Filch stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched, eyes darting. His tone was cautious, almost flattering. "Headmaster Dumbledore — you wanted to see me?"
"My dear Mr. Filch. I need your help."
Dumbledore approached and shook his hand. Filch looked like he might cry.
"No, no — it's my honour to help you, Headmaster. Just tell me what you need."
Dumbledore explained the potion and its purpose. "Severus has tested it himself. There are no side effects."
Filch stared at him. "Really? It really has magic?"
"Mr. Filch, I cannot guarantee anything. It will be a long process. But we will find a way."
Filch pulled a dirty rag from his pocket and blew his nose. "Headmaster Dumbledore, you're the only one who ever gave me, a Squib, a job. I trust you."
He straightened his back — for the first time in Hall's memory, standing at full height.
"Please. Give me the potion."
Dumbledore placed the crystal vial in Filch's outstretched hand.
Filch gazed at the liquid inside — ethereal blue, breathtakingly beautiful. He pulled out the cork, closed his eyes, and drank.
The sudden motion sent him stumbling backward. Dumbledore conjured a chair that caught him just in time.
Filch sat in silence. Dumbledore, Snape, and Hall gathered around, watching.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The potion tasted sweet, Filch thought. Better than the medicine in the school infirmary.
Then —
Flames. Small ones, licking through his insides. Not painful. Not exactly. But deeply uncomfortable. He wanted to scratch his skin open.
He fell from the chair with a heavy thud, convulsing on the floor.
"Mr. Filch!" Dumbledore knelt beside him. "Can you hear me?"
But Filch couldn't hear anything. Only the churning inside his own body. His mouth opened, but no sound came out — like a fish thrown onto dry land, gasping.
Snape knelt to examine him. "His body is in turmoil. We need the infirmary."
Dumbledore raised his wand — but Filch spoke first.
His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't drunk water in days.
"I feel it."
"I feel it!"
"Mr. Filch?" Hall stepped forward and helped him sit up.
Filch looked at Dumbledore, and the tears came. A torrent. He wept like a child, broken and raw.
"I can feel my magic."
"I'm not a Squib."
"I'm not."
Filch's face told the story before his words did.
Snape and Dumbledore exchanged a glance.
Dumbledore took Filch's wrist and extended a thread of his own magic into him. After a long moment, he withdrew his hand.
Another glance passed between them — quick, meaningful.
Dumbledore turned to Hall with warm eyes. "My dear Henry, would you do an old man a favour? Take Mr. Filch to the infirmary. Let Madam Pomfrey give him a thorough check-up."
"Yes, Headmaster." Hall helped Filch to his feet. "Don't forget your promise."
"I'm old, but my memory is still sharp."
Hall smiled and guided Filch out of the office.
Snape and Dumbledore exchanged a glance.
Once the door closed, Snape spoke. "What's the situation?"
"He's fine. More than fine." Dumbledore sat back in his chair. "Severus, that potion must be secured. It will cause a sensation across the world."
He removed his spectacles and polished them. "I'm getting old. I didn't expect someone so young to be this capable."
"Hmph." Snape's snort was dismissive, but his eyes were calculating. "Since you want the potion, why not negotiate directly with the brat?"
"His potion is still unstable." Dumbledore's gaze was sharp. "Filch has magic now, but only a thread. And it's fading. I believe you've felt it too."
Snape nodded stiffly. Yes. The magic that had appeared in his own body had lasted about an hour before slowly declining. If it was even shorter for Squibs.
"If we can stabilise it—"
Dumbledore didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
"I'll discuss the acquisition with young Henry," Dumbledore said. "The price won't be low. We've agreed that Hogwarts will guarantee the purchase, which means it must go through the board of directors."
He paused. "I believe Lucius Malfoy sits on that board."
Snape understood. If it was business, let the professionals handle it. And Dumbledore had just decided to pass that particular responsibility to someone better equipped.
"What do you need from me?"
"I need you to help the boy perfect the potion." Dumbledore's request was gentle but firm. "He needs guidance. He doesn't know how to conceal his brilliance. With your name attached to the research, no one will guess the true inventor."
Snape's sallow face darkened. "You want me to steal Henry William's work?"
"Of course not. His identity will remain secret until he chooses to reveal it. But the world needs to see Severus Snape's signature on the research papers. It will protect him."
Snape considered this. Reluctantly, he inclined his head.
The boy was a genius. Insufferable. Arrogant. But undeniably gifted. If he asked for mentorship, Snape might even enjoy teaching him — just to have another Potions Master in the world.
"Hmph. Fine."