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Chapter 114: Filch's Secret
The room was lined with rows of wooden filing cabinets, all pushed up against the walls. Harry knew these cabinets contained detailed records of every student Filch had ever punished. The Weasley twins alone filled an entire large drawer. On the wall behind Filch's desk hung a brand-new set of handcuffs, shackles, and chains.
Everyone knew Filch often begged Professor Dumbledore for permission to hang students upside down from the ceiling in chains.
If he had his way, he wouldn't stop at that—he'd probably go even further. Maybe bleeding them, maybe worse.
Although Dumbledore had never agreed, Filch meticulously maintained his instruments of punishment, polishing them until they gleamed. In fact, they were the only clean, shiny things in the entire room, as if waiting for the day they'd finally be used.
Harry couldn't understand why Dumbledore allowed such a place to exist in the school. Nor could he understand why Filch, who couldn't tolerate even a speck of dust, kept his own office in such filthy disarray. But one thing was clear—this time, Harry was in trouble.
Filch grabbed a quill from a holder on his desk and shuffled around the cluttered room, searching for parchment.
"Damn it!" he muttered angrily. "Frog brains… rat guts… squealing slugs… I've had enough… only dead students are good students… I'll make them remember what punishment feels like… forms… I need forms…"
After rummaging through boxes and drawers, he finally found some parchment, spread it out on the desk, dipped his quill in ink, and began writing:
"Offender: Harry Potter… Offense: …"
"It's just a bit of mud!" Harry protested, equally annoyed. He had only gotten a little muddy—and he'd just been walking through the corridor. Yet Filch was treating him like a criminal.
"You only see a bit of mud, of course you only see a bit of dirt!" Filch's voice rose with each word, turning from normal speech into a full-blown shout.
"What about me? I have to scrub it! With that blasted rag, that blasted towel—I'll be at it for an hour!"
His voice echoed loudly in the enclosed room like an amplifier. His twisted expression was almost nauseating, and a drop of mucus trembled at the tip of his nose.
"Offense: defiling the castle… Suggested punishment…"
Filch sniffed loudly and narrowed his eyes, glaring viciously at Harry.
Just as he was about to continue writing, a loud crack sounded from the ceiling. The old oil lamp swung violently.
"Peeves! Blast you, Peeves!" Filch roared, slamming the quill onto the desk. "This time I'll catch you—I won't let you get away!"
Peeves the poltergeist was notorious in the school for his mischief—constantly jumping around, causing chaos, and creating endless trouble.
Harry had always disliked Peeves, but this time, he was genuinely grateful. The timing couldn't have been better—Peeves had successfully drawn Filch's attention away from him.
Hopefully, Peeves had broken something serious enough to distract Filch for a while. Maybe they'd even clash in the dark, giving Harry a chance to slip away unnoticed.
But for now, Harry knew he could only wait. The current chaos wasn't enough to make Filch forget about him entirely.
Harry sat down on a wobbly chair beside the desk. Apart from the half-filled punishment form, there were a few other items on the desk—a thick purple envelope with silver lettering.
Harry glanced cautiously at the door. Filch didn't seem to be coming back anytime soon.
He picked up the envelope and read aloud:
"Quick-Spell Magic Course for Beginners."
Harry frowned. He had never heard of such a course before.
He opened the envelope and found a stack of parchment. The first page was decorated with silver patterns:
Are you worried about keeping up with the modern magical world? Do you struggle with even the simplest spells? Are you mocked for your poor wand skills?
Then you need this! Quick-Spell magic is foolproof, effective, and easy to learn. Brand-new courses, personalized service, top instructors, premium professors. Hundreds of magical learners have already changed their lives with Quick-Spell training!
There were even testimonials:
A letter from an annoyed student: "I couldn't remember spells, and my potions were a joke to my family. After one term of Quick-Spell training, I can now cast spells freely at home!"
Another from a troublemaker: "My wife used to mock my poor magic, calling me dumb as a yak. After a month of training, I successfully turned into a yak! She never called me dumb again."
Harry found himself oddly drawn in by the advertisement. He tapped the parchment thoughtfully and continued flipping through the contents.
Why would Filch be taking a course like this? Wasn't he supposed to be a wizard?
Come to think of it, Harry had never seen Filch use magic. He always used rags, mops, and brooms to clean floors, made students scrub things manually, and even forbade magic in certain tasks.
Everyone had assumed he just had some strange habits—but now it seemed possible that he simply couldn't use magic at all.
Harry glanced around the filthy, chaotic office and nodded slightly to himself.
That made a lot of sense.
He looked back down at the parchment.
"Lesson One: Basic Wand Usage Tips—"
Footsteps suddenly echoed outside.
Filch was coming back.
Harry hurriedly stuffed the parchment back into the envelope and tossed it onto the desk.
Just then, the door creaked open.
Filch looked oddly satisfied. "That vanishing cabinet is very valuable," he muttered excitedly to Mrs. Norris. "Now we can finally get rid of that wretched Peeves, my dear."
The moment his eyes landed on Harry, something clicked in his mind.
Then his gaze snapped to the envelope.
Harry followed his line of sight—and his heart sank.
The envelope had been moved. By at least two feet.
Oh no.
Harry's face went pale.
(To be continued...)