Chapter 44: Please call me senior!

"Compared to that, mate," Ron said, "it's Saturday today. Snape has you doing detention in his office every Wednesday and Saturday—I don't think you should go. What if… what if he really tries something?" "Don't worry, it'll be fine," Harry reassured his two concerned friends. That evening, Harry showed up at Snape's office as scheduled. He didn’t go alone. Filch escorted him there, practically dragging him by the arm, despite Harry’s repeated insistence that he had been invited by Professor Snape. A Gryffindor, invited by the head of Slytherin? Filch nearly laughed his teeth out. What Filch didn’t expect, however, was that Harry wasn’t lying. In fact, Harry had deliberately let himself be caught—having someone to bicker with on the way made the walk far less boring. Filch, ever the pessimist, found Harry’s sharp tongue unbearable. A few sarcastic quips later, Filch was practically spitting fire. "If this were decades ago, you'd have been flogged in the dungeons!" Filch snarled. Harry shot back without missing a beat, "And if this were a hundred years ago, you wouldn’t even have the right to stand in front of me and speak!" Red-faced and seething, Filch had no choice but to angrily drag Harry the rest of the way to Snape’s office. "Professor," Filch announced, shoving Harry through the door, "I caught this Gryffindor student! He dared to lie and say you—" "He didn’t lie," Snape interrupted curtly. Filch looked as though he’d swallowed a fly. He gawked at Harry, then at Snape, utterly speechless. Ignoring them both, Harry began surveying the office. Snape’s office, deep in the castle dungeons, was as gloomy as one might expect. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars holding slimy, grotesque contents: preserved animal parts, magical creature embryos, and even what appeared to be a floating brain suspended in viscous green fluid. "Had your fill, Potter?" The greasy, deliberate drawl came from behind him. "Yes, Professor," Harry replied evenly. Snape didn’t waste words. With a flick of his wand, two buckets—one empty, one full—appeared before Harry. "Your task today is to extract mucus from these Flobberworms," Snape drawled, his voice slow and deliberate. "Without magic." Harry glanced at the bucket teeming with wriggling Flobberworms. When he looked up again, Snape had already turned his attention to grading essays. Harry noticed Snape’s expression twitch slightly as he picked up Marcus Flint’s parchment. After a brief pause, Snape scrawled a "D" across it. Then, as if reconsidering, he scratched out the "D" and replaced it with a "T." "T"? Harry frowned. Hogwarts’ grading scale went from "Outstanding (O)" to "Dreadful (D)." Unable to resist his curiosity, Harry asked, "Professor, what does 'T' stand for?" Snape didn’t respond, continuing to write with his quill, the scratching sound filling the silence. Just as Harry was about to begin squeezing the Flobberworms, Snape’s oily voice came again: "Troll." Harry shrugged. The answer wasn’t particularly surprising. Slytherins seemed to have a fondness for the term. Cassandra, for one, frequently called Gryffindors "trolls." Donning dragon-hide gloves, Harry began carefully extracting mucus from the worms, collecting the sticky substance in a small jar. One by one, the deflated Flobberworms were discarded into the empty bucket. "Flobberworm mucus: used to thicken potions," Snape suddenly said, his voice cutting through the quiet. Harry didn’t look up—he didn’t want Snape’s hair grease dripping onto his face. "Your technique is mediocre," Snape commented, though his tone was oddly less icy than usual. After completing the task, Harry was dismissed. Standing outside the office, he let out a breath of relief. He had never doubted Snape’s innocence. Tonight’s detention only reinforced Harry’s belief that Snape had no intention of harming him—at least, not fatally. If Snape were guilty, Harry reasoned, he would either try to earn Harry’s trust with kindness or strike directly. So… who could it be? Harry didn’t get far before noticing someone standing in the corridor ahead of him. The figure wore robes embroidered with stars and moons, a long white beard flowing to his waist. Looking up, Harry saw Dumbledore, smiling kindly, the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose gleaming in the dim light. S~eaʀᴄh the novёlF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "Harry?" Dumbledore said. "Would you mind joining me for a chat in my office?" No, you should be calling me senior, Harry thought idly. Out loud, he said with feigned urgency, "Headmaster, it was Professor Snape who gave me detention—" "Relax, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "Severus explained everything to me. I’m not here to dock points from Gryffindor. After all, there’s hardly any left, is there?" As he spoke, Dumbledore gave Harry a playful wink. "Alright then, let’s chat," Harry said, shrugging. Dumbledore chuckled lightly and gestured toward the spiral staircase behind him. Harry followed, step by step. His opinion of the headmaster wasn’t exactly glowing at the moment. Someone had cast a curse in plain sight during a Quidditch match, and yet the headmaster had… Just wait. If Veratia’s time magic succeeds and she comes a hundred years into the future… When she finds out you locked up her brother Gellert— "Fizzing Whizbees," Dumbledore’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Harry realized they had arrived at the entrance to the headmaster’s office. The candy’s name must have been the password, as the stone gargoyle moved aside, revealing a spiral staircase. "Come in, Harry," Dumbledore said, stepping inside. Harry followed him through the gleaming oak door into the office. The headmaster’s office was a spacious, circular room, alive with the hum of soft, tinkling sounds. Tall-legged tables were covered with various silver instruments, each emitting mysterious vapors, as though whispering ancient secrets. The walls, as they always had, were lined with portraits of former headmasters. Each snoozed peacefully within their frames, soft snores filling the air. Harry’s gaze lingered on one portrait. Even Phineas Nigellus Black, the least popular headmaster in Hogwarts’ history, had earned a place on these walls. If Phineas recognized him, Harry thought nervously, it could mean trouble. --- you can read more advance chapter on my patreon