Dreams

Harry slowly opened his eyes. Every movement brought a deep, gnawing pain, as if his battered body was struggling to hold itself together. He blinked several times as his pupils adjusted to the darkness of the room. He realized he was lying in a bed, and as he tried to move, he noticed his hands were shackled to the headboard.

He blinked in confusion.

—I see you've woken up,— a hypnotic and familiar voice floated through the air. Harry turned his gaze toward the darkness enveloping the room, where heavy mauve curtains blocked the sunlight from streaming through the large window.

Before him was the same man who, hours earlier, had given him one of the most humiliating beatings he had endured in a long time. The man’s face was calm and taciturn, his eyes locked in a silent duel with Harry’s. The man's serene and enigmatic face was faintly illuminated by a candle. He sat in a chair with an open book before him, his figure exuding an unsettling calm that contrasted sharply with the intensity of the moment.

Harry smiled with resignation and turned his gaze to the wall, trying to escape those eyes that seemed to pierce into the depths of his being. The man rose with unsettling precision and grasped Harry’s face tightly, forcing him to look up once more. Harry met his gaze defiantly, as if he wanted to snarl like a caged animal. Draco, unperturbed, tightened his grip with a painful pressure.

—It seems you’re getting along better,— Albus said as he entered, his usual smile curving his lips. He carried a silver tray filled with bandages.

—You shouldn’t move. You have a broken rib, a fractured finger from your escape attempt, a wound on your leg, and injuries all over your body,— he commented while beginning to tend to Harry’s wounds. Meanwhile, the prince returned to his book, immersed in its pages with an air of enigmatic focus.

—Elder, —Draco said without looking up from his reading, —Hurry up.—

The old man only smiled and continued tending to the wound on Harry's thigh, which was larger than he remembered. When he finished, Harry was wrapped in bandages from head to toe. Despite his injuries, he remained impassive, staring at the wall without reacting.

—I’m done, —the old man announced as he stepped back. Draco dropped the book on the floor and approached.

—Now we can talk,— Draco said with an arrogant tone. —Explain.—

The room remained silent, with the crackling of the flames in the lamp beside the bed as the only witness to Dumbledore's words. His eyes, usually bright and full of wisdom, seemed dull, as if reliving the events he was about to describe. The air in the room grew heavy.

—Five years ago, when our prince was 16, he was on a visit to Middle-earth with his mother,— Dumbledore began, setting aside the silver tray. —An incident occurred. The prince was on the shores of Gryffindor and was bitten by a serpent. When I examined the wound, I immediately noticed that there was a very powerful spell behind it,— he said, his tired eyes meeting Draco's. —That was how it began. At first, it started with simple nightmares that intensified. Then came the pains and vivid nightmares. Later, it turned into insomnia that kept him awake for days. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, until finally...,—

Harry observed Draco, who remained expressionless, his face a mask of serenity. Yet the fatigue he carried, though barely visible, was still there. The lack of sleep had become his constant companion, as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, until the young prince could no longer sleep. That would drive anyone mad.

Dumbledore's voice filled the room again, soft but firm. —It took three years before he could sleep again—.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine at the prince's next words— Thanks to you —. Draco leaned in closer, so close that their noses almost touched.

—Ahem— The silence in the room was abruptly broken by a cough coming from the door. Everyone turned their heads in curiosity, and Draco pulled away from Harry. A man dressed in black from head to toe had entered, his presence imposing. His eyes, dark as ink, scrutinized the room with severity, while his straight black hair fell over his ashen skin. His gaze was sharp, cutting.

—What do you know about your power? —he asked firmly, his tone making it clear that he was not in the mood for evasive answers.

Dumbledore was the first to react, greeting the newcomer with a slight nod. —Severus, you’re late.

—Albus, —Snape responded with a brief nod, his attention already focused on Harry—. Boy, answer my question.

Harry stared at him without blinking, keeping a neutral expression. —I have no idea —he replied with a shrug, trying to hide the unease that was beginning to build inside him.

Snape was not fooled. His piercing eyes bore into Harry's, searching for something beyond the words. —And your parents? —he asked, his tone icy.

—They died —Harry answered coldly—. I don’t remem...

Before he could finish the sentence, Severus moved with the swiftness of a serpent and grabbed him firmly by the jaw, forcing him to look directly into his eyes. The strength and suddenness of the action made Harry’s eyes widen.

—You just lied —Snape emphasized, his voice low but charged with dangerous intensity—. Don’t try to deceive me.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine. Snape hadn’t just detected the lie; he seemed ready to extract the truth by force if necessary.

Draco, who had been watching the scene, stepped forward, slightly positioning himself between Harry and Snape. —I suggest you don’t lie to Snape, —he said calmly, though there was a warning in his words—. He can tell when you’re not being sincere.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, filled with an energy that could explode at any moment. However, Draco eased the tension slightly by adding in a more relaxed tone: —In any case, none of that matters now.

—The power you possess is the only immediate solution we’ve found —said Albus with an almost unsettling calm.

—How did you find me? —Harry asked, fixing his gaze on the old man.

—Curiously enough, it was by pure chance —Albus responded with a kind smile, and Harry felt a wave of nausea rise in his stomach.

—We were searching for... something else —added Severus, with that enigmatic tone that always seemed to hide something more.

—How long do you plan to keep me here? —Harry insisted, starting to feel the tension in the air.

—Only until we find a definitive solution —answered Albus—. We’re close, so it won’t be much longer.

—When your task is complete, I promise you a great reward. Something you won’t be able to refuse.

—Yes, that’s right... —Harry sighed, resigned—. We have a deal.

—Good, then we’ll just have to wait for you to recover from your injuries.

—That won’t be necessary —Harry interrupted, a spark in his eyes—. My body, like his —he pointed to Draco—, isn’t like everyone else’s. I just need to eat, and by tomorrow, these wounds will be history.

—I think the broken rib will take a bit longer —Snape said with acidic sarcasm.

—Yes, that will take three days —Harry replied, returning a cynical smile.

—Well, we’ll let you rest —said Albus, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely eager to leave—. Your Majesty, Severus, let’s give him some privacy.

—Wait —Draco intervened, his voice cutting through the air like a sharp blade—. Snape, the keys.

—Are you sure? —Snape asked, though they both knew the answer.

—We have a deal. He won’t escape, and I don’t intend to keep him chained up —the prince shrugged and turned to Harry—. Will you try to escape?

—No.

Snape pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked Harry, though he kept his gaze fixed on him, as if expecting something.

—Just keep the weapons away from him, and no one will get hurt —the prince added with a mocking smile.

Without another word, they all headed to the door, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him.

As the door closed behind them, Harry heard the order given to guard the entrance, and a sense of inevitable confrontation settled over him.

Harry struggled to get up from the enormous bed, each movement sending waves of pain that nearly made him want to curl up into a ball. His body ached, to the point where tears threatened to spill over. In front of all those strangers, he had managed to maintain a facade of strength, of impenetrable coldness. But now, alone, with the silence pressing down on every corner of the room, reality hit him like a hammer.

The memories of what had just happened overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from filling with tears. He fought desperately not to let them fall, not to succumb to the abyss he felt opening beneath his feet. But it was useless. Before he could do anything else, a heart-wrenching sob escaped his lips, and the tears flowed freely, like those of a lost and helpless child.

—Enough!— he berated himself between sobs, his voice shattered by despair. But he couldn’t stop it. He felt lost, completely alone, the emptiness of his solitude consuming him. He missed his people, everything he had ever known and loved. Now, none of that seemed real. Everything was falling apart, and he didn’t have the strength to stop it.

Suddenly, the desperation turned into an idea: escape. The need to flee from this place, to find a way out, pushed him to move. He staggered toward the window, hoping to find some way to free himself. But when he pulled back the curtains and looked outside, reality struck him once more. It was too high. The precipice beyond the glass was impossible to overcome. There was no escape.

He closed his eyes, defeated, and let the darkness envelop him, feeling the last spark of hope extinguish within him.

He looked at the marks the shackles had left on his skin, evidence of his captivity. With his body aching, he slowly moved toward the bed and tried to close his eyes for some rest. Exhaustion was consuming him, and just as sleep began to overcome him, he heard, like a distant echo, knocks on the door. But it was too late; fatigue had dragged him into unconsciousness.

*The next morning*

—Wake up!— A shout abruptly pulled him from his comfortable rest. He opened his eyes with difficulty, struggling against the heavy veil of sleep, and found himself under the stern gaze of an elderly woman. Her face, marked by the lines of time, showed a mix of authority and concern. The woman wore an elegant brown dress that fitted her figure with modesty, and her hair, a blend of brown with gray streaks, was styled in a refined bun that glimmered under the dim light of the room. Behind her, a group of maids and servants observed the scene with a mix of curiosity and respect. Harry blinked, still dazed and unable to fully grasp what was happening.

—Good morning, young man— greeted the woman with a firm voice that seemed to resonate against the walls. —My name is Minerva McGonagall— she introduced herself, each word laced with authority. —I am the head housekeeper of the palace and the administrator of this place.— She snapped her fingers with precision, and as if choreographed, more maids entered the room, pushing carts laden with food. —Your breakfast is getting cold.— Harry blinked again, trying to clear his thoughts as he watched the maids set silver trays in front of him, the delicious aroma filling the air.

—I’m not very hungry...— he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t respond. A dull ache pulsed through his limbs, reminding him that the injuries might be more severe than he had thought. Or perhaps it was the deep, crushing exhaustion that kept him imprisoned in his own skin.

—Don’t move, you’re injured. You need to eat and rest— the woman said, her tone soft yet unyielding, like iron wrapped in velvet. With a delicate but determined gesture, she picked up a bowl of food and approached him with a wooden spoon. Her movements were precise, almost maternal, but her gaze made it clear that no refusals would be accepted.

—It’s not necessary!— Harry protested, trying to muster the energy to refuse, but his voice faltered under the woman’s steady gaze. She let out a sigh, one that spoke of years of experience and infinite patience, and without saying more, she brought the spoon to his lips.

The warm, comforting taste of the food filled his mouth, and although his pride resisted, a part of him surrendered to the simple truth: he needed rest and recovery. As he ate in silence, a strange sense of safety enveloped him, as if in this palace, in the firm hands of Minerva McGonagall, he was safe, if only for a moment.

When she finished feeding him, the woman produced a small vial of olive-green liquid and offered it to Harry.

—You must drink this; it will help you recover faster— she said with a firm tone, placing it gently between his lips. Harry, too exhausted to resist, drank the liquid without protest. As soon as he swallowed, a wave of drowsiness enveloped him, and before he could understand what was happening, he fell into a deep, dark sleep.

—It’s time to go— was the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness completely.

*Later*

Harry opened his eyes, feeling a heavy confusion. His eyelids felt like lead, and his mind struggled to awaken from its stupor. The room was bathed in a soft twilight, and the first thing he noticed was that, in the same seat where a haughty prince had sat the day before, now a man dressed in black occupied it. The man was reading a book with such concentration that he seemed unaware of Harry's awakening.

—Uhm...— Harry murmured, a low sound barely escaping his throat. The man looked up, his dark eyes meeting Harry's.

—I see you’ve woken up— the man said, rising from his seat with an almost unsettling grace. He approached the bed and, without wasting any time, placed another vial between Harry's lips. This time, the liquid was a deep amber color.

Harry didn’t resist; he was too weak and his mind too numb to oppose. He drank the contents of the vial wordlessly, feeling the warm liquid slide down his throat.

—You’re right that you’re not a normal person— the man continued in a calm voice, almost as if speaking to himself—. The wound on your leg has healed without leaving scars. You’re recovering from your injuries much faster than anyone could expect, but the real problem is the physical and mental exhaustion. Soon you’ll be fully restored.

The man’s words echoed in Harry’s head, but their meaning began to fade as a new wave of fatigue dragged him back into unconsciousness. Barely aware of what was happening, he let the darkness reclaim him once more.

*Night*

It was quite late at night when Harry opened his eyes, enveloped in a state of total confusion. His mind, still caught in the clutches of sleep, wandered lost in a thick haze, and for a brief moment, he felt as if he were back at home, though he didn’t quite know where that might be.

His eyes scanned the room in search of something familiar, and then he was startled to notice a presence in the gloom. From a dark corner, a pair of deep silver eyes watched him unblinkingly, fixed on him like two cold moons.

Fear swept over him, quickening his heartbeat. The man in the darkness, sensing his agitation, moved with an unsettling grace to Harry's bedside. His steps were soft, yet each one resonated in the stillness of the night.

—Shhh...— the man whispered into Harry's ear, his voice as smooth as velvet, trying to calm him. With a swift movement, he drew a vial from his clothing and, before Harry could react, forced him to drink it with an unexpected abruptness.

—Go back to sleep— the man commanded, his voice silky but heavy with authority.

The bitter liquid slid down Harry’s throat, and before he could even process what was happening, his eyes closed once more, falling into an even deeper sleep, drawn by the darkness surrounding him.

-----

The sun had just begun to filter through the heavy curtains when Harry awoke again. This time, his mind was clearer, though his body still felt heavy, as if he had been submerged in a deep and artificial sleep. He struggled to sit up, noticing that the room was empty, but the sensation of being watched persisted, as if the silver-eyed man were still observing him, even in his absence.

The injuries on his body, which had once caused him so much pain, were now a distant memory. He looked at his thigh, expecting to see scars, but his skin was as smooth as if it had never been injured. He blinked in surprise; even though his healing was rapid, it would normally take a week to be fully safe. Only the fatigue, an inexplicable exhaustion, remained within him, reminding him that he was not yet completely out of danger.

As he tried to clear his thoughts, the door opened with a soft creak, and a young maid entered, carrying a tray with breakfast. Her face showed caution as she approached the bed.

—Good morning, sir —she said, bowing her head in greeting—. Mrs. McGonagall sent me with your breakfast. She insisted that you eat well to regain your strength.

Harry nodded slowly, still processing everything that had happened. As the young woman placed the tray on his lap, he dared to ask her a question.

—Where is the prince? —he asked.

The maid paused for a moment, lifting her gaze with a hint of fear in her eyes before responding in a barely audible whisper.

—His Majesty is in his chambers, preparing for his work. He said he would come to see you later.

Harry nodded again, though the answer gave him no clarity. After finishing his breakfast, he carefully got up, feeling his legs tremble slightly under his weight, but at least they responded. Determined to explore, he dressed in the clothes that had been left for him and headed toward the door of the room.

Upon opening it, he found two sturdy guards, clad in black armor with visors that concealed their faces. Their stances were rigid, and they showed no reaction to his appearance, as if they had been expecting him.

—You cannot leave, sir —one of the guards said in a deep voice, blocking the exit with his body.

—Why not? —Harry asked, trying to keep his calm despite the growing discomfort he felt.

—Orders from Lord Snape —replied the other guard, leaving no room for discussion—. You must remain in your room until further notice.

Harry felt frustration rise within him. It was clear that, no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to leave the room on his own. He closed the door again, resigned, and fell back onto the bed, his mind racing. He had already accepted staying here, so he had no plans to escape for the moment.

The feeling of being trapped overwhelmed him. He got out of bed and walked over to the balcony, where the cold air brushed against his skin like an ancient whisper. From the top of the tower, the view was breathtaking: a vast wall of mountains rose up, guarding the city like a stone sentinel. The fortress embracing those mountains seemed carved by divine hands, a blend of nature and magic that defied the passage of time. Looking down, the twenty-meter drop to the cliff gave him the impression that the abyss itself was calling him, drawing him in with a dark magnetism. Curiously, there were no other nearby windows, as if that balcony were the only point of contact between his confinement and the vast outside world.

—This is my life now —he murmured, letting out a genuine, though resigned, smile.

*The rest of the morning passed in aimless activities. His room was quite spacious and luxurious, with a small bookshelf containing intriguing books.

*Knock, knock.*

—It’s tea time —announced McGonagall as she entered without waiting for a response, as if her arrival were destined. Several carts laden with exquisite treats accompanied her, filling the room with aromas that seemed to carry fragments of forgotten memories.

As McGonagall set the plates on the table, Harry took a seat, observing the array of sweets and pastries before him. The aromas were irresistible, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all an empty luxury. With each bite, the pressure in his chest grew more palpable, as if the walls of the tower were slowly closing in around him. He set down his fork after just a few bites.

—Why won’t they let me out? —he asked, his tone heavy with indifference—. I need to go outside, to feel the fresh air for real, not just from this balcony.

McGonagall sighed and approached him, placing a soft yet firm hand on his shoulder.

—It’s for your safety.

Harry clenched his fists on the table, trying to contain his frustration. Although the woman's presence had always been authoritative, there was something about this young man that stirred her curiosity.

—Before you continue, there is something I need to ask —she said softly, sitting in a chair across from him—. Up until now, we have done everything possible to make you comfortable, but you’ve never told us your name.

Harry looked up, surprised. He realized that amid all the chaos and confusion, no one had asked him that. He had become a shadow, an entity without identity in the palace that held him prisoner.

—My name is Harry —he replied with a sigh, as if the confession lifted a weight from his chest—. Harry... just Harry.

—Harry —she repeated, letting the name linger in the air—. It’s a strong name. Perhaps one day you will tell me the story behind it.

Harry merely nodded, saying nothing more. The woman stood up and, with one last glance, left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The maids also exited, leaving the table full of pastries and tea.

*Elsewhere*

The morning mist swirled in the training courtyard, giving the place an almost ethereal atmosphere. The first light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the clouds, illuminating the sweat and concentration on the faces of the two men in the center of the courtyard. Prince Draco, with his blond hair tied back and a determined expression, faced his most loyal knight, Regulus.

The clash of swords echoed in the cold air, creating a metallic resonance that broke the morning silence. Regulus, with his strong build and calculated movements, was a formidable opponent. Each attack he launched was a test for Draco, but the prince did not back down. His movements were swift, precise, as if the sword were an extension of his own body.

—Your guard is down, my prince —Regulus commented with a firm voice as he delivered a direct strike to Draco’s ribs.

Draco blocked the attack with a quick twist of his sword, deflecting Regulus's blade with a flash of steel. —And you lose speed by warning me —Draco replied with a hint of a smile, seizing the moment to counterattack.

Regulus stepped back, surprising Draco with an unexpected move. With a fluid twist, the knight brought his sword toward the prince's neck, forcing him to lower his guard.

—Too predictable —Regulus murmured as Draco, with a quick maneuver, deflected the blow and slid to the side, moving out of reach of his opponent.

—Don't underestimate your opponent —Draco retorted, launching a series of rapid strikes that Regulus barely managed to block.

The exchange continued, each one measuring the other, looking for weaknesses, testing limits. The sound of swords clashing, accompanied by their controlled breaths, created an almost hypnotic rhythm, like an ancient dance performed with deadly precision.

Finally, Draco saw an opening. With a swift move, he disarmed Regulus, making his sword fall to the ground with a dull thud. Regulus raised his hands in surrender, a approving smile on his face.

—Impressive, my prince —he said, picking up his sword from the ground—. You’ve improved since the last time.

Draco lowered his sword, breathing deeply as sweat dripped from his forehead. —I’ve had a good teacher —he replied with a slight nod, his gaze fixed on Regulus but his mind lost elsewhere, in another time.

Regulus watched the young prince for a moment, sensing the tension behind his calm exterior. He knew that the weight of the curse and the decisions he had to make were consuming him, but he also knew that Draco was strong, stronger than he sometimes realized.

—Remember, my prince —Regulus said with unusual seriousness—. Not all battles are won with a sword.

Draco nodded, understanding the double meaning of his knight’s words. Still, he raised his sword once more, preparing to continue. The external battle had ended, but the internal one was far from over.

With the revelation that Sirius is a noble and the prince Draco's uncle, the scene takes on a new dimension.

As Draco and Regulus recovered from their intense duel, the door to the courtyard swung open abruptly. Sirius, Regulus’s older brother and the prince’s uncle, staggered into view. Despite his evident state of intoxication, his presence commanded respect; with undeniable charisma and an innate elegance that defied his current condition, he walked with a drunken grace that only accentuated his magnetism.

—Well, well! —Sirius exclaimed with a slurred voice—. How is it that my dear nephew and my brother are having fun without me?

Regulus turned his head, his face showing a mix of concern and exasperation. —Sirius! What are you doing here in this state? You’re completely drunk!

Sirius seemed not to notice his brother’s reprimand. Instead, he moved to the center of the courtyard with a defiant smile. His eyes sparkled with an uncontrollable fire as he looked at Draco, who was still recovering from the fight.

—Prince Draco, do you dare to face your uncle instead of my brother? —Sirius said, with a playful yet challenging tone. Despite his condition, his stance was that of a seasoned noble and warrior, raising a sword with a trembling but surprisingly steady hand.

Draco raised an eyebrow, bewildered by his drunk uncle’s sudden intrusion. Although he doubted Sirius’s ability in this state, he couldn’t ignore the challenge. —Are you sure about this, Uncle Sirius? I wouldn’t want to hurt you.

Sirius laughed, a mix of mockery and camaraderie in his tone. —Come on, Draco! I’m not that fragile. Show me what you’ve got!

Regulus tried to intervene, but Sirius was already in motion. Although his movements appeared uncoordinated and erratic, there was an innate skill in them that defied expectations. Draco tried to anticipate Sirius’s strikes, but the prince soon discovered that his uncle’s state did not diminish his swordsmanship.

The fight turned into a game of skill and luck. Sirius, with his unpredictable style, disarmed Draco with an unexpected blow, the prince's sword flying through the air before landing on the ground with a resounding clatter. Sirius, staggering but still holding the sword, stood before Draco with a triumphant grin.

—See! —Sirius shouted with euphoria—. I’m not so bad after all!

Draco, astonished, slowly got up. He looked at Sirius with a mix of respect and amusement. —It seems I underestimated your skills, Uncle. Well done.

Regulus quickly moved to support Sirius and prevent him from falling. —Sirius, you’re a mess! —he said with a touch of exasperation and affection—. But you’re also incredibly unpredictable.

Sirius, awkwardly swinging Draco’s sword from side to side, laughed. —That’s the way I like it! —he said as Regulus guided him out of the courtyard—. Maybe I should consider leaving the alcohol for my next duel.

Draco laughed, still surprised by the outcome. He didn’t feel bad about losing to one of the best swordsmen on the continent.

While Regulus tried to keep Sirius under control, the drunken noble shook off his grip with unexpected determination. He turned abruptly toward the courtyard, his staggering walk but resolute.

—I’m going to bother Snape! —Sirius shouted, his voice echoing with a mix of challenge and amusement as he headed toward the courtyard exit, waving Draco’s sword in the air. His uncontrollable laughter filled the air as he made his wobbly way toward the castle.

Regulus, frustrated, tried to catch up with him. —Sirius, come back here! You’re in no condition to confront anyone, especially Snape!

But Sirius was already too far to hear, his uneven steps and bold attitude making it clear he had no intention of stopping. With one last festive shout and a clumsy bow, he disappeared into the castle hallway, leaving Regulus and Draco staring, dumbfounded.

Draco, still recovering from the shock, turned to Regulus. —Will he be alright?

Regulus sighed, his face a mix of concern and resignation. —He gets like this when he’s had too much to drink. Snape will have to deal with him... again.

*Harry*

Harry, still with his mind foggy from the morning’s duel, decided to visit Snape. Since he wasn’t allowed to leave the castle or walk around, the guards only escorted him to Master Severus Snape’s office.

Upon arriving in front of the office door, Harry noticed an unusual murmur. He opened the door, expecting to find the usual study scene, but instead, he was met with a completely different sight. Snape was in the middle of the room, struggling to keep his balance while holding Sirius, who was visibly drunk and deeply asleep in his arms. The scene looked straight out of a comedy; Sirius was tangled in his own cloak, and Draco’s sword was awkwardly strapped to his wrist while it clattered to the floor with the drunk on top of it, and the sword rolling off somewhere.

—Sivy— the drunk was murmuring in his sleep.

Harry blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. Confusion and astonishment were reflected on his face, and a stifled laugh escaped his lips. Before he could fully react, Snape looked up, his expression a mix of anger and surprise.

—Oh, sorry! —Harry exclaimed, unable to contain his laughter—. I didn’t mean to interrupt.

Snape, jaw clenched and clearly uncomfortable, tried to untangle the cloak mess while looking at Harry with a look of desperation. —It’s not...

Before Snape could clarify the situation, the guards behind Harry began to grow impatient. Harry, still laughing, took a step back and quickly closed the door, throwing one last amused glance at Snape.