HRHL# Chapter 44: Please call me senior!

"Compared to that, mate," Ron said, "it's Saturday today. Snape requires you to serve 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 worried 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, even though Harry repeatedly explained 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 anticipate, however, was that Harry wasn’t lying. In fact, Harry had intentionally let himself be caught—having someone to bicker with along the way made the walk less dull.

Filch, ever the pessimist, found Harry's sharp tongue unbearable. A few sarcastic remarks from Harry and Filch was fuming, practically spitting fire.

"If this were decades ago, you'd have been flogged in the dungeons!" Filch snarled.

Harry fired back without missing a beat, "If this were a hundred years ago, you wouldn’t even have the right to stand in front of me and speak!"

Filch, red-faced and seething, had no recourse 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 if he’d swallowed a fly. He gawked at Harry, then at Snape, utterly speechless.

Ignoring the two of them, Harry began surveying the office.

Snape's office was located in the castle's dungeons, giving it a dim and eerie atmosphere.

Shelves lined the walls, holding jars filled with slimy, grotesque contents: animal and plant specimens suspended in potions of various colors, magical creature embryos, and even what appeared to be a floating brain.

"Had your fill, Potter?"

The greasy, slow drawl came from behind him.

"Yes, Professor," Harry replied.

Snape didn’t waste words. With a flick of his wand, he conjured two buckets—one empty, one full—and set them before Harry.

"Your task today is to extract mucus from these Flobberworms," Snape drawled, his voice deliberate. "Without magic."

Harry glanced at the bucket teeming with wriggling Flobberworms. When he looked up, Snape had already turned to grading essays.

Harry noticed Snape's expression twitch slightly when he picked up Marcus Flint’s parchment. After a brief pause, Snape scrawled a "D" on it.

Then, as if reconsidering, he scratched out the "D" and replaced it with a "T."

"T"?

Harry frowned. Hogwarts' grading scale was "Outstanding (O)," "Exceeds Expectations (E)," "Acceptable (A)," "Poor (P)," and the lowest, "Dreadful (D)."

Unable to resist his curiosity, Harry asked, "Professor, what does 'T' stand for?"

Snape didn’t answer, 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.

It seemed Slytherins had a penchant for the term. Cassandra frequently referred to other Gryffindors as "trolls," too.

Donning dragon-hide gloves, Harry skillfully extracted mucus from the worms, collecting it in a small jar. One by one, the deflated Flobberworms were discarded into the empty bucket.

"Flobberworm mucus: used to thicken potions," Snape’s voice suddenly spoke from above him.

Harry didn’t look up—he was afraid Snape’s hair grease might drip onto his face.

"Your technique is mediocre," Snape commented.

Oddly enough, his tone seemed a bit less icy than usual.

After finishing the task, Harry was dismissed.

Standing outside the office, he let out a small 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, he would have tried to earn Harry’s trust with kindness or struck directly, Harry reasoned.

So… who could it be?

He didn’t get far before noticing someone standing ahead of him.

The figure wore robes embroidered with stars and moons, a long white beard flowing down to his waist.

Looking up, Harry saw Dumbledore, smiling kindly at him. The half-moon spectacles perched on his nose gleamed in the light.

"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 turned toward the spiral staircase behind him.

Harry followed, step by step.

His opinion of the headmaster was less than stellar at the moment.

Someone had cast a curse in plain sight during a Quidditch match, and yet the headmaster had…

Just wait. If Vivi’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 current headmaster’s office was a spacious, circular room, lively with the hum of soft, tinkling sounds.

Tall-legged tables were covered with various silver instruments, each emitting mysterious vapors, as if 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 be trouble.