Undertaking: (by timydamonkey)


Author's Notes: Sorry if the ending feels a bit random; it dragged on longer than intended. Reviews are much appreciated... especially as this is a point of view I never imagined myself writing in. :)
These days, Hogwarts was shining.

Filch hated it; the way it seemed to speak of impenetrable cheer and constant good spirits. Perhaps it did, inside, as Hogwarts was considered a shining light, a stronghold that could not be taken down. It was an icon, despite the pupil numbers diminishing, despite the fact that a few short years ago it had been stormed and the headmaster - a man who'd been thought to be infallible – had been killed.

Despite the way it felt like he was stuck there, and he could do nothing. He had no magic, no contribution, and he was stuck there digging the graves of those damn brats who never paid attention and were subsequently vulnerable. He was the caretaker; he was supposed to look after the castle, not after the damn fools who'd gotten themselves killed – struck down before their prime, as the headmistress would say.

The brats just wanted to rush in and win a war – no self-preservation, no thoughts that they might actually make a difference if they lived to learn new spells, just a bunch of martyrs who others mourned for, while he was left to play undertaker, whether family remained or not.

Wizards, in general, seemed completely averse to cleaning up their own mess. He supposed that was why squibs like him even had a chance of becoming a caretaker; taking the roles thought to be beneath the others.

He sneered. He had another hole to dig now, another body to be packed away, and he was doing it all alone. It was a common sight, now, because when things happened so often, apparently individuals weren't so important anymore.

From the outdoor walls of Hogwarts, candles were hung, burning an eternal flame – memorials to those who'd lost their lives. People remembered there, now, rather than at the graves he was working so hard to make although it shouldn't really be his job. It shouldn't be anybody's job.

He watched the candles himself, sometimes, but in a castle eternally lit by candles, what were a few more?

He turned away. There was nothing special about them – just tributes to make people feel better, to make them feel the students weren't really gone or something of the like.

Sometimes, he wished they'd held a corpse in their own hands. It was no less their responsibility than his, but nobody would recognize that. He was just a caretaker, a squib, nobody important, they'd think, so why shouldn't he dirty his hands for them?

He felt like his hands were stained red. Phantom blood from phantom children. Fitting, he supposed, but by no means comforting.

He didn't need comfort, anyway. Nobody did, and nobody would get any until to the war was over. Until then, he could deal with it.

He always did.