The silence that followed Draco Malfoy's departure was thick with tension.

Harry was trembling, sporadic spasms shaking his body—he was terrified.

He was relieved that he hadn't moved from his desk; the space between him and the Potions Master offered him a shred of comfort, however slight.

Snape's gaze was full of pure fury, his features distorted by something dark and menacing.

Harry squirmed under the heavy silence, his wounded and exhausted body tense, the strain only worsening the pain in his already aching joints.

He had no intention of breaking this silence—not with a foolish joke, not with a defiant remark. His mouth was dry; he doubted he could have spoken even if he had wanted to.

Time seemed to stand still as Snape's cold, furious eyes stayed fixed on him, unblinking, as though watching a prey caught in a trap.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, moving more than once.

When he finally thought he was about to lose his mind, Snape spoke.

His voice was calm, but Harry could feel the danger in it, he would have preferred the man to shout. The words were steeped in a coldness that sent shivers down his spine.

"What happened this time, Potter?"

Harry was terrified. He cleared his throat several times, even though the motion brought him pain.

When he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded fearful, and he knew there was nothing he could do to change it. He was utterly terrified.

"Uhm… I don't feel very well." He paused, catching the full force of Snape's threatening glare.

Lie? Well, there was no way he would willingly tell the truth to this man, who had already witnessed one of the most pathetic moments of his life. So, he continued:

"I think I might've caught… some kind of flu."

Even to his own ears, it sounded like a pathetic excuse.

A dangerous glint appeared in Snape's eyes, and Harry instinctively took a step back.

Snape slammed his hand furiously on the large wooden desk, making Harry jump.

In two strides, he was in Harry's space, and even the faint relief of distance disappeared.

"Are you truly this utterly stupid, Potter?" he spat his name like an insult, "Or do you think I'm one of the dim-witted sycophants in your fan club, hanging on your every word as if it were sacred truth?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, but suddenly it shifted, losing all traces of derision.

The voice became a whisper, cold and deadly, and Harry wished more than ever that he had never opened his mouth.

"Unlike your little fan club, I am neither stupid nor ignorant. Do you think I can't recognise the effects of a Dark Curse? An Unforgivable, no less." His gaze swept over Harry's trembling frame, inspecting him more closely. "The Cruciatus Curse. And cast more than once."

Snape looked at him with something Harry couldn't quite identify. It wasn't concern—it was more like unease.

He stepped closer, grabbing Harry roughly by the shoulders.

"How many times was it cast, Potter?"

Harry was stunned. He hadn't thought Snape would get to the truth so quickly and without him even opening his mouth.

The humiliation of the situation hit him, drowning out his fear and replacing it with something else.

He felt weak—incapable of defending himself in the Muggle world, incapable of defending himself in the magical one.

He filled his voice with the arrogance and bravado he knew Snape hated.

He refused to show weakness to this man or to anyone else ever again.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Snape," he said, pausing to muster the courage to continue, "but I suggest you keep your abnormally large nose out of my business."

The silence that followed his blatant insult was charged with tension, but Harry didn't regret saying it. He needed to appear strong, to be provocative.

Snape moved like a storm. Before Harry could even register it, he was backed up against the cold stone wall.

Snape didn't touch him, but his looming presence blocked him in, leaving him trapped in an uncomfortable position.

A bitter laugh escaped the Potions Master's lips.

"You think I can't see through your pathetic little act, Potter?" Snape hissed, his dark eyes boring into Harry's. "The great Harry Potter—so weak, so frightened."

He paused, his voice dripping with scorn. "Drop the act and tell me what I want to know, or shall we repeat what happened the last time?"

Harry froze. He knew exactly what Snape meant: Legilimency.

When Snape raised his wand, pure terror coursed through Harry's body. There was no way—no way—he could relive the torment he'd just endured. No. No, and a hundred times no.

He raised his hands in a calming gesture.

"Alright, alright, Snape. You win. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

But Snape didn't lower his wand. Harry's eyes widened, staring at the man in shock.

Was Snape going to proceed with the threat anyway, no matter what Harry told him? Or was he simply relishing the fear Harry knew was written all over his face?

In truth, Snape looked terrifying enough to make any other student run screaming, and would probably reduce a first-year to tears on the spot.

Snape stayed exactly where he was, watching him with an unyielding glare. If Harry had to guess, he was enjoying the power he held over him at that moment.

He was probably enjoying it immensely—the ability to strike fear into the son of James Potter, to have him trembling at the end of his wand.

And Harry was sick of it. Why did every adult he encountered seem determined to make it their personal mission to intimidate him?

First his uncle, who relied on brute force to terrorise him; then Umbridge, with her blood quills and Unforgivable Curses; and now Snape, who wielded his menacing presence and invasive mental spells like weapons.

He'd had enough. Enough of all of them. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself. He felt hollow, drained, resigned to enduring yet another injustice.

He stood there, trembling and aching, resigned to the fact that Snape was about to forcefully extract his memories.

Then, all of a sudden, Snape's stance shifted. He lowered his wand, something inscrutable flickering in his eyes.

"Very well, Potter. But don't think me naive enough not to see through your lies," he said, his voice turning more menacing. "However, be warned—if you fail to answer my questions fully and to my satisfaction, I will be compelled to use more… effective measures."

Harry's mouth went dry. He understood the threat. After all, Snape was a Potions Master—it wasn't difficult to grasp what he meant.

"Veritaserum…" Harry said in a frightened tone.

The thought of being forced to divulge every single detail against his will terrified him. Not just the details of his punishment, but everything else, too.

No, if Harry had any choice, he would never voluntarily agree to that.

For a moment, surprise flitted across Snape's face, quickly replaced by his usual derisive sneer. A cold smile curved his lips.

"Yes, Potter. Just a few drops, and you wouldn't be able to withhold even the most insignificant of your secrets. If you continue to play games with me, I will use it."

That was incentive enough for Harry. Snape already knew what had happened to him; Harry had no intention of baring his soul with the potion for information that had already been uncovered. And he certainly wasn't about to risk blurting out his deepest secrets because of Umbridge.

Harry suspected it was a bluff. Veritaserum was illegal, especially on minors. While the potion itself wasn't outlawed, its use was strictly controlled by the Ministry, and Snape wouldn't risk it.

But he didn't call Snape's bluff aloud. He wasn't entirely sure, after all. Legilimency, too, wasn't entirely legal if misused, and Snape had no qualms about employing that against him.

So, while Harry was fairly confident Snape wouldn't use Veritaserum, he wasn't confident enough to challenge him. Not tonight. Snape was unpredictable, especially where Harry was concerned. And tonight, Harry was too exhausted to push his luck. He just wanted it to be over.

So, in the end, he gave a weary nod of agreement.

For a moment, he didn't know what to do. Snape loomed over him, and the silence only heightened the tension in the room.

Snape's cold gaze lingered on him for another moment before he stepped back. Harry exhaled shakily, realising only then that he had been holding his breath.

He watched as Snape strode toward his desk and gestured curtly for him to follow.

Harry hesitated, glancing longingly at the door. He knew he wouldn't get far before Snape stopped him.

So, like a man walking to his execution, Harry made his way slowly and deliberately toward the chair Snape indicated.

The tremors in his hands hadn't subsided, nor had the pain coursing through his body. He wondered if it would ease soon or if he'd need to brew a potion to alleviate it.

He knew for certain that his mother's old potions journal contained what he needed: a pain relief draught and a nerve-repairing tonic.

Harry was aware of the serious effects of the Cruciatus Curse—the nerve damage inflicted by that woman was severe, and if left untreated, it could lead to lasting complications.

But brewing the potions would be a challenge in his current state. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and the precision required for volatile ingredients made the task daunting. The potions themselves were complex and unforgiving.

He considered the logistics. He could use the Room of Requirement; he'd brewed there before. Hermione might help, though she'd likely lose her mind when she found out why he needed them.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the hand waving in front of his face. He flinched and looked up.

Snape was holding out several vials, which Harry recognised instantly. He stared at his professor in surprise, but Snape's expression gave nothing away.

Harry accepted the vials, relieved that he wouldn't have to find a way to brew the potions himself. He looked at them, summoning the courage to thank Snape. After all, the man wasn't obligated to help him, and the ingredients were costly.

Just as Harry was about to express his gratitude, Snape interrupted,misreading his silence .

"Don't be a fool, Potter. If I'd wanted to poison you, you'd already be dead. Now stop dithering like an idiot and take the potions before I make you."

Snape's voice was glacial.

The moment for thanks passed. Harry downed the potions without sparing Snape another glance, grateful for the immediate relief from his pain.

"So, Potter," Snape began, his tone unforgiving, "how many times was the curse cast?" His piercing gaze made it clear there would be no room for lies.

"I… I really don't know," Harry admitted, shame colouring his voice. "I lost count after a while—it just made it worse."

He couldn't tell what effect his words had on Snape, as the man's expression remained stony.

"Who?" Snape asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Who, Potter?"

Harry lowered his gaze, taking a deep breath. It was time to say it.

"Umbridge."

The silence that followed was broken by a quiet curse. Harry didn't catch the words, but the look of fury on Snape's face was unmistakable.

"Tell me, Potter, haven't you been warned about that woman?" Snape's cold voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Seeing Harry's surprised look, Snape continued, "Oh yes, Potter. I know McGonagall warned you not to provoke her." He paused, his lip curling. "But no, of course not. The famous Chosen One can't keep his mouth shut. Always seeking attention."

Harry's anger flared. How dare Snape imply it was his fault? He opened his mouth to protest, but Snape pressed on.

"Arrogant, spoiled Gryffindor, just like your father. You can't even hold your tongue when it's clear that speaking will do you no good."

"You don't know anything, Snape!" Harry shouted, furious. "She wasn't going to teach us anything! Someone had to—"

"And naturally, the Golden Boy took it upon himself to save the day. How noble," Snape sneered.

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. Was it his fault now?

"You know what? This is ridiculous!" Harry exploded. "I didn't ask to be tortured by that woman! I didn't ask to be the Chosen One! And I certainly didn't ask to be dragged here so you could blame me for the hundredth time!"

Shaking with anger and exhaustion, Harry pushed himself to his feet, intending to leave.

"Oh no, Potter. I don't think so." With a flick of his wand, Snape sealed the door.

Harry stood frozen in the middle of the office, staring at the heavy oak door in front of him. He felt a deep exhaustion, teetering on the edge of his limits. He wanted to scream, cry, or lash out, but all he could do was stand there, motionless, watching his last chance of escape vanish.

Unaware of Harry's turmoil, Snape continued, his voice icy.

"This isn't just about you, Potter. Contrary to your belief, the world doesn't revolve around you." He paused, and Harry turned, unable to keep his back to the furious man. "As much as you personally disgust me, that woman has gone too far. I cannot, as a teacher of this school, ignore such a disgraceful act. Especially as there is a chance that her punishments will escalate or extend to other students."

Harry hadn't considered that. He'd naively thought she would only target him. But remembering the look of pleasure she'd taken in torturing him made him doubt that assumption.

"However," Snape continued, "given the delicate situation we find ourselves in, and the power that woman currently wields, I'll need to consult the headmaster and the other staff. In the meantime, it is imperative that you do nothing else to provoke her. Am I clear, Potter?"

Snape's voice was dangerously low. Harry hesitated, debating whether to inform him about his upcoming detention with Umbridge.

Snape must have seen it in his expression, because he sneered.

"Typical of you, Potter. I couldn't have expected anything less from the illustrious son of James Potter," Snape sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "No sense of self-preservation whatsoever—how utterly Gryffindor of you."

Harry opened his mouth, indignant, but Snape silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand.

"Do not speak, Potter. I assure you, there is no need."

As if coming to a sudden decision, Snape seized Harry's arm in an iron grip and marched him towards the fireplace.

"The infirmary. Now," Snape snapped, before shoving Harry unceremoniously into the green flames.

Caught off guard, Harry barely managed to keep himself from falling flat on his face as he stumbled out of the Floo, his body still trembling and aching from the ordeal.

Snape emerged moments later, entirely unruffled, his robes pristine, and with a smooth grace that made Harry's every awkward movement feel even more humiliating.

Harry shot Snape a furious glare, which the professor ignored with infuriating ease.

The infirmary was quiet, no sign of Madam Pomfrey.

"Poppy," Snape called, his tone sharp and imperious.

Harry hated the infirmary. Over the years, he had spent far too much time there for his liking. Ron had even joked in their fourth year by sticking a sign on Harry's usual bed, declaring it his personal property.

Madam Pomfrey didn't take long to arrive, looking surprisingly alert despite the late hour—a clear sign that she was no stranger to emergencies.

She examined the two figures now in the middle of her infirmary, and her gaze lingered on Harry, as if assessing him for possible injuries.

Harry blushed under her scrutiny, embarrassed by the fact that she didn't seem remotely surprised that he was the one who'd gotten hurt.

Snape brought attention to himself. "Poppy, if I may have a word…" He moved towards the woman and passed her, who followed him, giving Harry a brief nod.

Spending so much time in the infirmary had earned him Madame Pomfrey's favour. During his stays, she would sometimes chat with him or keep him company when she had nothing else to do.

He moved closer to try and hear what they were discussing; after all, it was about him, he thought angrily.

He could see them but couldn't make out their words—Snape had cast a spell to prevent him from eavesdropping. The man was truly infuriating.

Though he couldn't understand the conversation, Harry could tell from their body language and lip-reading that Madame Pomfrey was not happy.

He watched with interest, trying to pick up any hint of information, and quickly moved when he saw Snape glance in his direction.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

"Spying , Potter?"

"No, I wasn't—"

"Spare me your excuses, Potter. It's late, and I have matters to attend to.

Madame Pomfrey will take care of you. Your situation is quite delicate and requires the utmost discretion. This won't be a normal stay; I'll find a solution for the mess your stupidity has created."

Without waiting for a response, Snape swept out of the infirmary with a flick of his robes.

Madame Pomfrey was furious, though it wasn't obvious—only someone who knew where to look could see it.

Her lips were pressed tight, her shoulders tense, and unlike usual, she didn't try to ease Harry's discomfort by talking to him while examining him. Instead, she muttered under her breath, phrases like, "I can't believe that woman…" or "Impossible, I can't believe someone would tell me what to do in my infirmary."

They were whispered so softly that if Harry hadn't been paying close attention, he wouldn't have caught them.

He was surprised when she handed him a set of potions, instructing him to come to the infirmary every day until the following week.

He had expected the usual stay, with Madame Pomfrey scolding him and insisting that he wouldn't leave until she was satisfied with his progress, but this was different.

Looking into her eyes, Harry could see that this situation disturbed her deeply. Not being able to provide the right care for a patient was clearly tormenting her.

He understood even more clearly now how delicate the situation at Hogwarts was, with the Ministry having taken root so deeply in the castle that every action had to be taken with utmost caution. His friends had updated him on the worsening conditions within the walls of Hogwarts, but he never thought that the strong and stern Madame Pomfrey would ever be controlled by authority of the Ministry.

Dolores Umbridge had infected every part of the castle like a disease, starting quietly and subtly, then revealing her true intentions when it was already too late.

By morning, Umbridge would know if Harry had been admitted, and that would complicate things further, especially since she acted with the Ministry's authority. She could punish Harry simply for sharing details about his punishments or even dismiss Madame Pomfrey for standing up to the Ministry.

These were dark times at Hogwarts, Harry thought as he left, glancing back at Madame Pomfrey. She was turned away, clearly troubled, and Harry felt sorry for her.

He knew how much she loved caring for her patients; it was her life's calling.

It was a struggle to return to the tower, having to stop several times, and when he finally reached his bed, it didn't take long for his exhausted, aching body to fall into a deep sleep.


Hello everyone, here I am with another chapter. Let me know what you think!