Chapter 22

31st of August 1991
Hogwarts

Argus Filch slumped in his rickety chair, scratching Mrs. Norris behind the ears with one hand and nursing a tepid cup of tea with the other. The rain drummed a relentless tattoo against the grimy windows of his little office, mirroring his gloomy mood. He sighed heavily, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

"What's the point, Mrs. Norris?" he muttered, staring at the clutter of confiscated joke items and ancient cleaning supplies that filled his office. "Cleaning? Why bother when the blasted house-elves do it all?"

Mrs. Norris purred, completely uninterested in Filch's existential crisis. Filch glanced around, his eyes lingering on the shelves of forgotten magical mischief. He was only here because of some archaic clause in the school's charter that hadn't been updated since house-elves started doing the real work centuries ago, when they had been introduced to Great Britain. And, if he was honest, probably because the headmasters had pitied him.

"So here I am," he grumbled, scratching Mrs. Norris a bit more vigorously. "Bored out of my bloody mind." The cat yawned, her eyes half-closed in feline contentment.

Filch's daily routine was a monotonous cycle. Night patrols, a bit of deterring rule-breakers, supervising detentions, and... that was about it. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the Weasley twins, those little orange-haired devils. Catching them in the act was a rare spark of excitement, but it was fleeting.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, standing abruptly and pacing the cramped room. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a battered spellbook, its pages yellowed and dog-eared. He flipped through it, eyes scanning the familiar incantations that had once filled him with hope. "All those nights trying to levitate a feather or light a candle," he said, shaking his head. "And what did I get? Absolutely nothing. I'm a Squib, through and through."

Mrs. Norris meowed, rubbing her head against his hand as if in sympathy. Filch let the book fall shut with a thud, slumping back into his chair. "What I wouldn't give to hex those little brats just once," he muttered wistfully.

To his utter astonishment, a Phoenix Patronus appeared before him, its radiant feathers casting a surreal glow around his cluttered office. "What in Merlin's name?" he whispered, eyes wide. A summons from the Headmaster? That had never happened. Ever.

He rose hesitantly, trailing after the ethereal bird. Instead of leading him to the familiar path towards Dumbledore's office, the Patronus glided downwards into the dungeons. Filch shivered involuntarily. He knew that the Headmaster's alchemy lab was somewhere in the dungeon's labyrinthine corridors. About a month ago, Dumbledore had taken over the entire aisle down here. Only three house-elves were allowed in—ancient, trustworthy creatures who wore bracelets to be detected by the wards. Did Dumbledore intend to turn him into something? Filch had no real understanding of alchemy, only that it involved transformations and mysterious substances.

The Phoenix led him past two towering golems that guarded the entrance to a restricted aisle. Their stone eyes seemed to follow him, and Filch gulped audibly, trying to muster his courage. As he trailed the glowing bird, he passed doors sealed with heavy, rattling chains that even made him shudder. "Creepy as a bloody graveyard at midnight," he muttered, feeling a cold sweat trickle down his spine.

Finally, the Phoenix stopped before a small, inconspicuous door. It swung open, revealing a cramped space that looked suspiciously like a hastily repurposed broom closet. Filch blinked, momentarily flummoxed. Was Dumbledore receiving him in a broom closet? Inside was a simple desk cluttered with parchments, alchemical tools, and the faint smell of something sharp and chemical.

The Headmaster himself sat behind the desk, his piercing blue eyes twinkling with an almost mischievous light. "Ah, Argus," Dumbledore said, his voice warm and inviting. "Do come in. I hope the journey wasn't too daunting."

Filch stepped inside, feeling completely out of his depth. "Er, Headmaster, you summoned me?"

"Indeed I did," Dumbledore replied, his smile widening. Filch blinked, taking in the sight before him. The Headmaster was dressed like a Muggle scientist—white lab coat, safety glasses perched on his nose, and a loose tie that looked like it had been an afterthought. Filch recognized the look; it was straight out of The Big Bang Theory, his guilty pleasure.

"Er, Headmaster," Filch began, trying to shake off his confusion, "what can I do for you?"

Dumbledore didn't bother with pleasantries. "Argus, you're a Squib. You're ugly, you stink, and you're about as useful as a chocolate teapot."

Filch felt his face heat up. The bluntness hit him like a hex to the gut. It hurt because it was true. He shuffled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression serious but with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I've been working on something special. A concoction inspired by some Muggle bloke—Steve Rogers. Well, he does not exist. But we don't care. Now, considering you're a poor excuse for a human and generally useless, I'm offering you a chance to change your miserable life."

Filch's eyes widened. "A... a chance? For me?" His voice wavered with a mix of hope and disbelief. Could this be what he had been waiting for his whole life? Was really Dumbledore Wizard-Jesus - or Wizard-Bob-Ross for atheists ?

Dumbledore nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Yes. It won't turn you into a wizard, but it'll make you... different. Magical, in a sense."

Filch's heart pounded with excitement. "I'll do it, Headmaster! Whatever it takes!"

Dumbledore's smile turned wicked. "Hold your hippogriffs, Argus. There's a catch."

Filch's eagerness morphed into apprehension. "A catch? What kind of catch?"

Dumbledore leaned back, looking every bit the mad scientist. "This potion requires a sacrifice. Something dear to you. Something that'll hurt to give up."

Filch gulped, feeling a knot form in his stomach. "W-what do I have to give up?"

Dumbledore burst into laughter, the sound rich and booming, reverberating off the stone walls. "Oh, Argus, you should see your face! I'm just yanking your chain. The only thing I need from you is your loyalty."

Filch blinked, relief washing over him. "My loyalty? That's all?"

Dumbledore nodded, still grinning. "That's it. Think you can handle that?"

"Absolutely, Headmaster! You have my loyalty," Filch said, the eagerness in his voice palpable.

Dumbledore's smile grew a bit more serious, though his eyes continued to twinkle with amusement. "Good. But just to ensure you're properly... committed, I've invented something. Think of it as a brand, a magical contract of sorts."

Filch's heart skipped a beat. The word "brand" conjured images of the Dark Mark, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of fear. But then he reminded himself of his dreary existence. What did he have to lose?

Dumbledore noticed his hesitation and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't look so glum, Argus. This isn't like the Dark Mark. It's more of a magical contract. In a tattoo. That link yourself to me, and that allow me to summon y…Okey, it's like the Dark Mark. But better, because I'm a fucking great wizard. Don't know how I will call it, though."

Filch swallowed hard but nodded. "Alright, Headmaster. I'm ready."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together with a gleeful smile. "Excellent! Let's get started."

1st of September 1991
London

Rita Skeeter awoke with a start, her heart pounding as the remnants of yet another bizarre dream clung to her mind. This time, Dumbledore had been riding a unicycle made of flamingo bones, juggling dragon eggs while reciting sonnets in Gobbledegook. He wore a top hat adorned with live mice that occasionally leaped off, only to float back down on tiny parachutes. To make matters worse, a choir of bowtruckles provided background music, singing in perfect harmony.

"Fuck," Rita muttered, rubbing her temples. "What on earth is wrong with me?"

Dragging herself out of bed, she stumbled through her morning routine, her movements sluggish and her eyes half-closed from too many sleepless nights plagued by nightmares. She brushed her teeth with a brush that looked suspiciously like it might sprout legs and scamper off, then nearly drowned herself in the sink while trying to splash some water on her face.

She haphazardly slapped on her face cream, missing several spots, and trudged to the kitchen. Her owl, Nimbus, hooted reproachfully from his perch as she fumbled with the coffee pot, spilling grounds everywhere. "Shut up, Nimbus," she grumbled. "I need caffeine, not commentary."

With coffee in hand, she moved to the living room, where her morning continued to unravel. She tripped over her slippers, nearly crashing into the coffee table. A curse escaped her lips as she almost stabbed herself in the eye with her mascara. Still blinking away the tears from that near-miss, she pulled on her socks, only to realize they were mismatched.

Finally, she grabbed her nightgown from the back of the couch, intending to toss it into the laundry basket. Instead, she found herself slipping it over the head of Alastor Moody, who was sitting on her couch with a bemused expression. Rita sighed, deciding the fashion mishap was the least of her worries, and yanked a blouse over her head. It wasn't until she was halfway through buttoning it that she noticed it was inside out. Groaning, she tugged it off, knocking over a pile of magazines in the process. She yelped as she stubbed her toe on the coffee table, hopping on one foot and muttering a string of colorful expletives.

Wait... What?

"AAAAHHHH!" Rita screamed, her voice echoing through the apartment. What was Alastor fucking Moody, the boogeyman of the underworld, doing on her couch?

She stumbled backward, her legs tangling in the rug, and fell hard on her backside. Before she could scramble to her feet, Moody flicked his wand, and ropes shot out, ensnaring her wrists and ankles, binding her tight.

"Auror Moody, you can't do this!" she shrieked, her voice high and panicked. "I have rights! Freedom of the press, liberty of expression! I'll write articles exposing you, I'll—"

"You know not declaring your Animagus form is fucking illegal, right?"

Rita's blood turned to ice. "How did you—"

"Don't know how Albus figured it out, but let's test it, shall we?" He waved his wand, and a spell shot toward her, engulfing her in a sinister purple glow.

"Fucking criminal…you're a waste of magical space. You sneaky, scheming, snot-nosed excuse for a journalist. You're lower than a doxy, more treacherous than a venomous tentacula, and about as trustworthy as a three-Knut wand."

Rita's heart pounded as the glow faded, realization dawning. She was caught. "Please, Master Auror Moody, you can't—"

Moody sneered down at her, his magical eye whirling menacingly. "Begging already? Pathetic."

"Please," she whimpered, her bravado shattered. "I'll do anything, just don't turn me in."

Moody leaned back on the couch, looking almost relaxed. "Well, well, seems you do understand the gravity of your situation. Good. We're going to make a deal, Skeeter."

Rita's mind raced, desperately seeking a way out. "What kind of deal?"

"A simple one," Moody said, his voice calm but threatening. "You'll use that venomous pen of yours to help us, and in return, I won't toss your sorry arse into Azkaban for illegal Animagus activity and whatever other shit I can dig up on you."

She swallowed hard, trapped. "Help you? How?"

Moody's smile was chilling. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough. But first, let's get you out of those ropes. Can't have one of our PR minion looking like a common criminal, even if you are one."