Despite the best efforts of Filch and several of the professors, the writing on the wall of the corridor would not come off. McGonagall and Filch finally decided to pin a couple oriental rugs from an unused classroom over the message.

For days, Ginny was disconsolate about Mrs. Norris. Despite Frida, Hilda and Ron's attempts to comfort her, she withdrew further into her thoughts.

Hilda, too, was upset by the incident, which is why the Saturday after she made her way to Filch's office with a plate of biscuits supplied by the kitchen house elves.

Filch answered his door, greeting Hilda with a scowl. "What do you want?" he asked. Obviously, he still had his suspicions about Hilda's involvement.

"I brought you a gift," Hilda said, holding up the platter.

"How can I be sure those Weasley twins didn't pull one of their hexes on those?" Filch asked, lifting the tin foil and glancing at the treats.

Hilda picked one from the selection and bit into it, smiling innocently. "See, no hexes, I promise."

Filch seemed wary, but he stepped aside, opening the door wider. "Well, come in then," he said gruffly.

Hilda walked into the office and took a seat across Filch's desk, placing the tray between her and the caretaker. Filch walked over to a small samovar. "Tea?" he asked, picking up a chipped and handleless mug.

"Thank you."

Filch brought two mugs over, handing one to Hilda. "So, what's with the display of compassion?" He asked, sipping his tea and squinting at the girl. "Come to take pity on a poor old squib?"

Hilda looked at the caretaker in shock. "What happened to your voice?" The growly, rough accent had vanished, replaced with a smooth, surprisingly pleasant tenor.

"Keeping up appearances," Filch said, reaching up with one hand and pulling off his hair. It was actually a wig, revealing a short-cut head of brown hair underneath. Opening a desk drawer, he produced a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and put them on, blinking a few times. "Much better." Without the dirty old man getup, Filch looked twenty years younger.

"I… Why the disguise?" Hilda asked.

"Can't put the fear in the old students looking like a banker," Filch explained. "At first, no one took me seriously. Thus the subterfuge."

"But why share your secret with me?"

"Who's going to believe you?" Filch asked, smirking. "So, what do you really want?" he asked, some of the old menace returning to his voice.

"I wanted to talk to you," Hilda said. "And tell you that I don't hate you for being a squib."

Filch shrugged. "Doesn't prove anything."

"What do you want?" Hilda asked, resisting the urge to tug at her hair in frustration. "I didn't petrify Mrs. Norris, yet I'm trying to apologize for something I had nothing to do with."

"Very peculiar, I'll admit."

Who knows how your mind works, the Voice said. I don't, and I live here.

Filch sagged back into his chair. Suddenly, the hint of a smile came to his thin, jagged mouth. "You want to make apologies? I think I have a way for you to do so."

"You're doing what?" Frida asked.

"I'm helping Mr. Filch with some of the custodial work," Hilda replied nonchalantly, spooning a glob of potatoes onto her plate.

"Why would you do that?" Ron asked. His mouth was full, though, so it came out more like "Whuhwud yew doat?" He finally swallowed and continued. "He's just horrible."

"I think he's bitter," Hilda conceded.

"Doesn't give him the right to be a rotter." Ron chuckled suddenly. "Filch, terror of the schools, a squib." Hermione and Hilda punched Ron on either arm. "Ow! What was that for?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You sounded just like Malfoy there."

"You take that back!"

"So you're going to be giving away all your weekend to helping Filch, voluntarily?" David repeated.

"What's the big deal?"

"But our study schedule!" Frida picked up her gameplan notebook. "We're supposed to review for the Potions exam all this weekend."

"Oh no," Hilda said, giggling. "I guess I'll just fail the exam. Shame."

"Arms feeling tired yet?" Filch asked mockingly. The girl was on her knees, scrubbing the floors of the entry hall alone. Hilda noticed that Filch was back in his disguise. It was so odd, knowing his secret. She couldn't imagine how anyone could fail to notice the obvious falsity of his hair, the exaggerated accent, and the fake gnarled fingernails that occasionally popped off to the caretaker's annoyance.

"I'm fine," Hilda replied stubbornly.

Filch shook his head. "Don't lie to me, Miss Dahl. You've been at it for five hours now. Can't have you dying of exhaustion with the floor half-finished." He looked around the hall to make sure no one else was around. "Not too awful a first go," he noted, dropping the voice. He produced a thermos and poured a cup of tea. "Here. Take a break."

"Thanks." Hilda took the mug and drank. "This is exhausting. You must work so hard to keep this castle clean. You're one man, yet you keep everything spotless without magic."

"Not bad, for a squib, ay?" Filch asked, laughing. "That's possibly the first compliment a student has given me."

"Well, you are rather harsh on them."

"Why should I be nice?" Filch snapped. "No respect; I get no respect. People treat me like a ghost, prowling the halls, snatching up unsuspecting first-years and whipping the hides off them."

"You do threaten to do that a lot," Hilda pointed out.

"I try so hard to hide the fact I'm a squib, Miss Dahl. Yet every few years a student or two find out and make my life a living nightmare. You've no doubt noticed, but the Wizarding World isn't a paradise."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why am I even telling you all of this?" Filch asked himself. He shook his head. "I'll admit, ever since I got Mrs. Norris, I've shared my woes with her. Now that she's…well, I guess I've kept everything bottled up."

"She'll be fine, Mr. Filch. Professor Sprout will harvest the Mandrakes in the spring, and she'll be up and running around the castle."

"Suppose you're right," Filch grumbled.

"Could you tell me what it was like?" Hilda suddenly asked, setting down her mug.

"What what's like?"

"Growing up a squib."

Filch sighed, finished off his tea, and sighed again. "My father was disappointed when I showed no magical ability. For eleven years he tried to force the magic out of me. His last hope was sending me to Hogwarts to be sorted. Could you imagine my fright? Riding on the Hogwarts express, knowing full well I was in for failure. And yet when you're a child, there's always hope. I wouldn't have gotten on that train if I hadn't a glimmer of hope."

"So what happened?"

"The Sorting Hat was plonked on my head, and what did it say? 'No Magic!' Hall burst into laughter, and I was hustled out crying to be interrogated-Dippett, the old headmaster was worried a muggle had gotten through the wards somehow. Well, when things were cleared up, I was sent home a laughingstock. After that, my father sent me off to the Muggle world. Told his friends I'd died. Saved him the embarrassment, I suppose."

"That's awful," Hilda said. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Filch replied, standing up. "I've long given up accepting condolences."

"So why did you return to the magical world?"

Filch shrugged. "Dumbledore contacted me. He remembered the Sorting debacle, as well as my father disowning me. Say what you will about the Headmaster, but he has a soft spot for lost causes-look at Snape. Offered me a job, and here I am, twenty years later, a bitter man, old before his time. I'm only 47, can you believe that?"

"I think you sell yourself short. You obviously give a lot of your time to this school. I think you should be proud of your work."

"Maybe," Filch said, smiling in spite of himself. "Very kind of you to say that." He picked up the brush and tossed it to Hilda. "Break's over. I want to see my face in those stones."

Six hours later, Hilda stumbled into the Gryffindor common room and collapsed in a sofa by the fire. Ron and Harry glanced up from their Charms essays. "Did it go well?" Harry asked.

"My everything hurts."

"That's what you get for trying to please the whole world," Ron muttered.

Hilda sat up. "Haven't you realized that Filch cleans this entire castle."

Ron was about to scoff when he remembered. "Wait, the whole castle? Without magic?" Hilda nodded. "Cripes, I guess that explains the attitude."

"Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on him," Hilda noted. Ron grumbled something. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you?"

Harry spoke up. "What Ron was trying to say was, does he need any help next weekend?" Ron looked at Harry as Caesar looked at Brutus.

"What have you started?" Filch asked, watching in disbelief as Ron Weasley—one of the banes of his existence—and Harry Potter beat the dust out of a tapestry of Ophelia the Flame-Retardant.

"What makes you think I had anything to do with this?" Hilda asked.

Filch fixed an eye on Hilda and studied her for a few moments. "Anyone ever tell you you're completely mad?"

You don't know the half of it, the Voice said, amusement evident in its voice.

"Come," Filch said, "Let's get some tea for the boys. Can't let them pass out from exhaustion, I suppose."

"What happened to 'the whip is too good for them?'" Hilda asked, smirking.

"He's in hibernation. Best not to wake him with cheek," Filch warned tauntingly.

In the office, Filch busied himself with the samovar, while Hilda looked around the chaotic mess of knick-knacks on the walls and every available surface. While Filch was meticulous in keeping the school clean, his zeal didn't extend to his own office.

Hilda picked up a picture frame and wiped some dust from the glass. It was a muggle photograph of four men holding instruments and glowering at the camera. Hilda recognized Argus Filch on the far left, his hair short and well-kempt, holding an electric guitar. "What's this?" she asked, showing the picture to Filch.

Filch's eyes widened. "Was wondering where that went to," he muttered, taking the frame. He shook himself from his nostalgia trip. "It's nothing."

"C'mon, were you in a band?" Hilda continued, pressing the caretaker for an answer.

Filch sighed. "Yes, for a while. We called ourselves the Squibs—Lou, Rockwell, and Niall were muggles, so it was sort of an inside joke. We were a bunch of smug art-school punks, convinced we'd be bigger than the Beatles. Never really took off, though we cut one album shortly before the breakup. It's here somewhere," he walked over to an overstuffed filing cabinet and rummaging through hit until he came up with an LP. "Here it is. Haven't listened to it in ages."

"And you played the guitar?"

Filch smiled. "I wanted some sort of a hobby to fit in with the muggles at school."

"Hilda nodded. "When I first moved to Trolberg from the wilderness, I had trouble fitting in."

Filch chuckled. "You did a good job of that. Andersen and Aiken seem like a good lot. Plus, you have Harry Potter watching your back. Not bad for a new bug."

Hilda's smile faded as she reflected on the last few weeks. "Can I talk to you?"

"By all means," Filch gestured to the chair across from his. "You've kept my secret, and I respect that."

Hilda sat down and sighed. "I have been told by several people that there is a…darkness in me."

Filch leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "How so?"

"Mr. Ollivander told me that he sensed it in me. He told me my wand was capable of great darkness and great good."

"Ollivander is a bit of loony," Filch said, waving the wandmaker away as though he were a fly in the room.

"So did the Sorting Hat."

Filch nodded. "Hmm. And what do you think about the whole thing? Do you feel that there is an evil in you?"

Hilda bit her lip before continuing. "For the last month, I've been hearing a voice in the back of my mind."

You grasser, the Voice hissed.

"What does it say?"

"Well, right now it called me a grasser."

Filch rolled his eyes. "No, not just now. What has it said to you to make you so afraid?"

"It told me to cast a Cruciatus on Malfoy. I almost did, but my magical core rejected it."

"Troubling," Filch said, sipping from his mug. "And have you followed any other… advice this voice has offered."

"No, but I'm scared," Hilda said. "I'm scared it will take control again."

Filch mused over the matter for a minute. "Miss Dahl, this voice is a voice that many people have dealt with, albeit not quite so literally. You are afraid of this darkness, and that is understandable, but you always have a choice. You are a good person, Miss Dahl. That has been evident ever since we've properly met."

Hilda considered Filch's words. "Ollivander said that the wand chooses the wizard, but the wizard controls the wand."

"Exactly. So far, you have shown me no evidence other than your fears that you are a future Dark Lord, er, Lady. No matter where you go from here, Hilda, it is determined by your decisions, not the Voice's."

Hilda nodded and gave a smile, but she didn't feel entirely convinced. "Thank you, Mr. Filch. I'd better head back to the dormitory."

"Remember that my office is always open. Goodnight, Hilda."

Hilda walked up the stairs, lost in thought. Halfway up, the stairs shifted. "Hey!" she called up at the next flight. "I need to get up there. Move back!" The stairs seemed disinclined to obey. Growling, Hilda detoured down the nearest corridor, hoping to find another staircase to get up the rest of the way.

A few hundred feet down the corridor, she heard something. A rustling of a cloak. Glancing to her right, she saw a door slightly ajar. As she looked, a shadow passed between the door and the light from a window. "Hello?" Hilda asked, stepping closer. She pulled out her wand, cast a Lumos, and pushed open the door.

It was an old storage room, the shelves for the most part dusty, their contents long-neglected. Hilda stopped and grabbed a textbook off of the nearest shelf. She opened it and saw it was an old Potions book. "Property of the Halfblood Prince?" She said, reading the inscription on the front endpaper. Shrugging, she put the book back.

A few rows of shelves over there was another noise, the sound of something falling. Hilda walked over and saw a dust cloth had fallen off of a tall mirror in an elaborate gilt frame. Above the glass was an inscription.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

Hilda glanced down from the inscription to the glass, watching her reflection. As she stood there, she realized that a black figure had materialized just behind her. Spinning around, she saw there was no one, but turning back, the figure was still in the mirror. It leaned in towards her ear.

This is not a choice, Hilda. The Voice whispered. This is destiny. This power, this darkness inside you will grow. It's growing now, day by day, a black spot, bigger and bigger.

The figure in the mirror reached over Hilda's shoulder and tapped at Hilda's chest, right above her heart. Hilda gasped as a cold force pierced through her. You and I are bound for greatness, whether you like it or not, the Voice continued. And you have two options going forward: We can get along and work together, or I will take control and destroy you. The finger pushed into Hilda's skin, and she fell to her knees, crying out in pain but unable to make a sound. After what seemed like hours the pain ceased. When Hilda wiped the tears from her eyes and looked up at the glass the black figure was gone.

Remember, the Voice whispered. Hilda stood up, grabbed her bag, and ran from the room as though the Devil himself were following her.