Disclaimer: Not the blonde-haired, rich British author; definitely do not own Harry Potter.


It is a normal, sunny day, and Argus concludes that it must be an average first day of school after the summer holidays.

Argus likes the summer holidays. He does not have to contemplate whether he truly hates the students of Hogwarts (on one hand, they are awfully annoying; but on another, it seems horribly petty to despise schoolchildren of all things), and he gets to actually clean the castle before the school year puts on another layer of dirt on it.

Cleaning gives him a lot more satisfaction that he would be willing to admit. It makes him feel like however precious little he's doing for the castle, at least it's something. So Argus sweeps the floor and mops up the dirt around the corners, waiting for the students to arrive in the evening.

Once the carriages pull up and the first years file in after their boat rides. Everything is as it used to be each and every year, and Argus feels himself settling back into the comforting, monotonous routine he has created for himself.

The Sorting soon begins, and he watches from the sidelines, eating as he stands. Dumbledore offered him a seat at the teachers' table the first time he'd eaten at the Great Hall, but after a few months he had discarded the habit and chosen to eat in the shadows instead.

Sitting at the front with the rest of the faculty makes him uncomfortable, inadequate in a way. Perhaps he is a little alike Sybil Trelawney. He snorts. Right, if he was anything like that senile old alcoholic (even battier than Dumbledore himself), he'd chew his leg.

A few students are sorted, and Argus finds himself looking on with a bittersweet clenching in his heart. It has always been a touching scene, seeing eleven-year-old children bounce onto a stool, their breaths drawn as they wait for their fate to be determined, an anxious smile on their faces; but it has also always reminded Argus of the life he had never been able to lead.

A bushy-haired brunette with front teeth too big for her mouth is nearly a hatstall, the Sorting Hat ponders over its decision for almost four minutes before finally shouting that she is a Gryffindor. Argus often wonders what House he would have been sorted into, had he been given the chance. He thinks he would most likely be a Hufflepuff. He does like badgers. At least, he likes them a lot more than snakes.

The hat pauses on the head of a slightly lumpy, clumsy boy with a shy grin. From the sidelines, Argus can see what the students cannot, the boy mouthing words silently that he most likely was directing his thoughts to the Hat about.

Argus thinks he might have seen the boy mouth "Gryffindor" with an incredulous, vehement shake of his head, as though that one fourth of a chance was ridiculous, but the Sorting Hat finally manages to put him in that House anyway. The boy hurries away with a reluctantly pleased expression, the Hat still firmly planted on his head, before returning it with a mortified grin.

Argus decides that he likes this boy. What was his name? Longbutt?

He ponders this for quite a long time, before his train of thought is thrown to the wind when Professor McGonagall suddenly shouts:

"Potter, Harry!"

He stumbles briefly, nearly losing hold of his platter, but miraculously he manages to stop his food from spilling everywhere and causing an unwanted commotion. He is not the only one to be shocked at this declaration; the students and teachers are exchanging fervid whispers and meaningful glances.

Surprisingly enough, little Harry Potter proves to be nearly a hatstall as well, his face set with a frown as he (Argus guesses) argued internally with the Hat.

Argus wonders briefly how the Hat could even hold any doubt; the image of the irritating trouble-making Head Boy and responsible yet cheeky red-haired Head Girl in mind (He'd been bewildered that year; how could Dumbledore make both Head Prefects Gryffindors?).

You're insane! He wants to shout at the Sorting Hat. Look at that boy! He's the spitting image of that annoying troublemaker!

Despite his befuddled sentiments, seeing this boy, so alike his father, made his heart twinge a little. Oh, he hated James Potter, no doubt. He might not hate the entirety of the student body, but Potter was one of those troublemakers that Argus allowed himself to freely despise.

Even so, he'd had so many years ahead of him.

Death is not an unfamiliar concept to Argus, but it is always exceptionally tragic when it occurs among youths.


Argus does not know what it is exactly about Harry Potter that attracts danger like a lamplight attracts moths.

It's not really like Potter looks for trouble, he certainly seems to have much more Evans in him than Potter, but the trouble just seems to come to him. Argus is altogether sick of the Potter spawn.

This is what happens when a troublemaker and a prefect decide to fall in love.

Mutations.

Mutations everywhere.

At first, Argus is determined to treat Potter like he would treat any other student, with disdain, but for an Evans spawn, the Potter brat seems mighty fond of sneaking out at night and wandering the corridors like a ghost.

Wandering at night is for people with guilty consciences. Argus knows, from experience.

Argus tries to keep his temper in check, honestly, he does. After all, Argus knows all too well what being an orphan is like. He thinks he might be able to relate, but then he catches Potter out of bed in the middle of night and he snaps.

What is wrong with this child? When he was eleven, Argus had been docile and obedient. Argus made up his mind about Harry Potter. Evidently his initial instincts had been faulty. This child was a spawn of Satan. He was a 100% James Potter production. Lily Evans had removed all of her genes from the fetus before her son's birth.

And the boy has to drag the lanky boy with flaming hair and the big-toothed brunette into this as well! At his "evaluation" during the Sorting, he had thought to himself that these two appeared to be more of the controllable sheep, the type of students that took up about twenty percent of the school that was less insufferable.

Oh, the spawn of Satan has corrupted the beings he calls his friends!

There are other students there as well, a shrewd-eyed blond boy (the insufferable type, Argus thinks) and the lumpy boy Argus is now sorry he favoured. How James Potter's spawn manages to corrupt everyone in his year, Argus does not know, but he will be keeping a close eye on that boy from now on.

"Spawn of Satan," he hisses, eyeing the raven-haired boy with distaste.

"What?" the boy asks absent-mindedly, a (fake, Argus is sure) innocent expression on his face, as though he was getting a detention and some serious House Points deducted because he'd been cuddling kittens.

"Nothing," Argus said airily, sniffing with disdain. Better not to converse with the devil's child, he might get corrupted himself.


Mrs Norris.

His Mrs Norris.

Oh, his beloved cat!

Argus lets go off all the like he had ever harboured for Potter, Evans or their devil child. This is the lowest blow in the book.

"What have you done?!" he shouts with anguish, gathering the dead cat in his arms and hugging it without restraint. It's not like he had much to lose, his reputation has not been intact for years. "You've killed her!"

He is too wrapped up in his grief to notice the students gathering around them, the teachers and the Headmaster striding with purpose to the front, ordering students around. All he sees is the dead cat in his arms, the cat that has been through so much with him.

The only connection to the past he had with his family, the love he used to cherish.

Oh, why Mrs Norris? Could the world get any more cruel?

His parents had been ripped away with him like a slap to his face, his brother taken away with an unanticipated abruptness, and now his cat lay motionless, never to breathe or walk again.

She had comforted him in his grief, when he'd been cocooned by his own anguish to notice anyone else.

She had stayed by his sides on nights when he cried into his pillow, strode next to him with intelligent wariness when they were patrolling.

And now she's dead.

Harry Potter will pay.

Argus knew why he had done this, after seeing the Kwikspell pamphlet. He sneered that he had ever thought Potter might have had a shred of goodness in his heart. Discriminatory monsters, the lot of them.

"She's not dead," Dumbledore clarifies, with a grave expression. "She's been Petrified."

Well, alright, his cat will probably still breathe and walk again. But that spawn of the devil will still pay.


"Peeves!" Argus screams, not caring if his voice is shrill.

Blast that poltergeist! Argus doesn't care if he'd come together when the building was created, weren't the four Founders supposed to be oh-so-powerful? Couldn't they have gotten rid of the blasted thing when they realized their mistake? They definitely shouldn't leave their caretakers to clean up after their poltergeist's messes.

"Peeves!" he screams again, throwing everything within reach at the floating spirit, including his broom. Peeves blows a raspberry at him.

"Can't catch me, can't catch me; getting a little old now, eh Filchie old boy?" Peeves taunts, smirking with amusement as he drops another ink pellet on the floor. Argus wants to stomp his feet.

Honestly, Argus was a nice person! So perhaps he was a little harsh on the students, gave Hagrid a bit too much grief for his rough behaviour, but he hadn't done anything even close to sinful in his life. He'd never done anything to deserve this - this torture!

Cleaning up prank after prank, trying to mop away the stains the ink pellets left on the floor, screaming at Peeves every day until his voice was practically hoarse. This isn't a life he deserves!

Just as Argus is reaching for a rather expensive-looking vase (Argus Filch does not give up until all potential ammo has been burned through), Peeves swoops into the charms corridor, blasting the door open and throwing confetti in the air. The confetti is a little dirty and stained with an unknown, brownish substance. Argus shudders to think where it has been.

Argus spots an alcove nearby, and formulates a plan. If he could just catch up with Peeves, maybe he could corner him and force him to finally take some responsibility for his not-funny-at-all pranks. He is a genius! People should hail him for his intelligence.

Just as Argus is closing in on Peeves, he trips over something thin but strong, and sets off a string of Dungbombs that invade his senses with a disturbing smell. He feels like puking. Stumbling blindly through the smoke left behind by the bombs and trying to hack out the smell, he blinks his eyes rapidly only to see that Peeves has escaped.

In the distance, Argus can hear Peeves' voice, though he has to strain.

"Thank you, dear students!" a mock-pompous voice, definitely Peeve's, sounds from above the ceiling. Argus can hear it clearly enough, but it is quite soft, like he is hearing the echo and not he actual conversation.

"No problem, Peeves!" two voices answer simultaneously, and Argus' eyes narrow dangerously. "We really admire your work."

"Oh, you're making me blush-" But Peeves does not get to finish his mock-modest reply, because Argus blows a fuse.

"WEAAAASLEEEEEEEEEYS!"

The red-haired twins are a little too much like the Marauders for Argus to handle.


Argus thinks this Harry Potter kid is perhaps a little too adept at being a trouble-magnet.

First there is the big commotion in Potter's first-year that he still does not really understand. All he knows is that Potter apparently killed the DADA teacher. Not that Argus has ever liked that annoyingly nervous turban-headed teacher, but it is still horribly shocking news to learn that the person you mocked to your cat apparently had his face burnt off.

Then there is the big "chamber of secrets" hustle in Potter's second-year, when Argus is a little too grief-stricken by the apparent death of his cat until she is un-Petrified, at which point all the whispering about a monster in Hogwarts appears to have died down.

After that, Argus overhears the teachers whispering about Sirius Black wanting to sneak into Hogwarts to kill Potter. Sirius Black wants to kill James Potter's devil spawn. There was something innately wrong with the world.

And now, Potter's name gets spat out of the bloody Goblet of Fire! He knew something was going to happen this year, he knew it! It was like Potter had to have some sort of bloody little adventure every single school year!

Compared to the boring monotony of Argus' life, perhaps it was healthy, but the messes Potter made, dear Merlin!

Argus shudders at the thought.

He is watching nonchalantly from the sidelines, determining Potter's skills underwater. It had seemed downright ludicrous to him at the start, but- magic! - the wizard seems to be breathing fine.

He was at first reluctant to leave the castle unattended, but reassured by Dumbledore that it was perfectly under control, he was now standing in the shadows, hoping a student would not see him there and cause unnecessary ruckus.

He watches, frown marring his face, as first Diggory, then Krum and finally Delacour all surface, victorious or not. Where is Potter? he thinks contemplatively. Surely he could not have got himself nearly killed once again?

He is about to hurry back to the castle, stricken with fright at this challenge that is definitely neither moral nor natural. Honestly, forcing school children into a bloody lake and hoping they'd survive with fingers crossed?

Adults nowadays. Evidently the faculty at all three schools has absolutely no concern for the welfare of the students.

He is stepping away from the stands when Potter suddenly surfaces, and inaudibly he lets out a sigh of relief. Not that he is worried about Potter or nonsense like that, but he would much rather not deal with the mess a death at Hogwarts would make.

After all, there is only that much bad publicity a school can take before its governers start stroking their beards and thinking, "Hmm, maybe if there are dangerous two-faced teachers, Slytherin's monsters slinking around, werewolves and sphinxes and undoubtedly biased Potions teachers... it's not that safe for a place of education."

It is only then that Argus notices there are two people Potter is dragging out of the murky depths of the Black Lake. He knows Potter well enough that his "important person" was most likely the freckly redhead, but Potter's other best friend had long been hauled up by the burly Bulgarian.

By then, the three of them are helped out of the lake, and all Argus sees is a flash of blonde before there is a mess of hugging and crying and kissing.

It is only when everyone zeroes in on Fleur Delacour giving endless words of thanks that Argus registers what has happened.

Potter hauled up Delacour's kid, the one she was supposed to save. Her sister, perhaps? Their face looks similar.

Potter hauled up Delacour's kid.

Argus stifles a chuckle and ends up with a sad smile.

Goddamn Harry Potter and his bloody Gryffindor spirit. Now all Argus can think about is James and Lily Potter, and how proud they would inevitably have been of their son irrationally and idiotically risking his life.


Argus is not all that sad to see Dumbledore go, when the news spreads and Umbridge's stay is made seemingly permanent.

Years of working under the old man had twisted Argus' feelings from admiration to a type of twisted, bittersweet hate, like how he felt about Hogwarts. Oh, no doubt Headmaster Dumbledore had done him a great favour, bringing him to Hogwarts, but by doing that he had brought Argus a lot of grief as well.

Argus likes the new Headmistress, the lady donned head-to-toe with pink clothing and accessories.

So maybe she dresses like a pink, disgusting walrus, so perhaps her voice makes Argus' skin crawl. He's not one to judge. She lets him use corporal punishments, something he has been trying to get Dumbledore to implement for a very long time; she lets him give out an endless stream of detentions and establish new rules Argus has always wanted to make.

Discipline will do the school good, after all. The students had grown disrespectful in the absence of real punishment and Argus has grown to resent softer consequences like the docking of House Points and cleaning of classrooms.

Cleaning a classroom is not going to help students realize their wrongs, a trip to the Forbidden Forest will. Argus thinks a little caning on their oh-so-precious wand hands might bring along the process as well.

One day he spots a student with carved writings on their hands, and he realizes that perhaps Umbridge's definition of punishment differs a little from his, contrary to popular belief. The bleeding wound on the student's hand disturbs him, but he brushes it away.

Punishment is punishment, he tells himself.

There is a twinge in his gut that feels awfully wrong, but Argus ignores it because he finally has some degree of power.


Dumbledore is dead.

Argus can barely register anything else in his mind, even as Death Eaters take charge and he grows the same sinking feeling in his gut that he constantly harboured during the First Wizarding War.

Dumbledore is dead.

Argus still has so many things he wants to say to the old senile bat, so many vulgarities that he wants to scream. But Dumbledore is no longer there to bear the brunt of him constantly asking for approval for tighter rules.

For some innate reason, Snape has taken over as Headmaster of Hogwarts instead of McGonagall (something Argus feels more indignant about than he would like to admit) and the Dark Side appears to have taken down the British Ministry of Magic from within.

Argus does not like to admit it, but he feels like every moment might be his last.

You-Know-Who visits the school occasionally, and when he walks the corridors Argus holds his breath and prays to the heavens that he would survive the ordeal.

The Dark Lord once sent him a disgusted look as he is kneeling at his feet (as per required, apparently, whenever he visits), but the Ministry and Death Eaters seem too preoccupied with the persecution of the Muggleborns to suspect the caretaker of unknown origins.

A taboo is placed on You-Know-Who's name, and soon the Order is nothing but a whisper in the corridors, students glancing furtively over their shoulders and hiding their faces under hooded cloaks.

The Second Wizarding War is much worse than the first.

Students start to rebel, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws alike struggling under the hard times; and yet sometimes Argus thinks that the only House not receiving detentions by the hundreds was the one with the most tired-looking students, children with haggard expressions and bags under their eyes.

Argus cringes every time he sees new rebellious words splashed haphazardly across the walls of the corridors; dreads handing out detentions more than anything.

He may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knows which teachers takes charge of the detentions nowadays, how students stumble out of the classrooms looking like they've been to hell and back.

Thankfully, he is not noticed very much, the exhausted caretaker cowering in the shadows and obeying every order given (albeit with hidden reluctance), because let's face it, Argus Filch was way too scared to do anything.

Argus likes to think that he is a reasonably good man, perhaps a little stern but otherwise alright on the moral scale.

He wonders if he'll ever be a great man.

The writings on the wall soon grow more organized, more calculated, until they disappear altogether after a particularly disgusting torture session, but their message, although covered with a fresh layer of paint, remains.

You will never win, a memorable one had stated, until Amycus Carrow had nearly exploded the entire wall and left what remained covered in soot.

New rumours soon float through the corridors, hidden within students' tentative whispers and the indignant flashes in their eyes when they are told to Cruciate a fellow classmate.

Dumbledore's Army, Dumbledore's Army, Dumbledore's Army, the whispers continue, refusing to be wiped out by the determined Carrow siblings, despite their countless attempts.

The staff room is no longer a safe place to discuss the antics of students; teachers now huddle in corridors and keep an eye out for the newly-appointed Headmaster, or the DADA and Muggle Studies teachers.

Argus stays in his office for the most part, no longer lurking around trying to catch students that are out past curfew. He does not see the point, detentions have grown far past the point of corporal punishment into a new level of utter insanity, and the Carrows are swooping down on the students every night either ways.

In his office, he tries to keep calm by talking to Mrs Norris, but her soothing purrs does nothing to keep the bile down when he reads the new Muggle Studies syllabus and tries to contemplate why exactly the textbook now read, "Muggles are filth beneath our feet that deserve to be eradicated from the face of the planet entirely."

So now he finds himself by Dumbledore's grave, swallowing down tears for a man he had never even liked and telling a numb tombstone about the worsening conditions.

"Please," he begs, though to who he is no longer certain. "Anyone. Stop this madness."


Okay, I'm picking up a little on this story. I kind of hated the midway point, but now there are two chapters left and I like writing stuff like this; this is a genre I know well enough.

One chapter and an epilogue left, I think, though I'm not entirely certain because about four chapters ago I told you guys that there was one or two chapters left.