Once back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry and Ron started their homework, which was starting to pile up. Even Ron had a lot by this point, even though he was in less classes. Harry knew he would have little time later because he had detention the rest of the week and on Saturday, though Snape had not said for how long.
The boys managed to finish their homework, except an assignment not due for three weeks, though they did at least start, by midnight. As Harry climbed to his dormitory, Ron yawning loudly as he stumbled ahead of him, his head was swimming in all he had read about dark creatures.
His head was so full of this information that he dreamed about it. For some reason he kept finding himself surrounded by the multiple, serpentine heads of a large Hydra. Perhaps it was because the book said a Hydra could speak Parseltongue, though they rarely chose to speak at all.
The next nights of detention were not so pleasant with Hagrid. Still, it was better than getting “I must not tell lies,” carved into the back of a hand, Harry thought. But Hagrid was not one for conventional or traditional punishment.
On Wednesday he set Harry to chopping a large pile of firewood. Harry would later learn that he had it better than Ron. Ron had to clean out the paddock the Abraxon that Hagrid had shown the seventh years had stayed. Cleaning up after a horse the size of two elephants was no fun.
Harry considered himself lucky when he met Ron that evening on the way back to the tower. He also kept his distance, as did everyone else, until Ron got a shower. Truthfully, everyone stayed back from Harry too, so he too bathed thoroughly.
Harry did not mind doing labor over writing lines, though his muscles were protesting. After hours, when the sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains, Hagrid let him go inside. His arms ached and he was covered in a thick, oily, disgusting smelling sweat. Of course, it was better than Ron smelled.
Not that Ron had worked any harder, but his sweat was masked by a more potent odor. He had accidentally slipped and fell backwards onto a pile of manure, as he was finishing. When he and Harry returned to the common room, many students thought somebody had dropped dungbombs. The truth disgusted them far more. Ron was just happy to not run into Filch on the way back, nor anyone else.
Harry was almost certain the elves in laundry would just burn his and Ron’s robes from that night. He climbed into bed, his arms feeling like lead; lead that throbbed. Ron’s arms clearly hurt him too, as did his back. Harry, still hot, pulled off his pajama shirt before going to sleep, completely exhausted. Ron’s snores filled the room shortly after. Their homework from the day lay untouched.
Thursday was hazy to Harry, until Care of Magical Creatures. He did not arrive happy, not really wanting to see Hagrid anymore, though he knew Hagrid was just doing what was right. But as he walked back to the castle with Hermione and Ron, he could not help smiling.
Not only was the baby Manticore fascinating, though dangerous if spooked, but Hagrid gave him and Ron good news. Harry, Ron and Hermione were still sketching the creatures venomous, tail barbs when Hagrid told them, in a whisper, they did not have detention on Friday anymore. He reasoned that they had done a good job the day before and if they worked just as hard that night they did not have to come on Friday. Harry’s arms were still dully aching, but he felt relieved.
The rest of the lesson was spent with Hagrid showing how a baby Manticore would play like a puppy; a rather large puppy. It frolicked and pranced, pawed at a ball and wagged it’s menacing tail happily. It seemed clear that if you were friendly to it, a Manticore was no more dangerous than a dog. But Harry could not get over the fact it could shoot its tail barbs fifty feet if angered. The poison from a single barb could knock Hagrid unconscious, according to the professor. Harry guessed it could kill him.
Harry and Ron returned that night wondering what they would have to do for their last detention. They met Hagrid in the entry hall as usual, a sense of dread overcoming Harry. Hagrid led them to a classroom that had no desks in it.
“Sorry ‘bout this, but Professor Dumbledore said all students have to do one night of lines if they break the curfew rules.” Harry and Ron groaned in unison. “Don’ do that! This chalkboards are magical. They’ll tell you when yer done, but will make you work longer if you complain or work too slow. When they say yer down, go back to yer dormitory. Oh, and don‘ write too big either.”
Harry and Ron each approached one of the two chalkboards as Hagrid left. A long piece of white chalk appeared in each tray. As they resolutely picked up their chalk, words began to write themselves on each board, though they said the same.
You will write until told to stop.
Write the following:
“I will not break curfew again.”
Begin!
These words faded as they raised their chalk, a fine dust floating into the air. Harry and Ron worked on in silence, filling their chalkboards as the hours ticked by.
As Harry’s wrist began to hurt and tire from the strain, his writing became sloppier. “Write neater,” the chalkboard wrote at one point. Harry tried, but had been working for too long. Each time he and Ron filled their chalkboard they hoped to be finished. But, so far, the boards had erased themselves, causing the boys to choke on inhaled chalk dust, then would write “continue.”
Finally, as their curfew approached, the boards wrote “stop,” right where each was about to continue. The boards quickly erased themselves one final time before Harry and Ron could escape the dust storm.
Harry looked at his watch. He and Ron had just enough time to return to their dormitory before curfew, if they ran. They stumbled into the common room, exhausted and only a minute late. They were both breathing heavy, having climbed six staircases at a run, Harry war clutching his chest. But no teacher had seen them arrive late, and the common room was strangely empty.
Tired, but having homework to do, Harry and Ron retrieved their bags and sat in the silent common room. The scratching of their quills and an occasional whisper were the only sounds they made for a while. Soon, they began to take turns yawning loudly and both fell asleep at the table, their heads unfortunately resting on fresh ink.
Friday whizzed by in a blur for Harry. He was soon descending into the cold dungeons on Saturday morning, toward Snape’s office. Each step was colder and more filled with dread.
Harry entered the office for the first time since Snape had thrown him out the previous year. Snape was standing with his back to Harry, adjusting the slime-filled jars on a shelf. Harry stood in the doorway and was about to knock on the open door when Snape spoke. “You are late Potter.”
Harry raised his arm and looked at his watch. He was still five minutes early. Harry was about to speak, but Snape had turned and saw him examining the watch. Snape grabbed Harry’s wrist and pulled him close to read the watch. Snape withdrew his wand and Harry tried to yank his arm away, but Snape’s grip was vice-like. “This timepiece is inaccurate. Tempus aparato.” Harry’s watch whirred and buzzed at extreme speed, but when it stopped, its displayed time was not even ten minutes later.
“Follow me,” Snape ordered, releasing Harry’s wrist. He led Harry to a large but empty storeroom. Harry looked around the dark, moldy room and saw buckets of hot, soapy water. “You will scrub this room until it is free of mold and clean enough to be used again.”
Harry looked to the ceiling, nearly two meters above his head, and saw great, black clumps of mold, which were dripping a stinky water. “Yes Potter, the entire room! Are you incapable of conjuring a ladder? If your Potions ‘s work is any indication, you cannot be any good in your other classes.”
Harry wanted to remind him that he had received an Outstanding on his Potions O.W.L. But he stayed silent, withdrew his wand and produced a simple wooden ladder, leaning against the wall. Snape, said nothing, but swept from the room, slamming the door and leaving Harry in complete darkness.
“No wonder there’s mold in here,” Harry muttered. “Lumos!” Spiders had already begun to climb from the cracks, now that the room was dark again. Harry did not mind. Even after Aragog, he was not afraid of simple spiders like these. He found a lantern and lit it with his wand. He stowed his wand and crouched next to a bucket. He reached his hand into the water, to retrieve the scrubbing sponge, only to find the water was scalding. Harry cursed his stupidity and protected himself from extreme heat. He began the tedious task of scrubbing the stubborn mold off the dungeon walls.
The arduous scrubbing was back-breaking work. Each passing minute increased Harry’s hatred for Snape. Still, he scrubbed on wanting to finish this quickly.
After removing a particularly difficult chunk, Harry heard the door opening. He turned to look but had to shield his eyes from the brighter light. Snape was scowling at Harry’s progress. Harry did not understand why; he had already cleared three walls and only had the ceiling and half of the last wall. His entire body ached from his hard work.
“I see you have taken your time.” Harry gritted his teeth. “You may go to lunch, but you will return to finish.”
Harry walked as quickly as he could to the great hall. It was late and only a few students remained, none of which were from Harry’s house. He picked a spot at the table and ate in silence, vaguely aware of the few students present gawking at him. He returned to the dungeon and finished his work.
The ceiling proved to be the most difficult but Harry managed to finish around five. He found Snape in his office and told him he was finished. Snape paid no attention to how exhausted Harry looked and swept past him to inspect his work. Harry stumbled after him.
The room was spotless but Snape still found complaints. “You certainly took your time. I could have had this room clean by lunch.” Harry was too exhausted to rise against Snape. He kept silent and Snape dismissed him.
Harry wearily trudged back to his dormitory. He did not notice Ron and Hermione try to get his attention in the common room. He climbed the final staircase, crossed his empty dormitory and collapsed on his bed.
What felt like seconds later, Ron was waking him for dinner. “Go on without me. I’m not hungry,” Harry mumbled into his pillow. But as Ron left, Harry found he could not sleep either. He rolled to his back and finally kicked off his shoes. He gazed toward the ceiling for what felt like only a few minutes, not really seeing it. He rolled again, falling to the floor.
“Brilliant Harry,” he muttered to himself. He stood and stretched his heavy arms, looking out the window. He was amazed at how dark it was already and then he heard the noise echoing from the common room. He thought of joining his friends but changed his mind. Instead he changed for bed, not caring how early it was.
Harry pulled the sheets tight around him, but did not feel tired. He reached to his nightstand, opened the drawer and removed two thick photo albums. Over the past week, Harry had come to find these as a great source of comfort. But this night was different.
He felt a great longing for something he had never known. He wanted to feel the warmth and love of his parents. He wanted them to embrace and comfort him. He had never had this feeling so strongly. But this night was different.
He remembered the rumors spread during his fourth year. He had never understood his lose, because it happened so early. He had never cried about missing his parents. But this night was different.
He missed them so deeply, and looking at the photographs made him hurt more. But he knew there was no way to bring them back. There was no way he would see them, except in photographs. But if there were a way, Harry would have done anything for just one day with his parents, or even just one of them.
He was not sad, but angry. Because Harry had not lost his parents. They were taken from him! He wiped his eyes dry, put the photo albums away, put his clothes back on and went to find his friends. He remembered his decision not to mope, but to enjoy his friends and his time until he could defeat The Dark Lord and the Death Eaters..
Fear not, there is a sequel.
“The Deepest, Most-Desired Wish” (Dark/Angst)
It is a story type I have long wanted to write. I hope it is not too redundant of similar stories.