Scenes of a Life Half Lived
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all that it entails belongs to JK Rowling. I do own an awesome Ron Weasley t-shirt and I will never apologise for that!
A/N: This was written in response to the Outside of School Challenge on the HPFC forum . My prompts were 'pain' and 'misunderstood'. I wasn't entirely thrilled with my given character, but that's what makes it a challenge, eh? Enjoy :)
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He is born amongst the chaos. His mother, swollen and ill from a hard nine months, grips his father's hand with all the strength in the world. She bears down, hard, while his aunt tends to five other screaming children. Their screams, entangled with his mother's welcome him to the world. After twenty-six hours of agony, he is all they have to show for it.
His mother starts to bleed as wands begin to rise and spells begin to fly. Nobody pays him any heed as blood begins to pool on the hard, dirty floors. There should be love in this house but there is none as he, a nameless baby just born, has just killed his mother. His father's rage manifests all around as the walls begin to shake and the baby lays, forgotten.
She is laid to rest in the paddock long before he receives a name.
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Argus is seven when he notices something is different. His father has ignored them all, for years, really. But when Areald gets his Hogwarts letter, the spotlight is suddenly shone onto little Argus, the boy that killed his mother.
Where is your magic, murderer?
When Argus is eleven, the Hogwarts letter never comes.
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The teachers at the Muggle school don't quite understand Argus.
Maybe we misunderstood, they think.
Maybe he didn't kill his mother.
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When Argus turns 17, people stop saying his name. Filch. Filthy Filch.
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Living in the Muggle world was torture. He expected flaming torches and pitchforks around every corner. The people stare at his shabby shoes and worn coat in winter and scowl at his greying hair. He walks into a church one day to pray to God whom he isn't sure exists. He is assured that God's word would save him. He confesses to a man they call a Priest. Filthy Filch tells him that he can't do magic. The Priest does not lament.
Magic is the Devil's work.
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Albus Dumbedore finds him at his father's grave.
Filthy Filch hates ghosts and Argus hates children.
Argus Filch is a Squib and Hogwarts is better than a church with a God that doesn't know his name.
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Filch hates children.
I hate children.
He looks at them and smells the scent of hatred. He hears a thousand children crying and screaming, cajoling and scheming. He follows the footsteps of his siblings who walked these great halls. He knows more about this school than they ever did.
You are still a murderer.
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Cats like graveyards.
Mrs. Norris likes the smell of death.
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The portrait of Albus Dumbledore smiles kindly.
You didn't do it, Argus.
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Hogwarts is rebuilt by witches and wizards wielding wands. Argus Filch carries rocks by hand and moves bodies with a wheelbarrow.
I hate children.
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Minerva McGonagall calls him into her office, like a student.
He expects a sharp rap onto his knuckles, bleeding and raw. Pain was school.
He hates her.
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Summer is here and Mrs. Norris sits in her cage, atop a mouldy grave.
There is no wand to conjure flowers.
He is a murderer coming to the scene of the crime. Squibs kill wizards.
Mrs. Norris loves the smell of death and hates the smell of children.
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Nobody loves a murderer.
"I am getting quite worried about Argus," Minerva says to Albus, desperation tinting her voice. "He only ever leaves the school grounds once a year!"
Albus smiles kindly.
"Hogwarts is his home."
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He visits the church one very last time.
I killed my mother and they've buried her body.
God is very forgiving.
Wizards are not.