Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I am not her.

The doorbell rings.

As you walk through the hallway towards the front door you check your appearance in the mirror. Your make-up is properly understated, but having just cleaned the kitchen counter your hair is somewhat ruffled. A brush in a drawer of the hallway table, present for just such an occasion, renders it once again perfect.

While brushing you turn around to see if anything stands out. The floor is spotless. The cupboard under the stairs is closed. With the brush returned to its hiding place everything is as it should be.

You frown as you mentally compare it to your bedroom. Vernon hasn't listened to your counsel on proper habits for a long time. Come to think of it, that holds for your counsel on pretty much everything else too. He's definitely changed from the man you married.

You turn back to the door. Eager to show off your little island of perfection you prepare a polite smile and open it to take in the man who rang the bell. His black shoes look expensive. The cuffs of his black pants are the right size and at the perfect height: tailored. Everything else is obscured by the rather strange long black coat he is wearing.

Your happiness over having such a distinguished – and probably rich - man standing in your garden where all the neighbours can see distracts you. Taking in the sneer on his sallow face, however, jolts you back to the here and now.

"Petunia Dursley?" The man inquires and you give a small nod.

"Good," the man says, before brusquely forcing himself past you and invading your home. You're about to open your mouth to put this rude man in his place when to your horror you notice that he is not, in fact, wearing a strange long coat. The man is wearing robes.

A glance into the street shows nobody watching and you swiftly close the door. Typical. Showing up in the light of day without a care in the world who sees and marching in as if they own the place. Freaks are all the same.

The man has made it into the living room and is apparently assessing the place. His head turns from the many photos showing Dudley growing up to the glass case filled with boxing trophies. It is clean and neat as always - you are meticulous about that - and despite the fact that he's a freak and barged in uninvited you catch yourself hoping he's impressed. With his back turned it is hard to tell. He mutters under his breath though.

"Clearly, fame isn't everything."

You probably weren't supposed to overhear. Nevertheless, the fact that even a freak has heard of your son's accomplishments fills your heart with pride. Maybe he's a boxing fan, upset that Dudley didn't make it to the finals. You're of two minds about that, yourself. Dudley would have been so happy, but every time you see him fight you almost die of worry. Why did Vernon have to encourage him so?

When the man turns around his face is a blank mask. You have no clue what he thinks of your home. He thinks well of your son though, so he has at least some redeeming qualities.

"I am Professor Snape," the man introduces himself. There's the faintest of pauses, as if he expects you to acknowledge him in any way. Probably stuck up on his professor title. Given that it was awarded by freaks it doesn't mean much to you.

The moment passes and he continues, his face never expressing an ounce of emotion. "Your presence is required at Hogwarts."

Did he just demand you drop everything and accompany him to the freak school? Is he out of his mind?

"I cannot imagine a single thing that could cause me to go to that blasted school. Whatever it is, I want nothing to do with it."

The blank mask remains in place but he cocks an eyebrow. "You want nothing to do with it?" He enunciates every word, as if this is a difficult concept for him to comprehend.

"Absolutely not!" Any goodwill his comment about your son had bought is now gone. This freak barged into your home and is now demanding things. "We never wanted anything to do with your world and that hasn't changed. Please leave my house."

You feel good about saying please. Even faced with an ordeal such as this you managed to remain polite, aloof. It shows you are better than him, just as you've always known you were.

He looks at you and there appears to be a hint of incredulity in his eyes, as if he cannot imagine what you're saying. A sudden superior smirk chases it away.

"Very well," he says, and he removes his wand from within his robes. You take a step backwards, a little frightened now. There are plenty of memories reminding you what those things can do.

If he notices he doesn't show it. "In that case I feel obliged to give you this letter explaining the situation." He sounds condescending now, as if it were irrational to fear one of those freaky sticks capable of such unnatural things. Still, accepting his letter is a low price to pay to get this man out of your house. You'll just burn it later.

As soon as your hand touches the letter he taps it with his wand and the world starts spinning. No matter how hard you try, you can't make yourself let go. You try to scream, but there isn't any sound. You can't see, except flashing bright colours; you can't hear, except a whooshing noise. All you feel is a dragging sensation originating from your navel and an overwhelming urge to vomit.

The ground slams into you and you give in to that urge. Flat on your stomach, you paint the large, cool stones with this morning's breakfast. It takes until the dry heaving stops before you realise the floor you're lying on is not the one at home.

You must have blacked out for a few moments because the next think you know someone is leading you to a chair that wasn't there before and offers you a glass of water you did not see someone fetch. Carefully you sip, eager to get the taste of bile out of your mouth. You feel a little numb so you pass the time by taking in your surroundings.

It looks like a hospital of sorts, the kind seen in old photos. There are two rows of beds with metal railings and no sense of privacy whatsoever. The visage is complete with an older woman dressed in a bastardized combination of an old nurse's uniform and witch's robes.

Robes. For the second time today someone's clothing prompts you to realise that freaks are intruding in your life again. You feel your heartbeat quicken in anger. This Snape character has kidnapped you and somehow transported you to the freak school. Probably. Would a school need this large a hospital?

Your brain once again active, you take in the dozen or so people present and notice the boy is among them. Of course. It's not even summer and already he is making your life miserable. None of them seem to care you were just kidnapped. What the hell is going on?

A grey haired, square jawed woman wearing a monocle of all things clears her throat. "Now that everybody has arrived, we can begin."

You have to force yourself not to stare. She orders people around and clearly expects them to obey, but how can anybody take her seriously wearing that? Have these people no shame?

Everybody else in the room appears perfectly happy to comply and sits down in a circle of chairs around two of the beds. There are kids in them: a red-headed boy that blew up your living room once, back when he was less pale, and a bushy-haired girl you don't remember. Monocle-lady indicates one of the open chairs is for you. Hesitantly you approach. You're angry, but apprehensive too. These people took you from your home. What do they want?

The boy is sitting next to you, eyes dead, a lost look upon his face. He clearly doesn't care what's happening, but a slim blonde holding his hand keeps him seated. You observe everybody that passes laying a hand on the boy's shoulders or giving him similar touches. Are freaks always this touchy-feely?

Monocle-lady stands up. She's clearly the ringleader. "My name is Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." You're appalled that someone like that is in law enforcement. She looks ridiculous! Oh, and of course, she's participating in a kidnapping!

"My job is to find out what happened leading up to and in the Department of Mysteries two days ago. Miss Lovegood," here she gives a small nod towards the blonde, "indicated she would like her father present. A reasonable request, so we chose to contact everyone's guardians."

Contact? Is that what they're calling it these days? Your ire is rising now. Don't these people have any decency?

"Who wants to start?" Amelia Bones inquires.

You observe the five strange children. Most seem to look to the boy, but he just keeps staring at the floor. The blonde completely ignores the question with a faint, dreamy look on her face. A sandy-haired boy shuffles his feet and two redheads exchange glances, but it's the bushy-haired girl who eventually breaks the silence.

"Well, you see, during our History of Magic OWL Harry had a vision of You-Know-Who torturing Sirius Black."

Amelia Bones raises one hand. "Stop right there. A vision, you say? Are you a seer, Mr. Potter?"

The boy doesn't appear to hear so the blonde, Lovegood, turns to him. She speaks directly in his ear, but makes no effort to keep anyone from overhearing.

"This is the part where you embellish Stubby Boardman's heroic actions, Harry. He'd never forgive you if you let the Ministry think he was mediocre."

A tear escapes his eye, but he snorts and squeezes the blonde's hand. "Thank you Luna, you're right of course."

He takes a deep breath and sits up, squarely looking at monocle-lady. "My scar is a connection to Voldemort's mind, ma'am. I sometimes get flashes of what he's doing, and I saw him in the Department of Mysteries, torturing Sirius..." His voice trails off and another tear escapes. For the first time you realise he's grieving.

You observe the two teenagers sitting so close together. To elicit such a response when all he'd do before was stare, with only two sentences she must understand him really well. Shared experiences? You look at their joined hands and wonder if they're dating, or just seeking comfort in each other. It had better not be the first, the mere thought is upsetting your still delicate stomach. In either case, he had better not expect her coming over in the summer.

"I see." Amelia Bones says, though the woman looks confused. "While obviously upsetting, why was this cause for concern? Were you worried what they might get up to inside the Ministry?"

"Sirius was my godfather ma'am; he was innocent." The boy chokes up again and Luna makes soothing noises in his ear. If they hadn't been freaks it might have been endearing. Instead, you gnash your teeth in frustration. So far there have been names and places you've never heard of, but this last part you understand. For months you have lived in fear of that wanted mass-murderer and apparently the boy had known he was innocent? He had been bluffing?

Amelia Bones looks taken aback as well. "Really? I would like to hear more about that at a later time. Right now, though, please continue. You had a vision, then what happened?"

Bushy-hair continues the story, but you're too distracted in your ire to listen to her tired whisper. Being in this situation brings everything you know to be wrong with magic to the fore.

You only pay attention again when the injured girl goes silent and slumps from exhaustion. Luna takes over. "Neville, Ron, Ginny and I found Harry and Hermione in the Forbidden Forest. There was a brief debate on the mode of transportation. Everybody wanted to fly, but we couldn't agree on what to use. Harry wanted to use brooms, and Ron suggested flying a Crumple-Horned Snorkack - which is of course ridiculous - but eventually we decided on thestrals."

There's a brief scuffle as the bed-ridden redhead disagrees with something. By now you are so far out of your comfort zone that you tune out completely.

Today has not been a good day. They're ignoring you and in turn you lack interest in anything these people have to say. They natter on about thestrals and brooms and spells and wands and you really don't want to be here. You're furious that they're making you.

"Why am I here?" The question is out of your mouth before you realise and in the silence that follows everyone is looking at you. Everyone except the boy; he appears resigned or even indifferent to your anger. The cat is out of the bag now, though, so you have no choice but to continue. "You people kidnap me from my home, bring me to this freak school and now talk about stuff I don't care or want to know about. I want to go home."

You say the last resolutely, and again there's that feeling of pride. These people have wronged you but you remain above their petty methods and clearly and decisively let them know to fix it. Right now.

The room is filled with a sudden tension. "Mrs. Dursley," Amelia Bones attempts to defuse it, "you are Harry's guardian, correct?"

You snort. "Not by choice. The boy freeloads at our house during the summer when he damn well knows that we don't want him there. He's a waste of space and I don't want anything to do with him."

Your feeling of pride disappears. That was perhaps a tad less diplomatic than before. Still, it's their own fault. Any self-respecting woman can only be pushed so far before she pushes back.

The bushy-haired girl appears to have caught a second wind because she blows up at you.

"Freeloading? Waste of space? Harry is the nobles, kindest, bravest boy I have ever met! Every year I watch him dread the summer holidays. If he manages to write despite you locking up his stuff he begs us to send him food. Even with that he always comes back thinner than before. Right now he is obviously grieving, in desperate need of support and you can't even be bothered to listen to what happened?"

Her tirade is tiring her, and she slumps back into her pillow. An older version of her, obviously her mother, makes up for it by imitating her daughter and glaring murderously. Everybody else is showing you contempt as well. You brush off the looks - you don't care what freaks think - but it is Luna's comment that really gets to you.

"You're not a very nice person." She says it with absolute certainty and her dreamy voice hints of condemnation. In a reversal of roles, this time it appears that it is the boy keeping her in her seat by holding her hand.

You're very uncomfortable now. This whole situation is ridiculous. Kidnapped, they force you to listen to their chatter and now they're questioning your morals and values? It's you who has every right to be furious. Why then do her words fill you with shame?

The boy presses a kiss on Luna's knuckles and addresses the whole group while his words are meant solely for the blonde. "Leave her, it won't help. She meant what she said, she doesn't care. We frighten her."

The words contain so much sadness that you can't help but avert your eyes. Next to anger the others now also show you pity and suddenly the weight of their looks becomes unbearable.

"I'll just wait outside until someone can take me home." You get up and head for the double doors at the end. It feels like you're running from their looks and their thoughts. You don't like that feeling.

"Make it soon." It's an attempt at bluster and you're pretty sure it falls flat but you're at the doors and don't have to face them any longer.

You walk down the empty hallway into a large space with wide open double doors leading outside. The sight of grass, trees and air calms you, but you don't head out; they might not be able to find you very swiftly. You feel tired. Your earlier anger has ebbed and inexplicably the freaks' opinions had an impact. More than anything, you want to be anywhere but here. Unable to leave on your own, you lean unobtrusively against the wall in an alcove and observe.

The moving, talking portraits are freaky, but you've heard of them before. Your sister wrote home often and the family shared the letters.

A transparent person in white literally floats across the floor and you stay hidden. You've always believed the dead should be respected, but shouldn't that be reciprocated? Walking - or in this case floating - dead people are unnatural; it's wrong.

Surprisingly, the thing that catches your eye is the man sweeping a section of floor using an old-fashioned bristled broomstick. Somehow, the completely ordinary task seems out of place in this magical castle.

His hair and beard are ruffled and his clothes are shabby, but he's cleaning so that may be an excuse; God knows how many expensive outfits you've destroyed while scrubbing floors yourself. The scowl on his face is supremely unattractive and you find it hard to guess his age.

Your gaze returns to the broom. As always thoughts of cleaning help to calm you and remind you of home, of safety. Forcibly you suppress those feelings; you don't want to feel safe here. You focus on the man again. He is in a magical castle and he is sweeping. The incongruity irks you so much that you feel forced to comment.

"I thought you people flew on broomsticks?"

His eyes dart around until they meet your steady gaze and he scowls at you. Something about you surprises him because his look turns to one of confusion and calculation.

"What exactly do you mean by 'you people'?" He sounds suspicious.

"You know, witches and wizards." The unfamiliar terms flow hesitantly over your tongue.

"Ah." He continues sweeping. "They do."

You don't miss the way he phrases his remark. "You're not one, then? A... wizard? And still you work here?"

He takes his eyes off the broom for a second time and his gaze turns piercing. "Those are rather personal questions. Who wants to know?"

Spent from your earlier emotional outburst, conversation with a normal person might help you catch your breath a bit so you respond. "Petunia Dursley."

"Argus Filch," he introduces himself. "I'm the caretaker here at Hogwarts. Since there's plenty of elves around there's really no magic required for the job."

Though he hints as much, you notice he hasn't actually answered the question. Before you can respond a pair of kids runs in, crossing the recently swept area and undoing all of Argus's earlier hard work.

"Stop running!" His yells chase the kids but they don't bother to stop. He seems resigned and starts muttering. Apparently in the past he was allowed harsher methods to keep the little freaks in line.

You can only imagine how much more they would listen to him if corporal punishment was reinstated. At the moment it's obvious the kids have no respect for this man, yet he's supposed to do a job. His frustration is understandable.

It reminds you of some of the decisions you and Vernon had to make years ago. Magic is dangerous and children need to understand that. Especially when it concerns normal people who can't defend themselves. To teach the single child in your care you took away food and locked him up when he misbehaved. This man is faced with a school filled with the little freaks.

"I can imagine." Your agreement surprises him and after a few seconds during which he studies you, brings out a genuine smile. It transforms his face into that of someone who has lived a hard life, but kept himself afloat. It's not handsome, but there's a determination that's appealing.

"Takes one to know one." You feel weird being compared to this man, but really, you're both subjected to ungrateful brats; around magical people yet without yourselves. You have a lot in common. He too seems to realise this as he eyes the dirty floor, shrugs and picks up the broom.

"Walk with me to my office?"

The presence of a normal person whose job involves cleaning feels safer than that of anyone else around so you follow.

"What brings you to Hogwarts?"

It's your turn to shrug. After the earlier emotional roller coaster you're numb to how you arrived here, especially knowing that someone will take you home soon. "Nephew got into something or other."

"Don't they always." He snorts. "So you're a squib too?"

"A what?" Is he insulting you now?

"Ah, muggleborn relative. A squib is someone like me, born to a magical family, yet without magic." He sounds bitter.

"Sister and nephew." You confirm his guess and wonder about someone like him working and living in this castle. "The kids treat you like crap. Why do you torment yourself by staying here?"

His sigh is long and his face shows a myriad of emotions that you can't all catch. He doesn't speak until you reach his small and cluttered office and the both of you sink down in comfortable chairs.

"It's not that simple. It would be great to be equal to everyone else; to not constantly be reminded of the fact I can't do things even the eleven-year-olds manage with ease." He smiles wistfully. "But it's magic."

You can't help the unladylike snort that escapes. As if magic would make everything okay. His head turns swiftly at the sound and he looks at you knowingly. "Tell me you didn't do everything but beg at one time to attend here. To learn magic."

You blink. Never, in all your life, have you admitted to as much. Even now, the urge to lie to yourself is very strong, but this man has already guessed and will probably understand. You eye the broomstick again, a perfectly normal everyday item in the midst of a crazy world. It gives you the safety and courage to share your deepest, darkest secret with a virtual stranger.

"I actually begged." You confess. "When I was little, I begged to join my sister here. We were still close then. I grew up after that."

"You grew apart?"

What other label applies to only seeing your sister during summers and then nothing while she fights a war, goes into hiding and is eventually killed alongside her husband? "Yeah."

"You probably never really saw magic then. Just the parlour tricks they use to introduce themselves?"

You shrug. "I never saw much more than that. You say they're parlour tricks?"

"Well, I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason to change a coffee table into an anteater, but it doesn't come along very often." He probably has a point there. "What it takes a lot of people a long time to realise is that magic can do anything. Literally anything."

You shudder. "That just sounds frightening to me."

He shakes his head. "You're thinking of the negatives. Magic can do anything: heal sickness, increase lifespans, enforce or break the laws of nature, help in caring for your pet."

He smiles and his eyes soften as he adds the last one and you look at him, incredulous. He runs his fingers through his beard.

"How about something less obscure or abstract?"

He stands up and beckons you to follow. He takes a passageway that was hidden behind a tapestry and you emerge into an alcove that gives you a view down the massive set of staircases, all the way to the ground floor.

"This castle is my home, and I daresay there are few people who know it as well as I do." Argus elaborates on the route you took to get here.

"Observe." He gestures towards the myriad of people going this way and that. "Look at everything they accomplish with the wave of a wand. The way magic enriches their lives to the point where the extraordinary becomes commonplace." Again he displays a wistful smile. He clearly desires to do all that himself. You humour him and look.

At first they're just kids, doing stuff kids do. But then you start to notice. The way a blonde girl keeps shoving books into her bag until it should bulge, yet doesn't. The way someone's robes literally sparkle. The way notes seem to fold themselves into fantastic shapes and make their way towards their recipients on their own power. As you see these seemingly impossible things occurring hints of the wonder of a twelve year old girl emerge.

In any other situation, faced with magic you'd become frightened, but here you're an observer, distant and safe. Always, you've associated magic with your horrid sister and that ungrateful brat of hers, but these are children you don't know. Watching them performing miracles as if it's nothing is... still making you uncomfortable, but there's a hint of awe now, too.

From the corner of your eye you catch Argus smiling at you indulgently. He turns his head though, when you gasp.

"Can magic turn people invisible?"

"Sure," he says as if such a thing is common sense. "There's clothes that achieve the real thing, and spells that get you nearly as far. What did you see?"

"A girl." You say, still reeling. "I saw her standing there in the crowd." You point to a cluster of older students where everyone is laughing. "I blinked, and now she isn't there any longer."

Argus leans over the railing to see better. "It's possible she turned invisible, but I don't think that's the case. Do you see the small yellow bird in the centre there?"

"Yes."

"There's a new sweet making the rounds. It was cooked up by some troublemakers as a prank. Once eaten, you literally transform into a canary. It lasts a minute."

Neither of you takes your eyes off the little bird, and sure enough, it moults and turns back into the girl you saw before.

"Why?" You sound bewildered even to your own ears.

Argus just shrugs and repeats his earlier words. "Stay around magic long enough and the extraordinary becomes commonplace. They probably thought it was funny."

The next half hour is spent ever so slowly releasing your inner fourteen-year-old while observing magical children gallivant around the castle in the company of a squib caretaker. You have a surprisingly good time. It only ends when someone finally comes to take you home again.

It has been a five days since your sudden Hogwarts visit and things are mostly back to normal. You're replacing the bed sheets when a tapping on the window breaks your concentration. It's an owl. The fact that things have changed is evidenced by your lack of scream even though your hands still shake as you approach.

The letter is addressed to you. It is sealed with actual wax and cracking it gives you a small thrill. You never got to experience such an out of date custom before.

Argus's prose, extolling the virtues of magic once more, releases hints of your inner fourteen-year-old self again. You catch yourself caressing the signature. Apparently your inner fourteen-year-old self is hinting at curiosity about more than just magic.

Smiling, you fetch a bowl of water. Argus explained what to do with the owl in the letter. It was very thoughtful of him. Still, you don't have owl treats so there's nothing you can do about that.

"Vernon," you call downstairs, "anything interesting on the telly?"

"Football, pet!" He sounds excited, and for a change you are too. Vernon finds the game so very engaging. He'll be glued to the TV for a while.

The bedside table holds pen and paper and you sit down to compose a letter. Within minutes the owl is off again. You feel slightly naughty, corresponding with a man in the magical world. It's exciting. Your smile comes naturally as you head downstairs to join your husband. He doesn't really need to know.

A/N: Written for the Points and Prompts Competition using all prompts but the title.

Thank you for your thoughts.
-brainthief