Alistair Rerick had spent nearly a week recuperating, and the scars on his face had completely healed; Madam Pomfrey had even dosed him with a beautifying potion to prevent any marks from remaining.
On his first day back to classes, quite a few Gryffindor students politely inquired about his health, and Alistair smiled and answered each of them in turn.
Today was Monday. Periods one and two were originally supposed to be Potions, but since the school had announced over the weekend that Potions was being moved to Friday morning—reportedly to prevent certain students from blowing up cauldrons and disrupting subsequent studies (at which Alistair curled his lip)—there were no classes for him this Monday morning.
After finishing breakfast, Alistair went to the library by himself. He needed to find the Half-Blood Prince's copybook; the book on Occlumency that Xina had borrowed for him was impenetrably obscure, and perhaps the Half-Blood Prince's notes would be much simpler.
However, he had forgotten where Harry had found that copybook, so he might need a significant amount of time to search through things.
"Ali, are you heading to the library?" Civet Bambling suddenly intercepted Alistair on his way there. "Maybe we can go together?"
Alistair nodded. "All right, let's go."
Seeing that Alistair wasn't speaking anymore, Civet Bambling felt a bit awkward and took the initiative to strike up a conversation, turning to ask the boy beside him, "Ali, what kind of books are you looking for?"
Alistair frowned slightly and replied, "Old textbooks and notes used by upper-class students. Do you know where they are?"
"That would probably be in the Restricted Section—oh, wait, no, the restricted old book area. You can try looking there."
Alistair gave him a gentle smile. "Thanks."
An entire morning passed, and Alistair had only gotten through a quarter of the bookshelves. Moreover, he was doing it behind Madam Pince's back, searching the student reference section for books on Occlumency.
The library's old book section was vast, filled with textbooks and notes left behind by graduating students over hundreds of years. Very few people borrowed such advanced texts, and books on Occlumency left behind were even scarcer; finding the one annotated by the Half-Blood Prince among them was even harder.
By the time afternoon Herbology and evening History of Magic—both theoretical classes—were over, it was already eight o'clock. Alistair had to head to the entrance hall to meet Filch for his detention.
"Oh, you're here?" Filch muttered, prowling the corridor with his scruffy cat in his arms.
Alistair nodded. "Sir, what do you need me to do?"
Filch let out a low snort, grumbling rather reluctantly, "Follow me."
Filch led Alistair to his small office. The room was dim, filthy, and windowless, with a solitary oillamp whose wick was nearly burnt out hanging from the ceiling. The surrounding walls were lined with numerous filing cabinets, every single one covered in writing—unfamiliar student names alongside records of past misdeeds.
Pulling a quill and a piece of parchment from his filthy, cluttered desk, Filch barked harshly, "Name!"
"Alistair Rerick," Alistair replied half-heartedly. At that moment, he was scanning the walls for any filing cabinet that might conceal the Marauder's Map.
"Offense... disrupting class order and..." Filch scratched furiously with his quill.
Alistair frowned, slightly displeased with the crime being attributed to him, while his eyes locked onto a particular cabinet—one labeled: Confiscated Items, Highly Dangerous.
Could the Marauder's Map still be in there? Should he...
Just as Alistair was up to no good, a loud crash echoed from the office ceiling, and the objects hanging from it rattled precariously. *Bang!* The quill in Filch's hand jerked across the parchment, leaving a deep, jagged ink stain.
"Peeves!" Filch roared at the top of his lungs, storming toward the door and yelling back without looking at Alistair, "You stay right here and don't move an inch!"
Peeves was said to be a school poltergeist dedicated to mischief. To be honest, Alistair didn't care for him much; he was essentially an adult-sized brat, thoroughly hard to like. But this time, Alistair had to thank him for providing an opportunity to escape the risk of detention.
Alistair walked swiftly over to the filing cabinet and tugged at the door containing the high-risk items. It didn't budge—the cabinet was locked. His mind raced as he raised his wand toward the drawer handle and muttered under his breath, "Alohomora!"
With a soft *click*, the cabinet lock sprang open. Alistair yanked it open and spotted a crumpled piece of parchment lying in the outermost corner.
Hearing approaching footsteps drawing near, Alistair didn't have time to ponder whether it was what he was looking for; he simply snatched it, shoved it inside his robes, and slammed the cabinet shut.
"Nasty, troublesome Peeves! Got away again!" The cursing drew closer and closer to the office with the footsteps, and he hurriedly straightened up before the desk.
Filch stomped into the office, scowling darkly when he saw Alistair still standing by the desk. He finished filling out the remaining form, pulled a ring of keys from his drawer, and barked, "Come with me!"
Alistair followed behind Filch, wishing he could cast a Time-Telling Charm to check the hour. He figured it had to be nearly nine o'clock, and he had no idea how long he'd be stuck tidying up.
Along the way, they ran into Snape out on night patrol. Filch greeted him, and Snape glanced at Alistair, offering a humorless smile as he said to Filch, "I trust your detention will instill a bit of self-awareness in these little wretches."
Alistair lowered his head. Snape's cold, sneering tone genuinely stung.
Perhaps it was because the reality check had doused his blind hero-worship of Snape, or perhaps because the man he admired possessed a cold, harsh temperament that far exceeded his expectations.
He hated Snape's expression of universal disdain. Did he really have to speak to everyone with such vicious hostility and sarcasm? Did he have to use that hateful veneer to push away anyone offering him goodwill?
I can't believe he actually ends up protecting the students for the safety of Hogwarts!
The man in front of him suddenly stopped, pulling out a massive ring of keys and rattling them noisily as he searched for the one that fit the classroom door before them.
Filch finally forced the door open. "Tonight, you're responsible for cleaning this place from top to bottom. You aren't leaving until it's spotless!"
"I'll be back tomorrow to check your work!" Filch glared at Alistair and shuffled away, muttering curses under his breath.
Alistair stared at the dust-choked trophy room and frowned. Just how long had it been since anyone cleaned this place? How could it possibly be this filthy?
Yet time left Alistair no room for other thoughts; it was already ten past nine. If he didn't clean it, Filch would berate him mercilessly tomorrow anyway.
Fortunately, Filch hadn't explicitly forbidden him from using magic, Alistair thought to himself.
"Scourgify!" he cast, pointing his wand at the trophies one by one.
The dust-laden trophy cases began to recover their original luster, and the awards inside sat neatly polished in their proper places.
After cleaning half the exhibits, Alistair began to feel a bit fatigued. He found a clean spot to sit down, looking with curiosity at the various trophies inside the cabinets and along the shelves.
The crystal-glass display cases gleamed faintly in the moonlight, making the cups, shields, medals, and statues glow with pale silver and gold light.
Alistair looked at the gold plaques on the display cabinets. There weren't many modern awards; he spotted James Potter's shield ranked first, flanked by two other names he didn't recognize. In the corner hung a gold plaque bearing the name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.
None of this held his attention for long, however. Alistair turned his gaze to the display case on the other side. This row of shelves held the names and photographs of modern Head Boys and Head Girls. Scanning the portraits, he saw a youthful Dumbledore wink at him.
Merlin, he never would have guessed that a young Dumbledore had served as Head Boy.
Looking further down, he saw Tom Riddle, Minerva McGonagall, Lucius Malfoy, James Potter, Lily Evans, and others.
After wandering around for another moment, Alistair lost interest. He couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't seen the person he was actually hoping to find.
As the tower clock struck eleven, Alistair realized how late it was and scrambled to his feet to finish cleaning the remaining section.
By the time the entire trophy room was spotless, it was nearly midnight.
Alistair hurried back toward Gryffindor Tower in a rush.