"You should go check—"
Justin didn't finish before Professor Snape started toward them.
"That's my book!" Hermione looked both anxious and angry; she stamped her foot, frustration flashing in her eyes. She shouldn't have lent the book to Harry and Ron!
Harry and Ron watched Snape limp away—then, to their surprise, realized he was actually heading in Sean's direction. They whispered:
"We're done for. Did you see it, Harry? Sean's holding a copy of a Quidditch book…"
He meant the one Sean had borrowed from the library—Madam Pince had told Sean to keep it with him at all times so no other eager first-years would pester her for it; she'd wanted to do that for ages.
"We've got to warn them," Harry said, brow furrowing, worry in his eyes.
In the cold courtyard, the blue flames didn't seem all that warm.
Sean took Origins of Quidditch from his bag and handed it to Hermione. With Quidditch season underway and her friends so interested, Hermione had gotten a bit caught up, too. She'd only lent the book out to Harry and Ron in light of their recent bravery.
Now it had been confiscated by Professor Snape—no one dared ask him to give a book back.
"Quick! Hide it!"
Seeing Snape closing in, Hermione panicked. Sean, though, was staring at the professor's injured leg; blood was faintly visible beneath the robes. As Snape drew nearer, Hermione went pale, and even Justin trembled a little—though it might have just been the cutting wind.
"Hah—fools reading a fool's book—" Snape's mouth curled in a sneer. "It suits you… hah—"
He couldn't bring himself to finish. He only shot Sean a murderous glare and forced himself to walk on as if nothing was wrong.
"Our book wasn't confiscated?!" Hermione gasped.
"This—no, I mean—incredible!" Ron was all disbelief.
"He must hate me to death…" Harry muttered.
Only Sean kept his eyes on Snape's wounded leg. He remembered that, though Snape was hurt, he hadn't gone to Madam Pomfrey—only asked Filch for a roll of bandages and handled it himself.
The good thing about Madam Pomfrey is that if you tell her what the injury is, she treats it as such and doesn't probe the real cause. The bad thing is anyone can get the story out of her afterward.
So Snape hadn't gone to the hospital wing; his position was too sensitive.
Sean had no such concern; no one paid attention to a first-year.
"He's badly hurt," Justin blurted, worry flickering in his eyes before he snuck a glance at Sean.
Outside the caretaker's office.
A large parcel floated at Sean's side. Mrs. Norris purred on his shoulder, then hopped to the stained glass to chase the shifting patches of light beneath the clouds. After playing a while, she sprawled on the big package—becoming a cat floating in midair.
Sean tapped the door lightly, and Mr. Filch's scornful voice answered:
"Another idiot—think knocking is some kind of secret password? If you don't want a hand bitten off, shove off!"
Sean ignored the insult, wearing his small, calm smile—apparently the Fanged Doorknob worked…
"It's me, sir."
He hadn't finished when something clattered inside, followed by hurried footsteps. The door opened.
The windowless, grimy room was far brighter now—thanks to several floating candles. On the desk beside a jar sat a letter, pinned by a quill and a pile of wadded paper.
At the sight of Sean's crumpled scarf, the caretaker seemed to lose his words.
"Meow—"
Mrs. Norris smacked the letter with her paw. On it, in unfinished handwriting:
[Happy Halloween…]
Beside the letter lay a brand-new scarf—apparently agonized over for so long that all of Halloween had passed without it being delivered.
"Happy Halloween, Mr. Filch," Sean said.
No wonder Mrs. Norris had been trying since noon to drag him here.
A faint briny smell always hung in the office, though Filch didn't like fish; he often simmered a pot of bone broth instead, and whenever he did, Mrs. Norris would go out. All told, even in their understanding they made room for each other.
Still full of purpose, Sean set down the potions and bandages he'd brought from Madam Pomfrey, then flicked his wand; the items in the parcel flew out.
It was a charmed window that could display any weather—an item the Weasley twins had gone to great lengths to acquire. It had once been used at the Ministry of Magic, which is underground. The Magical Maintenance staff had even, during a wage dispute, set it to gale-force winds for two straight months.
Much at the Ministry is odd—paper airplanes for memos; and in Voldemort's reign, officials flushing themselves in through the lavatories… The body meant to rule the wizarding world can feel like a ramshackle troupe. And yet sometimes it surprises you—like when Fudge ordered Aurors to arrest Dumbledore, and they actually went:
"So," Fudge sneered in the original, "you intend to take on Dalish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself all alone, do you, Dumbledore?"
Wizards can indeed be rash at the wrong time; a few breaths later Fudge, Umbridge, Kingsley, and Dawlish were all flat on the floor. Braver than Voldemort, really.
By November, snow had begun to drift over Hogwarts. When Filch came back to himself, he saw the grounds beyond were dusted white and the lake was skimming over with ice.
Not the sort of view a windowless room should have.
On the desk, gale winds howled; discarded paper balls rolled into the hearth; the page stayed blank.
What could he even write?
Endless trivia, the ache of hopeless longing, a window that never shows the outside world?
Or the sorrow of someone staring long at a solitary moon, the loyalty of someone who never had a faith to begin with…
~~~
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