0550 Fantasies

The common room was dim and empty, the only light flickering from the dying embers in the fireplace. The smoldering pine logs gave off a last bit of warmth, but it was fading fast. Despite the tense events of the day, as Harry and Hermione returned to the familiar space, they felt their spirits finally relax.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on them both, draining away any desire to rehash or analyze what had transpired. They exchanged brief goodnights before Hermione hurried up the spiral staircase to the girls’ dormitory, her footsteps echoing softly off the stone. Harry lingered a moment longer, then slowly trudged towards the staircase leading to his own bed.

He grasped the cold iron doorknob and eased the door open, wincing as a sliver of candlelight sliced through the darkness within. The light cut a vague wedge-shaped shadow across the dormitory floor, and Harry found himself transfixed by it. Never before had the simple act of returning to his bed for the night felt so burdensome, so emotionally tense.

He inhaled a steadying breath, steeling himself, then slipped through the door on silent feet. Relief flooded him as he registered Ron’s figure already in bed – he was deeply grateful to be spared the awkwardness of facing him so soon after their fight. Hogwarts had never seen dorm mates come to blows before, and the shameful knowledge that he and Ron probably had been the first sat uneasily in Harry’s gut.

Seamus was the only one still awake, propped up against his pillows reading a book that was clearly not a serious textbook, if his poorly muffled snorts of laughter were any indication. He glanced up as Harry entered, his expression going slightly fixed and cool, but he still nodded in greeting before pointedly setting his book aside and burrowing under his covers.

Harry stood there woodenly. Truthfully, he had wanted to quietly thank Seamus. If Seamus and Dean hadn’t called Hagrid over today, who knows how things would have ended up! But the words got stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard, hoping he’d have a chance to express his gratitude tomorrow.

Harry’s gaze shifted to Ron, who was facing the wall not knowing if he was asleep or not. In the heat of the fight, Harry couldn’t remember exactly where his fists had landed on Ron. But in any case, he did feel some regret. He hoped he had at least avoided striking Ron’s face. Waking up to a black eye or split lip would only make the tension in the dormitory even more awkward and unbearable.

A sudden thought crept into Harry’s mind as he extinguished the last candle – ‘what would Ron’s reaction be if he knew what just happened?’

The weight of it settled like a stone in his stomach as he climbed into bed, too emotionally spent to even wash up. He closed his eyes and surrendered gratefully to the dark oblivion of sleep, desperately eager for this wretched day to be over.

The next few days passed uneventfully, much to Harry’s surprise and relief. The scenes of him and Ron arguing the moment they met, which Harry had anticipated, did not come to pass. The two didn’t speak to each other at all. In class, they sat far apart. In the dormitory, they pretended not to see each other when crossing paths.

This atmosphere affected their dorm mates too. Laughter, once commonplace in their cozy tower room, was now all but extinct as Seamus, Dean and Neville walked on eggshells, clearly trying not to take sides in the simmering conflict.

Harry had another reason to feel unhappy and unsettled as the days crept by – Snape strolled into the Great Hall for meals right on time each day, his demeanor as greasily arrogant as ever. After Hermione had informed Moody of Snape and Karkaroff’s suspicious conversation, Harry had expected Snape to be dragged in for questioning by Dumbledore and Watson at the very least.

Surely, they would demand an explanation for Snape’s inappropriate contact with Karkaroff. Perhaps they would even lock Snape in the dungeons to prevent him from funneling tournament secrets to Karkaroff.

In Harry’s most vindictive daydreams, Dumbledore and Watson wised up to Karkaroff and Snape’s true Death Eater natures and summoned the Dementors to drag them both off to Azkaban.

But apparently those scenarios would remain firmly in the realm of Harry’s imagination, given Dumbledore’s and Watson’s continued friendly chats and easy laughter with Snape in the Great Hall.

In Potions class, Harry sat there glaring at Snape as he scratched out instructions on the blackboard, fantasizing about nasty hexes and all sorts of misfortunes befalling him. With Ron’s friendship lost to him, stewing in hatred for Snape seemed to be his emotional crutch.

He imagined the classroom door blasting open, Professor Moody’s face appearing in the entry way as his magical blue eye fixed on the now cowering Snape.

“The jig is up, Snape!” Harry envisioned Moody growling as he drew his wand with backup Aurors spilling into the classroom behind him. “The Ministry has issued a warrant for your arrest. Come quietly if you know what’s good for you. Enjoy rotting in Azkaban for the rest of your miserable life!” 

The vindictive fantasy created a smile on Harry’s face, momentarily covering the dread and frustration churning in his gut.

A sharp kick to his ankle jerked him out of the daydream. He turned to see Hermione diligently scribbling notes beside him, one hand still over the parchment while the other retreated from his leg back to the tabletop. Her eyes never left Snape, but her brow was creased with concern.

“Stop smiling like that, it’s scary,” Hermione murmured. She was still scribbling notes, but out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Harry’s abnormal expression. It made her worried. In her view, Harry shouldn’t be able to laugh right now.

“You’re ruining my good mood, Hermione-” Harry muttered sadly and asked. “Why do you reckon Snape’s still here, anyway? After everything we told Moody, how is he still allowed to teach?”

Hermione’s response was soft, almost inaudible, her gaze never wavering from her notes. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Harry. It’s highly likely that Snape was acting on orders from Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor Watson when he met with Karkaroff. If that’s the case, they can’t really punish him for following their instructions, now can they?”

Harry sighed heavily and tore his eyes away from her, not wanting to snap when he knew she was just trying to help.

“I’ve heard your theories already. But even if Snape is spying on Karkaroff for Dumbledore, they should still be keeping a closer eye on him, finding out what he’s up to. Aren’t they worried he’ll turn double agent and start funneling secrets to Durmstrang?”

Beside him, Hermione had gone stiff with the quill slipping from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Her face drained of color and her breath seemed to stick in her throat.

Harry had a split second of confusion – surely his theory wasn’t that shocking? – before realization hit him like a Bludger to the gut.

“Mr. Potter.”

Snape’s silky, menacing drawl slithered through the suddenly tomblike dungeon classroom. Harry spun slowly on his stool to face Snape’s desk, a heavy weight already settling in his stomach.

Snape’s black eyes glittered with malice from behind his greasy curtains of hair as he fixed Harry with a chilly glare. His thin lips curled at the corners, a sarcastic sneer twisting his sallow face into a mask of vindictive glee. He was clearly savoring this moment.

Harry’s heart sank, already sensing that Gryffindor’s point hourglass would likely lose a few more gemstones. 

But Harry, miserable as he was, had still underestimated the depths Snape was willing to sink. Snape stalked toward Harry’s desk, his steps slow, his black robes flapping behind him like the wings of some gigantic predatory bat. He leaned over Harry’s cauldron, blowing the fumes toward his nose, his sneer never wavering.

“Perhaps, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled, each word dripping with disdain, “you would be so kind as to enlighten us as to the contents of your cauldron?”

Every eye in the classroom was fixed on Harry now. He drew himself up straight, summoning every ounce of dignity he possessed, and met Snape’s merciless gaze head on. “It’s the antidote,” he bit out through gritted teeth, his knuckles white around his ladle. “I followed the instructions precisely.”

This lesson: they were to work in pairs with one student brewing a poison, and the other an antidote. Hermione, of course, had taken on the poison, leaving Harry to sweat over the corresponding antidote.

“Oh really?” Snape’s mocking smile grew. He didn’t deduct points for Harry’s disrespectful attitude. Instead, he looked at the nervous Hermione and said in a lazy tone: “Very well then. Let us put your skills to the test before your peers, Shall we? Miss Granger, if you would be so kind as to sample your own concoction.”

His voice was like silk sliding over steel, soft and enticing yet laced with irrefutable command. “Let us see if Mr. Potter’s antidote is up to snuff, hm?”

The Slytherins erupted in vicious laughter, Pansy Parkinson even leaped up onto her stool in her excitement, craning her neck for a better view. She looked ready to conjure a bucket of popcorn and settle in for the show.

But the Gryffindors, Ron included, sat in stony, horrified silence, faces pale and set. Even Ron, his body vibrating with fury, made no move to interfere, likely realizing any protest would only make things worse for Harry and Hermione.

Hermione was chalk white, trembling from head to toe, her eyes turning huge and glassy in her bloodless face. For the first time in all the years Harry had known her, she seemed ready to openly defy a professor’s direct order. Her hands remained clenched in her lap, making no move toward the softly simmering cauldron before her.

Bright spots of color flared in Harry’s vision, a red haze of rage descending over his mind. He lunged to his feet, sending his stool skidding away with a harsh scrape of the stones.

“You can’t do this!” he snarled, the uncontrollable fury in his voice rendering it nearly unrecognizable. His wand hand twitched toward his robes pocket, itching with the near overpowering urge to draw on Snape, professor or not.

“Oh, I assure you, I can,” Snape breathed coldly. “And that will be ten points from Gryffindor for your insolence…and… not following proper teaching procedures, Mr. Potter.”

His merciless gaze cut back to Hermione, and a vicious smile appeared on his thin lips. “Now, Miss Granger, if you please…”

Just then, a timid knock sounded at the dungeon door, interrupting Harry’s intention to force-feed Hermione’s brewed poison to Snape. 

The door creaked open to reveal Colin Creevey’s small, terrified face, his eyes darted between Harry, Snape’s poisonous glare, and Hermione’s ashen, terrified form.

“I – I’m meant to fetch Hermione Granger, sir,” Colin stammered, his voice shaking slightly. “Mr. Bagman wants her, sir. All the champions have to go, I think they want to take photographs…”

Snape stood frozen, the grin of his smirk still etched upon his face, but his eyes had gone flat and stony. For a long moment, the only sound was Hermione’s hitched, uneven breathing and the muted bubbling of the cauldrons. 

Finally, moving as if every word cost him a great effort, Snape ground out, “Very well. Miss Granger is excused.” He sounded as if the syllables were being ripped out of him with rusty pliers. “Get out.”

Hermione bolted out of her seat, snatched up her bag, and practically sprinted for the door. She was chalk white and visibly shaking, but as she brushed past Harry, she shot him a look so drenched with relief and gratitude that he felt a tiny bit of the tension in his neck ease.

Harry didn’t allow himself to sag though. That would be seen as a weakness.

He watched Hermione disappear through the door, tracking her progress as Colin swung it shut behind them. He was already running through explanations in his head, bracing himself for the inevitable point loss and detentions coming his way for his outburst.

But apparently Snape wasn’t done with him yet. As the door thudded closed, the he turned back to Harry with something even uglier than his usual malice sparking in the depths of his eyes.

“How… disappointing,” Snape murmured, his voice like the whisper of a blade sliding against a whetstone. “It seems Miss Granger will be spared from sampling your handiwork after all, Mr. Potter.”

Harry stiffened, the dread that had momentarily subsided slamming back into him with the force of a stampeding hippogriff. Surely even Snape wouldn’t…

“I suppose that just leaves you to test your own mettle.” There was no mistaking the sadistic relish in Snape’s silky purr. “Drink up, Potter. Let us hope you are as… competent as you seem to believe.”

…

In the Student Safety Office, Bryan and Dumbledore stood by the open window, surveying the Quidditch pitch below where some first years were staggering around under Madam Hooch’s instruction.

The open window sent in late autumn wind laced with an icy breath. It seemed the footsteps of this year’s first snowfall were approaching. 

Without looking away from the tiny figures below, Dumbledore said with a hesitant note in his voice, “So you’ve decided to do this, Bryan?” 

“Do I have any choice?” Bryan asked, his tone wry but calm. “If I don’t personally intervene in the Tournament, who else will ensure the children’s safety? I have to go in and bring them back.”

“I had originally planned for Severus…” Dumbledore ventured carefully, but a darting glance at Bryan’s suddenly cold expression appropriately halted his original words.

He allowed the silence to stretch for a long moment, as if carefully selecting his next words. When he did finally speak, his voice was serious.

“Then you realize this will lead to a direct, personal confrontation with Tom.” It wasn’t a question. “And I’m afraid his then form will be quite unlike the diluted shadow you faced at the Quidditch World Cup.”

“Heh.” Bryan chuckled. He rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug, easing the tension that had settled there. “Funny, I thought if anyone should have faith in my capabilities, it would be you, Headmaster.”

He pushed away from the window and stretched, catlike, before turning and throwing Dumbledore a cheerful wink. “Well then. The Wand Weighing awaits. Shall we?”

And with a fluid motion, he strode from the office, humming an off-key tune.

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