*Revised 2/18/18
After the predictably torturous ordeal of lunch, Harry made his way to his first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the year. He had escaped his friends with the excuse that he needed the loo, and now slowly trudged through the corridors alone. It wasn't even that farfetched of an excuse; the few bites he'd taken of his ham and cheese sandwich had turned his stomach. All he really wanted to do at the moment was take a nice, long nap, but he really couldn't afford another detention, nor making his friends worry more. They were driving him mad as it was!
Eventually Harry made it to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, taking a seat next to Ron, resting his elbows on the desk, and setting his face in his hands in the hope of catching a few dregs of sleep before class began. Professor Lupin was nowhere to be seen, most of the students looking around curiously, taking out books, quills, and parchment as they talked. After a few minutes, in which the noise grew progressively louder, accompanying the constant pounding in Harry's head, Professor Lupin entered. He smiled vaguely, placing his tatty old briefcase on the teacher's desk. He was as shabby as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train, as though he had had a few square meals.
"Good afternoon," he said genially. "Would you please put all your books back in your bags. Today's will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands."
A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put away their books. They'd never had a practical Defense Against the Dark Arts class before, unless you counted the memorable class last year when their old teacher had brought a cageful of pixies to class and set them loose. Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged, before turning back to study Professor Lupin.
"Right then," said the Professor, when everyone was ready. "If you'd follow me."
Puzzled but interested, the class got to its feet and followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led them along the deserted corridor and around a corner where the first thing they saw was Peeves the Poltergeist, who was floating upside down in midair and stuffing the nearest keyhole with chewing gum.
Peeves didn't look up until Professor Lupin was two feet away, then he wiggled his curly-toed feet and broke into song, grinning.
"Loony, loopy Lupin," Peeves sang mirthfully. "Loony, loopy Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin-"
Rude and unmanageable as he almost always was, Peeves usually showed some respect toward the teachers. Everyone looked quickly at Professor Lupin to see how he would take this: to their surprise, he was still smiling.
"I'd take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you, Peeves," he said pleasantly, though his tone reminded Harry uneasily of Uncle Vernon for a moment. "Mr. Filch won't be able to get in to his brooms."
Filch was the Hogwarts caretaker, a bad-tempered, failed wizard who waged a constant war against the students and, indeed, Peeves. However, Peeves paid no attention to Professor Lupin's words except to blow a loud, wet raspberry, cackling slightly.
Professor Lupin gave a small sigh and took out his wand.
"This is a useful little spell," he told the class over his shoulder. "Please watch closely."
He raised the wand to shoulder height, said, "Waddiwasi!" and pointed it at Peeves.
With the force of a bullet the wad of chewing gum shot out of the keyhole and straight down Peeves's left nostril; he whirled upright and zoomed away, cursing and shaking an angry fist at the Professor.
"Cool, sir!" Dean Thomas said in amazement.
"Thank you, Dean," Professor Lupin casually said with a smile, putting his wand away again. "Shall we proceed?"
They set off again, the class looking at shabby Professor Lupin with increased respect. He led them down a second corridor and stopped, right outside the staffroom door.
"Inside, please," Professor Lupin said, opening it and standing back to let the students pass. Harry decided that the Professor was politer than any adult he'd ever met.
The staffroom, a long, paneled room full of old, mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher. Professor Snape was sitting in a low armchair, and he looked around as the class filed in. His eyes were glittering and there was a nasty sneer playing about his mouth. As Professor Lupin came in and made to close the door behind him, Snape said, "Leave it open, Lupin. I'd rather not witness this."
He got to his feet and strode past the class, casting a particularly loathing look at the Professor, black robes billowing behind him. Harry thought it odd: Snape usually reserved that look – like scum under his feet – for any student who particularly angered him, usually being Harry. Snape treated the other teachers with at least some respect. At the doorway Snape turned on his heel and spat, "Possibly no one's warned you, Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I would advise you not to entrust him with anything difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear."
Neville went scarlet. Harry glared at Snape; it was bad enough that he bullied Neville in his own classes, let alone doing it in front of other teachers.
Professor Lupin had raised his eyebrows.
"I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the first stage of the operation," he said, "and I am sure he will perform it admirably."
Neville's face went, if possible, even redder. Snape's lip curled, but he left, shutting the door with a snap.
"Now, then," said Professor Lupin, beckoning the class toward the end of the room, where there was nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand next to it the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, banging off the wall.
"Nothing to worry about," said Professor Lupin calmly as a few people had jumped backward in alarm. Neville had nearly fallen over. "There's a boggart in there."
Most people seemed to feel that this was something to worry about. Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of pure terror, and Seamus Finnigan eyed the now rattling doorknob apprehensively.
"Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces," said Professor Lupin. "Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks-" Harry tensed slightly at the mention of cupboards, before chastising himself for being silly. It's not as if he slept there anymore, and he was certain he'd never roomed with a boggart. "I've even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my third years some practice."
"So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a boggart?"
Hermione's hand shot up, right on cue.
"It's a shape-shifter," she said. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most."
"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Professor Lupin. Hermione glowed at the praise. "So the boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. He does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears."
"This means," said Professor Lupin, choosing to ignore Neville's small sputter of terror, "that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?"
Harry was caught off guard by the sudden question, though he really shouldn't have been. Teachers at Hogwarts always called on him at first, wanting to know just how good the 'famous Harry Potter' was at their subject. After a few classes the novelty wore off, though, Snape and his jibes excluded. However, it was immensely difficult to think up an answer with Hermione next to him, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet with her hand in the air. Harry didn't feel very confident but he had a go at answering, nevertheless.
"Er- because there are so many of us, it won't know what shape to be?" Harry mumbled tentatively.
"Precisely," said Professor Lupin, and Hermione put her hand down, looking a little disappointed. "It's always best to have company when you're dealing with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake –tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening."
"The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing."
"We will practice the charm without wands first. After me, please... riddikulus!"
"Riddikulus!" the class said together, several people sniggering afterwards, obviously amused by the spell's resemblance to a certain word. The laughter stopped as the wardrobe gave an angry shudder.
"Good," said Professor Lupin. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Neville."
The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as Neville, who walked forward as though he were heading for the gallows.
"Right, Neville," said Professor Lupin. "First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"
Neville's lips moved, but no noise came out.
"Didn't catch that, Neville, sorry," Professor Lupin said cheerfully.
Neville looked around rather wildly, as though begging someone to help him, then said, in barely more than a whisper, "Professor Snape."
Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked thoughtful.
"Professor Snape, hmmm... Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"
"Er- yes," said Neville nervously. "But I don't want the boggart to turn into her either," he quickly finished, to the amusement of the class.
"No, no, no, you misunderstand me," said Professor Lupin, now smiling. "I wonder, could you tell us what sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?"
Neville looked startled, but stammered, "Well- always the same hat. A tall one- with a stuffed vulture on top. And a long dress... green, normally... and sometimes a fox-fur scarf." Harry was perplexed by the odd assortment of clothing. He had known that wizards sometimes dressed strangely, but that was absurd. Who would wear a stuffed vulture as a hat?
"And a handbag?" prompted Professor Lupin.
"A big red one," confirmed Neville.
"Right then," said Professor Lupin. "Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"
"Yes," Neville mumbled uncertainly, plainly wondering what was coming next.
"When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of Professor Snape," said Lupin, gesturing to the wardrobe with his hand. "And you will raise your wand –thus-" he demonstrated, "and cry 'Riddikulus' –and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with that big red handbag."
Neville's mouth dropped open in shock and the class gave a great shout of laughter. The wardrobe wobbled more violently.
"If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn," said Professor Lupin. "I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical..."
The room went quiet. Harry thought... what was the thing that scared him most in the world?
At first his mind jumped to Voldemort- a Voldemort returned to full strength. After all, he had almost killed Harry twice in the same number of years. But, before he could even begin to plan a possible attack on Boggart-Voldemort, a horrible thought drifted to the surface of his mind. That night on the train... That scabbed, rotting hand pulling open the compartment door. A rattling, frozen breath sucking the life from the room. The feeling of complete emptiness, utter desolation. Suffocating, pulled deep underwater to drown in icy depths...
He shuddered, goosebumps popping up on his arms despite the fact that he was quite warm. He looked around, hoping no one had noticed. Many people had their eyes shut tight, faces scrunched in concentration. Ron was muttering to himself, "Take its legs off..." Harry was sure he knew what that was about. Ron's greatest fear was spiders.
"Everyone ready?" asked Professor Lupin.
Harry felt a lurch of fear, adding to the already sickening nausea in his stomach. He wasn't ready. How could you make a dementor less frightening? But he didn't want to ask for more time; everyone else was nodding and rolling up their sleeves.
"Neville, we're going to back away," said Professor Lupin, "let you have a clear field, alright? I'll call the next person forward... Everyone back, now, so Neville can get a clear shot-"
They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and frightened, but he had pushed up the sleeves of his robes and was holding his wand ready.
"On the count of three, Neville," said Professor Lupin, who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. "One - two - three - now!"
A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin's wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville.
Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him, reaching inside his robes.
"R- r- riddikulus!" squeaked Neville.
There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled: he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and he was swinging a huge crimson handbag.
There was a roar of laughter; the boggart paused, confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, "Parvati! Forward!"
Parvati walked forward, her face set. Snape rounded on her. There was another crack, and where he had stood was a bloodstained, bandaged mummy. Its sightless face was turned to Parvati and it began to walk toward her very slowly, dragging its feet, its stiff arms rising -
"Riddikulus!" cried Parvati.
A bandage became unraveled at the mummy's feet; its legs became entangled and it fell forward, its head rolling off.
"Seamus!" roared Professor Lupin jovially.
Seamus darted past Parvati.
Crack! Where the mummy had been was a woman with floor-length black hair and a skeletal, green-tinged face –a banshee. She opened her mouth wide and an unearthly sound filled the room: a long, wailing shriek that made the hair on Harry's head stand on end-
"Riddikulus!" shouted Seamus.
The banshee made a rasping noise and clutched her throat: her voice was gone.
Crack! the banshee turned into a rat, then- Crack! a rattlesnake, then- Crack! a single, bloody eyeball.
"It's confused!" shouted Lupin. "We're getting there! Dean!"
Dean hurried forward, wand at the ready.
Crack! The eyeball became a severed hand, which flipped over and began to creep along the floor like a crab.
"Riddikulus!" yelled Dean, and the hand was trapped in a mousetrap with a loud snap.
"Excellent! Ron, you next!"
Ron leapt forward.
Crack!
Quite a few people screamed. A giant spider, six feet tall and covered in hair, was advancing on Ron, clicking its pincers menacingly. It was the spitting image of the ones they had encountered in the forest last year. For a moment Harry thought Ron had frozen. Then-
"Riddikulus!" bellowed Ron, and the spider's legs vanished; it rolled over and over (Lavender Brown squealed and ran out of its way) and came to a halt at Harry's feet. He had raised his wand, ready, when he saw Lupin take a half-step forward, as if to intercept the boggart. Lupin stilled again, a conflicted look on his face, but Harry was thrown off by the sudden movement, unsure of what to do.
Crack! The boggart changed, an icy draft sweeping through the room as a dementor materialized. Harry froze, staring into the impenetrable darkness of its hood, unable to look away, frozen heart pounding. He barely noticed the collective gasp of his classmates. How could a dementor be less scary? It advanced on him, gliding over the stone floor...
Crack! The dementor changed suddenly, becoming a... person? His breath caught in his chest as he recognized a hulking, male form. What the-? Crack! The man became a woman... His aunt? He would recognize her bony frame anywhere. Crack! His aunt became... himself? There was too little time to tell as the boggart continued its split-second changes. Harry could only stare, dizzy and trembling with fear. Why was he afraid? What was going on? Was the boggart confused? Crack! The boggart paused in its shifting, becoming a sort of dark mist, not black, but as if light itself couldn't reach it. A set of glowing red eyes peered out at him and Harry felt every hair on his body stand on end, a cold shiver running down his spine at the sheer malice emanating from those hateful eyes: Voldemort's eyes, but unlike he had ever seen them before.
Then, suddenly, there was another loud crack and the dementor reappeared, sweeping towards Harry, sucking in a rattling, sickly breath, freezing him solid. He couldn't breathe. The very air had solidified into a frozen block. Time itself stopped as the ragged black shape came ever closer...
Suddenly Professor Lupin was in front of him, yelling, "Here!" arms waving to attract the monster's attention.
Crack! For a moment Harry thought that the boggart had vanished, sucking in a gasp of air from the suddenly warm room, but no, a silvery-white orb was hanging in the air in front of Lupin. The professor said, "Riddikulus!" almost lazily. Crack! The orb became a balloon, which sputtered air as it deflated.
"Forward, Neville, and finish him off!" Lupin said as the balloon fell to the floor, becoming a cockroach with a sharp crack. He gave Harry a concerned glance as he drew back. Crack! Snape was back. This time Neville charged forward, looking determined.
"Riddikulus!" Neville bellowed, and they had a split-second view of Snape in his lacy dress before Neville let out a loud, "Ha!" of laughter, and the boggart exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, and was gone.
Harry looked around as the class burst into applause, noticing the less-than-subtle looks many people were giving him. He immediately felt annoyed. It wasn't his fault that the boggart went berserk on him. And it wasn't his fault that he couldn't defeat it... He doubted anyone could've come up with an idea so quickly. He knew he was lying to himself, though, as he felt his cheeks burning. He was the only one who hadn't been able to defeat the dementor; what a failure. Malfoy would be having a field day.
"Excellent, excellent," cheered Professor Lupin. "Excellent, Neville. And well done, everyone... Let me see... five points to Gryffindor for every person to tackle the boggart –ten for Neville because he did it twice... and five each to Hermione and Harry." His eyes lingered on Harry, assessing him with another troubled look.
"But I didn't do anything," Harry said sullenly, holding back a residual shiver.
"You and Hermione answered my questions correctly at the start of the class, Harry," Lupin said genially. "Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework: kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it for me... to be handed in on Monday. That will be all." He dismissed the class, then added, "Harry, if you would stay after, please."
Harry paused mid-turn, frowning and waving his friends on without him. The rest of the class left the classroom, talking excitedly, as he turned to the Professor.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Professor Lupin asked, walking up and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I'm fine," Harry replied. "I just- I didn't know how to make a dementor..." he trailed off, feeling obligated to provide an explanation, but unsure how to finish.
"How to find it humorous?" Professor Lupin finished with an understanding look. Harry felt his cheeks flush even more.
"Yeah," Harry said lamely, looking at the tips of his worn trainers peeking out from under his robes.
"It's quite alright, Harry," Professor Lupin continued thoughtfully. "I had assumed you would think of Voldemort, but a dementor- very wise."
Harry blinked in surprise. Not only had he been called wise for failing to defeat the dementor, but Lupin had said Voldemort's name. He had only ever heard Dumbledore say it out loud before, of any adults he'd met.
"Why's that, sir?" Harry asked, confused.
"Ah, yes. A dementor causes one to relive their worst memories- their worst fears. To summon a dementor as your boggart suggests that what you truly fear most is… fear itself. That's quite a feat for one as young as you," Lupin said with a smile.
"Er- thanks," Harry said awkwardly, not sure how to respond. He didn't feel very wise, more like incredibly stupid.
"Are you sure that's all you thought of, though? Those other figures..." Lupin continued curiously.
"I'm sure. I don't know what all that was about," Harry said quickly. "The boggart must've been confused or something."
"Hmm, yes," Lupin said, but Harry could tell that he wasn't convinced. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, though? Even a boggart projecting as a dementor can have strong effects." The Professor began rummaging in his tattered robe's pockets.
"I'm fine," Harry said firmly. Truthfully, he felt as if he might collapse at any moment, but he was doing his best to ignore that. He didn't need Professor Lupin thinking he was weak, too.
"If you're sure, then, Harry. I'm certain you want to get back to your friends," Lupin said with an interested smile, handing him a small piece of chocolate.
Harry nodded, took the chocolate and gathered up his wand, which he only just realized he'd dropped, before hurrying out of the room and out into the corridor. His friends straightened up from where they had been leaning against the wall outside, giving him curious looks which he ignored, starting down the hall.
"What did he want?" Ron asked curiously, catching up to him as they made their way back to the classroom.
"Nothing, just wanted to make sure I was fine after the dementor," Harry said.
Ron seemed oblivious to his friend's bad mood, laughing. "Did you see Snape in that dress? I wish I had a picture of that. And the way I took on that spider!" He grinned. "That was the best Defense lesson we've ever had, wasn't it?"
"He seems like a very good teacher," Hermione said approvingly. "But I wish I could've had a turn with the boggart-"
"What would it have been for you?" asked Ron, sniggering. "A piece of homework that only got nine out of ten?"
Harry couldn't resist laughing at that, to Hermione's annoyance. She huffed and didn't reply.
They reunited with the rest of the class as they entered the classroom, gathering up their things. Everyone seemed to be excited from the lesson, all discussing their feats with the boggart. But Harry was still thinking about that pair of red eyes, staring into the depths of his soul. So like Voldemort's and yet... not, somehow. Where did they come from? Thoughts swirled around in Harry's head for the rest of the afternoon, pestering him as much as his friends and about as likely to leave him alone. Fortunately, Ron seemed happy to relive his success in the Defense lesson, allowing Harry to get away with a few noncommittal grunts in response. As pestering as his thoughts were, he couldn't seem to focus on them long enough to figure them out. They only floated through his mind, humming like angry bees, stinging him every time he got close to an answer.
By the time dinner came he was feeling incredibly tired, even more than he had been: almost unnaturally so. He was used to being tired from his time at the Dursleys, working around the house every day, but this was different. It was as if his body and mind were simply shutting down, weights tied to his limbs. Or like he was walking underwater, everything muted and blurred. The dull, burning pain emanating from what seemed like everywhere was the only thing keeping him focused.
The very thought of food made his stomach lurch so he told his friends to go down without him: he needed a nap. He wasn't even lying this time. He must've looked as bad as he felt because they didn't even try to force him, just gave him worried looks, especially Hermione.
He trudged up the stairs to the dormitory, sitting down at the top and taking deep breaths as he felt his head spin. What was wrong with him? He'd never felt this bad before, not at Hogwarts, unless he'd just been attacked by a dark lord or a basilisk. He laid his cheek against the cold stone, shivering and freezing, yet burning hot at the same time. He lost sight of the present as he slid down the wall to curl up on the uncomfortable stone, slipping instantly into a fitful sleep.
The next thing he knew someone was shaking his shoulder. He sat up with a jolt, blinking as the world spun around him.
"-arry!" Ron's voice said. He sounded frantic.
"Wha-" Harry mumbled, fighting not to let his eyes drift closed again,
"You're late for detention, Harry!" Hermione chimed in fretfully.
Harry awoke fully in less than a second. Late for detention? Oh no, oh no... Snape was going to kill him! And then chop him up for potions ingredients!
He mumbled a swear and shot to his feet, dashing down the stairs, Ron's horrified, pitying look and Hermione's disapproving one following him. He made it to the portrait hole in record time, jumping down, when his ankle gave under him. He let out a pained gasp, muscles tightening against the sudden flare of pain. He got up again in a moment, determined not to be any later for his detention, busted ankle or not. Snape would do a whole lot worse to him. Clenching his jaw he set off at a run to the dungeons, one hand trailing on the wall to keep balance.
He arrived at the door to Snape's office and bent over, hands on his knees, panting. His heart was pounding, his ankle throbbing in time to the beat, the pain seeming to spread until his entire body was pulsating with waves of hurt. He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment before straightening up and knocking, doing his best to keep the exhaustion from his face.
Snape opened the door, cold anger radiating from his dark, imposing form, silhouetted against the candlelight. "You're late, Potter," he sneered. "While I assume that your other teachers ignore such disrespect... You will find that imitating a mentally challenged troll will not gain my favor. Detention tomorrow, seven o'clock, and do not be late."
Harry reflexively opened his mouth to protest, but found that he couldn't muster up the energy. "Yes, sir," He replied dully.
Snape narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but brushed past Harry out into the corridor, shutting the door to the office behind him. "Come with me," he demanded, quickly setting off down the corridor. Harry struggled to keep up, limping heavily as the pain from his ankle truly set in. He started shivering, the sweat from his run drying on his skin and leaving him vulnerable to the frigid air of the dungeons. Snape eerily reminded of a dementor, the way he almost seemed to glide across the stone floor, not making a sound, robes billowing behind him.
After a short walk they came to the Potions classroom and Snape opened the door, ushering him in. Harry did his best to hide his limp, gritting his teeth. He would not show weakness in front of Snape, of all people. The door closed with a bang and Harry jumped, then cursed his stupidity as he felt Snape's burning gaze on his back.
"Sit down, Potter. You'll be juicing leeches," Snape sneered as he brushed past him, gesturing stiffly to a table at the front of the dimly-lit room where two large buckets sat next to a much smaller bowl. Harry shuddered slightly. Yuck, leeches. He would have slime stuck under his nails forever.
Resigning himself to his fate, he took a seat and looked into the buckets. Lo and behold, the one furthest to the right contained what looked to be a hundred live black leeches, squirming in a few inches of water. The other vessels were empty. He now noticed a small potions knife resting next to a cutting board positioned in the center of the table.
"As I doubt you have the capacity to figure it out for yourself," Snape drawled, taking a seat at the teacher's desk and giving him a loathing look, "you will gather the leech juice in the bowl, then dispose of the remainder in the empty bucket. If I find you slacking your detentions will increase to a month, every night." He looked down his hooked nose at Harry expectantly, as if waiting for him to rebel against his orders.
"Yes, sir," Harry said sullenly, getting to work.
As he pulled the first slimy leech out of the bucket, hacking off its sucker with the knife, he noticed his hands were shaking. Badly. He clenched his fists, trying to still the tremors without success. Taking a deep breath and grimacing, he squeezed the leech's liquidy innards into the bowl, then tossed its husk into the empty bucket and picked up another one.
After a while he got into a rhythm, hardly even noticing his pain and tiredness anymore. It was only when he reached into the bucket and his hands found only water that he snapped out of his trance. He peered in, seeing there were no leeches left. Snape noticed as he paused, unsure of what to do next, and strode over, surveying his work with a dark look. The Potions Master's critical eyes roamed the table before flicking upward a moment to Harry's face.
"A waste of perfectly good ingredients, as I expected," Snape sneered. The man turned away quickly, striding to the sinks where several filthy cauldrons were laid out.
"You will clean these now, Potter," Snape said ominously, "without magic. You are not to leave a speck of grime on them." He watched Harry expectantly.
Feeling dazed, Harry made his way over to the sinks, mumbling, "Yes, sir." Snape returned to his desk, dark eyes watching Harry's every move.
This Harry could do. Snape seriously thought this was detention-worthy? He had years of dishwashing experience. His ankle, however, would be a pain to stand on. Literally. In fact, he wasn't sure how long he would last before it gave out on him again, despite settling his weight on his good leg. Yet, no matter how bad it got, there was no way he would walk into the stark white room of the Hospital Wing of his own free will and allow himself to be poked and prodded, asked questions he couldn't answer and looked at like- like that. It wasn't that bad, probably be better in the morning. He'd just aggravated it with his stupid jump.
He scrubbed the leech slime off his hands under the gargoyle tap, then picked up the first cauldron, the slick black grime coating it inside and out nearly causing it to slip through his fingers. He dropped it into the sink, the spigot spewing warm water into it. He picked up the bar of soap and scrub brush resting next to the cauldrons on the counter and got to work. He felt his muscles strain as he scrubbed at the slime. It seemed to be alive, almost, clinging to the sides of the cauldron by its own will. He forced his noodly arms to scrub harder, digging the rough bristles of the brush into the gunk, and felt it start to give.
After a few minutes of this he his arms began to burn, the effort required much more than with the Dursleys' dishes. (Well, perhaps not Dudley's.) But he didn't slow, determined to get this over with as soon as possible. As the time wore on, however, he realized that the cleaning would take a lot longer than he thought. Magical messes were much tougher to clean than regular ones, though he supposed that were he allowed to use magic a simple scourgify would do it in a second. He wished for a chair; his ankle was killing him, even with his weight on his other foot.
By the time he'd fully cleaned the first cauldron he was exhausted. How many more of these would he have to do? He felt about ready to faint as it was, hands trembling violently, hardly able to keep his grip on the brush. He was shivering and his uninjured foot had gone numb from standing on it for so long. He knew that Snape would only laugh at his weakness, though, so he moved the clean cauldron to the other side of the sink and dragged the next one to him. He was so tired, even more so than earlier, if it was possible. His eyes drifted closed and he struggled to reopen them, starting to scrub at the strange yellow-green crust on this cauldron. He felt as if he was moving through a thick fog, every motion a monumental effort. But he had to keep going; Snape would keep him here until he died if he caught him slacking.
After a few more scrubs his eyes closed again against his will. He couldn't find the energy to lift those leaded lids and decided to rest them, just for a moment, hoping Snape wouldn't notice. He let the heaviness descend upon him, relaxing, and fell into a dark, comforting blanket of nothingness.
"Potter!" a sharp voice snapped and he flinched violently, eyes flying open. What? Oh, Merlin… He had fallen asleep against the counter. Snape was going to kill him.