Betrayal? Dumbledore Was No Saint Either (2)

Captain Luke took the wineglass, examined the color of the liquid, then gave it a sniff. He raised an eyebrow but asked no questions, taking a small sip. "Not bad," he said. The other Auror took it and drank as well, then nodded. Filch poured himself a glass too and, holding it, slowly made his way back to Hagrid, one step at a time.

He circled the stone pillar once, his pace unhurried. The sound of his leather shoes tapping against the floor was like some strange melody.

Hagrid's head turned with Filch's movements. His reddened eyes remained fixed on Filch like a beast chained in place, ready to pounce at any moment.

After completing the circle, Filch stopped before Hagrid. He looked up at that bearded face towering far above him. At last, his expression changed slightly—not anger, not mockery, but something deep, like the relief of finally being able to say something he had held in for decades.

"Betrayal?" Filch repeated, the curve of his lips deepening. "You think I'm like you?"

Holding his glass, he paced twice in front of Hagrid. His voice was low, but every word seemed forged in fire.

"You, Hagrid. Though you're a mongrel—half-giant, of impure blood, looked down upon by pure-blood families—you're still a wizard. Not only are you physically formidable, but because of your mixed blood, your magic even surpasses that of ordinary wizards. You were born a rank above trash like me. Did you think Dumbledore protected you because he was kind? Because he believed you were innocent?"

With his back to Hagrid, Filch tipped back his head and took a drink. Then he turned around, his eyes frighteningly bright in the firelight. "He protected you because he had the ability to. You're a wizard. You have magic. You have