"Where are you taking me?" Filch asked, his voice gruff but not as irritated as he intended. There was something about the way Xenophilius moved, the quiet purpose in his steps, that piqued Filch’s curiosity in spite of himself.
Filch scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the weathered stones, still skeptical. "Old magic, huh? That’s what you think’ll fix everything, is it? Some rocks with carvings on them?"
The words sat uncomfortably with Filch, and he shifted from one foot to the other, unwilling to engage with whatever nonsense Xenophilius was hinting at. He had heard enough talk about magic in his lifetime—enough to know that it was a world he could never be a part of. Squibs didn’t get access to magic. They were left on the outside, looking in, like beggars at the gates.
Content Set to Go Live: Oct 4th 2024 on Ao3
Xenophilius leads Filch to a hidden stone circle, explaining that it holds ancient magic that doesn’t rely on wands or bloodlines. Filch’s bitterness rises as he struggles with the suggestion that even he might feel the magic, leaving him torn between anger and a sliver of hope he’s too afraid to acknowledge.
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Filch clenched his fists. "What are you getting at, Lovegood?" he growled. "You think bringing me here is going to do what exactly?" Xenophilius tilted his head slightly, his pale eyes still fixed on the stone circle. "I’m not expecting anything," he said, his voice soft, almost wistful. "I just thought you might feel something here. Something different." Filch’s heart clenched in his chest, a familiar wave of anger rising up to drown whatever else he might have been feeling. Feel something? How many times had he stood in rooms full of wizards, watching them wield power he could never touch? How many times had he felt the weight of their magic suffocate him, reminding him that he was nothing more than an outsider, a Squib? "Feel something?" Filch’s voice was rough, bitter. "I’ve spent my whole life being reminded of what I can’t feel. This—" he gestured angrily at the stones, his voice rising, "—this won’t change anything. I’m still a Squib, and no amount of magical rocks will change that."
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As the ancient stones call to him, will Filch allow himself to believe in a magic that doesn’t judge—or will his bitterness keep him locked out forever?
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