Chapter 102: Filch
Shawn did not recognise them. He guessed they were second‑years, but that did not stop him from countering every minor jinx they threw.
Between Mrs Norris hissing on his shoulder and the Transfigured boar at his feet, ready to charge, the young wizards could neither advance nor retreat.
Shawn watched them panic. Once he was sure they would remember this, he quietly stepped aside from the door.
The students were overjoyed. One of them stammered a promise never to come back.
Shawn nodded.
The scene inside the office was appalling. A foul stench wafted out as far as five metres.
The walls were smeared with filth. Cupboards had been knocked over somehow.
Mrs Norris stopped hissing and rubbed her face against Shawn's, then led him to a section of the wall.
With a faint rumble, a fireplace appeared.
It seemed to have been hidden to stop students from sabotaging this essential feature.
Either way, it drove the chill from Shawn's bones.
He scratched Mrs Norris's fluffy head again.
[You gained closeness with the magical creature Kneazle (Mrs Norris) at Expert standard, Proficiency +50]
[Magical creature Kneazle (Mrs Norris): Not Close (70/90)]
[Apprentice‑level magical creature closeness will unlock the Apprentice title in the magical creatures domain.]
As the panel chimed, Shawn raised his wand. Before he could speak the incantation, a figure wrapped in a thick tartan scarf appeared in the doorway.
Mr Filch roared, beside himself.
"Filthy mess!"
His eyes bulged. The flesh under his double chin quivered.
"Filth everywhere. A total disaster. I am reporting this to the Headmaster, mark my words."
Shawn felt somewhat wrongly accused. Fortunately, Filch fell silent the moment he saw his face.
Mrs Norris leapt to Filch's shoulder. He finally stammered, "Shawn Green?"
"Yes, Mr Filch."
"Ah. Right. I mean, thank you, Green…"
Shawn nodded. It seemed Mrs Norris really could communicate with Filch. Otherwise, he would have been blamed for the mess.
"Go on, Green. Off you go," Filch muttered.
His fury still simmered. He stormed out with Mrs Norris on his shoulder, chasing after the culprits.
When he returned, Shawn saw his twisted, bitter expression.
For a moment, Shawn understood his harshness in a new light.
His job was castle caretaker, responsible for maintaining the cleanliness of this ancient fortress.
But imagine trying to manage the chaos caused by a crowd of energetic, magic‑wielding teenagers – Peeves's pranks, the Weasley twins' fireworks, students leaving Dungbombs everywhere – without any magic at all. It was a soul‑crushing task.
His anger and bitterness were, to some extent, by‑products of an impossible job.
And outside Hogwarts, what place would willingly employ a Squib?
Shawn tucked his wand away and left Filch's office quietly.
Behind him, Filch stood frozen, staring at the spotless room.
"Shawn Green?"
Shawn heard a voice behind him. He turned. Filch had followed him out.
"Mr Filch?"
The castle floors were always hard and cold. The bitter wind cut through the corridor and scraped Filch's throat. All he could see were the brilliant green eyes of the boy in front of him.
"It is raining outside. Damp. Windy. Dress warmly, Green," Filch said, lips trembling. That was all he managed.
"There will be better weather," Shawn said with a smile.
For a Squib who longed for magic, this cramped life would not end with some reward for suffering, or in grand operatic fashion. It would simply end with death.
So Shawn kept his expression neutral. He knew that, with magic at his fingertips, he could not laugh too loudly. It would only wake someone else's pain.
Before he knew it, Shawn had stayed past curfew. But Filch had no intention of catching him. Even Mrs Norris only purred, nibbling her dried fish.
"You saw – the office. There is a fireplace…"
Filch could not bring himself to say thank you. From the start, he had been sick of people with magic.
He hated them. Disliked them. He had never once benefited from magic.
Those wizards either looked down on him from on high or simply despised him. Between being despised and being hated, he would rather be hated.
But today… he felt something like hope.
"I hear you learned a new spell, Green," Filch said.
"Finite, sir. It ends other people's spells."
"Ah. Good. Very good…"
He muttered to himself and shuffled back to his office.
Suddenly, he seemed to remember something. He came back out with a crumpled scarf in his hands.
"I mean – a scarf. If…"
Shawn, shivering slightly in the night wind, accepted it with genuine pleasure.
"Thank you, Mr Filch."
"I mean, yes, of course. You are welcome."
…
The weather only grew worse. Naturally, Shawn grew colder.
Hogwarts robes came with a woollen jumper, but a single jumper was nowhere near enough against the biting wind.
In other words, Shawn's clothes were too thin and too old.
If he had been put in front of the Mirror of Erised right then, he would surely have seen a thick, warm jumper.
So he grew even more reliant on fireplaces. Sometimes Hermione wondered if he had left something by the hearth, given how much time he spent there.
The staffroom.
In front of an ugly wardrobe stuffed with teaching robes, Professor Flitwick beamed as Shawn hurried over from behind the two talking stone gargoyles.
"It seems you have learned Finite quite well, Mr Green."
Flitwick waved his wand. Without speaking a word, a thick stream of water gushed from the tip.
"Finite Incantatem!"
Shawn flicked his wand. The water vanished. Ever since he had swiftly countered Seamus's Aguamenti in class, the professor had taken to this half‑duelling style of assessment.
Shawn had grown used to the professor's sudden spellcasting. It had, he had to admit, sharpened his real‑time reaction considerably.
At the very least, he could now tell what spell was coming just from Flitwick's wand movement, and how to use Finite to stop it.
"Very good, Mr Green. However, the Disillusionment Charm is quite difficult. Are you certain you wish to learn it?" Flitwick squeaked.