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In August of 1941, Albus Dumbledore wrote, "She keeps secrets, the likes of which I could not have fathomed as a young man—and dark though they be, to my newly opened eyes she is all the more beautiful for them."
The words bled into the tattered journal that had once accompanied him over the sea and back again. He was three days a professor of Hogwarts. There followed several lines of empty space, marred by a drop of ink where the quill had hung suspended a moment above the page. Then a name, haphazardly scribbled as though by afterthought: "Argus Filch."
When Albus thinks about the castle, he often finds himself recalling his tutor's lecture on the Doges of Venice—a warm spring day, his bare feet swinging in the shadowy space beneath his childhood desk. One of his mother's ancestors numbered among the Venetian patricians, and old Master Docker played to that conceit to keep him indoors at least until teatime, long after Aberforth had already snuck off into the sunshine. They sat together reading, from one of his father's heavy books, of Paolo Anafesto and Francesco Foscari and the yearly procession to the Adriatic for the Doge to cast his ring into the water and seal his marriage to the sea.
At ten, Albus found this unspeakably foolish. Circe spare the boy he was, he had thought it a waste of gold. And how, he wondered, could a man take the sea for a wife? His parents doted upon each other, and he was still young enough to believe that every wedding was a love-match.
He was a young man when he learned that the teachers of Hogwarts did not marry, and well past that when the knowledge came home to roost. It wasn't quite forbidden; there were exceptions marked here and there in the history books, but it was quietly understood that such a marriage could not be one of convention, and it was commonly held that the unions rarely bore fruit. The teaching ranks were filled with youngest sons and spinster sisters, widows and widowers, and poor relations. He himself had been a seven days' wonder, the heir to a dying dynasty laying down his line for a teacher's pittance. But by that time, he'd long since decided that he'd not make a good husband for any woman of flesh and blood.
Instead, he wears the ring of office on his left hand. He has never taken it off—for better or for worse, in sickness and in health—and some days it weighs more heavily than others. Without palmistry, he has read the hands of his colleagues. Minerva, whose house crest rests upon her second finger, held at bay by a gold wedding band, a last memento of a young husband long passed on. Severus Snape, who has a nervous habit of stroking the silver serpent coiled around his thumb.
Other hands. When he runs his fingers over polished marble, when he catches his reflection in a window, he sees them superimposed on his own. Raw-boned hands, callused—worker's hands—knuckles too swollen to allow a ring even should they be given one. Red and gnarled, sometimes they make him ache with a phantom pain so severe that he cannot imagine how one bears it.
In times like these, he presses his palms flat against the castle stone until the pain begins to fade, and he remembers: it was forbidden for the Doges of Venice to pass the city limits.
Albus has not written in his journal in five years. He has too much pride to censor himself and too much caution to set his current life to paper. The last entry is dated May of 1973, the page marked with a phoenix feather. When he has the time, he flips through the well-worn book, flitting at random through more than a century of memories and reveries and foolishness.
He tries to read the happy ones.
That first journey back to Hogwarts is inked indelibly into his memory. Not even immersion into the pensieve can improve upon its clarity.
Albus was eighty years old and well-versed in the phenomenon of the world shrinking as age advanced. Still, he'd had to indulge in a rueful smile when the grand old scarlet engine pulled into the station towing three lonely cars through the summer heat, looking for all the world like a snake cut off at the neck.
He stowed his trunk, his books, and his owl in the second car, and then he settled in to rub shoulders with his new colleagues over port in the first. They proved a lively bunch, generous with a toast, and so it wasn't until somewhere between York and Newcastle that his curiosity got the better of him. He disentangled himself from the bramble of advice and admonitions on the pretext of stretching his legs and set out to investigate the third car.
It was like stepping back into his boyhood: the glass compartments and padded benches, the gentle rattle of the train moving over the tracks. It was quiet, and for a moment Albus thought it deserted. Then a flicker of motion caught his eye, and what he'd taken for shadows revealed itself to be a lone figure curled up next to the window in the farthest compartment. Albus approached, knocked—earning a flash of pale eyes—and entered.
"Hello, there." He smiled, shuffling in to perch on the opposite bench.
The young man—a boy really, no older than a student at first glance—gave him a nod. It was a nervous gesture, almost a twitch. Albus regarded him curiously, trying to place a family name to the lines of his face. He couldn't, and he found his interest piqued.
The boy was neither handsome, nor ugly, nor even plain, but some conglomeration of all three. He was built like a Beater and wore a splendid blue tailcoat and black top hat of noticeably finer quality than the rest of his clothes. Worn boots were shined to a polish. His rounded nose didn't quite fit his angular face and, below, his mouth was pink and almost delicate—above, his eyes so wide as to look perpetually startled. Strange eyes, a colour that Albus couldn't quite make out in the overcast light. The chestnut spill of his hair was particularly lovely.
Albus offered his hand and began to introduce himself at the same moment that the boy blurted out: "—never been on a train before."
He smiled gently as the boy coloured. "Your rucksack is moving."
The boy froze, peering at him suspiciously. Albus saw his hands clench, hesitating a moment before unlacing the bag and removing, of all things, a bit of grey fluff that proved to be a kitten. A flask followed, and Albus watched as a tiny pink tongue lapped a capful of water from the boy's hand.
"What a lovely cat." He reached out to pat it.
The boy's reaction was immediate. His eyes grew impossibly wider, and he curled one arm protectively around the little creature. "She's mine," he said, quietly and fervently.
Albus tactfully withdrew his hand. The kitten stared sleepily at him. He looked up from kit to boy and back again. Yellow-grey, both their eyes. Fascinating. Wasn't there a word for that colour, an unlikely word, on the tip of his tongue? His mother would have known; she had a fondness for unusual words.
The train went speeding on in quiet comfort. If he strained, he could hear the dim murmur of conversation from the front car. The boy was silent, staring intently down at his pet. Albus finally stood.
"Well, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mister...?"
The boy glanced up, and at the sight of his lower lip caught between his teeth, Albus felt a small thrill in his stomach that had nothing to do with the earth speeding beneath his feet.
"Argus. Argus Filch."
Albus smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Argus."
Some time later, he arrived at the castle amongst his fellows and saw, in his periphery, the boy being spirited away by the familiar lanky shadow of Apollyon Pringle. Albus was led upstairs, the boy down. Yet for a moment, their gazes met, and he thought he caught a glimpse of wonder in those pale eyes as they looked through him into the keep.
When he thinks of his arrival at Hogwarts, what he remembers is Argus Filch. Some days, he nearly believes it to be a coincidence.
There has always been a Caretaker of Hogwarts.
That is an irrefutable fact. The records date back to the time of the Founders, meticulous lists and registries that hold a wealth of story in between each dry scratch of the quill. So far as he can tell, they have all been men of poor magic: Squibs, or nearly so, men whose day's efforts might be accomplished in an instant by the snap of a house-elf's fingers. Yet the position has never gone unfilled.
He has considered this on more than one occasion. He compares his hand to Argus's—gnarled around a scrub brush, impatiently straightening a portrait's frame—and thinks, not unkindly, of eunuchs. Not the fat, painted, perfumed creatures of antiquity, no. His mind returns to Venice. Perhaps he is even imagining more a cavalier servente than a castrato, but still the latter clings to his thoughts.
The castle prefers a personal touch, that much may not be disputed, and Albus cannot give it to her. Theirs is a marriage of alliance, of protection, with a love born more of constancy than passion. He often watches Argus prowling the hallways, lantern in hand, head cocked to one side as though listening to a voice only he can hear.
There has always been a Caretaker of Hogwarts, as long as there has been a Headmaster.
He kissed him once. Albus quite often forgets this, only to have it sneak up on him some lonely evening, or worse, upon passing Argus in the hallway. Licking his lips then brings the taste of cloves. It was a lifetime past; Argus was nineteen or twenty, and drunk. It was Christmas, and Albus himself was just sober enough to know better as he slung the young man's arm over his shoulder and helped him down to his room.
It was a stumble in the doorway. A warm body sagged against his own. Those pale eyes stared up at him, so close that Albus might have counted every fleck of gold against the grey. Hot breath against his cheek.
To this day he cannot remember stepping forward. It was as though the floor itself lurched, though more likely it was an effect of the wassail. Never mind the reason, their mouths pressed together. Fingers twisting in the front of his robes. The wet flicker of a tongue.
He wonders even now what might have passed had the cat not interrupted with a plaintive squawk. Had he not come back to himself and recalled the distance between them. He laid Argus in bed and tenderly undressed him. Then turned and left without a backwards glance.
Neither have ever spoken of it, and yes, he himself quite often forgets. Sometimes he wonders if Argus ever remembered.
A habit of weeks, then months, and now decades: Albus goes wandering through the castle at night. Years ago, a girl was killed and sleep was murdered. He treads along through the darkened corridors, barefoot and invisible, listening to the whispering of the stones. He meditates on the nature of destiny and coincidence. Though the castle is large, every single night has brought a glimpse of the caretaker hard at work.
From just over the cusp of boyhood and through the years, Argus has aged before his eyes. With no magic to sustain him, he has been tossed like a fallen leaf into his middle age, heading into winter.
Albus has taken stock each autumn upon returning to the castle. Hair fading to ashes. New lines around those eyes, twisted by sour humour. A mouth gone hard with bitterness. They are both grey men now, and Albus supposes he will live to see Argus Filch's end of days. When he recalls the boy on the train, his mind cannot reconcile them.
This year finds him nearly envious. He silently follows Argus through the hallways after midnight, noting with fascination the bow of his shoulders, the creak of joints as he kneels, the ragged breathing that makes Albus want to reach out and feel it against his skin.
To work so hard. To be so tired, and to have the blessing of knowing it will soon be over...
Tonight he takes the narrow passageway that leads into the west wing of the castle from the garden. Fresh from the meeting at Godric's Hollow, he slips into the little alcove to feel the chilly embrace of stone around him. The clocks all say 'too late.' The floor feels unduly hard beneath his feet. He has been too often absent, remiss in his duties here.
Up the stairway towards his rooms, he pauses atop a landing where a door stands beckoningly ajar. He stares, for a moment tempted to continue on to bed, but a gentle nudge of his fingertips widens the gap. Such a silly thing, to spy. There are times he forgets that he is the headmaster, that he is no longer a boy sneaking about after dark.
He peeks into a hall of portraits, blinking at the glare of a lantern. Argus Filch is standing against the wall, silent and unmoving. A mop and pail and a curled up cat lie at his feet. He is neither scrubbing nor straightening. He is pressing his cheek against the stone, eyes heavy-lidded and blissful. Albus can feel the warmth wafting out of the room, and for a moment nearly hears something—a pulsing like some great heartbeat, hypnotic and engaging—but it is gone in an instant.
A word slips into his mind, quelling the twist in his stomach. He turns without speaking it and continues on his way.
He opens his journal to the last entry, the scrawl of it a line of marching ants under his tired gaze. Quill in hand, he marks the date, June 13th, 1978. Then, in his best script, he carefully pens: "Argus Filch has Isabelline eyes."
For a long moment, he stares at what he's written and feels the phantom of a smile on his lips.
That the castle has her secrets, he sensed from the moment he came into her embrace as a man. But that not all of them are his to know...that is the harder-earned wisdom.
He toys with the feather and then closes the book. His bed beckons, and he goes to it gratefully. Perhaps he only imagines that the room feels warmer, perhaps not. He will dream his own secrets tonight.