Argus Filch, demon hunter extraordinaire. He walked the line between the living and those who came to haunt them – those who had never truly had life to begin with. He was a watchful guardian, a lone sentinel. Trained from childhood to fight the monsters not even wizards commonly believed in, he represented the last of a long line of demon hunters.

And he made the best pancakes.

In short, he was awesome.

He was also a squib, which was why he in particular was chosen to be part of this frankly rather selective old line of hunters in the first place.

There was a reason for the choice of Squibs above all other people. It was not because of any raised immunity to demons. It was not because of any particular aptitude for fighting them, either. It was also not, to anyone's knowledge, because of any ancient prophecy.

In fact, no one really knew what this highly adhered to reason actually was. Mostly, it was just assumed there was a really great one from back in the day, and since it'd worked out pretty well so far, nobody bothered to change it.

Also, it would be uncomfortable to accidentally set about the end of the world or the like by breaking the rule, since no one knew the gravity of what the consequences might be.

Argus himself never put much stock in the rule. He figured there was a pointy-hatted old wizard some hundred years back who glanced at some Squibs, shrugged in a "Well, what else are we going to do with them?" kind of way and lumped them over into demon-fighting, never to give either demons or Squibs a second thought from his limited mental capacities again.

Whatever. It wasn't like Argus cared about old prophecies and such anyway. They were sneaky and unreliable things, and too close to magic, which he didn't care about either. Like he'd ever wanted to swing a puny little stick and make pretty little sparkles gush from the tip, shining like a thousand tiny stars. Like he, given half a chance, would bother climbing a frail, dumb-looking broomstick and take off into the free summer air, the thick, gorgeous mane that was the hair of his glory days puffing up even more in the soaring wind than his liberally applied hair-gel could make it.

Alright, well, so maybe he would.

Whatever.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was Britain's best and most favored magic school. As a result, it all but teemed with temptation and opportunity for demons looking to manifest themselves – places of magic had a particular appeal to them. Therefore, Argus's skillset was a highly clamored quality for the school, and they put considerable effort into convincing him to find a place among their ranks there.

At least, Argus liked to imagine they would have, had they been aware of their own susceptibility to demons. However, since they didn't know about demons' existence in the first place, it followed that they weren't.

He ended up getting the job as the school's less-than-caring caretaker. Though he had better things to do with his time than scrubbing floors and cleaning trophies, he took it with a reasonable enough attitude. Such is the way of a demon hunter, after all, and he could adapt. He gave it three months to settle into the rhythms and routines of the school. After all the training and life-or-death situations he had been through, this would be easy sailing.

The school was insane.

The doors felt free to move around and disappear at their own convenience, while others were fickle and given to mood-swings. There were secret passages everywhere, as discovered when he tried to lean against the tapestry of a perpetually hungover young maiden on the third floor. Children flooded every hallway in hordes, leaving unparalleled disarray in their wake, and accidentally turning a classmate into a cactus or the like appeared to be common practice. Filth found its way everywhere, and there were kinds of dirt to clean that had no business being on the shores of Britain in the first place, much less in a children's school. The headmaster had a few screws loose and had clearly hit his head as a child, which the teachers didn't appear to find anything wrong with. Ghosts took lovely little strolls around the place with little regard for their supposed status as dead, and there was a poltergeist floating around that was sorely tempting Argus to just classify it as a demon and attempt his best exorcisms on the thing.

(Technically, poltergeists fit the bill. Never truly alive, here to cause mayhem, attracted to magic, pure beings of demonic evil and depravity sent from the deepest depths of hell. A perfect fit.)

There were wandering suits of armor, wandering figures in portraits, and soon enough, there would likely be wandering pieces of brain that would be Argus's wits taking their leave. The school was barely a name-change away from passing as an insane asylum.

There was one problem, however, which was becoming increasingly obvious and taking easy precedence above all else.

The children were all demons.

All of them. Every single one. The school had obviously been run over by demons long before Argus had arrived, and the teachers had simply not noticed.

Argus, however, could see it in everything they did; it was obvious, if one only knew to look. And should he ever doubt, seeing their eyes would be enough to convince him again – they all held the same cruel glint, promising dirty floors and long nights.

Many a demon hunter may have recoiled and bailed upon encountering such a place as this, but Argus was no coward. It was evident that this school needed help.

And Argus would be the one to provide it.

(He feels a slight, buzzing annoyance at times after exposure to the students. This is to be expected, he reasons. He is not worried.)

"Groto no sarankha sjik shiik, ukkha."

The little demon student, trapped in Argus's painted circle, stared at him. He did not wail, or rage, or beg, or at all react to the banishing, much like he had not to any of the others. Admittedly, Argus had not held much stock in this last banishing ritual – it was an act of increasing desperation, made up on the spot, quickly and loosely translated into an ancient Demonic language. In English, it meant, "Go die in a hole."

Argus sighed, at a loss.

The demon, for the first time in twenty minutes, spoke up. "Can I go to the library now? I really need to look up this spell for my Charms homework."

"Shut up," Argus said.

"But I really do need to look it up! If I wait too long, then I won't get there in time before curfew."

"Then leave," Argus challenged tauntingly. He wasn't scared of the puny demon; though it showed a peculiar resistance to his rites, it was nothing he couldn't find a solution to in his books, he was sure. Meanwhile, there was no rush, as Argus had employed his best binding circle, and no type of demon he'd ever encountered could break through it. The demon was, in that moment, near powerless.

…Was what he'd thought, anyway, until the creature frowned at him uncertainly, shrugged, and then walked off.

Huh.

(He catches himself muttering vaguely spiteful soliloquys about Peeves the poltergeist and the students. Four times. He is sure it is nothing to worry about.)

Scrub, scrub, scrub. Scrub, scrub. Scrub.

Argus was down on his knees, scouring the floor as best he could with his soapy water and thick-bristled brushes. Scrub, scrub, scrub. His back ached from his stiff position, and his arm throbbed with each tired movement. Scrub, scrub, scrub.

Finally, he sat back for a moment, allowing himself a breather. It had been a long day. The students didn't seem to get that wearing the same shoes inside and outside just wasn't conducive to cleanliness—or rather, they understood too well, and was using it to their own advantage to distract him from exorcising the lot of them. They were sly, calculating little buggers, but Argus was onto them. He'd had to put off properly dealing with them for now, because there was a seemingly never-ending pile of work for him to do first, but he was sure he'd get through it sooner or later. Then, his real work would finally begin. He just had to be patient.

He leaned back down again, dedicatedly resuming his work. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Scrub.

This sucked. And he was pretty sure these cleaning supplies were expired. Or possibly not cleaning supplies in the first place.

(He has noticed a deterioration in his activities outside of cleaning and punishing children, and an increasingly one-tracked mind. Given how much he has to do, though, that is surely to be expected.)

Argus had had enough.

There were too many bloody demons to punish, too many lousy chores to complete, and he was starting to suspect the students represented only one of several kinds of demons that had infected the castle – more ordinary ones that he'd dealt with before also seemed to live there. He simply stood no chance on his own.

Luckily, he knew just the thing necessary to even the odds. Found in a magazine advertisement whose contents he'd already ordered, the newspaper-clipping read: The new Exposer 204, designed to search out misdeeds and concentrations of cruelty! Effective and subtle in its work. With coloring made to blend into the background, a small build, and searching "eyes" near glowing as it seeks relentlessly for justice in the world, it will alert you in a heartbeat any time its censors go off! Thoroughly unrivaled in its field, it is perfect for ANY occasion! Buy now, and get a discount.

In short, it was any demon hunter's new best friend.

Two days later, it arrived by owl post. It was cold and calculating, devoid of emotion and wholly dedicated to its mission. Undoubtedly, it would soon become the bane of every "student" daring to set foot at Hogwarts.

It was also a cat. Argus affectionately named her Mrs. Norris.

In addition to her normal duties, he gave her a special mission of shadowing Hagrid the groundskeeper around whenever he entered the castle – the man got on suspiciously well with the students. Who knew what kind of depraved plots they concocted in that miserable den of heinousness posing as the man's hut. Argus would not be fooled by its warm, woodsy outer appearance. He knew what darkness rested in these creatures' hearts, and it certainly wasn't a desire for the hardest, most inedible cookies thus far known to man.

(He is a man on a mission now. He won't let this castle brimming with iniquity get the better of him. He'll get them all soon enough.)

"… Esquenze, acra tibbra, e burrcraht crusa!"

The demon shrieked, like a proper demon was supposed to, and then got itself banished back to wherever it came from, also like a proper demon was supposed to. Argus brushed himself off as he got up off the floor of the Trophy Room, a bit sore and aching but otherwise fine.

As it turned out, there really were more demons to be found at Hogwarts than just the students. These other ones were much more classical and thus easier to deal with, but with the students to control and his caretaker duties to deal with, Argus still hadn't the time to fight them all.

The Trophy Room, for example, had grown into a breeding ground for the things. Only thorough cleanings over a long period of time might have a hope of beating them out of it, Argus reckoned, but he could never reach over it all. As for his handling of the students, though he was experiencing a growing desire to go around on a spree, kicking the buggers into submission, he knew this was not conducive to anything.

He needed a better system.

(He falls asleep doing paperwork at his desk one day. Paperwork. He cannot fathom how a bloody job as caretaker could possibly warrant so much of it, and yet somehow, it does. He suspects demonic activity.)

"Work, you sadistic little bastards. Work! This is how it feels, what you're forcing me to go through every day. Let's see how you like it."

Argus was euphoric. His heart sang with joy as he watched the tiny packs of animated evil rubbing their pieces of cloth painstakingly against the numerous trophies in the Trophy Room. What a time to be alive.

The idea was genius. Why exorcise demons when he had other demons in detention he could order to do it for him? It wasn't like said demons cared about their fellow brethren, and if they did, they were free to leave the school behind forever in protest. Argus would let them.

He chuckled to himself, and one of the students glanced up at him with a disturbed look. Argus realized he might come off as a bit of a sadist himself to anyone who didn't comprehend the truth of the situation, gleefully putting children to work as he was, but Argus didn't care. He knew of the empty, unreasonable maliciousness behind those masks of flesh. He would not be swayed from his righteous path of protecting the human race.

Particularly not when it let him pass off his cleaning duties.

(He has started to somewhat seethe with hatred for some of these evil spirits playing at being students. The feeling will settle and pass soon enough, he is sure.)

Argus Filch's Diary, Entry #1:

#% ! #!£{+"##¤$ %! HATE

… … …

Ah, how I hate thee so. Thine most despicable acts cause migraines in a row. Still, thy always find thyself yet another new low. How I long to see thine eyes pecked out by a crow.

This is not about the bloody student body. It's about that vile Peeves. I'll have him hanged at the soonest opportunity. Don't think I won't – I found sodding mud trails on the ceiling today, and he's my prime suspect. Even if I'm wrong, I stand by my claim that the worldwide improvement of everything ever would be an immediate side effect of his death. I long for the day his disgusting cackles will never be heard disappearing around the corner again.

As a precaution, I have also spread the word that I am looking for the blasted perpetrator. In case of a student, I have procured a surplus of bottles of glue to pour over their shoes. I am thinking I might use it even if I do not find them.

Hmm.

On a different note, everyone here is clearly a doggone imbecile. I am starting to think more wits have taken off and left around here than just mine. People are bloody obsessed with the execrable sport of quidditch, as though the game has any greater value other than the hope that someone might fall off their broom while fifty feet up in the air. (Though that would make for a good game.)

I'm sure the first idiot ever to use a broomstick to fly was a housekeeper trying to make his job look cool. To this day, wizards have yet to realize that it achieved the opposite effect. I am not expecting them to catch on soon either.

But I digress. The important part is that everybody in the entire school is a bloody twit. An example of intelligence around here is about as common a sight as a fat thestral. The students are short-sighted, mean-spirited, self-centered, and practically identical personality-wise. Also appearance-wise, actually, so I largely resort to identifying them by hair-color. It works about as well as you'd expect, but I get by.

I digress again. The point is that I despise the little boogers, and I'd have them expelled if I could. I still have not found a way to exterminate exorcise them (ignore misspelling; ink is not easy to erase). I am slowly despairing. I have even taken to writing a diary, because I need an outpouring of my feelings. The alternative was murder. Or a psychologist (no). I'll add another dratted section whenever I'm too pissed off. Hopefully, this diary will be sparse in entries.

I hate everything.

(At times, he rubs his hands gleefully as he speaks aloud to Mrs. Norris about his plans for the students. Given the circumstances, it could be worse. He concludes he is fine.)

Argus polished the chains cheerfully, and perhaps a smidge bit obsessively, for once not minding his task in the least. He'd taken it on voluntarily after discovering that once upon a time, students who would not behave had simply been hung up on walls and left there to dry. Maybe he could start a campaign to reinstall them again – preferably along with a few other inventions he could think of…. Ah, if Argus got to make the calls, those slithering cockroaches would learn not to cross him. It made him smile, just thinking of it.

Usually he would go straight to the banishing rites and skip on these things, fair man that he was, but he'd long since passed that with these creatures. Not only did it not work, but Argus needed revenge. The foul brats needed to understand that just because they weren't ordinary demons, that didn't mean he couldn't affect their rotten little lives.

He was going to show them. For great justice, of course.

(He has taken to raving, sometimes incomprehensibly, to paintings and students and occasionally walls. He has it under control, however.)

Argus Filch's Diary, Entry #247:

My mum thinks I've become bitter because of this wretched job. Where she got that from I have no bloody idea. The job is bloody infernal, I admit, but I try not to let it affect me. I'm still the same open, caring, generous person I've always been. I am absolutely bloody fine.

(There is a burning, relentless rage inside him.)

An old piece of paper of obviously suspicious origin collected. Clearly, an evil plot was thwarted by Argus when he saved it from the grubby hands of messy-haired youths.

A book left behind on a bench in the Great Hall. Argus identified the perpetrator, who was then landed in three hours' detention.

A chair left out of place by another sloppy student. Yet again, the day was saved and detentions handed out.

An attempted breaking-in of the temporarily forbidden corridor on the third floor. Argus prevented the parasites' endeavor to open it and see what was in there, their motivation doubtlessly being to exploit it for their own dark purposes.

An undertaking to access dark rituals from the restricted part of the library in the middle of the night. Argus came to the rescue once again.

A trail of mud left behind carelessly. Argus followed it to the source and identified the wrongdoer immediately.

(He fights and he fights. He never hesitates, never leaves. Not once, not ever.)

There would be no breach in his defense. No misdeed would go unpunished. Argus guarded the school with an iron fist, as was his only choice. This was war.

(He is an angel of protection, forever shielding those unwitting innocents from horrors they knew naught of. There is no stopping him now.)

Finally, he found himself standing in front of the mirror one day, brandishing the mottled old broom in his hand like a divine weapon of justice as he prepared himself for the day. He paused, giving himself a long, evaluating look.

A single, sudden thought rang plainly through his head.

(… Perhaps a brief vacation would indeed be beneficial.)