June 24, 1998
Mrs. Norris pranced around the headmaster's office while Filch swiveled in his chair. "Food's gotten a lot worse," he grumbled to her.
It was true. House elves at Hogwarts usually had other arrangements for the summer, but most of those arrangements were now moot, so they stayed, and they continued preparing unneeded food until they had run out of ingredients. They restocked from… somewhere… Filch really didn't want to know from where. The house elves surely couldn't just waltz into a muggle grocery and buy some vegetables, but Filch didn't think the Hogwarts rules permitted them to steal, either.
"Meowww" Mrs. Norris screeched.
"Yes, I know the grounds are in disarray," Filch snapped back. Hagrid usually lived at Hogwarts year-round, and he made sure the grounds were tended to, but of course he was gone, now. Grass needed mowing, most of all. "Those elves have too little to do, I could put them on it—"
He was interrupted when suddenly he saw a parchment and quill fly off the shelf from his left, from where they had been lying inconspicuously next to the Sorting Hat. The parchment plopped down on the headmaster's desk in front of Filch and the feather then lightly floated down to the parchment, balanced perfectly upright. It held for a few moments while Filch and Mrs. Norris stared in bewilderment, and then suddenly it began writing.
Aaronson, Jeff
Chang, Emilia
Cheswick, Bill
…
The list went on, all the way down to Wimberly, Sarah. Twenty-five names in all.
"What's this all about, eh?" Filch growled turned around and looked the portrait of his former headmaster in the eye.
The visage of Dumbledore looked down at him and sighed. "That is the admissions Quill. Every summer, it is enchanted to identify the names of all students eligible to enter Hogwarts this fall."
"Well, guess they're all dead now, eh?" Poor kids, he thought to himself.
"A dead kid is not eligible to enter Hogwarts, Argus. And may I remind you that as headmaster, you are obligated to ensure these kids receive their education."
"Headmaster! I never signed up to be headmaster, I'm just the caretaker, you know! I couldn't teach these kids anything—"
"And yet you seem to content to sit in my old chair—our old chair," he gestured to the portraits beside him, "—lording over the grounds. If you want to head this place you had better start acting like it, Filch."
Filch looked at the parchment again, and then at Mrs. Norris. "What do you think, sweetheart?" Mrs. Norris hissed at him.
"Filch, somebody has to do it." Dumbledore said, a hint of pleading in his voice this time.
"Or what?" But Filch knew even as he asked the question. If nobody did it, these kids would grow up never learning to use magic, like he had. But Filch has never had any potential. These kids did have potential. Filch knew he wouldn't be able to live himself if he let that go to waste. Hadn't that been why he chose to work at Hogwarts in the first place, back before fifty years of grunge work had disillusioned him?
"Fine!" he snapped as he stood up. "Mrs. Norris, we are going to run a school year at Hogwarts!" And Filch felt a momentary thrill from his sudden resolve, and then reality hit again, because, in fact, Filch had no idea what to do.