"I'm very sorry, Mr. Filch,"
Sean said quietly, genuinely.
He didn't hate or resent Filch like other students did. In Sean's eyes, the caretaker's behavior was understandable. Just as he wouldn't blame Professor Snape for this—if anyone was at fault, it was Sean's slow progress; he shouldn't have let it drag this late.
Still, disappointment stung. After nearly a month of effort, to stumble at the last step—bitter.
Filch stared a moment, then hunched back over his report with a snarl. That flicker of hope returned to Sean.
Everyone knows Hogwarts rules are… flexible. For the same offense—say, night roaming—Professor McGonagall, in dire contexts, will cut hard: points and detention, as with Harry and the gang when she thought they'd lied to Neville and Malfoy. She'd loomed so tall over them that Harry figured she was more likely than Norbert to breathe fire.
But ordinarily, professors don't assign detention for a one-off. As for Professor Flitwick—if Sean explained, he wouldn't stick him with detention. Professor Sprout? Even if Hufflepuffs brawled outside, she'd scold them, then sneak them a tub of coconut ice cream—a Head like warm winter sun.
By that logic, as long as nothing reached Snape, he wouldn't be marched into some "brew-for-detention" purgatory. Lately, Snape had been rather displeased with Sean's "lapses"…
No—wait.
A suspicion crossed him. This "forced" night roam—was it in Snape's design? Snape was on good terms with Filch; in the books Filch tended his bite wound. Had he… been set up?
Sean didn't know it was a setup inside a setup.
Easy to verify—just see who Filch planned to report to.
As Sean fretted, a crash shook the ceiling. The oil lamp clanged on its hook.
"Peeves!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill. "I won't let you off this time!"
Sean slipped over to glance at the half-filled form. A big initial S. He sighed. On the desk, though, lay a bulging purple envelope stamped with silver letters. Sean weighed his chances of practicing spells in the dungeon; sighed again.
A draft slapped the window; the letter skated toward the edge. He caught it. On the envelope, in large letters:
[Invitation to the Correspondence Course: Quick-Spell Magic Made Easy.]
He knew exactly what it was. His green eyes brightened. In the original, Harry found this and Filch let him go. Filch had been reading it this early…
As Sean lingered, a sleek shape darted in and leapt gracefully to the desk—Mrs. Norris. With one claw she slit the envelope:
Falling behind the modern magical world?
Finding excuses not to perform simple magic?
Mocked for clumsy wandwork?
The answer is here! Quick-Spell—foolproof, fast results, easy to learn!
Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited!
Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: "I couldn't remember incantations; my potions were a family joke! After one Quick-Spell course, I'm the life of the party—friends beg my recipe for Volubilis Potion!"
Warlock Albert Weed of Didsbury says: "My wife mocked my magic—but after one month in your marvelous course, I turned her into a yak! Thank you, Quick-Spell!"
Mrs. Norris's tail swept the flyer; she "mrowed" at a wall. Sean took the hint.
"S—cour—g—ify!"
A patch of grime vanished. His wandtip flashed; stain by stain the walls came clean. He floated the scattered mess into tidy stacks; toppled furniture re-stacked neatly. By the end he was panting.
Mrs. Norris hopped onto his shoulder and nuzzled his cheek.
In the oil-lamp's glow, boy and cat leaned together.
"You made the racket upstairs too, didn't you, Madam… pleasure doing business."
His cheek tickled—the cat's tail had risen.
"Prrrr—"
[You gained the favor of the magical creature cat-sìth (Mrs. Norris) at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
…
"Did—you—did you see—?" Filch stammered, staring at the transformed room. Another gust fluttered the thin letter into Sean's hand. They looked at each other.
Filch wrung his knobbly hands. "Oh… well… it's not—mine. For a friend… anyway… but…"
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to look. And I'll never say a word," Sean said, firm as stone.
"Good… good. Off with you, then… go on…" Filch sagged, staring at the freshly scrubbed room, poleaxed. "Accident… accident… You think we can trust him too, eh, my dear?" Mrs. Norris nuzzled his shoulder, human-like agreement in her eyes.
…
Night deepened.
In a shadowed corridor, voices murmured.
"Ah—a man's birth matters not. What he grows into does. And it is our choices, far more than our abilities, that show who we truly are…" The old wizard's smile was gentle; his blue eyes, deep. "Anger is the simplest choice. The boy didn't choose it, did he?"
"You really think… this is reasonable, Albus," McGonagall said coolly—and turned away.
"To know a man's character, watch how he treats those beneath him… Forgive me, Minerva," Dumbledore said—and his figure, too, faded into the dark.
Ravenclaw dormitory.
Sean was turning pages in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7, reading on silent casting—he already had a feel for it. Tomorrow, after Transfiguration, he'd ask Flitwick.
He had no idea about the two pairs of eyes that had watched the corridor the whole night.
~~~
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