You sweep.

It’s all you know to do here. It’s all you have to offer: your tiny contribution to sani-ty, to restoring a world in which words like “tidy” and “clean” still make as much sense as “dead” and “corpse”.

When the battle began, you were excited—you couldn’t help but be caught up in the frenzy of preparation and flight. Your blood, it hadn’t pumped quite so fast in years, not since you caught sight—accidentally of course, you weren’t no pervert—of them seventh-year boys skinny-dipping in the loch one early autumn evening.

The children—some of ’em—acted like it were a game, smiling and chattering as they rushed about, happy at the prospect of being allowed to brandish them bloody wands at grown witches and wizards, and you felt it, too. Or maybe it were hyste-ria. Any road, after the shock of hearing that horrible voice in your head—and eve-ryone had heard it right enough, it weren’t just you—had worn off, and before the first curse hit the barriers, it seemed to you like you’d stepped right into one of them Muggle pictures Mam sometimes made you go to with her when Dad were away. Which he were a lot when it came clear that there weren’t no Hogwarts let-ter coming for Argus Filch. Funny how you ended up here anyway. If by “funny” you mean “thanks to the old Headmaster”, who appeared with a job offer the week after your dad had left for good. Now they were dead, the Headmaster and your dad, both, but you were still here, weren’t you? For the moment.