Chapter 127: The Discarded Note
"You were going to check…" Justin started to say, then froze as Professor Snape limped towards their small group.
"That's my book!" Hermione whispered frantically, stamping her foot, her eyes flashing with anger and frustration. She shouldn't have lent it to Harry!
Harry and Ron watched Snape limp away, then looked on in bewilderment as he headed directly for Sean, Justin, and Hermione.
"Oh, brilliant," Ron groaned. "He's done for. D'you see, Harry? Sean's got a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages too…"
That was the library copy. Madam Pince had practically forced Sean to keep it, just so she wouldn't have to deal with the endless stream of students begging for it.
"We have to warn him," Harry said, frowning with worry.
In the cold courtyard, the blue flames in Hermione's jar offered little warmth. Sean, sensing her distress, handed her his own copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. The Quidditch season had clearly infected her with a mild case of the bug, especially since her friends were so interested. She'd only lent Harry the book because of their shared adventure with the troll. And now it was gone—no one dared try to retrieve anything from Snape.
"Quick! Hide it!" Hermione hissed, her eyes wide with panic as Snape drew closer.
Sean, however, was focused on the professor's injured leg. Through a gap in his robes, he could see the edges of a raw, nasty wound. As Snape loomed over them, Hermione looked faint, and even Justin was trembling slightly, though perhaps just from the icy wind.
"Heh—an idiotic book for fools," Snape sneered, his eyes flicking to the book in Sean's hands. "Perfectly suited for you… hmph."
The rest of the insult died on his lips. He gave Sean one last withering glare, then stalked away, forcing himself not to limp.
"He… he didn't take our book?" Hermione whispered, stunned.
"That's—I mean, that's incredible!" Ron breathed, equally shocked.
"He must really hate me…" Harry muttered again.
Only Sean's gaze remained fixed on Snape's retreating, injured leg. He remembered from the books: Snape, though injured by the three-headed dog, hadn't gone to Madam Pomfrey. He'd merely gotten bandages from Filch and treated the wound himself. Madam Pomfrey was brilliant, but notoriously loose-lipped about her patients. Snape, given his sensitive position, couldn't risk the questions.
But Sean had no such concerns. No one would pay any attention to a first-year.
"He's badly hurt," Justin suddenly observed, his voice low with concern, glancing sideways at Sean.
Outside the Caretaker's Office.
A large parcel floated beside Sean. Mrs. Norris alternated between purring on his shoulder and chasing the shifting patches of light on the corridor floor. After a moment, she leaped gracefully onto the floating package.
Sean knocked softly.
"Another dolt!" Filch's voice rasped from within. "Think knocking's the secret, do you? Get lost before the knob takes a bite out of you!"
Sean ignored the tirade, a small smile playing on his lips. The Biting Doorknob is working perfectly…
"It's me, Mr. Filch."
The shuffling and scraping inside stopped instantly, followed by the sound of frantic footsteps. The door creaked open. The dim, windowless room was significantly brighter, lit by several floating candles. On the desk, next to a jar of quills, lay a crumpled, half-written note and a pile of balled-up parchment scraps.
Filch froze, his gaze landing on the worn, grey scarf Sean was wearing. He seemed lost for words.
"Meow," Mrs. Norris prompted, hopping from the parcel onto the desk and tapping the half-written note with her paw. [Happy Hallowe'en…]
Beside it sat a brand new, identical scarf. He must have agonized over it, failing to give it to Sean at the feast.
"Happy Hallowe'en, Mr. Filch," Sean said softly. So that's why Mrs. Norris was so insistent on leading me here.
The office always smelled faintly of fried fish, though Filch himself disliked it; he usually cooked bone broth, which sent Mrs. Norris fleeing. They accommodated each other, even if they couldn't always communicate.
Sean got to work. He levitated the bandages and healing salves he'd retrieved from Madam Pomfrey onto the desk, then unpacked the large parcel. It was an enchanted window, courtesy of the Weasley twins, capable of displaying any weather. The Ministry of Magic, located underground, used similar ones. (Ministry employees had once protested for higher wages by setting their office windows to a permanent hurricane for two months.)
The Ministry was full of such strange contradictions. They used paper aeroplanes for memos and flushed employees into the atrium via toilets, yet they'd send a team of Aurors to arrest Dumbledore, who had calmly proceeded to wipe the floor with them all. Wizards, Sean mused, were an odd, recklessly brave bunch.
By the time Sean finished installing the enchanted window, snow was falling gently outside. Filch stared, dumbfounded, at the impossible view of the snow-covered grounds and the freezing lake. The wind howled against the outside of his office. The discarded, crumpled notes on his desk, drafts of a thank-you he couldn't write, suddenly seemed pathetic. What could he write? About the endless, thankless chores? The desperate, hopeless longing? The windowless room that was his life?
"Did you… the office… the fireplace…" Filch stammered, unable to express his gratitude. He'd always hated them, the magical ones. They pitied him or scorned him. He preferred the scorn. But today…
"Oh, I heard you learned a new spell, Green?" he grunted, latching onto a different topic.
"The General Counter-Spell, sir. Finite Incantatem. It stops other spells."
"Ah. Good. Very good…" Filch murmured, turning back to his desk. He suddenly paused, grabbed the new, neatly folded scarf, and hurried back to the door. "I mean… the scarf… if…"
Sean, who was shivering slightly in the cold corridor, took it with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Filch."
"Yes. Well. Don't mention it."
In the dark corridor, Dumbledore and McGonagall watched the exchange from the shadows.
"A person's true nature, Albus, is revealed in their choices…"
"Indeed, Minerva. And anger is always the easiest choice, is it not? But the boy didn't choose it."
"Do you truly think… this is wise?" McGonagall's voice was cold. She turned and swept away.
"If you want to know what a man's like, Minerva, look at how he treats his inferiors…" Dumbledore whispered, before fading back into the darkness himself.
Ravenclaw Dormitory.
Sean was reading The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7, his mind buzzing with new insights on non-verbal magic. He planned to find Flitwick tomorrow. He remained blissfully unaware of the two pairs of powerful eyes that had watched his entire journey back from the dungeon.
(End of Chapter)
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