Chapter 7: The Caretaker's Hope
The first weeks of the term were, for Solim, a period of comfortable adjustment. The foundational theory the professors covered was material he had long since mastered at Scuol, leaving him with ample free time to pursue his own, more pressing interests.
The object of his focus had arrived by owl that very morning. With only morning classes on his Friday schedule, the entire afternoon and evening stretched before him, a blank canvas for his project.
After a hurried lunch, Solim began his search. His target was not a fellow student or a professor, but a man who skulked in the castle's shadows: Argus Filch, the caretaker.
Filch was a bitter, pinched-faced man whose apparent life's purpose was to make life difficult for the student body. His constant companion was his dust-colored cat, Mrs. Norris, a creature who seemed to share her master's disdain for fun and whose uncanny ability to find misbehaving students was the stuff of legend. Solim knew the reason for Filch's perpetual foul mood: he was a Squib, a person born into a wizarding family but without any magical power himself. This bitter truth had curdled his spirit, leaving him to haunt the corridors with a jangling ring of keys and a deep-seated resentment for those who could wield the magic denied to him.
Finding Filch when you weren't in trouble was surprisingly difficult. After wandering several corridors and interrogating seven or eight portraits (who were mostly unhelpful and one downright rude), Solim finally tracked him down. He was in a dimly lit passage on the third floor, scrubbing furiously at a patch of what looked like enchanted purple graffiti on the wall.
The man was old, and without magic, his work was a labor of Sisyphus—endless and futile. He wielded a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, his knuckles white with effort.
"Scourgify!" Solim said, pointing his wand at the wall. The purple stain vanished instantly.
Filch spun around, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and humiliation. "You!" he snarled, limping forward with his brush held like a weapon. "Think that's funny, do you? Come to mock me?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Filch," Solim said, tucking his wand away calmly. "I'm not here to mock you. I'd like to talk."
"Get out!" Filch barked, his voice echoing in the stone corridor. "Before I string you up by your thumbs in my office!"
"I think you'll want to hear what I have to say," Solim replied, his voice low and steady. "It's about Squibs. My younger sister is one, you see. And I believe I've found a way to help her—and in doing so, perhaps help you—gain the ability to use magic."
Filch froze, the long-handled brush trembling in his grip. The raw, desperate hope that flashed in his eyes was more potent than any curse.
"Why don't we continue this conversation in your office?" Solim suggested. "I have no classes this afternoon. I'm not here to play a prank."
For over fifty years, Argus Filch had lived in the shadow of magic. Born a pure-blood but magicless, he had watched his family's disappointment turn to disgust. He had come to Hogwarts, a place saturated with the very power he lacked, and had made his bitterness his armor. No one had ever looked at him with anything but fear, annoyance, or pity. No one had ever offered him a way out. This boy, this Slytherin, might be lying. It was probably a cruel trick. But the chance, however slim, was a spark in the profound darkness of his existence. He had to know.
"If you're having me on…" Filch growled, the threat hanging in the air, unfinished but clear.
He led the way to his office, a small, dingy room just off the entrance hall that smelled strongly of dust and fried fish. A single, smoky oil lamp cast a feeble light, illuminating a filing cabinet stuffed to bursting with records of student misdeeds. The cramped space was a testament to his lowly status in the castle hierarchy.
"Let's be efficient, Mr. Filch. Time is precious." Solim unshouldered his bag and withdrew the package he had received that morning.
"To be clear," Solim began, unwrapping the parcel to reveal several vials of potion and a leather-bound notebook, "not all Squibs are the same."
He explained that while both Squibs and Muggles couldn't perform magic, Squibs possessed a latent magical core. This allowed them to perceive magical entities like Dementors, which were invisible to Muggles. The critical difference, he went on, lay in the reason for their inability.
"Some Squibs have a core that is simply too weak, too deficient to ever produce a magical outburst," Solim said, his tone clinical. "Their magic is a shallow puddle. Others… others have a core that is too powerful. A large-scale magical outburst in childhood could cause irreversible damage to a developing body. In such cases, the body's own survival instinct can suppress the magic entirely, preventing the outburst from ever happening. It's a form of magical self-preservation."
Solim's first task was to determine which category Filch fell into.
"Drink this, Mr. Filch. It's a modified Magical-Reactivity Potion." Solim held out a small vial of shimmering blue liquid. "It will give us a measure of the magical energy within you."
Filch didn't hesitate. He snatched the vial and downed its contents in one gulp. If this was a poison, the boy would hang for it. But if it was a chance… it was a risk he was willing to take.
"Now, describe any sensation you feel. Anything at all," Solim instructed, pulling out a self-inking quill.
For two long minutes, the only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall. Filch stood perfectly still, his face a mask of intense concentration, while Solim watched him impassively. A flicker of doubt crossed Solim's mind. Could he be completely wrong? Was Filch's core so dormant it wouldn't even react?
Then, Filch's eyes widened. "It's… it's a warmth," he stammered, his voice full of awe. "Spreading through my chest, my arms… like I'm sitting in front of a good fire."
Solim stepped forward and rolled up Filch's sleeve. The skin on his forearm was flushed a healthy pink and was warm to the touch. "Good. Very good. Keep describing it." He began scribbling notes in his peculiar, precise shorthand.
Filch began to pace the tiny room, a restless energy overtaking him. The sensation was real! It wasn't magic, not yet, but it was a feeling, a reaction from the part of him that had been dead his whole life. At Solim's request, he sat back down, though he couldn't keep the tremble of excitement from his hands.
"Mr. Selwyn," he said, the formal address feeling strange in his mouth, "the warmth… it's fading now."
Solim glanced at the clock. "Nearly thirty minutes. That's an excellent duration." He closed his notebook with a definitive snap. "Congratulations, Mr. Filch. Your condition is the rarer, more promising kind. There is a genuine possibility you could awaken your magic."
Filch looked as though he'd been struck by a Stunning Spell. Hope, real and terrifying, bloomed in his chest.
"I will return when I have the next stage prepared," Solim said, packing his things. "In the meantime, I strongly suggest you begin to improve your physical condition. If we are successful, your body must be strong enough to withstand the magical upheaval. A magical outburst is not a gentle process."
Leaving a stunned and silently hopeful Filch in his office, Solim made his way back to the Slytherin dungeons. His mind was already racing ahead. He needed to contact his grandfather immediately. The old man, when not performing his mysterious duties for the Ministry, spent most of his time in the deepest cellars of Selwyn Castle, engrossed in his own research. Solim had to reach him during one of these respites.
His request was twofold: first, to confirm that his sister, Sylna, shared the same magical profile as Filch. Second, to use the family's resources to find other Squibs of this specific type, to see if there were individual variations in the potion's effects.
The heavy tome he had been studying was not a published work, but a collection of notes, theories, and failed experiments compiled by his ancestors—a grimoire of desperate solutions to magical maladies. The research on Squibs was sparse and fragmented, a testament to the wizarding world's general dismissal of them as lost causes. But within those pages, Solim had found a thread: a theoretical, untested process to coax a suppressed magical core into awakening. It was his only map.
He dispatched his letter with the fastest school owl, and to his astonishment, the reply was waiting for him at the dinner table that very evening. His grandfather's elegant script confirmed it: Sylna's magical signature matched Filch's perfectly. However, the news was not all good. The master potioneer his grandfather typically employed was "on assignment" and unreachable for at least six months. He was reaching out to others, but there was no guarantee.
Solim crumpled the letter in his hand. He couldn't wait six months. The solution, he realized, might be closer than he thought. He looked down the staff table, his gaze settling on the greasy-haired, hook-nosed professor who was stalking between the house tables, looking for reasons to deduct points.
Well, Solim thought, a new plan forming in his mind, Hogwarts has a Potions Master, doesn't it? The challenge would be convincing Severus Snape to help.