Shame:
Shame: Argus Filch's
Tears
I was born into a wizarding family. I won't
bother denying it. I spent all of my childhood wondering when my
magic would kick in. It'll happen tomorrow, I told myself
every night as I went to sleep. But it never did. Do you know how
that feels? To wake in the morning, every morning, pick up
your brother's wand and wave it with the utmost
concentration, only to have your hopes quashed when nothing, as
usual, happens? I don't think you can.
It was excruciating. My family expected me to
be a wizard. All the people around me were wizards. Why? Why
couldn't I be one too?
Kids today, they don't understand the gift
they have. They take it for granted. Oh, sure, magic, they
say. What's new? It's second nature to them – just
like sleeping, eating or breathing. It's something they've
known since their births, and something I've been denied
since mine.
Squib. What kind of word is that? It's
degrading, that's what. It makes me sound like a slug, or
the bastard son of an octopus and a squirrel. I don't
deserve that, surely. It's the wizards who deserve the
degrading name. The wizards who look down upon me just because I
was unfortunate. They just sneer, and nudge each other. "Look
at the squib," they whisper to each other. Even the
sympathetic ones are bad. They tell me to stop feeling sorry for
myself.
Well, excuse me! Pardon me if I appear bitter.
By the way, I'm considered to be a blight on the wizarding
world. Wherever I go I'm either mocked or ignored. And how
are you today?
Sometimes, well, no, all the time, I feel like
a Peeping Tom from the gutter, staring through the window at an
upper class party, with music and dancing and little cakes on
fancy paper plates. That's what magic is to me. A forbidden
world of hidden delights, and all I can do is watch from the
sidelines. Like the entire world is a Quidditch match, and I'm
the only spectator. Well, me and the muggles, I suppose.
That's the thing, see. I would prefer to
be a muggle. Ignorance is bliss, they say. And it is! How I long
to be a muggle, with no knowledge of wizards, or magic, or
annoying school children who quite frankly should not be allowed
to hold a wand. I wouldn't know what I'm missing out
on.
I remember what my mother always used to say to
me. "Don't worry, dear. You're just a late
starter, that's all. It doesn't make you any less of a
wizard than the other boys. You'll get your magic soon,
sweetie, and you'll go to Hogwarts, just like your
brother." I know I didn't imagine the doubtful look in
her eyes. "It'll happen, Argus. Don't rush
things."
Ha! Shows what she knows!
I remember the last day of august all too well.
I spent the entire day looking out of the window for an owl to
swoop down out of the blue, and give me the letter to say I was
accepted into Hogwarts. It never came. My father stood beside me
for most of the time, stiff backed and emotionless. I knew what
he was thinking. He was ashamed of me.
Oh, I was ashamed of myself. Still am, in fact.
My father didn't speak. He took me to
Scotland, to Hogwarts, to see the Headmaster. I sat outside,
cowering under the bemused glances I received from passing
children in robes, respecting and hating them simultaneously. Are
they so much better than me? Am I so undeserving?
So now all I have is my Magical Mess Remover.
It wouldn't work on me – I may be a mess, but I'm
not magical. I'm not sure if I am grateful towards
Dumbledore, or furious with him. He gave me a job. Imagine that!
A squib, working in a wizard school. For a while, I felt like a
proper wizard. I felt special, just like one of the teachers. It
didn't last long. Oh, no.
Still, perhaps tomorrow I'll wake up with
powers. Perhaps no, perhaps not. I've already thrown
my life away on a false hope – no point in doing it again.
What? No, I'm not crying. Of course not. What do I have to
cry about? I'm as happy as a Forget it.
Oh, look at the time. Your detention is over.
Go on, kid, make yourself scarce. I don't want to see you in
my office again, you hear? I'll be fine. Don't worry.
Now stop fussing, and leave me alone. Get out of here, girl. I'm
sure you've learned your lesson.
Heh the cheek of it. Cry? Me? Nonsense.
My eyes are watering, that's all. And that's the
annoying thing about shame. It never leaves you. Never. Come on
then, Mrs. Norris. I still have to clean that muddy corridor
upstairs. The floor won't clean itself, you know.
Thanks for all the smashing reviews, people. I
really appreciate it. So who next? I'm thinking of Ron or
Remus, but I'm not sure why they would cry without falling
into any obvious clichés. So, I need your ideas again! (Where
would I be without you?)