As Harry stepped into the classroom, he peered slowly around the room wondering from which corner Snape’s voice had echoed.

But the room was empty.

Still holding the heavy door open, his fingers gripping the ledge, Harry blinked a few times, attempting to detect the movement of ebony robes amongst the patches of darkness.

He wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of preservatives that was wafting from the nearby buckets. As the boy took another few steps forward, he let the door slip from his fingers, feeling a gentle, damp coolness brush over the back of his neck, causing his skin to prickle.

Another step, and then the door suddenly slammed closed from behind him. Harry’s body jerked from the unexpected thunder of wood against wood. He spun around.

Snape stood in front of the closed door, his left arm outstretched, palm splayed against the wood. He glared down at Harry from his turgid stance and remained completely still. The muscles in his stern face refused to give way to a milder expression.

Harry was as startled by the silence almost as much as from the slamming door. The boy breathed evenly, making every effort to slow the pounding of his heart. Aside from the blood thrumming against his eardrums, the lack of noise buzzed in the stone-insulated room. Harry wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything. It was uncharacteristic of his professor to allow Harry the initiating words of a detention.

However, Snape remained silent for the next several seconds, and the room throbbed with the absence of his silky, sneering voice.

Gathering up all of his Gryffindor bravery, Harry shifted his stance, attempting to appear nonchalant, and opened his mouth to speak.

“I’m…” Harry’s voice cracked on the first word. He cleared his throat and tried again, “I’m here for my detention.” Another cough from the boy, and then he lowered his gaze to the floor. “Sir.” At the last word, Harry looked up briefly through his fringe and back down again when he noticed that Snape had narrowed his gaze ever so slightly.

Trying to play off the apprehensive dryness that had temporarily encompassed his mouth and throat, Harry coughed a couple of times and then risked another hasty glance into the cold, coal-black eyes.

Snape paused for a few seconds and then slowly smirked, gradually cracking the stone pretense.

But it was not an amused smirk, Harry noticed immediately. It was a sneer that Harry remembered well, as it was so very similar to the one that Snape had impressed upon him last year during the first Potions class when the man had referred to him as Hogwarts’ new celebrity.

Harry recalled the intense heat that had crept up the back of his neck, causing his ears to simmer with embarrassment and anger. Not that Harry would ever admit it, even to Ron and Hermione, but his feelings were hurt over the flippantly harsh statement. He’d been rather excited for Potions. It reminded him of the muggle subject, Chemistry, that as a ten-year-old, ignorant of magic, he’d looked forward to studying in secondary school.

But at that very moment, a little over a year ago, Potions became his least favorite subject. In the blink of an eye, his eager excitement had been snuffed by a few venomous words.

It pained Harry to see such a look again, so different than the one he had experienced earlier this afternoon. But the embarrassment was lacking this time and Harry schooled his expression, forcing contempt to take over—to calm him down.

Mutual disdain was what Harry was used to, and it allowed him to emerge from the hurtful recollection.

Irritated, Harry was about to speak again, when Snape straightened up and began to move toward him. Harry forced himself to remain planted, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

“You’re early,” Snape growled, halting a little more than a foot away from Harry.

“I am?” Harry inquired, genuinely curious, looking around the classroom for a clock, even though he knew there wasn’t one. He wasn’t expecting Snape’s first words to have anything to do with time. Besides, he couldn’t be that early. He’d even stopped off at the loo…

“The time is now 6:29 in the evening. There is no clock in here, boy, so you can cease the inane swiveling of your overly large head,” Snape sneered, almost evilly.

“Erm…okay,” Harry retorted. Is this man serious? We’re talking one minute, here!

With a sweep of his robes, Snape ambled over to the nearest counter where several glass vials and jars were arranged, cloudy and clearly in need of cleaning.

“However…” the man said slowly picking up a vial without turning around, “since I am nearly finished taking inventory in the storeroom,” Snape spun on his heel, looking directly at Harry, “I believe you are ready to begin.”

The boy furrowed his brow in confusion and gazed intently at his professor’s deadly glare.

“I…yes, sir,” Harry began, a sense of bewilderment coating every word.

Snape strode forward until he was towering over Harry.

“And seeing, Mr. Potter, as I possess a bit…less than I did last week, it certainly will not take me long to complete my task,” Snape spat through clenched teeth. His voice was cold, steely.

What is he playing at? Harry thought.  He's a complete nutter.

Harry cocked his head at Snape.

“All right..." The boy’s eyebrows were still narrowed in thought, “What would you like me to do? Sir?”

Snape glared for several seconds longer before shaking his head in disgust. “The spitting image.”

Harry felt his temper rise. Oh, I see…  He’s comparing me to my dad again. 

Before Harry could form a response, Snape briskly swept back over to the counter and began noisily gathering the filthy, empty vials, placing them nearer to the basin. The clinking of the glass resounded sharply in Harry’s ears.

“There are over one hundred vials here, Potter,” Snape stated, motioning to the rest of the glass bottles glistening dully on the far right counter.“You will wash each of them thoroughly with a wire bursh and set it to dry."

Harry’s stomach plummeted. How had he not seen those other vials?

“When you are finished, you may begin disemboweling this bucket of toads,” Snape exclaimed matter-of-factly.“If I am satisfied with your work, you may leave.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, spectacularly disheartened.

“Begin now,” the Potions Master snarled, and without meeting Harry’s eyes, without further comment, he walked over to his storeroom, entered, and slammed the door.

Standing stock-still for a short moment, Harry glanced pitifully over at the vials. He would never finish. Would Snape make him stay here all night if he didn’t?

And what was wrong with Snape anyway? Harry asked himself.

The boy sighed and set to pushing up the long sleeves of his robes. He grabbed a vial—the first of many—and began scrubbing. After Harry had finished rinsing his twelfth piece of glass, he lifted his hand to brush the sweaty hair away from his eyes.

The classroom was cold, but the dampness always cacused him to perspire, especially when he began working.

Reaching for the thirteenth, Harry grumbled when his sleeve fell back down over his wrist. Replacing the vial for a moment, Harry unfastened his robes and removed them from his shoulders.

A clinking of glass tinkled from within the pocket.

The boy froze, icicles forming in his stomach; his face heated.  Slipping his robes the rest of the way off, Harry suddenly remembered what he had forgotten to do before his detention.

He reached his cold hand into the deep pocket and carefully pulled out two full vials of boomslang skin and powdered bicorn horn, taking care not to make any noise. Snape was still in his storeroom with the door tightly shut.

Oh, God, Harry thought wildly, how could have forgotten about these? No wonder Snape is so angry. He knows.

Feverishly, his stomach clenched into knots, Harry tried to formulate a plan. If Snape found out, he’d surely be expelled now!  How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not known what Snape was snarling about…taking inventory…less than last week…

Harry, you prat, the boy scolded himself.

He had to think. And fast.

For one awful, shameful moment, Harry remembered that, technically, he hadn’t actually been the one who had stolen from Snape’s storeroom—it was Hermione. But feeling immediately disgusted with himself, he forced his brain to conjure up another idea.

Just then, the store room door banged open. Harry jumped, even more startled than he’d been at the first sound of a slamming door, and thrust his hand beneath his robes, draping them over his right forearm.

Okay, what now? Harry thought.

He carefully folded his robes and placed the bundle on a nearby table. Harry felt as if he were backing away from a bomb that was set to explode in thirty seconds.

He glanced over to see where Snape had gone, but the man was nowhere to be found. He must have entered another storage closet.

Harry turned back to his work  but couldn't concentrate.  Every few seconds, he peered over his shoulder.  Harry's knees felt like jelly and his hands were shaky.  He wiped the sweat from his brow once more.

Two vials later, and the classroom was still empty.

Drying his hands, Harry tentatively moved away from the basin towards the middle of the classroom. A door was flung open in the wall behind Snape’s desk. Harry listened carefully to hear any stirring in the background.

Silence.

Slowly, Harry backed up, inching toward his original place in front of the sink. He leaned over, keeping his eyes fixed on the open door.  Harry picked up the bundled vials, delicately--as if handling a swalldled newborn--and tiptoed over to the storeroom.

Please, just give me one minute. One sodding minute...and everything will be back to normal.  And I'll never steal anything again.  Ever.

Harry was sweating more than he thought possible in such a cool atmosphere.

But then Harry froze again.

He’ll know it was me, he thought.  Snape knows he's missing ingredients from his stock.  Either way, I'm dead.

Harry felt trapped. He’d never felt so vulnerable and idiotic in his life.

At that moment, Harry heard a muffled noise cascading through the back closet.

Snape.

Harry snaked around desks as quickly as he dared, dropped his robes and grabbed the nearest vial, upsetting many of those surrounding it.

But before he could catch them, several bottles tipped over and came crashing to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces.

Harry swore under his breath and immediately stooped to gather up the jagged remains.

“Potter!”

Harry jumped and lost his balance, falling back into the glittering slivers.

He could feel the tiny, sharp spears piercing through his jumper, grazing his back like needle points.

The boy groaned in pain as he tried to sit up and felt the slivers push into his skin.

“Potter, don’t move!” Snape exclaimed, pointing his wand at the boy, and levitated Harry from the mess.  He landed heavily on the soles of his lace-ups, wobbling a bit before regaining his balance.

“I—I didn’t mean to…” Harry tried but was shorted.

“Turn around.”

Harry blanched. Was he going to get it again? Glass in his back and all?

“Potter, turn around!” Snape barked.

Harry obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut for whatever was to follow. But all he felt was a tingling sensation down his spine, and the acute stinging disappeared.

Slowly, Harry opened one eye and then the other.

He turned around to face his irate Potions Master.

“Is it possible for you to avoid getting yourself into trouble for one measly night?” Snape growled sternly.

Harry couldn’t look at him. He felt small and stupid as he stared at the bit of floor that had recently been covered with hundreds of microscopic shards.

Snape sighed heavily.  “Get back to work. It’s already half-past seven and you’ve barely begun. I will not have you slacking off during your detentions, is that clear?” He spoke more quietly this time, but his tone was like ice.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, blinking at the floor.

As Harry turned back to the basin to grab another vial—carefully this time—Snape swept back to his desk and pulled out a large stack of essays from the bottom drawer.

Harry winced at the loud slap of paper on wood as Snape plunked them on the desktop.  The man sighed again, and Harry began scrubbing.

Thirty-seven vials later, Harry still felt rotten.  His fingertips were wrinkled from overexposure to water, his sleeves were soaked, and the uneasiness in his stomach intensified as the moments melted away.

Once or twice, he risked a glance over his shoulder at the bundle of robes that hid the stolen items before shifting his eyes over to his silent professor, who was marking essays in earnest.  Every once in a while, the furious sound of a quill tip scratching against parchment battled with the scratching of wire on glass.

Harry was on his sixty-eighth vial when Snape’s voice suddenly startled him out of his dismal thoughts.

“Huh?” Harry turned and stared at his professor.

“Potter, that is not an acceptable way to address me. Try againn

Harry shifted.  "I just didn't hear what you said," the boy offered lightly.  He was exhausted and in no mood to argue.

Snape rolled his eyes, “I said that you are dismissed, boy!”

“Oh. Okay.”

The Potions Master snorted and continued marking essays in his distinct, spiky scrawl, stray locks of dark hair swaying with each stroke of the quill.

“The spitting image,” Snape growled to his parchment once again.

Harry stared, stung. He dried his hands off on the damp towel that was draped over the basin, collected his robes, and made his way slowly towards the door leading out of the dungeon classroom.

As he passed Snape’s desk, he stopped. The man didn’t look up but briefly abandoned his grading and waited.

Figuring that he couldn’t feel any worse than he did now, regardless of what happened, Harry felt his way through the knotted robes,

He placed his hand around the cold bottles for a few seconds and then pulled them out.

This isn’t Hermione’s problem. It’s mine. Be a Gryffindor. Be a Gryffindor. Come on, Harry!

Clamping his lips together tightly, Harry reached over and placed the two bottles, side by side, on the edge of Snape’s desk; the light, dull, thunk of glass on wood was unnaturally loud in the terse stillness.

Harry turned once again and dragged his feet toward the exit.

“Mr. Potter.”

The boy paused again, took a deep breath, and turned.

Snape said nothing for a moment as he surveyed the small face carefully.

“Seven o’clock. Tomorrow. Do not be late,” he gave the tiniest of nods and returned to his work.

Harry’s heart pounded in his ears again, and he nodded, even though he knew Snape couldn’t see. Head spinning and feeling strangely light, Harry exited the classroom for the second time that day.

Turning, for only a second, to stare at the closed wooden door, the boy was unable to see that Severus Snape was also staring intently from the other side.

Disoriented, the man averted his gaze until he was staring at the two gleaming bottles resting delicately in his open hand.