, I mean—positively radiant, dearest."
Dumbledore gave him a sideways glance full of exasperation.
"Professor," Snape whispered slyly, "do you know what truly makes Madam Smith beautiful?"
"What?" Dumbledore said flatly. "And would you kindly be quiet for once, Severus?"
"Of course, sir," Snape answered immediately. "It's the fact that she hasn't got long to live. She's every young man's dream—wealth, indulgence, and imminent inheritance. Tom was aiming far too low."
The chime of the front bell rang, bright and cheerful. Both Madam Smith and Hokey jumped with excitement.
"He's here, Hokey! Quickly!" she squealed, barely able to contain her delight.
The little elf scampered off at a speed no one her size should manage, returning moments later with a tall, striking young man in tow.
Tom Riddle.
He wore a sleek, fitted black suit. His hair was longer than in his school days, and he looked even more handsome—every feature carved and charming.
He bent low and pressed his lips gently to Madam Smith's plump, jeweled hand.
"I brought you flowers," he said in his low, silken voice, conjuring a bouquet of roses still glistening with dew.
Snape stood silently, watching the scene unfold with growing disbelief. His face betrayed both disgust and reluctant awe.
"Oh, you spoil me," Madam Smith simpered, her voice syrupy and affected. "One might think you're only here for my trinkets!"
She giggled like a schoolgirl, cheeks flushed, as Hokey returned with two stacked leather boxes.
Madam Smith reached for the top one with fingers like pink sausages and flipped open the lid.
Inside sat a small golden cup, polished to a soft gleam. Two delicate handles curled outward from its sides like tiny horns.
"What is that…?" Dumbledore whispered, something cautious stirring in his voice.
"Badger," Tom murmured, eyes fixed hungrily on the emblem engraved into the cup. "It's—"
"Helga Hufflepuff's!" Madam Smith squealed. "Clever boy, you recognized it! Didn't I mention? I'm a distant descendant—"
She leaned forward and pinched Tom's cheek. Her corset creaked ominously.
Then, still glowing, she opened the second box and revealed a small golden locket, its surface adorned with an ornate, serpentine S.
"The mark of Slytherin…" Tom murmured, eyes narrowing. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chain, his gaze intense, hungry.
"Yes indeed! I paid a fortune for that," Madam Smith said proudly. "Bought it from Borgin and Burkes—Borgin claimed some pauper woman brought it in. Probably stolen, poor thing. I bet he gave her a pittance for it…"
"It's time to go, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly.
He took hold of Snape's arm, and they slipped through the darkness like smoke, reappearing in the calm of the headmaster's office.
"It seems Tom didn't just take the locket," Dumbledore said, settling into his chair. "He took Hufflepuff's cup as well."
"I'd say," Snape responded, sitting across from him, "we now know two more of his Horcruxes. Which means, Professor, only one founder's relic remains unaccounted for."
His eyes drifted to the glass case behind Dumbledore's desk, where the Sword of Gryffindor lay in serene silence.
"Oh, he tried," Dumbledore said, catching the glance. "Years ago, Tom applied to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. Fortunately, I was headmaster by then. Like you turning away Mulciber's plea, I told him plainly—I wouldn't give him the post."
"I imagine he didn't take it well," Snape said.
"No, he was furious," Dumbledore agreed. "He stormed out with his face twisted in rage. Even if he no longer feared judgment, he still feared me. Enough not to try anything… overt."
"You've made your point, sir," Snape said, rising. "If that's all, I'll take my leave."
"Wait, Severus," Dumbledore called after him. He hesitated, voice careful. "I've been meaning to ask… would you consider joining the Order of the Phoenix?"
Snape stopped.
"The Order?" he repeated.
"A secret organization," Dumbledore said sincerely. "Founded by me. It's made up of witches and wizards who've chosen to fight against Voldemort. I think you'd get along with them.
"If you're willing, I'll bring you along to our next meeting."
Snape gave a small smirk. "I'd be honored."
So now he'd be one of the founding members, wouldn't he? he thought smugly. That would make him a senior to quite a few of his old schoolmates. And that wasn't nothing.