By: QueerTales
The sound of the river still echoed faintly in Filch's ears as he trudged back toward the house. The walk had done little to clear his mind, and his mood had not improved despite the fresh air. Mrs. Norris had wandered off to chase something in the underbrush, leaving him alone with his thoughts—exactly where he didn't want to be.
When he reached the house, Xenophilius was in the garden, kneeling in the dirt and humming quietly to himself as he plucked herbs from a patch of overgrown foliage. His long fingers moved deftly through the plants, gathering handfuls of lavender and thyme with an ease that suggested he spent a great deal of time here. The scent of the herbs filled the air, sweet and pungent, mingling with the earthy smell of the damp soil.
Filch hovered at the edge of the garden, unsure whether to announce his presence or slip past unnoticed. He didn't particularly want another conversation with the man, not after the one they'd had that morning. Xenophilius's calm, unflappable nature grated on his nerves in a way he couldn't quite explain, and the idea of another round of vague, optimistic platitudes made his stomach turn.
Before he could make up his mind, Xenophilius looked up and spotted him, a bright smile immediately spreading across his face.
"Ah, Argus! Back from your walk, I see. How was it?" He stood, brushing the dirt from his robes and wiping his hands on a tattered cloth he pulled from his pocket. Without waiting for a response, he stepped forward and—before Filch could protest—placed a hand on his shoulder in a gesture that was far too familiar for Filch's liking.
Filch stiffened, his entire body going rigid at the unexpected touch. He recoiled slightly, stepping back to put some distance between them. "Don't... don't do that," he muttered, his voice low and bristling with irritation. "I'm not one of your crumplehorn snorelaxes, Lovegood."
Xenophilius blinked, his hand dropping to his side as his smile faltered just for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, though his tone remained gentle. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm just... well, I'm a bit of a touchy person, I suppose. My Luna always says I forget myself sometimes."
Filch grunted, his scowl deepening. "Well, keep your hands to yourself, then. I don't need anyone fussing over me."
Xenophilius nodded, his smile returning though it was softer now, more cautious. "Of course. I'll be more mindful." He hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to say more, but eventually he let it drop, turning back to the garden with a thoughtful expression. "The walk didn't help, I take it?"
Filch crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the patch of herbs Xenophilius had been tending. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Xenophilius tilted his head, his pale blue eyes fixed on Filch with that same disconcerting intensity that made Filch want to crawl out of his skin. "You seem... tense. More so than usual, I mean. I thought perhaps the fresh air might have helped."
Filch bristled, the knot of irritation tightening in his chest. "I'm fine. I don't need you analyzing me like I'm some sort of project."
"That's not my intention," Xenophilius replied, his voice as calm as ever. "I'm only concerned. You've been through a great deal, Argus. It's only natural that some of that weight still lingers. But you don't have to carry it alone."
Filch's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to be pitied or consoled, least of all by someone like Xenophilius, who had no idea what it was like to be truly alone. The man had his daughter, his garden, his bloody optimism. What did he know about the kind of life Filch had led? What did he know about the bitterness that came from a lifetime of being looked down on, dismissed, and forgotten?
"I said I'm fine," Filch growled, his voice sharper than he intended. "And I don't need your sympathy. I've done just fine on my own for years, and I'll continue to do so. I'm not some... some wounded animal you can take in and fix with your blasted kindness."
Xenophilius sighed softly, but there was no frustration in it, no trace of annoyance. If anything, he seemed to pity Filch even more, and that only made Filch's blood boil. "I don't think you need fixing, Argus," Xenophilius said quietly. "I think you've been hurt. And I know how that feels, even if our experiences are different."
Filch's scowl deepened, his hands trembling slightly with the effort it took to keep from lashing out further. He wanted to storm off, to put as much distance between himself and Xenophilius as possible, but there was something in the man's words—something in the way he spoke with such quiet conviction—that held him in place, like a tether he couldn't quite shake off.
"Maybe you don't want to talk about it now," Xenophilius continued, his tone soothing despite the tension in the air. "But if you ever do... I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Filch scoffed, turning his back on Xenophilius and staring out at the wild landscape beyond the garden. "You're a fool, Lovegood," he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness. "The world isn't as simple as you make it out to be."
"No," Xenophilius agreed, his voice soft but steady. "It's not simple. It's complicated, and painful, and full of things we can't control. But that doesn't mean we have to face it alone."
Filch didn't respond. He couldn't. The words stuck in his throat, weighed down by years of resentment and bitterness that refused to be dislodged. He stared at the horizon, his heart pounding in his chest, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.
Xenophilius remained silent for a moment, as if sensing that Filch needed space, but he didn't retreat completely. Instead, he moved closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough that Filch could feel his presence like a warm, steady heartbeat in the coldness of the world around him.
"I'm going to make some tea," Xenophilius said after a long pause, his voice light but cautious. "Would you like some?"
Filch's first instinct was to snap at him, to tell him to stop fussing, to leave him be. But instead, he found himself muttering, "Fine."
Xenophilius smiled again, this time with a touch of something more—something like hope. "I'll bring it out to you."
As Xenophilius disappeared into the house, Filch stood frozen in the garden, the weight of the man's words pressing down on him like an unwelcome burden. He didn't want to admit it, but Xenophilius had gotten under his skin. And for the first time in years, Filch wasn't sure if he wanted to push him away—or if he was afraid of what would happen if he didn't.
Filch stood rooted to the spot, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watched the door Xenophilius had disappeared through. The air was thick with the earthy scent of herbs and freshly turned soil, but even the pleasant aroma did little to ease the gnawing discomfort in his chest. His body still tingled with the lingering sensation of Xenophilius's hand on his shoulder, and it took everything in him not to storm off entirely.
Why did the man have to be so... friendly? So damned open? Filch had lived his entire life in the shadow of resentment, hardened by the disdain of others. At Hogwarts, students had looked at him with mockery or disgust. The teachers, even though they never said it outright, had pitied him. There had always been that sense of condescension, that unspoken reminder that he didn't belong. And now, here was this strange, overly touchy man with his blasted optimism and gentle words, trying to crack the shell Filch had spent years building.
It was unbearable.
Xenophilius returned a few moments later, balancing a tray with two mismatched teacups and a teapot that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, its surface adorned with tiny, flickering runes that glowed faintly as he approached. He set the tray down on a small, weathered table near the garden's edge and poured a cup for Filch without asking, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were handling something precious.
Filch remained where he was, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat as he watched Xenophilius work with quiet efficiency. There was something infuriating about the way the man carried himself—so calm, so patient, as if the world's troubles were nothing more than a passing cloud. Filch didn't trust it. He didn't trust anyone who acted like life could be that simple.
"Here you are," Xenophilius said, holding out the steaming cup toward Filch with a small, almost tentative smile. "Chamomile and mint this time. It's good for clearing the mind."
Filch scowled, eyeing the cup suspiciously. He wanted to reject the offer outright, to push the cup away and walk back inside without another word. But something in the way Xenophilius stood there, his eyes soft but expectant, made Filch hesitate. It was a simple gesture, one that shouldn't have carried any weight, but in that moment, it felt like something more. Like an offering.
With a grunt of reluctant acceptance, Filch stepped forward and took the cup from Xenophilius's outstretched hand. The warmth of the tea seeped through the ceramic, and for a moment, Filch simply stood there, staring down into the swirling amber liquid as if it held some kind of answer to the storm brewing in his chest.
"Thank you," he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard.
Xenophilius nodded, his smile widening just a fraction. "You're welcome."
They stood in silence for a while, the tension between them not entirely gone but softened by the shared ritual of tea. Xenophilius sipped his own cup with quiet contentment, his gaze drifting across the garden as if he were perfectly at peace with the world around him. Filch, on the other hand, remained stiff and guarded, the tea in his hands feeling both like a burden and a strange comfort.
"This place," Xenophilius said after a long pause, his voice soft but filled with quiet reverence. "It's peaceful, isn't it? I know it's a bit... wild, but I like it that way. Nature has its own way of healing, I think. It doesn't need to be controlled or tamed. It just needs time."
Filch didn't respond at first, his eyes focused on a patch of overgrown weeds near the fence. Time. It was a word that haunted him. Time had done nothing but make him more bitter, more resentful. He had wasted years in the shadow of Hogwarts, cleaning up after children who mocked him, watching from the sidelines as magic unfolded before him—a world he could never touch. Time had only made him more aware of everything he didn't have.
"Time doesn't fix anything," Filch muttered, his voice rough and flat. "It just lets things fester."
Xenophilius glanced at him, his expression thoughtful but not surprised. "Sometimes, yes," he agreed. "But other times... time gives us the space we need to see things differently. To heal, in our own way."
Filch snorted, lifting the teacup to his lips and taking a tentative sip. The tea was warm and soothing, with a subtle sweetness that lingered on his tongue. He hated that it was good. Hated that Xenophilius had been right—again.
"That's easy for you to say," Filch muttered, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the distance. "You've got your daughter. You've got this... this place. You've got something to hold on to."
Xenophilius didn't respond immediately. He set his teacup down on the table and folded his hands in his lap, his gaze thoughtful. "I do have Luna," he said softly, "and for that, I'm grateful every day. But I also lost a great deal during the war. More than I care to admit." He paused, his fingers twitching slightly as if remembering something painful. "And there are things I did—things I can't undo—that weigh on me more than you might think."
Filch glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of curiosity tugging at the edges of his mind. He hadn't considered that Xenophilius might carry his own burdens, that beneath the strange cheerfulness there might be scars just as deep as his own. But then again, everyone had lost something during the war. Everyone carried the weight of it in one way or another.
"Still doesn't make it easier," Filch muttered, more to himself than to Xenophilius. "Doesn't change anything."
"No," Xenophilius agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it helps to know we're not alone."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Filch's chest tightened at the thought, his fists clenching around the cup as if it could somehow anchor him to the moment. He didn't want to admit it—didn't want to acknowledge that maybe Xenophilius was right. That maybe the reason he had been carrying this bitterness for so long was because he had been doing it alone.
Mrs. Norris reappeared then, her sleek body weaving through the tall grass as she padded over to Filch's feet. She rubbed against his legs, purring softly, and Filch felt a strange sense of relief at her presence. At least he wasn't entirely alone.
Xenophilius reached down to stroke Mrs. Norris, his fingers brushing lightly against her fur. Filch watched him warily, his shoulders tensing again as the man's hand moved closer to his own leg. He wanted to pull away, to snap at Xenophilius to stop being so damned touchy, but the gentle way Xenophilius interacted with the cat was almost... soothing. As if he understood that even the smallest creature deserved care.
"You've taken good care of her," Xenophilius said softly, his hand lingering on Mrs. Norris's back for a moment before pulling away. "She's a loyal companion."
Filch grunted in response, his eyes narrowing slightly. "She's the only one who's ever been loyal to me."
Xenophilius looked up, his expression soft but serious. "Perhaps. But loyalty comes in many forms, Argus. And it's not always about the people or creatures we've known the longest. Sometimes, it's about the ones who choose to stay, even when we push them away."
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.
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Filch stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight before him. "What is this?"
Xenophilius turned to face him, his expression serene but serious. "It's an ancient stone circle," he explained, stepping closer to the stones. "One of the few remaining in this part of the country. My family has been its caretaker for generations. There's magic here, Argus. Old magic. The kind that doesn't need wands or spells to be felt."
Filch scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the weathered stones, still skeptical. "Old magic, huh? That's what you think'll fix everything, is it? Some rocks with carvings on them?"
Xenophilius chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on the stones, but there was something else in his expression—something that Filch couldn't quite place. "Not everything needs fixing, Argus. And not everything that's broken is beyond repair."