Chapter 6

May 20, 1989

Shortly before 9 am, the main thoroughfare of Diagon Alley is mostly empty with a few proprietors setting out stalls full of wares in preparation for the morning rush.

Overhead an eagle owl soars above rooftops and quickly, but expertly descends onto a third floor railing balcony. With the French doors firmly closed, the owl flutters its wings in frustration and begins the loudest, most obnoxious caterwauling. Seconds later the owl quiets when both doors abruptly open revealing a slightly overweight, middle-aged fellow with mixed blonde gray hair.

Barnabas Cuffe, editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet, narrows his eyes in consternation as he immediately recognizes the vicious little beast. Long sharp talons reflexively clasp and release the railing; hoping to avoid another attack and more scars, he hesitantly approaches with palms marginally raised just below his shoulder blades in the universal sign of being unarmed while also bearing no ill will. Just as the letter is securely within his possession, the owl strikes before sweeping out of range and shooting into the air. Deep bloody grooves and red scratches cover his left hand. Agitatedly flicking his wand twice consecutively whilst lowly mumbling 'episkey' and 'scourgify' heals each claw mark and removes all traces of blood though it leaves faint silver scars.

Venting his frustration, he utters, "Bloody bird, one of these days I'll have it stuffed and mounted on the mantel!"

In reality, there's no recourse. Barnabas is not in a position of power and does not have the luxury of making demands to the owl's owner. If he wishes to continue their standing arrangement which includes certain pecuniary advantages along with invitations to exclusive clubs and elite galas, then he must bide his time catering to a slippery though wealthy acquaintance.

A trifling glimpse of all the splendors well beyond reach during his time as a Hogwarts student exposed an unquenchable desire to experience the good life. As luck would have it, operating Britain's most prominent newspaper delivered notoriety and power, but it did not afford the trifecta.

Alas, that leaves the cream colored envelope addressed to Arny in elegant cursive handwriting.

Swiftly crossing the large, well appointed room towards a grand ornamental cherry oak desk and maroon tinted leather arm chair, Barnabas settles comfortably before breaking the amorphous red wax seal. Inside he finds two items: a heavy parchment letter and a pre-filled Gringotts deposit slip.

Dear Arny,

As always, your timely communique is quite illuminating. Two decades later, our society appears on the precipice once again of being mired in campaigns to broaden squib rights. Though the article explicitly asserts creation of a mere support network, those of us who are apt minded can clearly read between the lines. The Consortium and its mysterious benefactor certainly warrants further scrutiny. Regardless, this is a golden opportunity to educate the current generation and reinforce the status quo.

Should you perceive any future developments, then rest assured that my interest will not wane until the disturbance is wholly extinguished. Per our prior accord, see the enclosed token of my appreciation.

Until our mutual interests align, may you have keen sight and sharp hearing ever within grasp.

With Regards,

A charitable friend

Leaning back in satisfaction, Barnabas makes a note to keep an eye on Clara Jenkins, the article's author, as well as any mention of the Consortium. Absentmindedly, he writes a quick note releasing the Sunday Prophet and charms it to fly with a destination on the second floor below.

Shortly the newspaper's weekend edition will travel across the British isles; the odds of one group having the influence to actually reform long held beliefs and cultural norms is decidedly low, but their protracted uphill battle should grant him a very tidy sum.

Later in the day around mid-afternoon and only a short jaunt away, three people stand immobile silently admiring a small window front. The familiar faces of Kiran Singh, Danielle Stone, and Doris Lund appear almost entirely stoic except their eyes which betray overwhelming pride and wonder.

Looking back Danielle reflects on an ordinary and seemingly unimportant afternoon. Two people from diametrically opposing positions within the magical world, where life's circumstances would naturally separate and thus eliminate any chance of meeting one another, defied the odds. A brief interaction within the muggle world not only tied them together, but occurred under ideal conditions to finally connect her with magic. Fortunately, the connection is not isolated to her and was repeated in kind with her closest friends.

From happenstance to deliberate intention, the Consortium was born.

Trial and error demonstrated that the best results occur when following a particular pattern: nature, repetitive task, and a collective of squibs. Preferably three or more squibs wholly surrounded by nature and immersed in a task that frees their mind will enable them to wield internal magic. Of course, their exploration into internal magics is only in the beginning phases and for now focuses primarily on occlumency with secondary efforts on strengthening the body.

Yesterday's once beguiling dream is officially real and tangible. Tomorrow, the grand opening and each day thereafter is one step closer to helping squibs finally regain their place in the magical world.

If a mere nine months and intervention by the-boy-who-lived could irrevocably alter their life trajectory, then what else can happen? And who else can be helped? Just as the three decide to leave, a man wearing an old worn suit with thin scraggly hair calls out to them inquiring about the Consortium.

Misery is defined as wretchedness of condition or circumstances. Sadly, Argus Filch is all too familiar with this word. Even his early days as a young boy weren't spared its oppressing reach. For one reason or another, the curse of squibs within his family particularly paternal kinsmen was notably higher than in others. His earliest memories starting around age four were tainted by an unspoken, but ominous fear of the cellar door. Once he had a beloved elder brother who was led downstairs by an uncle. Two entered followed by a piercing scream and only one returned. Years later though the memories have greatly faded in clarity and detail, the unabating fear remains.

The intervening years until he finally turned 11 years old were haunted by his parents' constant serious miens and forbearance in any laughter as they were basically swallowed by grief. In contrast, their unintentional neglect left his uncle and other relatives unchecked. Night and day there was no respite from intense hostile scrutiny paired with verbal abuse and eventually severe beatings. In the end, all their efforts to evoke accidental magic was in vain.

Surprisingly, he lives today only due to his parent's sacrifice. In a moment of lucidity, they were fiercely protective of him on his birthday - the expected date to receive a Hogwarts letter. Neither parent allowed him to leave their sight which inevitably ruined his uncle and other relatives' scheme to remove the next family shame. During the ensuing struggle, they too died leaving him to the mercy of his attempted murderers.

In one moment, the Department of Magical Children's Welfare within the Ministry saved him, and in the next discarded him like trash upon discovering his status as a squib by promptly leaving him in a muggle orphanage. Over the next 27 years, there was no long-term peace to be had. Neither world whether muggle or magical entirely fit him so frequent bouncing back and forth between the two was unavoidable.

However life appeared to turn around in 1968, when he applied for the Hogwarts caretaker position and became the first squib ever employed. It was like a dream come true! Finally, talented and well respected wizards as well as witches acknowledged his presence instead of ignoring or ridiculing him. All too soon, it turned into a nightmare. Children can be so cruel and unfeeling. Their mockery day in and day out brought back hateful memories reminiscent of his childhood thus unearthing years of suppressed issues.

Sixty years and I come full circle still stuck in misery.

Still chasing magic.

Still hopeful in finding a way to use magic and succeeding when so many others have failed.

The yearning never goes away. Within minutes of reading the article about the Consortium and hearing speculation for months within the squib community, I drop everything and floo from the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade to the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley. Before I know it, I'm walking down the uneven cobblestone paved path towards a vibrant forest green store front.

Even from afar I can tell it's closed, but there's still over a month left of school. Never before had the rules to live and remain within Hogwart's grounds during term seem so restrictive. Earlier this afternoon the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, granted an afternoon leave of absence without batting an eye, but so far today has been a complete waste. Another request this term will essentially bring about an inquiry. Dumbledore calls it an invitation to tea; we both know better.

A man and two women each garbed in quality muggle attire linger before the window. Assuming they're squibs, he straightens his posture and attempts to smooth back his hair then clearly requests, "Beg your pardon for the interruption, my name is Argus Filch. Do any of you happen to know the proprietor or how one can become a member of the Consortium?"

Upon catching their attention, all three turn in his direction. With arms crossed behind his back, the man slowly switches position to clasps his hands together in front. Then, he gently inclined his head in greeting. "Good Evening, Mr. Filch. You are in luck as my companions and I are founding members of the Consortium. My name is Kiran Singh."

Kiran gestures to both women while noticeably pausing on their identification as Danielle Stone and Doris Lund. At the same time, Danielle moves her hand forward. Argus immediately knows that at least two parties in their group were raised under a pureblood household. Swiftly capturing her hand, bending the upper torso above it, and smoothly releasing he steps back allowing at least 3 feet of distance. When Kiran pauses again for Doris, Argus repeats in kind.

With introductions over, Danielle steps forward. "Mr. Filch, I hope my preference for speaking plainly is not offensive. Are you a squib?"

Without hesitation, he responds affirmatively.

A warm, comforting smile appears on her face as she says, "Wonderful, there are two other founding members, Gilbert Bernard and Josefa Marin, as well as a silent partner. For now, you and other prospective members will only interact with those standing before you or the aforementioned Bernard or Marin. Your presence here tonight suggests that you read the Daily Prophet earlier today, yes?"

Argus replies, "Yes, I did read today's article and also conversed with a few acquaintances who hinted at something unbelievable, but I had to come and see for myself. From September to June, I work as the caretaker for Hogwarts and there's not much latitude for leaving school grounds during term. Is there some type of instruction via correspondence or an alternate means for those unable to visit your establishment in person?"

Even before answering, he can read her open expression.

"Regrettably, our services are best employed in more open environments under guidance by at least one of our founding members and also while in the company of other squibs. We started the Consortium with longevity in mind so feel free to join once July comes around."

Seeing the barely concealed disappointment, Danielle continues, "Mr. Filch, you came today seeking hope. You're at the right place, but perhaps not at the right time. I know how you feel because each of us have felt the same ugly gnawing sensation. No matter where you are or what you do, it's always there as a reminder that you don't belong. You're not a muggle, and you're not a wizard. You and I are squibs. Our silent partner coined the acronym S.Q.U.I.B. which stands for Somatic Quirks Unjustly Incur Bigotry. Certainly a mouthful, but it is surprisingly accurate. Our bodies are full of magic and wizards myopically thought the lack of it's external expression somehow made us lesser, but we're not. We can show you a new world; you simply have to open the door. Come back in July."

Argus pauses in contemplation before he silently nods in agreement and walks away.