The Wizard: Ascending Beyond Marvel

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The corridor was dimly lit, shadows stretching like specters across the cold stone floor. Wes's voice, calm yet firm, broke the uneasy silence.

"You three should hurry back to your dormitories," he urged softly, casting a glance down the hall. "Don't let Mrs. Norris catch you again."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione froze like children caught mid-mischief. Hermione was the first to react, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Thank you, Professor," she said breathlessly, her voice laced with both gratitude and guilt. She grabbed Ron's sleeve and Harry's arm, pulling them into a hurried retreat. Their footsteps echoed as they disappeared around the corner.

Wes remained standing there, watching their youthful figures vanish into the shadows. A faint, wistful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Ah, youth," he murmured, nostalgia clouding his gaze. He remembered his own student days, buried in the depths of the library, surrounded by parchment and ink. No adventures, no close friendships. Only the pursuit of knowledge—and the cold solitude it brought.

He didn't regret his path, yet the sight of the trio sparked a flicker of something he couldn't quite name. Perhaps, one day, he'd find companions who shared his relentless curiosity for magic's endless depths.

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Whispers spread like wildfire through Hogwarts: Filch was at war with the trio. His obsession was undeniable. Wherever Harry, Ron, and Hermione went, Filch followed like a vengeful ghost. He loitered near classroom doors, lurked around corners, and even peered through keyholes with a sinister gleam in his eyes.

His shadow loomed over them, suffocating their days with paranoia.

"I can't take it anymore!" Hermione burst out one afternoon, slamming her Charms textbook shut. "He's making me feel like a criminal!"

"We are criminals," Ron reminded her with a sheepish grin. "Remember the troll...and the restricted section...and, well, everything else?"

"That's different," she huffed. "We had good reasons."

Hermione's frustration drove her to Professor McGonagall, who promptly reprimanded Filch with uncharacteristic severity. Though Filch grumbled and glared, he backed off—for the time being.

But when he next passed the trio, his voice slithered through the air like a curse: "Don't get too comfortable. I've got five more years to catch you."

Ron went pale. "Did you hear that? Five years. He said it like he enjoys this."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "We need help."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Professor Wes," she declared. "Mrs. Norris seems to trust him. Maybe he knows how to stop Filch."

The seventh floor was unnaturally quiet as they approached Wes's office. Hermione knocked, her knuckles trembling against the wood.

"Come in," came Wes's familiar voice.

The door creaked open to reveal the professor hunched over his desk, quill scratching against parchment. Candlelight flickered, casting angular shadows across his face.

Harry's gaze landed on the leather-bound notebook beside Wes's hand. The moment his eyes met the dark ink, pain shot through his scar like a lightning strike.

"Ahh!" Harry cried, doubling over. Fire seemed to crackle beneath his skin.

"Harry!" Hermione and Ron rushed to steady him.

Wes's eyes sharpened. Without a word, he snapped the diary shut and locked it in a drawer. The pain vanished as if extinguished by that simple action.

"I'm fine," Harry gasped. "It's probably just stress."

Ron nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah, Filch's constant stalking is enough to give anyone nightmares."

Hermione wasn't convinced. Her sharp eyes lingered on the drawer.

Wes stood and approached Harry. "No fever, no pupil dilation," he muttered while checking Harry's forehead and pulse. "Seems like it is from lack of sleep."

"Could be residual stress," Wes said with a dismissive shrug, though his mind raced with darker possibilities. "Filch has been relentless, hasn't he?."

"Professor," Hermione said, frustration coloring her tone, "why is Filch like this? He acts like he hates us."

Wes's gaze softened. "Filch...was born into a wizarding family without any magic of his own. A Squib. It's a hard life, being surrounded by power you can never touch. Hogwarts is his home, his refuge, and his battleground."

Harry's heart sank. "So that's why he's so bitter."

"Exactly," Wes said. "Fear and resentment can twist a soul."

The trio exchanged glances, guilt shadowing their faces. Still, they didn't know how to end his vendetta.

Many wizarding families regard squibs as a disgrace to the family.... they even refuse to acknowledge their identity. So Filch's childhood experience can only be described as miserable.

Harry's situation at his aunt's house could only amount to a tenth of what Filch had to go through in his childhood.

It was because of this that Filch's twisted personality was directly created, and it was not until Dumbledore took him in and became the caretaker of Hogwarts that it slowly emerged.

But Wes would not tell Harry and the other two about these things, not because he was afraid of Filch, but because he had no hobby of revealing other people's privacy.

He only told the three that with Professor McGonagall's warning, Filch would be honest for a while.

"If he continues harassing you," Wes added, "write to your parents. Headmaster Dumbledore won't tolerate it if he steps out of line again."

The trio murmured their thanks and turned to leave. As Harry passed the desk, his eyes flicked toward the locked drawer.

"Professor," he asked hesitantly, "that notebook...is it important?"

Wes's expression remained neutral. "Just an old diary. Nothing of interest."

"Oh," Harry said quickly, "I wasn't...I mean...never mind."

Wes chuckled. "Relax, Harry. Go catch up with your friends."

The boy smiled awkwardly and hurried after Ron and Hermione.

Once they were gone, Wes unlocked the drawer, pulled out the diary, and stared at the blank page.

He ran his fingers over the worn leather cover and muttered to himself, "Tom, it's disappointing. The magic you master is very precious, but it has no effect on me."

Ink oozed across it in delicate, serpentine letters:

What do you want?

"What do I want?" Wes whispered, his fingers tightening around the leather. To ensure you never hurt anyone again."

The diary vibrated with suppressed malice.

With a sharp motion, Wes slammed it shut and tucked it into his cloak. He had work to do—and Tom Riddle's secrets to uncover.