Sagres was hurrying to class, clutching a thick copy of Introduction to Magic.
But as he turned a dark, armor-lined corner, he froze at the bizarre sight before him.
This already dimly lit corridor of Hogwarts Castle had become the stage for a disastrous "cleaning performance."
Filch's prized automatic mop—rumored to have been magically enhanced by Kestrel—was diligently performing its duties.
The metal joint connecting the wooden handle and mop head gave off faint creaking sounds as it moved back and forth across the ancient stone floor with almost mechanical enthusiasm.
Yet its efforts were achieving the opposite of cleanliness.
Instead of water, each swipe left behind a thick, winding trail of pitch-black ink.
These ink trails, like grotesque, living vines, spread wildly across the gray-white stone bricks, turning the once solemn corridor into a sprawling, crude abstract painting.
The air reeked with the acrid stench of fresh ink.
"This is…" Sagres narrowed his eyes.
Instinctively, he looked around for the ever-gloomy Argus Filch—by now, the man usually would have rushed in like a hound catching a scent of blood.
Oddly, the corridor was completely empty, with only the overly diligent mop continuing its chaotic task.
Sagres's gaze swept over the scene; experience told him that this level of "masterpiece" wasn't accidental—it was most likely another prank by the Castle's usual troublemakers.
Sure enough, he quickly found the culprit.
Just above the automatic mop, hidden in the shadows near the arched ceiling, Peeves was clutching his stomach, a triumphant grin plastered across his face.
He was still holding an empty ink bottle, with a few drops of dark liquid slowly dripping from its mouth—landing perfectly into the old iron bucket next to the mop.
Clearly, this not-so-bright magical mop hadn't noticed when the water in the bucket had been replaced with ink.
It was simply fulfilling its "wet—mop" routine faithfully, entirely unaware that it was now Peeves's best accomplice in vandalism.
Sagres rubbed his forehead.
That familiar setup, that familiar scent.
If Filch saw his beloved mop turning his cherished corridor into this disaster… Sagres could already picture the caretaker's face flushing a liver-purple and unleashing a shrill roar.
He'd also heard that during the night of the Bronze Feather gathering, Peeves had made a mess of the Great Hall while the Professor and Headmaster were away. To this day, the Weasley twins were still doing detention with Snape.
He couldn't let this poltergeist keep running amok through the Castle. He needed to give it something else to do.
With that thought, his wand silently slid into his hand.
"Peeves."
Sagres's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a cold, penetrating force that instantly silenced the creaking of the mop.
On the ceiling, Peeves's triumphant grin froze. He jolted, quickly removing his hand from his stomach and nearly dropping the large, empty ink bottle.
Real fear immediately appeared on his erratic face, and he instinctively tried to dart into a crack in the wall.
"Chaos Tempesta!"
A powerful suction force abruptly seized his body, dragging him down from the air.
Peeves shrieked in terror, flailing his limbs in all directions, trying to phase through the walls or ceiling to escape—but found himself bound by invisible ropes, all his phasing abilities rendered useless.
"No! Let Peeves go! You can't—!" his shriek turned into a panicked screech.
Sagres ignored him.
With a precise flick of his wand, the empty ink bottle floated steadily in the air, its mouth tilted upward—aimed directly at the writhing, compressed Peeves.
With a soft plop, like a cork being pushed into a bottle's neck, Peeves's twisting figure and terrified screams were sucked into the very bottle he'd used to cause mischief.
Then, Sagres used his wand to carve several intricate runes onto the surface of the bottle.
Instantly, the mouth of the bottle was sealed by a thin layer of silvery, patterned glass. No matter how violently Peeves crashed, screamed, or cursed inside, the bottle remained unmoved, emitting only dull thudding sounds.
"Quiet." Sagres's tone was flat as he gently shook the bottle, as though holding an unpleasant trinket.
"Enjoy Hogwarts Castle a bit more," he said. "Tomorrow, you might be going on a long journey."
The Wizarding World's understanding of chaotic entities like poltergeists had always been limited.
Sagres had once discovered several dusty, scribbled research notes in a corner of the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library.
But most of their contents were vague—describing only surface-level phenomena while avoiding deeper principles or practical handling methods.
Except for one author—Lyle Lupin.
This scholar was one of the few in the magical world who specialized in studying "atypical magical existences" such as poltergeists and Boggarts.
The spell Sagres used to subdue Peeves was developed based on Lyle Lupin's research notes.
They had exchanged a few brief correspondences.
From Lyle Lupin's replies, Sagres learned that he had once worked in the "Department of Anomalous Phenomena" under the Department of Mysteries, but seemed to have resigned later due to some internal pressure.
More crucially, poltergeists available for study in the Wizarding World are exceedingly rare—Peeves is practically the only active and "ancient" specimen known.
Lyle Lupin's research was like prospecting for rare ore only to find no mine to dig—eventually forced to stop. His insightful theories were left to gather dust as neglected old papers.
Sagres had carefully studied those manuscripts and deeply admired their logical precision and daring hypotheses.
And Peeves's actions at Hogwarts over the centuries, apart from generating endless chaos and disruption, seemed to serve no higher purpose.
Rather than allow this agent of mischief to continue unchecked, it was better to let him serve one final function—as a valuable experimental subject.
Just then, hurried and heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor, accompanied by ragged breathing.
"Who?! Who's vandalizing my corridor?!"
Argus Filch's deeply lined face appeared around the corner, worn down by years of gloom.
His bulbous eyes locked on the twisting trail of ink defacing the stone floor, then snapped toward the automatic mop still tirelessly spreading more.
"My... my mop! My corridor!"
Filch's complexion changed from sallow to a terrifying shade of purplish-brown. His scrawny chest heaved violently as he prepared to erupt.
But the roar caught in his throat.
Because he saw the young Professor standing calmly in the middle of the ink-stained chaos—holding an ink bottle with Peeves sealed inside.
"Eh..? Um.. Eh..?"
Filch's gaze shifted repeatedly between Sagres, the ink bottle, the mop, and the ink-smeared floor. The fury on his face gave way to a complex, indescribable expression.
He likely understood what had happened, but Sagres's calm, composed demeanor struck him as condescending—an invisible reminder of his Squib status.
"Greengrass… Professor?" Filch rasped. "What… what's going on? Did Peeves do this? Or…"
"Evidently." Sagres's tone was flat. He raised the ink bottle slightly, where Peeves was frantically banging his head against the glass.
"Peeves gave your 'capable assistant' a small functional upgrade."
Filch looked between Sagres's unruffled expression and his own beloved mop, then at the corridor now desecrated with ink. A surge of anger boiled up inside him.
He hated Sagres's detached attitude.
"My corridor! My mop!"
Filch pointed at the still-spreading ink on the floor, his voice rising in outrage. "Look at this! How long will it take to clean this up?! Peeves… Peeves, he…"
His eyes locked onto the bottle in Sagres's hand, as if he wanted to snatch it and punish Peeves himself—but the presence of Sagres held him back.
~~~~~~~
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