Argus Filch was not a nice man.
He was cruel and mean and had a voice that sounded like nails on a blackboard, his face had been compared to that of a hag's, and his clothes were always raggedy and torn and not good enough for a tramp.
But this 'twas not the fault of Argus Filch.
He had been brought into the world in St Mungos, a crying pink baby with big blue eyes that would later turn a muddy brown, just like any other child.
But then he had been scanned for a magical core.
And that was the problem. It wasn't that he was dirty and had a unfriendly attitude and wore torn and raggedy clothes. It was none of that.
It was that when he was scanned for a magical core, the results had come up as Negative.
Na-da.
Non-existent.
Finito.
There was nothing there, and that was essentially the reason that Argus Filch had been cast out by his family, and had become the cruel, dirty, scratchy voice, raggedy man he was to this day, for being the opposite of a muggleborn.
A Squib.
How he hated that blasted word.
It had followed him his entire life, whispered behind his back and in corners, disdainfully and pitifully, scornful eyes always watching him.
He should've taken up the Muggle's way of life.
But, he couldn't.
He couldn't bear to not see the wizzes and bang of magically made fireworks, and not see the sight of magical beasts and plants and moving pictures and people young and old jumping and smiling about the game where people flew around on brooms high up in the air.
So he signed up to be caretaker of Hogwarts, where the children wouldn't know he was a Squib, and hopefully wouldn't care.
But he just got more bitter, watching the children, mere children making magic and flying on brooms and stirring potions and laughing while transfiguring their nose.
But, as I said before:
Argus Filch, was not a nice man.