"Filch, I believe the matter is quite clear," said Professor McGonagall, fixing Filch with a calm, unwavering gaze. "This was nothing more than an accident. They just happened to be passing by."
At McGonagall's words, Fred shot Wyzett a sly wink, as if to say, "See? Told you so!"
Filch's expression changed in an instant. The predatory smirk he'd worn into the hospital wing vanished, replaced by a look of pure misery—like a man who'd just swallowed a live toad.
His voice grew shrill, scraping the air like fingernails on glass. "But I saw them... they were in cahoots with Peeves before—"
"The patient needs rest!" Madam Pomfrey interrupted, eyebrows arched, her tone brooking no argument. "If you have business, take it outside!"
Filch's protests were swiftly drowned out. He limped from the hospital wing, shooting one last venomous glare at Fred and George before hurrying away, Mrs. Norris trotting at his heels.
Fred and George exchanged a jubilant high-five. "Yes!"
Wyzett watched Filch's retreating figure disappear at the end of the corridor, shaking his head in quiet contemplation.
Filch was a Squib. For most Hogwarts students, it didn't take long to figure that out.
It made his position painfully awkward—neither professor nor student, neither wizard nor Muggle.
Such a blurred, marginalized identity bred a deep sense of dissatisfaction and struggle, feeding an inferiority complex Filch would never admit to.
To cope, he had turned that inferiority into jealousy and resentment toward the students. It was the only way he could make himself feel better.
Filch had almost no friends at Hogwarts. His only true companion was that cat, Mrs. Norris.
Years of loneliness had soured his attitude, amplifying his bitterness and envy. When he looked at the bright, energetic students, he couldn't help but see them as troublemakers, treating all of them with the same gruff suspicion.
At the end of the day, it was the inability to do magic—while being forced to watch children perform it every day—that had shaped him into the person he was.
...
Outside the hospital wing, Professor Sprout reached out her hands. "Wyzett, let me take another look at that Mandrake."
She cradled the flowerpot Wyzett handed her, inspecting it from every angle with a practiced eye.
"Still a bit of dragon dung left... excellent quality... but it's all been pushed to the edges... just as I suspected. The original fertilizer was something special—this little fellow really likes it..."
Once satisfied, she handed the pot back to Wyzett. "Looks like you'll be the one caring for this little one from now on."
"Can we take a couple of Mandrakes home too?" Fred and George chimed in, perfectly in sync.
Fred turned pleading eyes on Professor Sprout, while George looked hopefully at McGonagall.
McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, a sharp glint flashing in her eyes.
"The caretaker's post is vital—Hogwarts needs Filch. And Mrs. Norris is out of the question; she's just a cat!"
As Head of Gryffindor, she knew exactly what Fred and George were plotting.
A little mischief was tolerable for young wizards, but Mandrakes were another matter entirely. Their dangerous properties demanded caution.
Fred and George might be mischievous, but they were talented, and she had no desire to see them go astray. So she allowed some antics, but drew the line when necessary.
"Us? Do something like that?" George exclaimed, fist raised dramatically above his head. "We're just interested in plants, that's all!"
"Exactly! We only want to improve in Herbology," Fred agreed, sighing with exaggerated longing. "We just want to be as good as Wyzett!"
"If only that were true!" McGonagall coughed, struggling to hide a smile. "I could always assign you extra homework—that's one way to make progress."
"Less time spent on Dungbombs, dead cockroaches, and Fanged Frisbees, and more on Transfiguration. How does that sound? I can arrange it right now!"
"Aha!" Fred and George clutched their stomachs, looking around in mock distress. "Must've been that Mandrake's scream—still feeling queasy!"
They staggered backward down the corridor, overacting outrageously, and nearly tripping over each other as they made their escape. Only when they'd reached the far end did they pull silly faces and dash out of sight.
McGonagall sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Honestly..."
Professor Sprout couldn't help but laugh. "They're not easy to manage! Last time they snuck into Greenhouse Three—they seemed awfully interested in the Venomous Tentacula."
"That simply won't do," McGonagall frowned. "Venomous Tentacula venom is extremely dangerous!"
Sprout nodded. "That's why they ended up stuck in the swamp—I set that up as a protective charm in the greenhouse."
"But they're nothing if not persistent... I think they've grown fond of the swamp. They pop in for a soak now and then."
Knowing Fred and George as he did, Wyzett suspected their real goal was the protective charm itself—trying to figure out how to create their own magical swamp.
Sprout turned to Wyzett. "What do you think, Wyzett? Confident you can care for it on your own?"
Mandrakes were remarkable magical plants, their peculiar magical circuits well worth serious study. If he could keep one with him, all the better.
To keep the Mandrake well-behaved and avoid accidents, Wyzett could use Ancient Magic to help—Basic Herbology Cultivation should work wonders.
He nodded. "I'll do my best to raise it well, Professor Sprout!"
Ever since Fred and George had blown up the big iron cage, the Cornish pixies had scattered all over the castle.
As fellow pranksters, Peeves and the pixies were a perfect match—teaming up to wreak havoc on the students.
Whenever the pixies hurled chalk at students, Peeves would swoop in with a sack full of chalk, offering reinforcements.
When Peeves wanted to cause chaos in the corridors, the pixies would add their shrill laughter, helping to topple the gleaming suits of armor.
If Filch was locked in a battle of wits with Peeves, the pixies would band together to kidnap Mrs. Norris, leaving Filch utterly flustered.
Peeves was a poltergeist—a true menace, and nearly impossible to deal with.
But the Cornish pixies were another story. With a danger rating of only XXX, they could be rounded up if the students worked together. After several days of hunting, every House common room boasted a collection of little iron cages—each one containing a handful of sulking pixies...
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