House: Ravenclaw , Category: Short , Prompt: Argus Filch , WC: 1075

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At the age of nine, Argus Filch was pushed out of a window.

One moment he had been resting his small arms against the sill, glancing out at the golden world, the sun setting behind horizon and heavy clouds. The next, hands were at his back and shoving hard. It was lucky that he fell into the thick grass down below in the back garden, instead of the paving stones out the front. Those were the thoughts that occupied his mind as shock kept the pain away. Just able to turn his head to look up, he had seen his mother staring down at him from the window. She had been the one to push him.

In a moment of frustration, Cindy Filch had overstepped that boundary that had lain between motherhood and desperation. For the past nine years, she had been waiting with bated breath for the moment her son would expel his first spurt of magic. She had imagined it in a number of ways. She had imagined that he might accidentally shatter a vase in anger, or create some sort of firework from joy, or maybe burn a hole in any of the horrible shirts that had been handed down to him from Argus' father. She had been waiting for the moment in which it would cascade out of him in a single wave. Maybe he had been waiting for the most perfect timing, she had thought. But no.

In his nine years of life, Argus Filch had never expressed any sort of inclination towards magic or wizardry. He had never done anything that wasn't practically muggle. And Cindy felt like a complete failure - as a witch, and as a mother. She had raised a squib. Raised him into a squib. He had been considered for Hogwarts, but now it was an absolute impossibility.

She had expected this to be a catalyst for a bright beginning; she had expected her son to fly. Instead, Argus fell.

He tumbled from the two-storey building in the middle of the magical residency, calling out for help in the seconds it took for him to hit the ground. There was a moment in which he realised he was falling, but it was filled with fear and questioning. He didn't think of magic. He thought of dying. He thought he would surely die when he hit the ground. It was close.

When Cindy reached him, her son was very much broken. Both legs, one arm. His nose. Several toes. Numerous other things too. Mostly, it was his spirit that was damaged. Seeing his mother's face caught in surprise in the window was like falling from the same window a hundred times over in a row. It meant that she had no faith in him. She wanted him to be magical. She didn't want him the way he was.

His mother patched him up afterwards, cleared the blood, and made him some hot chocolate to calm the tears of shock. She was gentle, even though she too was in shock. He's a squib, she thought. A squib.

Unlike his mother, Argus had not entirely thought of magic. He had siblings at Hogwarts, with blossoming ability. But he had never considered it as much of a path. He thought maybe of being a gardener, or an artist. He was only nine, of course, and he supposed those were silly dreams for a wizard to have. He was perfectly alright with not having magic in the same way the rest of his family did.

However, this sunshine view of his magical-inability did not last long.

His thoughts soon turned to the days he wouldn't spend at Hogwarts. The letter he would never get. It was as though his mother pushing him from the window was a sort of a starter pistol for every fear of failure a ten-year-old child should not have. Where would he go if he didn't have magic? Would he have to attend a muggle school? He was certainly not prejudiced against them, but his life had been geared towards magic without his childish knowledge. He had never been taught anything useful for the muggle world. Never. What did other squibs do with their lives?

On the day he turned eleven, he tried to make his hair grow by glaring at his reflection in the back of a spoon. It didn't work, and his mother watched his back in near-desperation. His siblings sent sweets and treats from Hogsmeade, with wishes that they would see him there soon. If anything, this made everything worse. He bade his parents a pleasant day and disappeared upstairs.

July fifteenth, he received a letter from Hogwarts. A letter full of regretful remarks and deepest apologies from the Headmaster. Armando Dippet was extremely sorry that Argus could not be accepted into Hogwarts at this time, and hoped to see him another time. What rubbish, Argus thought. He threw the letter into the bin after tearing it into the smallest of pieces. His siblings didn't ask about the letter. Argus knew that his mother and father had engaged in hushed conversation with them once they returned from Hogwarts. Neither of them had said hardly a word to their brother. Instead, dinner times were quiet and lonely, and the house felt more isolating than ever before.

Argus felt trapped.

Three years later, his sister was graduated from Hogwarts. He wasn't certain what he was doing with his life. He spent the days gardening for his aged mother, and helping out around the small houses in the village. Mrs Kings was polite to him, in spite of his uselessness. It was difficult to remain cheerful with his sister going off to work in the Ministry, and his brother going into his sixth year, passing with flying colours in his OWLs. It was difficult to forget what a disappointment he was.

He remembered the day Albus Dumbledore was appointed Headmaster of the school he both desired and detested. Dumbledore sent him a letter to ask whether Argus would like a job at the school, to be more involved in the magical community. Argus was just the ripe age of twenty-eight when he packed the trunk and left his home in exchange for the enormous school, filled with talented witches and wizards, who were filled with magic he was unable to perform.

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