Author Note: I've got here another plot bunny. Features Argus Filch's softer side and the arrival of Mrs. Norris.
Disclaimer: Anything mentioned in here that you recognize belongs to JK Rowling. This story is solely for entertainment purposes and serves only to keep the author from descending into sanity. :-)
This Cat, At Least
Christmas Day. Students sang carols freely in the halls and stuffed themselves with treats at the feast. Flitwick's Christmas trees and bright tinsels were festive but glaring in their brightness. Argus Filch frowned grimly as he thought of all the ripped wrapping paper and discarded ribbons and chocolate stains that would need to be cleaned and swept up. He thought dourly about the wet dirty footprints left in the Great Hall from students running in and out of the snow, and of hormone-crazed teenagers snogging under the various sprigs of mistletoe.
"What I wouldn't give to give them all a good whipping," Argus muttered to himself, polishing a pair of handcuffs that were never used now. He had a habit of talking to himself…and to certain inanimate objects. "No use for you now," he told the handcuffs, rather disappointedly. Giving them one last wipe, he examined the cold gleaming links with satisfaction, then put them away in a cupboard carefully. Now there was nothing else to do. "Maybe I'll go and see if I can catch any drunkards," Arugs grimaced, remembering an incident regarding a student who had managed to get his hands on a bottle of whiskey. He jerked open his office door. It creaked, as usual.
"Gotta get some oil on the hinges," he resumed muttering to himself. "Gotta get some oil from the blasted house elves…" It hurt a little that, unlike other wizards, he could not simply conjure a can of oil, or muffle the creaks with a spell…but then Dumbledore amused himself last year with asking all the doors to creak loudly at Halloween, and then afterwards forgot to un-creak them so Argus was stuck with creaky doors that stubbornly refused toun-creak with some oil and cloth.
An uncharacteristic smile appeared on Argus' gloomy face. He had not been the only one annoyed at Dumbledore, so when the Headmaster absently smiled but did nothing, she went and un-creaked them.
She was merely a crush, Argus often told himself. It's not as if she was the type he seemed to prefer. Besides, she was already involved with someone else. No use thinking about her.
As he passed the Great Hall he peered in, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Groups of raucous students still lingered by the tables, laughing uproariously. Argus' eyes scanned the high table. Hagrid was drunk, as usual. Dumbledore was talking animatedly with Sprout, with a revolting bright red bowler hat perched atop his head that sang carols off-tune. Trelawney, misty-eyed, handed Flitwick some sort of purple knitted scarf, and the Charms professor cheerfully proceeded to wrap it around himself like a blanket. But the chair beside Dumbledore was empty. The feast was nearing an end.
He sighed. He had wanted to say something to her. He tried to imagine how the conversation would go, as he had so many times before…maybe something like this…?
" I hope you like the (earrings/necklace/dress/etc.).""Oh, Argus! They're lovely, only you would know what I really wanted."
"Merry Christmas, my dear. You look so beautiful tonight—"
"Argus?"
It was her!
Argus collected his scattered wits and turned, slipping unconsciously into his customary scowl, despite himself. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.
"Er…professor. You…ah," he groped for something to say, "You look…pre…pretty, uh, nice."
He saw her look of surprise and regretted even opening his mouth.
"Why, thank you, Argus. I just wanted to say 'Merry Christmas'. It's—you should have gone to the feast, everyone had a good time."
Argus couldn't bring himself to say that the reason he did not go to the feast was because he couldn't bear to see the others laughing together and exchanging presents. He thought of his gleaming handcuffs and lonely office and couldn't say a word.
After an awkward silence, during which she took out a small box with holes from a pocket and magically expanded it, she said handed it to him, saying, "See if you like it."
He took it, gaping. He never got a present. He certainly didn't want one now…did he? He looked at the box again. It squirmed and he stared at it with alarm. Was this some kind of joke?
"Uh…what's in it?"
"Open it and see," she replied with a small smile. Argus frowned but obliged, lifted off the cover, and saw a kitten staring back at him, swathed in a small blanket, yellow eyes pleading.
"A cat?" he asked her.
The professor shrugged. "My cat had kittens. Too many, actually, so I thought you might like one, since you like cats."
How well she knew him! Only Argus didn't want just any cat, he had wanted her, her—
"Not even a thank you, Argus?" her voice was slightly tart and disappointed. Argus raised his gaze from the mewing kitten, and this time he didn't even have to force himself to smile, though his face felt strange as he did. He looked back at the small kitten and thought of the way it had rubbed its head against his fingers. It liked him.
"I…thank you." Argus suddenly found that his eyes were moist. It must be a draft, he decided determinedly. "I…I appreciate it. Thanks, Minerva."
"You're welcome. Have a good Christmas."
As her footsteps faded away Argus glanced back at the kitten in the box. Slowly, he reached in and cupped the kitten in his hands. He could feel the soft fur and the quick steady beating of its—the kitten was a she, he corrected himself—heart. She was utterly, wholly, truly alive, content in his hands.
He may never have the cat, but he would have this cat to care for at least. And his face didn't feel so strange as he smiled, and wondered where he could get some kitty litter for her. Not her, mind. He had her, now.
I'll be very happy if you review. A very early Christmas present, you know...