Fifty years ago, a small boy waited, he waited anxiously for an owl delivering his Hogwarts letter. He waited and he waited, staring out of his bedroom window, waiting, for the owl that never came. His voice cracked, his brown hair grew past his shoulders, and he realised, one day, that the owl wasn't going to come. This little boy was 11, and was the only one in his family not to go to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was distraught.
"It doesn't matter, Argus" His mother said, trying in vain to comfort him, "I still love you, Argus" she said.
Argus didn't agree with her, it did matter to him, he was the only one of his friends that couldn't go to Hogwarts. The only one….
He felt degraded, unloved, unwanted, he felt as if he wasn't worth the magic he had grown up learning about, and adoring. He sank into a deep depression; he had no friends and his supid muggle school (not that he wanted any), and no friends in the wizarding world (he wanted those very much) except for his dear old mother, and his older sister.
He was
He was…
Argus Filch was a Squib.