The dungeons were different at night.

Cold and damp. Completely deserted.

And dark...

Granted, they were always poorly lit, but somehow, the knowledge that beyond the castle’s exterior, the sun had set, made everything seem more sinister. Even the stone walls, as though sensing the sun’s abandonment, seemed to huddle closer together to create narrower passages that led to nowhere good.

Despite Harry’s own growing discomfort, a sidelong glance at his teacher confirmed that Snape was not bothered by the unpleasant conditions. Marching purposefully down the corridors as if he had them memorized by heart, the solitary man maybe even preferred them.

Harry swallowed nervously, attempting to contain the building panic in his stomach. His leg smarted something awful and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to be anywhere else—a memory of Uncle Vernon’s puce face popped into his head—well, almost anywhere else.

Why didn't he watch his step? Why hadn’t he waited for Ron to finish his dinner in the first place? And why...why did it have to be Snape who found him?

The man in question tugged impatiently at the neck of Harry’s robes when his injured leg failed to keep pace with his professor’s long strides, and Harry struggled to catch up, eyes searching desperately for a quick escape.

They took a sharp turn down an unlit, unfamiliar corridor, and panic surged anew within him. Just what sort of punishment did Snape have in mind? They traveled a short distance before coming to an abrupt stop.

Harry heard Snape muttering quietly followed by the distinct sound of a door being unlatched, and Harry knew with a terrible sinking feeling exactly what was to happen next. Snape was going to lock him in the dungeons! Alone and in the dark. It was Privet Drive all over again, and no one would know where he was or what had happened to him and he would scream and claw at the walls, but no one would come for him!

By the time Snape flooded the hallway in light with a sharply cast Lumos, Harry had worked himself into such a miserable state of internal frenzy that he was fighting to hold onto the meager amount of food he had managed  to consume at dinnertime.

Snape peered down his hooked nose at him, an unrecognizable emotion twisting his features into  something akin to a grimace.

 “What’s the matter with you, Potter?” It seemed an immense struggle for the man to suppress the irritation in his tone.

Harry chanced a glance at him, squinting in the wandlight. His mouth floundering for words, before finally resorting to begging, though he knew it was futile. “Please, sir! Don’t  do this!”

“What is it you think I’m going to do?” Snape asked dubiously.

“Leave me alone in there...”

“Leave you unattended in my private quarters?” Snape pronounced incredulously, only to continue in a slow, deliberate tone. “Over my dead body.”

Harry thought there was something wrong with him when he found those words oddly comforting. Still, the humiliation at his overreaction burned at his cheeks, and he could only hope Snape hadn’t noticed, or that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. At Hogwarts, the latter was probably more likely.

In his shame, Harry allowed himself to be deposited into a sparse sitting room, while Snape disappeared into a pantry off the kitchen.

“Hang on, why did you bring me here?”

Mortification gave way to indignation as Harry pictured himself being made to scrub the dungeon bat’s private toilet. How delighted the man must be to have witnessed the-boy-who-lived running away like a sniveling ickle baby.

Snape reappeared with a handful of jars and tins and a washcloth. “I foolishly assumed you’d rather hobble the short distance to my private potions stores, than take three flights of stairs to the hospital wing with a mangled leg.”

“Oh.” That was actually...considerate of the greasy git. Harry was instantly suspicious.

As if the situation couldn’t get any more bizarre, the Potions Master actually crouched down in front of him to examine his injured leg. It was Harry’s first look at the damage, as well, so he allowed the intrusion. He wasn’t surprised to see the blood soaking into the elastic of his sock, he had felt as much on the trip down here, but he hadn’t expected to see the long scratches that stretched from knee to ankle.

How had that happened?

The sight of the wound made him a bit queasy,  and Harry had seen some real doozies in his day.

“Um, Professor, maybe I should go see Madam Pomfrey after all. That doesn’t—”

“You could have avoided these injuries, had you not yanked  the limb from the step,” Snape admonished. “As it is, these can be easily closed with a suturing cream. We’ll apply a disinfectant for good measure.” And with more care than Harry thought the man capable, Snape quickly set to work.

“There was something in the step,” Harry admitted after a while.

“What?” Snape asked distractedly.

“I pulled my leg out because there was something in the step.”

“It was a charmed step, Potter. The only thing in it was your foot.”

“No, there was something living. Like and animal or something.”

“Despite popular belief, the staircase is solid stone.” Snape finished applying the disinfectant, and wiped his hands off with a cloth. “There was nothing in the step.”

Harry glared at his professor’s retreating back. Just when he thought the man might be halfway decent.

“Now,” Snape’s voice carried from the kitchen, “About your detention.”