They continued down to the third level, where the door opened to a three-headed dog blocking their path. Baring its teeth, it snarled at the pilgrims, clearly set near the elevator door to guard the rest of the hallway.
Albus leaped back instinctively, but Snape continued on. “Come now, Potter--don’t tell me you’ve never learned how to defend yourself against a three-headed dog! Have you learned nothing in Care of Magical Creatures?”
“Oh--yes. Professor Hagrid said something about playing music for them?”
“Very astute, Potter. ‘Something about,’” Snape said sarcastically. “Well I’m glad to see that you pay more attention than your father, anyway. This was once one of Hagrid’s unfortunate pets, which he used to call ‘Fluffy.’ For your information, music of any kind lures a three-headed dog to sleep almost instantly.” He pulled out his wand. Out of thin air, he conjured a set of bagpipes, then charmed them to play. As the obnoxious sounds lulled the dog into a restless sort of sleep, Snape stepped over the dog’s tail and opened the second door on the left side of the hallway.
As soon as the door opened, a pungent sour-savory smell wafted out, and Albus came close to being sick. He looked up. The room was a large dining hall filled with every type of food and drink imaginable, and every inhabitant of the room was frenziedly devouring it as if he had not eaten in weeks. It reminded Albus of the Great Hall at the Christmas Feast, except that instead of ornate decorations, all of the furniture and the carpet was badly stained. Occasionally, someone would turn away from his food in order to be sick--and then return to his eating.
“This is the Hall of Gluttons, Potter. Because they have chosen overindulgence and greed, they must now empty these tables of all the food. What they don’t know is that the tables of food are enchanted, and are constantly refilling. Those who once turned to food and drink to satisfy their greed now long to be rid of it. But they never shall be. Tell me, Potter, do they look as if they are enjoying themselves?”
Albus had to admit that they didn’t. The only expression on the faces of the gluttons was misery. “But sir, surely it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that the table refills itself.”
Snape’s lips curled. “True. But that doesn’t make a difference in the task, does it? For if they stop eating, that doesn’t mean that the table will stop refilling itself; they would only be getting farther from their goal. If anyone rebels and refuses to eat, they are force-fed Puking Pastilles from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.” He pointed to a trough in the corner, where several people were retching violently.
Disgusted, Albus averted his eyes, which fell instead on a small house-elf sitting up against a couch with a bottle of butterbeer in her hand (and several empty bottles around her). She appeared to be unconscious. Noticing Albus’ gaze, Snape filled a cup with water and splashed it on her. The house-elf winced and waved her hand around in the air, apparently to prove that she was awake.
“What do they call you, elf?” asked Snape.
“My name is Winky, sir. Winky was greatly distressed because she was shamed and freed. House-elves is not supposed to be free! The bottle was Winky’s only escape, sir.” She looked up at Albus. “Sir reminds Winky of someone . . .” But before she could finish her thought, she dropped off again.
Suddenly another person caught Albus’ eye. In the middle of the room, the largest young man he had ever seen began shouting unintelligibly in a way that would make a five-year-old’s tantrum seem mellow.
“Who is that, Professor?”
With a disdainful glance in the young man’s direction, Snape replied, “That is Dudley Dursley, your father’s cousin and the spoiled-brat son of your Great Aunt Petunia.” A dark look passed across Snape’s face before he stormed from the room, with Albus straggling behind.
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