Filch had no intention of listening to his explanation. He did not even spare Harry a second glance. Rising to his feet, he went to the door, took a black traveling cloak from the hook behind it, shook the dust from it, and draped it over his shoulders. Then, from where Harry had fallen, he picked up the silver-gray, semi-transparent fabric that gleamed coldly in the firelight—the Invisibility Cloak.
The moment Harry saw the cloak, his pupils contracted. It was his Invisibility Cloak. His hands clenched behind his back, his nails digging into his palms and leaving crescent-shaped red marks that still seeped with beads of blood.
Filch folded the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it under his arm, then flicked his wand at Harry. Harry's body rose from the floor. The weightless sensation made his stomach churn, and sour fluid surged up his throat, making his eyes water. He did not throw up. He merely squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed desperately, forcing the sourness back down into the depths of his throat. Supporting Harry with a Levitation Charm, Filch pushed open the door and entered the corridor. His pace was unhurried, yet every step was steady, like a porter carrying a sack of grain from the docks to the warehouse—not rushed, not slow, but always keeping the beat.
More than half the corridor torches had gone out. Only a scattered few remained lit, casting Filch's shadow onto the walls like an elongated, black question mark with no features. His face flickered between light and darkness in the torchlight, while the curve at the corner of his mouth never disappeared. It was not a smile, but the muscle memory of someone who had finally been able to stop enduring—relieved, with a trace of vengeful pleasure.
"Mr. Potter is as free