Snape took a broken lamp from his schoolbag and tossed it casually into a conspicuous spot.
That way, even if someone grew curious about why he had come here, he would still have a proper excuse.
Then he walked through the shafts of light cast from the high windows, searching for a troll specimen.
The diadem should be somewhere not far from it.
Everywhere he looked, all he saw were piles upon piles of assorted junk.
Snape couldn't help but wonder if Tom Riddle's mind had long since been damaged by splitting his soul.
Otherwise, why would he ever believe that only he could enter this place?
At last, he found the troll specimen.
Beyond the specimen, down the aisle, he passed an old Vanishing Cabinet.
"Wait."
Snape stopped and turned to take another look at the cabinet.
After a moment's thought, he drew his wand and took careful aim.
"Reducto!"
With a loud crack like a bullet slicing through the air, the quiet wooden cabinet was ripped apart in an instant, woodchips and fragments flying in all directions.
Snape bent down, scooped a few broken pieces into his bag, and clapped his hands in satisfaction.
"Well, that should make sure the Vanishing Cabinet is completely useless now."
Not far from the cabinet's remains, his eyes fell upon a large, blistered wardrobe.
It was somewhere near here.
Using his wand, Snape sliced off part of a robe sleeve, then picked up a rusty longsword from the top of a junk pile with the cloth shielding his hand.
He used the sword to dig through heap after heap, pulling out every object that could possibly be worn on one's head.
Finally, amid a scattering of tattered headpieces, Snape saw a darkened, rust-stained diadem.
Tiny words were engraved along its base: Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.
The instant he read those words, a powerful impulse surged from the depths of his heart,
He wanted to place Ravenclaw's Diadem upon his head.
He could feel clearly that doing so would grant him supreme wisdom and endless glory.
His legs began to tremble, as though pulled by an invisible force, and he involuntarily sank to his knees before the diadem.
He slowly reached out his hand.
The moment his fingertips brushed the diadem, a current of pleasure shot through his whole body.
His mind raced; his thoughts had never felt so sharp. On one side was a wild hunger for wisdom and power, on the other, his calm reason struggling desperately to resist.
Just as the diadem was about to touch his head, Snape squeezed his eyes shut and, with every ounce of strength, flung it aside.
"Damn it, what the hell was that!" he gasped heavily, unable to stop himself from swearing. "Harry and the others didn't run into anything like this when they got hold of it..."
"Could it be they only came into contact with the diadem after Fiendfyre destroyed it?"
Snape strained to recall the original storyline.
"That must be it. Things went wrong the moment I read that inscription... In that case, I need to avoid that step."
He unwrapped the sleeve from around the sword and flicked his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
The sleeve floated up from the ground, drifted gently down, and covered the ancient, faded diadem.
But just as he was about to pick it up through the fabric, it struck him that this, too, carried enormous risk.
"Hmm... before the diadem was burned by Fiendfyre, Harry didn't seem to have touched it either. So it wasn't only about reading the words."
He used his wand to move the sleeve away again and tried casting several spells at the diadem, but nothing happened.
Covering it once more, Snape found himself frowning, unsure what else to do.
After standing there in thought for a while, he realized that for now the only choice was to hide it.
Under his command, a variety of junk pieces spun into the air and settled one after another on top of the diadem.
Soon, the third junk pile to the left of the Vanishing Cabinet's remains looked no different from the heaps around it.
Snape pressed his ear to the door, listened for a while, then slung his bag onto his back, slipped out quietly, and glanced behind him as the door once again vanished into blank stone.
"Oh, no!"
He glanced at his old wristwatch, then hurriedly bolted for the stairs.
"No, I'm going to be late for the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class..."
Outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Snape skidded to a stop.
He knocked lightly, interrupting Professor Grubbly-Plank's lecture.
"Come in."
He carefully pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"Sorry I'm late, Professor. I,"
A hiss of jeering rose from one corner of the room, James Potter's grin the broadest among them.
Professor Grubbly-Plank shot a severe glare in that direction.
"Name and House," she said stiffly, turning to Snape.
"Severus Snape, Slytherin House."
"This class began five minutes ago, Snape. I do not expect you to be late again. Now, take a seat."
Snape slipped his bag from his shoulders, carried it in hand, and hunched down as he walked quietly to sit beside Abbott.
"What happened to you?" Abbott whispered, noticing Snape's missing sleeve.
"Shh," Snape gestured toward Professor Grubbly-Plank, who was using magic to display a set of illustrations. "I'll tell you later."
"As I was saying," she continued, "you will soon step beyond the castle walls. The world outside Hogwarts is far more dangerous."
With her wand, she pointed to the images, which showed people suffering in torment, hideous wounds, and twisted, deformed limbs.
"Among the Dark Arts, the three Unforgivable Curses are the most vile of all."
She tapped several pictures firmly with her wand.
"To use even one of these spells on a human is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban.
"This witch, writhing and screaming in agony, has been struck by the Cruciatus Curse. It causes unbearable pain.
"This wizard, lying still against the wall, was struck by the Killing Curse. Though he bears no wound, he is utterly and completely dead."
"As for the Imperius Curse," Professor Grubbly-Plank descended from the platform, pacing around the classroom, "its victims show almost no outward signs.
"But you will act under the caster's will. The caster could make you aim your wand at your own head, or force you to murder your own family with your own hands..."
She circled to the far side of the room, then walked back toward the front.
"You must understand fully what you may one day face. I expect you to give this class the utmost seriousness,not merely treat it as another exam subject."
The classroom fell silent, as though every student had stopped breathing.
"All right, there is no need to be overly tense."
Professor Grubbly-Plank stood at the lectern, facing the students.
"In the lessons to come, I will do my utmost to help you strengthen your ability to resist the Dark Arts."