"Compared to this, mate," Ron said, "today's Saturday, and Snape wants you in his office for detention every Wednesday and Saturday—I don't think you should go, I mean, what if, what if he really wants to do something to you?"
"Don't worry, nothing will happen," Harry reassured his worried friends.
That evening, Harry showed up as promised at Snape's office.
He wasn't there by himself; Filch had dragged him along, despite his repeated claims that he was invited by Professor Snape.
How could a Gryffindor be invited by the head of Slytherin? Filch was laughing so hard his big teeth nearly fell out.
What Filch didn't expect was that Harry not only wasn't lying, but had deliberately let him discover—after all, Harry just wanted some company to relieve his boredom on the way.
Filch wasn't the most refined, and Harry was quick-tongued, throwing in a few sarcastic remarks that leave Filch fuming.
"If it were decades ago, you'd be whipped within an inch of your life in the dungeons!" Filch cursed venomously.
Harry retorted, "If it were a hundred years ago, you wouldn't even be qualified to stand in front of me and speak!"
Filch grew even angrier, but he had no power to punish students; he could only escort Harry to Snape's office grumpily.
"Professor," Filch announced triumphantly, shoving Harry into Snape's office, "I caught a Gryffindor student! He even lied that you..."
"He wasn't lying," Snape said curtly.
Filch looked as if he had swallowed a fly, instantly at a loss for words, glancing incredulously at Harry and then at Snape.
Harry ignored them both, choosing instead to examine the office around him.
Snape's office was in the castle's dungeons, making the walls dim and eerie.
Along the walls were shelves filled with large glass jars, containing all sorts of sticky, disgusting things, like animals and plants floating in different-colored potions, embryos of various magical creatures, and even a brain floating in a jar.
"Have you seen enough, Potter?"
The greasy, drawling voice came from behind him.
"Yes, Professor," Harry answered.
Without another word, Snape flicked his magic wand, pulling out two small buckets, one empty and one full, and placed them in front of Harry.
"This is your assignment today, to squeeze the mucus out of Flubber Worms—no magic allowed," Snape said slowly.
Harry glanced down at the bucket full of squirming Flubber Worms, and when he looked up again, Snape was already grading papers.
He clearly saw Snape pick up Marcus Flint's paper, his expression twitching slightly, and then he wrote a "D" on the paper.
Then he crossed out the "D" and changed it to a "T."
"T"?
Harry wondered, wasn't the grading at Hogwarts "Outstanding (O)," "Exceeds Expectations (E)," "Acceptable (A)," "Poor (P)," and the lowest being "Dreadful (D)"?
Following the principle of asking when you don't understand, Harry spoke up, "Professor, what does the T mean?"
Snape didn't answer, the feather pen scratching on the paper, making a rustling sound.
Just as Harry settled down to deal with the Flubber Worms, Snape's uniquely greasy tone spoke up.
"Troll."
Harry shrugged; the answer wasn't too surprising.
It seemed like all Slytherins had this interest, as Cassandra also liked to use 'Troll' to refer to other Gryffindor students.
Wearing dragon skin gloves, he skillfully squeezed the mucus out of the Flubber Worms, collecting it in a small jar, then tossed the now purposeless worms into another bucket.
"Flubber Worms, the mucus is used for thickening potions," Snape's voice sounded overhead.
Harry didn't look up, for fear that the grease from Snape's hair might drip onto his face.
"A rather careless method."
Unsure if it was a misperception, Snape's tone didn't seem as cold.
Then Harry was shooed out.
Standing at the door, Harry let out a small sigh of relief.
He hadn't doubted Snape, and after this detention, he was even more certain that Snape didn't want to harm him—at least not to take his life.
If it were Professor Snape, he would surely have either tried to put him at ease or acted against him directly, Harry thought.
So... who was it?
Harry barely took a few steps before noticing someone standing in front of him.
The person wore a robe adorned with stars and moons, a long white beard cascading to his waist.
Looking up, it was Principal Dumbledore, gazing at him kindly, half-moon spectacles glinting.
"Harry?" Dumbledore said, "Mind if we chat in the Headmaster's office?"
No, you should be calling me senior, Harry mused idly.
But he made sure to 'eagerly' explain, "Principal, it was Professor Snape who detained me—"
"Relax, Harry," Dumbledore said soothingly, "Severus has already told me about it, I'm not here to deduct points from Gryffindor—after all, there's not much left, is there?"
As he spoke, Dumbledore winked mischievously at Harry.
"Alright, let's have a chat then, I do have some questions for you," Harry shrugged.
Dumbledore chuckled softly, turning towards the spiral staircase behind him.
Harry said nothing, following closely behind.
Currently, he held a rather large grudge against the Headmaster.
On the Quidditch field, someone openly cursed Hogwarts students, and yet the Headmaster remained indifferent...
Just wait, if Vivi's Time Magic succeeds, and we reach a hundred years later...
If she discovers you imprisoned her brother, Gellert—
"Fizzing Whizbee."
Hearing Dumbledore's voice, Harry realized he was now at the entrance to the Headmaster's Office with Dumbledore.
The candy's name must be the password to the office, for the large stone beast at the door moved aside after Dumbledore said the password, revealing a spiral staircase.
"Come in, Harry," Dumbledore said, stepping inside first.
Harry followed him in.
As he pushed open the shiny oak door, the Headmaster's office unfolded before Harry's eyes.
Differing from his memories, the current Headmaster's office was a circular, spacious space filled with a cheerful atmosphere, and various small sounds were softly audible.
On slender-legged tables lay an assortment of silver instruments, exuding mysterious smoke, as if whispering ancient stories.
The walls hung, as in years past, with portraits of former Headmasters.
They slumbered in their frames, their gentle snores softly echoing in the air.
Harry realized now, even Phineas Black, the most unpopular Headmaster in history, was still a Headmaster of Hogwarts, entitled to have a portrait in Hogwarts after his death!
Oh no, what if he recognized me?