Broken and Bare

Chapter 1: Broken and Bare

Argus Filch trudged along the narrow dirt path that wound through the overgrown countryside, each step accompanied by the dull ache of his aging bones. The wind tugged at his threadbare coat, lifting tufts of gray hair from his balding scalp. It was late afternoon, though the dreary sky showed no sign of relenting its dull, oppressive gloom. He clutched the handle of his scuffed leather bag tightly, as though the battered piece of luggage were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Mrs. Norris trotted silently beside him, her sleek body weaving through the tall grass. Her sharp, intelligent eyes flicked up at him occasionally, a constant reminder that at least someone in the world cared whether he lived or died. She was the one soul who had ever looked at him with anything resembling affection. Filch scowled at the thought, his weathered face lined with bitterness.

Kids, he thought. The bloody lot of them, running wild through the halls of Hogwarts, thinking themselves above the rules, above him. No one had ever respected him—not truly. He was a Squib, the lowest of the low in a world brimming with magic he could never touch. It had been years since the war ended, but castle finally fit to house students again and they hadn't seen fit to retain him afterward, claiming they had no place for someone of his "skills." He knew the truth, it was because of the almost obsessive glee he took in punishing children according to the Carrows' discretions. Thumb screws and the rack had seemed tame next to their unforgivable curses, but the Headmistress still found fault in him.

A low growl of frustration rumbled in his throat. "Skills," he muttered under his breath. "As if them brats could handle the school without me all those years." His knuckles tightened around the handle of the bag, and Mrs. Norris, sensing his agitation, rubbed against his legs, her soft fur offering a rare comfort.

He had been wandering aimlessly since his dismissal, trying to outrun the shame that clung to him like mud to his boots. Now, by some twist of fate, he was on his way to stay with a man who embodied everything Filch had come to despise: eccentric, unpredictable, and worst of all, endlessly optimistic.

Xenophilius Lovegood.

Filch sneered at the memory of their brief correspondence—a short letter, written in flowery, spiraling script, inviting him to stay at the Lovegood residence until he found his footing. "You have nowhere to go," the letter had read, "and I believe everyone deserves a place to call home, no matter what they've done or who they are." The absurd kindness in the letter made Filch's skin crawl. He didn't trust it. Kindness was just another word for pity, and Filch had no desire for either. But, with no money, no prospects, and nowhere else to turn, he had accepted the offer begrudgingly.

Lovegood's house came into view then, perched awkwardly atop a hill, its crooked towers and odd angles making it look more like a child's poorly constructed toy than an actual home. Wildflowers and vines tangled across the stone walls, giving the place an otherworldly, untamed look, like it had grown up out of the earth itself. The sight made Filch's stomach twist with irritation. It was far too whimsical for his tastes.

Mrs. Norris darted ahead, her paws silent on the stone steps that led to the front door. Filch hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, his hand twitching at his side. A deep breath filled his lungs with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a smell that felt foreign, too clean. Too... hopeful.

"Bah," he muttered, shaking his head as if to dispel the strange thoughts. His boots clunked heavily as he climbed the steps. The door was already slightly ajar, as though the house itself welcomed him, but Filch would have none of it. He raised his fist to knock, then stopped, his knuckles hovering above the peeling wood. Instead of knocking, he pushed the door open with more force than was necessary, the hinges creaking loudly in protest.