dawns56 & ntamara
Title: Catch you
Author: Dawn (dawns56) (mndlvd@aol.com)
Pairing: Flich/Snape
Challenge: I don't care what you think unless it is about me - Nirvana, Drain You
Word count: 205
Filch sneered as he followed the trail of water droplets littering the stone floor. "Bloody kids," he muttered. He was interrupted from his tirade by a loud explosion from the direction he had just come. He eagerly made his way to the potions classroom, hoping to catch the vandals red-handed. Perhaps Dumbledore would finally allow him to use the chains and thumbscrews in his office again. "Come on, Mrs. Norris," he urged his sullen companion.
When he arrived at the classroom, the door stood ajar, and Filch feared the guilty party had already escaped. Mrs. Norris gave a throaty hiss as she nudged the door open.
Filch stood in the doorway, completely horrified.
The whole classroom was green. The walls, the ceiling, everything was coated by a thick coat of putrid, green slime. And Snape stood scowling in the middle.
Snape cleared this throat impatiently, drawing Filch's horrified gaze away from the substance dripping from the ceiling. Wordlessly, Snape gathered the few clean ingredients, and with a flourish of robes, swept past Filch, calling out over his shoulder, "I expect this to be cleaned by tomorrow."
"Bloody Snape," Filch muttered. He blinked as he examined the substance closer. Why was Snape making a love potion?
Author: ntamara
Title: La Langue de Botched Potions
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4656
Acknowledgements to Leni Jess and Jeddy.
Argus held his glass high and toasted, "Here's to another year over, and a summer free from the little wretches!"
Snape tilted his head in acknowledgement. He raised his glass to Filch's with a murmured, “Hear, hear.”
Argus carefully sipped the bitter-sweet green brew. It had been many years since he had last drunk absinthe, otherwise known as the Green Fairy, and it was just as bitter and potent as he remembered. How the most junior teacher on Hogwarts' staff could afford such a fine drink as this one, Argus did not know.
"It's good; best absinthe I've had in years." Argus downed the rest of his glass.
Snape poured him another good inch or two before topping up his own glass. He looked straight at Argus, and the corners of his mouth tilted up in what could arguably have been called a smile. "Thank you. It's my own brew."
As a rule Argus Filch did not fraternise with the rest of Hogwarts' staff. His interaction with the professors was normally limited to overseeing some of their detentions. He occasionally assisted the groundskeeper with some of the garden work, but even Hagrid had magic, no matter that he wasn't supposed to use it.
Every now and then, Dumbledore would invite Argus to his office for tea. Being Hogwarts' caretaker and resident squib was a great privilege, and Argus was certainly grateful to Dumbledore. It did not make living in a school surrounded by countless arrogant ingrates easier.
There were certain duties and activities at Hogwarts that could only be accomplished by a pureblood squib such as Argus himself. Warding rituals against Muggle detection; artefacts that could only be handled by a squib; spells that required squib hair, blood, or other bodily fluids. He took solace in that usefulness, and mail-ordered the latest Kwikspell course. Argus kept to his own company, and did so happily. Mrs Norris was a more than sufficient companion.
However, since the appointment of Severus Snape as Potions Master two years earlier, Argus had begun to believe he might have a kindred spirit in this Merlin-forsaken hellhole.
As a child Snape had been just another pimply, snot-faced wretch making a mess of the halls and getting foisted off on Argus in detention after detention. Only a few years older than the last time Argus had had the boy scrub out the Infirmary bedpans, Snape was now an adult, disgraced and Hogwarts’ youngest teacher in decades. Something about the young man made Argus nod amiably at him when they passed in the corridor and patrol the potions classroom for students thinking to beak into the supply cupboards just that bit more often than he used to.
Snape did not believe in coddling the menaces that passed for students. He did not send them to Argus for detention without first enquiring whether Argus could spare the time, and had something sufficiently unpleasant waiting for them. He oversaw most of his own detentions, and Argus respected a man who could instil such fear and respect in the little monsters.
Snape was not cheerful, amiable or kind. He did not indulge in any of the frivolous staffroom gossip. Nevertheless, he knew exactly what Hooch and Sprout had got up to on the Quidditch Pitch at midnight last full moon, and would gleefully share the details with Argus when he stopped by the caretaker's office for some forgotten reason. One corner of his mouth would curl up in pleased amusement when Argus laughed.
They did not speak often, or seek out each other's company. Rather, Argus felt that they were both aware of each other, and that was enough. Fellow misanthropists trapped in Hogwarts castle by Dumbledore’s goodwill.
Still, young Snape's invitation for a little end of year celebratory drink had surprised Argus. He had accepted in part out of curiosity - the sparse and sober decorations of Snape's private rooms won his approval - and in part at the prospect of free liquor.
Argus believed that over the past two years he and Snape had reached some kind of unspoken understanding, a... rapport if you will. Getting pissed on absinthe together had simply been confirmation.
The next morning when Argus had been unable to see straight, a pounding headache threatening to crack his skull wide-open, Snape had silently appeared. The potion he brought had left Argus feeling human again, even if his mouth tasted as if Mrs Norris had used it for a litter box.
It had seemed such an auspicious beginning to another blessedly student-free summer. Argus started looking forward to more such evenings drinking and griping, no longer just Mrs Norris listening to him. However, in the weeks and months that followed, Snape's behaviour took a turn to the inexplicable, and Argus did not know what to make of the Potions Master's actions.
The summer holidays were the best time to clean Hogwarts, and Argus set to the task with fervour. There were no children to track in autumn leaves, winter snow, or the sludge and mud of spring.
He scrubbed out the dorms while the elves aired the bedding, and found the usual stashes of decaying snacks smuggled in from the kitchen and then forgotten, Zonko sweets and gags hidden in the most unusual places. Wizarding pornography and liquor. He would make a note - with a nasty smile - for McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick or Snape to accompany the illicit goods, detailing exactly where he had found it. Foolish children, thinking they could leave anything hidden at Hogwarts that Argus would not find.
Most of the teachers had left soon after the children, leaving only Snape, Sprout, Hagrid and Argus himself. Dumbledore was off on some sunny holiday as usual, Sprout kept to herself and her greenhouses, growing Merlin knew what, and he and Hagrid kept out of each other’s way. Snape spent most of his time in the dungeons, playing around with his potions by day, and joining Argus for dinner in the staff room.
A week into the holiday, Snape handed him a large bottle of some pungent, blue liquid. The label read ‘Catherine’s Cathartic Cleanser’. He hid his hands in the sleeves of his robes, his arms nearly wrapped around himself and would not look directly at Argus, instead focusing on something behind the caretaker’s shoulder.
“I have seen the cleaning solution that they provide you with. Sylvester’s Sanitizer is not fit to clean the Gryffindor common room, let alone the rest of the school. Use one thimble to a bucket, no more.”
Then Snape spun around, his black robes swishing around him as he stalked back to his dungeons.
The blue potion worked like a charm. Stains and mildew that Argus would otherwise have scrubbed at for days, on his knees with his trusty pig-stubble brush, simply dissolved as he lightly wiped them away. The hardwood floors shone, and he hadn’t even waxed them yet. When Argus tried to thank Snape over dinner that evening, the other man huffed, “Of course it works, I made it,” but Argus did not miss the slight hint of pink on Snape’s cheeks.
Argus got more cleaned in two days than he usually would in five. He was already making plans to give the portraits a long needed job too, when on the third day he woke up in agony in the middle of the night. His hands were cramped into grotesque claws, the skin all the way up to his elbows red and peeling. It felt like they had been dipped in acid.
Argus struggled into his bathrobe, fumbled with the sash and then gave up the struggle as fruitless. The ratty gown flapped around him as he stormed through the clean hallways to Snape’s door, and then kicked it repeatedly, wincing as he bruised a toe.
“What?!” Snape violently yanked his door open. His dark hair stood up in places. He had evidently been sleeping as he was clad only in a long white nightshirt that was buttoned at his throats and wrists; two long and bony feet peeked out from beneath the hem.
Argus held up his tortured hands in accusation, shaking them for good measure in Snape’s face. “Look at what your ruddy potion has done to my hands!”
Snape didn’t blink an eye. His expression went eerily blank, but he stepped aside and ushered Argus into his rooms. He pointed at what Argus had come to think of as ‘his’ chair and disappeared through one of the doors off the sitting room. Argus sat down, gingerly cradling his aching hands close to his chest. Soon after, Snape reappeared with a jar of some ointment that smelled vaguely of poppies and mint. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Argus, impatiently holding out his hands.
Argus glared at him suspiciously, but grudgingly obliged. Snape briskly grabbed his right arm, making Argus curse out loud and try to pull away. However Snape ignored his protests and deposited a dollop of whatever cream was in the jar on his skin and started smoothing it onto Argus’ claw-like and blistered hand. The salve was cool and moist, and Snape’s hands were sure and capable as he worked it into the abused skin.
He smeared a thick layer of the salve onto Argus’ forearms, pulled Argus’ fingers through his closed hand as he coated each digit individually, soothing the burning pain. And after he had covered all the blistered and burning skin with white goop, Snape started coaxing the muscles in Argus’ hands and arms to relax.
Snape worked at Argus’ fingers, pulling and pushing them with his hands, massaging away the stress and years worth from scrubbing floors and polishing armour, until Argus could feel his toes curl up in his slippers. He found himself fighting to keep his eyes open and not to moan; with difficulty he watched Snape instead, the look of concentration on the young man’s face, nearly hidden as it was behind a curtain of his lank hair. Snape’s hands were long-fingered and bony. His nails were clipped short, and his skin rough with calluses, dotted as much with scars from burns and knives as potion stains of all colours. Snape pressed his fingers into the joints at Argus’ wrists, rotating Argus’ hand as he rubbed the cream in. At first touch the salve was cool, but as Snape worked, it gradually warmed to what felt like a pleasant glow.
By the time Snape had finished, his hands felt and looked years younger. The skin was slightly pink and new, and when Argus flexed his fingers they obeyed with an ease barely remembered.
“Next time wear gloves,” Snape said, wiping his hands on piece of a rag before capping the jar of salve. Without another word he swept out of the room, nearly slamming the door shut behind him. Argus stared at the closed door, then at his hands, before letting himself out of the Potions Master’s rooms.
“Barmy! The man’s gone barmy, Mrs Norris,” he muttered as he climbed back into bed. Mrs Norris jumped onto the pillow beside him and purred her agreement.
It took Argus another two weeks to finish his yearly summer cleaning, leaving another glorious month before the brats would return. He and Snape still had dinner together, occasionally joined by Sprout, or Hagrid, or one of the other staff members who would pop in for a few days to prepare for the start of the new school year. Snape ignored Argus’ thanks and generally acted as if that night had not happened. Argus shrugged and let it rest.
He took down the portraits in the halls, and set about repairing, restoring and cleaning them one by one. It was finicky work, and the occupants more often than not had a lot to say about Argus’ technique, or the paint he was using, or the glue, or whatever else they could conceivably bitch about, and then some. They were easy to ignore, and he marvelled at the ease with which he worked. The rheumatism that had plagued his hands for the past three decades was all but gone.
As he was bent over the last one - Sir Cadogan, whose tunic needed mending after his pony took a bite out of it - there was a knock on his office door. Snape entered, carrying a steaming mug of what smelled like that expensive tea Dumbledore saved for special occasions.
“I thought you might appreciate a cup of tea, Argus,” he said, offering the mug while avoiding Argus’ eyes. “Two sugar, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He took the mug with a frown, and sipped from it cautiously. The tea had been steeped long enough that the water had turned nearly black, and it was just the right temperature too, sliding down his throat and warming his belly without burning his tongue. Argus was aware of Snape watching him empty the mug. It made him feel more than a bit uneasy, but he could think of no reason why the Potions Master might want to poison him, and it tasted fine.
“Thank you,” he said again. Snape simply nodded and swept out of the room. With a sigh, Argus returned to his work.
The students returned, and with them autumn and trails of mud everywhere. Peeves, who had been silent all summer, was an even more obnoxious pest than usual. A prank war between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor left Argus overseeing detention after detention, rapidly running out of unpleasant tasks to give the brats. It was enough to drive any man to drink, or give him an ulcer.
The night Peeves broke into his office and upset his filing system was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Argus stomped all the way up to the Headmaster’s office, and demanded that they finally exorcise the poltergeist. Dumbledore had been all twinkling eyes and lemon drops, and “Isn’t that rather drastic?” Argus returned to his room, acid burning through his stomach, and he even snapped at Mrs Norris.
A small bottle filled with a milky white potion was waiting for him on his desk, beside it a note in Snape’s distinctive scrawl reading drink me. Relief was instantaneous, but before three hours had passed Argus found himself practically chained to the loo with the worst case of the runs he’d ever had.
When he confronted Snape the next morning, the other man had sneered at him, snapping that Argus’ stomach would trouble him no longer and he shouldn’t complain, before leaving in a huff. Snape was testy and disagreeable for quite some time after that, giving Argus the feeling that he for some reason should apologise, although for what exactly the caretaker was unsure. It was all very unsettling and confusing.
By the time the holidays came round, Argus had given up hope of maintaining a good relationship with the Potions professor. Thus he was surprised by Snape’s knock on his door Christmas morning. Mrs Norris had no issue with Snape’s odd behaviour over the past few months, rubbing against his leg and meowing. Snape nudged her aside and stepped into the room, this time offering Argus what looked like a soufflé. Argus stared at Snape with bulging eyes, making no move to touch the perfectly risen and airy treat. The smell of it was already filling the room and making Argus’ mouth water.
“Happy birthday,” Snape mumbled, practically shoving it into Argus’ hands. Their fingers touched, and Argus quickly put the piping hot dish on the table, before turning back to the other man.
“How did you know?”
“I asked Albus. Aren’t you going to eat it? He told me that cheese is your favourite.”
Argus hesitated, remembering what had happened the last time he accepted something made by Snape, but it smelled so good and Snape was watching him expectantly, eagerly awaiting his approval it seemed. Glancing back at Snape one last time, Argus took a spoon from the box of cutlery on one of the shelves and scooped out a portion from the dish, sad to see the soufflé deflate at the disturbance. The savoury mouthful melt on his tongue, and Argus’ eyes closed in bliss. He took another bite, and then another, and before he knew it he’d scraped the glass dish clean. For a moment he looked at the empty bowl in dismay, before remembering Snape hovering in the doorway.
“Thank you, Severus. That was delicious.”
Snape’s lips turned upward in a smug little smile.
“Would you like something to drink, perhaps join me for some morning tea?”
“No, thank you, Argus; I have a potion on the fire. Many happy returns.”
After Snape had left, Argus looked down at Mrs Norris who had curled up around his feet. “Do you know what has got into him, my sweet? The lad’s hung over one cauldron too many... There’s no other explanation. Those potion fumes... Not good for a man’s health, if you ask me.”
With the New Year came yet another house war, this time the classic Slytherin versus Gryffindor rivalry rearing its ugly head. Argus resented each house equally, although he was a little surprised to notice that the majority of the Slytherin pranks were localised and affected only the Gryffindor students, or Common Room, and hardly any of their surroundings.
The Gryffindors, however, made a bloody mess of Argus’ clean halls. Literally one time when they somehow managed to charm buckets of pigs’ blood to be emptied upon any unfortunate Slytherin student walking into the Great Hall or Slytherin dorm. Argus longed for the days under Dippet when his predecessor Apollyon Pringle had been allowed to take the strap to the horrid little monsters. If it were up to Argus he would hang the brats by their thumbs, or put them in the block in the Great Hall.
Unfortunately, the Slytherins’ retaliation more than made up for the fact they had hardly caused Argus any trouble before. Gryffindor tower and all stairs and hallways leading to it had been coated with some kind of Sticky Solution that caught all who came into contact with it like mosquitoes in resin. It took McGonagall an entire day to free the little blighters, and a week before Argus had managed to remove the awful mess with Snape’s cleaning solution. He even had to shave off patches of poor Mrs Norris’ fur after she was caught in it as well.
And if that wasn’t enough, Snape sent the Slytherins who had apparently pulled the prank for detention to Hagrid, who didn’t know how to properly punish the brats, and no doubt had them frolicking about in the January snow and sunshine. Argus also suspected that Snape had supplied the students with the Sticky Solution. After all, he knew a professional product when he spent seven bloody days chipping it off the floor and walls.
Proof that there was definitely something wrong with Hogwarts’ Potions Master came on February fourteenth, Valentine’s Day. When the castle was filled with gay little monsters, red and pink confetti everywhere, lovers’ tiffs, and damned Dumbledore twinkling over the entire spectacle. The previous two years Snape had been an island of stoicism and sanity in the frivolous madness. Together with Mrs Norris the three of them had prowled the castle after curfew, flushing out students from their illicit trysts, taking points and assigning detentions.
Argus waited in his office for Snape. They hadn’t spoken or agreed to meet, but he had expected -
Suddenly Argus could not stand this any longer. Snape was blowing hot and cold: one moment inviting Argus for congenial drinks, the next either poisoning him or supplying the students with forbidden potions! He would demand an answer from Snape. After all the Potions Master had put him through these past months, he was certainly entitled to one!
Mrs Norris meowed her agreement, and together they made their way to Snape’s dungeon quarters. Before they reached their destination, however, Argus heard a noise coming from the Potions classroom. He bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes. First he would catch the curfew-breaking miscreants no doubt messing about in Snape’s classroom!
Instead of students doing a little illicit potion making, however, Argus found Snape standing in the ruins of his classroom. Green slime covered the floors, the walls, the ceiling, although the Potions Master himself was protected by some spell. He looked up at Argus, sneered haughtily and sped out of the room, his robes whipping around him.
“I expect this to be cleaned tomorrow,” he snapped as he passed Argus, and before Argus could react the wizard had disappeared around the corner and slammed the door to his rooms behind him.
Argus looked down at Mrs Norris, who was cautiously sniffing the vile green glop. He had cleaned up enough illicit potion making gone wrong to recognise this particular disaster. “Bloody Snape... Who does he think he is? Making love potions... What is the man thinking? Calls himself a Master... Botching up a potion the seventh years could manage...”
Argus was convinced now; there was certainly more to Snape’s behaviour than met the eye. And he would get to the bottom of it, or his name was not Argus Filch!
But first he had to find some students to clean up this mess.
In any other story, at this point Albus, or some of the children, would come to our hero’s aid and help him (and Mrs Norris) find the key to the secret of the Potions Master’s strange behaviour. They would sneak out after curfew to search through the library and the restricted section for any hint or clue, or invite Argus to a Sunday tea with lemon and biscuits and then drop infuriatingly vague hints.
However, remember, this is Filch we’re talking about. Not Hagrid.
Discovering exactly what bug was up Snape’s bum proved more difficult than Argus had expected. The other man now seemed to be avoiding him, and when he tried asking the school matron whether Snape might be ill, Poppy shooed him from the infirmary.
Not long afterwards Argus caught a cold. Even his tartan scarf did not prevent the scratchy throat turning into a hacking cough, an aching head, a runny nose and a nasty fever. The elves brought chicken soup and tea with honey, as Argus lay shivering and shaking in bed. He dreamt that Snape came to see him, gently wiped his brow and poured something cool and soothing into his mouth, massaging his throat to get him to swallow it. The Potions Master spoke to him in a soft and velvety voice, telling him secrets and stories as he stroked Mrs Norris on his lap, until Argus’ eyelids felt like lead and the dream changed to memories of his youth and summer skies.
He awoke the following morning still tired, but able to breathe properly again, the dreadful ache in his bones gone. There was no sign that anybody had been in his rooms, and Mrs Norris was stubbornly silent on the topic when he asked her. It could have been a fever dream, but the memory of Snape’s voice and touch was so vivid and real.
March came and went. Still Argus was no closer to discovering Snape’s secret. That he had one, Argus was sure. The suspicious incidents, gifts and tricks continued. Snape even gave Argus an invisibility potion, left in his office with a note wishing him and Mrs Norris ‘happy hunting’.
Argus sat in his office, suspiciously eyeing the large and heavy tome in front of him. The students were on the Hogwarts’ Express, speeding back to London. Most of the teachers were busy packing their belongings, getting ready for exotic holidays and carefree times.
He had returned from making sure all the brats did indeed board the train, and then walked back to the castle as Hagrid went off to the Hog’s Head. On his desk in his office he had found no invitation for drinks with Snape that evening. Instead of last year’s note there were two intricately blown glass jars, and an old grimoire with the title ‘The Speache ande Seecrets of Brews, Potiones ande Other Mixtures’.
No note, no name.
Inside each jar was a slick and viscous mixture, smooth and fragrant: one a sweet vanilla that soothed and relaxed the senses; the other a sharp mint that made his fingers tingle when he cautiously tested its consistency. Mrs Norris butted her head against the tome in front of him and hissed impatiently. Argus nodded, and began to read.
Half an hour later the caretaker’s face was flushed. He licked his lips and eyed the two jars speculatively. He took a deep breath, got up and went into the small bathroom off his office. When he came out a few minutes later his hair was slicked back and his cheeks freshly shaved. He hesitated before the wardrobe, took out his nicest coat and put it on, carefully slipping both jars into his pockets. One last glance in the mirror, a distracted pat to Mrs Norris’ head - she had curled up on the open book and was watching him through slitted eyes - and Argus hurried out the door.
Some might wonder why Snape would choose such a round about and obscure way to court our hero, or why he would persist when it became obvious that poor Argus was just not buying a clue. However, one must not forget that young Severus is shy, and has perhaps been harbouring feelings for the caretaker since he was a boy. Severus is the Wizarding World’s most talented Potions Master; he reached out to Argus the only way he knew how, honouring our hero by courting him through the ancient and obscure language of potions. Our Severus is, for want of a better word, a bit of an old-fashioned lover.
And how better to show one’s love that you are crazy with desire for them with self-brewed absinthe, that they make the pain go away with a Hair-of-The-Dogge Hangover Draught, or tell them that you wish to start your life anew with them with a gift of Catherine’s Cathartic Cleanser? And of course, while you will take care of their every need and soothe their aches, nothing says “Cheat on me and you will rue the day” better than Ulric’s Ulcer Run Remedy.
The significance of deliberately botching a potion, one of the greatest signs of devotion in the Language of Potions, can add many layers of meaning to a message depending on which potion one botches. A ruined love potion, for example, signifies both an unlucky history with relationships and one’s vulnerability to one’s intended. I trust you not to hurt me.
Never forget: the secret to the art of seduction lies in the journey just as much as the destination.
Nonetheless, when the time comes to make your final move, it can be sage to do so with a potion whose intent and meaning will leave no doubts. And a copy of “The Speache ande Seecrets of Brews, Potiones ande Other Mixture”. Just in case.
Mrs Norris swishes her tail back and forth over the stained and yellowed parchment. The text is in an old and cursive script, lying open where Argus left it.
“And whenne the tyme comes, gift thine intended with aney of these to let hym knowe your heart burnes for him onlye: a vanilla lubrickant if your flower has not yet been plucked, mynt for those of a daring ande playful disposition, strawberrys as a sign of-”
the end
And just in case you were wondering....
Sticky Solution - I will never let you go/leave Fraught and Fevered No More - Only you can soothe me Invisibility Potions - A hidden love Vanilla scented lube - Be gentle, it is my first time Mint scented lube - I’ve got a dungeon, and I’m eager to use it
Author: Dawn (dawns56) (mndlvd@aol.com)
Pairing: Flich/Snape
Challenge: I don't care what you think unless it is about me - Nirvana, Drain You
Word count: 205
Filch sneered as he followed the trail of water droplets littering the stone floor. "Bloody kids," he muttered. He was interrupted from his tirade by a loud explosion from the direction he had just come. He eagerly made his way to the potions classroom, hoping to catch the vandals red-handed. Perhaps Dumbledore would finally allow him to use the chains and thumbscrews in his office again. "Come on, Mrs. Norris," he urged his sullen companion.
When he arrived at the classroom, the door stood ajar, and Filch feared the guilty party had already escaped. Mrs. Norris gave a throaty hiss as she nudged the door open.
Filch stood in the doorway, completely horrified.
The whole classroom was green. The walls, the ceiling, everything was coated by a thick coat of putrid, green slime. And Snape stood scowling in the middle.
Snape cleared this throat impatiently, drawing Filch's horrified gaze away from the substance dripping from the ceiling. Wordlessly, Snape gathered the few clean ingredients, and with a flourish of robes, swept past Filch, calling out over his shoulder, "I expect this to be cleaned by tomorrow."
"Bloody Snape," Filch muttered. He blinked as he examined the substance closer. Why was Snape making a love potion?
Author: ntamara
Title: La Langue de Botched Potions
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4656
Acknowledgements to Leni Jess and Jeddy.
Argus held his glass high and toasted, "Here's to another year over, and a summer free from the little wretches!"
Snape tilted his head in acknowledgement. He raised his glass to Filch's with a murmured, “Hear, hear.”
Argus carefully sipped the bitter-sweet green brew. It had been many years since he had last drunk absinthe, otherwise known as the Green Fairy, and it was just as bitter and potent as he remembered. How the most junior teacher on Hogwarts' staff could afford such a fine drink as this one, Argus did not know.
"It's good; best absinthe I've had in years." Argus downed the rest of his glass.
Snape poured him another good inch or two before topping up his own glass. He looked straight at Argus, and the corners of his mouth tilted up in what could arguably have been called a smile. "Thank you. It's my own brew."
As a rule Argus Filch did not fraternise with the rest of Hogwarts' staff. His interaction with the professors was normally limited to overseeing some of their detentions. He occasionally assisted the groundskeeper with some of the garden work, but even Hagrid had magic, no matter that he wasn't supposed to use it.
Every now and then, Dumbledore would invite Argus to his office for tea. Being Hogwarts' caretaker and resident squib was a great privilege, and Argus was certainly grateful to Dumbledore. It did not make living in a school surrounded by countless arrogant ingrates easier.
There were certain duties and activities at Hogwarts that could only be accomplished by a pureblood squib such as Argus himself. Warding rituals against Muggle detection; artefacts that could only be handled by a squib; spells that required squib hair, blood, or other bodily fluids. He took solace in that usefulness, and mail-ordered the latest Kwikspell course. Argus kept to his own company, and did so happily. Mrs Norris was a more than sufficient companion.
However, since the appointment of Severus Snape as Potions Master two years earlier, Argus had begun to believe he might have a kindred spirit in this Merlin-forsaken hellhole.
As a child Snape had been just another pimply, snot-faced wretch making a mess of the halls and getting foisted off on Argus in detention after detention. Only a few years older than the last time Argus had had the boy scrub out the Infirmary bedpans, Snape was now an adult, disgraced and Hogwarts’ youngest teacher in decades. Something about the young man made Argus nod amiably at him when they passed in the corridor and patrol the potions classroom for students thinking to beak into the supply cupboards just that bit more often than he used to.
Snape did not believe in coddling the menaces that passed for students. He did not send them to Argus for detention without first enquiring whether Argus could spare the time, and had something sufficiently unpleasant waiting for them. He oversaw most of his own detentions, and Argus respected a man who could instil such fear and respect in the little monsters.
Snape was not cheerful, amiable or kind. He did not indulge in any of the frivolous staffroom gossip. Nevertheless, he knew exactly what Hooch and Sprout had got up to on the Quidditch Pitch at midnight last full moon, and would gleefully share the details with Argus when he stopped by the caretaker's office for some forgotten reason. One corner of his mouth would curl up in pleased amusement when Argus laughed.
They did not speak often, or seek out each other's company. Rather, Argus felt that they were both aware of each other, and that was enough. Fellow misanthropists trapped in Hogwarts castle by Dumbledore’s goodwill.
Still, young Snape's invitation for a little end of year celebratory drink had surprised Argus. He had accepted in part out of curiosity - the sparse and sober decorations of Snape's private rooms won his approval - and in part at the prospect of free liquor.
Argus believed that over the past two years he and Snape had reached some kind of unspoken understanding, a... rapport if you will. Getting pissed on absinthe together had simply been confirmation.
The next morning when Argus had been unable to see straight, a pounding headache threatening to crack his skull wide-open, Snape had silently appeared. The potion he brought had left Argus feeling human again, even if his mouth tasted as if Mrs Norris had used it for a litter box.
It had seemed such an auspicious beginning to another blessedly student-free summer. Argus started looking forward to more such evenings drinking and griping, no longer just Mrs Norris listening to him. However, in the weeks and months that followed, Snape's behaviour took a turn to the inexplicable, and Argus did not know what to make of the Potions Master's actions.
The summer holidays were the best time to clean Hogwarts, and Argus set to the task with fervour. There were no children to track in autumn leaves, winter snow, or the sludge and mud of spring.
He scrubbed out the dorms while the elves aired the bedding, and found the usual stashes of decaying snacks smuggled in from the kitchen and then forgotten, Zonko sweets and gags hidden in the most unusual places. Wizarding pornography and liquor. He would make a note - with a nasty smile - for McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick or Snape to accompany the illicit goods, detailing exactly where he had found it. Foolish children, thinking they could leave anything hidden at Hogwarts that Argus would not find.
Most of the teachers had left soon after the children, leaving only Snape, Sprout, Hagrid and Argus himself. Dumbledore was off on some sunny holiday as usual, Sprout kept to herself and her greenhouses, growing Merlin knew what, and he and Hagrid kept out of each other’s way. Snape spent most of his time in the dungeons, playing around with his potions by day, and joining Argus for dinner in the staff room.
A week into the holiday, Snape handed him a large bottle of some pungent, blue liquid. The label read ‘Catherine’s Cathartic Cleanser’. He hid his hands in the sleeves of his robes, his arms nearly wrapped around himself and would not look directly at Argus, instead focusing on something behind the caretaker’s shoulder.
“I have seen the cleaning solution that they provide you with. Sylvester’s Sanitizer is not fit to clean the Gryffindor common room, let alone the rest of the school. Use one thimble to a bucket, no more.”
Then Snape spun around, his black robes swishing around him as he stalked back to his dungeons.
The blue potion worked like a charm. Stains and mildew that Argus would otherwise have scrubbed at for days, on his knees with his trusty pig-stubble brush, simply dissolved as he lightly wiped them away. The hardwood floors shone, and he hadn’t even waxed them yet. When Argus tried to thank Snape over dinner that evening, the other man huffed, “Of course it works, I made it,” but Argus did not miss the slight hint of pink on Snape’s cheeks.
Argus got more cleaned in two days than he usually would in five. He was already making plans to give the portraits a long needed job too, when on the third day he woke up in agony in the middle of the night. His hands were cramped into grotesque claws, the skin all the way up to his elbows red and peeling. It felt like they had been dipped in acid.
Argus struggled into his bathrobe, fumbled with the sash and then gave up the struggle as fruitless. The ratty gown flapped around him as he stormed through the clean hallways to Snape’s door, and then kicked it repeatedly, wincing as he bruised a toe.
“What?!” Snape violently yanked his door open. His dark hair stood up in places. He had evidently been sleeping as he was clad only in a long white nightshirt that was buttoned at his throats and wrists; two long and bony feet peeked out from beneath the hem.
Argus held up his tortured hands in accusation, shaking them for good measure in Snape’s face. “Look at what your ruddy potion has done to my hands!”
Snape didn’t blink an eye. His expression went eerily blank, but he stepped aside and ushered Argus into his rooms. He pointed at what Argus had come to think of as ‘his’ chair and disappeared through one of the doors off the sitting room. Argus sat down, gingerly cradling his aching hands close to his chest. Soon after, Snape reappeared with a jar of some ointment that smelled vaguely of poppies and mint. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Argus, impatiently holding out his hands.
Argus glared at him suspiciously, but grudgingly obliged. Snape briskly grabbed his right arm, making Argus curse out loud and try to pull away. However Snape ignored his protests and deposited a dollop of whatever cream was in the jar on his skin and started smoothing it onto Argus’ claw-like and blistered hand. The salve was cool and moist, and Snape’s hands were sure and capable as he worked it into the abused skin.
He smeared a thick layer of the salve onto Argus’ forearms, pulled Argus’ fingers through his closed hand as he coated each digit individually, soothing the burning pain. And after he had covered all the blistered and burning skin with white goop, Snape started coaxing the muscles in Argus’ hands and arms to relax.
Snape worked at Argus’ fingers, pulling and pushing them with his hands, massaging away the stress and years worth from scrubbing floors and polishing armour, until Argus could feel his toes curl up in his slippers. He found himself fighting to keep his eyes open and not to moan; with difficulty he watched Snape instead, the look of concentration on the young man’s face, nearly hidden as it was behind a curtain of his lank hair. Snape’s hands were long-fingered and bony. His nails were clipped short, and his skin rough with calluses, dotted as much with scars from burns and knives as potion stains of all colours. Snape pressed his fingers into the joints at Argus’ wrists, rotating Argus’ hand as he rubbed the cream in. At first touch the salve was cool, but as Snape worked, it gradually warmed to what felt like a pleasant glow.
By the time Snape had finished, his hands felt and looked years younger. The skin was slightly pink and new, and when Argus flexed his fingers they obeyed with an ease barely remembered.
“Next time wear gloves,” Snape said, wiping his hands on piece of a rag before capping the jar of salve. Without another word he swept out of the room, nearly slamming the door shut behind him. Argus stared at the closed door, then at his hands, before letting himself out of the Potions Master’s rooms.
“Barmy! The man’s gone barmy, Mrs Norris,” he muttered as he climbed back into bed. Mrs Norris jumped onto the pillow beside him and purred her agreement.
It took Argus another two weeks to finish his yearly summer cleaning, leaving another glorious month before the brats would return. He and Snape still had dinner together, occasionally joined by Sprout, or Hagrid, or one of the other staff members who would pop in for a few days to prepare for the start of the new school year. Snape ignored Argus’ thanks and generally acted as if that night had not happened. Argus shrugged and let it rest.
He took down the portraits in the halls, and set about repairing, restoring and cleaning them one by one. It was finicky work, and the occupants more often than not had a lot to say about Argus’ technique, or the paint he was using, or the glue, or whatever else they could conceivably bitch about, and then some. They were easy to ignore, and he marvelled at the ease with which he worked. The rheumatism that had plagued his hands for the past three decades was all but gone.
As he was bent over the last one - Sir Cadogan, whose tunic needed mending after his pony took a bite out of it - there was a knock on his office door. Snape entered, carrying a steaming mug of what smelled like that expensive tea Dumbledore saved for special occasions.
“I thought you might appreciate a cup of tea, Argus,” he said, offering the mug while avoiding Argus’ eyes. “Two sugar, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He took the mug with a frown, and sipped from it cautiously. The tea had been steeped long enough that the water had turned nearly black, and it was just the right temperature too, sliding down his throat and warming his belly without burning his tongue. Argus was aware of Snape watching him empty the mug. It made him feel more than a bit uneasy, but he could think of no reason why the Potions Master might want to poison him, and it tasted fine.
“Thank you,” he said again. Snape simply nodded and swept out of the room. With a sigh, Argus returned to his work.
The students returned, and with them autumn and trails of mud everywhere. Peeves, who had been silent all summer, was an even more obnoxious pest than usual. A prank war between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor left Argus overseeing detention after detention, rapidly running out of unpleasant tasks to give the brats. It was enough to drive any man to drink, or give him an ulcer.
The night Peeves broke into his office and upset his filing system was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Argus stomped all the way up to the Headmaster’s office, and demanded that they finally exorcise the poltergeist. Dumbledore had been all twinkling eyes and lemon drops, and “Isn’t that rather drastic?” Argus returned to his room, acid burning through his stomach, and he even snapped at Mrs Norris.
A small bottle filled with a milky white potion was waiting for him on his desk, beside it a note in Snape’s distinctive scrawl reading drink me. Relief was instantaneous, but before three hours had passed Argus found himself practically chained to the loo with the worst case of the runs he’d ever had.
When he confronted Snape the next morning, the other man had sneered at him, snapping that Argus’ stomach would trouble him no longer and he shouldn’t complain, before leaving in a huff. Snape was testy and disagreeable for quite some time after that, giving Argus the feeling that he for some reason should apologise, although for what exactly the caretaker was unsure. It was all very unsettling and confusing.
By the time the holidays came round, Argus had given up hope of maintaining a good relationship with the Potions professor. Thus he was surprised by Snape’s knock on his door Christmas morning. Mrs Norris had no issue with Snape’s odd behaviour over the past few months, rubbing against his leg and meowing. Snape nudged her aside and stepped into the room, this time offering Argus what looked like a soufflé. Argus stared at Snape with bulging eyes, making no move to touch the perfectly risen and airy treat. The smell of it was already filling the room and making Argus’ mouth water.
“Happy birthday,” Snape mumbled, practically shoving it into Argus’ hands. Their fingers touched, and Argus quickly put the piping hot dish on the table, before turning back to the other man.
“How did you know?”
“I asked Albus. Aren’t you going to eat it? He told me that cheese is your favourite.”
Argus hesitated, remembering what had happened the last time he accepted something made by Snape, but it smelled so good and Snape was watching him expectantly, eagerly awaiting his approval it seemed. Glancing back at Snape one last time, Argus took a spoon from the box of cutlery on one of the shelves and scooped out a portion from the dish, sad to see the soufflé deflate at the disturbance. The savoury mouthful melt on his tongue, and Argus’ eyes closed in bliss. He took another bite, and then another, and before he knew it he’d scraped the glass dish clean. For a moment he looked at the empty bowl in dismay, before remembering Snape hovering in the doorway.
“Thank you, Severus. That was delicious.”
Snape’s lips turned upward in a smug little smile.
“Would you like something to drink, perhaps join me for some morning tea?”
“No, thank you, Argus; I have a potion on the fire. Many happy returns.”
After Snape had left, Argus looked down at Mrs Norris who had curled up around his feet. “Do you know what has got into him, my sweet? The lad’s hung over one cauldron too many... There’s no other explanation. Those potion fumes... Not good for a man’s health, if you ask me.”
With the New Year came yet another house war, this time the classic Slytherin versus Gryffindor rivalry rearing its ugly head. Argus resented each house equally, although he was a little surprised to notice that the majority of the Slytherin pranks were localised and affected only the Gryffindor students, or Common Room, and hardly any of their surroundings.
The Gryffindors, however, made a bloody mess of Argus’ clean halls. Literally one time when they somehow managed to charm buckets of pigs’ blood to be emptied upon any unfortunate Slytherin student walking into the Great Hall or Slytherin dorm. Argus longed for the days under Dippet when his predecessor Apollyon Pringle had been allowed to take the strap to the horrid little monsters. If it were up to Argus he would hang the brats by their thumbs, or put them in the block in the Great Hall.
Unfortunately, the Slytherins’ retaliation more than made up for the fact they had hardly caused Argus any trouble before. Gryffindor tower and all stairs and hallways leading to it had been coated with some kind of Sticky Solution that caught all who came into contact with it like mosquitoes in resin. It took McGonagall an entire day to free the little blighters, and a week before Argus had managed to remove the awful mess with Snape’s cleaning solution. He even had to shave off patches of poor Mrs Norris’ fur after she was caught in it as well.
And if that wasn’t enough, Snape sent the Slytherins who had apparently pulled the prank for detention to Hagrid, who didn’t know how to properly punish the brats, and no doubt had them frolicking about in the January snow and sunshine. Argus also suspected that Snape had supplied the students with the Sticky Solution. After all, he knew a professional product when he spent seven bloody days chipping it off the floor and walls.
Proof that there was definitely something wrong with Hogwarts’ Potions Master came on February fourteenth, Valentine’s Day. When the castle was filled with gay little monsters, red and pink confetti everywhere, lovers’ tiffs, and damned Dumbledore twinkling over the entire spectacle. The previous two years Snape had been an island of stoicism and sanity in the frivolous madness. Together with Mrs Norris the three of them had prowled the castle after curfew, flushing out students from their illicit trysts, taking points and assigning detentions.
Argus waited in his office for Snape. They hadn’t spoken or agreed to meet, but he had expected -
Suddenly Argus could not stand this any longer. Snape was blowing hot and cold: one moment inviting Argus for congenial drinks, the next either poisoning him or supplying the students with forbidden potions! He would demand an answer from Snape. After all the Potions Master had put him through these past months, he was certainly entitled to one!
Mrs Norris meowed her agreement, and together they made their way to Snape’s dungeon quarters. Before they reached their destination, however, Argus heard a noise coming from the Potions classroom. He bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes. First he would catch the curfew-breaking miscreants no doubt messing about in Snape’s classroom!
Instead of students doing a little illicit potion making, however, Argus found Snape standing in the ruins of his classroom. Green slime covered the floors, the walls, the ceiling, although the Potions Master himself was protected by some spell. He looked up at Argus, sneered haughtily and sped out of the room, his robes whipping around him.
“I expect this to be cleaned tomorrow,” he snapped as he passed Argus, and before Argus could react the wizard had disappeared around the corner and slammed the door to his rooms behind him.
Argus looked down at Mrs Norris, who was cautiously sniffing the vile green glop. He had cleaned up enough illicit potion making gone wrong to recognise this particular disaster. “Bloody Snape... Who does he think he is? Making love potions... What is the man thinking? Calls himself a Master... Botching up a potion the seventh years could manage...”
Argus was convinced now; there was certainly more to Snape’s behaviour than met the eye. And he would get to the bottom of it, or his name was not Argus Filch!
But first he had to find some students to clean up this mess.
In any other story, at this point Albus, or some of the children, would come to our hero’s aid and help him (and Mrs Norris) find the key to the secret of the Potions Master’s strange behaviour. They would sneak out after curfew to search through the library and the restricted section for any hint or clue, or invite Argus to a Sunday tea with lemon and biscuits and then drop infuriatingly vague hints.
However, remember, this is Filch we’re talking about. Not Hagrid.
Discovering exactly what bug was up Snape’s bum proved more difficult than Argus had expected. The other man now seemed to be avoiding him, and when he tried asking the school matron whether Snape might be ill, Poppy shooed him from the infirmary.
Not long afterwards Argus caught a cold. Even his tartan scarf did not prevent the scratchy throat turning into a hacking cough, an aching head, a runny nose and a nasty fever. The elves brought chicken soup and tea with honey, as Argus lay shivering and shaking in bed. He dreamt that Snape came to see him, gently wiped his brow and poured something cool and soothing into his mouth, massaging his throat to get him to swallow it. The Potions Master spoke to him in a soft and velvety voice, telling him secrets and stories as he stroked Mrs Norris on his lap, until Argus’ eyelids felt like lead and the dream changed to memories of his youth and summer skies.
He awoke the following morning still tired, but able to breathe properly again, the dreadful ache in his bones gone. There was no sign that anybody had been in his rooms, and Mrs Norris was stubbornly silent on the topic when he asked her. It could have been a fever dream, but the memory of Snape’s voice and touch was so vivid and real.
March came and went. Still Argus was no closer to discovering Snape’s secret. That he had one, Argus was sure. The suspicious incidents, gifts and tricks continued. Snape even gave Argus an invisibility potion, left in his office with a note wishing him and Mrs Norris ‘happy hunting’.
Argus sat in his office, suspiciously eyeing the large and heavy tome in front of him. The students were on the Hogwarts’ Express, speeding back to London. Most of the teachers were busy packing their belongings, getting ready for exotic holidays and carefree times.
He had returned from making sure all the brats did indeed board the train, and then walked back to the castle as Hagrid went off to the Hog’s Head. On his desk in his office he had found no invitation for drinks with Snape that evening. Instead of last year’s note there were two intricately blown glass jars, and an old grimoire with the title ‘The Speache ande Seecrets of Brews, Potiones ande Other Mixtures’.
No note, no name.
Inside each jar was a slick and viscous mixture, smooth and fragrant: one a sweet vanilla that soothed and relaxed the senses; the other a sharp mint that made his fingers tingle when he cautiously tested its consistency. Mrs Norris butted her head against the tome in front of him and hissed impatiently. Argus nodded, and began to read.
Half an hour later the caretaker’s face was flushed. He licked his lips and eyed the two jars speculatively. He took a deep breath, got up and went into the small bathroom off his office. When he came out a few minutes later his hair was slicked back and his cheeks freshly shaved. He hesitated before the wardrobe, took out his nicest coat and put it on, carefully slipping both jars into his pockets. One last glance in the mirror, a distracted pat to Mrs Norris’ head - she had curled up on the open book and was watching him through slitted eyes - and Argus hurried out the door.
Some might wonder why Snape would choose such a round about and obscure way to court our hero, or why he would persist when it became obvious that poor Argus was just not buying a clue. However, one must not forget that young Severus is shy, and has perhaps been harbouring feelings for the caretaker since he was a boy. Severus is the Wizarding World’s most talented Potions Master; he reached out to Argus the only way he knew how, honouring our hero by courting him through the ancient and obscure language of potions. Our Severus is, for want of a better word, a bit of an old-fashioned lover.
And how better to show one’s love that you are crazy with desire for them with self-brewed absinthe, that they make the pain go away with a Hair-of-The-Dogge Hangover Draught, or tell them that you wish to start your life anew with them with a gift of Catherine’s Cathartic Cleanser? And of course, while you will take care of their every need and soothe their aches, nothing says “Cheat on me and you will rue the day” better than Ulric’s Ulcer Run Remedy.
The significance of deliberately botching a potion, one of the greatest signs of devotion in the Language of Potions, can add many layers of meaning to a message depending on which potion one botches. A ruined love potion, for example, signifies both an unlucky history with relationships and one’s vulnerability to one’s intended. I trust you not to hurt me.
Never forget: the secret to the art of seduction lies in the journey just as much as the destination.
Nonetheless, when the time comes to make your final move, it can be sage to do so with a potion whose intent and meaning will leave no doubts. And a copy of “The Speache ande Seecrets of Brews, Potiones ande Other Mixture”. Just in case.
Mrs Norris swishes her tail back and forth over the stained and yellowed parchment. The text is in an old and cursive script, lying open where Argus left it.
“And whenne the tyme comes, gift thine intended with aney of these to let hym knowe your heart burnes for him onlye: a vanilla lubrickant if your flower has not yet been plucked, mynt for those of a daring ande playful disposition, strawberrys as a sign of-”
the end
And just in case you were wondering....