From Cupboard to Chaos

Detention and Other Disasters

If there's one thing I've learned about myself, it's that my imagination has no off switch. This, as you might expect, does not mix well with detention.

The day after my Potions fiasco, I trudged down to the dungeons to serve my time with Professor Snape. The air down there smelled like old socks and regret, and the flickering torches on the walls made it feel like the setting of a medieval dungeon escape. My brain, naturally, went straight into overdrive.

What if Snape was secretly a vampire? The greasy hair could be his way of hiding the fact that he didn't cast a reflection. Or maybe he was brewing a potion to turn himself invisible so he could spy on students. The possibilities were endless.

"Potter," Snape drawled the moment I walked in. "Punctual. A surprising development."

I blinked. "Uh, thanks?"

"That wasn't a compliment."

Right. 

Of course not.

He handed me a rag and pointed to a long row of cauldrons that looked like they hadn't been cleaned since the invention of soap. "You'll scrub these until I say they're clean. No magic. No shortcuts. And no daydreaming."

The last bit felt personal.

"Yes, Professor," I said, already plotting how to make this less boring.

.

.

.

Ten minutes in, my mind was drifting.

What if these cauldrons had been used to brew forbidden potions? Maybe one of them still had traces of a love potion that could make people fall for their worst enemy. Or a shrinking potion that turned someone into a mouse. I imagined accidentally inhaling leftover fumes and waking up the size of a teacup, running for my life from Mrs. Norris, the creepy school cat.

That thought led to another: what if the cauldrons were cursed? Maybe one of them had been used by some evil wizard, and now it was waiting for the perfect moment to trap an unsuspecting student—me—inside it.

I was halfway through imagining myself stuck in a cauldron, shouting for help while Hufflepuff tried to use spoons to dig me out, when Snape's voice cut through the haze.

"Potter! What, exactly, are you doing?"

I jumped, dropping the rag into the cauldron. "Uh...cleaning?"

Snape strode over, his expression making it very clear he didn't buy that. He peered into the cauldron, where the rag was now floating in a puddle of water that had somehow turned purple.

"Interesting," he said, his tone as sharp as a knife. "I wasn't aware that cleaning required you to conjure sludge."

"It's, uh, a creative approach?" I offered weakly.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose like he was reconsidering his entire life. "Five more cauldrons. No talking. No thinking."

"No thinking?" I muttered under my breath. "Bit harsh."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

By the time I finished the cauldrons, my arms felt like jelly and my brain was a swirling mess of half-formed stories about cursed potions and daring escapes.

"Leave," Snape barked as I wiped my hands on my robes.

I didn't need telling twice.

Now, here's where things got worse.

On my way back to the Hufflepuff dorms, I got very distracted. The dungeons were full of twisty corridors and heavy wooden doors, each more mysterious than the last. Naturally, my brain decided this was an opportunity for adventure.

What if one of these doors led to a secret room? Maybe a vault full of treasure, or a library filled with banned spell books. What if there was a door that opened into an entirely different world?

I was in the middle of debating whether to try a random door when it creaked open on its own.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Harry, don't go in there. It's obviously a trap. And yes, you'd be absolutely right. But in my defense, I've never been good at listening to reason.

The room was small and dark, filled with shelves of jars containing things I couldn't even begin to describe. One of them had something floating in it that looked suspiciously like a baby octopus wearing a wig.

I reached out to poke it—because apparently, I have zero self-preservation instincts—when I heard footsteps behind me.

"Potter!" Snape's voice boomed, making me jump so hard I knocked the jar clean off the shelf.

It hit the floor with a shatter, spilling its contents everywhere. The smell was horrendous, like a mix of rotten eggs and wet socks.

"What," Snape hissed, "are you doing now?"

I panicked. "Uh, field research?"

His eyes narrowed into slits. "Detention. Again. Tomorrow."

The next night, I found myself back in the dungeons, this time tasked with sorting an enormous pile of slimy, wriggling things that Snape called "flobberworms."

"Separate them by size," he instructed, clearly enjoying himself. "And don't even think about daydreaming."

Too late.

As I squished and sorted, my mind wandered. What if flobberworms were secretly sentient? Maybe they were plotting an uprising, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I imagined them forming a slimy army, complete with tiny helmets and battle cries.

I was so deep into this thought that I didn't notice one of the worms crawling up my sleeve until it was halfway to my shoulder.

"AHHH!" I yelled, flailing like a maniac. The worm went flying, landing with a wet splat on Snape's desk.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Snape looked at me like he was seriously considering turning me into a flobberworm.

"Out," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Before I assign you a month of detention."

By the time I stumbled back to the dorms, covered in slime and reeking of whatever had been in that jar, I was convinced of one thing:

Snape and I were destined to hate each other forever.