Harry couldn't believe he'd gotten a detention…with McGonagall. If it had been Snape or Filch he would've outwardly been upset but accepted deep down that, yeah, he probably should learn to hold his tongue or just hide. He wasn't even entirely sure how he'd gotten this detention. One minute he was talking with Ron about Albus' newly trimmed beard, and the next he was being hauled off by sharp digits attached firmly to the shell of his ear. The smirk on Malfoy's face suggested he at least knew, but considering the call for a truce following Voldemort's defeat in Fifth Year (thank Merlin Dumbledore had taken the time to teach him Occlumency) it was unlikely the boy would be the cause of such a horrible prank that it landed Harry in trouble with McGonagall. The stern Deputy Headmistress almost never watched over her own detentions, enjoying it more to pass the squealing adolescents into Filch's disturbing, claw-like fingers. Letting out a sigh of deep suffering, the young wizard looked over his shoulder at the cat animagus sitting at her desk, grading papers.

"Professor, I still don't understand what I did to earn this detention, and I've been cleaning this storage closet for hours," He told her, doing his best to keep the whine out of his voice.

The older witch glared at him. "Mister Potter, do you mean to tell me that you get into so much mischief you can't even remember who you've affected?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, ma'am, what I'm saying is I haven't done anything to warrant a detention…this year," He clarified when she raised an eyebrow in challenge.

McGonagall rubbed the bridge of her nose, her glasses sitting atop her bun. "Potter, how exactly can you classify altering the spell on the roof of the Great Hall to dump piles of snow on any faculty member who enters as 'not warranting a detention'? You practically signed your name, considering your distinct laugh magically echoes around the room every time it happens!"

Harry scowled. "Blaise - I knew he'd get me back in the meanest way possible…"He murmured. "Professor, you have to believe me, it wasn't my doing. It's Blaise Zabini, he's getting back at me for refusing to help him get a date with Neville."

"Potter, that is enough. Do not blame a Slytherin for what is clearly your prank gone amiss. Mister Zabini and Mister Longbottom have been seeing each other for a month now, and will be introducing one another to their respective parents over the Holidays in a couple of months," McGonagall preached.

"That's because I finally convinced the prat to apologize for insulting Neville's love of Herbology back in fourth year! He's been trying to get into Nev's pants since last term!" Harry cried indignantly.

"Mister Potter! Vulgar language will not get you out of this detention! Now, I've heard enough from you, you are to finish cleaning that storage closet by dinner, or you'll be in here tomorrow doing the exact same thing, am I understood?" The Transfigurations professor demanded pursing her lips so tightly they turned white.

Harry huffed and turned back to the massive storage space. It wasn't large by the castle's standards, but it was larger than his old cupboard…closer to the size of his small bedroom, in fact. He wasn't entirely sure why a classroom would need such a large space, particularly a magical classroom, and so far his cleaning had revealed little, despite now being nearly finished. He'd found the oddest assortment of things. It appeared as though McGonagall had kept all of the perfectly transfigured inanimate objects from every class since her first year teaching (the needles had taken an hour on their own, because she'd wanted them sorted by size), the toys you occasionally saw in the cages of the animals seemed to have been bought in bulk – if the numerous boxes brimming over with them were any indication – and there was every paper imaginable: from Gryffindor permission slips, to prewritten notes of excuse, to old student essays. The woman was a bleeding hoarder!

After another twenty minutes of shuffling papers into their respective cubbyholes along the back wall, Harry turned to his professor once more. "All I have left are these old student essays, but there are no more cubbyholes or cabinet drawers, Professor."

"I will assume they are all still tightly bound scrolls…those are the unnecessary Seventh year essays from the students who passed my Final…there's always a few overachievers or confused students who ignore or don't understand that an Exceeds Expectations means they don't have to turn in an essay. Or, like your mother, the ones who panicked and wrote the essay before they got their results and turned the essay in 'just in case'. Stack them in the back right corner in a pyramid style, there should be a shallow in-set platform to help, and then you may go. I don't want to catch you involved in any further antics such as this incident, Mister Potter. Believe me when I say that if you do something like this again, I will let Peeves loose in that cupboard before I bring you to clean it up again, understood?"

Harry smiled in relief. "Yes, Professor, I don't doubt you in the least. Nothing like this will happen again, I promise." He turned yet again to the room and pushed all of the aged parchment scrolls towards the indicated corner, where a long platform did indeed stand in wait for them.

After a few minutes he came across the aforementioned essay his mum had turned in. He only just resisted the urge to open it, nestling it neatly between the other essays on the fourth tier. He also came across Remus' essay, in the middle of the sixth tier, chuckling when he imagined the werewolf as being the same panicky type his mother had been, probably sitting huddled in the same corner of the library. On the second to last tier, he found a name he didn't expect – Severus Snape. Sure, the man was smart, but Harry had trouble imagining the Potion's Professor would ever panic or misunderstand instruction. Then again, knowing his Father hadn't laid off even in their last year from the stories Sirius still got too much enjoyment from (Harry got nauseous just thinking about some of the things the Marauders did to the Head of Slytherin), it wouldn't have surprised Harry if Snape had turned in the essay in case James or Sirius messed with his Final.

He made to lay the rolled parchment on the small pyramid, when a note fell out and fluttered to the floor beside his knee. Harry glanced at it, and, his curiosity getting the better of him, stuffed it into his robes pocket to read later. Most likely, it had been a note with a mild sticking charm that had worn thin with age, no counter used to detach it from the unread essay for too many years; a note incriminating his father, perhaps, or explaining why the essay had been turned in despite the good grade. Either way, Harry hoped it might shed some light on the dour and aloof older wizard he'd been trying desperately to get to know. He finished the rest of the task quickly, practically throwing the last scrolls onto the parchment pyramid, and wished his Professor a good rest of the day before making a hurried retreat to the nearest abandoned classroom to read his find.