As he passed the threshold of the heavy wooden door, his steps echoing off the cold stone floor, Harry felt dread descend upon him. Behind him, the Weasley twins were glaring at his back as they silently followed Professor Snape into his office. One of them was also trying his best not to drip blood from his nose onto Snape's floor. The Professor's office was large, with bubbling cauldrons and massive cupboards, presumably filled with ingredients. The most recognisable thing about it, however, was its odour, which was filled with a thousand different scents that combined to thoroughly oversaturate the nose. At least the one with the smashed nose wouldn't have to deal with that.
Snape sat down behind his long wooden desk, which was covered in scraps of parchment, weights, measures, ingredients and other instruments of his craft. He looked at them with a sneer as they nervously stood across from him, the Weasley twins fidgeting somewhat nervously.
"Potter…and the Weasley's." He said slowly, as if mulling the words over in his brain. He smiled viciously, like a predator who caught sight of his prey. "Duelling is explicitly forbidden, Potter, although I'm not surprised our celebrity seems to think the rules do not apply to him. I will take it upon myself to disabuse you of this errant notion."
Harry found himself nervously tapping his foot, desperate for this nightmare to be over as soon as possible. But instead, Snape took his time, savouring the experience of tarnishing the reputation of Gryffindor's celebrity. He did his best not to meet the Professor's eyes as Snape regarded him coolly, doubtless considering the most humiliating punishment.
Snape broke the silence, continuing with iron in his voice. "I will not have students running around making a mockery of the rules of this institution, nor will I have some arrogant child thinking himself above the rules. Despite what you may think, Potter, I don't care who you think you are. You are nothing but a spoilt, arrogant whelp."
Harry just lowered his eyes and took the tirade. As much as the description rankled, in both its wrongness and its unkind assumptions of his character, it would not do to talk back to the man. He just wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. As the Weasleys fidgeted anxiously, waiting for their turn to face the music, Harry could almost feel the grains in the hourglass falling. He had no idea how long he had, but he figured he wouldn't have very long if he wanted to catch Quirrell in the act.
Snape, ignorant of his victim's internal monologue, continued. "You are not special, Potter, no matter what that scar on your forehead may lead you to believe. I know your type, Potter. Do not think I'll treat you any different from other students. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"
Harry shook his head meekly, looking down at the ground and trying his best to look suitably chastened.
"Nothing? So sure of your celebrity getting you out of it you didn't bother to come up with a cover story, no doubt. Typical of your laziness. It is no wonder Longbottom gets into so much trouble. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and you shall have a week of detention, with me, starting now. You are not to attend the feast until you can eat off every desk in my classroom, understand?" Snape then stood up, a loathsome gleam of triumph in his eyes. "With me, Potter."
Harry's lips tightened in displeasure at the ruling as Snape swept past him and out the door. A detention tomorrow he could handle, but right now? Not a chance. Still, there was nothing to be done for now. Dejectedly, he followed in the professor's wake, knowing there was nothing to be gained by protesting the decision. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of the Weasley's robes, who seemed unsure as to whether they were meant follow. Snape, his hearing acute, solved the dilemma for him.
"You two stay." He said coldly. "Do not for a moment think that you are safe. I suspect it was no coincidence the target of Potter's fit of celebrity pique were you two dunderheaded troublemakers."
The twins stopped their movement, glancing anxiously at each other as they were left to contemplate their fate.
Harry followed the professor to the potions classroom, the dimly lit corridors loathsomely redolent of the Third Task's maze. Snape opened the heavy wooden door, chivvying him inside. Harry dutifully bowed his head and walked through, hoping to fool his one-time mentor into thinking him cowed.
Snape followed him, as Harry waited, noticing the distinct lack of cleaning apparatus.
"Tweak!" Snape said suddenly.
A small, wiry figure clad in a dirty apron appeared with a pop. Taking in its wide eyes and strange features, Harry immediately identified it as one of the Hogwarts House Elves.
"Master Snape calls?" It said tremulously, looking up at the professor.
"I need a sponge and some soap here, the boy will be cleaning the room tonight." Snape said imperiously.
The elf clicked its finger, and a bucket filled with soapy water and a sponge appeared on the table closest to Harry.
"Would yous be requiring anything else, master?"
"No, get back to preparing the feast."
Another pop, and the festy little creature had returned to whence it came. Snape gestured to the bucket with a jabbing finger. "To work, Potter! Its past time you understand how those of lesser status fill their days."
Harry, not particularly set on enlightening the the man as to the irony of that statement, picked up the sponge, feeling the warm water run down his hands. It was an unpleasant reminder of the life he had once lived, locked out from his heritage and his birthright of his place in the magical world. He hesitated for a moment, hoping his supervisor would go back to deal with the Weasleys left in his office. But, to Harry's disappointment, the man seemed set on watching the young Potter's "humiliation". Harry sighed, and got to work, running the sponge up and down the table's length, removing a few encrusted bits of bat's liver as he did so. Snape kept watching, a thin, unpleasant smile etched onto his face. Did the man not have anything better to do? Actually ,considering what Harry knew of the man's social life, he probably did not.
Another precious minute slipped away, and Snape showed no signs of moving. Harry gripped the sponge tighter, forcing down his impulse to tell Snape that there were two dangerous youths still in his office.
Fortunately, he didn't have to. The thought must have occurred to Snape as well for, after another minute of table-cleaning, he sighed. "I shall return shortly, Potter, and I'd best find you here or I'll have you so riddled with detention you'll be serving them after you graduate." With that, he whirled around with a flick of his cloak, and left the room.
Harry waited a few seconds, listening for the retreating footsteps. He wouldn't put it past his wily old head of house to have left as a ruse. In what he hoped was a change to his luck that night, however, it appeared Snape had truly left for good. Harry waited a few seconds more, just in case. Nothing.
Harry cautiously opened the door, wincing as it creaked a little. It still boggled the mind how the wizarding world could be so sophisticated in some aspects, and yet in others was unable to produce the same effect as some WD40. Still, judging by the lack of a furious professor, it appeared the wizarding world's backwardness had not hampered him this time.
Thanks to his years of exploration, he knew the dungeons like the back of his hand. Cautiously, he scurried down the passageway, praying that Snape hadn't forgotten something in the room and had come back to get it. He came near to the end of the corridor where there was a ninety degree turn to the right. The receding footsteps of Professor Snape were going down it, suggesting he was just about to duck into his office to deal with the Weasley twins. On cue, he heard the telltale sound of a latch, followed by the creak of a door. A few moments later, the sounds of the door slamming into its frame echoed down the empty stone passageways. This was his chance. Hurriedly, Harry crouched and ran as fast as he dared down the passageway. He passed Snape's office, where the menacing voice of Severus Snape could be heard. He didn't stop to listen. Instead, he continued his expedition, thanking whatever gods were watching over him for his deliverance (all the while cursing them for making him do it in the first place.) At last, he reached the end of the corridor. With a silent, mocking salute directed at the door to Snape's office, he scurried up the stairs.
He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Hang on." He muttered to himself. "I just ran from blooming potions…where the hell is everybody?" He frowned for a moment, as the pieces began to connect in his mind. Unknown amount of time following, being harangued by, and supervised by Snape. No students in the hallways. Snape trying to delay going somewhere else.
Shit.
The Feast had already begun.
Harry dashed up the stairs two at a time, racing against time in his mad sprint. One or two confused faces of latecomers watched him rush past, before continuing on their way to the feast. He ignored them, concentrating on controlling his ragged breathing, which threatened to stop him more thoroughly than any troll could. Dodging past a stray bystander, he flew into the bottom floor of the Grand Staircase. He stopped for a moment as he took in the architecture of the room. As impressive as the changing staircases were, they also made it abominably difficult to get anywhere with any degree of reliability, as they rearranged themselves into configurations that boggled the mind in their inefficiency. Today, however, the castle seemed to be merciful. A staircase at that very moment detached from its mooring and came down with a soft thunk right in front of Harry who, deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, took the proffered transport greatfully as he continued his desperate sprint. After he reached the top of the stairs he rushed headlong down the passageway that lead to the girl's bathroom, where the troll was first sighted. As he thought of the bathroom, he felt an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his head, as if he was forgetting something terribly important. Dismissing it as mere nerves, he slowed down as he reached the corner of the passageway leading to the girl's bathroom. Then he bent down, clutching the stitch in his side, which stung painfully with every breath he took. He sniffed the air. He could swear that he smelt something strange, although he was unsure as to whether it was a mere flight of fancy or if it was the distinctive stench of troll. He straightened, grabbing his wand and taking a deep breath. He was close now, he knew it. Then he turned the corner…
Suddenly, a large object ran right into him, sending him sprawling. He felt his head crack painfully on the stone floor, sending lances of pain shooting through his head and black spots swimming around his eyes. He moaned, looking stupidly around for the source of this pain. Then he found it.
Professor Quirrell looked back at him, his mouth slack and his eyes wide with shock. His mouth opened and closed, like a fish caught out of the sea. Harry just looked at him uncomprehendingly, his brain more concerned with sorting out the aches and bruises that were now on his body.
Quirrell stuttered a few more times, before finally stuttering out a garbled sentence. "T-t-t-troll! Troll in the dungeons!" He cried, before stumbling to his feet and sprinting down to the Great Hall.
Harry's mind swam for a few moments, as he looked at the strange man who was now beating a hasty retreat. He watched the man go out of sight, all the while trying to work out what on earth was going on. Who was he? Why was he here? Who was that? And why was his forehead hurting so damned much? He lay there for a few moments, his battered mind doing its best to sketch out a confused picture of the situation. He was here for a reason, he was certain of that. Then, his mind all came flooding back.
"You great big bloody wanker." He snarled as he forced himself onto his hands and knees. He suppressed the urge to retch as he slowly began to rise, stumbling forward a little as he did so. The corridor swirled around him a little as he did so, the ancient stone built by the long dead greats of yesteryear mocking him with their solidity. As he straightened, he leaned perilously backwards, he centre of gravity moving further and further from the solid bases of his feet. Head still swimming, he forced himself forward, feeling all too much like a weak tree in a cyclone. TO his surprise, the world finally decided to stop spinning, and although his legs felt weak and his thoughts felt like they were moving through molasses, he seemed otherwise unimpeded. Cautiously, he looked around him, getting his bearings. He looked down the corridor, past the girls' bathroom. No troll yet, which was something at least. Behind him, Quirrell had doubtless left him far behind by now, and was probably pulling his act in front of the whole school by now. He vacillated for a moment, swaying this way and that whilst wondering whether he should follow Quirrell, or catch sight of the troll. His mind, still stubbornly refusing to cooperate fully, at least had the decency to remind him that Quirrell would not be suspicious to the Headmaster unless Harry caught the lie and proved the troll was not in the dungeons, but was, in fact, on the first floor and in Quirrell's proximity (thus suggesting he had a hand in the troll's sudden appearance.)
Slowly, Harry began walking down the corridor, concentrating on keeping his legs stable. The odour of troll was definitely becoming more obvious now, and he fancied he could hear the dull thud of its footsteps. He looked to the right as he passed the girl's bathroom, with that itchy feeling in his head back in full force. Why was he so bent on the girl's bathrooms? Had the knock to his head turned him into a creepy pervert? No, there was definitely something else. He shook his head, a decision he immediately regretted as the world spun a little as he did so. It took him a moment to regain his bearings as he shrugged off the strange feeling. Whatever the mystery of the girl's bathroom was, he was sure it could wait while he caught sight of the troll. He steadied himself, then continued walking to the end. At then end of the corridor, he peeked his head out from behind the stone as he heard the ever-closer thud of the beast's footsteps.
And then, there it was. In all its ugly, malodorous, stupid glory. A twelve foot tall thing, thankfully wearing a loincloth, swinging a club happily in its hand. Oblivious, it strolled towards him, its long legs carrying it several times the length of a human stride.
Harry just nodded in satisfaction. As far as he was concerned, his work here was done. Slinking back from the edge of the wall, he turned and began walking as quickly as he dared back down to the Great Hall. He passed the girl's bathrooms, which, if he remembered correctly, had been utterly smashed by the thing the first time the troll had come through. It really was a miracle nobody was in there. He frowned and stopped. Why was that damn itching feeling back again? There was something, he was sure of it. His mind flashed back to earlier that day.
"She's in the girl's bathrooms." Lavender had said.
No. Surely not. What where the odds the girl had gone to this set of bathrooms?
It didn't matter what the odds were. He had to know. As the smell of troll became even stronger, he opened the door, praying the girl had left for the feast, or was at least anywhere else but here.
He opened the door, and was sorely disappointed, for he heard the muffled, but clearly audible sobs of one Hermione Granger.