Hospital Wing.

Snape had returned once more.

The moment he stepped inside, Madam Pomfrey called to him.

Wiping her tears, she asked, "Can we contact his family?"

"It's a very deadly poison. There's no antidote."

Snape spoke quietly. "May I speak to him?"

"Mind the time," Madam Pomfrey said, nodding before regaining her usual composure. "The patient needs rest."

Snape walked into the quiet Hospital Wing. The sound of coughing reached his ears.

It was John.

His face had already turned grotesque—dark veins spread across his cheeks, and each cough sounded violent enough to tear his lungs apart.

For a moment, Snape didn't know what to say. An absurd feeling rose in his chest.

In the past, he had tirelessly brought up John Wick to Dumbledore over and over again.

He had always thought this man was far too much like Voldemort—

The same brilliance, the same striking looks, the same way people gathered around him.

Even Snape, in some unspoken way, had been influenced.

John was even more brilliant than Voldemort—on his own, he had changed Slytherin.

Turning sand into green glass.

As the Head of Slytherin, Snape couldn't help but be drawn into it.

He had brought glory. He had brought change.

Even the proud ones like Malfoy and Greengrass had bowed to him.

The more it went on, the more the contradictions in Snape's heart began to waver.

He had seen John's true side—this boy once captured Sirius Black and, in the calmest voice, spoke the coldest words.

He had also seen the boy deliberately leave behind a badge, as if wanting to align himself with him.

But Snape had rejected it all.

It was a gamble he couldn't take.

The wizarding world had no second Dumbledore, and John faintly bore the makings of a third Dark Lord.

Even though, time and again, John had proven himself different from Voldemort—

Prejudice was like a mountain.

The irony was that when Snape finally crossed that mountain, all he found was a dying Slytherin student.

John noticed Snape's arrival, his eyes clouded with a lifeless gray.

Snape's expression was complicated. He opened his mouth, but in the end, all that came out was a simple, ordinary greeting: "Hello, Mr. Wick."

"Professor." John's voice carried a visible weariness, so weak that even a single word seemed to drain him.

They sat in silence for a while before Snape said, "The poison in you was administered by someone. Perhaps St. Mungo's might be able to alleviate it."

"Heh… cough, cough…" John let out a laugh, but it quickly dissolved into a fit of coughing. Black blood ran down the corner of his mouth. He shook his head and said, "Professor, you're a Potions Master. With your knowledge, can't you tell?"

Lying on the hospital bed, his eyes dull and fixed on the ceiling, he spoke without a trace of fear. "St. Mungo's can't help me. Professor McGonagall is a good person, but she's bound to be disappointed this time."

The more one understood, the more despair John's condition inspired.

This kind of poison would drain every organ in the body, until, in the end, it consumed all hope.

Even Snape, a Potions Master, was powerless against it.

Snape's feelings were impossible to untangle. He had thought he might feel pleased—after all, someone who could have become the third Dark Lord was about to die.

But all he felt was irritation, grief, remorse, and… guilt.

Even that most detested Headmaster in Hogwarts history had once sincerely praised this student.

Slytherin's finest student was about to die. How ironic.

As a Potions Master, he hadn't sensed a thing.

If it had been caught earlier—perhaps even just that morning—John might have been saved.

It was only now that he truly realized: this wasn't just someone who might have become the third Dark Lord.

This was his student.

The one who should have been his pride.

Slytherin's most legendary figure.

As Head of House, it had been his duty to protect him, to guide him.

But looking back, he could hardly think of a single time he had done so.

From the loathing at the start of term, to the wariness and distance that followed…

It was he who had driven John Wick, step by step, to this point.

"…Sorry."

From a mouth usually dripping with venom, sarcasm, and barbed remarks came words he had not spoken in a very long time.

Snape said, "I'm sorry, Wick."

"As your Head of House, I failed to protect you."

Snape's eyes held a trace of uncertainty, unsure how he would face the Wick family.

"I'll notify your parents… let them come and see you one last time."

"No need," John shook his head. "Let it be. The more you try to hold on, the more pain you cause."

Snape was moved, surprised by John's calm acceptance of death.

Unlike Voldemort, who raged against it, John embraced it.

"Wick, you still have until sunset."

It was one of the rare moments of peaceful conversation between Slytherins.

John said softly, "Professor, let the Constellation Society take care of me."

Snape's steps faltered as he turned to look at him.

Right now, John was completely defenseless—if he used Legilimency, he could easily see every thought in the boy's mind.

But the notion came and went.

Faced with Slytherin's most outstanding student, he could not bring himself to do it.

"…Alright."

It was the last thing he could do for his student as Head of House.

The infirmary doors swung open. Professor McGonagall hurried in, accompanied by St Mungo's chief healer, Hippocrates Smethwyck.

"I've never seen anything like this." Smethwyck was visibly shocked when he saw John's condition.

At the same time, all the irritation he'd felt at being pulled away from St. Mungo's completely vanished.

Because when he stepped forward to examine John, his hand accidentally brushed against John's.

That hand had become shriveled and withered, like that of a mummy.

In such a state, forget jostling him—even the slightest wrong movement could be disastrous.

The more Smethwyck examined him, the heavier his expression became, until at last he shook his head at Professor McGonagall.

"I'm sorry… he's reached the end."

"Oh, no…" McGonagall staggered back in disbelief.

She had seen what a vibrant, spirited young man he once was. And though she knew she lacked the expertise in healing, she still pleaded recklessly, "Please… check again."

"It's a kind of poison never seen before, laced with dozens of lethal toxins." Smethwyck's shake of the head was like a death sentence.

"This time before sunset… it's all he has left."

McGonagall's face turned deathly pale, her hand clutching the collar over her heart.

She looked at Snape again. Snape slowly nodded.

When even the Potions Master said so, it was as if all luck had abandoned the boy in that moment.

Unable to accept the blow, McGonagall walked heavily out of the infirmary.

There were fewer people outside now.

Someone was sitting by the doorway.

Platinum-blond hair rested against the wall, the tie around his neck yanked loose and hanging crookedly.

Malfoy sat there, eyes fixed on the floor, lost in thought.

Daphne leaned against the wall as well, flanked by her best friend and her younger sister.

They whispered words of comfort to her, assuring her it would be fine.

After all, this was the King of Slytherin—the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin in history.

The infirmary doors opened, and Malfoy lifted his head.

Several pairs of worried eyes turned toward them, and Professor McGonagall's face seemed even paler than before.

But this was news that had to be delivered—

She was the Deputy Headmistress, and with Dumbledore gone, it was her duty to bear it.

She took a deep breath. Under those expectant gazes, she had to say it—the news that would break everyone's hearts.

"About John Wick…"

Malfoy and Daphne both turned to her at once, the hope and silent pleading in their eyes almost too much for McGonagall to bear.

Pressing her lips together, she forced out the words, "We have… until sunset."

Silence fell over everyone.

"Impossible!"

Malfoy lost control, shouting, "He won't die—he's John!"

"All men must die, Malfoy," Snape said as he stepped out.

His expression had returned to its usual composure.

"John won't. He promised me!" Malfoy's voice trembled with raw emotion.

Daphne's knees gave out, and she slumped against the wall, supported by Pansy and her younger sister.

Snape, cold and composed, said, "Stop your barking, Malfoy."

"John Wick wants Daphne Greengrass to go in."

Malfoy turned his head sharply, and at those words, Daphne broke free from her friend and sister, running toward the infirmary.

She no longer cared about appearances, dashing straight into the room.

And there she saw John—though it had been only a short while since she last saw him, he was now barely recognizable.

His lips moved faintly, as if trying to speak.

Daphne hurried closer, straining to catch the sound of his voice.

"Our promise."

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