Sorcerer in the world of magic

The morning after his nocturnal adventure in the Restricted Section began for Stephen with a far more real and prolonged nightmare. He had barely made it down for breakfast when he was greeted by the ghost Peeves, who, flying through a plate of scrambled eggs, gave a hearty snort and left a faint trail of mold before shouting across the Great Hall: "Stephen Strange! Professor Snape is waiting for you in his office! Urgently! He said he has a... special assignment for you! And don't you dare be late! He looked... ahem... particularly hungry!"

Stephen dropped his fork with such a clatter that a couple of nearby classmates flinched. His appetite, which had just seemed perfectly satisfied, instantly vanished, dissipating into the air along with the ghostly figure. a "Special assignment" from Snape sounded worse than any curse uttered in any of the twenty languages Stephen knew. He slowly stood up, feeling hundreds of curious, and sometimes sympathetic, gazes upon him. Even some of the teachers seemed to cast a quick, understanding glance his way. Stephen tried to maintain an impassive expression, but inwardly, a shiver ran through him. He trudged down to the dungeons, each step along the long Hogwarts corridors feeling incredibly heavy.

The Potions classroom greeted him with its usual gloom, the smell of rancid tinctures, and something even more acrid that seemed to tickle his mucous membranes. Snape was already there, his thin lips pressed into their usual line, and his black eyes staring at Stephen with that mixture of anticipation and cold contempt that was his hallmark. Beside him, on the dirty stone floor, stood an army of cauldrons—from tiny, cup-sized ones to gigantic ones that barely fit through the doorway. Some of them, closer to Snape, gleamed with almost perfect cleanliness, but the vast majority were covered in such a crust of dried potions that they seemed to be part of the stone they stood on. It was clear they hadn't been cleaned in months, or even years.

"Ah, Mr. Strange," Snape hissed, his voice unctuously sweet, which always boded the worst. It was that tone that sent shivers down Stephen's spine. "You are so punctual. In view of your obvious penchant for nocturnal escapades and your... extraordinary interest in the castle's hidden places, I decided it wouldn't hurt for you to spend the day productively. Today you will be cleaning my office. I hope you appreciate cleanliness, Mr. Strange? Or, at least, you will learn to appreciate it today?"

Stephen tensed, trying not to betray his annoyance. "Cleaning, Professor? Of course, if it will help atone for my... mistake."

"Precisely," Snape nodded, gesturing to the seemingly endless battery of cauldrons. "All these cauldrons must be cleaned until they gleam. Every single one. To the extent that you can see your reflection in them, Mr. Strange. And do not think of magic. The use of any cleaning or labor-saving spells is forbidden. This is to be occupational therapy. And then you will proceed to air out and thoroughly clean all the ingredient cupboards. Some of them haven't seen the light of day in a long time. And, of course, no magic. I will be observing your progress."

Snape handed him several old, greasy rags, a stiff brush with metal bristles, and a bottle of a foul-smelling, bubbling solution which he called "universal cleaning agent." "It's particularly effective with... stubborn residues, Mr. Strange," he said, and his voice held such sinister amusement that a great shiver ran through Stephen.

The first few hours were pure torture. Stephen, a man whose hands were once capable of performing the most complex neurosurgical operations, was now forced to plunge them into sticky, foul-smelling potion residues. Some were so corrosive that, despite the gloves, he felt a slight burning sensation. Snape's solution, though effective, smelled dreadful, and its acrid fumes stung his eyes and scratched his throat. Stephen had to scrape off dried crusts, resembling moss, from the sides of the cauldrons, clean out corners where a brush seemed to have never reached. His hands quickly became covered in a layer of grime, and some greenish slime got stuck under his fingernails that just wouldn't wash off. He, Stephen Strange, former distinguished neurosurgeon, future Master of the Mystic Arts, was now scrubbing someone else's dirty pots. The absurdity of the situation was truly cosmic.

Snape didn't miss a single opportunity to taunt him. He paced around the office like a predator observing its prey, occasionally throwing out comments that made Stephen clench his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

"Mr. Strange, I see your understanding of cleanliness is rather... superficial. This cauldron has clearly seen better days. Or do you believe your... magical aptitude will allow you to avoid thorough work? I assure you, what is required here is not talent, but diligence."

Or: "I presumed a mind such as yours could handle such a simple task. Or perhaps focusing on such mundane matters is too burdensome for your elevated contemplations?" He even deliberately brought Stephen cauldrons he had just used for particularly dirty and smelly potions, placing them directly in front of him, enjoying his grimaces.

Stephen tried to focus on the work, ignoring the barbs, but his back ached, his hands throbbed, and the smell in the office became increasingly unbearable, permeating his clothes and hair. He worked like a common laborer, feeling humiliated and exhausted. He cursed his nocturnal escapades and his excessive talkativeness. He never would have thought that the worst punishment at Hogwarts would be so... physical, dirty, and monotonous. This wasn't just punishment; it was a display of power, designed to break his spirit.

After the endless saga with the cauldrons, it was the turn of the ingredient cupboards. Hundreds of vials, jars, and boxes. Some were covered in a thick layer of centuries-old dust, others in tangled cobwebs where perhaps very ancient and not-so-friendly spiders resided. Stephen had to take out each one, wipe it down, check the labels—many of which were written in Snape's almost illegible handwriting, making their deciphering a separate challenge—and carefully put them back in place. Some ingredients were so exotic and repulsive to look at that Stephen involuntarily grimaced: dried toad legs, newt eyes, troll hair, bubotuber pus, dried doxy skin... The air in the cupboards themselves was heavy and stale, as if they stored not only potion components but also centuries of grudges.

As the sun began to set, and only a dull, pre-sunset light penetrated through the windows, which Stephen had also cleaned to a shine, Stephen finally finished. The office gleamed. The cauldrons sparkled, reflecting the rare rays of the sun. The cupboards were neatly arranged, and there was no dust anywhere, not even in the most hidden corners. He straightened up, feeling every muscle in his body ache, from his neck to his toes. His robes were stained, his hair disheveled, and his face was probably smudged. He looked as if he had spent a week in a mine, not just one day at a school of magic.

Snape, who had been sitting at his desk until this moment, engrossed in some thick book, slowly raised his head. He surveyed the office, his gaze sweeping over the gleaming cauldrons, the clean shelves. His eyes seemed to settle on Stephen, who stood before him, exhausted but with an expression of unwavering, though absolute, fatigue.

"Well, Mr. Strange," Snape said, his voice level, but with a hint of... if not approval, then at least recognition of a job well done. Stephen thought he detected something akin to... respect in his eyes? No, that was too much for Snape. More like the absence of overt disgust. "I must admit, you exceeded my expectations in terms of... diligence. The office looks acceptable. For someone so... unaccustomed to manual labor as yourself."

Stephen exhaled with relief, which immediately became the harbinger of the next part of the speech.

"However," Snape continued, and his tone instantly turned icy, banishing any thoughts of praise. "If I catch you wandering around the castle after curfew again, especially in places where you should not poke your nose, then your punishment will not last one day. Then you will be doing this... for an entire month. Every evening, without exception, under my personal supervision. I am confident that by the end of that period, you will forget what nocturnal escapades are. And perhaps even develop skills useful in ordinary life."

The threat hung in the air, dense and palpable. A month of such detentions? That would be worse than any imprisonment in Azkaban, worse than a Dementor's Kiss. It would be endless, grueling, physical, and moral humiliation. Stephen merely nodded silently, too tired to argue or even express his outrage. He didn't even have the energy for sarcasm.

"You may go, Mr. Strange," Snape said, dismissing him, and Stephen thought he caught a slight, triumphant smirk on his lips.

Stephen, without a word, wearily turned and trudged back to his room. Every step echoed with pain in his overworked muscles, and the air still carried the scent of marsh gas and rancid potions. He barely made it to his bed. Pulling off his dirty robes, he collapsed onto the mattress. That night, Stephen Strange slept a deep, dreamless sleep.