At Hogwarts, the rules fill whole chapters of the school history—yet the most important one is nowhere to be found:
All of the above is null and void—until you're caught.
Corridor.
Mrs. Norris hopped up a step, thin and razor-edged, her smoky-gray fur glinting in moonlight.
Sean could hear his own heartbeat in the air, thudding like a drum against his eardrums—loud enough to wake the dozing portraits. Moonlight slanted through the high, narrow windows, laying bleached patches on the flagstones as if ghosts might slip out of them any second.
Night roaming is expressly forbidden. It may be a Gryffindor tradition, but that doesn't mean the professors don't punish the little lions hard.
Sean remembered: when Harry and the others came back from the Forbidden Forest, Filch caught them in the castle and told Professor McGonagall. They lost a full one hundred and fifty points and got detention. The reason? Students have no right to wander the school in the dead of night—it's dangerous.
For Sean, losing points was no big deal; he could earn them back fast. Detention was different. Detention meant being sent to do chores—time-consuming chores—and time was the one thing he lacked most.
His breathing grew heavier. His mind raced—if he got detention, nearly a month's work would be wasted. How to avoid it?
Wind curled in through the windows; sometimes the opening comes just that suddenly. Mrs. Norris gave a soft, gentle mew and sidled up to him. He could see the caretaker's assistant—human, almost—show a hint of fondness.
"Oh—no thanks," Sean murmured, understanding.
Three days ago, near the dungeon, he'd seen a mob of Gryffindors surround Mrs. Norris. Mr. Filch is widely loathed; the cat shares his fate. Sean had watched a moment. The brash kids drifted off on their own.
"Thank you, Mrs. Norris." He fished out a tin of Justin's dried fish from his bag. As the cat nudged his hand, he couldn't resist rubbing her fuzzy head.
[You gained the favor of the magical creature cat-sìth (Mrs. Norris) at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
The sudden panel ping startled him. He opened it—new entries in Proficiency:
[Magical Creature: Cat-sìth (Mrs. Norris): Unfamiliar (10/90)]
[Apprentice-level Creature Affinity unlocks the Magical Creatures domain's Apprentice title]
An unexpected gain.
Thinking it over, he moved softly down the corridor. Far behind, swallowed by thick dark, two dim amber halos floated low in the air—Mrs. Norris. She glided soundlessly, soft pads on cold stone. Lamp-like yellow eyes locked on the small figure ahead who felt familiar. Between her teeth, lazy but precise, she carried a little dried silver fish that flashed in the moonlight as her head swayed.
"Oh, Minerva—as I said, magical creatures always spot the kind children," said the old wizard with the long white beard, in purple robes, standing by a gleaming suit of armor—full of meaning. He might have been talking about the owl… and more.
To his left, the tall witch's worry didn't let up. She watched the boy—pale—from light into shadow and back again, gaze faraway, unfocused.
The old wizard's blue eyes twinkled. The armor beside Sean suddenly dropped its sword.
Clang. In the still night, it was deafening.
Sean turned stiffly. Was he so exhausted he was hallucinating? He didn't remember touching that armor.
No time to think—he hurried off, wind hissing in his ears. Tension left him oblivious to the sudden wash of brighter torchlight ahead.
A lantern-bearing figure burst out from behind a tapestry on his right, huffing, wild-eyed, hunting for rule-breakers. A thick tartan scarf was tied over his head; his nose was an alarming red.
Sean ducked behind the armor, heart pounding.
"Sean Green! Night roaming! Making a mess of everything! I've had enough! Green, with me—now!"
Well, that was that. Sean sighed and stepped out. Oddly, the fear left him.
Elsewhere, near another armor, Minerva McGonagall turned, eyes nearly spitting fire. The old wizard pretended not to see, looking away. "Ah, Minerva—we both know the boy shouldn't be punished. But let's see how he handles… Mr. Filch."
…
Sean had never imagined entering Filch's office this way—most students avoid the place like the plague.
It was a dim, grimy room with no windows, only a single oil lamp dangling from a low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish hung in the air. Wooden filing cabinets lined the walls; the labels told Sean they held detailed records of every student Filch had punished.
Fred and George had a whole drawer to themselves.
On the wall behind the desk hung bright chains, manacles, and shackles. Everyone knew Filch was always asking Dumbledore to let him hang students by the ankles from the ceiling.
Sean, though, focused on the mud-smeared floor and walls, and the remnants of rat-guts and the like—reeking. The work of some outrageously bold first-years.
"Blasted brats—mud everywhere—three hours' scrubbing! Ah—Green—Green, bold enough, are we? Make an example of the monkey… form, form—here…"
He hauled a scroll of parchment from a drawer, spread it out, and dipped a long black quill in the inkpot.
"Name… Sean Green. Offense…"
"Night roaming," Sean said, honest.
Filch blinked. "So you know your offense—and you dare anyway! I'll see you expelled!" he snarled.