In the end, Dumbledore got nothing more out of him.
Those blue eyes that had once seen through countless hearts—eyes that always carried that signature, mischievous sparkle—dimmed for the first time.
He maintained the genial, grandfatherly façade, a gentle curve at the corners of his mouth, but it was nothing more than a mask shaped by habit.
Beneath the mask lay a frozen sea.
And beneath the ice, a roaring abyss.
Faced with Eric's perfect Ravenclaw-style answers, and that flawless, almost provocatively immaculate false Mind Palace, Dumbledore could only choose to believe him—for now.
It wasn't an option.
It was the only option.
To force his way deeper would mean exposing his own hand and completely tearing away the pretense. And within that cold, rigorously logical Mind Palace, he had sensed no darkness, no malice—only pure, chilling rationality.
That, more than anything, was what frightened him.
At that moment, Eric's priority level in Dumbledore's mind rose silently to the highest tier.
"Well then, Mr. Prince,"
Dumbledore said warmly, his voice once again carrying that soothing cadence, as though trying to reclaim control of the room.
"Perhaps the Sorting Hat truly does need an upgrade to its logic library."
He blinked, and it seemed as though the extinguished starlight in his eyes flickered back to life—but Eric could tell.
It was acting.
Pure acting.
"It's late. Return to your tower. Ravenclaw will be proud to have you."
"Thank you, Headmaster."
Eric bowed politely. The angle of his movement was impeccable—respectful, yet devoid of flattery or fear.
He turned and walked toward the door of the office.
With every step, he could feel that gaze on his back, like a cold probe scraping slowly along his spine.
Dumbledore did not use Legilimency again.
But the vast magical pressure he radiated still filled the room, scrutinizing every detail of Eric's departure.
Eric revealed no flaws.
He descended the spiral staircase—and then stopped.
Just as he was about to step off the final curved stair, a cold voice emerged from the shadows behind him, devoid of warmth or inflection, containing only a single word:
"Stop."
Eric halted.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Severus Snape.
Potions Master.
Head of Slytherin.
And… a walking ghost of resentment and pain haunting the halls of Hogwarts.
Eric slowly turned.
Snape had followed him out.
He did not stand in the light spilling from the Headmaster's office. Instead, he chose a corner completely swallowed by the shadow of a stone gargoyle. His entire figure merged with the darkness, save for a pair of black, obsidian eyes that reflected a predator's gleam in the dim corridor.
His expression was worse than it had been in the office—a fury crushed to its absolute limit, mixed with something almost pathological, fermenting into a far more complex and penetrating scrutiny.
He looked Eric up and down, his gaze like two poison-dipped scalpels, intent on dissecting him layer by layer, from skin to marrow.
"I don't care whether you're truly a Prince or not,"
Snape said, his voice low, dragging a hiss through the empty corridor.
The surname, spat from his mouth, carried a dense, almost tangible loathing.
Eric remained silent, his mind running logic modules at high speed, analyzing every microexpression, every shift in tone.
"But your talent is… unusual."
This was not a question. It was a statement.
Snape had noticed.
He had noticed the mental strength strong enough to contend with Dumbledore himself.
In the office, he hadn't been a mere bystander. He had seen everything—the surge of Dumbledore's magic, the silent intrusion, and the utter failure that followed.
Dumbledore might hide his inner turmoil behind a kindly smile, but Snape—who lived among darkness and lies—could smell defeat.
He knew it.
Dumbledore had lost.
For the first time, he had lost a mental confrontation—to an eleven-year-old child.
"A Ravenclaw genius at Hogwarts is never a good thing,"
Snape sneered, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold, humorless smile.
"Especially when he's caught the attention of a meddlesome old bee who enjoys playing chess with people's lives."
The contempt he held for Dumbledore was laid bare.
Eric said nothing.
He knew exactly whom Snape meant.
And he knew this conversation was only just beginning.
Snape stepped closer.
The height difference created an oppressive sense of pressure. A cold, complex scent—bitter herbs mixed with old parchment—washed over Eric.
Then Snape made his offer.
"I can protect you."
His voice was low and clear, each word landing like a slab of ice.
"I can ensure that you're spared certain… unnecessary 'attention' and 'interference' while you're at Hogwarts."
He emphasized attention and interference, malice dripping from the words.
This wasn't just mockery.
It was a warning—from someone who had lived for years under that very scrutiny.
"But—"
Snape's gaze sharpened, black eyes swirling like vortexes, as if intent on dragging Eric's soul under.
"In exchange, you will demonstrate—on my Potions class—true talent worthy of the Prince bloodline."
He said the name again.
This time, the hatred remained—but buried beneath it was something he would never admit.
A trace of expectation.
"If you're nothing more than a clever fraud,"
Snape's thin lips split into a cruel smile, teeth flashing white,
"I will personally show you what hell looks like."
A threat.
Blatant and undisguised.
Within Eric's mind, vast streams of data collided and integrated in an instant.
He understood.
Snape's intent.
His motivation.
His contradictions.
His twisted psychology.
All of it laid bare under Perfect Logic.
This was an investment.
And more than that—a gamble.
Snape was betting. Testing.
He hated the name Prince. It was bound to the most unbearable memories of his life, the source of his deepest shame.
And yet—against all reason—he desperately, pathologically longed for the legendary Potions talent of that bloodline to continue.
He doubted Eric.
Doubted the authenticity of this sudden, unknown "Prince."
But he could not ignore the spark of hope Eric represented.
A mind capable of toying with Dumbledore—did it imply another kind of talent as well?
So Snape chose to verify it himself.
He intended to rip Eric off Dumbledore's chessboard and drag him into his own camp.
Or rather—
Onto his own laboratory table.
If Eric proved genuine, Snape would gain a powerful ally, one free from Dumbledore's control—a successor, perhaps even someone who could surpass him.
If Eric was fake, Snape would crush him with his own hands, appeasing that warped, wounded sense of bloodline pride.
A perfect gamble—high risk, high reward—entirely in character for Severus Snape.
Eric raised his head slightly and met Snape's oppressive gaze.
A faint, formulaic smile appeared on his face.
"Deal."
The answer was clean.
Decisive.
Without hesitation.
As though he weren't accepting a dangerous pact, but merely confirming the results of a pre-calculated experiment.
Snape's pupils contracted—just a fraction.
He had anticipated fear.
Bargaining.
Deception.
But not this.
This absolute calm.
Calm enough to make his offer seem no more consequential than a casual remark about tomorrow's weather.
Once again, the child's composure exceeded his expectations.
And at the very moment Eric spoke the word Deal—
at the instant Snape's emotions surged—
A cold system notification rang out precisely within Eric's consciousness.
[System Notification: A-Rank Fate Deviation detected.]
[Target: Severus Snape.]
[Emotional Anchor: Complex Trial and Investment.]
[Congratulations, Host. A-Rank Causality Investment completed.]
[Silver-Tier Reward obtained. Silver Treasure Chest ×1.]