Snape’s dark eyes flickered up from his contemplation of one of the many rolls of parchment he had spread across his desk in a patchwork of marked and unmarked essays; some covered in the messy scrawl of childish penmanship, others covered more noticeably with red inked corrections – or insults about the quality of the essays as the case may be.  Very messy essays, Harry thought with dread as he took stock of the large smudges of ink marring the topmost parchment he could see from where he was across the room.  Probably first years. 

Harry swore colourfully in his head, discounting how often he’d been doing that lately in favour of silently bemoaning how much worse this night could possibly get.  He’d seen enough detentions to know that Snape was harder to deal with when he was marking whilst supervising and his professor’s mood declined sharply with the year level – and competency level – of the students he was marking.  First years were guaranteed to make for an awful evening for both of them.  And he had to deal with Umbridge after that.  Crap. 

He moved hesitantly into the room, unconsciously skirting the wall as much as possible, feeling as though he was trapped in a cage with something dangerous.  This was really quite true, all things considered. 

Not liking the look Snape was giving him; one of those I-know-you’re-scared-of-me-and-you’re-right-to-be looks that made his eyes narrow ever so slightly and a smirk form at the corners of his mouth, Harry dropped his own to the stone floor and scuffed his shoe a little.  He hated to show this man any kind of weakness by fidgeting but if he didn’t he would just be wound that much tighter.  He couldn’t afford to snap tonight, whether due to anxiety or anger.  No matter how humiliating, penitence would be the best way to go.  He was sure he’d never felt so infuriated.

“You are half an hour early.  It would seem detention works as a corrective measure after all; we will have you learn the meaning of punctuality yet.”  The drawl sounded bored and entirely uninterested, like Snape was too tired to really bother insulting him.  Nevertheless, “that having been said there is a difference between early and too early, the latter often considered similarly rude.  I have half a mind to make you wait in the corridor until eight, but then who am I to deny the pleasures of cauldron scrubbing?” 

There was a short pause where Harry glared at the floor and Snape’s lip curled maliciously.  “This sudden change in you does make me wonder... but then, not even you would be stupid enough to attempt to manipulate me into allowing you to leave detention early simply by arriving when you feel like it.  Especially not when you have already been denied such an arrangement.”  How dare he?  How could he twist everything around so much?  It wasn’t like Harry had much of a choice, Snape hadn’t given him any.

Snape’s lip curled a little more before his head jerked toward the corner of the room.  “Cauldrons are there, you will clean them until I say you can leave.”  And with that Snape returned to marking essays and Harry sighed.  Many of the cauldrons were covered in what Harry could only assume was a six or seventh year assignment, each of which looked to have failed utterly.  The filth encrusted on each was of different colours and consistencies, the only similarity being how much the stains refused to budge without serious elbow grease.  The ache in Harry’s arms wasn’t helped by the knowledge that the man who continually looked over with a smirk could say one word, wave his wand and eliminate the work in seconds.

By the time nine o’clock rolled around there was a bone deep ache in Harry’s arms and back and his head felt fit to explode any minute though he fervently hoped it wouldn’t because he had made very little headway – only three of countless cauldrons were on his ‘clean’ pile – and he didn’t need the extra work that would come from the mess of his own combustion. 

Glancing up at the clock to curse the seconds that were steadily dooming him, Harry’s eyes dropped when he felt Snape’s on him.  Though there seemed something... off in his behaviour tonight, like he was distracted, the man was still smirking more than ever and despite his exhaustion Harry’s blood boiled.   

Everyone in the school detested Umbridge, she wasn’t likeable in the least and when she wasn’t trying to get teachers sacked she was undermining their authority to gain a greater hold on the school and the students.  So, of course, it stood to reason that if anyone had to like the sadistic cow it would be Snape.  Harry had always felt himself lucky in some respects – he had bested the darkest wizard of the century too many times not to – and yet in this moment he felt cursed.  More so.

Yes you evil, greasy- “No sir.”  The reply came from between clenched teeth but Snape was having too much fun to notice.

“You might like to continue then; otherwise I may be forced to keep you back until you have completed a satisfactory amount of work.”  Harry’s mouth hung agape for a few seconds before snapping shut.  Bastard!

“Yes sir.”

When Harry next looked up, the clock seemed to be screaming at him.  He’d become distracted by cauldron scrubbing in an attempt to stave off nerves about his upcoming confrontation with Umbridge.  Despite puzzling all week over the possibilities of the many different meanings of Rehabilitation and what it could mean in the fat toad’s head, he had decided halfway through cauldron number four that he really didn’t want to know any longer. 

Unfortunately in wasn’t up to him and even more unfortunately it was now quarter past ten.  Oh, Umbridge was going to kill him.  No, he knew he wasn’t lucky enough for that, the memory of that cruel gleam in her eyes at dinner was too raw.  She would make him suffer for this.

Snape’s eyes rose from where he was writing a rather long comment in red ink on some unfortunate first year’s paper – long enough that he had taken to writing over the student’s work – to rest on Harry’s messy, bowed head before travelling to the clock and back again.  Harry’s initial panic at seeing the time had diminished somewhat in the face of the futility of it all – it was Umbridge after all.  Just by being told to go to her he had been sentenced to something horrible, how much further could she possibly go?  He met Snape’s gaze with no small amount of calm dejection though he forced it to look as neutral as possible.  He suspected he hadn’t been completely successful.

Standing slowly – hurry up – and taking leisurely steps towards where Harry sat between clean and dirty cauldrons – hurry up, hurry up! – Snape peered into each of the seven he’d managed to get clean before waving his wand dismissively and turning.  His cloak hadn’t settled entirely before the rest of the cauldrons were shining and Harry scowled.

“I suppose you’re done for the night,” Snape drawled, purposely speaking as slowly as possible, not to delay Harry but to rile him.  “You are due here tomorrow evening, eight o’clock.  Now run along, have fun.”

And with a smirk Snape was seated behind his desk once more and Harry fairly flew out of the room with no idea why he was bothering.  He was doomed already.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Harry took a moment to catch his breath as he stood outside Umbridge’s office.  He had briefly contemplated the wisdom of skipping it altogether as it was technically not a detention – apparently – however Umbridge held far more sway over Hogwarts than anyone would have liked to admit and he knew she would have her way.   The longer he went against that the more painful she would make it.

He let his hand fall on the pink-tinged wood, wondering when his thought processes became so morbid as to make him compare the sound of his knocking to the beat of ritualistic tribal drums he had heard on TV once at the Dursleys when he’d been listening from the kitchen sink.  He couldn’t be going to his death, he wasn’t; that was utterly ridiculous.  It wasn’t as though Umbridge was answerable to no one; everyone at the school knew just how far up the Minister’s arse her nose went.  At the very least she was answerable to Fudge and the law.  No matter what she did, Harry would survive it.  It wasn’t that bad.  He’d survive.  He always did.  And he ignored entirely the faint voice in his head that pondered whether by the end of the week he would still want to.

“Come in.”  Harry shuddered at the trill in her voice and opened the door with a loud creak.  Pink assaulted him and there were suddenly many angry meows and hisses emanating from the walls.  Evidently even the cat-covered plates knew he was late.  No chance she’d missed that then.  Though, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was actually dumber than a painted cat.

“Mr Potter,” And there she was, pink and round and so very malicious and Dursley-like it was all Harry could do not to recoil or glare or both.  She said his name softly, as though she was in awe of his daring and a quick glance at the clock on her wall – much different to the far more normal one on Snape’s wall – had him a little in awe of his own daring as well. 

It was now half past ten.  A full ninety minutes later than the time she had given him.  Not to mention the fact that she knew his detention with Snape was only supposed to go until ten so, despite the fact that she would have punished him for his lateness anyway, there was now every chance she thought he had done it on purpose when he had tried so hard for the opposite.  Oh, but he was so screwed.

“Mr Potter,” she breathed again, reminding him a little of Snape as he watched her warily while she stepped around her desk, assessing him with her slightly slanted, piggy eyes, “I see my idea came not a moment too soon.  Punctuality is, after all, one of the very first rules of etiquette and we must show good manners mustn’t we?”

“Uh, yes professor?”  She unnerved him enough to make him completely lost in most of their confrontations.  He could never quite figure out her motivations and it made him feel out of the loop constantly around this woman who had proved already how dangerous she could be.  It didn’t help that he didn’t know why he was here in the first place.   Knowing he was likely going to regret asking but needing to know more before he could combat her and his own fear, Harry gathered what Gryffindor courage he had and asked what had been on his mind for days.

“Professor?”  He waited for her somewhat indulgent nod before continuing, “I was wondering, what did you mean exactly, when you mentioned, um, rehabilitation?”  The grin that swept over her face was terrifying.

“Ah, right to the point I see; good, very good.  No time to waste, but we will discuss that in a minute,” the last was accompanied by a hungry look and it took everything Harry had to hold his ground.  “As I said the other day, I do believe I may have been remiss not to offer you this opportunity earlier.  Everyone should have a chance don’t you think Mr Potter?   I believe muggles call it an ‘intervention’.  There is hope for everyone after all, and it would be wrong to deny you that.  Especially as it would benefit so many others if our work here was to succeed.” 

Now Harry was thoroughly confused and his apprehension was a separate bundle in his chest making his fingers twitch with the palpable need to wrap themselves around the doorknob behind him and disappear.

“What work would that be professor?”  Even as he asked he knew he didn’t really want to know, but he had to nonetheless.

“Why Mr Potter... Harry,” his skin crawled as his name escaped her lips with something akin to whatever twisted affection the woman might be capable of.  “We are going to work on you.  Improving you for the benefit of all.  You are a very influential person and it would be a shame to see that influence go in the wrong direction now wouldn’t it?  You see, I had hoped the detentions you have served so far with me would accomplish what other professors here seem to believe impossible.  I was attempting to reach you through all of the fame that surrounds you, the misconceptions.  The delusions you hold.  I was attempting to make you see Harry, that these things you base your life on are false.” 

She shook her head sadly and tilted it to the side as she regarded him with pity.  “You have a distorted view of the world and I do believe I began correcting that, although I could do more.  I believe you also hold a false image of who you are.  Of course many your age do, but yours I find is much more damaging, both to you and those around you.  I will attempt over the next week to correct that.  Of course it may take longer but we may negotiate that at the end of the week.” 

Oh my... she’s insane.

“Anything you would like to add at this point dear?”  Harry simply stared, feeling too many things to think straight, let alone speak.  “Alright then,” she continued a little more briskly, clasping her hands together.  “I believe first we must focus on the most pressing issue.  Punctuality.” 

Despite the many things going through his head, the many impressions of shock, horror, anger and denial that would not quiet themselves and let him think, Harry had to admit to the bitterly humorous irony of the immediate situation.  It was Snape’s detention that had led him here, his own attempt at instruction on the importance of punctuality.  How much worse could his night get? 

Harry’s eyes widened almost comically when he saw what Umbridge withdrew from behind her desk to aid in her ‘instruction’.  Much.  His night could apparently get much, much worse.