"I still don't understand," Snape continued. "Surely the point of guarding the thing is so that nobody can get past?"
"Oh, somebody will have to get past," Dumbledore calmly replied. "When Nicolas' supplies run low, someone will need to retrieve it. But that should take at least a year."
"Why go to all this trouble, then? Why can't you just carry it around yourself?"
"Me?" Dumbledore laughed. "You overestimate me, dear Severus."
"You're the only one the Dark Lord—"
"Voldemort—"
"'s afraid of. He won't go after you."
"Oh, I have no doubt as to my prowess. No, it's my own desire I fear; if I carry it around with me long enough, I might be tempted to use the thing."
"And would that be so bad?"
"There are worse hands, yes...but I've never been quite sure if Nicolas' path is the one for me. I'd rather not find out if I don't have to."
"Very well, then," said Snape. "I'll make the potions indistinguishable, and when Nicolas needs to go get them, I'll tell him which one is which."
"You'll remember for a whole year?"
"If I must. Or I can write it down."
"Where anyone can see?"
"Well, why not?"
"Then it's just as good as telling the whole world, isn't it?"
Snape had no answer.
"Voldemort will not think to rely on Muggle tricks. Logic, puzzles...he views them all as wastes of time. Whoever is worthy of finding the Stone must be more tolerant of our neighbors. More respectful of their abilities."
"So I should write a puzzle, is that what you're saying? Leave the minimum information necessary to determine which is which?"
"It is but one suggestion."
Sighing, Snape retreated from the headmaster's office.
*******
When he returned the next week, the office was empty. Snape sighed.
He'd double-checked the solution. There was poison in each of the bottles to the left of the wine, but none in either the largest or the smallest bottle. The ones on the far end were different, but neither let the drinker progress; the next-most-inner both contained the same potion. That was all the information a clever thinker needed.
Although, Snape supposed, it still wouldn't be enough for Dumbledore. No, the headmaster would demand some elegance to it. Whether he was proclaiming the school song as more magical than all their incantations or blathering on about love being more important than all his work, Dumbledore never appreciated the ability all around him.
But how was he supposed to improve on pure logic?
He glanced around the room. There was the old bird, humming softly to itself. The Pensieve, swirling restlessly. And there, on the shelf, was the Sorting Hat.
Sighing, Snape placed it on his head. I know you can write poems. This is what I need...
When Dumbledore returned, he found the office empty, a piece of parchment on his desk, and seven bottles in a row. Another scrap of parchment warned him to maintain that order when the bottles were set up.
Dumbledore glanced at the poem again, then turned to his predecessors. "Dippet," he asked, "did Snape write this?"
"Oh, he wrote down the words," said Headmaster Dippet agreeably. "But he had the old Sorting Hat on."
Mildly impressed, Dumbledore put the hat on as well. You helped him compose it, then?
Oh, yes. He'd worked all the riddle out, I just helped with the rhyme.
I see, Dumbledore said, removing the hat. Sometimes I think we sort too soon...