Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Resilience

"Do not force vulnerability onto someone because you've never walked the path of pain."

-@millywolfpoetry

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Hogwarts, December 1971 (First Year)

Sirius fiddled with his fingernails, chewing and biting at them until they became perfect, smooth crescents upon his delicate, pale wrist. He needed the distraction, what with Filch screaming his bloody lungs out in the headmaster's office; the day had only just begun, and here Sirius was, his time now wasting away because of this old hermit's attachment to a damned cat. It was unhealthy! Borderline insane, if you asked the boy. What made it even worse was that this had been the third time so far—within the week—that Filch dragged Sirius in here by his robes to scream and yell for all of five minutes. It wasn't as if the crotchety older man, Dumbledore, would do anything about it. He hadn't yet, and Sirius trusted this trend wholeheartedly. It was an innocent prank, nothing more. If Filch was too mentally unfit to swallow it, then that was his problem.

"He nearly killed Mrs. Norris," Filch howled. "Found her heaving on her backside—sneezing and coughing a storm!"

Sirius scrunched his nose, "I would like to point out, for the record, that the rodent he speaks of was just caught up in the dust! It wasn't going to die for crying out loud."

"She has allergies, dirty little brat," Filch said.

Apparently, charming the corner dust bunnies to terrorize a roaming cat was "irresponsible" and "out of line," according to Professor McGonagall. However, Sirius found it quite amusing, considering they were perfectly harmless. What would it do, sneeze itself to death? You'd think the cat had a seizure judging by the reaction of the caretaker, though all you had to do was stare at it too long, and he'd ring you by your neck outside the castle.

"Argus," Dumbledore raised a placating hand, noticing the disturbing shade of red creeping up the wrinkled, veiny neck of Argus Filch. "That will be all."

"Don't forget to take that thing with you," Sirius added, gesturing to Mrs. Norris with a limp, unenthusiastic finger.

Sirius hated cats and always would. They were hairy and stuck up, always strutting around like they owned the place. Not to mention that they pooped in boxes of sand, and he had to clean it up! They scratched and hissed, always so angry at the world. Then, when cleaning themselves, they had no qualms with spitting themselves back up in the form of hairballs. A shudder ran down Sirius's spine. And the hairless ones were no better. They reminded him of Kreacher, and the less he saw of that thing, the better.

"How could a poxy excuse of a pillock like you gain entry to this school," Filch roared, raising his fist furiously.

"This, coming from the janitor that can't even magic the shit off his own ass, doesn't have the intended effect you'd hoped for," Sirius snickered.

He returned whatever was left of his attention to Professor Dumbledore as McGonagall gently guided Filch away. She looked no more impressed than Sirius had expected her to, the poor excuse for lips now pressed into a menacing frown. An idle thought raced across his mind. Would Walburga have a hay day lecturing her on crow's feet? She certainly wasn't in danger of laugh lines. But, on the other hand, it couldn't have hurt to laugh now and then.

"Well, Mr. Black," Dumbledore smiled calmly, pouring himself a cup of tea. It seemed to be more of a prompt rather than a statement. He was urging Sirius to give his side of the story, yet there was none to tell.

"I didn't know the cat had allergies," he shrugged, tossing his hair over his shoulder. "Besides, it shouldn't have been chasing them around like that if it was so allergic."