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The Longbottom boy comes back a man, taking over in the greenhouses. Isn't scared of him anymore but hasn't gone and put on airs either. Always calls him Mister Filch—leaves his muddy boots outside. Gave him catnip for Christmas, for Missus.
He knows he's an old fool, watching from the window as the strapping lad bends over a flowerbed. He knows he's pathetic, pulling himself off at night, replaying every second, every glimpse of skin. Wondering what if.
He hasn't any delusions. He'll never breathe a word about it so long as he lives.
But God, give him strength.