Chapter 101: Trust
Inside Hogwarts, the common rooms and Great Hall blazed with roaring fires.
But the draughty corridors were bitterly cold, and the icy wind rattled the classroom windows in their frames.
Worst of all was the Potions dungeon. Every breath Shawn exhaled fogged white in front of his face, and once the steaming cauldron was extinguished, he was left shivering. His jumper was not nearly warm enough.
At that moment, Shawn thought, the only difference between him and Dumbledore was that the Headmaster needed woollen socks, while he needed a warm jumper.
His mind drifted. He thought about how Mrs Weasley often sent her children – and Harry – homemade jumpers at Christmas. Then he thought about how Dumbledore had claimed to see socks in the Mirror of Erised, when he had really seen Wool‑Gellert‑Grindelwald‑Socks.
Professor Snape's eyes moved coldly over Shawn's notes. His expression shifted from icy disdain to suppressed shock and surprise, and finally to something utterly emotionless.
"You should know," Snape said, voice hollow, "this is… extraordinarily valuable."
Shawn nodded.
"Fool. Ignorant fool. You have no idea what it is worth. You are like a Muggle holding a wand, blind to the magic it contains," Snape snarled.
The source of his fury was, once again, impossible for Shawn to trace.
He quietly opened Advanced Potion‑Making. The words inside were clear as ever.
Libatius Borage's greatest achievement was not discovering the potion ritual and will‑guided method.
It was ensuring that the truth survived, and placing it whole into the hands of his successor.
Snape's voice caught in his throat. He scanned that line, opened his mouth to speak, then his eyes found the next.
The infinite distance. The endless truth. You must know – they are being born in your hands.
Snape's anger ebbed. What followed was a low, strained murmur.
"If you knew, Shawn Green, you would never have exposed this…"
He stared coldly at Shawn, as if trying to see through to his core.
Shawn did not flinch. He only said quietly, "Professor, in fact, only you know."
The sneer froze on Snape's lips. He stared at the student standing with him in the shadows. For a moment, he was almost… at a loss.
"You mean to say…" he said at last, face drawn.
Shawn nodded again.
"You think… that everyone is worthy of trust?" Snape hissed, the words forced through his teeth.
It sounded like he was accusing Shawn. It also sounded like he was accusing himself – the fool who had once trusted Voldemort.
"Listen to me, Shawn Green. You will not share this notebook with anyone. If you dare—"
He gripped the notes, threat hanging in the air.
The student in front of him was absurdly naive, absurdly stubborn, and absurdly… pure.
When Shawn left the dungeon with a light step, Snape's gaze followed him without pause.
He could not name what he felt. These sensations he hated, despised, and… feared.
This idiot trusted him.
His eyes dimmed.
All the bitter, rusted resentment he had locked away came flooding back.
To call it stubbornness would be too cruel, too inhuman.
Perhaps it was that the suffering of the past wanted to bully the hope of the present.
…
In the corridor,
The portraits that chattered endlessly by day had all sunk into deep sleep. Some snored softly. Others had their hats askew, drool pooling at the edge of their frames.
Looking at Sir Cadogan, who had waited up for him and now slept with saliva dripping from his chin, and at the two sleeping ladies, Shawn sometimes thought they got along so well because they shared certain… preferences.
A few torches mounted in iron brackets still burned, casting long, wavering shadows that made the ancient carvings and tapestries on the walls seem to shift and breathe.
Shawn had grown used to walking at night. Apart from the cold, it was fine.
Sometimes Mrs Norris walked with him for a while. That was when Justin's dried fish came in handy.
With fish in hand, Shawn could scratch Mrs Norris's head and build up his rapport with magical creatures nicely.
But tonight the cat was not here.
From around the corner came the faint rustle of movement.
Three small figures in wizard robes crept out from behind a broad suit of armour.
The boy in front had messy blond hair. His freckles stood out sharply against his flushed, excited face. He clutched his wand and peeked cautiously down both ends of the corridor.
"I‑is it clear?" the smallest boy whispered, voice trembling.
The blond boy did not turn, only nodded hard and waved for them to follow.
"Filch is definitely dozing in the trophy room downstairs. You know he always takes a break around now," he said in a low, eager voice.
"And I saw Mrs Norris head that way too."
Plenty of students at Hogwarts wanted to sabotage Filch's office. But the ones who actually dared were almost always Gryffindors.
Shawn had been about to leave when they mentioned Dungbombs.
That made him pause.
Dungbombs were sold at Zonko's Joke Shop. They were magical stink‑bombs that gave off a rotten smell, invented in the 1880s by Alberic Grunnion.
They were among the vilest prank items out there. Even touching one left your hands filthy.
Shawn pictured Mr Filch trying to scrub away the mess and quickened his pace.
But he was too late.
When Mrs Norris let out a piercing shriek, the reckless little wizards actually prepared to cast a spell at her.
Even if it was only Aguamenti, being drenched in cold water just before winter was no joke.
"Ag‑uamen‑ti!" the leader shouted, wand slashing. He had even mispronounced the incantation.
Mrs Norris bolted toward the door in a panic. Shawn scooped her up smoothly.
"Finite Incantatem."
He flicked his wand. Mrs Norris huffed indignantly on his shoulder.
"Not good. Run!" the leader hissed.
They tried to bolt from Filch's office.
"Bullying someone who cannot use magic is not amusing, gentlemen," Shawn said, blocking the door.
All three of them rounded on him at once, teeth bared.