Chapter 92
"This isn't a place you should be."
Filch glared at Malfoy, his catlike, bulging eyes brimming with hatred and jealousy. It was the expression he wore when dealing with most students—perhaps even more intense this time. He remembered all too clearly how his emotional lifeline, Mrs. Norris, had nearly been killed because of this brat.
Malfoy did not respond at once. Instead, he calmly surveyed the room.
An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, its flame flickering unsteadily. Beneath it were sets of shackles and handcuffs, polished until they gleamed. With proper authorization, Filch could use them to punish rule-breakers—something he took an undisguised pleasure in.
The air carried the smell of grilled fish. Whether it was meant for Filch himself or for his beloved cat, no one could say.
"First of all, sir," Malfoy said at last, his expression solemn, his voice heavy with regret, "I'd like to apologize for the mistakes I made last semester. You know—they were never my intention."
"Is that so?" Filch scrutinized him carefully. Yet despite himself, his expression softened. There was unmistakable sincerity in the boy's tone, and with it came a long-forgotten feeling—respect.
His secret had been exposed last year.
Born into a wizarding family, yet unable to use magic.
A Squib.
Was that his fault?
He had done his best to manage Hogwarts, to keep order, but troublemakers were everywhere. Some students mocked him openly, others behind his back—his clothes, his bald head, his stiff, aging movements. And above all, they mocked the one thing he could never escape: his inability to perform magic.
A wizard who couldn't cast spells. What a joke.
He had once believed he could bury the truth forever, or at least keep it hidden from the students, preserving a shred of dignity. But after last year, that illusion had shattered.
From then on, the looks he received were filled with pity.
Sympathy.
Contempt disguised as kindness.
That was when his heart had twisted further. He had done his duty faithfully, yet was never understood. Over time, only one thing brought him satisfaction—punishing disobedient students.
But today was different.
In Malfoy's eyes, Filch saw neither mockery nor pity. Just an ordinary gaze. The kind he had once hoped to receive.
He didn't want admiration. He didn't even need respect.
He simply wanted to be treated as an equal.
"You are a dedicated caretaker," Malfoy said quietly. "And I'm truly sorry for what happened last year. I hope you can forgive me."
"Meow."
A sharp cry interrupted them.
Mrs. Norris leapt down from the ceiling lamp, landing lightly on the table. Her sharp nose twitched, clearly catching the scent of something in Malfoy's arms.
"Oh—you've got a keen nose," Filch muttered fondly.
Malfoy tossed one of the packages toward her. Without the slightest hesitation, Mrs. Norris tore it open with her bony claws and began devouring the contents.
Dried fish.
Filch's fierce expression eased at once.
Appealing to someone's affections was always the fastest way to disarm them.
"Oh—I nearly forgot," Malfoy said, as if suddenly remembering something. He reached behind him and produced another black package, handing it to Filch.
"What's this?" Filch asked cautiously, softening his voice as much as he could. Respect, after all, was reciprocal. He was painfully aware of his own shortcomings—his voice, often ridiculed, sometimes sounded laughable even when he was being serious. The Weasley twins delighted in mimicking him.
"Prank items," Malfoy replied calmly.
"What?" Filch's expression twisted instantly. His sunken eyes bulged, making him look almost demonic. Of all things, this was what he despised most. For a heartbeat, he was convinced the boy was mocking him.
"The Weasley twins turned half the castle upside down," Malfoy continued evenly. "So I confiscated their toys."
He pronounced the word confiscated slowly and deliberately.
"There's only one proper place for items like these," Malfoy added, glancing past Filch toward the drawers beneath the desk—one of them clearly marked Confiscated Items: Highly Dangerous.
At the mention of the twins, Filch's restraint cracked.
"They're pests!" he snapped. "Every major disaster—it's always those two! Professors complained to me endlessly about that filthy letter incident. I reported it to the headmaster, but what did he say? That I should be more tolerant! That their pranks are a form of art! What kind of art is that?"
His agitation mounted until he slammed his hand onto the desk.
Besides flattery, sharing a common enemy was another reliable way to build rapport.
Filch found himself looking at Malfoy with growing approval. He even dismissed his earlier resentment—when he'd heard that Malfoy's involvement in the Chamber of Secrets incident had cost his House the House Cup, Filch had secretly rejoiced. But now, this polite, considerate boy seemed incapable of such wrongdoing.
Had he known that the "confiscated items" were goods Malfoy had quietly bought off the twins himself, he might have thought otherwise.
"This is just a small contribution to maintaining Hogwarts' stability," Malfoy said modestly. "And I believe I should offer a private token of appreciation to a caretaker so dedicated—yet so misunderstood."
As he spoke, he withdrew the final item from his robes.
A bottle of wine.
Judging by the label, it was strong liquor.
Filch's eyes narrowed at once. Alcohol was strictly forbidden at Hogwarts. As he hesitated, uncertain how to respond, Malfoy spoke again.
"This is a prohibited item you found in my room," he said smoothly. "Only you know how to handle it. It has nothing to do with me."
He spread his hands, the implication unmistakable.
"Students aren't allowed to drink," Filch said, frowning.
"I think I can simply be a listener," Malfoy replied with a faint smile.
Filch stared at his reflection in the glass. At last, his withered hand closed around the bottle. He uncorked it.
The rich scent of wine flooded the office.
Not long after—
"Ever since I was young," Filch slurred, leaning heavily against the desk, eyes unfocused, "I've always felt different from everyone else my age…"
He spoke of his childhood. Of his bitterness. Of his life.
"Tell me," he demanded thickly, "why is life so unfair?"
Prejudice, ridicule, misplaced sympathy—each had carved him into what he was. His harshness, his outdated mannerisms, his cruelty—they were armor. A mask worn so long it could no longer be removed.
Malfoy watched the drunken man quietly.
He's pitiful too, he thought.
Rising without a sound, Malfoy left the office.
Behind him, Mrs. Norris—now fully sober—curled atop the desk, calmly gnawing on dried fish as she watched his retreating figure.