Squib Secrets - Fic for Emcue!
Title: Another Lesson in Punishment
Recipient: emcue
Author: sioniann
Pairings: Filch/James, implied Filch/Sirius, and maybe a little James/Sirius pre-slash
Summary: When Sirius is missing at dinner one night, James goes looking for and stumbles upon an unwelcome punishment.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: chan, dub-con
Word Count: 1887
Notes: MQ requested Filch and chan with one of the Marauders. Hope this suits, darling! :)
===
Sirius isn’t at dinner. This isn’t exactly cause for worry, because Sirius has reasons for missing dinner, most of which involve Severus Snape, a bag of dungbombs, one or two obscure hexes and, when he’s feeling particularly adventurous, a can of red paint.
But tonight, James notices, Snape is bent over his dinner, unfazed, and in one piece, and James is worried.
There are other logical explanations of course - studying, flirting, sleeping, but James likes to keep an eye on Sirius (and if there’s fun to be had, James doesn’t want to be left out). It takes him a moment to think up an excuse to tell Remus and Peter, and then he’s off, feet scuffing on the stone floor as he exits the Great Hall.
---
James looks in all the familiar places - the dormitories (both boys and girls), the Quidditch Pitch, the loitering alcoves around the Slytherin dungeons. When he hears noise inside Filch’s office, he doesn’t think much of it. Filch has been known to talk to himself, and to his cat, Mrs. Norris. James pauses, though, at the sound of a high-pitched yelp in a voice that could only belong to Sirius Black.
When Sirius rushes out, face flushed and eyes wide, he tells James hurriedly to just go. Black never looks scared, because Black doesn’t get scared, and James’ first instinct is to punch Filch, or whomever was in there trying to hurt his friend. It’s a best mate thing, of course. Nothing more. After all, they’re but twelve years old. Preservation of self. Preservation of friends.
Sirius is tugging on the sleeve of James’ robes anxiously and he suddenly looks much younger than James ever remembered him being. He is saying something about Filch and punishment, but his words are quiet and rush together and he isn’t even making sense.
James grabs the door handle and pulls, even though Sirius is shaking his head desperately.
“Don’t worry,” James says, even though he’s beginning to feel a bit anxious himself. He doesn’t ask Sirius for the details because they’re boys. They don’t talk. They just do, and right now the one thing on James’ mind is to give whatever’s in there a piece of his mind.
As the door swings open, Sirius darts away. “Meetyoubackinthecommonroom,” he gasps out as he waves over his shoulder. James notices that the back of Sirius’ robes are torn open. His trousers catch on his heels like his belt’s been undone.
---
The room is dark and smells of oil and fried fish. James sees Filch immediately, his hair more of a mess than usual, plastered to his head with sweat and grease as he bends over a filing cabinet, scrawling something onto a piece of parchment - no doubt a page from Sirius' file.
"Potter, come to undo your little friend's mistakes, have you?" he says, without even a nod of his head.
James freezes with his hand still on the doorknob. Filch is a Squib. He can't use magic and he can't hurt him. He can't. He has nothing and he is nothing… but everyone else is at dinner now, and Dumbledore wouldn't hear James if he screamed. He isn't sure why he's frightened. Filch is nothing more than a creepy, ugly shadow-lurker. A trail of thoughts circle through James' head of what Filch might have done to Sirius to make his eyes look close to bulging from their sockets. There had been rumors of whips and chains and torture devices dating back to the Muggle Middle Ages, but neither James nor his friends had ever seen them.
Maybe Sirius really had done something wrong, made a "mistake". He was a Black, proper and pureblood, moreso than James. Maybe he wasn't used to any sort of punishment just yet. Maybe he’d been slapped on the wrist for the first time. Maybe that was all… but James somehow doubted that.
"What did you do to him?" James asks, finally. Filch slides the parchment back into the filing cabinet and closes the drawer. He turns around and their eyes meet. Filch's left eye is twitching open and closed and like there's dust caught under the lid.
"Didn't do anything he didn't ask for. Why? What did he tell you, eh? Being naughty were we?"
"He didn't tell me anything," James replies, curtly. He stands up straighter to try to match Filch's height. He fails miserably, but with his right hand gripping his wand in the pocket of his robes, he figures he has twice the power.
"We aren't hiding things, are we?" Filch moves closer, eyeing James' wand with a dangerous curl of his mouth.
"No, sir, we aren't." James is hungry and wants to go back to the common room, and really, if Sirius was just being a big sissy because of the potions exam tomorrow, then this was all a waste of time. James doesn't want to spend more time in Filch's office than he has to. He's certain he'll start to smell or decay if he's around this air for too long.
Filch takes another step closer until there is just a foot between him and James. "Naughty boy, that Black," he remarks, poking James in the chest.
James grinds his teeth but says nothing.
"Something ought to be done about all these naughty boys," he adds, as though James can't hear him.
James smirks. "You can't do anything to me. Can't to anything to Sirius, either. Dumbledore will have your job if you so much as touch us." He isn't sure if what he's saying is true, but it sounds convincing enough to make Filch almost look scared for the flutter of a second. But then his hand is back, yellowed finger pressing into the fabric of James' robes.
"Can't touch you, eh? We aren't being petulant, now are we?" Filch brings his other hand up to cup James' chin. He tilts the boy's face up and examines the line of his jaw. James spits at him but doesn't move. He has his wand, and a hex on his lips that he should not know, and he's ready.
Filch grins a horrible grin and his teeth are yellow and his mouth stinks when he leans in close and whispers in James' ear, "I think you enjoy this, Mr. Potter. I think you like being in trouble."
He says trouble in such a deadly way that it makes James shake, makes a sensation like warmth and fear pool in his stomach. There's urgency in his thoughts. Leave. Run. Hex. Now. He doesn't do anything, though, because his feet are oddly rooted to the floor and his fingers are sweaty and stiff.
A moment later, Filch traces his hands down James' robes and they both discover that that isn't all that's stiff. "Not living up too much to the legend you're trying to establish for yourself, are you?" he says, patting the front of James’ trousers with his hand.
James blushes deep red and raises both hands, right hand gripping the wand, to shove Filch away before he can touch him again. He growls and pushes Filch backwards, or tries to, but Filch is bigger and stronger, and he is too fast for James, grabbing the wand out of his hands and flinging it across the room with all the carelessness of one of Peter's transfiguration spells.
"Naughty boy," Filch murmurs, working his fingers against the front of James' trousers. He undoes the first button and then the second and James yelps at the friction of a rough palm against his skin. Filch's hands are gnarled with age and work and his fingertips are greasy, but the touch isn't unpleasant.
"Step out of them," Filch says, his voice thick with the razor-clean edge of one of McGonagall's lectures. James looks back at him, eyes dark and challenging, but when Filch growls a second later and squeezes his fingers around James' prick, James can do nothing but obey. He calmly steps out of his trousers and lets them pool about his feet before he kicks them aside. His socks are crumpled around his ankles and his now-bare legs are shaking, but not from the cold. Filch's hand dives down the front of James' pants and James feels the clench of fingers around his length. He arches into the touch out of instinct, pressing into Filch's fist.
"Mr Black did the same, you know," Filch remarks, and James hisses, his hands around Filch's neck, trying to press into the veins and choke out his last breaths of air. He's lying, James thinks, but then he recalls the flush on Sirius' cheeks, the way his pants looked too loose as he'd walked away. How many others? James doesn't let himself ask.
Filch lets James go and shoves him to the floor. The stone is cold under James' thighs, but he doesn't dare get up. He feels bow-legged and loose and his prick is hard and red, jutting up against his stomach at a measley two and a half inches.
"Touch yourself," Filch commands, his voice a low and husky rumble as he leans in close, watching James through the dirtied lenses of his glasses.
James' mouth hardens and he grinds his teeth. "No."
"Disobedience," Filch hisses. "Disrespect of authority."
"Sod off," James replies, feeling a surge of confidence rush through his veins despite his position.
"Touch yourself like I know you do when you think the other boys aren't watching." Filch puts his hands on James' head, thumbing through the tangled mess of hair. James feels immeasurably small, folded half his height, bended on the floor and trapped. No, he thinks, but his body has given up on logic. His hand moves over his prick and it's like a foreign body now. He feels Filch's hands on his head, index finger flicking over his earlobe, and imagines those hands on his prick, grasping and pulling.
It doesn't take long at all, and soon James is coming in a burst of sticky white over his fingertips.
Filch frowns. "Too soon, Mr. Potter. We must learn restraint. Otherwise we'll find ourselves in a lot of trouble, eh?" And then he smiles a sickeningly yellow smile and James turns red. He's been had and left for nothing on the stone floor.
He thinks that maybe Filch is hard too, and that maybe this wasn't all some elaborate scheme to humiliate him. But Argus Filch probably doesn't get hard at all. Filch just takes and punishes and maybe Dumbledore knows and maybe Dumbledore allows, but either way, James and Sirius won’t be the same. James says nothing, just looks at Filch with hardened eyes that have lost the light of childhood and summer days. He rises to his feet and presses his hands down his robes but there are wrinkles there now that weren’t there before.
Filch is brushing his lank hair out of his face, straightening up, too, and looking anywhere but into James’ eyes. He murmurs to himself, but James can't make out a word save his own name. It’s as though he’s no longer there.
James' tongue tastes sour and sits heavy in his mouth. As his hand reaches the doorknob, Filch turns back to the filing cabinet, licking his lips as he opens a drawer.
===
Recipient: emcue
Author: sioniann
Pairings: Filch/James, implied Filch/Sirius, and maybe a little James/Sirius pre-slash
Summary: When Sirius is missing at dinner one night, James goes looking for and stumbles upon an unwelcome punishment.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: chan, dub-con
Word Count: 1887
Notes: MQ requested Filch and chan with one of the Marauders. Hope this suits, darling! :)
===
Sirius isn’t at dinner. This isn’t exactly cause for worry, because Sirius has reasons for missing dinner, most of which involve Severus Snape, a bag of dungbombs, one or two obscure hexes and, when he’s feeling particularly adventurous, a can of red paint.
But tonight, James notices, Snape is bent over his dinner, unfazed, and in one piece, and James is worried.
There are other logical explanations of course - studying, flirting, sleeping, but James likes to keep an eye on Sirius (and if there’s fun to be had, James doesn’t want to be left out). It takes him a moment to think up an excuse to tell Remus and Peter, and then he’s off, feet scuffing on the stone floor as he exits the Great Hall.
---
James looks in all the familiar places - the dormitories (both boys and girls), the Quidditch Pitch, the loitering alcoves around the Slytherin dungeons. When he hears noise inside Filch’s office, he doesn’t think much of it. Filch has been known to talk to himself, and to his cat, Mrs. Norris. James pauses, though, at the sound of a high-pitched yelp in a voice that could only belong to Sirius Black.
When Sirius rushes out, face flushed and eyes wide, he tells James hurriedly to just go. Black never looks scared, because Black doesn’t get scared, and James’ first instinct is to punch Filch, or whomever was in there trying to hurt his friend. It’s a best mate thing, of course. Nothing more. After all, they’re but twelve years old. Preservation of self. Preservation of friends.
Sirius is tugging on the sleeve of James’ robes anxiously and he suddenly looks much younger than James ever remembered him being. He is saying something about Filch and punishment, but his words are quiet and rush together and he isn’t even making sense.
James grabs the door handle and pulls, even though Sirius is shaking his head desperately.
“Don’t worry,” James says, even though he’s beginning to feel a bit anxious himself. He doesn’t ask Sirius for the details because they’re boys. They don’t talk. They just do, and right now the one thing on James’ mind is to give whatever’s in there a piece of his mind.
As the door swings open, Sirius darts away. “Meetyoubackinthecommonroom,” he gasps out as he waves over his shoulder. James notices that the back of Sirius’ robes are torn open. His trousers catch on his heels like his belt’s been undone.
---
The room is dark and smells of oil and fried fish. James sees Filch immediately, his hair more of a mess than usual, plastered to his head with sweat and grease as he bends over a filing cabinet, scrawling something onto a piece of parchment - no doubt a page from Sirius' file.
"Potter, come to undo your little friend's mistakes, have you?" he says, without even a nod of his head.
James freezes with his hand still on the doorknob. Filch is a Squib. He can't use magic and he can't hurt him. He can't. He has nothing and he is nothing… but everyone else is at dinner now, and Dumbledore wouldn't hear James if he screamed. He isn't sure why he's frightened. Filch is nothing more than a creepy, ugly shadow-lurker. A trail of thoughts circle through James' head of what Filch might have done to Sirius to make his eyes look close to bulging from their sockets. There had been rumors of whips and chains and torture devices dating back to the Muggle Middle Ages, but neither James nor his friends had ever seen them.
Maybe Sirius really had done something wrong, made a "mistake". He was a Black, proper and pureblood, moreso than James. Maybe he wasn't used to any sort of punishment just yet. Maybe he’d been slapped on the wrist for the first time. Maybe that was all… but James somehow doubted that.
"What did you do to him?" James asks, finally. Filch slides the parchment back into the filing cabinet and closes the drawer. He turns around and their eyes meet. Filch's left eye is twitching open and closed and like there's dust caught under the lid.
"Didn't do anything he didn't ask for. Why? What did he tell you, eh? Being naughty were we?"
"He didn't tell me anything," James replies, curtly. He stands up straighter to try to match Filch's height. He fails miserably, but with his right hand gripping his wand in the pocket of his robes, he figures he has twice the power.
"We aren't hiding things, are we?" Filch moves closer, eyeing James' wand with a dangerous curl of his mouth.
"No, sir, we aren't." James is hungry and wants to go back to the common room, and really, if Sirius was just being a big sissy because of the potions exam tomorrow, then this was all a waste of time. James doesn't want to spend more time in Filch's office than he has to. He's certain he'll start to smell or decay if he's around this air for too long.
Filch takes another step closer until there is just a foot between him and James. "Naughty boy, that Black," he remarks, poking James in the chest.
James grinds his teeth but says nothing.
"Something ought to be done about all these naughty boys," he adds, as though James can't hear him.
James smirks. "You can't do anything to me. Can't to anything to Sirius, either. Dumbledore will have your job if you so much as touch us." He isn't sure if what he's saying is true, but it sounds convincing enough to make Filch almost look scared for the flutter of a second. But then his hand is back, yellowed finger pressing into the fabric of James' robes.
"Can't touch you, eh? We aren't being petulant, now are we?" Filch brings his other hand up to cup James' chin. He tilts the boy's face up and examines the line of his jaw. James spits at him but doesn't move. He has his wand, and a hex on his lips that he should not know, and he's ready.
Filch grins a horrible grin and his teeth are yellow and his mouth stinks when he leans in close and whispers in James' ear, "I think you enjoy this, Mr. Potter. I think you like being in trouble."
He says trouble in such a deadly way that it makes James shake, makes a sensation like warmth and fear pool in his stomach. There's urgency in his thoughts. Leave. Run. Hex. Now. He doesn't do anything, though, because his feet are oddly rooted to the floor and his fingers are sweaty and stiff.
A moment later, Filch traces his hands down James' robes and they both discover that that isn't all that's stiff. "Not living up too much to the legend you're trying to establish for yourself, are you?" he says, patting the front of James’ trousers with his hand.
James blushes deep red and raises both hands, right hand gripping the wand, to shove Filch away before he can touch him again. He growls and pushes Filch backwards, or tries to, but Filch is bigger and stronger, and he is too fast for James, grabbing the wand out of his hands and flinging it across the room with all the carelessness of one of Peter's transfiguration spells.
"Naughty boy," Filch murmurs, working his fingers against the front of James' trousers. He undoes the first button and then the second and James yelps at the friction of a rough palm against his skin. Filch's hands are gnarled with age and work and his fingertips are greasy, but the touch isn't unpleasant.
"Step out of them," Filch says, his voice thick with the razor-clean edge of one of McGonagall's lectures. James looks back at him, eyes dark and challenging, but when Filch growls a second later and squeezes his fingers around James' prick, James can do nothing but obey. He calmly steps out of his trousers and lets them pool about his feet before he kicks them aside. His socks are crumpled around his ankles and his now-bare legs are shaking, but not from the cold. Filch's hand dives down the front of James' pants and James feels the clench of fingers around his length. He arches into the touch out of instinct, pressing into Filch's fist.
"Mr Black did the same, you know," Filch remarks, and James hisses, his hands around Filch's neck, trying to press into the veins and choke out his last breaths of air. He's lying, James thinks, but then he recalls the flush on Sirius' cheeks, the way his pants looked too loose as he'd walked away. How many others? James doesn't let himself ask.
Filch lets James go and shoves him to the floor. The stone is cold under James' thighs, but he doesn't dare get up. He feels bow-legged and loose and his prick is hard and red, jutting up against his stomach at a measley two and a half inches.
"Touch yourself," Filch commands, his voice a low and husky rumble as he leans in close, watching James through the dirtied lenses of his glasses.
James' mouth hardens and he grinds his teeth. "No."
"Disobedience," Filch hisses. "Disrespect of authority."
"Sod off," James replies, feeling a surge of confidence rush through his veins despite his position.
"Touch yourself like I know you do when you think the other boys aren't watching." Filch puts his hands on James' head, thumbing through the tangled mess of hair. James feels immeasurably small, folded half his height, bended on the floor and trapped. No, he thinks, but his body has given up on logic. His hand moves over his prick and it's like a foreign body now. He feels Filch's hands on his head, index finger flicking over his earlobe, and imagines those hands on his prick, grasping and pulling.
It doesn't take long at all, and soon James is coming in a burst of sticky white over his fingertips.
Filch frowns. "Too soon, Mr. Potter. We must learn restraint. Otherwise we'll find ourselves in a lot of trouble, eh?" And then he smiles a sickeningly yellow smile and James turns red. He's been had and left for nothing on the stone floor.
He thinks that maybe Filch is hard too, and that maybe this wasn't all some elaborate scheme to humiliate him. But Argus Filch probably doesn't get hard at all. Filch just takes and punishes and maybe Dumbledore knows and maybe Dumbledore allows, but either way, James and Sirius won’t be the same. James says nothing, just looks at Filch with hardened eyes that have lost the light of childhood and summer days. He rises to his feet and presses his hands down his robes but there are wrinkles there now that weren’t there before.
Filch is brushing his lank hair out of his face, straightening up, too, and looking anywhere but into James’ eyes. He murmurs to himself, but James can't make out a word save his own name. It’s as though he’s no longer there.
James' tongue tastes sour and sits heavy in his mouth. As his hand reaches the doorknob, Filch turns back to the filing cabinet, licking his lips as he opens a drawer.
===