Anthony stood there for a moment, holding the Dungbombs. He turned and started walking back.
Snape was a Half-blood? He thought about what Tracey had just said before leaving. It had never occurred to him. If someone had brought it up before, he would have probably guessed Snape was a Pure-blood—he was the Head of Slytherin, and that alone explained a lot, from a stereotypical point of view. Not to mention how he shielded those Pure-blood students who bullied others, and remained indifferent to the struggles Tracey faced as a Half-blood…
Mrrrow.
Mrs. Norris heard his footsteps and materialized soundlessly from around a corner, her lamp-like eyes fixed on the Dungbombs in his hand.
"Shoo. Go on. I'm not a student out past curfew."
Anthony watched the skinny cat slink away, its shadow long and distorted on the stone floor.
He picked up his interrupted train of thought. If Snape was a Half-blood, why was Slytherin the way it was? Draco respected Snape—Harry, Ron, and Hermione had all mentioned that. But how could he respect Snape while simultaneously, and so blatantly, look down on Muggle heritage?
Anthony let himself wander through the castle. He even went to the staff room to make a pot of tea. His class wasn't until the afternoon anyway.
"Professor Anthony?"
Anthony turned.
Argus Filch stood in the half-open doorway of the staff room, clutching Mrs. Norris to his chest. He wore a faded old dressing gown. His eyes swept the room with sharp suspicion, checking under each worn-out armchair and table for lurking students.
"Mr. Filch." Anthony nodded at him. "Tea?"
"No, thank you, Professor," Filch said, sounding slightly disappointed. Mrs. Norris squirmed out of his arms, trotted over to Anthony's feet, and let out a sharp yowl at the bag of Dungbombs.
Filch narrowed his eyes. "What's that, Professor Anthony?"
"Dungbombs," Anthony said. No point lying about it.
"Aha!" Filch cried out triumphantly. "Which student? Weasley? Where were they set off?" His bulging, pale eyes fixed on the bag with its joke shop logo, greedy and malicious. He stepped fully into the room.
"I've already taken points," Anthony said. "Er… Mr. Filch, are you sure you don't want a cup of tea?"
He had no idea how Filch managed to patrol the castle at the crack of dawn and still be wide awake hunting students at three in the morning. Anthony was fairly certain Filch wasn't dead, which only made him more curious.
Filch hesitated, then shuffled over and sat down heavily next to Anthony.
"Alright, thank you, Professor Anthony. No milk. Just tea," Filch said. Mrs. Norris leapt onto his lap, and he began meticulously smoothing her tangled, dark grey fur with his fingers.
Anthony poured him a cup and pushed it over. Filch muttered his thanks, picked up the cup, brought it to his pursed lips, slurped, grimaced at the scalding heat, and clattered the cup back onto the saucer.
"Which student was it?" he pressed again, stubborn, his gaze locked on the bag by Anthony's feet. Mrs. Norris looked up at Anthony too, with her bulbous eyes.
"I've already taken points," Anthony repeated.
Filch let out a dissatisfied huff, sniffing the air as if he could smell the Dungbombs through the magically sealed bag.
"The Headmaster should ban students from bringing that filth into the school!" Filch snarled. He grabbed his cup and took another gulp, sloshing tea dangerously close to the rim.
Anthony sat up straighter, surprised. "Students are allowed to bring Dungbombs into the school?"
He distinctly remembered Fred and George telling him about setting one off in a corridor in their first year and getting a blistering lecture from Filch for it. ("You've probably heard it, Professor, the usual Filch spiel—detention, hanging by the thumbs, disemboweling, skinning alive.") The mutual dislike had only festered since.
"Dumbledore's too soft on the little beasts," Filch said darkly. "Thinks there's some benefit to letting them run wild… Hmph! Benefit… As if anyone orders Dungbombs just to keep them on their bedside table!"
Anthony tried to parse the rule. "So students can bring them in, but they can't use them?"
"That's right—but I'm telling you, Professor Anthony, these students need a lesson. They just leave the corridors reeking… I've got a list in my office of all the items banned from use in the castle. You're welcome to come have a look anytime. Then you'll see, Professor, the kind of chaos these wretched brats can cause if they're not kept in line…"
As Filch grumbled on about Dungbombs and Stink Pellets, Anthony was struck by a sudden, inappropriate memory of Professor Quirrell's turban and the smell of garlic. He couldn't help but smile. "Mr. Filch, I believe Professor Flitwick spent a good part of last term researching a household charm for freshening the air. That might be useful."
Filch jerked around. His sagging cheeks trembled. He looked furious.
Anthony's smile vanished, replaced by surprise.
"I—of course. That sounds very useful," Filch said, breathing heavily, his voice rasping. "I'll… mention it to Professor Flitwick… Anyway… That'll be all…"
He scooped up Mrs. Norris and left. His teacup sat on the table, still steaming. Anthony remained in his chair, utterly bewildered. Everything about this evening was strange.
…
If there was one place in Hogwarts, besides perhaps a tree hollow deep in the forest that might house a family of squirrels, where Anthony felt he could voice his confusion (and expect an answer), it was Professor Sprout's office.
The room wasn't large. Its walls were wood-paneled, much like the staff room. The only two chairs were soft and warm. The brief afternoon sun at four o'clock fell directly on Professor Sprout's desk, turning the buttery crumbs of shortbread in a tin a warm, golden yellow.
Shelves of varying heights lined the walls, crowded with magical plants of every color growing freely. As Anthony spoke, a cluster of hopping toadstools bounced past his feet and took refuge in a shady spot away from the sunlight.
"Oh dear, I'd forgotten. No one's told you," Professor Sprout said, looking at him with sympathy. "Henry, Mr. Filch is, unfortunately, a Squib."
"He's a Squib?" Anthony asked, startled. "I thought Squibs were not only rare, but most of them integrated into Muggle society…"
Professor Sprout nodded. "Oh, yes, most do. Argus Filch is clearly an exception." She added gently, "Henry, haven't you noticed he's never taken out a wand?"
"Lots of staff don't carry their wands around all the time," Anthony defended himself. "Hagrid, Madam Pince, Madam Pomfrey, Madam Hooch… I forget mine sometimes. It never occurred to me—was he a student here?"
"No, he wasn't," Professor Sprout said. "Hogwarts is a magical school… We don't accept students without magical talent, whether they know about our world or not. It's more comfortable for everyone. I imagine no student wants to study a subject they're fated to never master. A Squib can't even hold a wand that will respond to them."
"Muggles…"
Professor Sprout understood immediately what he was about to say. She shook her head, her voice soft. "Not everyone is willing to leave the magical world, even when magic has left them."
However much Anthony disagreed with Filch's attitude toward the students, in that moment, he genuinely felt sorry for the man.
He remembered Neville telling him how his family, fearing he was a Squib, had repeatedly tried to push him to the brink, hoping to force a display of magic.
In some of the books he'd read, authors compared Squibs to Muggle-borns, calling them "Muggles born to wizards." But Anthony knew it was different. And he suspected those authors knew it too.
"Do the students know?" Anthony asked. "Do they know about Filch?"
Professor Sprout shook her head. "No, I don't think so. The possibility hasn't occurred to them either. Some of the students probably don't even know what the word 'Squib' means."
As for Snape's Half-blood status, Professor Sprout just said, naturally, "Oh yes, I believe Severus is, indeed." Then she spent the next while insistently offering Anthony more shortbread. So Anthony didn't press further. They chatted instead about Professor Burbage's special advisory position and Dumbledore's Tuna Club.
…
It wasn't until Saturday, after finishing the Wraith Chicken experiment, when Dumbledore brought up Snape's unicorn blood research again, that Anthony suddenly remembered his question.
"Professor Dumbledore," he said, watching the Headmaster neatly organize the experimental data. "I have a question. It might be a bit impertinent."
"Ask away, Henry," Dumbledore said kindly. "I flatter myself that I have become so adept at handling questions that I sometimes fail to discern whether they are impertinent or not."
Anthony reached out to stroke the Wraith Chicken's feathers. "Alright. I heard that Snape—Professor Snape—is a Half-blood wizard."
Whether Dumbledore had expected this opening or not, he remained perfectly calm. Anthony continued, "I also heard that Mr. Filch is a Squib."
"Henry, you have just uttered two statements of fact," Dumbledore said. "If your query pertains to their veracity, then my answer is yes, they are both true."
Anthony hesitated, unsure how to articulate all the confusion tangled in his mind. Dumbledore waited patiently, smiling. So Anthony let the first coherent thought push its way to the tip of his tongue.
"Sir, how does pure-blood ideology delineate what is pure? Mr. Filch—let's put it this way. Imagine a… devoted pure-blood purist standing here." (The Wraith Chicken fluttered away from the spot he gestured to.) "A person who cares for nothing but blood. In this person's eyes, which is worse? A Squib born to a so-called pure family, or a Half-blood wizard?"
"An interesting question," Dumbledore mused. "I suppose it would depend on which family you plucked this esteemed purist from. But based on my experience, an educated guess would be: the Half-blood wizard ranks above the pure-blood Squib."
"And a Muggle-born wizard versus a pure-blood Squib?" Anthony pressed.
Dumbledore smiled. "The pure-blood Squib is superior to the Muggle-born wizard. Very good, Henry."
"Yes, sir. You see, it makes no sense. And I'm sure you and others have thought of this long ago."
He took a piece of parchment and started sketching as he spoke. "If pure-bloodists—like Voldemort and his Death Eaters—claim Muggle blood somehow 'taints' magic, or that Muggle-borns 'steal' magic through some unknown means… No matter how they spin it, they cannot reconcile it with the existence of Squibs."
He scribbled a rough table and handed it to Dumbledore.
"Either they categorize by blood, claiming a pure-blood Squib is better than a Half-blood wizard. Or they categorize by magic, claiming any wizard is superior to any Squib, i.e., any Muggle. It's a logical problem."
Dumbledore looked down, peering over his half-moon spectacles at the hastily written words.
Anthony concluded, "The conclusion: they don't believe it themselves, or pure-blood ideology is exempt from Muggle logic. I must tell Professor Quirrell this next time I see him. I do wish Voldemort would figure it out too."
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Henry, there is one thing you should perhaps know."
"What is it, sir?"
"Voldemort himself is a Half-blood wizard."
"What?" Anthony said. "Sir, wait. Let me guess. Mr. Malfoy is also a Half-blood. Miss Parkinson is a Half-blood. Coco and Dobby are Half-bloods. Oh, and Aragog is a Half-blood too."
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "I cannot dispute your claims regarding Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson, Henry. As of today, every witch and wizard has some Muggle ancestry if you go back far enough. But no. I mean one of Voldemort's parents was a Muggle."
"But he preaches pure-blood ideology?" Anthony asked. "Good God. What is he thinking?"
"The human mind can be a wondrously strange place, can it not?" Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly distant. "From what I understand of him, his greatest ambition is immortality. An invincible immortality—"
Anthony couldn't help it. "From what I understand of immortality, the first thing anyone who wants to live forever should do is avoid making most of the world wish for his death."
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