"You're going to check on…"
Justin didn't finish his sentence before he spotted Professor Snape striding toward them.
"That's my book!"
Hermione looked both frantic and furious, stomping her foot as annoyance flashed in her eyes.
She never should've lent it to Harry and Ron!
Harry and Ron watched Snape walk away slowly, then exchanged stunned whispers when they realized he was heading straight for Sean and the others.
"We're done for," Ron muttered. "Did you see that, Harry? Sean's got a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages too…"
He was talking about the copy Sean had borrowed from the library. Madam Pince had practically begged him to keep it so she wouldn't have to deal with other starry-eyed young wizards pestering her. She'd been wanting to do that for ages.
"We've got to warn them," Harry said, frowning with worry.
In the chilly courtyard, the blue flames flickering nearby didn't offer much warmth.
Sean pulled his copy of Quidditch Through the Ages from his bag and handed it to Hermione. With the Quidditch season starting, Hermione had been swept up in the excitement, especially since her friends were all buzzing about it.
She'd been devouring Quidditch-related books lately, and she'd only lent Quidditch Through the Ages to Harry and Ron because of their bravery during the troll incident.
But now? Snape had confiscated it. No one dared ask him to give it back.
"Quick! Hide it!" Hermione hissed, spotting Snape getting closer, her panic rising.
Sean, meanwhile, was staring at Snape's injured leg. A faint glimpse of a bloody wound peeked out from under his robes. As Snape drew nearer, Hermione's face paled to an alarming degree, and even Justin started trembling—though whether it was from the biting wind or fear was unclear.
"Hmph. Idiot books for fools," Snape sneered, his lips curling mockingly.
"Quite fitting for you…"
He trailed off, stopping short of finishing his thought. Instead, he shot Sean a venomous glare before limping away, trying to maintain his usual composed stride.
"Our book wasn't taken?!" Hermione exclaimed, astonished.
"No way—I mean, that's unbelievable!" Ron said, his face full of disbelief.
"He must really hate me…" Harry muttered under his breath.
Only Sean kept his eyes fixed on Snape's injured leg.
From what he remembered, Snape hadn't gone to Madam Pomfrey for treatment despite his injury. Instead, he'd grabbed a roll of bandages from Filch's office and dealt with it himself.
Madam Pomfrey's strength was that she'd treat any injury you described without digging into how it happened. The downside? She'd share that information with anyone who asked.
Snape, with his sensitive position, couldn't risk going to the hospital wing.
But Sean had no such concerns. No one paid much attention to a first-year wizard like him.
"He's hurt badly," Justin blurted out, his voice tinged with worry. He stole a glance at Sean.
At the door to the caretaker's office, a large package floated beside Sean. Mrs. Norris alternated between purring on his shoulder and darting to the stained-glass window to chase fleeting light spots caused by passing clouds.
After a bit of play, she leapt onto the floating package, looking like a cat hovering in midair.
Sean knocked lightly on the door, only to be met with Filch's sarcastic voice.
"Another fool, eh? Think knocking's some kind of secret code? Scram before the handle bites your hand off!"
Sean ignored the jab, a faint smile on his face.
A biting doorknob? That's actually pretty cool…
"It's me, sir," he said.
Before he could finish, a loud clunk came from behind the door, followed by hurried footsteps.
The door swung open.
The dim, grimy, windowless room brightened slightly, thanks to floating candles. On the desk sat a jar, next to a letter weighed down by a quill and a pile of crumpled paper balls.
Filch froze when he saw Sean's tattered scarf, momentarily speechless.
"Meow!"
Mrs. Norris swatted at the letter with her paw, revealing an unfinished line:
Happy Halloween…
Next to it was a brand-new scarf.
It seemed Filch had agonized over it so much that he hadn't sent it, even after Halloween had passed.
"Happy Halloween, Mr. Filch," Sean said.
No wonder Mrs. Norris had been nudging him toward this office since noon.
The caretaker's room always carried a faint smell of salted fish, though Filch didn't care for fish himself. He often simmered a pot of bone broth, and whenever he did, Mrs. Norris would slip out.
Despite their bond, they made small compromises for each other.
Sean, still full of energy, set down the potions and bandages he'd gotten from Madam Pomfrey. With a wave of his wand, items floated out of the package.
It was a magical window, capable of showing any kind of weather. Fred Weasley had gone to great lengths to get it.
The Ministry of Magic used similar windows since their offices were underground. Once, the Magical Maintenance Department, angling for a raise, had set their windows to show a hurricane for two months straight.
The Ministry was full of oddities—like using paper airplanes for memos or, during Voldemort's reign, officials flushing themselves into the Ministry through toilets.
It made the organization that supposedly governed the wizarding world seem like a bit of a mess.
Yet, in some ways, it was surprisingly bold. Like when Fudge ordered Aurors to arrest Dumbledore.
As Fudge had sneered in the books, "So, you plan to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and me, all by yourself, Dumbledore?"
Sean sometimes thought wizards had a reckless streak that didn't quite fit the times. Sure enough, moments later, Fudge, Umbridge, Kingsley, and Dawlish were sprawled unconscious on the floor.
They were braver than Voldemort in some ways.
By November, Hogwarts was starting to see light snow. When Filch came to his senses, he noticed a thin layer of snow blanketing the castle grounds outside, with the lake beginning to freeze over.
That wasn't something you'd expect to see from a windowless room.
On the desk, a gust of wind howled through the crumpled paper balls, which rolled into the fireplace, too ruined to hold any words.
What could he write?
About endless trivialities? A desperate longing? The absence of a window to the outside world?
Or perhaps the sorrow of a man staring at a lonely moon, the loyalty of someone who'd never had faith to begin with…