Work Text:
The playground was nearly empty when they arrived.
There was a small family of rambunctious red-heads and a small family of three. A mother, a father, and a beautiful little girl who was seven years old.
She wore a pale pink dress, lined with white lace, and she wore opaque white tights, and black Mary Jane shoes. Her long, dark blonde hair was pulled away from her thin, oval face, and she had bright amber eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.
Her father pushed her on the swings, and her mother took pictures.
The little girl didn’t smile.
Mrs. Jean Ganger pushed her daughter forward and stood next to Mrs. Emily Filch.
“Angel looks beautiful today, Emily.”
The woman smiled tightly, like she always did. “Thank you, Jean. I’m afraid it’s time for us to go.”
The family of three left, and the world was perfect.
A soft whimper in the back of the car drew Minerva McGonagall’s eyes to the boy who sat curled in on himself.
“Argus? Are you alright?” Her voice was bright, but soft.
The boy nodded. “I’m fine.”
She frowned before she signaled and pulled over. She turned in her seat to be able to look at him easier. “Do you still hurt?” He held the garbage bag that had his new clothes—four pairs of male underwear, two pairs of jeans, three shirts, and a set of kitten pajamas—closer to his chest. “Argus?” she prompted once more.
“My side,” he said after she probed him a few more times.
“Oh.” She started to fidget with her wedding ring. “When we get to the orphanage, we’ll get it looked at again. It’s a really great place, Argus. I think you’ll like it. There are a lot of kids that you can play with, and the workers are quite nice. They have a live-in nurse and doctor to help take care of the children.” She tried to smile at him, but knew she failed. “They’ll fix you right up, and you’ll have a nice, warm bed. Alright? You’ll be safe, Argus.”
She turned from the boy who clearly didn’t believe her, and bit her tongue to keep the tears at bay—which was something she had done far too often since Argus Filch’s cases file had landed on her desk a week ago.
Being a Social Worker for Hogwarts Child Care Services had never been an easy job, which she was okay with. She had been a math teacher before she decided that she wanted to help children who were struggling, in a much more helpful way than being a teacher ever could.
She had seen cases since she started with Hogwarts that made her heart cry out in rage, and her blood demand justice for the crimes committed against the innocent souls of children.
Then there were cases like Argus’ that made her soul weep in hollow and fiery sorrow.
When she had read the report, she finally understood the heartache that Albus—the head Social Worker—had gone through with the most difficult abuse case that Hogwarts had ever seen; Tom Riddle, three years ago.
The reports told a heartbreaking story; a family who had seemed perfectly normal on the outside, but on the inside, they were dark and twisted beyond all imagination.
John and Emily Filch had married young, with dreams of having a large family. They had wanted to have a girl be their first child, but instead, had been blessed with a baby boy instead.
Due to complications during the birth, he would be their only child.
Instead of accepting him as he was, they dressed him as a girl, called him Angel, and kept his true gender a closely guarded secret—they even went as far as to homeschool him. According to neighbors, the three seemed to be a happy, loving family.
They seemed normal.
According to Argus, up until a week ago, he had never been hit. He was dressed as a girl, and sometimes he was left alone for long periods of time, and didn’t eat three meals a day, most days, but that’s all normal, isn’t it?
The words he spoke still made her sick. The story from his point of view still made her sick.
A week ago, the father, John, snapped.
He killed his wife in front of his son with six gunshots to the face at point-blank range. Police had arrived on scene to see John kneeling over Argus with a knife held over the boy’s head, and shouting about how he should have been a girl.
Argus had been in a frilly dress, which had been hiked up, and showed that he was most definitely not a girl. His hair was long and had been intricately braided away from his face.
John, upon seeing the police, killed himself instead of his son.
A car horn pulled her out of her thoughts, and she continued to drive to Wool’s Orphanage.
When she drove away, she wondered how Argus would adjust, if he would ever learn to trust again. She desperately hoped that he was young enough that he’d be able to forget what had happened.
---6 Months Later---
Argus didn’t like Wool’s Orphanage.
What Minnie—his Social Worker—had said, had been true. There were indeed a lot of children to play with, a lot of caretakers, and a live-in nurse and doctor.
Now, if only the safety she had promised was true.
The caretakers were swamped with caring for 22 children under the age of three, 26 kids, and 17 teenagers. Overall, 65 minors were in their care, in a building too small, and not enough helping hands. Due to that fact, their time was spent changing diapers, cleaning clothes, running the orphanage, and teaching/helping the children with their chores around the building.
All of the children aged five and up had a chore, and most were reasonable for their ages. The younger children helped tidy rooms, while the older kids helped with the more intense cleaning, cooking, and gardening.
With the caretakers busy taking care of everything, it was difficult for them to actually care for the kids under their guardianship.
Due to that, over the years, a hierarchy had formed between the children, and Argus happened to be on the bottom of it.
He had gotten used to hiding his aches, and bruises fairly quickly.
He spent his time in the orphanage’s ‘library’.
While in reality, the ‘library’ was just two tall bookshelves in the entry room that were stuffed full of books.
The books at his disposal ranged from picture books, chapter books, and novels, to textbooks, complex dissertations, and biographies of important people he had never heard of before.
While he read, he’d hide between the couch and the wall furthest from the door. It was there, in that cramped and dim space, that he discovered his favorite books were about superheroes and kids like him who were chosen to save the world.
And cats.
He couldn’t forget the books on cats.
---2 Months Later---
Argus had been at the orphanage for almost 9 months before he met with prospective parents for the first time.
They were an older couple, Nicolas and Pernell Flamel, and had been looking to adopt two boys between the ages of 7 and 10.
He and another boy, Tom Riddle, had both been taken to see the couple at the same time.
They took one look at Argus and told him his hair was too long, and his eyes were too yellow.
They told Riddle that he was cute, but he was far too off-putting.
Needless to day, neither got adopted that day, and both remained outcasts.
---6 Months Later---
He was 8 when his hiding place had been discovered by one of the stricter caretakers, and was told, you can’t play there, sweetie.
He frowned, but took his book and retreated outside.
Behind the orphanage was a small wooded area and a lot of the children avoided it, afraid that they wouldn’t be adopted if they hid there.
So, that was where he went.
The woods were dark, and damp, but despite that, he felt safe. He felt . . . accepted—was that the word?—for the first time in his life.
The trees wouldn’t judge him. They wouldn’t force him to dress like a girl when he didn’t want to. They didn’t care about him. As long as he didn’t do anything to them, he would be fine.
He would be safe.
Right?
He slowly walked through the trees until he came upon a small kitten. It was curled into a small ball, and had bright amber eyes, just like him. He sat on his haunches in front of the small thing, and held a shaking hand out to it. He clicked his tongue in the back of his throat, and the kitten looked at him.
“I won’t hurt you,” he cooed softly.
The animal uncurled, and limped towards him as it meowed once more. “You’re hurt,” he said softly. The cat licked his fingers before it nuzzled them. He hesitantly picked it up, and held it close to his chest. “I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry.”
He felt he could fight back for the cat. He couldn’t fight for himself, but he could fight for someone else. At least, that’s what he thought. He hadn’t had the need to do it yet.
He was pretty sure he could do it.
He ran a thin hand down the kitten’s back, and felt wet fur under his fingers. He frowned, and gasped when he saw his hand covered in blood.
No!
He just found a friend, someone who would know who he truly was, and was about to lose it because he didn’t know how to help.
“You shouldn’t cry. The others could see you, and if they do, they will use it against you.”
Argus yelped, and fell back onto his butt, and began to scramble back with the kitten held tightly in his hands. His back hit the tree, and he looked up to see Riddle calmly walking towards him.
The older boy slowly knelt in front of him. He leaned forward, and gently pulled at blood-matted fur. “It’s just a scratch,” he said after a moment. He lifted the kitten by the hindquarters for a moment, and looked again. “She’ll be fine.”
Riddle stood, and began to walk further into the forest, a large book held in his left hand. “Thank you!” Argus called.
The boy turned and gazed at him with shock on his face. “You’re welcome,” he said after a moment.
---1 Month Later---
Argus named the cat Mrs. Norris after a character in his favorite book.
He spent most of his time in the woods playing with her after he finished his chores. He often missed lunch doing so, but, if he wasn’t there, the other kids wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt him.
One month after he found Mrs. Norris, he was walking in the woods with her, when footsteps sounded behind him. He tensed, scooped the kitten into his arms, slid her into his sweatshirt’s large pocket, and turned.
He paused and blinked many times. “Riddle,” he said, pleasantly surprised.
The boy tossed a red apple at him. “Eat. You haven’t eaten in days.”
Argus fumbled with the fruit before it fell to the ground. He picked it up, and rubbed it against his sleeve while Mrs. Norris poked her head out.
“I ate this morning,” he mumbled.
“Yes, but it was only a small roll because the other children stole the rest of your breakfast. You didn’t eat at all yesterday or the day before.”
It concerned and flattered Argus that Riddle paid so much attention to him. He tucked some hair behind his ear. “It’s fine. I’m used to not eating.”
Riddle frowned. “I was too, before I was brought here.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. You need to eat.”
The eleven-year-old turned and started to walk away. “Riddle?”
He stopped and looked at Argus over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
---12 Months Later---
An apple and a slice of cheese landed on the worn pages of his book. Tom sat down next to him, and pulled out a new book on human anatomy.
The two read in silence, just like they had every day for the last year.
Mrs. Norris was curled on his lap, while Nagini, Tom’s snake, moved around on the ground in front of them.
Argus knew they could be considered friends, but he couldn’t help but question the sense of security he received when he was with Tom.
It was hard for him to trust anything, and he didn’t think that he had ever trusted anything before.
After all, he had felt . . . not accepted, but safe with his parents, and that hadn’t gone well at all.
---9 Months Later---
Tom was adopted.
It was raining cats and dogs outside, and they had been inside reading in the entry room when two familiar red-heads walked in.
He hadn’t seen them since his parents were alive.
The couple who adopted Tom—Molly and Arthur Weasley—had looked at him too, but, there’s just something about him, dear.
He had never liked them anyway.
At night, when Argus allowed himself to think . . . when he held Mrs. Norris close to his chest, he missed Tom.
He was so distrustful of everything around him, but Tom . . . Tom was the one thing—one person—he had trusted, and he missed him.
---2 Years Later---
It was pouring outside, or else he would be reading outside, instead of in the stuffy front room.
Argus was now twelve, and Mrs. Norris was three. She hid in his lap, behind a large book he was reading that was on space. He sat on the armchair furthest from the door, and was curled as small as he could get with his beloved pet.
A loud crack of thunder shook the building, and squeals from distant rooms sounded. Mrs. Norris began to meow and knead at his stomach.
After being in the orphanage for so long, he was convinced that everyone except for him, Tom—who he exchanged letters with often—and adults were terrified of thunderstorms.
“Shh,” he soothed as he ran a hand through her fur. “It’s just sound. It can’t hurt you.”
The front door creaked open, and a tall man with long, white-blonde hair stumbled in, along with a woman with equally light hair. The two were laughing as they shook off an umbrella.
“It’s absolutely pouring, Lucius,” the woman commented, “I hope none of the children are outside,” she finished softly.
The man—Lucius—laughed softly. “I’m sure wherever they are, they’re just fine, Narcissa.”
The woman—Narcissa—began to look around the dreary room, and paused when her eyes landed on him. “Oh,” she said softly. She quickly moved to Argus, and knelt in front of o him. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Despite the calmness, and smoothness to her voice, he was still uncomfortable. “Argus Filch.”
She reached out a tentative hand, and softly tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear. “Look at your hair,” she commented, almost in awe.
His mother would say and do the same thing to him, and fear began to war with his hope, as shivers crawled up and down his spine like slimy snails.
“Do . . . you like it?” he hesitantly asked.
Lucius crouched next to Narcissa. “I do.”
He reached out a hand, and Argus swallowed when he did the same as Narcissa, and tucked hair back behind his ear. “How would you like to come home with us, Argus?”
He was about to reject, when Mrs. Norris started to purr. “Can Mrs. Norris come?”
“Who?”
“My cat.” He uncurled his legs, and she stuck her head out, and meowed.
The two blondes smiled softly at him. “Of course, she can. We’ll be a happy family.”
When Argus was introduced to his new, older brother, he still didn’t know if he was safe.
After all, safety was relative.