snapelyhols_mod (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} snapelyhols_mod) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} snapelyholidays,@ 2009-12-11 02:35:00 |
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Fic for:
atdelphiTitle: The Caretaker
Author:
bethbethbeth Pairing: Snape/Filch
Rating: R
Warnings/Content Info: highlight between brackets if you prefer story warnings:
[Masturbation, Voyeurism, Random Drunkenness, Innuendo, A Healthy Imagination]
Summary: "The world, as Argus Filch saw it, could be divided into two distinct groups: those who existed to cause him trouble and those who didn't."
Disclaimer: The world of HP and its characters belongs to Rowling. The author of this fic has borrowed them for the purposes of storytelling. No profit was or will be made.
Word count: ~3,730
Author Notes: Many thanks to Femme for a last-minute beta, to the Mods for their extreme forbearance, and to Delphi for giving me the opportunity to write this pairing! (Note - the one familiar line of dialogue comes from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone)
Each night, after the chamomile tea has been drunk and the shortbread crumbs have been Vanished and the liniment has been applied to aching joints, there's a settling of bones, knees against hips and pointed knuckles resting against sharp shoulder blades.
The younger man (although there's little point in assigning that particular epithet to him these days) whispers "Nox" hoarsely. If the spell fails to work, as it does on occasion (more and more often, as time passes), the other man gets out from under the covers, though not without a great deal of grumbling, and snuffs out the candles by hand before returning to bed.
The mattress sags in the center from long years of use.
The world, as Argus Filch saw it, could be divided into two distinct groups: those who existed to cause him trouble and those who didn't.
The latter group was far smaller than the former. It included his mother and father (or had done before their passing in 1945), Apollyon Pringle (his mentor...gone, but not forgotten), Mrs Norris, and on rare occasions, Albus Dumbledore, who really only made the cut by virtue of the fact that he was responsible for paying Argus's wages.
The group made up of Damned Troublemakers included everybody else, with the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry topping the list. Every now and again there was an exception to that list - a student who faded so completely into the background that even Argus couldn't find anything to fault them for - but there hadn't been one of these perfectly nondescript young witches or wizards in decades, and Severus Snape was most definitely not among their number, a fact made clear on his second day at school when he appeared at the door to Argus's office after scrapping with some toffee-nosed brat from a rival House.
"What do you want, then?" Argus said suspiciously, looking at the bloody-nosed boy who stood in his doorway, arms folded over his skinny chest and glaring belligerently.
"I saw you cleaning the floor this morning," the boy said. "With a rag and a bucket."
"What if I did?" said Argus. Cheeky ape, standing there bold as brass and practically calling him a Squib to his face. "Off with you back to your common room before I call Professor Slughorn to collect you."
"Just like all the rest," the boy spat, then turned and started to leave.
"Wait a minute, boy," Argus called after him. "What do you mean, 'like all the rest?'"
The young Slytherin turned around and scowled. "I wanted to scrub up before going back to my House, and I thought if you were cleaning by hand, you might have some surgical spirit."
"And what's wrong with the Hospital Wing?" Argus asked challengingly. "You think you're too good for the likes of our mediwitch?"
The boy muttered something, then looked down at the floor.
"Speak up, boy," said Argus.
"Don't need her, do I?" the boy said defensively. "I might not know any healing spells yet, but I reckon I've learned to take care of myself right enough."
And didn't that sound a little too much like the new girl down at Madame Sally's. Argus shook his head and stepped aside, making space for his uninvited guest to pass into the room.
"Well, get in then if you're coming," he said. "You'll find no foolish wand waving in here, but I can set you up with an Elastoplast or two, if that'll do you."
"Thanks...sir," the boy murmured.
Sir.
Argus liked the sound of that.
Maybe he'd offer the lad a biscuit after he'd washed up a bit.
Maybe.
Argus would, if asked (which he never was), say that he liked to eat alone. He didn't mind sharing his Christmas dinner with the other staff members and whichever of the brats hadn't been wanted at home for the holidays, but for everyday fare, he much preferred a quick sarnie and a cup of tea with only Mrs Norris for company to the headache-inducing din of the Great Hall at meal times.
Just when his all-but-solitary meals started to include Severus Snape, Argus didn't quite know, but include him they did.
It wasn't as if he'd ever invited the boy. Bad enough that young Severus had taken to slouching in most weekend afternoons, grumbling about one thing or another ("one thing" generally having the name of "Potter" and "another" mostly going by the name of "Black") until Argus sent him off to clean the dungeon staircases, guessing rightly that he'd soon tire himself out of his bad temper.
Meal times were different, though. Argus couldn't just throw the boy out, not if that meant the lad wasn't going to get anything to eat for the next five hours. If Severus stayed, though, that meant Argus would have to share his meal (or ask the House Elves to bring extras, which amounted to the same thing). And he'd have to talk, at least long enough to ask the boy what he wanted to drink (barley wine, which he wasn't allowed, and coffee, which he was), or whether he was in the mood for pudding (which Severus almost always was, for all that he looked like a scarecrow with much too much of its stuffing pulled out).
By the middle of Severus's third year, the boy was spending so much time lurking around Argus's office that the headmaster paid Argus a visit. He said he just wanted to make sure that the boy wasn't bothering Argus if there were other things he'd rather be doing, but he gave him a long, hard look over the top of his spectacles, the questioning kind, the kind of look that always left Argus feeling as if something was tickling the inside of his head, looking for bad thoughts. Then just as quickly as it began, the odd tickling feeling ended, and Dumbledore was smiling.
"Well then, Argus...as long as young Mr Snape isn't too much of a bother, I think we can all safely ignore the idle gossip, can't we?" And Argus nodded, even though he wasn't exactly sure what sort of idle gossip the headmaster had been talking about.
Argus never mentioned the headmaster's visit, but by early spring, Severus's visits had become a thing of the past - and by the start of the summer, "idle gossip" was focusing its attention on some illicit kisses between Florence Ditalia and an unnamed Slytherin behind the greenhouses.
The normal life expectancy of a wizard or witch is approximately 100 years. Living amidst too much Dark Magic may very well reduce that number (see Hogwarts: A History, 47th Edition; chapter 613: the Noble House of Black), and being on the receiving end of the darkest of dark spells will almost certainly do so (see The Life and Times of Cedric Diggory). However, all things being equal, 100 years is quite an acceptable number.
The normal life expectancy of a Squib is 120 years. Twenty extra years of rheumatism and cataracts might not seem like much of a trade-off for the absence of magical powers, but Argus wasn't complaining. It was better than being a Muggle, at least. At 53 years of age, he was still in his sexual prime, which was more than most Muggle men could say for themselves.
There were a few things, however, that put a slight damper on Argus's enjoyment of his sexual prime.
The first was the fact that Squibs weren't particularly welcome at wizarding brothels. There was no outright ban, but Argus had learned a thing or two about being unwelcome over the past 53 years (which explained why he'd turned to brothels in the first place), and after a half dozen or so unsatisfying visits to the pleasure houses in Sekshu Alley, Argus decided to take his custom elsewhere. Easier said than done, of course, and Argus would probably have had to make do with a lifetime of self pleasuring if it hadn't been for his happy discovery of Madame Sally's Gentleman's Club, conveniently situated just the other side of Hogsmeade, a mile down the Camshron Road. The coincidence of a Muggle brothel being located in such an out of the way place was almost too good to be true, but considering the alternatives, Argus decided it wouldn't kill him to avoid looking this particular gift horse in the mouth.
Nothing comes without a price, however, and the price of visiting Madame Sally's was a notable lack of men, as the brothel catered only to gentlemen whose tastes ran towards the fairer sex (which it had to be admitted, Argus's tastes never really had done). But 'needs must,' as they say, so regular as clockwork - rain or shine - the first of the month saw Argus resting comfortably in the sitting room of Madame Sally's, drinking a complimentary glass of ale, and waiting for his regular 'date' to commence. Every month, just the same as the last--
--until one cold Sunday night in 1983, when the restful silence was broken by the sound of glass smashing in one of the upstairs rooms, closely followed - in order - by a door being slammed against a wall, high heels clattering down a flight of wooden stairs, and the sound of a weeping young woman. The woman's familiar voice was muffled slightly by the closed door, but Argus was able to make out just enough
("...you know I don't mind a bit of role play, but...")
--of the girl's words
("...swore he could make me look any way he wanted me to look...")
--to Sally
("...said I wouldn't even remember it afterwards...")
--that Argus knew without a doubt
("...waving a pointed stick at me...")
--that the man upstairs had to be a wizard, and Argus had better do something quick before the idiot, whoever he was, did something completely daft and got the damned Ministry involved. Drinking the last of his ale, Argus got up from his chair and slipped up the back staircase- the one only the girls used as a rule - in search of the troublemaker who'd caused all this commotion.
Finding him turned out to be no trouble at all. The door to the last room on the left was still ajar and Hannah's turquoise silk robe - the one all the regulars knew was her favourite - lay on the floor, left behind in the girl's haste to leave the room.
The robe wasn't the only thing lying on the floor. There, sprawled out beside the bed, face covered by the sleeve of the silk robe, was the wizard himself, and not much of an example of wizard-kind by the look of him. His trousers and underpants were pushed down around his ankles. His wand was held loosely in one hand and his prick held a little more firmly in the other. The smell of the man was worse than the Hogs Head bog the morning after last year's Yule celebrations. And his hair was so stringy and greasy that it could almost belong to--
Severus Snape.
Argus shook his head and knelt down beside his young colleague. He removed the covering from Severus's face, and black eyes, bleary and unfocused, met his gaze.
"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Argus asked.
Severus blinked, then let his wand drop to the floor as he slowly reached out his hand. When he touched Argus's stubbled chin, Severus smiled crookedly. "A man," he said. "You're a man."
"Of course I am, you idiot," Argus said, more quietly than he ordinarily spoke when he was calling somebody an idiot. "What did you think I was?"
Severus frowned. "No, that's not what I...you're a man. You're a man because it's the ninth."
"The ninth?"
"Tha's my birthday," he slurred. "And I came here, but they were all out of men and they wouldn't even let me do a little, a little...they wouldn't let me do a little...
"A little what, boy?"
"A little spell. They wouldn't let me do one of those. But now you're here, so you must be...you're my present?" Severus tried to push himself up from the floor without much success, until finally Argus took pity on him and after setting his clothing to rights, hoisted him up into something resembling a standing position.
"All right," Argus said. "Let's get you back to the castle."
"Is there any whiskey there?" Severus asked hopefully.
Argus snorted. "Oh, I think you've had more than enough to drink, lad."
"No, I haven't had more than enough yet..." Severus started to count the number on his fingers, then looked up and frowned. "Did I tell you it's my birthday?"
"That you did," Argus said, as he retrieved Severus's wand from the floor and started to guide him out of Hannah's room.
It took forty-nine minutes to pay Hannah and Madame Sally for their troubles, get Severus back to Hogwarts and into his rooms without being seen by students or staff, and see him tucked up under the covers with a vial of a particularly nasty-looking potion labeled "For Hangovers" placed conspicuously on the bedside table.
It took four-point-nine seconds from the moment Argus snuffed out the candles to the moment Severus started to snore.
Somewhere during those four-point-nine seconds, Argus thought that maybe he heard Severus mutter something that sounded like "...the best birthday present I've ever been given," but by the time he'd returned to his own quarters, Argus had convinced himself that he'd be a fool to imagine he'd heard anything of the kind.
At times like this, he knew better than to bother trying to get a word in edgewise; better to just sponge off the worst of the blood from the lad's leg and let Severus rant and rave till he wore himself out. Too bad, thought Argus as he handed Severus a fresh roll of bandages, that he couldn't just send him off to clean the dungeon steps when he was in a mood like this like he did when Severus was a First Year.
Oh, Argus could sympathize - and did. The students weren't any better behaved now than they'd been back when Argus had first been taken on as caretaker, and that young Potter brat was one of the worst of the lot, always causing some kind of trouble, him and those friends of his. They could all do with being chained to their beds at night. That would keep them out of mischief, right enough.
So yes, he sympathized, but what could you do when you worked for a headmaster who thought a bit of caning was barbaric? Too soft-hearted by half, that man, for all that he'd been the one who defeated Grindelwald - and too soft-headed as well, at times. What had Dumbledore been thinking, installing that three-headed guard dog up on the third floor?
"Blasted thing," Severus said as he tied off the bandage. "How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?"
A quick nod and a pat on his knee, and soon enough Argus had Severus past the ranting stage and moved into the grumbling phase of the afternoon.
Or he had done until Harry Potter stuck his head into the staffroom and set Severus to screaming once more.
It looked like it was going to take a bit more than a pat on the knee that night to settle Severus down again. Something more than a wank, as well, good as wanks could be. No, for this temper - the kind you could recognize because Severus's face went nearly purple and that vein in his forehead started pulsing - Argus would have to get Severus bottoms up over the settee, and maybe if Severus seemed to be in the mood, they'd get the paddle out - the wood one with the holes - and Argus would swat him a half dozen times until Severus's arse was all warm and rosy, and then he'd do a bit of pounding without the paddle, test out some of that new lubricant Severus had brewed up in his lab last week, and then, maybe they could....
"Argus," Severus said, standing up and indicating the door. "Are you coming?"
"Near enough," replied Argus with a dirty grin, before picking up the spare bandages and following Severus out into the corridor. "Near enough."
Not even seventy years old, barely out of his prime, and when Voldemort neared Hogwarts, Argus had been sent down - sent down! - to the tunnels to look after the First and Second Years, just as if there wasn't something more useful that he could be doing in the coming fight.
"Keep yourself safe," Professor McGonagall had said. "And whatever you do, Argus, stay put until somebody comes to get you and the children."
'Stay put,' indeed, as if he were a child himself. He could show those damned Death Eaters (damned lying, deceitful Death Eaters) a thing or two. You didn't need magic (bloody useless Kwikspells correspondence course) when you still had a strong back and two hard fists.
But McGonagall didn't care about any of that. She'd just assigned him childminding duty, without giving a single thought to how an old Squib caretaker was going to keep all those trouble-making brats in one place without a wand or a sackful of Muggle sedatives, and sure enough, in no time at all, the children had disappeared, leaving Argus alone in a deserted tunnel that had never before seemed so cold and silent and empty.
"Right then," he muttered to himself. "I reckon all that's left to do now is make my way to Hogsmeade and sound the alarm...not that I don't expect to find a dozen of the brats there ahead of me."
Argus took a deep breath, then unlocked the door that concealed the most recent of the tunnels: the one that connected Hogwarts to the tunnel at the root of the Whomping Willow, and which was the last of the alterations made to the castle by the headmaster before he breathed his last.
Stepping into the tunnel, Argus started to walk towards the Shrieking Shack.
It was a world turned upside down.
The horror that was Lord Voldemort had been and gone, and now there was Potter, his minions standing nearby, sitting beside his former teacher and holding his hand as silver and red streamed from Severus's snake-ravaged throat.
It wasn't until Potter, Weasley, and the Granger girl had left the Shrieking Shack that Argus was able to shake himself free from his temporary paralysis. He knelt down beside Severus's pale, cold body and rocked back and forth, drawing shrill, keening sobs from the back of his throat.
This time there was nothing to be done.
This time it wasn't a bloody nose or too much whiskey or a bite from a dog. Argus was no Healer, but it didn't take a Healer to see that this time, there was nothing anyone could do to staunch Severus's wounds.
Then Severus drew a single breath...and before he had time to take a second one, Argus, with a strength he thought had long since vanished from his aging body, picked Severus up in his arms, and headed swiftly towards the edge of town. Once he'd crossed the railroad tracks and was well along the Muggle road, Argus lowered Severus to the ground and lay him down in the shelter of an old, grey oak tree. He waited, silently, until he saw Severus draw one more shallow breath.
"Stay alive, you slippery, lying bastard," Argus ordered, with a quaver in his voice that had nothing to do with his age, then he turned away and ran as fast as his trembling legs could carry him towards Madame Sally's.
The odds against a sixty-eight year old Squib knowing just where to find the only working telephone within a ten mile radius of Hogsmeade were high enough. The odds of the owner of that telephone just happening to know how to reach the director of an air ambulance service capable of delivering a snakebite victim to a trauma hospital before it was too late was nothing short of a miracle.
Despite the severity of the patient's injuries, in less than a fortnight, the herpetology consultant at the trauma hospital pronounced his patient on the road to recovery.
That, Argus thought, could only be explained by magic.
Some mornings, when the mood strikes them, one of the two old men takes himself in hand under the leeringly watchful eye of the other.
Severus still isn't sure which role he finds more comfortable playing. For a decade, the only sexual contact Severus had was with his own greased-up palm, and even after so many years, he still thinks of masturbation as a comrade in arms, as it were, if not an old friend.
Watching, though...oh now, that's a different matter. Disillusioned - both magically and otherwise - a much younger Severus spied on other people's flirtations and fondlings and even fuckings (when he was given half a chance) for far more than a decade. But these days, Argus says if anybody's going to be watching him wank, they can damned well be visible while they're doing it (He's not getting any younger, he says. Wouldn't mind having "something to wank to," he says), and Severus, who's learned a little about fairness and compromise over the years, agrees.
Severus's agreement doesn't keep him from slipping quietly into the bathroom for a quick look and a tug on his todger whenever Argus is showering, however.
Some mornings, when the mood hasn't struck either of them, the two men slide into slippers and robes, then shuffle into the kitchen for a bit of breakfast.
Severus brews a pot of tea. He does it the old-fashioned Muggle way, just like his mum used to do for his da. By the time he and Argus have finished their second cups of tea, Argus's steel cut oats are ready to be dished up.
Argus always fills Severus's bowl before his own.
"Well...eat up, then," he says sharply.
Severus scowls, but he picks up his spoon and starts to eat.
Argus nods approvingly.
"Good lad," he says.
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