Someone he would rather not

Emerging from a shadowed alcove, a figure loomed, tall and skeletal, cloaked in black that swirled like spilled ink. Greasy hair hung in lank strands, framing a face pale as parchment, its sharp angles carved by suspicion. Eyes like twin voids glinted under the torchlight, a hooked nose casting a stark shadow over thin lips curled in disdain. A voice, low and venomous, sliced through the silence. “Potter. A word.”

Harry’s stride faltered, his hand twitching toward his wand, but those piercing eyes held him fast, cold as winter. Without waiting, the figure turned, cloak snapping like a storm’s gust, and strode down the corridor, his gait sharp, commanding obedience. Harry’s jaw clenched, irritation flaring, but he followed, the path descending into the dungeons, where the air grew heavy with damp stone and the sour tang of potions.

A scarred wooden door creaked open, revealing an office lit by a single lamp, its green glow bathing shelves lined with jars of writhing, slimy things.

Parchment littered a desk, ink-stained and chaotic, the room a stark contrast to the warmth of the Room of Requirement. With a flick of a wand, the door slammed shut, the lock clicking like a snapped twig.

The figure faced Harry, eyes boring into him, voice low and dangerous. “You vanished, Potter. Hours, no trace, no sign.”

Stepping closer, the man’s lip curled, a sneer barely veiling something sharper—urgency, perhaps fear. “The Order noticed. McGonagall, Lupin, Moody—they scoured the castle, the grounds, quietly, to avoid alarming the students. A manhunt, subtle but ****, to ensure you weren’t taken by Voldemort’s forces.” His voice dropped, sharp as a blade’s edge. “In these times, the Boy Who Lived doesn’t simply disappear. Where were you?”

Harry’s pulse raced, his scar burning faintly, his power humming, urging him to speak, to bend reality. Borgin and Burkes, Bellatrix’s new heart, his transformed allies—none could be revealed.

Meeting those dark eyes, he steadied his breath, voice firm. “I was handling something private.”

A scoff broke the silence, the man’s fingers twitching, as if itching to seize the truth. “Private?” His tone dripped with disbelief, his face inches from Harry’s, breath sour with herbs. “You think I’ll accept that, when the Order turned this castle inside out to ensure you weren’t snatched by **** Eaters?” He leaned closer, voice a hiss. “Explain yourself, Potter, or I’ll drag you to Dumbledore.”

A familiar loathing surged, hot and bitter. Snape’s sneering face stirred years of resentment: the biting sarcasm in Potions, the docked points for breathing too loudly, the blatant favouritism toward Slytherins like Draco. Every insult, every sneer, every moment Snape had belittled him in front of the class burned in Harry’s memory, fanning his anger.

The man had mocked his father, tormented Sirius, made Hogwarts a battleground for his petty grudges.

Harry’s fingers twitched, his power humming louder, whispering possibilities. He could ruin Snape—strip his authority, turn his sharp tongue to stammers. Or erase him entirely, wipe his existence from Hogwarts, leaving no trace of the greasy-haired professor.

Better yet, replace him with someone ****, someone who didn’t haunt Harry’s every step with disdain.

The thought was intoxicating, his power swelling like a storm. He could speak, and Snape would be gone—a bumbling fool, a stranger, or nothing at all. His lips parted, a snarl forming, words rising to reshape reality.

“You’ve got no right—” he began, voice rough, edged with venom, but he stopped, heart pounding. The air shimmered faintly, his power teetering on the edge of action. Changing Snape could ripple outward, alter the Order, Hogwarts, even Dumbledore’s trust. His new past with Bellatrix, his bonds with Cassiopeia and Pansy—could he risk destabilizing it all?

Clenching his fists, he **** the words back, reshaping them into something safer, controlled.

“It is none of your business,” he snarled, his voice low, biting, each word deliberate, “and I shouldn’t have to tell you.” His green eyes locked onto Snape’s, defiance burning, his scar throbbing as he held his power in check, refusing to let it spill over.

Snape’s lip curled, his fingers still twitching, but something flickered in his eyes—resignation, perhaps, or grudging acceptance. He stepped back, his cloak settling, the green light catching the sharp angles of his face.

“Very well, Potter,” he said, his voice cold but steady, no longer pressing. “Get out. But don’t think this ends here.” His wand flicked, the door’s lock clicking open, the sound sharp in the stifling office.

Harry turned, his boots scuffing the stone, his pulse still racing as he strode through the doorway. The dungeon corridor stretched before him, cold and shadowed, the torchlight weak against the damp walls. Snape’s hissed accusations lingered, a bitter weight on his shoulders, but a deeper question gnawed at him as he climbed the winding stairs toward the upper floors, Gryffindor tower still distant.

Should he seek out Dumbledore, confess the night’s chaos—saving Bellatrix, transforming Amara, Lyra, and Selene, torching the Vanishing Cabinet—and lay bare his role in Cassiopeia’s plot? Or hold it close, trusting his actions would stand unchallenged?

The thought of Dumbledore’s office sparked a flicker of comfort; the headmaster’s twinkling eyes and calm voice a balm against the storm in Harry’s chest. Dumbledore would listen, his understanding boundless, his patience a steady anchor. He’d seen Harry through worse—Sirius’s ****, the Triwizard Tournament’s horrors—and never judged.

Confessing might ease the burden, let Dumbledore’s wisdom untangle the mess of Borgin and Burkes, the transformed **** Eaters now loyal to him, the cabinet’s ashes pinning blame on Borgin. Cassiopeia’s gratitude, flashed in his mind, her whispered thanks for freeing her aunt a bond he couldn’t betray. Telling Dumbledore could protect her, frame their actions as a strike against Voldemort, maybe even earn his approval.

Yet doubt crept in, cold as the dungeon air. Dumbledore was understanding, but distracted—his late-night meetings, his cryptic glances at that blackened hand, his focus on secrets Harry couldn’t touch. The headmaster might not see the full weight of what Harry had done.

Saving Bellatrix, once a monster, now his godmother, and turning three **** Eaters into allies—those acts could shift the war, but at what cost?

The Vanishing Cabinet’s destruction had blocked a **** Eater invasion, but what if it pushed Voldemort to strike elsewhere?

Harry’s breath hitched, his scar prickling as he pictured Borgin’s shop, the stunned witches, Cassiopeia’s Incendio sparking flames. He hadn’t meant to upend so much, hadn’t considered how his choices might ripple—new enemies rising, old allies questioning.

Pausing on a landing, the castle’s silence pressed in, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing from below. His fingers grazed the wand in his pocket, its warmth a reminder of his control, though he shoved that thought aside.

This wasn’t about his power, but the choices he’d made—saving lives, breaking plans, tying himself closer to Cassiopeia. Telling Dumbledore might bring clarity, a path forward, but what if the headmaster’s distraction blinded him to the stakes?

What if he demanded answers Harry couldn’t give without exposing too much? The Gryffindor common room called, a safe haven, but so did the headmaster’s office, its gargoyle-guarded door a looming choice.

Weighing the options, Harry’s boots resumed their climb, the stairs spiralling upward, torchlight glinting off his glasses. Confessing to Dumbledore could shield Cassiopeia, validate their strike against the **** Eaters, maybe even strengthen the Order’s hand. But the risk lingered—Dumbledore’s focus elsewhere, the chance he’d miss the delicate balance Harry had struck. His heart tugged toward silence, keeping his secrets close, letting his actions stand.