In the medical room, Eileen swiftly settled James and Sirius onto two adjacent hospital beds.
"Severus," she said as she quickly examined several minor scrapes and bruises on James's arm, "what happened to them? Potter's fine, mostly exhaustion and a few minor injuries, but Black..."
"Corruption from dark magic," Snape replied with a resigned expression. "At this point, they've only themselves to blame for their choices."
"Say a little less," Eileen shot him a glare before frowning and cutting away a piece of fabric from Sirius's shoulder. "This wound must be treated immediately.
"Help me, Severus. I need a St. Mungo's High-Potency Purification Ointment base, mixed with dittany essence and powdered snakeweed, ratio, you know it."
Snape nodded without a word. He strode to the massive potions cabinet in the corner of the medical room, his eyes sweeping across rows of crystal bottles. Selecting the ingredients, he moved to the mixing station, his movements fluid, combining, stirring, heating...
On the other side, James lay trembling slightly on the bed. He turned his head toward Sirius, whose face was pale as he clenched his jaw against the pain while Eileen used magic to clean the dead flesh around the edges of his wound.
"Padfoot," James rasped, "I... I'm sorry... it was my fault, I was so stupid, insisting on-"
"Shut up, Prongs." Sirius forced the words out between his teeth, sweat trickling down his forehead. "It's not your fault. It's that filthy traitor's... bastard..." His eyes flared with fury again but the pain from his shoulder silenced him, leaving only a muffled groan as his body tensed.
At that moment, Snape returned carrying a small silver cauldron filled with a fresh, green ointment that emitted a faintly clean scent.
He handed it to Eileen.
She carefully dipped a pristine unicorn tail feather into the ointment and began gently applying it to the ragged wound on Sirius's shoulder.
As the ointment touched the flesh, mingling with the wisping black vapors, a faint sizzling sound arose, accompanied by a wisp of smoke tinged with sulfur.
Gradually, the blackness retreated. The spreading rot at the wound's edge stopped, replaced by the healthy pink of regenerating skin.
After tending to Sirius, Eileen examined James's minor external wounds and signs of magical exhaustion, treating them with practiced efficiency.
Finally, she exhaled in relief and wiped the sweat from her brow.
Snape quietly motioned for her to rest, he would stay and watch over them. Eileen nodded, gave a few last instructions, and silently left the room.
The medical room fell silent, broken only by two ragged breaths and the calm, rhythmic sound of Dumbledore's steady breathing.
The Headmaster's long silver beard spilled across the pillow. His half-moon spectacles rested carefully on the bedside table. He remained entirely unaware of his surroundings.
Outside, the snow that had fallen all day had turned into a fierce blizzard. The wind hurled thick flakes against the porthole windows, but the silencing spells kept the room utterly still.
Seeing Snape had no intention of leaving, James and Sirius exchanged a puzzled glance. Their relationship, after all these years, had never been friendly, certainly not to the extent of Snape voluntarily keeping watch in the infirmary.
Snape, however, sat calmly in the chair beside James's bed and spoke first.
"James, that family heirloom of yours, the Invisibility Cloak, where was it hidden in your home before you left?"
James blinked, wariness flashing in his eyes. "Why do you want to know?"
"I have no personal interest in that piece of cloth," Snape replied flatly, lifting his gaze to meet James's. "I merely wish to know whether it was taken by the Dark Lord when your parents were murdered."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the two men's guarded faces before adding in a deliberately casual tone, "I won't waste time persuading you.
"How about this, as an exchange, I can arrange a certain... lapse in the house-elf duty rotation. During that brief interval, one of you, or both, might happen to 'find' a few minutes to visit the lowest detention chamber, where your old friend Wormtail is being held.
"As for what kind of... conversation you have with him," Snape continued evenly, "that's your affair. So long as you accept the consequences, just as you always have with your choices."
James's breathing quickened. He barely hesitated before blurting out rapidly, "In my parents' bedroom, behind the fireplace, there's a hidden compartment. Tap the lower left corner of the third brick with your wand, and it'll open! The Cloak's inside!"
He said it all in one breath, as though afraid Snape would retract the offer.
Then, panting, he suddenly frowned, confusion creeping into his expression. "Why are you helping me? What are you really after?"
Snape slowly stood, looking down at him with no discernible emotion.
"I have no desire to help you," he said quietly. "But between helping you and not helping you, I prefer not to see our 'brave' friend Wormtail enjoy a comfortable stay in a warm cabin, waiting for a justice system that no longer exists.
"Even if that justice does come," Snape added coldly, "the harshest punishment he'll face is life imprisonment. In my opinion, the wizarding world's mimicry of Muggles in abolishing the death penalty was... rather ill-considered."
He turned and left the medical room without another glance, vanishing behind the closing wooden door.
...
In the following days, the blizzard raged on, serving as ideal cover for the Founders' Ark as it remained concealed on the open sea.
After much deliberation, Snape decided to travel personally to Godric's Hollow. The Invisibility Cloak's location was too crucial, it affected both Voldemort's Horcrux plan and their own future operations.
But the risk was immense. Voldemort might have left traps or surveillance enchantments in the ruins of the Potter home. Therefore, Snape went to find Gellert Grindelwald, who was at that moment studying a complex magical model in his cabin.
"Mr. Grindelwald," Snape began directly, "I need you to accompany me somewhere, Godric's Hollow."
"No. Not interested," Grindelwald said instantly without looking up.
Unmoved, Snape continued, "The purpose is to verify the location of one of the Deathly Hallows, the Potter family's Invisibility Cloak. It may have been-"
"Deathly Hallows?" Grindelwald's fingers stilled. Finally, he lifted his head, his gray eyes narrowing with a faint, unreadable gleam.
"Yes," Snape confirmed. "One of the Deathly Hallows, the Cloak of Death. And based on certain evidence, I strongly suspect it may have been turned into a Horcrux by Voldemort."
Grindelwald studied him again, his gaze flickering as if stirred by ancient memories tied to that name.
At last, his expression of disinterest gave way to reluctant irritation.
"Tch... troublesome," he muttered, waving his hand dismissively. The magical construct before him vanished. "Still, it might be worth a look. Let's hope it's not a waste of my time. When do we leave?"
"Tonight. The storm will be our best cover."
That night, two figures flickered and vanished from the edge of the deck, swallowed by the swirling snow.
Moments later, they stood on a narrow, snow-covered lane at the edge of Godric's Hollow.
Above them stretched a dark blue sky, and through the blizzard's veil, the first few stars dared to glimmer faintly through rifts in the clouds.
Low houses lined both sides of the alley, their roofs and windowsills buried beneath thick snow.
A few windows still bore leftover Christmas decorations, dim fairy lights, faded plastic holly wreaths, and tattered ribbons fluttering weakly in the wind.
The air was razor-cold, biting into exposed skin like needles. Grindelwald muttered under his breath, his tone laced with distaste, "I don't like this place..."
Snape ignored him, scanning the surroundings carefully. Once he confirmed there were no traces of magical surveillance, he moved forward along the snow-laden street.
Grindelwald followed reluctantly at his side.
They passed more houses, most sealed tight, lifeless in the storm.
Snape's gaze swept over every doorway and frosted window, searching for signs of magical destruction, anything that might mark the Potter residence.
Their boots crunched rhythmically in the deep snow.
The alley curved left, opening onto the village square.
At its center stood a snow-capped war memorial, its outline blurred by frost. Around the square were several small shops, a post office, a pub, and a chapel, its stained glass casting gemlike colors across the snow.
The snow here was packed solid, icy and slippery, trampled by a day's worth of footsteps.
Bundled villagers crossed paths before them, momentarily illuminated by the streetlamps refracted through drifting flakes; laughter and the strains of popular music drifted briefly from the pub door as it swung open and shut.