Warning: This is rather screwed up.
Disclaimer: Frog Fad merely messes up what JK Rowling creates.
Dramatis Personae
Gone
Wrong
_______________________________by Frog Fad_______
Harry's footsteps jarred to a petrified halt midway down the tower steps.
How did I
get on the tower steps?
For the life of him, he couldn't remember starting down them. He couldn't remember exiting the portrait hole. He didn't remember picking up the bookbag now slung over his right shoulder, didn't remember dressing himself in this particular set of robes, didn't even remember sitting up in his dormitory that morning and pulling back the curtains to let in the sunlight. It was as if he'd suddenly broken into consciousness halfway through an hour of sleepwalking. Or as if his brain had just hit the reset switch—like Dudley's fist so often did with his Playstation.
He remained frozen in mid-stride for a moment, waiting for his mind to kick back in, when he heard voices echoing from the flight above him. They belonged to a boy and a girl—and though both seemed vaguely familiar, there was also something faintly incorrect about them. The girl's voice… it rang strong in his memory somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. And the boy's voice… it connected with something, too, but not nearly as solidly. Like a puzzle piece whose pattern matches the one next to it, but which interlocks doubtfully, wobbling around in a shape that may or may not fit its supposed partner.
But if it was morning, and he was headed down the Gryffindor steps, the descending voices could only belong to two fellow Gryffindors—engaged in some debate over the rights of house elves. This, too, seemed somewhat familiar—and somewhat wrong. Harry perked up his ears as the two Gryffindors continued on down the intermittently carpeted stone steps, their arguments flailing ever more furiously down the spiraled passageway.
"You just don't get it, do you?" the girl was saying. "They like doing work! You can't get them to stop, they're nutters about it! It's like telling you not to take Arithmancy because you're already busting your fingers to the bone writing essays for Muggle Studies!"
"This isn't about studying, this is about slave labor," a distinctively male voice huffed. "It's exactly what went on with African Muggles two hundred years ago in North America. You're trying to fabricate some rationalization for cruel slave labor."
"It's not slave labor!" the girl insisted, exasperation flinging from her tone. "And it's not cruel, either. What'd be cruel is if they weren't allowed to work."
"They're not allowed to work, they're forced to work," the boy corrected. "Their rights to freedom have been alienated." The word 'alienated' pounded darkly down the stairwell for a moment, causing Harry an involuntary shudder before the girl's voice rejoined it.
"Oh honestly! When have you ever met a house elf moping around because it had too much work? Chores are like Christmas to them. If a house elf ever goes moping about it's because they haven't any work. They don't want freedom. Just look what happened to Winky after Crouch threw her out. She's an absolute wreck."
Harry blinked. Winky and Crouch. Those names made sense. Winky was a house elf. Crouch's house elf. He'd dismissed her at the Quidditch World Cup, and now she was working at Hogwarts… or at least, supposed to be working. Harry recalled that Winky merely huddled by the kitchen fire like some down-trodden Cinderella who'd somehow shattered her glass slippers.
Then another familiar sound ruffled into his ear—the shift of material and light clink of an inkbottle as someone tugged at a bookbag strap to even out the sagging weight of textbooks over their shoulders. The male voice trailed immediately after it.
"Winky just hasn't had the chance to adjust yet. But as long as we're bringing case arguments into this, why don't you take a look at Dobby. His freedom is a dream come true."
And then the girl's voice, dismissively, "You get crazies in every bunch."
"What makes you so sure Dobby's the crazy? Maybe the crazy one is Winky."
The girl scoffed. "And maybe the crazy one is you, Severus Snape."
Harry felt the muscles in his neck stiffen. Snape? What in blazes would Snape be doing coming down the tower staircase? He was usually lurking around in the dungeons, wasn't he? And who on earth would have the gall to tell Snape he was crazy, and expect to get away with it, anyway?
But before Harry had the time to think further, the girl continued, "First there's the two dozen books you've always got your nose stuck in, then this SPEW nonsense—"
The hair follicles prickled. SPEW? Why was that familiar? And if that was familiar, why couldn't he place it?
"—not to mention all the spit you waste drooling over Professor Evans in Defense Against the Dark Arts—it's a wonder she can even read your essays, what with your parchments always so soggy."
There's no Professor Evans… Who's Professor Evans? Moody teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"I am not drooling over Professor Evans," the male voice snapped.
Harry felt his stomach lurch. It was Snape. But no, that wasn't right… the voice wasn't heavy enough, not gravelly enough. A lame imitation of Snape, perhaps, but not Snape. It couldn't be Snape. But that was what the girl had called him. He'd heard it very plainly—Severus Snape. He only knew one Severus Snape—only one Severus, for that matter—and the name was hardly a candidate for popularity in baby name books. And yet… it was difficult to imagine the Snape he knew drooling over anybody, especially another Professor.
"Yeah, and I'm the Minister of Magic," the girl snorted.
"That's funny, you don't look like a surly Parselmouth," Snape shot back.
Harry almost laughed. Fudge, a Parselmouth? Hardly.
"So sorry, Minister Riddle," Snape continued, his trademark iciness slipping into the taunt. "I didn't realize Hogwarts was subject to surprise inspections."
Harry's blood thickened.
Minister
what?
"Don't be such a git, Severus," came the snide remark. "Don't you know sarcasm when you hear it?"
"I might ask you the same thing."
"Oh, honestly! I don't know how I put up with you."
Harry felt a sudden urge to vomit. That girl's voice was… But no, that wasn't right, either. That couldn't be right. Hermione didn't talk to Snape. Not unless she was answering a Potions question. And last time he checked, Hermione was advocating house elf rights, not undermining them. But then, since when was Snape a house elf activist? And since when did he engage himself in extracurricular debate with Hermione?
And since when did this go on in Gryffindor tower?
"It's more me putting up with you," Snape retorted, in the same irked tone he used when speaking to Neville. "You and Harry."
Harry flinched, but Snape's rant continued echoing down the stairwell to his ears.
"You two, constantly marauding around under that blasted invisibility cloak and crawling to me for help when you can't keep pace with the class."
The sick feeling intensified in Harry's stomach. Since when did he go to Snape for extra tutoring? Snape was the absolute last person he'd ever deign approach if he were falling behind in his studies. And Hermione never needed help in anything. Usually she was the one giving the help, not receiving it.
Harry hardly noticed the voices growing louder.
Hermione (if it was Hermione) made a dismissive noise in her teeth. "I don't need your help to pass, thank you very much."
"Oh yeah?" Snape (if it was Snape) used a gray tone somewhere between a taunt and a challenge. "Just keep that in mind next time Professor Longbottom decides to test out your poison antidotes."
What?
"Fine, I will. Longbottom is a stupid slimeball anyway—he probably couldn't poison a pillbug."
What?
"Neither could you, if you didn't have me to help you study."
"I said I didn't need your help. And if you think for one minute, Severus, that I'm going to—"
The tirade was cut short as someone plowed into Harry. He stumbled down a few steps, catching himself with his hands as someone behind him let out a wild yelp of surprise. As he tripped down the steps, Harry turned to see whoever had plowed into him scramble to right herself by grabbing at the collar of her companion's robes. She only succeeded in yanking him off his feet and sending him sprawling, tumbling head over heels past Harry and down several more tightly spiraling stairs—until he finally slammed rudely into the wall and crashed on his stomach, his arm lodging in the trick step. A ruffling avalanche of books and loose parchment from his bookbag spilled down to the landing without him.
"Sorry, Harry," Hermione muttered sheepishly, apologetically disentangling herself from him. Harry just gaped, suddenly and inexplicably mute as he watched his friend brush the curls from her face. Her brown eyes shifted away from him, oblivious to his shock.
"Severus, you all right?" she called.
He grunted. "If by all right you mean jammed up to the shoulder in the trick step and wiping a bloody nose on the carpet, yes. Absolutely corking. Never been better."
Hermione tossed her mahogany eyes irritably toward the ceiling. "Don't be a twit."
Severus made an indignant noise, lifting his head as far from the step as he could. Harry felt a frigid rush of fear—the obsidian eyes peering over the step undoubtedly belonged to Snape, the Potions Master.
"You throw me down half the tower stairs, give me a right good bruising, a bloody nose, and probably two black eyes, and all you have to say is 'Don't be a twit'?"
Looking anything but sympathetic, Hermione began picking her way through the scattered mess of parchments to the trick step holding Snape captive. "For heaven's sakes, Severus, don't be such a drama queen. It wasn't intentional and your eyes aren't any blacker than usual." She seized his free arm and began tugging to free him.
Her angle was less than thought out, however, and Snape winced as she started to pull, his arm twisting around behind him. "Ouch! Bloody hell, Hermione, the idea is to pull my arm out of the step, not out of its socket."
"Oh honestly, you're such a baby," she chided, not looking up. "Harry, give me a hand."
But Harry did not give Hermione a hand. He had scraped himself off the steps during the exchange and was gawking like both Severus and Hermione had flobberworms waving from their ears.
"Well, don't just stand there gaping like a dead fish, help me!" Severus insisted, heavy with annoyance. "You aren't exactly an innocent bystander, either, Harry. What the hell were you doing stopped in the middle of road?"
Harry blinked. What was he supposed to say? The scene was just so ridiculous that nothing sprang to mind. Snape—and a shorter, more wiry Snape, he suddenly noted—with a bloody nose and his arm stuck in the trick step, dressed in students' robes with a bookbag slung over his shoulders—the contents of which had been scattered all over the stairs. And then Hermione, looking somewhat lighter without her normal burden of textbooks, yanking on Snape's free arm. He wasn't sure whether to laugh, wince, pinch himself, or turn around and go back to bed.
"I… what?"
Snape shot him a look of pure annoyance. "Are you going to help me up, or just sit there like an idiot?"
"Apparently he's just going to sit there," muttered Hermione. "Staring at you like you're You-Know-Who, or something."
Snape winced as Hermione gave his arm another sharp tug, but to no avail.
Harry blinked again, his head beginning to reel with disorientation. "You-Know-Who?" he repeated, mindlessly. "You mean Voldemort."
Snape and Hermione both quit complaining and tugging, respectively, and glanced up, raising their eyebrows at him.
"Volde-what?" said Hermione.
Severus sniggered. "How hard did you plow into him, Hermione? You've knocked him cross-eyed. Whock your head on the steps, Harry?"
"I… no," Harry fumbled. Had he hit his head? No, surely it was just a strange dream. Ron ought to be waking him up at any minute now, flinging back the bedcurtains and whalloping him with a pillow, demanding to know why Harry had overslept. Any minute now.
Hermione punched Snape lightly. "Don't joke about it, Severus, it's not funny," she chided. "If You-Know-Who had killed your parents, I don't think you'd be taking it very lightly. You wouldn't be about to forget it just because you'd taken a fall on the stairs."
Snape was silent for a moment. "I suppose not." He lifted his head again to peer over the step and shrugged with one shoulder. "I'm surprised you have the guts to say his name, Harry, after what he put you through."
Harry blinked rapidly and shook his head, trying to clear it of the nauseating buzzing. "After… who?"
Hermione frowned. "Well, you don't have to make us say it, Harry."
"Yeah, no thanks," Snape added tersely, glaring at the tight red carpet weave.
Harry felt the stairway beginning to stretch and sway beneath him, the steps lolling from side to side like planks set in a rope bridge at high wind. "S-say… what?"
Hermione paled, her mouth clamping shut with a hollow snap.
Snape muttered something unintelligible into the floor, and Hermione gave him a sharp kick. He raised his voice in response, reiterating, "I said 'damn him to hell.' Probably the devil himself, though, so it doesn't matter." He grinned wryly. "Just proves what the Irish say about redheads."
Acid that would have set to work on Harry's breakfast shot to the top of his throat. He reached out a trembling hand to steady himself against the stone.
Snape shook his head. "Damn that… that…" He gathered a courageous breath. "Damn that Wea—"
"Don't say it!" Hermione shrieked, clapping her hands over her ears.
But it was too late.
Harry keeled over in a dead faint.