At breakfast the next day, Harry saw the delivery owls flutter in. He hadn't written his monthly letter to Uncle Vernon yet; it was something he planned to do tonight after his detention with Filch. However, Harry was quite surprised when an owl flew down and dropped a letter in front of him.

"Who's sending you letters now, Potter?" Draco peered over his shoulder as he ate a rasher of bacon. Harry shrugged at his friend, before tearing open the letter.

Heir Harry James Potter,

I admit I am quite disappointed in your punctuality. I did not imagine you would be one to forget a request from someone, but I am afraid that you have proven me wrong.

I have been eagerly awaiting your letter in the mail ever since you stepped into my shop at the end of August. Imagine my surprise when I received no letter or message from you, despite stating you should send me mail at your earliest convenience.

I implore you not to allow this to happen again. A man of my talents is often busy, and when I have to be the one to reach out to the other party, it sets a precedent that I must do this for all customers. No, I should be the one that they approach, not the other way around.

Now, enclosed with this letter in a Holding Charm is a large beaker. This beaker will allow you to save an item, should you find it, that would work well for you. Any magical object that seems to resonate with you would work so be on the lookout for such items. The most common items are those of stone, bone, wood, and hide.

Also enclosed is a small wand holster. This holster will hold your wand. It is a personal design of mine unavailable to the normal customer. It will be simple to shift its size to any new wand I make for you in the future. For the time being, it is sized to exactly match your holly and phoenix feather wand.

Finally, please send me a letter yourself, when you can. It no longer needs to be punctual, since you seem to have trouble with that, but sometime before the new year would be best. If you can find any magical items that would work well with your wand, I would implore you to send me a letter immediately. I have information to give you that would require a return letter spelled for security, which would not work should I be the one who sends it. Magic sometimes works by its own rules, especially with Merlin's Decree.

I await your reply, Garrick Ollivander

Harry blushed with private embarrassment. He had completely forgotten that Ollivander had told him to write to him!

Draco looked at Harry. "Well? Going to share who sent you a letter, Potter?"

Crabbe and Goyle seemed interested too, leaning forward.

"It was Mister Ollivander, the wandmaker."

Draco jumped in his seat a bit, immediately trying to look at the letter in Harry's hand. "What's Ollivander doing, sending YOU a letter?" Draco asked. "He doesn't really talk to ANYone outside of that shop of his."

"I don't know. He said my wand was the best I could do for now, but he also said I need to keep an eye out for magically-infused objects that could be used for my wand." Harry's thought slid to the stone around his neck. Would that work? Mr. Ollivander did say stone, bone, and wood. If only Harry hadn't given up the Stone Troll tusk… but something resistant to magic wouldn't make a good wand, right?

Almost as if he'd read Harry's mind, Draco shook his head. "Stone Troll tusks wouldn't ever be able to be made into a wand, Potter. They're too brittle. Most magical creature teeth would never be able to handle a wizard's magic running through it."

"Oh, that's good, then. I was wondering if I made a mistake." Harry admitted, the tension in his shoulders easing as he spoke. "He did say I need to write him back, though. Something about needing to use a security spell."

Nott, having been listening down the table, leaned in. "Merlin, Potter. A Security Charm? That's Gringotts-tier magic. It has to be cast on the letter, and can only be done on a reply because otherwise it messes with an owl's sense of direction."

Harry looked down at Nott. "Why doesn't it do it when it's cast on a reply, then?"

"The owl already knows your magical signature, and can return to you with only a fraction of its own magic. Something to do with the return trip being easier, I suppose." Nott explained thoughtfully.

Harry nodded. He'd have to write a letter to both Uncle Vernon and Mister Ollivander that evening. And this time he wouldn't forget!

Harry sighed and trudged toward Filch's office, his footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet corridors. The trek took him deeper into the castle than he'd expected as he carefully retraced the directions he'd been given. This was his first real detention, after all; not one of the "detentions with Professor McGonagall" that Snape had given him.

Making his way down the hallway, he suddenly found himself being tailed. Curious, Harry looked over his shoulder and saw the familiar, fluffy form of Mrs. Norris. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Norris. Heading to see Mr. Filch for my detention. You here to escort me?"

The fluffy cat gave a meow mixed with a hiss. To Harry, it sounded like she was angry he got the detention in the first place. Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "I know, I know. I shouldn't have gotten detention. But Ron was being a right prat on Halloween. He made Hermione cry!"

The cat didn't respond, so Harry turned the corner and moved towards the large oaken door of Filch's office. He had been told by a lot of the other Slytherins that Filch was the worst person to get detentions with. He believed in corporal punishment and liked stringing people up.

Harry gulped, an unsettling image flashing through his mind—himself, bound and hanging from the wall in rusty chains. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but he forced himself to take a steadying breath before raising his hand to knock.

Before the sound of his knock fully echoed through the corridor, the door creaked open. Filch stood there, peering out with narrowed eyes. "You're early," he said, his voice a mix of suspicion and surprise. "No one's ever shown up early for detention before."

"I didn't w-want to be late, Mister Filch." Harry said quickly. The old caretaker opened the door, allowing Harry into the office.

It wasn't as grand as Professor Snape's office, nor as homey as Hagrid's cottage. The gray stone walls were stark and lifeless, devoid of any warmth or color. Along one wall stood a row of filing cabinets—distinctly Muggle in design, their metal frames incongruous with the magical surroundings. At the center of the room sat a heavy, utilitarian desk, flanked by two equally unremarkable chairs, all of the same Muggle construction. An oil lamp rested on the desk, casting flickering, orange light that bathed the room in an unsettling, shadowy glow.

Harry gulped audibly when he saw the wall in front of the desk had three pairs of shackles attached to chains on the wall. Was he really going to be strung up like the rumours suggested? Filch made his way to the desk, grabbing a stack of papers and a quill before turning. "Have so many things to do other than to watch over blasted little brats." Harry heard the caretaker mumble as he wrote something down.

The man spun around and gestured out the door. "Alright, Potter. Follow me. You're going to be washing toilets. Make sure to grab that bucket and brush. And you're not to use any magic, either."

Noticing a bucket and brush next to the door, Harry quickly grabbed it. Was that his detention? Simple washing? He was good with that. Perhaps Mister Filch would be impressed if he did it well. Harry followed the old caretaker as they made their way down the hall. Passing down a flight of stairs, the older man continued to grumble as they moved to the first floor.

"You made a mess of the bathroom, so it's fitting you'll get to clean it up. First, you get to sweep up the porcelain that's scattered everywhere. Then, the toilets have to be scrubbed and the scuffs worked out of the tile."

Harry nodded and walked into the bathroom without protest. Getting to work, Harry found his mind idly wandering. Thanks to muscle memory, he found the work simple enough that he zoned out. It didn't take long before Harry was finished, sweeping up the porcelain into a rubbish bin that Filch had supplied. Next to him, Mrs. Norris seemed to be watching Harry with unblinking eyes.

"You're a fast one, Potter. Most take the entire detention to get a single job done. Rely too much on their magic, they do." The grizzled old caretaker said, leaning on a rather sturdy-looking broom. He reached out and took Harry's broom when the boy walked over to him.

"I'm practiced, sir." Harry said politely.

The man shrugged with a grunt. "Well, come with me. It's barely halfway through your detention and there's always more work to do."

Harry walked alongside the older man, curiosity getting the better of him as he finally spoke up. "So why do you do it all without magic? Wouldn't it be easier to flick your wand and clean it immediately? Is there not a spell that does that, sir?"

Filch froze and peered downat Harry, a scowl on his face. "Are you making fun of me, Potter?"

Harry gulped, shaking his head quickly. "No, sir. I-I was simply curious."

The scowl on Filch's face got deeper as he glared at Harry, but he simply returned to walking without scolding the boy. The disgust was evident in his voice, though Harry didn't know if it was directed at him, or towards himself. "Everyone knows I'm a Squib. Always have been. I don't have any magic."

Realization struck Harry like a jolt. So that's what a real Squib looked like to his eyes. He could see the man's magic, faint and restless, trapped behind an impenetrable barrier. It writhed like a caged flame, straining to break free but with no path to escape—an ember buried beneath a crushing weight, flickering faintless yet unable to ignite.

"What was that jump, Potter? You think you're too good to be around a Squib too? Just like your little Slytherin friends."

The comment made Harry shake his head, "No sir. I was thinking of something else. Your revelation answered a few questions I had." Not wanting to insult the man, Harry had thought carefully of his statement. However, it didn't seem to work.

"What? That I'm so pathetic it makes sense I'm a Squib? Or that you agree with the others? That I'm not as good as a wizard?" Filch growled, almost like an animal. At the same time, Harry saw Mrs. Norris' tail flick, then she suddenly leapt up and jumped on Filch's shoulders.

The man seemed to tense up, but then a wave of calm swept over him and Harry saw an opportunity to answer. "No, sir! I just-" Harry was nervous, cutting himself off. If he told the man about how he saw magic inside of him, Mister Filch would think he was crazy. It would be best not to mention that, for now. "I saw something. I'm sorry that they treat you like that, though." Harry thought of how Neville was treated for even being considered a squib; he couldn't imagine what Mister Filch had to go through.

"Not having magic doesn't make me less of a person than a normal wizard, Potter. Don't you ever forget that. Now, get in there and dust the room. After you've finished that, move to the next room. This entire hall of rooms is needing a good cleaning and you'll be the one doing it." The man gave Harry back his broom, gesturing at the long hallway. It was one that Harry recognized from his exploring; just a hall of empty classrooms.

Still, Harry set to work, methodically dusting the surfaces in front of him. He noticed Mrs Norris hop off Filch's shoulder, her tail twitching as she began pacing the hallway with a predator's vigilance. Meanwhile, Mister Filch stood nearby, his beady eyes fixed on Harry's every move. As he worked, Harry spoke to pass the time. "Sir, might I ask what life is like as a Squib in the magical world?"

Filch's face twisted, the familiar glint of fury flashing in his eyes. For a moment, Harry braced himself, expecting a tirade. But as Filch's gaze lingered on Harry—his small figure bent earnestly over his task, face etched with genuine curiosity—the anger seemed to dissipate. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he let out a gruff sigh before responding. *"Either you're asking to mock me, or you're asking because you are curious. Regardless if it's the former or the latter, I'll say the same thing. Thanks to you wizards, life as a Squib is horrible. Headmaster Dumbledore treats me well, but outside the walls of Hogwarts, I'm nothing but an animal that needs to be put down."

The man's face was red as he was reminded of the past. "Year after year, you brats come marching in, thinking you're better than anyone else. 'Let's test our pranks on the Squib! Not like he means anything.' 'Oh no! It's the Squib. Better move aside so my robes don't get dirty.' 'Blast! It's the Squib. Let's cast spells on him so he can't chase us'."

The man looked ready to punch something, recounting example after example, each and every quote, showing he had memorized every single one.

When Harry's face scrunched up in a mix of pity and sadness, the man snarled, "I don't need your pity. I get along fine on my own hard work. Where wizards wave their wands around, I use hard work and plenty of elbow grease. Each and every time there's a spill, there's not even a suggestion of helping the poor magicless squib. Noooooo. Every single break, every bit of damage done to the castle, and it's always Filch who has to clean up the mess. Not like he matters, after all. Luckily, I have the House Elves to help for the things that are so damaged they require magic to fix. But not once has a witch or wizard ever cared enough to offer their precious magic to help the filthy Squib."

Harry was fairly certain Filch was ranting now, but he didn't mind. It seemed like the man had been holding all this in for years. At least this way, he was getting it out. Harry brushed away the last of the cobwebs, listening as Filch muttered for a bit longer before falling silent.

"What's a House Elf, sir?" Harry asked, finishing a classroom and moving on to the next.

Filch seemed surprised at Harry's question, but answered, "Tiny little creatures that adore cleaning and housework. Had them leave this entire corridor for you, I did. They can't cast spells, so repairing damaged objects is beyond their power. That's what the Caretaker is for."

"And you command the House Elves?" Harry asked, spooking a spider so it would crawl away and not be injured by Harry dusting the corner.

Filch snorted. "Technically. But in reality, the Headmaster's the one calling the shots. The Caretaker is considered to be the one in charge of them, but the Headmaster has final say," Filch muttered. "Drive me up a wall they do, sometimes. Ruddy little overeager blighters."

Harry chuckled. He liked the sound of that. "Would I be able to meet one sometime? They seem like they'd be fun to be around."

Filch shook his head. "Not sure, Potter. They mostly work within the kitchens and come out only when they're cleaning the castle. You might spot one doing your laundry or cleaning the Common Room, but they're quite skilled at remaining out of sight when they wish to be."

Harry felt a twinge of disappointment. Another magical race, like the Goblins, the Centaurs, and the Giants—just like the ones he'd read about in his books! He would like to see them eventually. Filing it away in his mind, Harry sighed and brushed the cobwebs off a corner of the room. "Can Squibs use Runes? Or Potions?" Harry asked curiously.

"Aye, they can. Potions is difficult without our own magic thanks to the spell needed at the end. The best we can do is make our own smaller things that don't require spells, like burn ointment. Runes are fine, as long as they're powered before we use them. But it's not like wizards would ever consider such things. Why make things easier on Squibs if they don't have to?"

Harry heard the beginnings of another rant coming on, so he quickly continued his questioning as he worked. "And if the runes are powered, you can use them alright?"

"Aye. Can use a broom if I pick it up myself. Not like you kids, who can call it to your hands." He shrugged. Harry was fascinated by the implications. Did that mean muggles could use runes, too?

Lost in thoughts, Harry worked in silence for a while. By the time he finished cleaning the second classroom, Filch spoke up. "Why the silence, Potter? Something bouncing around that head of yours?"

Harry moved into the third classroom, which was the final one on the right side of the hall. "Yes sir. I was just thinking of all sorts of things. Thank you for answering my questions."

Filch snorted, shaking his head. "Not like I have better things to do while watching you, ya snot-nosed brat." There was a hint of lightness and subtlety in his tone, creeping into the Caretaker's voice. It sounded like he wasn't quiet as annoyed with Harry as he had been earlier.

"When you finish that room, since you started early you can leave early too. Don't be braggin' about that though, or next time I have you, you'll be working twice as hard and three times as long!" Filch scowled.

Harry beamed, "Yes sir!" He quickly went to finish up the last classroom, dusting off the last corners and then handing Filch the broom. "Mister Filch, would I be able to come and see you in the future? I may have some more questions."

Filch gave Harry a stink-eye, his eyebrow raising. "I suppose, Potter. But it better not be an excuse to go off and do something stupid to earn a detention. If I see you again this year, I'll box your ears right good!"

Harry nodded quickly. "Thank you, sir!" He moved down the hall to return to Slytherin Commons, leaving the Caretaker behind.

Seems like Harry has been a liiiiiitle too busy to remember sending a letter to Ollivander, and it bit him in the arse. Hopefully, Harry takes this as a learning experience. Things are chaotic sometimes, but you shouldn't forget about things you agree to! It's very rude when you do.

We have Harry's first detention with Filch. Harry definitely isn't the normal magical child he's used to, that's for sure!

Before you go, I have a question to all of you. When do you think paragraphs should be used? Whenever a new person is talking, or when there's a break in the conversation? I've seen paragraphs started and ended arbitrarily in professional books, so I'm asking you, readers, which do YOU think it should be?

Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling, not me.