Please Call Me Senior!

"More importantly, Buddy," Ron said, "today's Saturday. Snape told you to serve detention in his office every Wednesday and Saturday—I don't think you should go. I mean, what if, what if he really wants to do something to you?"

"Don't worry. Nothing will happen," Harry told his two worried friends.

That evening, Harry arrived at Snape's office as promised.

He had not come alone. Filch had dragged him there, despite his repeated claims that Professor Snape had invited him.

Why would a Gryffindor be invited by the Head of Slytherin? Filch was practically laughing his teeth out.

What Filch had not expected was that Harry had not only been telling the truth, but had deliberately let Filch catch him—after all, Harry had merely wanted someone to keep him company and relieve the boredom on the way.

Filch was not particularly well-mannered, but Harry's tongue was even sharper. With just a few sarcastic remarks, he choked Filch up until the man was furious.

"If this were decades ago, you'd be whipped bloody in the dungeons!" Filch snarled viciously.

Harry snapped back, "If this were a hundred years ago, you wouldn't even be qualified to stand in front of me and speak to me!"

Filch grew even angrier, but he had no way to punish a student. All he could do was lead Harry toward Snape's office in a huff.

"Professor." Filch shoved Harry into Snape's office as if presenting a treasure. "I caught a Gryffindor student! He actually lied and said you—"

"He did not lie," Snape said curtly.

As though he had swallowed a fly, Filch instantly fell silent. He looked at Harry in disbelief, then at Snape.

Harry ignored the two of them and looked around the office on his own.

Snape's office was located in the castle's dungeons, so its walls were dark and eerie.

The shelves along the walls held many large glass jars, filled with all kinds of slimy, disgusting things: animals and plants floating in potions of different colors, embryos of various magical creatures, and even brains floating in jars.

"Seen enough, Potter?"

That greasy, drawling voice rose from behind him.

"Yes, Professor," Harry answered.

Snape said nothing more. With a flick of his wand, he pulled out two small buckets, one empty and one full, and set them before Harry.

"This is your task for today. Squeeze the mucus from the Flobberworms—no magic," Snape said slowly.

Harry lowered his head to look at the densely packed, wriggling Flobberworms in the bucket. When he looked up again, Snape was already marking assignments.

He clearly saw Snape's expression twitch slightly when he picked up Marcus Flint's paper. He wrote a "D" on it.

Then crossed out the "D" and changed it to a "T."

"T"?

Harry wondered in confusion. Wasn't Hogwarts' grading system "Outstanding (O)," "Exceeds Expectations (E)," "Acceptable (A)," "Poor (P)," and the lowest grade, "Dreadful (D)"?

Following the principle of asking when he did not understand, Harry spoke up. "Professor, what does that T mean?"

Snape did not answer. His Quill scratched across the parchment with a soft rustling sound.

Just as Harry sat down to deal with the Flobberworms, Snape's distinctly greasy tone sounded again.

"Troll."

Harry shrugged. The answer was not particularly surprising.

It seemed all Slytherins had this habit. Cassandra also especially liked calling Gryffindor's other students "Trolls."

Wearing Dragonhide gloves, he skillfully squeezed the Flobberworms, collecting their mucus in a small jar before tossing the dreamless worms into the other bucket.

"Flobberworms. Their mucus is used to thicken potions." Snape's voice sounded above his head.

Harry did not look up. He was afraid the oil from Snape's hair would drip onto his face.

"A barely passable method."

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Snape's tone did not seem quite so cold.

Then Harry was kicked out.

Standing at the door, Harry let out a small sigh of relief.

He had not doubted Snape to begin with, and after this detention, he was even more certain that Snape did not want to harm him—at least, he did not want Harry dead.

If it were Professor Snape, he would either show concern to lower my guard, or simply attack me directly, Harry thought.

So then... who is this person?

After only a few steps, Harry noticed someone standing in front of him.

The man wore robes covered in stars and moons, and his long white beard hung all the way to his waist.

Looking higher, Harry saw Headmaster Dumbledore gazing at him with kind eyes behind twinkling half-moon spectacles.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said. "Would you mind coming to the Headmaster's Office for a chat?"

No, you should call me Senior, Harry thought idly.

But he did not forget to explain "urgently," "Headmaster, Professor Snape was the one who gave me detention—"

"Relax, Harry." Dumbledore's tone was gentle. "Severus has told me about it. I am not here to deduct points from Gryffindor—after all, it does not have many left, does it?"

As he spoke, Dumbledore gave Harry a mischievous wink.

"All right, then let's talk. I happen to have questions for you too." Harry shrugged.

Dumbledore chuckled, turned around, and walked up the spiral staircase behind him.

Harry said nothing and followed close behind.

He had a great many grievances against this Headmaster now.

Someone had openly cast a curse on a Hogwarts student during a Quidditch match, yet the Headmaster had done nothing...

Just wait. If Veratia's Time Magic succeeds and she can come to a hundred years later...

If she learns that you imprisoned her younger brother Gellert—

"Honeydukes."

Only when Harry heard Dumbledore's voice did he realize that he had followed Dumbledore to the entrance of the Headmaster's Office.

That candy's name must have been the password to the Headmaster's Office. After Dumbledore spoke it, the enormous Stone Beast by the door stepped aside, revealing a spiral staircase.

"Come in, Harry," Dumbledore said, entering first.

Harry followed him inside.

Pushing open the gleaming Oak Door, Harry saw the Headmaster's Office before him.

Unlike the Headmaster's Office in his memories, this one was now a spacious circular room filled with a cheerful atmosphere, where countless tiny sounds softly chimed.

Tables with slender legs were covered in all manner of silver instruments. They emitted mysterious vapors, as though whispering ancient tales.

The walls, however, were just as he remembered, covered with portraits of former Headmasters.

They slept in their frames, their gentle snores echoing through the air.

Only then did Harry realize that although Phineas Black had been the most unpopular Headmaster in history, he had still been a Headmaster of Hogwarts and was entitled to leave behind a portrait at Hogwarts after his death!

Oh no. What if he recognizes me?