Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry Potter or the wizarding world.
I was once the son of an old and noble pureblood line.
Now I work picking up after the messes of brats who dangle their gifts tauntingly before me, without respect. But why should they respect me, for I am no better than a muggle. I have the name and the heritage, but I don’t have the most important part: the magic.
I was my parents’ pride and joy, their heir. I was their hopes and dreams melded together in one firstborn son. I hardly need say that my childhood was a joyful one, though as time wore on and my demonstrations of accidental magic still totaled none, their favoured treatment of me suffered.
I never received the long awaited, long hoped for letter. My world collapsed the second my parents’ fear was confirmed.
The shame of being a squib nearly crippled me. I was a ghost, floating through the centuries-old hallways of my house, neither recognized nor acknowledged. The scorn on their faces… the disappearing I was allowed to do… the time spent locked in their bedroom… the announcement that a new heir was on the way… they didn’t want me.
I left as soon as I was able.
Can you blame me?
The magical world is cruel to those without it. It has rigid standards, leaving many on its fringes. I was one of the privileged, living, loving its center. Forbidden from acknowledging the muggle’s mundane world, immersed in the theory of this fantastical world, I was lost without magic.
I was trapped between two worlds, not fully belonging to either.
I had nothing.
I was a mess.
Can you understand why I hated being abandoned?
And now I live surrounded by reminders of what I could have been, of what I want to be. The want fills me up as I patrol the stone hallways of my new lodging. It curls up my spine, wiggles itself firmly inside my mind. It tortures me during my wakeful hours and haunts me in my dreams. I cannot escape it.
Nor can I escape its cause, magic. I cannot limit it, cannot force it. I cannot deny its existence. My roots won’t allow me to leave its world.
Can you condemn me for who I am now?
I hear them. They don’t lower their voices, shield their mocking faces. I have years on them, more world experience, but what is that to them? They speak cruel, hurtful words: they want to kick my only friend, kill her. They say I’m the bane of their existence.
They don’t know how their words are barbs, pricking at the little twisted part of my heart that remains.
They do know how I long to string them to the ceiling by their thumbs and leave them hanging for hours. It’ll be nothing compared to the sting I felt when my father announced I was no longer his son.
They do know the ache of hands that have spent hours cleaning wooden tables and stone floors that had been spilled and trampled on by ungrateful brats. It hasn’t taught them the strength and determination to be found in the magic-less. It hasn’t taught them to respect me more, only built their resentment of me.
What can I do?
I don’t belong anywhere. I don’t see my parents because of something beyond my control, my job makes me miserable, yet it’s the only one available with my background and my only friend is an animal.
I’m without magic in a magical world.
I’m a bitter mess with nothing to look forward to in the future.
Can you understand why I am this way?
A/N: How do you feel about this story? About how I characterized Filch? His history?