Filch's face was set like stone, dark as a thundercloud. He was gripping the old broom handle he used to punish students, knuckles white, and advanced on them one slow step at a time.
Seeing this, Peeves' eyes gleamed with triumph. It was as if he could already see how ridiculous the students would look once they were punished. He burst out laughing, delighted with his successful prank.
But just as the young wizards were shaking from head to toe, thinking they were about to be torn to shreds by Filch's shouting and then thrown into detention, something strange happened.
The moment Filch's eyes fell on them, his advancing steps stopped dead. His expression twisted into something very odd.
His lips moved, but no sound came out. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away.
The young wizards stared after him in puzzlement, then let out a long breath of relief.
Only Peeves went chasing after Filch, shouting, "Filch! Didn't you see them? There's a whole bunch of little night-wandering students back there—go catch them!"
But Filch still didn't react, as if he hadn't heard a thing. His steps remained steady as he strode off into the darkness.
Peeves panicked. His prank was about to fall flat. He called anxiously, "Filch!"
Filch still didn't answer.
Peeves raised his voice again. "Aaah! Filch!"
"..."
Peeves completely broke down. He pulled one grotesque face after another right in front of Filch, trying to get his attention, but it all did nothing.
At last he cried out, voice cracking, "Filch, say something! Just say something!"
Filch kept his silence and simply walked on, eventually disappearing at the far end of the corridor, leaving only a shattered Peeves behind, wearing the look of someone whose prank had backfired on him.
The young wizards all exchanged looks, utterly baffled by this sudden twist.
Crabbe and Goyle were staring wide-eyed at Filch's retreating back, confusion written plainly all over their faces.
After a long moment, Crabbe jabbed Goyle in the ribs with his elbow and muttered in a gruff whisper,
"Oi, what d'you reckon is wrong with Filch? Normally when he catches us doing anything, he charges at us like some mad troll. How come he just turned around and left today?"
Goyle scratched at his wild, messy hair, frowned, and rumbled, "How should I know? Maybe he suddenly had a change of heart? But it's weird. The look on his face just now… it was like he'd seen a Boggart."
Malfoy was just as confused, though unlike his two henchmen he deliberately maintained his so-called pure-blood grace and didn't start shouting. His eyes kept roaming the scene, hoping to spot the reason.
He quickly noticed Ron sniggering, and realised at once that Ron knew why. He hurried over.
"Weasley, you know why Filch suddenly walked off?"
Ron had been waiting for Malfoy to ask. The moment he heard the question, his chin shot up, his nose practically pointing at the ceiling, and the smugness on his face looked like it might overflow.
He raised his voice on purpose, dragging out his words in a mocking drawl.
"Heh, Malfoy, so you get confused too? Fine, I'll enlighten you. Filch has already borrowed magic from Harry. If he doesn't want to lose his ability to cast spells, he definitely won't dare to cross him."
Malfoy already knew Harry could "cure" Squibs, but not the details.
Now, hearing this, he gave Harry a strange look. So Harry's method was a loan, a debt. That didn't sound much like a power the Savior should have.
As the heir of an ancient pure-blood family, he naturally understood all the advantages of lending and borrowing.
Even Squibs controlled through such loans would become an absolutely fanatically loyal force.
A sudden shudder ran through Malfoy. The fear that had only just begun to fade surged back into his chest. He suddenly realised that if Harry ever chose to become a third Dark Lord…
Those Squibs would be the finest Death Eaters of all.
No. No, Harry couldn't be that kind of person. He was a good person… right?
Malfoy rubbed his neck. The phantom pain of almost having his head cut off still lingered there. All at once he wasn't so sure about his own guess.
There was something very wrong about this Savior.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Malfoy realised someone was watching him. He turned his head—and froze in horror when he saw that it was Harry Potter.
Harry's smile was as warm and brilliant as ever, but what he said didn't sound much like something a Savior should say.
"Malfoy, if I remember correctly, your family is an old pure-blood line. You've got decent talent, but nowhere near what a pure-blood should be capable of. If you want to improve, you can come to me. I can give Squibs the power to cast spells—and I can make wizards stronger too."
Malfoy stared, not knowing how to respond.
He really was dissatisfied with his own talent. Compared to ordinary young wizards he was impressive, but he fell far short of what he thought a pure-blood ought to be.
In his mind, pure-bloods should be absolutely powerful, standing far above other wizards. Only then would the nobility of pure blood be properly shown—not like now, where he had nothing but words and money to prove it.
So in the end, he couldn't refuse Harry's offer.
He was completely tempted.
After Filch left, Peeves was too traumatised to keep making trouble, and Hermione and Pansy's duel finally went ahead as planned.
For first-years, their duel was really quite spectacular; both of them could handle spells normally only learned in later years.
After a fierce exchange, the result was exactly what Harry had predicted. Hermione ended it with a flawless Disarming Charm that blasted Pansy's wand out of her hand. The duel was decided in Hermione's favour.
Having lost, Pansy's face went chalk-white, as if all the blood had been drained from it. She clutched the hem of her robes with trembling fingers, gave Harry one last look, then ran off sobbing.
She cried because she had lost—because she truly wasn't yet qualified to stand at Harry's side.
But she had no intention of giving up. She would only work twice as hard, until she defeated Hermione, washed away this shame, and reclaimed everything that belonged to her.
She, Pansy Parkinson, would make a triumphant return!
When the duel was over, the young wizards all headed back to their common rooms.
On the way, Harry reached out to ruffle Hermione's hair and praised her.
"Hermione, you were brilliant. I'm sure you'll become a great witch one day."
Harry had decided to encourage Hermione whenever he could, to build up her confidence. In the future, she would be able to share his burdens—freeing him up to slack off.
Hermione blinked, stunned for a moment. Then a flush raced across her cheeks, even the tips of her ears turning bright red.
"Thank you, Harry. I will become a great witch!"
There was one thing she didn't say aloud: that she wanted to stay as close behind Harry as she could, never falling too far behind him.
Seeing how well his encouragement was working, Harry felt genuinely pleased, and his smile grew even brighter.
As the three of them walked along, Harry suddenly stopped. His gaze locked onto a deep, shadowy corridor in the distance.
The passageway was swallowed by darkness, exuding an air of mystery.
Harry frowned slightly, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
He could clearly sense it—there, in the depths of that corridor, a powerful surge of magic was pulsing.
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