No wonder they were twins—their words were almost identical.
Wyzett couldn't help but think so as he slowly edged closer to Filch.
Mrs. Norris sensed the shift instantly. Her back arched, fur bristling, and a guttural growl rumbled in her throat.
"What are you lot up to?" Filch's eyes darted nervously. He'd suddenly gone from hunter to hunted.
Watching him closely, Wyzett adjusted his tone, slipping into a cold, biting imitation of Professor Snape—layering in that signature disdain and icy arrogance.
"Mr. Filch…"
He let the words hang, every syllable heavy with threat. In Wyzett's mind, nothing suited this moment better than Snape's oppressive cadence.
"Right now, it's three against two. What do you think… we might do?"
…
"Achoo!"
Snape's eyes snapped open as a violent sneeze shook him awake.
Ever since that O.W.L. exam, his sleep had been fitful at best. If he didn't rely on potions, even the smallest sound could rouse him from uneasy dreams.
He was no stranger to being jolted awake by a sneeze. Especially since Harry Potter had arrived at Hogwarts, such disturbances seemed to occur with alarming frequency.
With a low, grumbling voice, he muttered, "Gryffindor, minus one point."
He shuffled into his office and cast his gaze over the Horklumps squirming in their terrarium. With a flick of his wand, he sent a few earthworms wriggling over; the creatures devoured them greedily. Only then did drowsiness begin to creep back in…
…
"Wow!" Fred and George whistled in unison, the surprise clear in their voices. "That tone's uncannily familiar…"
They both mimicked Snape's slow, menacing drawl: "Filch, it's three against two. What do you think… we might do?"
"What are you planning?" Filch snapped, trying to sound tough, though his gaze wavered.
Years of wrangling with students had made him stubborn, but even he couldn't hide the flicker of anxiety in his eyes.
"Why don't we get to the root of things… and talk about what really happened tonight?" Wyzett stepped forward, wand in hand.
He tapped it lightly against his thigh, the dull thud echoing with his measured footsteps—a rhythm that ratcheted up the tension in the corridor.
Filch fell silent, his bravado slipping.
Wyzett met his eyes directly. "Mr. Filch? Isn't solving the problem what really matters?"
George piped up with a wry grin, "Wyzett, you don't have to be so polite with that voice—it's downright creepy!"
"Exactly!" Fred wriggled free from Filch's grip, stood up with a cocky grin, and planted his hands on his hips. "Looks like the odds are in our favor now!"
Filch glanced between the three blocking his way. His gaze finally settled on George. "Hand over that letter! And tonight… never happened."
George made a show of rummaging through his pockets, producing two envelopes. "Which one do you want—the parchment envelope, or this lovely purple one?"
Filch glared at the purple envelope, his voice a low snarl. "Give it here! Or you're finished!"
"I'll string you up on the wall and whip you till your skin splits, see if I don't!"
"Oh, so it's this one you want!" George pretended sudden realization, waving the purple envelope. "No wonder you called me out. It was all for this, eh?"
"Settle down…" Fred shook his head, feigning disappointment. "Did you forget the situation? We've got you outnumbered!"
"Well, if Filch won't say it, I suppose we'll have to spill the beans… Wyzett, know what this letter is? Ha! It's a Kwikspell course—"
"Meow!"
Before Fred could finish, Mrs. Norris sprang up, snatching the purple envelope in her jaws and depositing it triumphantly in Filch's hand.
George shook his hand dramatically. "Whew! Close call—almost lost a finger!"
Wyzett recognized the name instantly. The Kwikspell Course—a correspondence program marketed by a magical company, promising to help adult wizards improve their spellwork.
"Filch, you've got us all wrong," George continued. "We're only trying to help! This course won't do you any good, though, since you're…"
Taking in the letter, the commotion, and the roles each person had played tonight, Wyzett pieced together the whole story.
He cleared his throat and waved at George. "Mr. Filch, do you want to master magic? To use magic?"
"What are you getting at? What do you know?" Filch barked, but the bluster in his voice couldn't hide the desperate hope flickering in his eyes.
"What I know isn't important. What matters is you…" Wyzett pressed on, still channeling that cold, Snape-like detachment. "Do you want to master magic or not?"
Filch froze, his eyes wide and uncertain, mind racing to grasp the meaning behind Wyzett's words.
He knew Wyzett was a peculiar student—respected by professors, even by Snape himself. And now, hearing that same chilling tone, Filch couldn't help but wonder if there was something more to it.
He was a Squib—a non-magical born to magical parents. If he could truly master magic, he wouldn't be stuck as Hogwarts' caretaker, forever the butt of students' jokes.
Signing up for the Kwikspell course was just another desperate gamble, hoping for a miracle.
When he'd seen a wand earlier that evening, he'd been giddy with excitement—gripping it and trying to cast Lumos.
But reality was cruel. He was a Squib, through and through.
Still… Snape was a Potions Master, and Wyzett visited his office every week…
Could it be possible, through Wyzett, to get some sort of potion from Snape—one that could grant a Squib the ability to cast spells?
Potions had changed lives before. Filch remembered reading in The Daily Prophet about the Wolfsbane Potion, which let werewolves keep their minds during the full moon.
If even werewolves—the lowest rung in the magical world—could be freed from their curse, could a potion help a Squib wield magic?
He clenched his jaw, hope and fear warring in his eyes.
His voice came out strained, each word forced: "You… what could you possibly do… can you really make me cast magic?"
"Mr. Filch, please understand…" Wyzett shook his head gently, correcting him. "I said 'master magic,' not 'cast magic.'"
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