The Chase
At first, it had just been inconvenient.
The school brooms were slower than they should have been. A tilt to the left. A wobble during takeoff. A hesitation before accelerating. Annoying. But manageable.
Until it wasn’t.
Until a broom refused to rise on command. Until a slight lag became a full second’s delay—the difference between catching a Snitch and missing a goal. Until the dips and stalls turned into erratic plunges. Until the lurches became sudden, impossible twists.
By then, students were already getting hurt.
The first-years were the worst off. They didn’t know any better. They assumed it was their fault. That they had pulled up too hard when the broom jerked sideways. That they had overcorrected when it spiraled down instead of up. That they had simply failed. And by the time they realized it wasn’t them—by the time they understood—they had already fallen hard enough to fear flying forever.
Older students had given up years ago. They stopped using the school brooms altogether. Borrowed from friends. Found other ways to practice. Moved on.
The only ones still trying were the ones with no other choice. And they said nothing. Because people with no other choice rarely do.
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Sirius had never thought much about the school brooms. He had never had to. He’d always had his own—top of the line, fastest on the market. A son of House Black could ride nothing less. But now, standing in the corridor, six days after that morning, he realized with an unsettling clarity—this had been a problem for years. And he had never noticed. Not really. Because why would he? The school brooms weren’t his problem. He had never ridden one. Neither had James, or Peter, or Remus. Not since first year. If they were useless, dangerous, actively falling apart, well—wasn’t that just the way of things?
Besides, McGonagall had tried. Not once. Not twice. Every single year. She had petitioned the school governors. Appealed to Dumbledore. Pushed through every official channel Hogwarts had. She had sent reports. Gathered testimonies. Laid out the injuries in cold, undeniable statistics. And every time, she was told the same thing.
"We’ll address it next year."
And every year—something else took priority.
"This year, the library needed renovations."
"This year, the kitchens needed new cookware."
"This year, the West Tower had to be repaired after a spell misfire."
By the time broom replacements made it to the budget meeting, there was never enough left.
Yes, they were shaky. Yes, they were erratic. Yes, they had sent first-years to the hospital wing every year for the past five years.
But Hogwarts had real problems, didn’t it?
No one was dying.
Just falling.
Just breaking.
Just getting back up.
Because that was the expectation, wasn’t it? That students would endure.
If something went wrong, they would find a way to work around it. If first-years broke bones, well—Madam Pomfrey would fix them in a jiffy. If the Quidditch teams struggled, well—they would adapt. If McGonagall argued and fought, well—that was just her way.
And Hogwarts would keep moving forward.
Because the world did not change for problems like this.
Not unless someone forced it to.
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It started with the books. Not spellbooks. Not battle magic. Not even Potions.
Sirius frowned, shifting his stance slightly in the cramped space between the towering shelves.
Severina Snape was not researching anything magical. And that—that was what unsettled him the most.
At first, he thought she was working on a difficult Arithmancy problem. But the numbers on the pages weren’t spell calculations. They were figures. Rows upon rows of expenditures. Budgets. Balance sheets.
His stomach curled.
She wasn’t studying magic. She was studying money.
Sirius exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His mind scrambled for an explanation.
She wasn’t flipping through pages idly. She wasn’t skimming. She was extracting.
Not like a student doing research. Not like someone trying to figure something out. More like someone who already knew what they were looking for—who was simply gathering proof.
Something tightened in his chest.
This wasn’t for a class. It wasn’t extra credit. This was something else. Something deliberate. Something with the distinct scent of a hunt.
And whatever she was hunting—she was getting close.
His gaze flicked to the books surrounding her.
Hogwarts Treasury & Budgetary Allocations (Yearly Report, 1974 Edition).
Expenditure Logs of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, Volumes I-IV.
Quidditch Equipment & Grounds Maintenance: A Fiscal Review.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves. What the hell was she doing with school finances? And more importantly—why had no one noticed until now?
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She was completely absorbed, oblivious to the way he watched her from the shadows.
It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite name. Because he had always watched her. Even when he shouldn’t have. Even when he’d told himself it was because she was an opponent, a problem to solve.
But never like this. Never when she didn’t know. Never when she wasn’t watching back.
Sirius wet his lips, barely aware of the motion.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, gaze locked onto her, trying to pin down what exactly was wrong—why this didn’t feel like her.
Because this wasn’t how she fought, he finally acknowledged.
Severina Snape was sharp-edged, ruthless. Her strikes were calculated, deliberate, meant to draw blood, meant to assure victory. But this—this wasn’t fighting. Here, unaware of his presence, she wasn’t reacting. She wasn’t retaliating. She was constructing.
The realization coiled through him, slow and insidious, pressing at something he didn’t know how to name. Not yet. So he stayed, pressed into the shadows, pulse steady, mind racing, unwilling—unable—to look away.
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The next morning, she was standing outside Filch’s office.
Sirius frowned.
Gryffindors and Slytherins had the morning off for an independent Herbology project, and most students had scattered—to the library, to the Great Hall, to the grounds. But Snape had come here.
And so had Sirius.
Filch’s office wasn’t an archive. It wasn’t a carefully kept record room or a place students went to do research. It was a graveyard. A dumping ground for everything Hogwarts had lost, ignored, or deemed unimportant. More importantly, it was a place students avoided. No one lingered outside Filch’s office unless they were about to be dragged inside.
Sirius’ frown deepened.
Snape wasn’t being dragged anywhere. She was just standing there. Not shifting impatiently. Not glancing at the door like she was dreading a lecture. Just waiting.
Sirius shifted against the wall, adjusting his weight under James' invisibility cloak, gaze locked onto her.
What the hell was she doing?
He edged closer.
A rustling from inside. The groan of a drawer sliding open. Then—Filch’s grumbling voice. "Stupid bloody request, waste of my time—" Papers shuffled aggressively. "Why does some sodding student need broom maintenance logs, anyway? Never replaced the damn things—nothing to look at!"
Sirius barely registered the words.
But Snape—her head tilted. Just slightly. Like she had been waiting for that exact sentence.
Filch kept muttering, his voice sharp with irritation. "What’s the point of even keeping records when the governors just renew the same damn contract every year? Always the same—might as well not even send the paperwork anymore—Hogwarts hasn’t replaced a broom since the bloody '60s…"
Snape hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch.
Filch went on, still grumbling, but Snape didn’t linger. She turned. Left. Expression unreadable. Except—
A flicker. A shift.
Sirius knew that look.
Not triumph. No. Something smaller. A subtle, nearly imperceptible exhale. The faintest adjustment in the way she carried herself. A certainty. She’d found something.
And Sirius had no idea what.
---------------------------------------------
That evening, he tracked her into the library, keeping to the edges of the shelves, watching as she made her way to her usual table. Her hands moved with purpose—books pulled, parchment unfurled, ink uncapped.
Sirius edged closer, gaze flicking over the covers as she set them down.
Not Hogwarts' financial records. Not vendor contracts. Not broom maintenance logs this time. She was looking at something else.
Windwright Brooms Ltd. – A Catalog of Fleet Model Orders.
Hogwarts' Official Vendor Contracts (Amended 1967).
Standard Procurement & Renewal Agreements for British Magical Institutions.
His fingers curled.
Windwright.
The name was familiar. Old money. Bureaucratic. Safe. The kind of company that had supplied Hogwarts with brooms for decades. His mind snapped back to Filch’s words. "Hogwarts hasn’t replaced a broom since the bloody '60s…"
His breath pulled short. His pulse kicked up. And then—it hit him.
She hadn’t just been standing outside Filch’s office. She, like every other student in Hogwarts, knew Argus Filch had a habit of talking to himself. But unlike every other student—she had calculated exactly what he would talk about. She'd made sure of it.
Sirius’ mind reeled, flipping back through the scene like a rapid rewind—every detail sharpening now, every part of it clicking together.
That was why she had been silent. That was why she hadn’t spoken. Because she didn’t need to. She had planted the question days ago. She had been the student who'd sent that request. "Stupid bloody request, waste of my time—why does some sodding student need broom maintenance logs, anyway? Never replaced the damn things—nothing to look at!"
She had known Filch would grumble about it later—to himself. And he had.
Sirius inhaled sharply, his gaze flicking back to Hogwarts' Vendor Contracts (Amended 1967).
A few shelves away, a full wall of thick, dust-covered books stretched from the floor to his waist—decades of procurement records, each volume labeled by year.
She could have spent weeks combing through them. But she hadn’t needed to. "Hogwarts hasn’t replaced a broom since the bloody '60s…"
She had cut straight to the only year that mattered.
1967.
Now, he understood. Snape had wanted the year Windwright’s contract had last changed. And Filch—completely unaware—had helped her eliminate hours of searching. This book—this was the last confirmed amendment to Hogwarts' supplier agreements before the broom replacements stopped. The question was, why?
Why did she want to read about the last time Hogwarts renegotiated its broom supply?
Sirius exhaled sharply, watching as her fingers skimmed the pages.
And then—just as before—she found it.
The shift was subtle. Too subtle. A pause—barely a second. The faint stilling of her fingers on a page. A quiet moment of recognition. And then—
The smirk.
Sirius hated that smirk.
Because it meant she had won.
And he still didn’t know what.
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The next morning, Sirius once again found himself watching Severina Snape. This time, from the crowded corridor outside their shared Potions class. Edging slightly away from his friends—who had closed ranks around Remus, speaking in hushed tones—his gaze sharpened as he caught sight of her stepping deliberately toward Cassian Greengrass.
Sirius frowned.
Severina Snape never approached anyone without a reason.
Greengrass was quiet. Unassuming. A pureblood Slytherin who rarely drew attention, and liked it that way. But Snape had chosen him. And that alone made Sirius’ pulse tick up.
He shifted closer, careful not to draw notice. Snape spoke quietly, calmly, her words just barely audible. “Cassian.” She held out a sealed parchment. “I need your uncle to handle this discreetly.”
Greengrass glanced down at the letter, his fingers closing around the parchment. For a flicker of a second, his entire body relaxed. Then, just as quickly, his expression smoothed. His chin dipped in a short, silent nod. “Understood,” he murmured. “I'll see to it personally.”
“Good.” Snape’s tone was firm. Measured. But Sirius caught it—the subtle, almost imperceptible shift in her voice. Not cold. Not commanding. Reassuring. “Quietly.”
Greengrass nodded again, quickly tucking the parchment inside his robes. She withdrew effortlessly into her place on the line.
Sirius’ frown deepened. His mind was already moving.
There was something deliberate in that exchange—something familiar. She hadn’t been asking a favor. She had been settling one. An old favor, repaid. A pureblood subtlety. A debt granted quietly, acknowledged only when it was settled. And the way Greengrass had visibly relaxed for just an instant—it meant whatever Snape had done for him had been significant.
Sirius felt his stomach coil. He forced his mind to focus on what he knew about Greengrass’ uncle instead. Octavian Greengrass. A name that carried weight in certain circles. A man known for handling discreet family matters. Inheritance disputes. Legal loopholes. Scandals buried before they ever reached the public eye.
Sirius’ thoughts spun, hypotheses forming and unravelling just as quickly.
Had Snape gotten herself into trouble? Or was she manoeuvring someone else into it? Blackmail? A cover-up? Some legal play no one would see coming?
No.
He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.
This was still about the brooms. It had to be. But now—now it wasn’t just school records. She was involving a family known for making things quietly disappear. And that meant whatever she had found—or whatever she was planning—it was big.
That evening, she was back in the library. But this time, she wasn’t reading about Hogwarts.
Sirius frowned.
For days, she had been buried in the school’s finances—vendor contracts, procurement logs, tracing the trail back to Windwright, he assumed. For a purpose yet unknown. But now? She was pulling books that had nothing to do with Hogwarts.
His eyes flicked over the titles as she set them down on her usual table.
Durmstrang: Financial Operations & Institutional Contracts.
The Beauxbatons Expenditure Ledger (Public Archive, 1972).
The Ministry’s Magical Education Budget & Foreign Allocations.
Sirius narrowed his eyes.
She worked with silent efficiency, flipping pages, scanning, marking notes in the margins with sharp, deliberate strokes. She had already found what she needed about Hogwarts. That much, he was suddenly sure of.
But what had she found? What was she doing now? And more importantly—why?
His jaw clenched.
The answer was there. Right in front of him.
He just didn’t know what it was yet.
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The next morning, Snape went to the Owlery.
The previous evening, after hours of watching her every move, Sirius had returned to the dormitory to find it steeped in silence. Remus sat hunched, paler than ever, exhaustion carved into his face. The full moon was only two days away. Normally, Sirius, James, and Peter would have taken it upon themselves to lift his spirits. But James lay stretched out on his bed, jaw tight, reeking of the caustic cleaning supplies Filch insisted students use during detention—pungent, acrid things that clung stubbornly to clothes, hair, skin. It had been five days since his punishment began, and his good humor had finally worn thin.
Sirius studied him, arms crossed. His best friend—usually all bravado and easy confidence—was coiled tight, simmering in both his foul stench and fouler mood. James hadn’t spoken her name once since the moment McGonagall sentenced him to Filch’s filth-ridden mercy, but Sirius knew. She had been in his head every second of his punishment. And now—very obviously—out of it, too.
Soon, James would call for her again. He always did.
Sirius could pull him out of this mood right now.
He could dangle the truth right in front of him. If he shared what he knew, what he had done—it would snap James out of his sulk immediately. It would pull Remus in too—his mind infinitely better suited for tugging at loose threads, unravelling meaning in half-seen details. Even Peter would sit up and listen. All previous, deliberate distance, forgotten.
That night in the library, after hours of research, Snape had been writing a letter. Sirius had watched her, hidden beneath James’ invisibility cloak, shifting, circling, trying to find an angle, an opening—any sliver of opportunity to read what she had written. And failing. For the first time, he had wished he were a rat animagus instead. If he could have just scuttled up behind her, unnoticed, He might have seen.
If the Marauders put their minds together, he knew they would solve the mystery. Perhaps they would even solve it this very evening.
And yet. When he opened his mouth to speak, what came out instead was simply—“Well, old boys, aren’t you pathetic.”
And that was that. As the evening wore on, he pulled James out of his rut, Peter out of his shell, and Remus out of his head. They laughed. James even stopped scowling long enough to throw a pillow at Peter’s face.
And yet—not once did Sirius so much as breathe Severina Snape’s name.
But when he retired to bed, for the first time since this silent hunt began, he did so with the Marauder’s Map open, eyes fixed on the dot of her name. The next morning, he woke before the rest of his friends and when he saw her dot moving toward the Owlery—alone—he followed.
The air was sharp, thin with cold. Distantly, he could hear the rest of the castle waking. Footsteps on stone. Voices drifting from the Great Hall. But here, in the spiralling height of the Owlery, it was silent.
She stood near the window, backlit by the pale winter light. One hand tying a letter to a school owl. The other, steady. Unhurried. She had finished.
Sirius’ stomach twisted.
He edged closer, staying within the shadows. His gaze flicked to the recipient’s name. Madame Giselle Moreau, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.
His breath pulled short. His pulse kicked up. Something about this—this wasn’t just a letter. This—this was it. A blade mid-swing. The beginning of the end of whatever she had been working toward.
And Sirius—after all his watching, all his tracking, all his thinking—hadn’t figured it out in time.
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Sirius should have gone back to the Tower. After Ancient Runes, the next day, he should have followed Remus straight to the dormitory. Should have called it a day. Let the questions fade, even. Let the irritation settle into something he could forget. Instead, he walked. One step. Then another. No direction. No purpose. Just the steady, restless press of boots against stone as his thoughts spiralled in useless, endless circles.
None of it made sense.
Snape had been buried in legal records—procurement logs, vendor contracts, old financial reports no one had touched in years. She had enlisted Cassian Greengrass’ uncle. A man known for handling delicate legal matters. And now—she had sent a letter to Beauxbatons. A letter that had received an answer.
That morning, Sirius had seen Cassian Greengrass discreetly pass her an envelope. Thick parchment, dark green wax, the unmistakable seal of Greengrass&Selwyn on the front. Another letter had arrived by owl. Pale blue, pressed with a silver seal. A fleur-de-lis surrounding a prominent B. Beauxbatons. He had seen them both. Watched her open them with calm, unreadable eyes. And yet—she hadn’t looked surprised. Hadn’t looked triumphant. Hadn’t even looked curious. Snape had expected what was written inside.
Sirius exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.
Fine. Fine. He had enough pieces now.
He just had to fit them together.
Theory #1: She Was After Money.
A primary motivator. Maybe she had found a loophole. Some technicality in the financial archives, a way to profit from Hogwarts’ incompetence. The school’s budget was big. Bigger than most people realized. If she played her cards right, she could—
No.
Sirius frowned. Snape wasn’t greedy. She could have invented something. Sold an idea. Hell, she could have walked into Slughorn’s office, deigned to smile, and walked out with a Ministry sponsorship. Snape was a lot of things, but she wasn’t the type to scheme for money.
Discounted.
Theory #2: She Was After Power.
That was the Slytherin answer, wasn’t it? The long game. The slow, methodical gathering of influence. Maybe she was laying the groundwork for something bigger. Something no one would see coming until it was too late.
Sirius’ jaw tensed.
But power over what? This wasn’t about Slytherin. It wasn’t about Dumbledore. It wasn’t about professors, students, or House politics. Somehow—unbelievably—Sirius was certain this was about broomsticks. And Snape didn’t give a damn about broomsticks. She didn’t watch Quidditch. Didn’t care about teams, players, points. Sirius had once seen her walk directly through a Slytherin victory celebration like it was background noise.
Discounted.
Theory #3: She Was Sabotaging Gryffindor’s Quidditch Team.
Maybe it was personal. Maybe she wanted to screw James over harder. Maybe she was making the school brooms look so unsafe that Hogwarts would have no choice but to cancel practice. Make Quidditch impossible. But… no. It didn’t add up.
Snape hadn’t touched the Gryffindor brooms. She had been looking at the school brooms. The ones no one used. Especially not for Quidditch. And besides—setting aside the fact that she had already handed James (and the rest of them) his arse on a platter—if she wanted to sabotage Gryffindor, she wouldn’t have spent days buried in legal documents. She would have cursed the brooms and walked away.
This wasn’t sabotage. This was something else.
Discounted.
Theory #4: She Was Digging Up Corruption.
Sirius hesitated.
This one was harder to dismiss. If she had gone as far as Beauxbatons and Durmstrang’s records—maybe she had found something. Something rotten. Some buried corruption, some mismanagement, something—
His frown deepened.
…But why had she started looking in the first place? Snape wasn’t the type to strike first. And no one had pissed her off. It hadn’t even been a week since the Marauders were thrown into detention. Who had made an enemy of Severina Snape in their absence?
Not to toot his own horn, but no one was bold enough to make an opponent of Snape. Except him and James. (Who, of course, were all that was bold and courageous. No, Remus, he did not have an unhealthy disregard for his life and sanity.)
Still—
This didn’t feel like retaliation. It didn’t fit.
Discounted.
Sirius stopped. Realized—too late—where his feet had taken him.
The broom shed. Aged wood. Warped beams. Shabby, but standing. Spotlessly clean—because the Hogwarts elves would allow nothing less. But inside—his gaze drifted over the broom racks. Splintered handles. Frayed bristles. Nearly decrepit. His stomach turned.
Then—his eyes caught on the broom log. Posted neatly beside the entrance. His mind was still moving in circles, still trying to pull something useful from all of this, when—
Snape’s name. Right there. Every other morning. For the entire week. Before sunrise. In the dead of winter.
With a sharp turn, Sirius hurried to Madam Hooch’s office.
When he shut the door to Hooch’s office fifteen minutes later, it was with the certain, irrefutable knowledge that he had caught Snape in a dirty, freaking lie.
Madam Hooch had noticed, of course. She wasn’t oblivious. But when Snape had requested independent testing hours—citing a detailed flight degradation study—Hooch had simply nodded. Assumed it was some Slytherin research project. Granted quiet permission. It wasn’t unusual for ambitious students to chase extra credit. As long as the logs were kept, no one questioned it.
But Sirius was questioning it. Because this wasn’t extra credit. This wasn’t an experiment.
This was something else.
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Sirius hadn’t meant to be here. Not this early. Not on a Saturday after a full moon. Of all Merlin-benighted days. Yet here he was—standing in the freezing cold, watching Severina Snape walk across the field like she owned it.
She wasn’t alone. The sky was still ink-dark, the castle quiet, but Hogwarts was never truly still. A few early risers shuffled across the grounds, bundled in scarves and gloves, heading for breakfast or the library. A pair of Hufflepuffs jogged past, breath misting in the air. But no one looked at her. No one cared. No one noticed what she was about to do.
Except him.
Sirius exhaled, shifting against the frost-hardened grass, hands shoved deep into his pockets, invisibility cloak ever present. He had been up before dawn, watching her dot move alone on the map. Had trailed her all the way here. And now, he could only stare. Because now—after everything, after days of watching her, after nights of tracking her research—
He had an idea.
A whisper of a theory.
A slow, curling suspicion.
The procurement records. The financial archives. The vendor contracts.
She had been looking at the brooms. He knew that. Had pieced together the broad strokes. She had seen something. Uncovered something. A pattern. A failure. A flaw.
He knew what she was studying. What he didn’t know— what had gnawed at him for days—was why.
His gaze sharpened on her as she flew. At first, he thought she was preparing some kind of routine. A warm-up, a drill, maybe even a test flight. Then—he realized she was testing the brooms. Not flying for the sake of it. Not practicing. Not enjoying herself. She was documenting their failure. Every delayed lift. Every unexpected dip. Every second of lag between thought and motion.
Sirius could see it now. The way she moved—deliberate, precise, watching for flaws. Not like someone trying to stay in the air. Like someone trying to prove how easily they could fall.
Something cold pressed against his ribs.
She hadn’t been lying. She really had been studying the brooms’ degradation. She had tracked this all the way down to paperwork, procurement, the legal fine print. But she wasn’t just reading about it anymore. She was proving it.
Sirius’ jaw tightened.
He had dismissed so many theories. This wasn’t about money. This wasn’t about sabotage. This wasn’t even about power. This was something else. Something bigger.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to move as she landed. He followed her as she walked off the pitch. Watched as she placed the broom back in the shed. Tracked every step as she walked—unhurried, deliberate—all the way to the library. When she reached for a book, he already knew what it would be. His eyes flicked over the spine as she set it down.
Broomcraft Degradation and Long-Term Flight Instability (Magical Mechanics Quarterly).
Sirius’ mind reeled.
This wasn’t just research.
This was war.
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Sirius watched her.
She was sat at her usual table. Hands moving with deliberate purpose. Parchment unfurled. Ink uncapped. Book finally shut and pushed away.
She had found what she needed. Now, she was putting it to use.
He edged closer. Kept to the shadows, the spaces between the shelves. Shifted, circling, searching. An angle. An opening. Any sliver of opportunity to see what she was doing. And then—
His breath caught.
Her hand moved in sharp, deliberate strokes. Not notes. Not calculations. Another letter.
Sirius went completely still. His heart started beating hard in his chest. Because this wasn’t just any letter. This, he knew with sudden certainty, was it. The thing she had been working toward. The end of all of this.
He inhaled sharply, forcing his pulse to steady. Then, without hesitation—he moved. Her back was to a tall shelf. Sirius stepped toward it. Then, behind it. Losing sight of her. Hands bracing against the wood. Gingerly, he pushed the books aside. Glanced once toward her table. She hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t paused. Hadn’t looked up. Her focus was absolute.
Good.
He climbed. It was pure instinct. A quick, fluid movement—hands gripping ledges, knees bracing against wooden shelves. If Madam Pince caught him, he would be banned from the library for the rest of his Hogwarts career. He didn't stop. He wedged himself into the tight space between the top of the bookcase and the ceiling. Settling. Stilling. Leg half-asleep. Shoulders jammed at an angle that would bruise like hell later. But he didn’t care. Because from up here—for the first time—he could see over her shoulder.
Sirius adjusted James’ spare glasses, enchanted just hours ago—bleary-eyed in the hospital wing, sitting next to Remus' sleeping form. A quick bit of spellwork thrown together, inspired by the first and hopefully last time he had ever wished he were a rat animagus. And then—finally—he saw.
To the Compliance Department of Windwright Brooms Ltd.,
His breath pulled short. His heart started kicking another furious beat against his ribs.
She was writing to Windwright.
She was writing to Windwright.
Not to a professor. Not to a student. Not to Dumbledore. But directly to the company itself.
A quiet, insidious sense of awe settled in his bones.
The ache in his legs. The cramp in his neck. The stale air trapped beneath James' cloak—all of it faded.
Because in that moment, nothing else existed but the end of her quill.
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To the Compliance Department of Windwright Brooms Ltd.,
I am writing as a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to formally request clarification and resolution regarding the application of your company’s Equipment Safety and Maintenance Compliance Policy as it pertains to long-term institutional broom fleets.
Hogwarts has maintained a long-standing supplier relationship with Windwright Brooms Ltd., utilizing models from your Shooting Star Classic line for general student use. However, recent standardized flight performance evaluations have revealed a concerning decline in stability, acceleration, and control response across multiple units. These findings indicate that extended use beyond the manufacturer’s original design lifespan has led to progressive performance degradation, raising concerns about student safety and regulatory compliance.
Additionally, a review of past supplier correspondence suggests that early concerns about handling inconsistencies in this model were acknowledged but categorized as within acceptable variance at the time of purchase. However, the observed decline in flight performance suggests that these initial variances have compounded over time, necessitating reconsideration under long-term fleet viability assessments.
Upon further investigation, I noted that the Shooting Star Classic line has been discontinued and that institutions such as Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have already received upgraded replacements through direct consultation with Windwright. Prior legal correspondence with your Compliance Department, obtained through an independent legal inquiry, further confirms this.
To my knowledge, Hogwarts has not been offered a similar evaluation or replacement under Windwright’s standard compliance protocols.
This raises a critical question: Why was Hogwarts excluded?
To ensure transparency and full understanding, I have attached the following supporting documents for your review:
1. Procurement Contract Between Windwright Brooms Ltd. & Hogwarts – A copy of the original vendor agreement detailing supplier responsibilities regarding long-term product viability.
2. Standardized Flight Performance Logs – A compiled record of broom stability tests, including detailed data on acceleration delay, mid-flight instability, and control inconsistencies.
3. Windwright Brooms Ltd. Institutional Fleet Upgrade Records – Confirmation from Beauxbatons Academy that their Shooting Star fleet was fully replaced at no cost due to safety concerns under Windwright’s Equipment Safety and Maintenance Compliance Policy.
4. Hogwarts Internal Injury Reports – Documented cases from the past five years, detailing student injuries linked to broom malfunctions, with particular emphasis on first-year users.
5. Affidavits from Upper-Year Students – Written testimonies confirming that broom failures have been ongoing for several years, countering any argument that these issues result from pilot error.
This matter would typically be handled at an institutional level. However, repeated concerns have been raised at Hogwarts for years without resolution. If Windwright’s compliance policies have been improperly applied, it is in the best interest of both parties to correct this immediately—before further safety incidents occur. Hogwarts students trust that the equipment provided to them meets basic safety standards.
The expectation for a prompt resolution aligns with standard industry practices, as other manufacturers take immediate action when product failures occur.
For example:
• Cleansweep Broom Company – Cleansweep’s warranty for educational clients explicitly guarantees full replacement or repair at no cost if a broom fails during normal use. In 1963, Cleansweep replaced an entire batch of training brooms at a regional flying camp after a single unit showed a charm failure (an action widely praised in the community).
This example (one of many detailed further in Attachment 3) illustrates that swift remedial action is the norm in this industry, not the exception.
Hogwarts is simply requesting the same level of responsible service that Windwright already advertises and delivers elsewhere (see Attachment 4).
To resolve this matter, I ask that Windwright Brooms Ltd. consider the following:
1. Immediate Broom Replacement – Provide replacement units for all malfunctioning Windwright brooms at Hogwarts (as documented in Attachment 2), at no cost, in accordance with your warranty obligations. Each replacement should be of equal or better model quality to ensure safety and reliability.
2. Clarification of Warranty Commitments – Provide a written assurance that Windwright Brooms Ltd. will uphold its warranty and safety commitments moving forward.
3. Clear Next Steps – Furnish a timeline for the above actions and designate an appropriate point of contact for any necessary follow-ups.
Windwright Brooms Ltd. has long upheld a reputation for high standards in product quality and customer service, and I trust this matter will be handled with the urgency and seriousness it warrants. However, the safety of Hogwarts students is non-negotiable.
If these concerns are not addressed satisfactorily and without delay, I will have no choice but to escalate the matter—beginning with notifying the relevant magical regulatory authorities and, if necessary, pursuing legal remedies.
I state this with the expectation that such measures will not be necessary, as I believe Windwright values its commitments and will act accordingly.
Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. I appreciate your time and consideration in reviewing this request and look forward to your response within 14 days.
Sincerely,
Severina Snape
Slytherin House
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Attachments:
Attachment 1: Excerpt of Hogwarts–Windwright Purchase Agreement (Warranty & Replacement Terms)
Attachment 2: Summary of Windwright Broom Malfunction Incidents at Hogwarts (with maintenance records)
Attachment 3: Overview of Industry Standard Warranty Practices and Replacement Examples
Attachment 4: Documentation of Windwright’s Replacement of Defective Brooms
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On top of the bookshelf, body contorted, mouth agape, Sirius could do nothing but drown.
Thoughts crashed, tumbled—too fast, too loud, all fighting to be heard.
Replacing the school brooms?
But—McGonagall. She’d tried—years. The budget—dead end. The school board—stonewalling, every turn, every time. It wasn’t possible. —thought it was a money problem —clogged wheels —bureaucracy
And yet—she’d done it.
—hadn’t petitioned. —hadn’t argued. —hadn’t played by their rules at all—did anyone even know there'd been no need to pay for a replacement!
—gone around them—over them—past them.
Game—set—checkmate.
—they would move—no choice
What?—but why?—incredible—how had she even—
His pulse hammered.
Magnificent.