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?)