"Oh, I—I didn't say anything! You guessed it yourself!" Hagrid stammered, desperately trying to distance himself.
Sullivan couldn't help but laugh at Hagrid's goofy panic. "If I'm right, that thing's probably stashed in one of the rooms on the left side of the fourth floor."
This time, Hagrid slapped both hands over his mouth, making muffled "mmph" sounds and shaking his head like crazy, insisting he knew nothing.
Sullivan glanced at his main quest: The Headmaster's Secret. Sure enough, the progress bar had moved again. Looked like he'd have to check it out himself to finish it.
But now wasn't the time—if Dumbledore caught him snooping, that suspicious old guy would be watching him for months. Best to tag along with the main character, Harry Potter.
After teasing Hagrid a bit more and swiping some Acromantula legs from his hut, Sullivan headed back to his office, pretty satisfied.
At the door, though, he ran into someone expected yet surprising: Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch.
Filch looked different today. He was wearing a proper suit, hair neatly combed, hunched over with a creepy smile on his face.
"Professor Sullivan, you're back!" Filch said humbly when he spotted him.
Sullivan knew why he was here but asked anyway: "Mr. Filch, what can I do for you?"
Filch glanced around nervously. "Professor Sullivan, could we talk in your office?"
"Of course." Sullivan opened the door and invited him in.
He gestured for Filch to sit, waved his wand, and a cup and teapot hopped over, pouring tea for his guest.
Filch had seen magic plenty of times, but scenes like this still made him envious. He got straight to it: "Professor Sullivan, sorry to barge in, but I heard you invented an alchemical device that releases magic without needing to cast spells. Would something like that work for someone... like me?"
Sullivan poured himself some tea too. "Mr. Filch, as far as I know, Squ—people in your situation can't cast because their magic levels are too low to meet the minimum for spells."
"My device still needs magic to power the release—and it actually uses even more than casting yourself."
Filch's face fell visibly. Not because he blamed Sullivan—anyone would react that way when hope gets dangled and then yanked away.
But Sullivan didn't leave him hanging. "That said, I do have a potential fix for that. Why don't you come back tomorrow night? We can try it out."
Filch's mood shot up like a rollercoaster—from rock bottom back to the top. His hands shook with excitement as he bowed again. "My deepest thanks, Professor Sullivan!"
After seeing Filch out, Sullivan sat at his desk, tapping his fingers rhythmically. He wasn't helping out of pure kindness.
Ever since getting the system and his first stat boost, he'd been thinking about Squibs.
Like Gemma Farley said, there were at least three thousand in Britain alone. If he could make a device letting them cast magic? First, endless money.
Second, they'd see him as a savior—his reputation among Squibs would be insane.
And once they could cast... could they still be called Squibs? Controlling that kind of power? Heh...
Snapping out of it, Sullivan pulled out materials and crafted a special wand. It worked like his magic gun, but only for one spell: Lumos.
The upside? He added a magic storage in the handle. It'd keep outputting magic during use—fully charged, it could last about two hours.
Testing it, Sullivan thought: This is basically a magical flashlight. Totally useless otherwise, but perfect for tomorrow's test with Filch.
The night passed quietly. Next morning, Sullivan headed to the library as usual to study basic Transfiguration.
He didn't notice that weekdays he came during class time, when it was empty. But today was Saturday—way more students around.
He'd barely sat down when a voice piped up: "Professor Sullivan! Fancy seeing you studying in the library. No wonder you're from Ravenclaw."
Sullivan turned—no person, just a towering stack of books. When they plopped onto the table, a bushy-haired little witch appeared.
"Hey, Hermione. Nice running into you. What's with the... mountain of books?"
Hermione shrugged like a mini adult. "Magic is so fascinating. I wasted my first eleven years—now I have to catch up."
"Of all the young witches I've met your age, you're the best," Sullivan said sincerely.
Hermione pulled out Quidditch Techniques and Guide, flipping through it. "Thanks, Professor. What are you reading?"
She leaned over curiously—and saw basic Transfiguration. "Why are you studying beginner stuff?"
Sullivan felt a bit awkward but bullshitted: "When you reach a certain level, going back to basics shows you all the details you missed before. Those are key to improving further."
Hermione's eyes lit up. She whipped out a notebook, scribbled it down. "That's so wise, Professor. I'll remember that."
Changing the subject: "You into Quidditch?"
Hermione sighed dramatically. "Not at all. But flying lessons start next week. I've never been on a broom—I need to prep."
Sullivan remembered—two weeks had flown by. First-years' first flying lesson soon.
Thinking of his level 3 Flying skill, he figured he should farm that specialty point. "Flying isn't something you learn from books. After lunch, I'll take you out to practice."
They studied all morning, grabbed lunch, then Sullivan led her to an open field outside the castle.
"Professor, shouldn't we get a school broom from the shed?" Hermione asked.
Sullivan reached into his Undetectable Extension Bag. "I don't use brooms much, but I keep one handy."
He pulled out a Cleansweep Seven. Not that he lacked a Nimbus 2000, but those were for racing—demanded better skill.
Cleansweeps were the oldest brand: slower than Nimbus, but stable and easy to handle. Great for beginners or low-skill flyers.
He set it down. "First, hold out your hand, connect with it mentally, and say 'Up!'"
Whoosh—the broom flew to his hand. He mounted, kicked off, soared up, looped around, and landed beside her.
Dismounting, Sullivan winced. "Honestly, I don't get why wizards use brooms. Hard to control, zero comfort. Even a flying carpet's way better."
He handed her the broom and pulled out a magic carpet.
It unfurled and hovered—gorgeous patterns, a little pillow for resting, golden tassels on the edges.
Sullivan hopped on. "Alright, Hermione, your turn. I'll stay close on the carpet to catch you if needed."
Hermione eyed her broom, then his carpet. Same thought: Why brooms?
But Hogwarts used brooms, so no choice. She set it down, focused, and yelled: "Up!"
Nada—just a tiny wiggle before it flopped back.
Sullivan smirked. Looks like her flying talent's about as good as mine.
After a dozen tries, she finally got it in hand. Mounted—and crashed immediately, landing flat on her butt.
Sullivan had his scout ward out, recording the glorious moment.
Hermione was mortified, brushing dirt off her robes. She wanted to save face, but saw Sullivan's face twisting, shoulders shaking.
"Are you laughing at me?" she demanded, pointing.
"No! I'm a professionally trained professor—I don't laugh, no matter how funny!" Sullivan insisted.
"Then why are you twitching like that?"
"Am I? Nah!"
"You're totally laughing—your mouth's curving up!"
"I wasn't laughing at you... just remembered something happy..."
Eventually, Hermione managed her first flight—slow hovering at about thirty feet. No flips, dives, or zigzags anytime soon.
As they wrapped up: "I'll come watch your lesson tomorrow. Good luck!"
Hermione, still pouty, huffed and stormed off. Sullivan stroked his chin—maybe he'd been too nice; she forgot he was her teacher.
That evening, Filch returned, dressed sharp as yesterday.
All day, he'd been like that—great mood. Some rule-breakers got smiles instead of scoldings.
His smile was creepy, though, and the lack of yelling freaked kids out more.
Common rooms buzzed with rumors: Filch sneaking into dorms at night to murder rule-breakers.
Sullivan had no idea. He let Filch in, and under his hopeful gaze, pulled out the special wand.
"This is a custom wand. We'll test it tonight. Grip the handle, channel your magic in steadily."
"When the indicator turns green, flip the switch. If it works, you'll cast Lumos. If not... I'm out of ideas."
Filch was nervous—sweaty palms. He wiped them on his stiff trousers before carefully taking it.
He focused, pushing his tiny bit of magic in. It took forever—pure torture for him.
Ten minutes later, green light. Filch exhaled, shirt soaked with cold sweat.
"Is... is it ready, Professor?"
"Yeah—flip it!"
His thumb hovered. How many years? He'd lost count. Since age eleven, confirmed Squib—endless mockery.
Dumbledore gave him the caretaker job, but no respect. Kids called him Squib behind his back.
He twisted, hating them all—punishing them made him feel better.
But deep down? One dream: cast a spell, even the tiniest. Was today the day?