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HRA# Chapter 91: Filch’s Tears and Hermione’s Disbelief
🕑 Added 2025-04-07 21:10:34 +0000 UTCFor Harry’s apprentices, the idea of learning woodworking skills in the Shaman Club’s classroom would have once seemed unthinkable. Yet here they were, surrounded by the scent of sawdust and the clatter of tools, attempting something entirely new.
Harry had demonstrated the craft himself, making it look deceptively simple. But when the apprentices took up their chisels and hammers, the results were nothing short of catastrophic. Some gouged too deep, others barely scratched the surface. One unlucky soul drove a chisel straight through their plank, while another produced a shape so crooked it defied description. It wasn’t a matter of what they couldn’t do—rather, there seemed to be no disaster they couldn’t achieve.
“Take your time and steady your thoughts,” Harry advised, weaving between the bustling apprentices as he surveyed their efforts. “This isn’t a skill you’ll master overnight. The process itself is valuable—it teaches you to feel every nuance of the totem you’re crafting.”
He paused, then added with a faint smile, “That way, when you eventually summon the earth element to shape your totem, you’ll have a clear vision in your mind. You won’t end up with some ghastly lump that leaves the elements scratching their heads, wondering what you’re trying to say.”
A ripple of quiet laughter spread through the room. Everyone recalled Cedric Diggory’s last attempt—a vague, lopsided club that had barely resembled anything at all. Cedric himself guffawed the loudest, his grin wide and unashamed.
By the time the session ended, the apprentices hadn’t made much headway, but Harry remained unfazed. He offered them words of encouragement rather than critique. This wasn’t some rushed shaman priest boot camp, after all—no dark forces were poised to obliterate the world come morning. Harry could afford to be patient.
A solid foundation mattered more than haste. Quick fixes often hid flaws that could unravel disastrously at the worst possible moment. Even spending an entire semester getting comfortable with the earth element, learning to craft totems, and mastering a handful of related spells felt perfectly reasonable to him.
Harry even toyed with the idea of structuring the curriculum by elemental mastery. First-years could start with earth, second-years with water, third-years with wind, and fourth-years with fire. The final three years—fifth, sixth, and seventh—could delve into advanced applications of all four elements. Anything beyond that was a stretch; by then, most students would have graduated. Further study would depend on the establishment of something like the Earth Ring—or perhaps Harry’s departure from Hogwarts.
Of course, ambitious as it was, the plan hinged on circumstances. If the shaman priest course remained an elective rather than a core subject, everything would shift. Third-years might only begin with earth, sixth-years would reach fire, and seventh-years would face a frantic cram session to tie it all together. That pace felt far too rushed for his liking.
“There’s no need to hold back, Filch,” Harry said, eyeing the balding old man before him. “I’m not here for anyone’s reverence. You’re free to speak your mind.”
The two had been on their way to join the others for dinner when Filch pulled Harry aside, his demeanor unusually deferential. He’d insisted he had something to discuss privately. Truth be told, Harry suspected that if he and Dumbledore gave Filch conflicting orders, the man would follow Harry’s without a second thought, brushing Dumbledore aside entirely.
“You saved me, Mentor,” Filch said, his voice trembling with fervor once they were alone. “I don’t know how to repay you—I—I—”
Words failed him as his excitement surged. His eyes bulged, wide and wild, as if they might leap from his face.
“Easy, Filch!” Harry snapped in a low, firm tone. “Have you forgotten what I told you? Unless it’s unavoidable, you need to keep your mind calm.”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” Filch stammered, stepping back. He sucked in a shaky breath of chilly air before continuing. “You might not realize, Mentor, but I’m a Squib.”
Harry’s brows lifted slightly. It was news to him. A quick mental review of Filch’s behavior confirmed it—the castle caretaker had never once used magic in front of the students.
A Squib, he knew, was someone born to wizard parents yet unable to wield magic themselves. In old magical families, steeped in tradition, a Squib’s birth was a stain on their pride. Harry had read of extreme cases—particularly among certain Slytherin pure-bloods—where Squibs were quietly disposed of. Most families in the other houses were less brutal, but no less harsh. They might confine a Squib to the family home, claiming they’d died, or banish them to the Muggle world, cutting ties over time.
Squibs were outcasts in wizarding society, a fact that rarely stirred sympathy. Those who adapted to Muggle life could fare decently, but the ones who clung to the magical world faced a lifetime of bitterness. Watching others wield magic freely gnawed at them, an endless cycle of envy and despair.
Harry couldn’t fathom why Hogwarts, a bastion of magic, employed a Squib as its caretaker. Cleaning a castle of this size without spells was grueling work. Only the tireless efforts of the house-elves likely kept Filch from collapsing under the strain.
But now, Harry understood the source of Filch’s fervor. Becoming a shaman priest, even if it wasn’t wizard magic, had granted him power he’d never dreamed of. For someone long resigned to a magic-less existence, the ability to cast spells—any spells—was a miracle. If Harry were in Filch’s shoes, yearning for magic his whole life only to have it suddenly offered, he’d be overwhelmed with gratitude too.
Filch’s voice broke into his thoughts, halting and raw as he recounted years of rejection and shame. He needed this—someone to hear the weight he’d carried. The sneers he’d endured while job-hunting, the constant dread of students uncovering his secret, the fear of becoming Hogwarts’ laughingstock—it all spilled out.
Once he began, there was no stopping him. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with snot in messy streaks. His words grew slurred, but he pressed on, desperate to unburden himself fully.
Harry didn’t interrupt. He felt no revulsion or impatience at Filch’s state. Instead, he guided the man to sit on the grass at the forest’s edge. They stayed there as dusk deepened into night, the distant castle aglow with warm lights.
“…I’m sorry, Mentor,” Filch rasped at last, his voice hoarse and fragile. He bowed his head, ashamed. “I’ve wasted so much of your time. Dinner’s long gone now.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Harry replied lightly. He reached for a handkerchief to wipe Filch’s tear-streaked face, but Filch snatched it from him, scrubbing at his own cheeks with clumsy haste.
“Filch,” Harry said after a moment, his tone turning grave. “Argus Filch.”
The full name carried a weight that made Filch look up, his face shadowed in the dark. “…Mentor?” he murmured, uncertain.
“Keep going,” Harry said earnestly. “You’ve got a bright future ahead.”
No more words were needed. That single affirmation was enough, Harry knew. The past was done; the future unwritten.
“I will, Mentor,” Filch vowed, drawing a deep breath. “I will.”
“Good,” Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder as he rose. “Then let’s get some food. We may have missed the Great Hall, but I’m sure the house-elves would be delighted to whip up something hearty for us. Don’t you think?”
Filch stood, gazing up at Harry’s silhouette against the night sky. Though Harry’s face was lost in shadow, and his height barely exceeded Filch’s seated form, there was a steadiness in him that filled the older man with quiet awe. For a moment, he saw echoes of Dumbledore—a different Dumbledore, perhaps, but no less inspiring.
“Yes, Mentor,” Filch agreed softly. “They’d be happy to.”
“So, Filch is a Squib?!” Ron blurted, his voice echoing through the suitcase world. He’d been edging toward a tiny unicorn but forgot all about it, spinning to gape at Harry. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
The group had gathered in Harry’s enchanted suitcase, a pocket realm where the unicorns had finally settled after weeks of careful observation. With Hagrid’s help, the creatures had come to trust Harry, their human-like intelligence easing the transition. Once Harry confirmed their comfort—and secured their permission—he’d invited Ron, Hermione, and Neville to meet them.
The golden foals had instantly won everyone over, regardless of gender. But despite the trio’s best efforts, the little unicorns stayed stubbornly behind their parents, shying away from outstretched hands.
Hermione was heartbroken.
“…In Muggle tales, unicorns only approach the pure of heart,” she said, her tone tinged with frustration. “Or, in some versions, only virgins.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron asked, blinking blankly. “Aren’t you a virgin?”
Thwack!
The sound was like a mallet striking a drum—dull, resonant, and loud enough to rustle the leaves above. Harry winced; even he thought Ron had crossed a line. Hermione’s fist, honed by her shaman training, had delivered swift justice.
“Think before you open your mouth, Ronald!” she snapped, her arm still cocked as if itching to swing again. Neville shrank back, too intimidated to speak.
“She’s got a point, Ron,” Harry said, stifling a sigh as he watched Ron writhe on the ground. “You really need to work on your filter. Hermione, ease up—you’re scaring the unicorns.”
Hermione whipped around, only to see the foals retreating further, their parents eyeing her warily. “Fine, fine,” she huffed, plopping down beside Harry in a sulk. “Let’s just drop it.”
“…Merlin’s beard,” Ron groaned after a long pause, rolling onto his back. “You nearly punched my lungs out, you brute!”
“Maybe if you didn’t spew nonsense!” Hermione shot back, veins pulsing at her temples. She flicked a glance at Harry, then away just as fast.
“But you’re the one who said it!” Ron argued, undeterred. “What, you don’t think your heart’s pure enough?”
“It’s a Muggle legend, you dolt!” Hermione exploded. “This is the magical world—these are magical unicorns!”
“Er, weren’t we talking about Filch?” Neville cut in, desperate to steer them away from another row. “If he’s a Squib, a lot of things start to add up.”
“Oh, yeah, Filch,” Ron said, latching onto the shift. “No wonder he’s always so sour with us. Makes perfect sense if he’s a Squib.”
“A Squib’s just someone who can’t do magic, right?” Hermione asked, frowning. “Muggles can’t either—most people in the world can’t.”
“It’s not the same, Hermione,” Neville said, shaking his head. “You’re from a Muggle family—you wouldn’t get what a Squib means to wizards.”
“Exactly,” Ron chimed in. “My mum’s got this distant cousin—works as a… designer, I think? In the Muggle world. Family never mentions him.”
“It’s better now than it used to be,” Neville added. “Centuries ago, Squibs were sometimes killed outright instead of hidden away or sent off to live as Muggles.”
“Good grief!” Hermione gasped, horrified. “That’s barbaric—it’s pure discrimination! Harry?”
“It is,” Harry agreed solemnly. “It’s not right, but to a lot of wizards, shunning Squibs is just how things are.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Hermione said, her brow furrowing. “I thought the magical world would be… better than this.”
“More like a storybook? All beauty and harmony?” Harry grinned suddenly. “You’ve got the makings of a Minister for Magic, Hermione. When you’re in charge someday, you could change how Squibs are treated.”
“Me? Minister for Magic?” Hermione pointed at herself, stunned. “You’re serious?”
“Why not?” Harry said with conviction. “Just because something’s always been done doesn’t make it just. Someone’s got to step up and fix things.”
“…Thanks, Harry,” Hermione murmured, her eyes shining as she met his gaze. “I’ll do my best.”
In that moment, her irritation with Ron melted away, replaced by a quiet resolve. Neville exhaled in relief, the tension finally broken.
“Have you lot already planned that far ahead?” Ron muttered, shrugging. “I just hope Filch stops being such a pain. He’s not a Squib anymore—maybe he could even crack a smile once in a while…”
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
