He remembered now – he was in his bed, in Snape's quarters. It was Christmas Eve – he'd stayed for dinner, hadn't wanted to leave, had wanted so desperately to trust his guardian…
"Mudbloods in my lair…"
Harry scrambled for his glasses on the bedside table, but it wasn't there, and with confusion, he realised his glasses were already on his face.
Pushing the covers back, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and felt the cold stone floor beneath his feet. Yes – he was definitely in the dungeons.
"I smell mudbloods…"
Harry flinched, feeling as though the owner of the voice was right behind him now, whispering in his ear.
"Harry!" - another voice now, though it sounded like it came from outside of the bedroom, and was far more familiar.
"Hermione…?" Harry frowned, standing up.
The room seemed to spin around him as he stumbled towards the door, and everything felt very muggy for a cold night in December.
Reaching the bedroom door, Harry's hand closed around the handle. But it wouldn't turn.
He was locked in.
Frantically, he tried again, shaking at the handle to no avail.
Why was he locked in?
"Harry!" Hermione again, just on the other side of the door now.