Polyjuice Potion and the Heir (V)

"As for your contribution to Hogwarts—" Severus Snape drawled, as though considering an appropriate choice of words, "you have mainly created employment opportunities for the dungeon cleaners. I think Mr. Filch ought to write you a letter of thanks. After all, if it weren't for your... astonishing... destructive capabilities, his work would probably be much easier."

Every word was like a venom-soaked needle, pricking Harry and Ron until their faces went pale. Their fists clenched beneath their robes, their knuckles cracking, yet neither of them looked up or said a word.

They merely scrubbed. Pried. Cleaned.

Like two silent, hardworking machines programmed for the task.

Time passed second by second.

There were no windows in the dungeon, so they could not see the sky outside. But Harry could feel time passing—in the subtle changes as his knees began to ache, his back grew sore, and his fingers stiffened. He knew a long time had gone by.

At last, he scraped the puddle of sludge clean from the floor. A patch lighter than the surrounding stone remained, as though something had bleached it—the mark left by the corrosive mess, permanently etched into the floor like a scar that would never fade.

Ron had gathered every fragment of the cauldron as well, placing them in a metal bucket. The shards clinked and clattered inside it, like some mournful funeral music for a departed cauldron.

Severus Snape rose from beside the desk and walked over to them. He looked down at the floor, then at the fragments in the metal bucket. His gaze lingered on the pile for several seconds before returning to their faces.

"Looks like even Trolls can learn to use a rag," he finally said, with the reluctant tone of someone admitting a fact he did not wish to acknowledge.