Chapter Text
Argus Filch trudged along the narrow dirt path that wound through the overgrown countryside, each step accompanied by the dull ache of his aging bones. The wind tugged at his threadbare coat, lifting tufts of gray hair from his balding scalp. It was late afternoon, though the dreary sky showed no sign of relenting its dull, oppressive gloom. He clutched the handle of his scuffed leather bag tightly, as though the battered piece of luggage were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
Mrs. Norris trotted silently beside him, her sleek body weaving through the tall grass. Her sharp, intelligent eyes flicked up at him occasionally, a constant reminder that at least someone in the world cared whether he lived or died. She was the one soul who had ever looked at him with anything resembling affection. Filch scowled at the thought, his weathered face lined with bitterness.
Kids, he thought. The bloody lot of them, running wild through the halls of Hogwarts, thinking themselves above the rules, above him. No one had ever respected him—not truly. He was a Squib, the lowest of the low in a world brimming with magic he could never touch. It had been years since the war ended, but castle finally fit to house students again and they hadn’t seen fit to retain him afterward, claiming they had no place for someone of his “skills.” He knew the truth, it was because of the almost obsessive glee he took in punishing children according to the Carrows’ discretions. Thumb screws and the rack had seemed tame next to their unforgivable curses, but the Headmistress still found fault in him.
A low growl of frustration rumbled in his throat. "Skills," he muttered under his breath. "As if them brats could handle the school without me all those years." His knuckles tightened around the handle of the bag, and Mrs. Norris, sensing his agitation, rubbed against his legs, her soft fur offering a rare comfort.
He had been wandering aimlessly since his dismissal, trying to outrun the shame that clung to him like mud to his boots. Now, by some twist of fate, he was on his way to stay with a man who embodied everything Filch had come to despise: eccentric, unpredictable, and worst of all, endlessly optimistic.
Xenophilius Lovegood.
Filch sneered at the memory of their brief correspondence—a short letter, written in flowery, spiraling script, inviting him to stay at the Lovegood residence until he found his footing. “You have nowhere to go,” the letter had read, “and I believe everyone deserves a place to call home, no matter what they’ve done or who they are.” The absurd kindness in the letter made Filch's skin crawl. He didn’t trust it. Kindness was just another word for pity, and Filch had no desire for either. But, with no money, no prospects, and nowhere else to turn, he had accepted the offer begrudgingly.
Lovegood’s house came into view then, perched awkwardly atop a hill, its crooked towers and odd angles making it look more like a child’s poorly constructed toy than an actual home. Wildflowers and vines tangled across the stone walls, giving the place an otherworldly, untamed look, like it had grown up out of the earth itself. The sight made Filch’s stomach twist with irritation. It was far too whimsical for his tastes.
Mrs. Norris darted ahead, her paws silent on the stone steps that led to the front door. Filch hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, his hand twitching at his side. A deep breath filled his lungs with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a smell that felt foreign, too clean. Too... hopeful.
"Bah," he muttered, shaking his head as if to dispel the strange thoughts. His boots clunked heavily as he climbed the steps. The door was already slightly ajar, as though the house itself welcomed him, but Filch would have none of it. He raised his fist to knock, then stopped, his knuckles hovering above the peeling wood. Instead of knocking, he pushed the door open with more force than was necessary, the hinges creaking loudly in protest.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of herbs and something sweet—possibly pastries, though Filch wouldn’t allow himself to hope for such luxuries. The room he stepped into was as bizarre as the house itself, with mismatched furniture cluttered about in no particular order, and trinkets scattered across every available surface. Strange devices, books with odd titles, and framed sketches of creatures he couldn’t even begin to name adorned the walls. The room was cluttered yet somehow cozy, as if it belonged to someone who believed that the world was a little less harsh than it actually was.
And in the center of it all stood Xenophilius Lovegood.
He was tall and gangly, with pale blonde hair that fell in loose waves to his shoulders. His robes were a faded, patchwork affair, likely self-made from scraps of whatever fabric he could find. His eyes were bright, wide, and unyieldingly serene, as though they saw something far beyond the reality of the moment. Filch despised him instantly.
"Ah, Argus!" Xenophilius said, his voice soft but ringing with a sort of genuine warmth that made Filch’s skin crawl. "You’ve arrived! I hope the journey wasn’t too tiresome. Please, come in, come in."
Filch grunted, stepping inside reluctantly. He kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Norris, who had already found a patch of sunlight on the floor and curled up, clearly making herself at home. “I don’t need any fancy welcomes,” Filch muttered. “I just want a place to put my things. Don’t expect me to be any sort of guest.”
Xenophilius tilted his head, smiling as though Filch had said something kind. “Of course, of course. You’re free to treat this place as your own. No expectations here.” His voice was light, almost too light, like he was constantly teetering on the edge of laughter.
Filch’s scowl deepened. The man was practically glowing with that stupid cheerfulness. How could someone be so blasted happy after everything that had happened? The war, the deaths, the betrayals... Did the fool have no sense of the world’s cruelty?
Xenophilius seemed oblivious to Filch’s glowering as he glided across the room, retrieving a tray of what appeared to be tea and biscuits. He placed it on a low, uneven table and gestured for Filch to sit. “You must be hungry after your travels. Please, have something to eat.”
“I’m not a child,” Filch snapped. “I don’t need tea and biscuits.”
Xenophilius chuckled softly. “Of course not, but it’s here if you change your mind. Everyone needs a little sweetness in their life now and then.”
Filch grumbled something under his breath, choosing to remain standing. He surveyed the room again, his eyes landing on a large framed photograph of Luna Lovegood on one of the cluttered shelves. She was smiling brightly, her face filled with the same odd mixture of calm and joy as her father. For a fleeting moment, Filch felt something tighten in his chest—something like pity or sorrow, though he quickly pushed it down.
"She’s away," Xenophilius said softly, noticing Filch’s gaze. "Off on some adventure, as she tends to be. I miss her terribly, but I know she’s doing great things in the world." There was a quiet sadness in his tone, a crack in the unshakable cheerfulness.
Filch shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to Xenophilius’s sudden vulnerability. The man was strange, no doubt about that, but even Filch could sense the pain beneath the surface. He hated it—hated that he could recognize it. He had no use for other people’s sorrow. He had enough of his own.
"She’s lucky," Filch said gruffly, barely above a mutter. "To be out in the world like that. Not stuck in some... some hole of a place like this."
Xenophilius merely smiled at the comment, though it was a sadder smile than before. "Yes," he agreed, "Luna always did have the spirit for adventure. But I find that home, no matter how small or humble, can be the greatest adventure of all if you look at it the right way."
Filch scoffed, running a hand through what was left of his wiry hair. "That’s because you haven’t seen the things I have. Hogwarts... it’s a place filled with horrors. Kids running around thinking they’re untouchable, making a mess of things they don’t understand."
Xenophilius nodded as if he truly understood. "I imagine you saw much during your time there. Hogwarts holds many secrets, both light and dark. But it’s the people, I think, that make a place feel cursed or blessed." He paused, his gaze softening as it landed on Filch. "You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?"
Filch stiffened at the question, the familiar irritation creeping up his spine. "I didn’t come here to discuss my life story, Lovegood."
"No, of course not," Xenophilius said with that infuriatingly calm tone, as though nothing Filch said could ever rattle him. "But I want you to know that you’re not alone here. I may be a strange sort of fellow—people tell me as much—but this house, my home... it’s yours too, for as long as you need it."
Filch clenched his jaw, uncomfortable with the kindness that felt too warm, too close. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked for anything. But now that he was here, standing in this odd house filled with warmth and light, something deep inside him twisted painfully. He hadn’t realized just how long it had been since anyone had offered him something without strings attached—since anyone had seen him as more than just a bitter old man.
"Don’t need your pity," he growled, turning his back on Xenophilius and staring out the window at the wild, untamed landscape outside. "Just a roof over my head. That’s all."
"Then that’s all you’ll get," Xenophilius agreed with an easy nod, moving to pour himself a cup of tea as if Filch’s outburst hadn’t even fazed him. "Though, if you ever find yourself in need of more, you only need to ask."
Filch didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat felt too tight, his heart too heavy. Instead, he focused on Mrs. Norris, who had taken to rubbing against one of the odd sculptures in the corner, her tail flicking in lazy contentment. If she could settle here, then perhaps he could too. For a while.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint clinking of Xenophilius stirring his tea. Filch found it both infuriating and oddly soothing, as if the quiet was a blanket that covered the mess of thoughts swirling in his mind. He didn’t know what to make of this man, or this place. It was too strange, too far removed from the grim reality he had lived in for so long. And yet... something about it felt almost bearable.
"Mrs. Norris seems to like it here," Xenophilius said, his voice pulling Filch from his thoughts. "Animals have a sense for these things, you know. They can tell where they’re truly welcome."
Filch allowed himself a small grunt of acknowledgment. "She’s got good instincts. Knows when to stay away from trouble." He glanced at Xenophilius then, his eyes narrowing. "I hope for your sake she doesn’t find any here."
Xenophilius’s eyes twinkled with amusement. "I promise you, Argus, there’s no trouble here—only a place to rest, to heal, if you need it." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "I know... the war affected us all in different ways. Some of us lost more than others."
Filch stiffened again, though this time it was not from irritation but something darker, something colder that settled in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t fought in the war—he’d been on the sidelines, a Squib among wizards, watching as those with power made decisions that cost lives. He was powerless then, as he always had been, and the bitterness of it gnawed at him even now. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t suffered. That didn’t mean he hadn’t lost.
"I didn’t fight in your war," he said, his voice low and rough. "Didn’t have a place in it."
Xenophilius’s expression softened with understanding. "But you were there, weren’t you? At Hogwarts, I mean. That counts for something. We’re all carrying pieces of it with us, no matter where we stood."
Filch clenched his fists, his knuckles white. He didn’t want to talk about the war. He didn’t want to talk about anything. But Xenophilius’s words had wormed their way into his thoughts, unsettling the carefully built walls he had spent years reinforcing. How could someone like Lovegood, a man who had openly supported the resistance, speak so casually about loss and healing? How could he stand there, in his ridiculous patchwork robes, and act like everything could be fixed with a cup of tea and a few kind words?
"Drink your tea, Lovegood," Filch muttered, turning away from the window and back toward the door. "I’m going to unpack."
He didn’t wait for a response as he strode toward the staircase that led to the guest room Xenophilius had mentioned in his letter. Mrs. Norris followed close behind, her quiet footsteps a comfort amidst the chaos of his thoughts.