QLFC: Semi-Finals — Round 3

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Beater 1

Assignment: Slice of Life, Argus Filch

Optional Prompts:

6) (picture) Brown paper wrapped parcel held closed with fluffy white twine

12) (style) memoir

Title: Memoirs of a Man Nobody Cared About

Summary: (AU) No one ever gave a damn about what Argus Filch cared about… or did they? EWE.

Beta Love: fluffpanda, my busy Goddess of Busy-ness

Ninja Beta: Kibyth, who eyes grammar suspiciously

Word sorter: Story-Please

Random beta who took a wrong turn at Albuquerque: Whimsical Acumen, master of the pink font

Person who gave Whimsical Acumen the wrong directions: Moka-girl, past tense Nazi

Space Deleter OCDer and rampaging Nyan Cat: Serpentine13 (as opposed to 17, who is an entirely different bloke)

Biscuit Wrangler: Sehanine

Memoirs of a Man Nobody Cared About

Looking back, I can rightly say that times were different then. Voldemort, or the Dark Lord, or He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-Lest-You-Possibly-Spontaneously-Combust, was rising in the background, and no one really knew how to act towards one another. People had ideas, assumptions on how to act, and even blatant guesses on what was the proper way to act, but it was just guesswork. There were those who believed in treating everyone as one would treat themselves, those who believed everyone should treat their bloodlines like they were better than anyone else, and those who just wanted to keep their head down and their neck out the wringer. The students had the hardest time of it, really. Growing up and trying to find yourself during a war had to have been difficult. Even as I snapped and grouched at them, I knew that.

There were always three sides to every argument, even when you swore there were only two. If you were particularly unlucky, sometimes there would be four or five extra sides thrown in. All that made was a heptagon, and sometimes my life seemed to appear much the same—composed of different facets. I was one part caretaker, one part child wrangler, one part cat-slave (because Mrs Norris never failed to tell me who was really the boss), and so many other qualities no one but me seemed to care about.

Things had changed after the first Wizarding War, but the layers of hostility and bigotry had never truly disappeared. After the Second Wizarding War, however, I had half-expected things to be less resistant to change, but some things continued to be stubborn. What I hadn't realised was that I would be the party that was the most resistant to it. I had only myself to blame, really. I had always been a cantankerous sort. The only thing that had changed was that I lost more hair and changed from a bad-tempered younger man into a sour and grouchy older man.

Looking back on it, that day had begun like any other, truly the only thing I recall about that particular one was that the sky had not yet fallen, and by some grace of Merlin himself the leak over my bed had finally been sorted.

It had taken me weeks to trace where the water had been coming in, and in the end I had realised I had borne the brunt of some student's practical joke. A water pail had been enchanted to fill itself and then dump right over my chambers after the witching hour. To make things worse, the pail was given a rudimentary sense of awareness, allowing it to elude me for days. Mrs Norris had been able to pounce on it and subdue it in time for me to find it. The experience had left her cold, wet, and insufferably cranky.

No one had believed me about the enchanted pail until I had thrown a net over it and dragged it to the first Professor I could find. That would have been Professor Snape.

Ever since Professor Snape, formerly Professor Granger, had arrived at the school, she had treated me with a strange kindness. It was kindness I didn't deserve, or at least a kindness I had never received before. No matter how sour I was to her, she greeted me with with civility, asking me about my day and thanking me for my service.

I snapped at her constantly. I insulted her hair, told her she had been a horrible child just like all the others, and she would just smile at me as though I had told her she was beautiful. It had been annoying at first, but later I began to get used to it. I think the reason I was so cranky was because I knew, deep down, that I hadn't deserved such kindness. She had insisted, however, that everyone did. I should have guessed, really. She ended up marrying Severus Snape—the only man that was undoubtedly more rancorous than myself.

After the war, I found my job had not changed, although I had more to clean up. What had changed, however, was that the staff aided me. Gone were the days I mopped alone. Gone were the days I cleaned up rubble and mended gates without assistance. I ended up working side by side with the likes of then-Headmistress McGonagall, whose sad eyes seemed to see every survivor of the war as a piece of treasure.

Gone, too, were the days when students laughed and ridiculed me regularly. They would nod to me as they passed, whispering to each other, but it was no longer about me. They spoke of boyfriends, girlfriends, secret places, homework assignments, and trying to sneak out to Hogsmeade. If they tripped over my bucket while I was mopping, they would stop, pick it up, and give me a smile or an apology. I continued to mutter at them. It had always been my way.

I resisted this change, not because I did not wish to be treated kindly, but because I couldn't believe it was true. I had been the victim of many a hex and the focus of even more gossip. That was all I remembered. It was all I knew.

Somehow, after all the time I had spent wishing that I could hang children by their toes as "proper punishment" and take thumbscrews to them, I found myself in a different Hogwarts. The job hadn't changed, no, but somehow the environment had. I still lorded over the menial detentions, watched students polish the chandeliers, but the world had changed around me whether I embraced it or not.

The children, regardless of the world changing around them, were still capable of being unruly demons. No matter what year it was, I often found myself faced with a dancing broom, a sneezing scarf, or Mrs Norris being chased by a magical construct that left her yowling from inside a suit of armour. I continued to scowl at them, rescue my cat from suits of armour, and yell at the ghosts who flew by giving me wedgies. Honestly, the ghosts were worse than the children. Peeves certainly never changed; he was a ghost after all. I supposed that gave him an excuse, of sorts.

When I had brought Professor Snape the mischievous bucket, she had stunned the offending pail with her wand and looped her finger around the handle to drag it with her. Minutes later, the Headmaster scowled down at me like he scowled at everyone else and then scowled at the stunned pail like an errant student. I could have sworn I saw the enchanted bucket quiver in fear under the Headmaster's shrivelling gaze. That hadn't changed in all the years I'd known him. Even as a student, he had that sort of disdain polished into perfection.

He waved his wand at it, sniffing disdainfully as he traced the magic back to the wand that had cast it, and then dismissed me, saying he'd take care of it. One thing I truly admired about the man, despite the fact that he managed to scowl more per day than I did, was that he got things done. No more midnight leaks plagued me afterwards. An abandoned fruitcake in a crumpled wrapper had appeared on my chamber doorstep a few days after with a hastily written apology written on a small parchment tag. I threw it out, thinking it tampered with. The vomiting trashcan confirmed my hunch.

I digress.

As I recall, when the parcel arrived it was just like any other day. The weather had been growing colder, and it was nearly winter. The leaves on the Whomping Willow had already shed en masse, and there was a biting cold in the very air. House elves had begun to stoke the fires every day, which was more of a sign of winter than anything else. My cold neck, hands, and toes were the other signs.

The plain brown paper and bright white string were out of place on the table in my chambers. Owls did not bring me things ever since my mother and father passed. Mother was always good about sending baked goods, and my father always tried to send practical things to make my life more comfortable—magical warming quilts, self-cleaning pans, heating kettles, and unbreakable tea sets.

This plain paper wrapped parcel, however, was a puzzle. It must have been delivered by owl, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out who might have sent it. My parents were gone, and the remnants of my family had moved to the States for "improved opportunities." It wasn't my birthday, and it had been a long time since anyone had seen fit to even ask when that was. The receipt of unlabeled parcels wasn't entirely new. Every year around this time one arrived in my chambers sporting the same bland brown paper wrapper and soft twine string. Every year I threw it out.

This year was no different. I threw it out. It was a trap. I knew it was. The last time I naively thought someone had done something nice for me, it had blown up in my face. Other times it had make my face break out in pustules. No! I was not going to fall for that trick again. I slammed it into the trash can that would eventually get taken by house-elves and dumped into the incinerator. Never again.

I continued on my day. There were some windows that needed to be repaired, thanks to some amateur duelists, and I managed the task in a few hours' time. I did my rounds, checking the gates to make sure they didn't squeak. I removed the rock that always seemed to, as if by magic, prop the side gate open so students could sneak out at night. They always seemed to think I'd never notice. I may not be able to cast a spell, but I wasn't born yesterday, thank you very much. I swept the pathways clear of leaves, trimmed the sides of the walkways to make them neat, and uprighted the shrubberies that students seemed to love to tip over. It was almost a tradition—like Muggle cow-tipping. I hadn't been sure then, and even now I'm still not certain if cow-tipping is a real thing, but bush-tipping was definitely a real thing, at least at Hogwarts. I knew this because when the bushes weren't planted in the ground they had a propensity to run off at night and cause mischief in the greenhouses. My job was always to drag them back and replant them, annoying foliage that they were.

The parcel had arrived again. It sat, all alone, on my chair-side table in my chambers. I glared at it suspiciously, half afraid to even touch it lest it explode. Mrs Norris was batting at the end of the twine and nothing happened, but I wasn't going to be fooled again. I threw it away. This time, I smashed it thoroughly with a heavy boot and then tossed it into the waste bin. Mrs Norris looked at me with a perturbed look.

"What?" I asked her, half expecting her to talk to me.

She glared at me with her yellow lamp-like eyes with the same scorn she usually reserved for students. We might not have had the magical bond witches and wizards and their familiars experienced, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what she was telling me in between glares.

You're an idiot.

"It's a trap!" I justified, glaring back at her.

Great. Now I was arguing with my cat like she could reply to me.

She snubbed me, as only a cat was capable of. Making me feel like pond scum seemed to appease her because she padded off without me to some dark corner only she could find.

The rest of my chores were completed without Mrs Norris, who was determined to make me suffer for being insufferable. I stood by my belief that the package was a trap. Four restrooms cleaned later, I returned to my room to take a shower, and the brown paper wrapped parcel was back, sitting on my table as though I'd never abused it.

Curiosity piqued, I had sat down in the chair and pulled the parcel towards me. I tugged at the twine and set it on the floor. Mrs Norris pounced on it immediately, purring and rolling on it with the happiness only a cat with twine could possibly have. Well, at least the parcel didn't explode.

I had worked open the folded paper wrapping and set that on the floor too. Mrs Norris, of course, had found that to be absolutely fantastic and proceeded to roll all over the crumpled paper as well. I had to admit she was adorable when she did that.

When I finally had managed to open the box, however, I let out a soft gasp of wonder. Inside the parcel was a large selection of homemade biscuits: shortbreads, chocolate chip cookies, and those biscuits with the jam in the middle—I could never remember what the bloody things were called. Even more stunning was a collection of pumpkin pasties and pecan tarts nestled on their edges in the box.

I will admit, even now, that what surprised me the most was not that someone had sent me cookies, though that was a surprise, but that the second section of the box contained an assortment of handmade cat treats formed into small fish, mice, and plump birds. Whoever had sent them had also taken into consideration Mrs Norris—something rare indeed. Mrs Norris seemed to think that I was taking too long in processing the gift because she had leapt into my lap, snatched a bird-shaped treat and then dashed off to hide under the cabinet to feast. Silly thing. It wasn't like I had any interest in stealing it from her.

I had noticed that there was something under the layer of cookies and treats, and I lifted the tray out of the box. Underneath were a few pairs of heavy woolen socks, a new pair of woolen gloves, and a plush, soft scarf that seemed so very much like the touch of Mrs Norris' fur. Nestled in between the socks and the scarf was a small lantern wrought of both silver and gold. On the top of the lantern was an effigy of Mrs Norris. Her tail formed the loop of the lantern and her paws draped down and batted at a small enchanted mouse. The moment my hand touched it, it began to glow brilliantly.

Never, since my parent's death, had anyone seen fit to gift me both food and practicality. Tears filled my eyes, and I had to wipe them away.

After I had gathered myself, I realised that there was a parchment nestled in between the socks. I lifted it and flipped it over with caution, almost afraid that in doing so the precious gifts would disappear like a cruel trick.

Happy early Christmas, Argus.

Thank you for all you do.

H. & S.S.

Mrs Norris had returned to my lap with her jaws finding a fish treat from the box in a trice. This time, however, she settled into my lap and purred loudly. My hand rested on her head, rubbing her ears automatically as I no longer attempted to stop the tears from flowing down my cheeks.

The next day was like any other. Students continued to wish me a good day, and Professor Hermione Snape nodded her head at me from the High Table as I approached. She smiled, as she always did. Her husband scowled, as he always did. I scrunched my face up in a frown and snapped something at them both, trying to ignore the raised eyebrows going up and down the High Table at my impertinence. I took up my seat at the High Table, staring at my holiday pudding. I found a flush rising to my cheeks.

"What a crotchety old man," the new Potions Master muttered as he passed the butter down the table.

The Headmaster rolled his eyes at some conversation going on further down the table. His wife patted his hand tenderly as that genuine smile spread across her face and into her eyes. Professor Longbottom leaned over and whispered something into her ear, and she laughed with an almost contagious warmth that I tried desperately not to let affect me lest someone see any sort of change in my normal dour demeanor.

I muttered something under my breath, and the other professors shook their heads at me.

"Smile a little Argus," Poppy Pomfrey said, nudging me with her elbow as she passed the rolls. "It's the holiday season."

My face twisted into a scowl as I glared at her. She shook her head at me, but her eyes had that same tolerant warmth Hermione Snape had. It never ceased to boggle me. I scowled, as I always did, but I knew the truth. Inside, I was smiling. My feet were covered in new woolen socks, and new woolen gloves lined my pockets. Mrs Norris lay curled on top of my coat and scarf on a nearby chair, guarding it like a dragon on a treasure hoard.

One day, perhaps, I would finally admit that they had won. One day, I would confess that I enjoyed their company, but not today. Today, I would privately hoard my holiday gift in silence and pretend it meant nothing. I would scowl as though people were nothing but an annoyance. I would continue to mutter about missing the good old days, praying no one noticed the small almost undetectable smile as my hand stroked the soft scarf around my neck.

One day, I would admit that the old Argus Filch had been on the way out with the end of the Second Wizarding war, but not today.

A/N: This story was a struggle. Slice of life has so many meanings to different people. This story, however, was my interpretation of a slice of Argus'.