Chapter 37: Whispers in the Dungeon
Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 37: Whispers in the Dungeon
The Great Hall had never felt so small.
Harry sat between Draco and Crabbe at the Slytherin table, pushing a forkful of scrambled eggs around his plate without eating. The morning light streamed through the enchanted ceiling, painting golden squares on the stone floor, but it brought no warmth.
Whispers followed them like a trail of smoke.
"...dragged right through the hall..."
"...Parkinson girl… gone..."
"...the Headmaster's office… Potter..."
Harry kept his eyes on his plate. He did not need to look up to know that students from every house were staring. Some with curiosity. Some with fear. A few with barely disguised satisfaction.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley was holding court, his voice loud enough to carry across the hall. "Told you Potter was trouble. Breaking into the third‑floor corridor? Swimming in the lake after curfew? They're lucky they weren't expelled. Let's hope that the traitor's daughter never comes back from re-education."
His cronies, Rivers and Runcorn, nodded along, their smirks sharp and mocking. A few other Gryffindors laughed, though some of them glanced away uncomfortably.
Near the end of the table, Harry caught a glimpse of Daphne Greengrass. She sat with her back to him, her pale blonde hair pulled into a severe knot.
She did not turn around or acknowledge him. And Harry did not blame her. She had warned him how dangerous the Headmaster was. She had told him to stop, and he had not listened.
At the Hufflepuff table, a group of first‑years whispered behind their hands, their eyes darting toward the Slytherin side. One of them, a small boy with a round face, looked genuinely frightened. Another, a girl with long red hair, pointed openly.
"I'm going to hex him," Draco muttered, his grey eyes fixed on Ron Weasley.
"Don't." Harry's voice was quiet but firm. "That's what they want. A reaction. A reason to take more points from us."
Draco's jaw tightened, but he slumped back, his hands curling into fists under the table. "They're talking about Pansy like she's already dead."
Crabbe said nothing. He simply stared at his plate, his broad shoulders hunched. He had not spoken much since they had been released from their cells. None of them had.
The three of them were being treated as outcasts now. The rumour mill had done its work. Harry Potter, the so‑called War Hero's son, had been caught breaking the most sacred rules.
Draco Malfoy, heir to a disgraced family, had followed him. And Vincent Crabbe, whose father had been executed as a traitor, had been foolish enough to join them.
Pansy was gone, and none of them were sure if she would ever return.
No one mentioned her name. It was as if she had never existed.
Harry forced himself to swallow a piece of toast, though it tasted like ash. He thought of Pansy's fierce determination, the way she had stood up to Ron Weasley on the train, the way she had clutched her brother's tie. He thought of her hollow eyes when she learned the truth about Alistair.
'She trusted me,' Harry thought. 'And I led her into a trap.'
The guilt was a cold stone buried in his chest.
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Saturday detention with Professor Snape began at nine o'clock.
Harry walked down to the dungeons alone. Draco and Crabbe had been assigned to different tasks. Draco had detention with Filch, and Crabbe was sent to the greenhouses. The separation felt deliberate, another punishment designed to isolate them.
The Potions classroom was cold and dimly lit. The stone walls seemed to absorb what little light there was, leaving the corners in shadow.
Rows of empty desks stood like silent guardians. At the front, behind his old wooden desk, Professor Snape sat reading a thick, leather‑bound book.
When Harry entered, Snape looked up. His dark eyes were hard to read, but his expression had the usual mask of gentle curiosity.
"You arrive very punctually, Mr. Potter. That is… nice to see."
Harry said nothing. He had learned that silence was safer than speech.
Snape studied him for a moment, then gestured to a row of cauldrons along the back wall. "You will clean those. And I expect you to do it thoroughly. They have been used for a particularly stubborn boil‑curing potion, and the residue is corrosive. Scrub until they shine. You will find the necessary brushes and solutions under the sink."
Harry nodded and walked to the back of the room. The cauldrons were stacked three high, each one stained with a dark, crusty film. He filled the sink with warm water, added a measure of the purple cleaning solution, and dipped his brush.
For the first hour, Snape ignored him. The only sounds were the scratch of a quill on parchment and the soft scrape of Harry's brush against iron.
Harry's hands were starting to itch, and his arms hurt, but he did not stop or complain. He focused on the rhythm of the work, letting his mind drift.
'Pansy is gone. Draco and Crabbe are on thin ice. I have one credit point left.' He remained himself.
One more mistake and he was done.
He scrubbed harder.
Near the end of the second hour, Snape set down his quill and rose from his desk. He walked slowly along the rows of empty desks, his robes trailing behind him like a shadow.
Your father was also… difficult, in his youth," Snape said, his voice soft, almost conversational. "He asked too many questions. He pushed boundaries, and he did not like being told what to do."
Harry's brush paused for a fraction of a second, then continued.
"But unlike you, Mr. Potter, your father learned." Snape stopped beside Harry and inspected the cauldron. "He learned that loyalty has its rewards. That obedience is its own form of strength. By the time he left Hogwarts, he was one of the Headmaster's most trusted soldiers." He paused. "It served him well. Until the end."
Harry's grip tightened on the brush. "What do you mean?"
Snape's dark eyes met his. For a moment, something flickered behind them...something that Harry couldn't quite identify.
"I mean that curiosity is a luxury, Mr. Potter. Your father indulged it early, then set it aside. He understood that some questions are better left unasked, and that asking them could cost you everything." He turned away. "You would do well to learn the same."
He reached out and tapped the rim of the cauldron with a long finger. "This residue is still present. You will need to soak it longer. Use the stronger solution on the left."
Harry was about to move when Snape spoke again.
"Not now, the time for detention is over. Return tomorrow at the same time. The dirty cauldrons will be waiting for you, dont worry."
Harry nodded and gathered his things. As he walked to the door, he felt Snape's eyes on his back.
He did not look around.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Sunday's detention began the same way.
Harry arrived at nine o'clock sharp. The classroom was just as he left it...cold, dim, and silent. Snape sat behind his desk, writing a letter with a silver quill. He did not look up when Harry entered.
"The cauldrons from yesterday still need attention," he said. "You already know what to do. Get to work."
Harry set to work. This time, the residue was harder to remove. He had to soak the cauldrons in the stronger solution, scrubbing in circles until his wrists ached. He worked methodically, losing himself in the monotony.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp raps, firm and confident, echoed through the dungeon.
Snape looked up from his letter, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.
"Continue your work, Mr. Potter. Do not stop."
He rose and walked to the door, opening it just enough to slip through into the corridor. Harry heard the soft murmur of voices, but the words were muffled.
Harry's heart began to beat faster.
After a short moment of hesitation, he gently set down his brush and crept closer to the door, making his footsteps as silent as he could muster.
He pressed his ear against the wood, straining to hear what was being told on the other side.
There were a lot of muffled sounds, but he thought he could make up a few words.
"...the Headmaster is not pleased." The voice belonged to a woman's... cold, precise, and familiar. It took Harry a moment to place it.
Professor McGonagall.
"The prisoner is becoming… agitated. It cannot continue this way."
"Too dangerous."
"The prisoner is not my main concern," Snape replied, his voice low. "My concern is the boy. I thought I made that clear."
"The boy is safe. For as long as he behaves. The Headmaster gave you his word."
"For now," Snape agreed. "But he is curious. He will not stop."
"Then make sure his curiosity doesnt lead where it should not. If he goes near that room in the third-floor corridor again..." McGonagall's voice hardened. "Dont expect more lineancy. Especially not from me. Now...for the prisoner..."
"Yes, yes," Snape said. "I'll make another batch of potions. That should give us more time."
"Do not tarry. This matter is of the utmost importance."
Heels clicked on stone. The voices moved away, fading into the distance.
Harry stood frozen, his ear still pressed against the door.
'They were talking about a prisoner?, Here in the castle?... What prisoner?. They couldn't be referring to Alistair, right?. What if...-'
His train of thought was interrupted when he heard the door handle moving.
He forced himself to rush back to his cauldron and pick up his brush.
When Snape came back a few seconds later, Harry was scrubbing diligently, his face blank.
"Mmm..." Snape stared at him for a long moment. "How is the work coming along?."
"Good, Sir." Harry responded. "I'm almost done with this one."
Snape nodded and returned to his desk.
Harry followed the man with his eyes. If he suspected him of overhearing the conversation, he did not show it.
The detention continued in silence. But Harry's mind was going through what he heard, over and over, trying to analyze every word.
That night, Harry sat in his four‑poster bed, the curtains drawn tight.
The common room was dark and quiet. Draco and Crabbe had gone to sleep hours ago. The only light came from the dying embers of the fire, filtering through the gap in the curtains.
He reached under his bed, opened the hidden compartment under the floor, and pulled out his diary.
The leather cover was soft and worn, the pages filled with his cramped handwriting.
His ballpoint pen scratched across the page in the dim light.
"I overheard Snape and McGonagall talking about some prisoner. Who could be locked in the castle?."
"It must be someone very important."
"I thought at first it might be Alistair's body, but why would they need to keep a corpse 'contained'? And they said the prisoner was 'agitated.' That sounds like someone alive."
"What if it's Pansy? What if they didn't send her to re‑education? What if she's locked up there, right now, just a few floors above me?"
"I can't just stand still and do nothing. But I can't bring Draco and Crabbe into this again. They've already lost too much. Pansy is gone because of me. I won't let them get hurt as well."
"McGonagall mentioned the third-floor corridor again, so that must be where this prisoner is being kept...I need to find a way into that room. Alone."
But he knew that this time, he needed to be more careful. If he were caught there again...there will be no more chances.
He closed the diary and hid it under his mattress.
His mind was made up...he couldn't let this matter rest, no matter what.
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