Work Text:
1971
He was a good lad, all things considered.
Argus never paid the children much attention. They were horrid brats, all of them, terrorising him just as badly as Peeves did. They tracked mud into the hallways, spilled potions everywhere, did not care for basic hygiene, and many times the caretaker caught them breaking curfew to sneak where they should not be sneaking in the first place. Already there was a gang of first-year Gryffindors boys running here and there and everywhere with mischief dripping off their cloaks and hexes jumping from the tips of their wands.
Those snotty little brats were not just annoying but Argus saw cruelty quietly coursing through their veins. Not that it bothered the headmaster much, no, no – he let them go off the hook most of the times, patting Argus’ shoulder as he bid him to be gentler with the ankle-biters. Said they were just energetic children.
It was a command. Sure, it was disguised as a suggestion, but he knew what it was and refused to follow it. Argus decided to watch those boys with a keener eye for the sake of the hallways, which was when he noticed him lurking in the darkness. Like a cat hiding from a pack of rabid dogs, he thought.
The lad mostly kept to himself. Argus often saw him whilst sweeping the floors leading to the courtyard, either alone or in the company of a red-haired Gryffindor girl. Truth be told, he could not have imagined a more unlikely pair of friends. The latter must have had a happy childhood with how often she laughed, how easily she was delighted by the smallest things that not even a Squib would find interesting. Only an idiot would not have realised that she was Muggle-born.
And next to her, faithful as a shadow, stood that distant, wistful lad with the largest, darkest eyes Argus had ever seen in his life. He liked him. Liked that he abided the simple household rules the caretaker had set to keep the castle liveable. They had been alone a few times, too, when he found the lad with his nose stuck in a book in the potions classroom. Strangely, Argus felt neither the need to threaten him with keelhauling or drag him to Slughorn for punishment. A reprimanding glance was enough: the lad would apologise for loitering and scramble to his dormitory.
That was the extent of their interactions. At least, it was till Christmas.
Most of the brats were absent, thank God. As the Hogwarts Express left the station, Mrs. Bennet jumped onto his lap and, buzzing with excitement, loudly meowed till he dropped what he was doing (in that particular moment: wrapping up confiscated bombs) and walked with her to the potions classroom. Professor Slughorn had already left school grounds that morning – men like him had places to be and socialites to leech off – so Argus had no idea what his dear cat wanted to show him.
Creaking open the door, the caretaker and his cat peered into the classroom where the softest sniffles were heard. Argus furrowed his brow then pushed the door further ajar.
It was the lad.
Hunched in the corner with open tubs of salves around him, he applied them generously on the burns on his forearms.
Although the caretaker had an inkling – a gut feeling – on who the perpetrators were, he would not jump to conclusions till he heard the story from the lad himself. Bad enough that he sprang to his feet upon sensing Argus, furiously blinking away the tears pooling at the rim of his dark eyes.
“I’ll clean up after myself,” he said softly.
Argus nodded. “Know you will, lad.”
Mrs. Bennet meowed and approached him, batting at the hem of his robe with a playful paw. The action confused the boy out of his crying, and then a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Argus pursed his own. Then, “Come with me.”
“Why?” the lad demanded.
But Argus did not answer. He trusted Mrs. Bennet to deliver the lad to his office. No matter how stubborn or cross the lad might be with her, she was as mulish as the prefects and would pester him till he joined the caretaker in his office.
Gave Argus plenty of time to set the kettle and scour for the chocolate frogs.
1972
He was a bookish lad, all things considered.
At some point during the year, the lad had taken to spending time in Argus’ office. Usually Mrs. Bennet did not take kindly to guests without forewarning from the caretaker, though she had warmed up to lad quickly enough. It was surprising.
Then Argus learned that the lad had bribed her with catnip.
Shaking his head, he rapped the lad’s nape and scolded Mrs. Bennet for partaking in corruption. The cat subsequently jumped onto the lad, preferring the smooth hand of a scholar than the callused one of a worker. The lad was scholarly, no doubt. He had come into Argus’ office twice – last Christmas to have his arms bandaged and this past September to tip him off on a prank planned by those wretched Gryffindor. His dark eyes had stared into his own squarely as he spoke of a cache of slimeballs, yet the moment he had finished they strayed to the bookshelf at the back of the room.
Argus Filch was a Squib, true, but contrary to what the world thought he knew his letters well. Wizarding books upset him, though, so he found begrudging solace in Muggle writing.
Of course, it helped that his first book was brought to him by a pretty girl. Back when old Pringle was still around, Argus had the luxury of leaving the school to run around as young men were wont to do. He had taken the train down to London and wandered around the city till he finally lingered in front of a bookshop in Clapham. Must’ve lingered too long, or perhaps looked a smidge out of place since a girl popped out of the shop and asked him if he’d like to see their stock. Apparently they had received a new shipping that morn.
Her favourite author was Dickens. She had showed him all their authors before landing back at the Dickensian shelf, shily admitting that she thought he was the finest author the kingdom had ever produced.
Argus boarded the northbound train that evening with a copy of Great Expectations and a kiss mark on his cheek.
“What’re you looking at, lad?” he demanded.
The lad jumped at his tone, earning an angry hiss from the jostled Mrs. Bennet. “Nothing,” he said quickly.
“Lad.”
He frowned. Fingers tightening around the cat, the lad timidly gestured at the shelf just as Argus expected. “May I borrow a book, sir?”
“Isn’t the library enough?”
“The library doesn’t stock fiction. I would have brought my own books from home, but I don’t want them ruined by my classmates. They don’t appreciate them.” Here he leaned forward slightly, and his brows rose so as to give his guarded face an uncharacteristic open look of curiosity. “I like Dickens too.”
Before he could stop himself, Argus asked, “Is he your favourite?”
“He’s up there,” said the lad. “It’s been three-four years since I read him, though; I should refresh my memory.” He scratched Mrs. Bennet’s chin. “We can swap, sir, if you’d like. I’ve got I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith hidden in my dorm. Have you read it?” At Argus’ shake of the head, he brightened and said, “It’s an excellent read, sir.”
Over the school year, the lad had read every book Argus owned. It developed into a ritual of sorts: once the lad had finished a book, he would invite himself to the office in search for another and would not leave unless he could discuss the plot with the caretaker and give his own recommendations.
By the start of summer, Argus had read all the fiction books the lad had brought with him to school.
1973
He was a strange lad, all things considered.
There was an oddness to him that the other brats – especially that Gryffindor gang – had noticed immediately, and as children were wont to do they punished him relentlessly for it. Even Argus himself sometimes found the lad off-putting. He was good, he was bookish, he was quiet, but every now and then his comments and actions jolted the caretaker from the shock of them all.
Children came and went, leaving in their wake all sorts of rubbish: wrappers from sweets, silly notes, beaten notebooks and half-used stationery, hair ties, pins and badges, etc. Some had their treasure stashes that he would later confiscate to teach them a lesson (what right had they pulling apart the school to hide their knick-knacks?) and a few began collections of pebbles, chocolate frog cards and whatnot. They laughed and played and tracked mud into their common rooms and talked endlessly about Quidditch, peers, their professors, and the newest programme on the wireless.
Then the lad would softly scoff and correct the presenter, silencing conversation entirely.
Argus had grown used to see the lad in his office these days. Those Gryffindors did not dare to enter it, which made it a quiet space where he could be at peace. Thus, Argus had become privy to the habits of that strange little creature. As he fussed over the pregnant Mrs. Bennet, the lad would explain to him the scientific properties of death-caps and aconites; on rainy days he would monopolise Argus’ bed and read all sorts of books – his most recent reads were Advanced Potion Making and The Aeneid – from which he would then scribble down passages; and though the lad was clever, he was not so clever to think that Argus was ignorant to the stash of jars hidden in his dorm filled to the brim with potion ingredients he had prepared with his own hands.
There was a Quidditch match today.
Like clockwork, the lad entered the office as soon as his peers had gone to the field and sat on the bed, humouring Mrs. Bennet by scratching her ears. Argus watched the scene and fought the urge to smile. He had no intentions of siring more Squibs into the world, and frankly his natural disdain for children disagreed with fatherhood in general, but if he had to have a son then (regardless of his oddity) he liked to imagine he would be as good as the lad. But perhaps for his sake – or that of any child – he would choose a more mundane name.
He made bold to ask the lad after it, whether he was named after his witch mother’s relations or the like.
“My father gave it to me,” he said.
Argus raised a brow. “Your father?” The Muggle?
“Mhm.” The lad lifted the cat onto his lap and tilted his head at the caretaker. “He named me after the saint and the emperor.” He smiled, almost proud. “My father loved the Greco-Romans.”
“A historian then?” That would explain some of the lad’s eccentricities, if his dad was a poorly-paid scholar; and he was poorly-paid if the state of his son’s shoes were any indicator.
The lad shook his head.
“What is he then?”
Most children were eager to inquire after and share the jobs of their parents. Even in Slytherin, where folks were more likely to be independently wealthy, the kids spoke of their parents’ activities be it annoying the Ministry or throwing charity events.
The lad once more went against the grain. Staring hard at Argus, as if daring him to find it funny, he quietly said, “He works at a mill. Spinning cloth.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “I’m glad he chose my name. My mother would have had me called either Connla or Ferdiad. She’s Irish,” he added unhelpfully.
“So she is.”
An easy silence settled between them. The lad continued to pet Mrs. Bennet, offering to read her excerpts from his book, and Argus returned to his paperwork. Perhaps this was what the other brats sensed in the lad, this curious mixture of Muggle and magic. Back when they first met, the boy knew far too much to be a Muggle; yet he was too careless (or, in retrospect, too confident or undermining or stupidly bold) to know better than to study every curse in existence. In addition to those hidden jars of his, Argus had seen the growing stack of notebooks dedicated to the Dark Arts. Far be it for a Squib to lecture a young wizard of the lad’s calibre, yet even he knew that there were reasons for caution.
But then the lad would come share his findings with him, and for all his sternness Argus could not summon a rebuke. The lad rarely smiled, let alone laughed. It was a rare gift when that seldom-seen glimmer shone in his black eyes as he broke down the structures of dark spells. And there was that incident at the Great Hall when he struck that four-eyed Gryffindor nuisance in defence of his interests.
Later, at detention, the lad helped Argus scrub cauldrons by hand and softly told him that he did not believe that the dark arts were bad. ‘It’s a misnomer,’ he had murmured. ‘Magic is good. It’s pure. Besides, Potter and Black are remorseless with their hexes despite the fact that hexes, strictly speaking, are also dark. You can blind a man with lumos maxima but the Ministry isn’t rushing to ban the spell. They’re all just stupid and narrow-minded. It’s them that are bad, not the magic.’
Mrs. Bennet meowed loudly. She had stretched herself over the lad’s lap, demanding to have her belly rubbed, and the lad, sighing, complied with her request. One hand over her belly, another holding a book, he read to her in a hushed tone his corrections of the textbook – another habit of his not shared by his peers.
Argus scolded them both for the ruckus.
Then he rose to set the kettle.
1974
He was a faithful lad, all things considered.
For the first time since he entered Hogwarts, the lad had returned home for the Christmas holidays. The half-muttered complaints hinted at the arrival of relatives who wanted to see how big their nephew had grown, so the lad packed his things and returned to his little industrial town.
Argus did not know where he went. The lad spoke properly and cleanly like the folk on the wireless, though in the privacy of the office he slipped to the inflections and beats he must’ve inherited from his father – too little of Irish in him to come from his mother. It had a smack of the north, softened by the midland hills and his own shame. Presumably the lad lived somewhere about the Black Country, though Argus would never voice his guess lest it’d crack the ice that just barely buried the burning, beating, furious, sensitive heart beneath it.
January came slower than expected. Time did not pass as quickly as it did to the mumbling rendition of Dickens. Argus was in his office, warming a water bottle for Mrs. Bennet and her three kittens, when the creak of the door alerted him to the lad’s return.
Silences were easy between them. Argus nodded his acknowledgement and returned to his attention to the cats while the lad settled on the bed as he liked to do. Softly he asked, “Mrs. Bennet’s?”
“Mhm.”
“Have they got names yet?”
“This one,” he lifted two wiggling stripey balls of fuzz, “is Sir Walter, and the one in my right is Lady de Bourgh.” Setting them down, he picked up the fluffiest of the three and placed it on the lad’s lap. “That one is Mrs. Norris. I’ll be keeping her.”
“What about Sir Walter and Lady?”
“Lady de Bourgh,” Argus corrected. “I’ve a sister in Blackpool. She’ll take them both.”
The lad hummed. “I wish I had a cat.”
Argus scratched Mrs. Bennet’s chin. The school foolishly let students have pets and obviously very few were bothered to brush out the fur from carpets in common rooms, let alone wipe the slime or sweep feathers left in their wake. Youthfulness was the beaten excuse for stupidity. Argus might have accepted it as a cause of broken hearts, maybe unwise politics, but not for basic hygiene. Even eleven-year-olds should know better.
The lad himself occasionally needed a reminder of it. Neat and proper though he was, Argus had to agree with the brats that sometimes – just sometimes – the lad left his hair unwashed for far too long than was wise. It was odd, really. The lad was otherwise fastidious. His notes were neat, his dorm was tidy, he never tracked mud. Not even on rainy days.
But then Argus remembered how lonely the lad was. That red-haired Gryffindor girl spent more and more time with her own housemates and the Malfoy heir had graduated last year, leaving the lad to his own devices more than Argus would have liked. The kids formed little gangs here; they went everywhere together be it the Great Hall or the Quidditch field or the bathrooms.
An idea wormed onto the forefront of his mind as the kitten wriggled all around. There was no better cure to loneliness than feline companionship.
“My sister could spare one. If you want.” He took Lady de Bourgh into his hands again, murmuring apologies to the annoyed kit before giving her to the lad. “She’ll catch rats for you.”
“You have incredibly high hopes, sir,” he said, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Potter and his sycophants are far too big for a humble tabby.”
Argus snorted. Then his eyes glanced at the hands holding the kitten.
The cloak had hiked up to reveal angry red welts lacing the porcelain-pale skin. Argus might have ignored it – the lad’s father was a spinner so he could have unsuccessfully tried teaching the trade – were it not for the perfectly circular scar at the end of his forearm. The skin was slightly puckered, a bit sunken into the flesh, and sealed with an ugly scab.
Clearly the kits were working their magic since soon as he said, “That a cigarette burn?” the lad jumped.
He set the kits on the bed and quickly tugged down his sleeves. “It’s nothing,” he grumbled. “It’ll heal.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No, I don’t, sir.”
“Good,” said Argus sternly. “I’ve enough to sweep without cigarette ashes thrown into the mix.”
The silence between them now was not so easy.
He left the lad with the cats. Setting the table, he brought the lemon biscuits – a favourite of the lad – and poured two cups of tea. He joined him quietly, still clutching to the kittens. Mrs. Norris wriggled in his grasp, obviously unhappy; her sister accepted the touch graciously. Lady de Bourgh was the runt of the litter. She would need special care, but Argus has no qualms as to her growing up to be a handsome cat.
“So,” he said, voice low as to not scare the lad, “want a cat?” Mrs. Norris squirmed onto the table and waddled towards Argus. The lad watched her in action. Then he lost interest in favour of Lady de Bourgh who snuggled to his hands. “Fond of you already, she is.”
The lad held her close to his chest. “I can’t have one,” he said. “Potter and Black will do something to her, I know they will.”
“I’ll thrash ‘em for it,” swore Argus and never mind the headmaster’s ban on corporal punishment. He won’t suffer the mistreatment of cats.
With a shake of the head, the lad suddenly took a sharp breath and lowered his head so as to hide his eyes with those midnight locks. “I can’t have her anyway. We’ve too many stray dogs in my neighbourhood and my mother hates cats and when my uncle drinks—” He suddenly went still. “I just can’t have Lady de Bourgh. She’ll be better off with your sister even if she does live in Blackpool.”
Lady de Bourgh yawned. His grasp around her tightened.
Argus was not the one to pry. They respected each other’s privacy, never asked anything beyond necessities and never commented on their past. The lad kept his end of the unspoken agreement: he must have noticed Argus’ inability towards magic and never used it in his presence. But the scar on his hand…
“What about your father?” he asked carefully. “Does your father like cats?”
“He doesn’t like anything much.”
“Said he liked the Greco-Romans.”
“Past tense,” said the lad, cringing into himself. Then, “He works too much to like anything. Twelve-hour shifts don’t leave much room for sons or cats.”
“Doesn’t notice your uncle’s work too, I reckon?”
The lad snapped his eyes at Argus. Large and bright and black, they bore into the caretaker and for the briefest moment he had a strange sensation inside his head. It came and went with the softness of a kitten’s fuzzy tail. A promise of a headache, he supposed. That was unimportant. Especially when the lad softly, carefully said, “He’s not bad. He was just drunk.”
“Just drunk?”
“Yes, well—” the lad stiffened, “everyone is like that when they’re drunk. Right?” He glared at Argus with such an earnest, almost desperate sheen to his dark eyes that it startled the caretaker. “My father gets angry too, and my mother doesn’t care—she doesn’t—well, she’s always tired but when she drinks she gets mean. That’s just what happen when people drink. Right?”
His voice broke at the final word.
While he was always more partial to cats, Argus had cared for his fair share of hounds (even watched after Fang two winters past) and to his dismay recognised a terrible doggish quality ingrained in the lad. His family would—no, they kicked and beat him and still he came to their defence exactly like how a whimpering hound crawled back to its master’s feet after he had beaten it bloody.
The longer the silence stretched, the worse did the lad’s fidgeting grow. His peers also mocked that habit of his, laughed how he flinched and twitched at loud noises. Argus had initially thought it was part of the lad’s overall strangeness – and really it still was – yet the cause of it was worse than he had imagined.
Sighing, he decided to put the lad out of his misery. “Right,” he said. “Yes, alcohol has that…effect.”
“So I said.” The lad breathed out his relief. “So I’ve been told.”
“But you know,” added Argus, watching the boy for his reaction, “my uncle never struck me. He wasn’t my father. Had no business striking me.”
“Our families are different,” he said stubbornly.
“Suppose so.”
“I know it.” The lad cast his attention from the caretaker to the cat. Lady de Bourgh snuggled her cheek against his pale skin. She would have been very happy with him. “When will your sister take them away?”
“In twelve weeks. Little ‘uns need to be with Mrs. Bennet till then.” Argus rose to reheat the kettle. “I’d appreciate it if you come look after them when I’m too busy.”
The lad nodded and tugged down his cloak, hiding the burns. “I’ll be glad to be useful to the kittens.”
Useful…Argus lamented. The lad was too clever to be someone’s dog. He ought to be his own master.
1975
He was a troubled lad, all things considered.
That was it. The friendship was broken. That red-haired Gryffindor girl had snipped her friendship with the lad because of a single word. Argus could barely understand it. Sure, he was a miserable man hating the world that scorned him, but he found it hard to be sympathetic to the girl whilst he dragged the lad from the entrance of the Gryffindor Tower to his office. Those four brats were laughing at the prospect of the lad receiving a punishment and, admittedly, Argus felt his patience run thin with the lad’s ceaseless attempts at apologising (where was his dignity?) and angered that the lad acted as if he would prefer corporal punishment over the silent treatment from the girl.
So, Argus brought him to his office. He forced him onto the bed then moved to set the kettle and fetch sandwiches – Christ knew the lad had not eaten properly that day or any other day – which he offered to him.
“It’ll be alright,” he murmured to him.
“No, it will not,” snapped the lad. “It will never be alright.” He harshly sat up and wiped the tears streaming down his face. “She is—was my best friend, but now she doesn’t want anything to do with me and the worst—the worst part of it is that she’s absolutely right!” A dry, coughing laugh erupted from his throat and he covered his eyes with the back of his hands. “You know, I knew this couldn’t have lasted long. I knew it. I knew it!”
Argus was worried. The lad never cried, neither did he ever babble nor laugh so wildly.
He looked up at him. “The moment we were sorted I knew it wouldn’t last. Lily’s made of light, and in Gryffindor each and every one of them consider themselves to be inherently good even if they are not. They know how to put on an act to stamp out any sense of morality. Cause why should they be worried? They’re Gryffindors! They will fight for the Light Side and that excuses them of any bad deeds. Lily’s genuinely good, and she spends so much time with them that I felt her distance herself from me because of who I am.” He paused. “She had to make excuses to her housemates as to why she was my friend. I guess now she won’t have to degrade herself like that.”
“And you won’t go degrading yourself with any more apologies,” said Argus in a clipped voice. The lad blinked, and he frowned. “So you called her a Mudblood. Don’t think I haven’t heard your own housemates call you that too, but no one sees you breaking ties with them.”
“It’s different.”
“It’s not.” Argus reached out to brush the hair from the lad’s face. “You’re mocked for being an impoverished half-blood. Those Gryffindor brats push you around constantly. Then there’s that McDonald girl – alright for you to be beat but not her?” The lad flinched and Argus softened his voice. “You’ll be alright. Just focus on your studies. Become a potions master like you planned. It’ll be alright.”
The lad listened to him blankly. Then, with a scowl twisting his lips, he snarled, “And what do you know of—”
“I was turned out of the house the moment it was discovered I’m crippled,” said Argus sharply, regretting the recoiling effect of it. “I was eleven. What could I do? I slept on the outskirts of Hogsmeade till Apollyon Pringle found me.” For which he was grateful. No matter how grating the students at this school were, Argus would remain if only out of duty to Pringle. “Thought it was the end of the world when I ended up on the streets in winter, but I’m fine now and you’ll be fine too. Now be quiet. Drink your tea.”
The lad stared at him. Over the years, his prominent features were softened as time saw him mature into a promising young man. What had not changed, however, were the size of his eyes. They were still large and dark as they were at eleven. Argus and he maintained eye contact, both refusing to break it till the caretaker felt a headache coming onto him. Mrs. Norris and her mother sensed his discomfort and hurried to him. Well, Mrs. Norris ran to rub her face against his while Mrs. Bennet – satisfied to see he wasn’t dying – pounced onto the lad. She was always fond of him, she was. Even if her daughter was far pickier, she was as warm and attached to the lad as she had been when he was smaller.
Suddenly, the lad said, “It’ll be alright? You promise?”
Argus, taking Mrs. Norris into his arms, nodded. “If a cripple like me managed, why won’t someone as gifted as you not? You like learning. Keep at it and then one day those obnoxious flies you share classrooms with will waste away at the Ministry while I read your publications.”
“Publications?” repeated the lad in disbelief.
“Won’t you publish? Your potions research?”
The lad just watched him for a while. Then with a jerked nod of the head sternly said, “Yes, I will.”
1976
He was a brave lad, all things considered.
No one would tell Argus anything. He was neither a true member of staff nor a wizard – what right had he to information except that oh he was the caretaker of Hogwarts? All he knew was that there was a werewolf on the grounds last night and that it had attacked the lad. He also knew those wretched Gryffindors had something to do with it. The Black heir was jaunting about the Great Hall as he always did when he got away with a smack on the wrist. Only got nervous when around that scarred, pale Lupin boy.
Save Lucius Malfoy who had manifested in the Hospital Room immediately after the incident, no one cared for the lad. Argus would not have expected the Muggle father to show up at the castle, but not even the lad’s mother came to visit. As a youth, Argus bitterly imagined that if he were gifted with magic then the whole world would be served on the platter. A common thought among Squibs and one that was entirely untrue, yet he reckoned the lad might have been appreciated if only as a ticket out of whatever slum his family called home. She had come just the once after the headmaster wrote to her personally to smooth the affair completely.
The lad rarely entered his office these days. He was mocked for his closeness to the caretaker so he only showed up at night. Normally Argus would have warned him for breaking curfew, but it was difficult to reprimand someone who had less life in him than the castle ghosts.
“What is it?” he asked, setting down the newspaper.
The lad opened his arms to embrace good old Mrs. Bennet. Silently, he went to Argus’ bed and sat down on it. No reaction, no change of expression. He just held a purring Mrs. Bennet and burned holes into the corner of the room with a flat, fixed gaze.
Argus watched him. Then he sighed and rose to go to the kitchens. Upon his return, the caretaker saw the lad had done nothing except squeeze Mrs. Bennet tighter. From the kitchens he had brought a plate full of food and beverages. Growing lads had to eat. He pulled out a chair and gestured for the lad to come join him. The blank expression with which this was met unnerved Argus, but at least the lad obeyed.
Slowly, slowly the lad ate the offered scotch eggs and drank the sugared tea. It brought some colour to his translucent face. Argus saw the resemblance between him and one Eileen Snape, nee Prince. Squib though he was, Argus was pure-blooded (and all the more a cause of shame for it) and remembered his upbringing. Meeting that woman for a minute had answered for about a half of her lad’s eccentricities that was certain. Really, that was to be expected from Princes.
Some mothers ran straight to their offspring if they so much as sensed a hint of distress. Others instead of parenting periodically reviewed their children to see whether their spawn needed a beating or a tutor. Eileen Snape seemed to fit both and neither category. Nimble as the wind, she appeared at the castle with no warning to the headmaster or Professors Slughorn and McGonagall. To satiate his own curiosity, Argus had gone mopping by the headmaster’s office when Mrs. Snape entered it. The first fifteen-twenty minutes passed in relative quiet.
Then there was thunder and lightning.
Argus sniggered when the headmaster and the two professors emerged from the office with burnt robes stained with the lemon tea enjoyed by the former. He approved of the woman’s temper – no one else would stand up for the lad – but a week later he heard from the lad’s own lips that his mother had barely spoken with him. Eileen Snape had stormed the Hospital Wing, nearly killed Madam Pomfrey and would have hunted down the Gryffindors when she saw her lad in bedrest and quietened down.
As the lad told it, he and his mother spent a few minutes in perfect silence. Then she stroked his head, nodded, and left as quietly as she’d come. Professor Slughorn had walked around the premises in search for her to no avail.
And that was the end of that.
Almost like he read his thoughts, the lad softly said, “People accuse of my mother being strange. I’m glad she is. A normal witch wouldn’t have glassed the headmaster with a porcelain cup of tea.”
“She do that a lot?” asked Argus, glad for show of life.
“Not really. Only when she’s cross.”
Fair enough.
He ate another scotch egg. Then, “Professor Slughorn is going to take out his frustrations with her on me. I wonder if Professor McGonagall will as well.”
“Ought to just write another letter to your mother if they’re so mad.”
The lad shrugged. “Professor Slughorn should know what my mother’s like. Today before class he stared at me as if I’m the one speaking in riddles.”
Argus furrowed a brow. “Riddles?”
“Mhm.” The lad then smiled. “My mother sees things. She’s a not a true seer, but when it comes to family affairs she’ll have dreams about them.” His smile dampened. “Before Hogwarts, before primary school even, my mother invented rhymes to entertain me. One of them was about howling wolves and moonlight.” He cast down his eyes, focusing on Mrs. Bennet. “Now I know that not all of her rhymes were silly little ditties.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“I’m not allowed to speak about it.”
Brows raised, he said, “Headmaster?”
“Who else?”
The tray was polished clean and set aside for the house elves to collect. Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Norris retired to their shared bed by the hearth. Argus stretched his arms and, sparing a glance to the lad, covered him with a duvet. “They should have that oaf’s job for it. Letting a werewolf run around the woods like that. Idiot probably invited it onto the grounds for tea,” he scoffed. Then, gazing at the lad, he added, “But you’re alright.”
“I…” The lad released an erratic, choked breath. “I don’t feel alright.”
Argus folded his arms. Never the one to sugar-coat things, he simply said, “Might you’ll never feel alright. The important thing is that you’re alive. Worried me sick, you know.”
Considering how allergic the lad was to ‘sentimental drivel’, he gave the caretaker a warm smile and thanked him for the meal. “Would it be okay with you if I come here to study?”
“Will it matter if I say no?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “It’s the quietest place in the castle, and frankly the only one where I don’t feel watched.”
Argus nodded his understanding.
The lad showed up oftener those days.
1977
He really was a good lad, all things considered.
Argus wasn’t blind. He knew where his lad spent his evenings and with which crowd he mingled. Times were that he was glad for the long cloaks hiding the children’s arms – he was happy to be ignorant as to whether his lad was marked. Much as he wanted to smack some sense into him, Argus knew exactly what strings were pulling the lad in that direction. It wasn’t as if the side of light welcomed him with open arms. The Princes were a decent family, if a little odd; chances might be their pedigree will be enough to keep the lad afloat cause his father’s side as Argus learned were all workers. Salt of the concrete.
The lad had come to Hogwarts a twitchy, fidgety, silent, strange little creature. He was leaving it as silent and strange, but no longer twitchy and fidgety. The Malfoy heir had bought him a new pair of robes for Christmas, and his Muggle father gave him a watch that Argus normally would have confiscated (it broke the dress code) if the lad hadn’t kept hidden beneath his robes at all times. He had shown it to the caretaker just the once before leaving to spend Christmas with the Malfoys. It was with pride he had showed the watch, said it belonged to his grandfather. The unspoken comment that it was the nicest thing his father had owned lingered in the air.
A new year had begun and with it was the lad’s seventeenth birthday. He would become in the eyes of wizards all a man. It was an important occasion in any wizard’s life. The Malfoys would definitely mark it – the heir was terribly fond of the lad and showered him with brotherly affection – but Argus wanted to gift the lad something too. Let him know that he could have the same things as the untouchable inbred prefects.
Argus’ parents had snipped him off the family tree the moment it was revealed he was a Squib. His sister was kinder to him. Once they were both grown adults, she sought him out at Hogwarts and gave him a few heirlooms: their father’s pocketwatch and their mother’s aspen wand.
Smirking, he reached for the wand on his belt and looked at the fine graining on it. If he remembered correctly, the lad also carried his mother’s wand around. Apparently she did not need it in her role as a wife of a Muggle (and, as the lad proudly claimed, she was capable of wandless magic) and gave it to her son at his entrance to Hogwarts. Quite the family, he thought, if the mother was chosen by acacia and her son tamed it to his own hand.
So the caretaker went about cleaning the castle for the new term, busying his mind with thoughts many might consider frivolous. As he polished the cauldrons in the potions classroom, a fond memory came to mind and come morning Argus Filch had flooed down to London town.
It wasn’t every day a wizard turned seventeen so Clapham was out of the question. But as he wandered the capital, which had grown larger since his last visit, Argus haply saw something worthy of his lad.
The seller was another pretty girl. She even wrapped the present up all nice in green paper when he said it was for his nephew. Argus took great care to keep it neat and tidy on his journey back to Hogsmeade and from there to the castle.
Several days later, the lad returned to school. Old Mrs. Bennet, sensing excitement, went to fetch him to his office. Argus took a deep breath, set the present on the table, and raised a brow when the lad stepped inside all wide-eyed and mystified. Mrs. Bennet was comfortably situated in his arms, purring loudly as the elegant scholar’s hand rubbed her belly.
“Happy New Year, sir,” said the lad.
Argus nodded and gestured at the wrapped present. “Happy seventeenth, lad.”
“Is it for me?”
“Well, it’s not for Mrs. Bennet.”
The lad snorted, placing the reluctant cat on the table. Then as to not tear the tape he opened the present and (to Argus’ immense pleasure) gasped and smiled.
It was a festive edition of Great Expectations. Bound in dark blue leather, the pages were gilded silver and the cover itself was embossed with great curvy letters and a handsome watch in white and rose gold. Cost a pretty penny, it did, but what else could Argus give to the lad? He just hoped he would remember that it was—
“It’s the first book I ever borrowed from you,” finished the clever lad for him. He opened the cover and smiled wider at the message Argus had written. Nothing pompous or pretentious. Just a simple happy birthday and the date of the occasion. He looked up at him. “Thank you, sir.”
Argus patted his back. “Something to read while your potions are brewing,” he said. Then, more seriously, he added, “Graduating this year, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“What’re you planning to do?”
The lad, still tracing the embossed letters with the tips of his fingers, haphazardly answered, “I’m going to improve on the Wolfsbane potion and get my qualifications as a potions master. Lucius will help with the finances.”
“That so?” Argus dropped his gaze to the lad’s left arm. No, not him. And even if he had the mark Argus knew he was different. “Send me what you publish. I’ll have a look.”
Here the lad raised his face. He was grinning. “Will you, sir?”
“I will,” promised Argus. “And you better continue being good outside these walls.”
“Obviously,” said the lad. “And you should know that I’m not above cleaning up my own messes. I’ll be alright. You said so yourself.”
“So I did.” He went to the kettle and, more to himself than anything, murmured, “So I believe.”