Notes: Very, very dark. Includes character death and dark arts.
From the time he was a small child, Argus Filch knew that he was different. His mum and da clucked over him, carding his hair and telling him that it was all right. But he knew it wasn't. He didn't have magic. He should have. He was supposed to. But he didn't. He was a Squib.
Children were cruel and this time was certainly no different. A shy boy, Argus would have already been bullied and shoved around because of his stringy brown hair that looked perpetually greasy, or the protuberant pale eyes that reminded others of a frog's. The fact that he had no magic made him ten times more vulnerable.
In a way, he reflected more than once after he turned eleven and the longed-for Hogwarts letter did not come, it was a relief that he was magic-less. His tormentors went away for the school year and he was left to his own devices, attending the school down the road. His parents were kind, though distant, and it was only during the summers it became really bad. And he could always stay at home if it was too awful. It was lonely in his curtained family home, and rather boring, but surely a bit of tedium was worth it?
But then he turned eighteen, and his parents, in a fit of stupidity-inspired loyalty, volunteered his services as caretaker to Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster of Hogwarts. Suddenly, Argus was thrust into a world of magic, surrounded by magic. It infused every bit of his life, except himself. His old tormentors were gone, grown up and discovering lives of their own, but new tormentors grew into their places. Students only a year or two younger than him, subtly tripping him up whenever they got a chance and were bored. Even snot-nosed younger years eyeing him with blatant defiance because after all, why did it matter? He was only a Squib, wasn't he?
As the years went by, Argus managed to feel thankful that his hair had prematurely greyed, that his constant, back-breaking work had hunched him over, drawn wrinkles on him with a liberal, uncaring hand. Though he wasn't that old, he looked older, and Squib or not, age demanded marginally more respect. The gift of Mrs. Norris, a young Maine Coon cat, assisted him, as well. She loved him, doted upon him, and it was a new and wholly pleasant feeling. Oh, his parents had loved him, but it wasn't the same. They had been distant, awkward, unsure of what to do with their magic-less son.
He became more and more drawn to quackery, to correspondence courses guaranteed to "bring his latent magic bursting to the surface!" Even unpleasant-smelling unguents and even fouler-tasting potions touted to "turn even the Squibbiest of Squibs into the best wizard the world had ever seen!" Argus had no delusions that it would accomplish that. But surely it might accomplish something?
He'd even found a wand to practice with, a stout piece of wood almost ten inches long, that some student had accidentally left behind, and he had casually swept up with the rest of the rubbish. He'd heard the brat lamenting its loss, wondering where it had gotten off to and whinging about how his parents would have to buy another one, and a nasty smile had curled his lips. Let the brat find a new wand. Finders keepers, wasn't that the saying?
But it never worked. When he held it, the wand warmed to his touch, but that was all. Not even the faintest of sparks lit its tip. He pored over the elementary spell books in the library at night between rounds, huddled over a table with his lantern by his side and Mrs. Norris in his lap. Feeling guilty, but he had every right to be there, didn't he? He was the caretaker. He could go anywhere in the castle he pleased, save students' and professors' bed-chambers. He had all the passwords, possessed all the keys. What harm did it cause, him reading first year texts?
None, of course, but he knew the wretched students would laugh at him. It had gotten out over the years that Argus Filch was a Squib, and the taunts of the children still hurt him, still scraped along the edges of his pride like a fresh, stinging wound.
But nothing could fix a Squib, he'd heard time and again throughout his life. Despite the touted glories of Kwikspell, despite the pamphlets and lotions and promises that this would finally work, this would do the trick, he remained, as always, stubbornly magic-less. It was enough to drive a man to drink, although he rarely partook. Alcohol blurred his senses, made it that much more difficult to catch students out of bed. There was that, at least. Sneer at him as they may during the daytime, at night, the world was his. Mrs. Norris also took to skulking through the corridors without him, watching for students out of bounds, so she could bound to his side and wheezing and panting, he would take up the chase with glee.
It was one of these nights, around two in the morning, that Argus Filch stumbled across the opened book in the Restricted Section.
He'd surprised a student, or maybe it was more than one, and in their haste, they'd left the enormous old book laying open on the floor, pages still ruffled from their departure. He eyed it critically from a distance, ensuring it wasn't one of the ones that could trap its user (he'd memorised all those by sight), and then approached, setting the lantern down with a light clank so that he could pick it up and return it to its shelf.
And then the lamplight spilled over the open page, and he read, in gloriously curlicued script: How to Attain Magick For the Magick-Less (Commonly Known as Squibe).
It was impossible, he knew. It had to be. And yet-his heart quickened and he knelt clumsily by the book, eyes eagerly scanning its contents.
Said contents were, well, quite disturbing, even for a Dark Arts book. Oh, the preparation wasn't terribly difficult. Gather a few poisonous plants and Dark objects, steal a draught of Felix Felicis for good luck, that sort of thing. To his rather inexperienced eye, it looked more like a way to fool the foolish. But the last step. His eyes returned to it more than once.
Find a young child, no older than eleven years of age, and when the clock strikes three in the morning, by the light of the full moon, spill forth the child's blood with a silver dagger. It must be heart's blood.
Could he do that? Could he murder a first year like that, stab a first year through the heart, solely to attain his lifelong dream of magic? Argus bit his lip as he stood, knees creaking and Mrs. Norris twining around his feet. He didn't know. But when he returned the book to the shelf, he noted its place, its name, and the page that spell was written on.
One never knew, after all.
Months passed. Time and again, Argus's thoughts returned to the book, sandwiched between Most Potente Potions and a nasty book that liked to drip blood on the shelf and snap at passersby. How many times had he raged at fate, sworn to himself that if he could gain magic, he would do anything? Anything at all?
But murder? He hated the little brats who passed themselves off as students. If he had his way, he would have them all strung up by the thumbs in his office the moment they put one toe out of line. But to kill them? To stab them through the heart, and spill their life's blood over himself? Was he really that cruel?
And then, one sunny December morning, he got his answer. A group of Ravenclaws had gotten the brilliant idea to cover the entire Entrance Hall in bright blue paint, and string him up by the ankle when he attempted to begin cleaning it. He hadn't expected it out of Ravenclaws, but there they were, pointing and laughing and not even trying to hide their mirth as they showcased his dangling body, his jacket enveloping his head, but not blacking out his vision. It was ten long minutes before Professor Snape came and set things right with a hasty wave of his wand and a rush of fury that swelled over the cowering students like a tide. And all Argus could think, as he smoothed down his clothes with trembling hands over and over, as Severus inquired after him with stiff concern and guided him back to his office for an invigorating cup of tea, is that the bloody students would have never had the gall to try that if he had magic.
That night, he slipped the book out and copied down the spell with trembling, gnarled hands. The ink gleamed like heart's blood. He was committed.
In the weeks that followed, Argus Filch became something of a phantom. Oh, he still did his duties as well as ever. Still snapped at students, condemning them to weeks of detention scrubbing out unpleasant things. But his mind was elsewhere. His mind was with the book, the instructions scribbled over his thoughts, even his dreams. The few items he could not procure from the wild-grown edges of the Forest, he managed to steal from Snape's stores, knowing the man would blame it on students. More than one overly daring student had attempted before, and he had no doubt they would in future. Worthless brats, the lot of them. Oh, when he had magic...
His very soul felt on fire at the thought, trembling and blazing at the core of him for what had so long been denied him. Magic. The gloriously heady rush that sparked through your fingertips, rolled through the very center of you, until you gasped for breath, until you positively glowed. Always left behind, always forgotten in the shadows, Argus stood, but now, if he could be steadfast, he would grasp his heart's desire. He knew this would work. This was not another Kwikspell course, this was real.
Finally, the night before the students left for the holidays, he had everything he required. All he needed now was the student. The...sacrifice. The word trembled on his tongue, swelling with its own import.
He could not pick a popular child, nor a typically pureblood one. The Brat Who Lived, while a tempting prospect, was far too well-known throughout the wizarding world to be allowed to go missing. Argus finally decided that he would let fate pick for him. Whatever child lurked while he made his nightly rounds would be destined to help him in his quest.
And as luck would have it, his lantern light fell upon a shivering, round-faced boy in ratty pyjamas curled up just outside Gryffindor Tower. His lip curled as he looked down at the boy. Longbottom. The child was a disgrace to his family, a blotch on the family name that Filch was sure Augusta would be more than (secretly) pleased to be rid of. But he had magic, and that was all Argus required.
He prodded the boy with the toe of his boot, as hard as he dared. It sank into soft, non-resisting flesh, and his lips wrinkled in disgust.
"Up, boy!" he said sharply, keeping a wary eye on the Fat Lady's painting. She was gone, though, probably visiting another of her gossipy friends and getting more than a bit tipsy. Nothing to worry about.
Longbottom blinked and automatically cringed, looking up at the caretaker with fear-filled eyes.
"I'm s-s-s-sorry, sir," he stammered, his voice thickened with sleep. "I f-f-forgot the p-password and..."
"Enough of your excuses, boy," Argus sneered. "On your feet. Follow me."
With a minimum of impatient coaxing, Longbottom was soon obediently following him down the myriad of steps and corridors that led to Argus's own rooms. Mrs. Norris waited outside, a baleful hiss escaping her at the sight of the pudgy Gryffindor first year.
"I know," Argus muttered to her as he unlocked the door, shoving the boy inside. "But he's all I've got."
Longbottom stood shivering in his pyjamas, confusion mounting in his eyes as he looked around. He was obviously baffled as to why he was in Argus's own rooms instead of his office.
"Can't be bothered opening up the office, now can I?" Argus said with a nasty-sounding chuckle. "For a little brat like you?"
"W-what do you w-w-w-ant me to d-do, sir?" Neville stuttered out.
"Lie down there," Argus suggested, pointing to the white linen-draped table. Longbottom's brow furrowed as he backed away.
"Is that a j-joke, sir?" Longbottom asked doubtfully.
"No," Argus snarled. "It's not. Now get on the bloody table." His fingers bit painfully into Neville's shoulder as he propelled the boy forward. If he'd dared, he would have hit the brat and knocked him out, but no, the instructions were very clear. Though restraints could be used (and truthfully, the more unwilling the subject was, the better), the sacrifice had to be awake to face what was coming.
Finally, sniffling like he had a month's long cold, Neville clambered up on the table, lying on his back like the grizzled caretaker instructed him to. He was clearly terrified, but at least he wasn't fighting. Gryffindor, my arse, Argus thought and snorted. The ropes only produced another terrified sob, and he bound the boy as tightly as he dared to the table legs. Now if his bravery ever sauntered back, there was nothing he could do.
"What are y-you doing, s-sir?" Neville blurted out, his eyes wide as saucers. Argus glanced at him, then stuffed a handkerchief in the brat's mouth, pulling it tight around his head and tying it off. There. Now the child's whining and pleading wouldn't distract him too badly.
For a moment, he considered calling the whole thing off, as he looked down at the writhing, tear-stained eleven-year-old restrained on his dining room table. But if he let the child go, what would happen? He had no magic, to make the brat forget. No matter how he threatened the boy to keep silent, children always spilled their secrets sooner or later. And what a damnable secret this would make.
No. The time for turning back was before. He could have assigned Longbottom detention, even from his own chambers, but this...there was no going back from this. Shaking his head, Argus arranged the ingredients around Longbottom, certain each glowed with its own malicious power. The last item he retrieved was the silver dagger, bought in secret from Knockturn Alley and hidden in his bottom drawer until the time was right.
He flung open the curtains, letting the moonlight stream inside as the clock chimed three. It was time. An exhilarated grin covered Argus's face as he stalked toward the Longbottom boy, who had gone so still in his terror, it was as if he'd been Petrified.
"Magic lost, once denied me, now return, keep inside me. Magic found, forcefully break it, magic bound, come and take it," he intoned, almost enjoying the way the child's head thrashed in incomprehension, the way his eyes glittered with tears.
Argus thrust the dagger home, piercing the boy's clothes and continuing on. A shriek broke the silence, and blood pumped out around the dagger's entrance, coating his hand with scarlet. Heart's blood. For a moment, he stared, mesmerised, then remembered his goal and hastily grabbed the wand he'd pilfered so long ago, holding it underneath the bloody spray as he twisted the dagger, made more blood spill forth. The wood was coated with it by the time he finished and the boy stilled, face waxen and eyes sunken in death.
He pulled the dagger free with a sickening squelching sound and set it aside. All his attention was on the blood-slicked wand held tightly between his fingers. Of his wand hand, of course, that was very important.
Argus stepped away from the table, paying no more attention to the corpse bound to it. It was meaningless now. An unlit candle loomed bright in his vision as he raised the wand shakily. Now. It all hinged on this.
"Incendio," he whispered, and flicked his wand.
A single flame sparked, and Argus wept.