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Flint finally gritted his teeth and apologized.
Only because he couldn't beat Darren.
He shot Darren a look full of venom, then stalked off with the team.
They had co to provoke Gryffindor—yet sohow ended up apologizing and slinking away in humiliation.
But Flint's misfortune didn't end there.
On the way back to the castle, he was suddenly tripped by a suit of armor.
He hit the floor so hard his nose swelled instantly.
And that was only the beginning.
When he reached the Slytherin common room, Professor Snape was waiting.
The sight of Flint holding a shiny new broom reminded Snape of last year's Quidditch loss.
Snape's face darkened.
Flint was thoroughly scolded and given detention.
Unfortunately for him, the day kept getting worse.
While he was trying to finish howork in the common room, several Slytherin students got into a spell-slinging fight.
Most of the stray spells inexplicably hit him.
Before he could even explode in anger, Becky Greengrass ca storming in—furious that soone had ssed with her wardrobe again—and she imdiately dragged the culprit to Snape's office.
Snape handed out another round of punishnt: copying school rules a hundred tis and yet another detention.
And that was just one day.
From the next morning onward, Flint's luck plumted even further.
The castle staircases suddenly refused to cooperate with him.
Every ti he stepped on one, it swung him toward an entirely different corridor.
He received several more reprimands from the newly appointed prefects.
They accused him of intentionally trying to provoke them.
Flint was bewildered.
He had no such intention.
He liked Quidditch—not prefect politics.
But no one believed him.
Whenever he tried to explain, students mocked him for "acting innocent," and sohow the argunt always spiraled into a fight…
…which resulted in yet another trip to Snape's office.
Snape warned him that if he kept accumulating detentions at this rate, he might have to stay at Hogwarts all sumr to finish them.
Flint couldn't figure out what he had done to offend the universe.
anwhile, Darren had no idea Flint was suffering so miserably.
He was too busy farming "Holy Father points."
In fact, he had already used those points to study nearly the entire second-year curriculum… and still had enough left to dip into upper-year books in the library.
But the more he learned, the more unsettled he beca.
Because every single book—even harmless ones—seed to increase his affinity for Dark Magic.
No matter what he read, he found himself understanding curses far too easily.
He could now summon mischievous little hexes with his eyes closed.
He hadn't dared cast them, so he wasn't sure how strong they were… but he knew they were dangerous.
October crept in, bringing a damp, bitter chill to Hogwarts.
Darren wrapped himself tightly in layers.
He was a northerner, but even he couldn't endure this kind of bone-deep, humid cold.
If he loosened his scarf even a little, he was sure he'd catch a cold instantly.
He absolutely refused to visit Madam Pomfrey over minor sniffles.
Her cousin brewed the warming draughts, and every ti Darren drank them, steam poured out of his ears for hours.
For soone trying to maintain a saintly image, that was unacceptable.
So, once again, he silently thanked Snape for refusing to let him join the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Because both Gryffindor and Slytherin were currently training in freezing rain.
Harry returned drenched every night—muddy, shivering, exhausted.
And if even a single speck of mud fell in the corridor, Filch would instantly appear to assign detention.
Darren felt a mont of solemn pity for poor Harry.
[Ding! A Holy Father event has been detected. Long-term mission triggered:
Gain 80 favorability with Mr. Filch (System items forbidden).]
[Reward upon completion: Advanced Bloodline Lottery. Accept?]
Advanced Bloodline?
What had the previous one been—standard bloodline?
Would it change his "Lily-like purity" score?
…Well.
[Accept.]
Darren imdiately went to find Mr. Filch.
Filch was a harsh-looking man with cold, piercing eyes that made most first-years tremble.
Darren was no exception.
He stood in front of Filch, pale and trembling slightly—but determined.
"S–Sir… I'm Darren Potter," he said quietly. "Please… if my brother tracks mud through the corridor again, could you not punish him? Punish instead. I'll do the work for him. He's been training so hard…"
Filch snorted loudly.
"That's an amusing idea. And why exactly do you think I'd agree?"
"You can command to do anything you want," Darren said earnestly.
"Anything, hmm?" Filch narrowed his eyes. "You talk big for a child."
He sniffed sharply.
"But Harry Potter did earn a punishnt. He covered half the corridor in mud yesterday. Ran off thanks to Peeves helping him—so his penalty will be passed to you."
Filch leaned closer, voice low:
"Clean my office. Dare you?"
The office was infamous—cramped, filthy, full of horrors.
Filch smirked, already turning away.
He expected the boy to retreat.
None of the others ever dared.
They talked big, like a certain soone before…
But when faced with the real thing?
They ran.
"I dare, Mr. Filch," Darren said, grabbing his sleeve. "I—I dare."
Filch froze.
His expression flickered.
Then he jerked his sleeve out of Darren's grip and growled, "Fine. Suit yourself."
He strode off abruptly.
But his face was… complicated.
Genuine sincerity?
In this world?
What did that even an?
Darren's expression shifted into one of worried determination as he approached Filch's office.
It lived up to its reputation.
Dust everywhere.
Stacks of confiscated items.
Grimy chains with dried blood stains.
And a lingering sll of fried fish.
Darren wrinkled his nose.
Filch wasn't inside—off sowhere else.
Darren looked around carefully, then tapped the desk with his wand.
"Hygieo Mundaris," he whispered.
A spell he had created recently.
Scourgify cleaned too perfectly—making it obvious magic had been used.
But Hygieo Mundaris produced a more subtle effect—like soone had spent half an hour scrubbing, yet missed a few spots.
Believable.
Ordinary.
A spell that created the appearance of honest manual cleaning.
Darren didn't know what its ultimate purpose was.
But he believed every spell had a use.
And today…
It certainly did.
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