Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 29: Curfew and Consequences
🕑 Added 2025-09-05 17:58:06 +0000 UTCNote
After the last couple of heavy chapters, I wanted to give you something lighter and a little more fun. Both tones are important — the shadows and the laughter. Please enjoy this one.
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The bathroom felt too bright. But after hours in the Chamber’s green gloom, Harry and Hermione squinted against it as though stepping into sunlight.
Neither spoke at first. Their shoes squeaked faintly against the wet tiles. Myrtle had chosen to stay below, her ghost-light fading into the serpent’s coils, her voice soft with a resolve they had never heard from her before. She wanted time with Thessareth. To nurture the bond. The echoes of Salazar’s portrait, of Thessareth’s voice, of Myrtle’s vow—all of it churned in their minds too heavily to be set into words.
Harry rubbed his scar absently, though it hadn’t burned for a long time. His thoughts flicked like sparks: Salazar’s ordered lessons, the basilisk’s forgiveness, Myrtle’s transformation, and the weight of what he’d asked her. The Chamber had changed something in all of them—maybe forever.
Hermione’s brow was furrowed, her wand twisting nervously between her fingers. She wasn’t thinking about herself, or even about Myrtle—but about Harry. His request to Myrtle. The white-and-black aura Salazar had seen. The way Harry seemed so ready to imagine his own end. It unsettled her more than she dared admit.
The bathroom door groaned shut behind them, its echo still ringing in the tiled corridor. Harry and Hermione hadn’t taken more than two steps before a voice cut through the silence:
“Well, well, well. What are you doing coming out of a bathroom at this hour? It’s well past curfew.”
Harry froze. His stomach dropped.
They’d been so distracted — by Salazar, by Thessareth, by Myrtle — that neither of them had thought to check the Map.
The figure stepped out of the shadows at the end of the corridor, arms folded. The torchlight caught their face, sharp and suspicious.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She shot Harry a wide-eyed look, equal parts panic and calculation.
Harry’s hand twitched toward his pocket, instinct screaming to reach for the Invisibility Cloak — but it was too late for that now. They’d been seen.
The corridor seemed to tighten around them, every crack in the stone magnifying the danger of discovery. For a second, Harry swore he could hear someone laughing.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sarah stood before them with her arms folded — or at least, tried to. Her patched coat was two sizes too big, its sleeves dangling past her hands and frayed at the edges. A battered lantern swung from one elbow, squeaking with every wobble, casting lopsided shadows on the walls. Mud caked her boots, and one shoelace trailed behind her like a small tail. A streak of dirt cut across her cheek, and her hair — a wild tangle that refused to obey comb or clip — stuck out in every direction like straw.
She cleared her throat in what was meant to be an imposing cough, but it came out scratchy, half-swallowed, like she’d inhaled dust from her own coat. “Well, hello there,” she said, voice pitched low in mock sternness. “What are you two doin’ slinkin’ out of a bathroom at this hour? It’s well past curfew, that it is.”
The lantern slipped, nearly crashing to the floor. She fumbled, muttered, “Blasted thing—always was top-heavy—” and caught it again. For a heartbeat, Harry saw her eyes flick sharp down the corridor, scanning the shadows with focus too keen for her stumbling act. Then the grin snapped back into place, bright and careless, as if the glance had never happened.
Harry quickly regained his composure, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Hermione is going to kill me for this," he thought, but the risk was worth it. He cleared his throat, let a little embarrassment color his cheeks, and muttered, “Oh… it’s been that long? Sorry — lost track. But you can blame me. Look how beautiful my girlfriend is. You understand, right? You’re what… twenty-seven?”
Hermione’s head snapped toward him, her eyes burning with fury, but she had no choice. With the tiniest groan, she tucked herself against his side and buried her face half in his robes, as though bashfully confirming his outrageous claim.
Sarah blinked, stunned. A silence stretched before she finally sputtered, “I’m only twenty-three, actually.”
Harry stifled the urge to grin.
“But I do understand,” Sarah continued, her tone softening for half a breath. “Young love.” Then her eyes sharpened again. “That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”
“So…” Harry pressed, hopeful, “You’re not going to give us detention right ? You’ll just let us go? Because you’re cool, right?”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “I am cool. But don’t think I don’t see what you’re trying to do.” Her lips twitched. “It won’t work. As the newly appointed groundskeeper, I have to uphold the rules. Much as I might like breaking them.”
Before either of them could react, she reached forward, seized both Harry and Hermione firmly by the ear, and began dragging them down the corridor like misbehaving first-years.
“Ow—hey, careful!” Harry hissed. His stomach churned, not from pain, but from the direction she was leading them. He’d already guessed. His heart sank with each step. Please not there. Please not there.
But fate didn’t bargain.
When Sarah stopped, Harry looked up to find himself standing outside a chamber door he’d hoped never to approach under these circumstances. The plaque on the wood gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
Professor Lily Snape.
Harry’s blood ran cold.
He spun toward Sarah, desperate to plead his case, to concoct anything to steer them away. But it was too late. She had already lifted her hand, and with brisk knuckles she rapped firmly against the door.
The knock echoed like a death sentence.
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The hallway outside Lily Snape’s chamber was so quiet that Harry could hear the pounding of his own heart louder than their muffled footsteps. Each step Sarah had dragged them forward felt like it echoed forever, like the stones themselves were watching and waiting. His ear throbbed where her calloused hand pinched it, and he swore the corridor had lengthened into miles.
Merlin, I’m dead. Dead. She’s dragging us to Lily’s rooms, and I’ll never live it down. Hermione will kill me first, though. She’ll kill me slowly, with words sharp as razors. Then finish me off. Brilliant. Perfect end.
Hermione’s hiss burned against his shoulder. “Harry James Potter,” she whispered furiously, “if we survive this, I swear—” She cut herself off, no doubt saving the rest of the sentence for when she could shout without waking the whole castle. Her nails dug lightly into his sleeve, the only thing keeping her from exploding right then and there.
Harry’s mind spun with useless escape plans—Pretend to faint. Pretend it’s Polyjuice. Pretend you’ve gone blind. But each thought collapsed under the weight of this moment. Sarah’s grip was iron, her boots thudding unevenly like a metronome of doom.
The three of them waited before the carved wooden door. Sarah did not let their ear go, lantern swinging on her hip. Harry felt time seize up. Every second stretched, thin and sharp, like glass about to crack. He opened his mouth to plead, to bargain, to do something—but before he could draw breath, the latch clicked.
The door opened.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The door swung open.
And there she was.
Lily. His mother.
If she was shocked by the sight, she didn’t show it. Years of teaching must have tempered her expression into calm steel, because Harry was sure they made a spectacle: Sarah in the middle, fists tight on their ears like she’d caught two misbehaving toddlers, dragging them forward like spoils of war.
Before Harry could even scrape together a word, the scene got worse.
Ellie padded into view, her cheeks still round from dinner, eyes bright with mischief. She blinked at the tableau — her mother in the doorway, her brother being hauled by the ear, Hermione blushing crimson — and then smiled, sly as a cat.
“Brother,” she said innocently, tilting her head toward Lily, “were you naughty? Mommy does that to me when I’m very, very naughty.”
Harry felt the heat explode across his face. He didn’t even need to look to know Hermione was just as red beside him, and the humiliation was enough to make him wish the floor would swallow him whole.
Sarah, as though determined to carve their misery into stone, added with cheerful triumph, “Found these two sneaking out of the girls’ bathroom together. Past curfew, no less. Figured it best to bring them here — since they’re not technically Hogwarts students.”
For the first time, Lily’s mask cracked. Surprise flickered in her eyes.
And then Sarah, apparently satisfied with the chaos she’d unleashed, simply let go of their ears, dusted off her hands, and sauntered away. Harry stared after her in horror. She abandoned us. She actually abandoned us.
The silence that followed her was suffocating.
Lily looked at them both. Her son was blushing and fidgeting, and Hermione was half-hiding behind her hair. They both looked like kids with crumbs on their faces. She pressed her lips together and stepped aside in a way that made it clear she wasn't going to change her mind.
"Inside," she said.
No scolding. No yelling. Just a calm voice that made Harry's stomach drop more than if she had yelled.
There was no way to refuse. He and Hermione shuffled in quickly, heads bowed, as though stepping into judgment itself.
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They sat at the table, the clink of cutlery echoing far too loud in the silence. Harry and Hermione fidgeted like guilty schoolchildren, their ears still burning.
Lily, unbothered, simply ate with the calm precision of someone used to keeping order in a classroom. At one point, she called out, “Tini.”
With a pop, the house-elf appeared. “Yes, Professor Flower, what wanting you?”
“Two more plates, please. Dinner for these two.”
“Yes, Professor Flower,” Tini chirped, and with another pop, two steaming plates appeared.
“Eat,” Lily said.
Harry and Hermione obeyed, though “eat” was a generous term — it was more scraping food around in nervous circles, hoping the floor might open up and swallow them whole.
And then Ellie, perched happily with her own plate, broke the fragile silence.
“Mommy,” she said brightly, her eyes swinging to Lily, “why were Brother and Hermione coming out of the bathroom together? Did they need the loo that badly?”
Hermione nearly choked on thin air. Harry’s fork slipped and clattered against his plate.
Lily’s head turned slowly, one eyebrow arched high, her gaze sharp as a spell. “Why don’t you ask your brother that,” she said, her tone dry enough to parch the air.
Ellie’s wide eyes blinked once, then shifted toward Harry with expectant innocence, her chin propped in her hands. “Well?” she asked sweetly. “Why were you two in the girls’ bathroom after curfew?”
Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out — just an awkward squeak that was definitely not a word. Hermione’s shoe found his shin under the table. Hard.
“Go on,” Ellie pressed, oblivious. “You can tell me. Was it secret?”
Lily’s lips pressed together as if she were fighting very hard not to smirk, though her voice remained perfectly level. “I suggest,” she said, “that your brother finds an answer very quickly. Otherwise, Ellie, you’ll invent one. And I’m not sure he’d survive the humiliation.”
Harry groaned, slumped forward, and muttered into his plate, “This is so much worse than detention.”
Hermione hissed through clenched teeth, “You started it.”
Harry cleared his throat, trying desperately to summon Gryffindor bravery — but bravery was hard to muster when his eleven-year-old sister was staring at him like a tiny judge and jury.
“Well,” he began, voice breaking, “we… er… we were in the bathroom because—”
“Because what?” Ellie tilted her head, all wide-eyed innocence.
“Because,” Harry repeated, nodding as if this was a perfectly reasonable answer.
Hermione groaned quietly into her mashed potatoes.
Ellie leaned forward. “Was the loo clogged? Did Hermione hex the taps or something?”
“What? No!” Hermione blurted, sitting bolt upright. “I would never hex plumbing!”
Harry shot her a look. Not helping.
Lily, meanwhile, hadn’t touched her fork in a full minute. She was resting her chin on one hand, her expression the exact mix of dry amusement and faint exasperation Harry remembered from every time McGonagall had caught him out.
Ellie was relentless. “So… you weren’t using the loo?”
Harry’s brain screamed Say something! and his mouth betrayed him instantly. “We were… er… checking the water pressure.”
Hermione’s head snapped toward him so fast he thought she might dislocate her neck. “Water pressure?” she hissed.
“Yes!” Harry said desperately. “Very important! You know how it is, sometimes the sinks… um… gurgle.”
“Gurgle,” Hermione repeated, flat as parchment.
Ellie gasped. “Oooh, were you fixing the loo? Like plumbers do in our house, we have to hide all things magical, then? That’s so cool! Can I help next time?”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ellie, no, you don’t—”
Hermione cut him off, muttering, “Actually, Harry, I think what you meant was… we were, ah… conducting research.”
Lily’s eyebrow rose higher. “Research.”
“Yes,” Hermione said quickly, cheeks pink, words tumbling over themselves. “Magical… sanitary infrastructure.”
Harry gave her a horrified look. “Magical sanitary what—”
“Yes,” Hermione pressed on, glaring at him now, “we were writing a report. For… Professor Vector!”
Ellie blinked. “What! Does she not teach those numbers? I have seen when she visits Mom. What does that have to do with toilets?”
Harry groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table with a soft thunk. Hermione buried her face in her hands.
Across from them, Lily finally gave in. The corners of her mouth twitched upward, though her voice stayed perfectly dry.
“Magical sanitary infrastructure,” she repeated slowly. “Checking water pressure. For Arithmancy. Now I have heard everything.”
Neither Harry nor Hermione dared look at her.
Ellie, however, looked delighted. “I knew it!” she chirped. “You two are up to something secret!”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lily then asked Ellie to go to the bedroom, as she would be sleeping with her. She needs to talk to her brother and Hermione.
Ellie’s face scrunched into an exaggerated pout. “But Muuuum—”
Lily’s tone left no room for debate. Calm. Firm. The kind of voice that could silence a whole classroom of fifth-years mid-argument.
“Bedroom, Ellie.”
Ellie stamped one small foot for emphasis. “That’s not fair! I’m eleven, not a baby! You always say I’ll understand when I grow up, but I have grown up! I am practically a big girl already…”
Her words tumbled in a rush, ending with a muttered grumble about “unfair adults” and “stupid secrets.” She shuffled toward the bedroom, still protesting under her breath.
Lily waited, still and composed, until the girl disappeared down the corridor. Only when the door clicked shut did she raise her hand, silencing Harry before he could speak.
“Close it properly, Ellie,” she called.
A faint pop echoed in answer—the sound of a bedroom door closing.
The silence that followed was thick. Harry felt it pressing at his throat. Hermione shifted in her chair, fingers tightening on the hem of her sleeve.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry pushed peas across his plate as though they held the answers to life’s problems.
“So this,” Lily said, voice cool and steady, “was the important thing you had to do?”
Harry didn’t look up. He swallowed, then muttered something unintelligible.
“I don’t completely agree with it,” Lily went on, her tone softening — just enough to make them both freeze. “But I understand.”
Harry’s head shot up. Hermione blinked in shock. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
“I only ask that you both are careful.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. Hermione’s spoon clattered softly against her plate.
“Oh no,” they thought at the same time.
Lily’s green eyes locked on Harry. She reached for the breadbasket, split a roll with neat precision, and said almost offhand, “You may not consider me your mother, Harry. But I have no desire to be a grandmother. And Ellie is certainly not ready to be anyone’s aunt.”
Harry groaned under his breath. “Oh, this just got much, much worse…”
Then Lily paused, her expression shifting as though a new thought had just struck her. “Wait. You have had the talk about the birds and the bees, haven’t you?”
Harry and Hermione sat rigidly upright.
“Yes!” Harry blurted.
“Of course!” Hermione added, her voice almost cracking.
“We know! Completely! No need!” they said together.
But it was no use.
Minutes later they were perched stiffly on the sitting-room couch, side by side like condemned prisoners. Lily stood before them, arms folded, the picture of professorial patience.
“So,” she began, her voice calm, deliberate, and utterly merciless, “when boys and girls reach a particular age, they begin to experience… urges. Now, it’s a common mistake to assume girls don’t think about these things as early as boys, but in truth—”
Harry wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Hermione had turned so red she looked like she might combust.
And the night—already mortifying—only got worse from there.
Lily paced slowly in front of them like she was giving a lecture in class, hands clasped behind her back. “Now, as I was saying—urges. They are perfectly natural, but they must be managed responsibly. Harry, stop fidgeting.”
Harry froze mid-squirm. “I’m not fidgeting,” he mumbled.
“You’re vibrating like a broom with a bent handle,” Lily said dryly.
Hermione had both hands clamped to her face. Her ears were red enough to light the room.
“Now,” Lily continued serenely, “there are, of course, safe practices. And unsafe ones. Witches your age sometimes think a strong contraceptive charm is enough, but if you mispronounce a single syllable—”
“WE KNOW!” Hermione burst out, her voice high-pitched with desperation. “We absolutely know, Lily, thank you!”
But Lily pressed on, unbothered.
“—then you could end up with catastrophic magical backlash, or worse, an unintended pregnancy. Do either of you want to explain to Missy why she suddenly has a god-grandchild?”
Harry groaned and dropped his face into his hands.
Lily paused, as though struck by another thought. “And of course, there’s the matter of—”
“Don’t say it,” Harry muttered into his palms.
“—physical readiness. Boys often think they are ready before they are. In fact, studies show—”
Hermione made a strangled sound into her sleeve. Harry covered his face.
Lily continued, merciless.
“Safe practices are outlined on page thirty-two, subsection three of the Ministry’s 1972 Guidelines on Magical Reproductive Health. For example, the Amatoria Moderare charm, meant to regulate magical surges during moments of heightened intimacy, is ninety-seven percent effective if cast with precise pronunciation. However, mispronounce even a single syllable—say, confuse "moderate" with "motorate"—and instead of stabilizing your aura, you may trigger uncontrollable hex-bursts. The case study of 1968 remains infamous in certain St. Mungo’s wards: the poor couple set fire to three adjoining flats before the Healers contained it.”
“Merlin’s beard…” Harry groaned into his palms.
Hermione squeaked, “Please, Lily, we don’t need page numbers!”
But Lily wasn’t finished. Her tone only grew more professorial.
“Furthermore, studies from the Department of Mysteries—peer-reviewed, mind you—demonstrate that boys often exhibit a forty percent overestimation of their emotional readiness compared to their female peers. Statistically speaking, Harry, that means you are far less prepared than you imagine.”
Hermione actually squeaked, burying her face in her knees. Harry muttered something about wanting a basilisk fang through his heart instead.
“And finally,” Lily said, folding her arms with professorial gravity, “communication is key. If at any point either of you feels—”
“PLEASE,” Harry practically shouted, “stop talking.”
But Lily only raised an eyebrow, entirely too calm. “You’ll thank me one day.”
Hermione whimpered into her sleeve. Harry slumped so low on the couch he looked like he was trying to disappear into it.
The night, in Harry’s opinion, could not possibly get any worse.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
New flashes—it got worse. Much worse.
Harry thought he had endured the worst when Lily’s “Talk” finally wrapped up. But as he and Hermione stumbled out an hour and a half later, pale and broken like survivors of some ancient curse, Harry knew he’d been wrong.
Honestly, he would have preferred Voldemort. Or Umbridge. Or a Dementor swarm—together. At least they didn’t lecture you for ninety minutes about “emotional readiness.”
Hermione was no better off. Her hair was frazzled, her eyes wide, and her very soul hollowed out.
And then — insult to injury — she had to endure an extra twenty minutes of private talk with Lily. Harry had been banished to a chair across the room, forced to sit quietly and pretend not to hear Hermione muttering things like “Yes, Professor… no, Professor… I already study that charm, Professor.”
When Hermione finally emerged, she looked like she’d aged ten years. Harry didn’t dare speak. He valued his life.
Then Lily had the audacity—to bring out the pictures.
“Here,” she said sweetly, placing it in their lap. “It will help you understand.”
Hermione squeaked. Harry nearly died on the spot.
Hermione was trying not to look. Failing. Badly.
Harry sat there, red as a tomato, silently vowing that this would be a night he would never forget. Not because of the Chamber of Secrets. Not because of ancient magic.
But because he had learned a new, terrible truth.
Not Voldemort. Not Death itself. His true enemy wore a professor’s robe and answered to “Mum.”
