Harry almost ripped his mouth apart.
Climbing with a bucket of water to the top of the Astronomy Tower, he was yawning so frenetically that he could easily infect anyone with his contagious affliction. Yet, there was nobody to bump into at midnight as even Peeves had settled down in a more suitable place until dawn. Nevertheless, it was out of Harry's hands – he couldn't have started his detention any earlier as the Hufflepuff fifth-years had been having their astronomy lesson. (And when else to study the movements of the stars, if not in the dead of night?) Except the Hufflepuffs were already off to their beds, and the next day their classes started after lunch, while Harry had yet to clean the whole tower before dragging himself to the Dark Arts class early in the morning.
He hated Snape. He always had, but it was usually a constant, steady emotion, incessantly fuelled from deep sources of his inner being – a total scum, who gave Harry's parents away to Voldemort, a brute, who bullied him from his first year, an envious coward, who ruined his godfather's life, a traitor, who murdered Albus Dumbledore with the Killing Curse. Right now Harry's hatred was experiencing a tidal wave and was virtually drowning him, getting close to his very throat. What was more he hated not only Snape, but also himself. Now, when he knew so much about the new headmaster that he would prefer to know far less, when the whole world could fall apart at any moment, and he came to school purely to find the damn Horcruxes – why, in the name of Merlin, did he continue to obey Snape? Didn't he have anything more constructive to do but to clean a tower?
He would be better spending his time reading some books about Horcruxes as Hermione had found something in the library. She had doted on the realm of Madam Pince even in the old days, and now she was practically hiding in there from Hogwarts' recent innovations. There, at least, she wasn't forced to give way to Slytherins and sit apart from the pure-bloods. Of course, Hermione would tell him tomorrow if she had come across anything useful, but Harry simply didn't want to wash an endless spiral staircase. In fact, his punishment wasn't the most horrible and humiliating, but, firstly, it was imposed by Snape, and secondly, Harry had the most difficult memories associated with this tower. With a bitter grin, Potter thought the new headmaster would be delighted to learn that he had made the Boy-Who-Lived clean the tower in which he had killed the previous headmaster right in front of his, Harry's, eyes. Indeed, the detention turned out to be much harsher than one might have thought. However, Harry didn't mean to shirk his duty as 'Neville Longbottom' had absolutely no intention of drawing attention to himself and reminding Snape the reason for his punishment. He'd rather wash the damn stairs.
Harry finally made it to the top. He could push the door and go out into the icy rain, to the open walkway of the tower, where…where irreparable damage had been done, but he decided not to do so as he was already in a pretty revolting mood. Trying not to waste time dwelling on the past and forcing himself to think only about the Horcruxes, Harry dipped a large piece of cleaning rag, which he had obtained from the house-elves, into the water and began mopping the stairs. One step, two steps, three steps. Sod that bloody Snape! Why in blazes had he barged into his office? Another half-minute... or rather a mere fifteen seconds, and they'd have had the sword! Though they still had nothing to chop with it – not even one single Horcrux. Four steps, five steps...
He wasn't allowed to ask for help or to use magic, so Harry didn't even bother cheating: the punishment system was now especially well-controlled at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Six steps, seven steps... He was right: he'd be on these stairs until the morning for sure... The bucket needed to be pulled closer. Actually, Harry had had to do a lot worse domestic chores while living at the Dursley's. To wash the stairs, even a ve-e-ery long one? Hah, easy peasy! Eight steps, nine steps… Boy, he could really do with some sleep. A hard school day, the meeting of Dumbledore's Army, all that venture with Hagrid and his Spooky, homework for tomorrow's classes prepared in a slipshod manner (luckily nobody would say anything to Neville about it). If only he could lie down for a while. Ten, eleven… Poor Hermione! She was also, most likely, not sleeping! Would the Carrows regularly send her to do the laundry or some other additional work? And what to do then? Perhaps she really shouldn't have come to school? Twelve, thirteen... And where on earth was Trevor?
Sighing a long sigh, Harry had to admit to himself that it was time to replace the water in the bucket. A few hundred steps down – he lost count of how many – trying not to meet Dementors patrolling the corridors at night. Then, with the refreshed bucket, the same number of steps up. Harry winced, looking at the fruits of his labour. They were rather modest. For now he had overcome only one spiral of the tower – the main achievement awaiting the young wizard lay far ahead. Harry took the rag with a heavy grunt, intending to dip it into the fresh water, and suddenly froze, dumbfounded.
At the bottom of the bucket sat a toad. And something in its eyes told Harry it was the toad. Taken by surprise, Harry leapt to the step above, where he had placed the bucket, so quickly that he slipped on the wet, eroded-by-time edge and slid down to the next twist of the spiral along with the clattering bucket. It was more frustrating than painful. Firstly, Harry was soaking wet, secondly, he now had to refill the bucket, and thirdly, Trevor had disappeared once again. Beginning to suspect the toad of an adherence to unknown dark magic, Harry searched every inch of the stairs at least five times, but Neville's pet was gone. Having no other option, Harry wrung his robes and humbly dragged himself downstairs to get more water. Steps, steps down, bucket and water, steps up, steps. Snape just a total scoundrel! The only good thing was that with each and every similar call his route would be reduced. Harry gritted his teeth and continued to serve his time.
He had run down these very stairs that dreadful night, faster than he had ever run. Following the Death Eaters, who had been wrecking Hogwarts. Casting aside the enemies with his spells and jumping over their bodies, almost coming in range of the lethal teeth of a werewolf, almost losing Ginny (the heinous murderer Amycus, who would come tomorrow to their class under the guise of Professor Carrow, had been trying to put a Cruciatus Curse on the sixteen-year-old girl). The whole corridor adjacent to the stairs had been overcrowded with fighting wizards and overfilled with combat spells. And now it was so quiet that Harry's ears practically popped from the silence. He was all alone here – no Ginny, no Order of the Phoenix. And Dumbledore could never be beside him again. They thought they had won the battle, but in fact they had lost it. Hogwarts was captured from the inside.
Harry sat down on the steps somewhere in the middle of the stairs. It was way after three, and the torches on the walls were exchanging a fluttering, twisting light with each other, the flames trembling in an invisible draught. The shadows danced on the walls and seemed to repeat the hideous images that slipped through the young man's mind. Though, it was a magical castle, so maybe its walls really could remember the last battle for Hogwarts. No, not the last one! They…they would fight again, their turn would come! They'd regain Hogwarts, and it'd become magnificent and fabulous, as it had been with Dumbledore, or even better!
Harry continued mopping the stairs in a wild fury. He felt niffler-tired but managed to overcome his exhaustion and was pretty much surprised to discover the step he was rubbing was the final one. The bluish morning light was already creeping in through the tower's side windows. Snape was a filthy despicable swine, and he'd get what he deserved. Harry rinsed and wrung the rag, washed the bucket and, with emphasized neatness, put it in its place. Then he went back to the stairs, hesitated in front of them for a couple of seconds and, slowly lowering the rolled-up sleeves of his sweater, began to climb back to the top. First twist of the spiral, the second, the third...
The roofless battlement met him with a pale pre-dawn glow, a blast of wind in his face and the usual icy rain. Everything looked exactly the same as on that fateful night. But what could have changed in the tower? The merlons darkened against the background of the sky, the circular walkway was flooded by dead emerald light coming from the closely hanging Dark Mark. An unhealthy, lifeless light. As if in a dream, without knowing why – perhaps in order to twist a knife in the open wound of his heart, Harry approached the place where he had stood, speaking for the last time with Professor Dumbledore. This was where the sick, withered, blackened, poisoned hand of the former headmaster had slipped from the shoulder of the Chosen One. For good.
Harry moved closer, to the very crenellation where an Avada Kedavra had hurled Albus Dumbledore from the highest tower of the castle. The ribbons of a crawling mist hid the grounds from his view, and the bright blue sky, in combination with the glow of Voldemort's Mark, gave the surroundings a sharp and almost eye burning contrast. But Harry no longer wanted to look at anything. He sat on the edge of the wall in an embrasure between two merlons and leaned his head against the weather-beaten stone that was drenched under the endless rain. Silly – was he hoping to be closer to Dumbledore here? Hoped to acquire inner strength or ideas for a frightening, incomprehensible, but absolutely inevitable fight? Normally Harry wasn't prone to melancholy, but right now the grief suddenly took hold of him. For a moment he had a feeling that there was no way out, that his only option was to die just like Dumbledore had, for if Dumbledore himself couldn't think of anything better, why should he? Friends, teachers, the entire Hogwarts were far below, as if the tower again was separated from the whole world with a magic barrier. Harry felt the most profound loneliness. Professor Dumbledore used to know how to lighten it, but, just when Harry, more than ever, needed his advice or the slightest hint of what should be done next, he wasn't around anymore. Without him Harry was desperately close to sinking into despair from the realisation of his own powerlessness.
Harry automatically raised his hand to remove his glasses as it was uncomfortable to cry in them. He completely forgot he didn't wear them anymore! The hair of the last-year was completely wet, but it still didn't attain the jet-black tint that was necessary to be Potter. He didn't look like the hero or the hope, not even a tiny bit. Fortunately, the Dark Lord, who was searching everywhere for the Boy-Who-Lived, didn't dare sink into the consciousness of his nemesis at this very moment. Otherwise, he'd be utterly amazed to learn that the elusive Harry Potter was sitting, alone, right under the Dark Mark on top of Hogwarts' tallest tower, bitterly mourning the death of his dear headmaster.
"I'm going nuts," Harry said to himself. "Why in the name of Merlin's pants am I sitting here, hugging stones, when I should be looking for Horcruxes or, at the very least, for the toad?"
Flinching abruptly, he detached himself from the merlon, intending to stand up, but remained where he was, as if glued to the spot. He thought he had seen something glittering in a crack, covered by a thin layer of lichen and moss, between the crenellation and the walkway. Harry wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to retrieve the unidentified object. He struggled fruitlessly for two minutes or so before he remembered he had a magic wand. It was much easier to force the object out using his wand as a lever so in the next moment he finally prised a small, ribbed vial out from the fissure. The vial was crystal and obviously filled with some sort of magical substance. Harry looked around (paranoia – only Voldemort's Mark was watching him), patted his pockets in search of glasses, remembered once again that he didn't wear them anymore, and immersed himself in an examination of his find. After another half a minute he had to admit that the vial was relatively unremarkable – many wizards used similar ones… for various reasons. Snape, for example, carried in them poisons, antidotes, a truth serum or a potion that pacified werewolves at full moon... The silvery-bluish cloudy-esque substance inside the vial actually looked pretty much like memories. The monogram 'D' on the crystal side awakened an unconscious, desperate hope that it could be a message from Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps he had left it here during that fateful night? Maybe the former headmaster had hoped that Harry would sooner or later (better the former) return to this place? Harry was more than eager for the explanation to be exactly that. But in order to achieve the desired conclusion, it was necessary to have a dip into these memories first. Harry didn't see anything dangerous in a vial of somebody's memories, so he carefully pushed the crystal container into his pocket with a trembling hand. In any case, it was something – an excellent reward for the one who had accepted his detention honestly!