Argus Filch’s Secret Diaries: Unlocking Hogwarts’ Unseen Truths

Introduction

They call me many things. A squib. A nuisance. A relic of the past, shuffling through stone corridors with a mop and glare. But I’ve been part of Hogwarts longer than most professors have held their titles, and in these pages—these quiet scribbles of frustration and fading ink—you might find more than just complaints. You might find memory. You might find loyalty.

Though, why I’d show you that, I can’t imagine. Better they stay stuck with some frozen sneer on my face.

So here it is. A record not meant for the Headmaster’s desk or some Ministry file. Just my thoughts. From the one everyone thinks doesn’t feel a thing.

Arrival at Hogwarts

I remember the first time I stepped through the doors of this castle. Not as a student—no, that dream was taken from me long before I could grip a wand properly—but as a caretaker. I was young then. Angry. Embarrassed. And determined to prove I belonged somewhere.

I watched children wave wands, perform silly tricks, and I could barely light a lamp without a stump. But I also saw the cracks in the walls, heard the whispers of the ancient corridors. That, I understood.

The castle took me in like it does everyone. Cold at first. Unforgiving. But over time, you learn its language. The way the staircases sigh when they shift. The hum in the stones near the kitchens. The way Peeves cackles when he’s up to no good (which is always).

I’d never admit it, but there’s something about the rhythm of his madness that the castle recognizes, and even I do. Something old. Something that just is.

People think I only care about rules and polish. But the truth is, I care about this place. Even if it doesn’t always care back.

A Day in the Life (and the Endless Night)

Most days start before the bells ring. Cleaning up frog spawn in the dungeons. Scraping dungbomb residue off portraits (Sir Cadogan is the worst when he’s sticky). Chasing first-years out of broom cupboards. Writing warnings in a logbook no one reads.

And always, ALWAYS, the damned owl droppings. Everywhere. Why can’t they just teach them to keep their feathers to themselves? And that smell from Herbology. Always something reeking of spoiled vegetables.

Then there’s Peeves. Merlin’s menace. The poltergeist never rests. He once dumped three hundred gallons of enchanted ink into the Great Hall. Took me six days to scrub it out, and the floor still smells like parchment on rainy mornings.

If only I had Floo Powder, I’d have blasted him all the way to the dungeons.

“Filchy, Filchy, mop and moan,
Wants the castle all his own!
No spells, no fun, no sparkly lights,
Just endless rules and lonely nights!”

That’s one of his favorites. Bet he practiced that one for a week. Poltergeists and poets—what a fine match.

But I know his tricks. I know where he hides. I even know how to silence him—briefly—with a glare and a muttered, “Not today, Peeves.”

Sometimes, for a fleeting second, I catch a flicker of confusion in his tiny, glinting eyes before he vanishes. It’s almost satisfying. Almost.

The One Time I Laughed

Once, a Hufflepuff girl left me a jar of treacle tart on the windowsill outside my office. No note. No reason. I don’t even like sweets. But I kept it there all day, untouched.

That night, I shared it with Mrs. Norris. She purred the whole time. Funny. She hadn’t done that since… well, never mind. Haven’t heard her do that since.

It was… nice.

Though, I pretended to gag when Mrs. Norris tried to climb onto the shelf where it sat. No need for the children to think I’ve gone soft.

The War Years

During the Second Wizarding War, when the Carrows roamed the halls, I thought about leaving. I’m no fighter. I can’t cast a Shield Charm. But I stayed. Not for the Carrows. Not even for Dumbledore. I stayed for the castle.

Who the blazes else would look after her? Who would notice the cracks spreading, the blood drying? There were no magical solutions for that. Just rags and a bucket. And a will.

Because someone had to.

I cleaned up blood. Repaired shattered glass. Hid a crying third-year under my cloak while the walls trembled with rage. And when the final battle came, I stood in the Entrance Hall with a broken mop handle and a heart heavier than stone.

No one noticed. I didn’t expect them to. They were busy saving the world. I was saving the floorboards.

The Night I Cried

After the battle, when the dust settled and the smoke cleared, I found a small sock near the Ravenclaw tower. Burned at the edge. No one claimed it. I took it back to my office and just… held it.

Probably belonged to some Hufflepuff. Always losing something. But this one… it was too small, and it smelled of smoke and fear. Something broken about it, just like the castle that night.

Mrs. Norris curled up beside me. I don’t remember falling asleep. But when I woke, the sock was still there.

Some things you don’t throw away.

Students These Days

They think I hate them. And maybe I do, a little. Or maybe I hate what they represent—magic I’ll never have, laughter I don’t understand. But I see them. I know which ones sneak extra toast to the house-elves. I know who helps first-years find their way. I see the kindness in corners no one else bothers to look at.

I saw Granger leaving a book for a first-year too shy to ask. I saw a Weasley give his sandwich to a hungry three-legged dog near the Forbidden Forest. I don’t tell them anything. Let them think I’m just a grumbler.

I just don’t say anything. Because if I start, I might not stop.

My Least Favorite Spell

“Scourgify.” I hate it. Not because it works, but because it takes away the one thing I have—my purpose. Let a child wave a wand and undo an hour of my work with one word. It’s like vanishing me, piece by piece.

One time, a fourth-year said it in front of me, laughing. I almost told him to clean with his hands. But what’s the point?

And then they wonder why I shudder when I hear that word. Always have to check if my boots are still on my feet. Pathetic, isn’t it?

But the castle still creaks in the places only I can hear. That’s enough.

A Quiet Loyalty

I don’t wear house colors. I don’t sit at feasts. But I stand watch in the hallways. I know every crack in the floor. Every draft in the wall.

I know where the stone gargoyle chuckles when no one’s listening. I know where the floorboards sink an inch more than last year. I know where names were carved into the stones, and who tried to erase them.

I’ve watched children grow into heroes, cowards, and something in between. And when they leave, I stay.

Because someone has to.

The One Time I Was Proud

Years ago, Neville Longbottom came back to visit. Professor now. Brave, kind, a bit absentminded. He thanked me.

“For what?” I asked.

He smiled. “For never leaving.”

I didn’t answer. But that night, I cleaned the greenhouse floors twice.

Had to. The feeling in my chest was… odd. Almost like catching Blitz Stamper trying to smuggle Fizzing Whizbees. Not pleasant.

June 6th, rainy night. Peeves painted a moustache on the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor. Again. I didn’t erase it until morning. It suited her.

Conclusion

This castle is more than stones and spells. It remembers. And though I may never move the portraits or speak Parseltongue or fly a broom, I belong here. In the quiet. In the dust. In the unseen corners where history lingers and magic hums low.

I am the keeper of those corners. I am the silence between lessons, the creak no one else hears. I am the memory of all the fleeting generations. And that is enough for me.

So if you ever see me in the corridors, muttering to myself or chasing Peeves with a bucket, just know—this is home. And even the bitterest caretaker can love the castle he never got to call his own.

Especially when no one’s watching.

Signed (begrudgingly),
Argus Filch