By: QueerTales
The morning light filtered through the patchy curtains of the small guest room, casting uneven stripes across the worn floorboards. Argus Filch lay stiffly on the narrow bed, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't slept much, not that it was unusual for him. The bed, though softer than what he was used to at Hogwarts, seemed foreign, too accommodating. Everything in this place felt off-kilter, from the cluttered rooms to the overly bright atmosphere that seeped into every corner like a sickness.
Mrs. Norris, curled at his feet, gave a soft purr as the first sounds of movement stirred downstairs. Filch grumbled to himself, rolling over to avoid the sunlight that had begun creeping toward his face. He wasn't ready to face another day in this absurd house, surrounded by the remnants of war and a man who had no sense of reality.
Xenophilius Lovegood. The name itself left a sour taste in Filch's mouth.
But, whether he liked it or not, he had nowhere else to go.
With a groan of effort, Filch swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His joints protested the movement, but he ignored them, as he always did. He had long grown accustomed to the aches and pains of age, the constant reminders that time marched forward, indifferent to the man it left behind. Mrs. Norris stretched lazily before hopping off the bed and weaving between his legs, eager to begin her morning routine.
"Right then," Filch muttered, scratching at the patchy stubble on his chin. "Let's get this over with."
The house was quiet as he made his way downstairs, the only sounds the occasional clink of something fragile and the faint rustle of wind outside. The stairs creaked beneath his weight, and he wondered how much longer this rickety old place would hold together. The Lovegood home seemed as unstable as its owner—chaotic, unpredictable, and dangerously close to falling apart.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was greeted by the sight of Xenophilius in the kitchen, humming softly to himself as he prepared breakfast. The man moved about with an absent-minded grace, his long, gangly limbs sweeping through the air as he poured tea, cracked eggs, and stirred some sort of bubbling concoction on the stove. His robes today were a shade of pale blue, embroidered with tiny silver stars that glittered when they caught the light. Filch grimaced at the sight.
"Good morning, Argus!" Xenophilius said brightly, turning to face him with a smile that seemed far too cheerful for this early in the day. "I trust you slept well?"
Filch grunted in response, too irritated to muster up even a half-hearted lie. He shuffled to the table, pulling out a rickety chair and dropping into it with a heavy sigh. Mrs. Norris leapt onto his lap, and he absentmindedly stroked her fur, finding comfort in her familiar presence.
"I've made tea," Xenophilius continued, seemingly undeterred by Filch's lack of enthusiasm. "And there are eggs, if you're hungry. Fresh from the hens this morning."
"Not hungry," Filch muttered, his voice rough and flat. He wasn't about to indulge in whatever strange concoctions Lovegood had in mind. It wasn't that he didn't eat—he just didn't eat things he couldn't identify. "Just give me the tea."
Xenophilius nodded, pouring a cup of tea and setting it in front of Filch with a flourish. "There you are. It's a blend of herbs from the garden. Quite calming, I find."
Filch eyed the cup suspiciously before taking it in his hands. The warmth of the mug was pleasant enough, but he wasn't sure he trusted Lovegood's definition of "calming." He took a tentative sip, expecting the worst. To his surprise, the tea was tolerable—mild, with a hint of something floral. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but it wasn't half bad.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, Xenophilius continuing to hum quietly to himself as he plated eggs and toast. Filch stared into his tea, feeling the weight of the awkwardness between them grow with every passing second. He wasn't built for this—small talk, pleasantries, pretending to care about the minutiae of daily life. He wanted to be left alone, to exist in his own space, without the constant intrusion of someone else's cheerfulness.
"So," Xenophilius said, breaking the silence with his usual airy tone, "what are your plans for the day, Argus? The garden could use some tending, if you're inclined to be outside. Or perhaps you'd like to help me in the workshop? I've been working on a device to track magical currents in the atmosphere. It's quite fascinating, really."
Filch scowled into his cup, bristling at the suggestion. "I'm not here to play gardener, Lovegood. And I've no interest in your contraptions." His words were sharp, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere like a jagged blade. "I don't need you giving me busy work like a squib could do more than house-elf work. I've done my time as a servant to more headmasters than I could name, and I'm not about to start taking orders now."
Xenophilius's expression remained serene, though there was a slight flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—behind his eyes. "Of course," he said softly. "I didn't mean to offend. You're free to do whatever you wish while you're here."
Filch grunted, feeling a pang of guilt despite himself. He wasn't used to people being so forgiving of his outbursts, especially when he knew they were unwarranted. But Xenophilius didn't seem to take it personally. If anything, the man seemed incapable of holding a grudge, which only served to irritate Filch more.
The silence that followed was heavier this time, thick with unspoken tension. Filch stared at the table, his fingers tightening around the handle of his mug. He could feel Mrs. Norris shifting in his lap, her warm body pressing against him as if to remind him that he wasn't completely alone in this bizarre house.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Xenophilius said after a moment, his voice gentle. "I only thought... well, you've been through a lot, Argus. And I know what it's like to carry that weight. Sometimes, having something to focus on, even something small, can help. But I won't push you. You're welcome to stay as long as you need, with no obligations."
Filch's jaw tightened. "I don't need your pity, Lovegood," he muttered, the words coming out harsher than he intended. "I'm not some broken-down stray you can take in and fix."
"I don't see you that way," Xenophilius replied softly. "I just see someone who's been hurt. And I know what that feels like."
Filch's eyes flicked up, catching Xenophilius's gaze for the briefest of moments. There was no judgment there, no condescension. Just a quiet understanding that made Filch's chest tighten in an uncomfortable way. He didn't want understanding. He didn't want kindness. He wanted to be left alone, to fade into the background like he always had. But Xenophilius wasn't going to let him do that.
Filch grunted again, unsure of how to respond. Kindness had always put him on edge, especially when it came from someone like Xenophilius, who seemed to radiate it effortlessly. He didn't want to admit it, but there was something unnerving about being seen—truly seen—by someone who hadn't already written him off as nothing more than a bitter old man.
Mrs. Norris jumped off his lap, her soft paws padding toward the window where the sunlight streamed in. Filch watched her for a moment, grateful for the distraction, but the weight of Xenophilius's gaze pulled him back to the table. The silence stretched on, and Filch could feel the tension coiling inside him, the urge to lash out, to push Xenophilius away before he got any closer.
But instead of saying something sharp or cruel, something that would sever the strange connection forming between them, Filch found himself muttering, "You say you know what it's like... but I don't think you do." He stared at his hands, the knuckles gnarled and scarred from years of thankless work. "You've got your daughter, your house, your... your bloody optimism. You didn't lose everything in the war."
Xenophilius's expression softened, his smile fading into something more serious, more reflective. "I lost my Luna for a time," he said quietly, his eyes flickering toward the photograph on the shelf. "She was taken by Death Eaters, you know. Held captive for months. I thought I'd never see her again. I'd never forgive myself if they'd... if they'd done more to her. If I hadn't gotten her back." His voice wavered slightly, the first crack in his otherwise unshakeable demeanor.
Filch glanced up, surprised by the shift in Xenophilius's tone. He hadn't expected the man to have any real regrets. He had always imagined Xenophilius as one of those eternal optimists who believed everything could be solved with a smile and a good cup of tea. But now, seeing the sadness in his eyes, Filch realized that maybe—just maybe—the man understood loss more than he let on.
"It's why I did what I did," Xenophilius continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why I gave them information. I thought... I thought if I cooperated, if I played their game, they'd let her go. But it wasn't that simple. And I nearly lost her because of it."
Filch frowned, unsure of what to say. He had heard whispers about Xenophilius's involvement with the Death Eaters during the war, but he had never cared enough to learn the details. Now, hearing it from the man himself, he felt an odd sense of kinship, a recognition of someone else who had been forced to make impossible choices in a world that never seemed to care.
"And yet here you are," Filch muttered, his voice gruff but lacking its usual venom. "Still prancing around like everything's just fine."
Xenophilius chuckled softly, though the sound was tinged with sadness. "It's not about pretending everything is fine, Argus. It's about finding the good in what's left. After the war, there was so much darkness, so much pain. I could have let it consume me. I could have let it turn me bitter, resentful... But I chose to hold on to the light, no matter how small. That's the only way I can live with myself. It's the only way I can move forward."
Filch stared at him for a long moment, his mind churning with thoughts he hadn't dared confront in years. The bitterness he had clung to for so long suddenly felt heavy, like a burden he had carried for far too long. He had spent his life stewing in resentment, blaming the world for his shortcomings, for his inability to wield magic, for being cast aside by everyone around him. But sitting here, listening to Xenophilius's soft-spoken words, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—there was another way to live.
He didn't like the thought. It made him uncomfortable, vulnerable. Vulnerability was something he had spent his entire life avoiding, building walls around himself so thick that no one could ever get through. But here, in this strange house with its cluttered rooms and wildflowers growing through the cracks, Filch felt those walls begin to tremble.
"Bah," he muttered, pushing his chair back with a creak. "You're too soft, Lovegood. That's what it is. The world isn't kind, and it's not going to hand you anything on a silver platter just because you smile at it."
Xenophilius smiled faintly, his eyes twinkling with a mix of understanding and amusement. "Perhaps. But that doesn't mean I can't try to be kind in return. Someone has to be, don't you think?"
Filch scowled, unwilling to concede the point. "Kindness gets you nowhere."
"Maybe not," Xenophilius said, his voice gentle. "But it's better than the alternative."
Filch had no answer to that. Instead, he turned his attention to the window, where Mrs. Norris was now perched on the sill, her amber eyes fixed on something in the garden beyond. The sunlight caught her fur, casting a warm glow over her small, sleek body. She seemed content here, at ease in a way that Filch hadn't seen in years. And if Mrs. Norris could find peace in this odd, cluttered house, maybe... just maybe...
No. He wasn't going to entertain that thought. Not yet.
He stood abruptly, causing the chair to scrape against the floor with a harsh squeal. "I'm going out," he grumbled. "Need to stretch my legs."
Xenophilius nodded, still watching him with that maddening calm. "Feel free to wander the grounds. There's a path that leads down to the river—quite peaceful, if you're looking for some solitude."
Filch gave a noncommittal grunt and made his way to the door, Mrs. Norris leaping down from the windowsill to follow him. He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorknob, and for a moment he considered turning back, saying something—anything—to break the awkward silence that lingered between them.
But the words never came.
Instead, he opened the door and stepped out into the cool morning air, the scent of wildflowers and damp earth filling his lungs. Mrs. Norris trotted ahead, her tail flicking as she disappeared into the tall grass. Filch followed her, his boots crunching against the gravel path as he made his way toward the overgrown garden.
The sun was warm on his face, but the weight of Xenophilius's words lingered in his mind like a stubborn cloud. He didn't want to admit it, but something about the man's quiet optimism had struck a chord, even if he wasn't ready to acknowledge it yet.
As he walked, the sound of the river in the distance reached his ears, a soft, steady rhythm that seemed to mirror the slow, uncertain shifts happening within him. He wasn't sure what lay ahead—whether he would find a place in this strange, whimsical world Xenophilius had created for himself—or whether he would pack up and leave as soon as he could scrape together enough galleons to get by.
But for now, he kept walking.
This work is in large part thanks to a writing group I am part of that keeps me to a calendar of posting and betas my work. Please feel free to check out their website and learn more about them. I post chapters a day early there/two chapters ahead - https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/blog
Otherwise updated weekly here.