Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: Written pre-OotP, and thus an AU. Also the only first-person fic I've ever dared to write. After Cedric Diggory's death, Harry is afloat in a sea of self-doubt and grief. But one night his escapism goes too far, and he is discovered by an unlikely ally... Eventual AF/HP slash.

Speak Comfort
by

Rain tastes sweet on my tongue. The grass is wet with it--the trees--all glistening, as if with sweat. The night is warm. I have no need for my cloak--it lies, soaked and muddied, like a black shadow behind me. I can't remember where my glasses are, but it doesn't matter. The rain is heavy and soft on my face; a thick, shifting curtain beyond which I can see nothing. Only the nearby greenery glitters with it--bright enough for me to see.

It is strange and wild here, outside Hogwarts. On the border of the Forbidden Forest. At least, I think it's the border. I can't quite remember why I'm out here, except that I was crying, some time ago, and now I'm not. There is a memory, if I reach for it, of a boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a shy smile... but there is also pain, and I don't want to remember that.

There is ancient magic here. No wands, no charms... but the trees hold an ominous silence, as if just moments ago it was ringing with speech. The sound of rain, gently pattering on leaves and mud, seems like an intruder.

This is so far away from everything, really--and I have to wonder if any of it was real, any of the reality I left behind. That bright hall lit with candles and laughter--friends flanking me on either side, jokes, talk of Quidditch. It seems like a bauble now, all gold and warmth--something encased in a paperweight--and I turn it over and over in my mind, imagining snow falling around it before I turn it back up again.

There is wet squelch nearby.

It occurs to me that I should move--pull out my wand, perhaps--but I do not move. Alcohol buzzes pleasantly in my head. My blood feels sluggish. I simply turn my face up to the soft, warm rain-drops, and smile.

Another squelch. A wide shaft of light falls on the bushes opposite me, flickering in the rain. The trees look like pale ghosts when it falls upon them--knotted, twisted, angry. Their branches look like arms bent the wrong way. The light swings to the left, then to the right, then back again. 

Through a haze, my mind manages to think. A lantern.

It falls across my face for a moment before swinging away. Then it moves back again. And stays there.

I've been found.

Somewhere, my mind is saying: Fuck. And then: Run. But I don't feel like running. I really don't. I'm sick of running. There is a large part of me that just doesn't give a fuck anymore. Whether I die or live. Here, wet and silent, with the rain to ease my aches. It's a better place than most.

A series of squelches follow, quicker than before.  The light grows brighter on my face, more focused, until it nearly blinds me. I squint.

'Who's there?' A rough voice, displeased but edged with caution.

I can't see who it is past the glare of the lantern. The figure behind it remains in shadow.

'Who's there? Speak up, damn it!'

There is something familiar about that voice. Its gruff, harsh edges--a voice more accustomed to cursing than conversing. I try to place it.

The man stops not too far away from me. The light moves from my face--which is probably nothing but a pale smudge through the rain anyway--to my cloak. It reflects off the bottle that lies by my side.

'...What...?' A long moment of silence, in which I can feel him processing the information. Then a harsh chuckle. There is a hint of relief in it, but it doesn't make the voice more pleasant by any means. 'A student's cloak. A drunk student. I should ha' known. Ye lot, leave it to ye to find the firewhiskey...' A deep, vindictive sarcasm.

I still don't say anything--just clasp my hands about my knees. The man's boots stop in front of me. They are worn, old leather--dull brown by the light of the lantern. I glance up, following the line of the tattered cloak where it meets the edge of a sleeve and a hand wrapped in torn, gray bandages. That hand holds the source of my discovery--a bright lantern, flickering a ridiculously cheerful yellow.

He crouches in front of me, and the lantern is placed by my feet, lighting the both of us. I don't feel afraid. Somehow I didn't sense danger in that voice--although my mind is still aching and tired, and I can't place it. The part of me that wanted me to run has fallen silent. Instead there is deep quiet in me, an echoing chasm of regret that even this stranger, who could easily have been rid of me, has let me live. Again.

I feel myself being studied, and blink through my wet lashes. Well, alright then.

I decide to return the scrutiny, and raise my eyes to his.

He grunts in shock. His face slackens. An incredulous puff of breath, followed by a name. 'Potter?!'

For a moment the face before me floats, unrecognizable. It is gaunt, unshaven--silver stubble barely hiding a wide scar on the left cheek. A stern nose with a dent in the middle of it, as if it had been broken years ago. Hard brown eyes--glittering and ringed by black--currently wide in surprise. Mouth thin and slightly curled in a habitual snarl. Wet, matted hair--falling to tense, shabbily-clad shoulders.

His eyes roam over my face again, as if in disbelief, and in the silence that ensues I sense something familiar, and suddenly very important, in that face. My mind digs in its shocked memory, suddenly frantic.

And comes up with a single word.

Filch.

My jaw drops.

The rain billows around us. I get splattered with a fresh burst and sneeze, breaking the silence. The noise seems to snap him back into action.

A bandaged hand whips out to cuff me by the side of the face. I reel back at the sudden pain, nearly falling on my back in the mud. I catch myself at the last moment, digging my elbows into wet earth.

Through a drunken haze, I glare up at him.

Filch glares back at me. 'Potter,' he spits, as if it were the name of a demon. 'What in bloody Hell are ye doin' here?'

I blink, trying to remember. My mouth opens, but I can't figure out anything to say. 'Er...'

The thin mouth curls even more. 'So. Great Mister Harry Potter can go anywhere an' get himself drunk, can 'e? E'en out of the bloody school grounds, in the middle o' the bloody night, on the edge of the bloody Forbidden Forest!? Do ye want to get yerself killed, boy?!'

It occurs to me that I've never heard so many words from Argus Filch before. I smile.

The same hand that had cuffed me reaches out and pulls my arm, harshly.

'Ow!'

Filch only raises an eyebrow and yanks harder. 'Get up, boy. If ye're too drunk to get up by yourself, ye have to take help.'

If this is help, I'm a leprechaun.

His face flickers with surprise, then outrage.

I realize I said those words out loud.

He shoves me back into the mud, and this time I do fall, hard. Water splashes around me. Rain fills my open mouth.

Filch snarls down at me. 'Get yourself up then, Potter. What do ye think, that I'm just out 'ere on a jolly round? I 'ave work to do, boy, an' you're just in the way. I don't 'ave time to spare.'

Spare.

Spare. There is a rain-swept silence, loud as a scream in my head. The word shocks through me, splitting me from the centre of my being. I begin to shudder. And I'm suddenly back... back to the place I've been trying to escape, trying to fucking escape, and all the while it was right fucking there, in my head... Kill the spare. Kill the spare. Yes, that boy--dark curls, shy smile--that boy, I killed him, they killed him--he was the spare, and why the fuck would they--and why--No time to spare, and he was spare, and kill him kill the spare and green light and pain and I fell and I followed and the cold voice and I cried and I screamed I think I screamed I can't remember I don't want to and I can't breathe no time to spare fuck you fuck you all don't but please don't but no time and kill kill kill the spare--

'Potter!'

There is a hand gripping my shoulder. The voice calls me again.

'POTTER!'

A hard hand slaps me across the face, and suddenly I am snapped back to this wet, rain-filled night. I am on my side in the mud, curled around myself. I realize I am sobbing--loudly--shaking. Filch is kneeling over me, water dripping from his untidy hair. He looks rather like a sodden creature of the forest--all matted and surly and snarling. But I feel freshly peeled, like I don't have a skin anymore, and breakable, and I can't move, I can't fucking move or I'll shatter.

I lie there gasping, staring up at him.

He stares back at me, an odd disbelief slowly filtering across his features.

'You're... crying?' The shock in his coarse voice is almost funny.  I know what he's thinking. The Great Harry Potter. Drunk. And crying. Harry Potter doesn't need to get drunk. Harry Potter doesn't cry.

But he doesn't say any of those things. His snarl hasn't quite left his face--as though he's forgotten it there. There is a peculiar flash of something in his eyes--and suddenly he reaches down, and the same rough, bandaged hand--cloth cold and wet--settles against my face.

I jerk with surprise. There is still a shell-shocked emptiness in me, but somehow this is more startling than the slap. I wonder what the hell he's doing. But then his hand is moving--moving behind my head, cradling it, lifting it gently off the mud. Another hand carefully places something thin and cold on my nose. I blink. My spectacles. I wonder where he found them. On my cloak...?

'Get up, ye bloody drunken sod. Lyin' out 'ere isn't going to fix any of yer problems, whate'er they might be.'

The vindictiveness is still there in his voice--it suits him better than the confusion of before. But his hands are gentle as they help me up. Suddenly, inexplicably gentle--and I don't know why--and it's ridiculous, and it hurts somehow, that he's trying to be kind but he doesn't know a fucking thing about it. That he wouldn't give it to me if he knew. I can't--I can't--take any kindness. I don't deserve it. I can't tolerate it. Cruelty, cruelty might keep me together. Anger--give me the need to survive. But kindness...? Kindness will kill me. I can't take it, it'll break me, his hands... Kill the spare.

Making a small sound, I try to tear away from his grip.

Immediately his expression hardens--and his grip tightens, pulling me back up. 'What's your problem, boy? Too proud for help?' He sneers. 'Or would ye prefer to lie out here, waitin' to get killed?'

I'm still trying to pull away when his words sink in. Get killed. Yes, that's exactly what I came out here for. I think. It's kind of vague behind the heavy mist of alcohol, but I think... yes. That's it. I am about to sink back into the mud, but Filch's hand won't bloody let go.

'Let me go!' I shout suddenly, startling him enough to loosen his grip. I fall back a little, clutching at his arm from instinct. Immediately his other hand comes up to grip me. We must look ridiculous, tussling like that in the rain, but my tired and uneven tugging isn't having much effect. Panic begins to rise in me. He'll take me away, he'll make me live, and the whole bloody nightmare will start again, and I wasn't supposed to live the first time, and suddenly I'm babbling--'Let go. Let go, please, you don't know, let go, oh God, oh fucking God, Cedric...'

Filch freezes immediately. I snap backwards like a puppet before his fingers whip out to catch me. His eyes stare at me, flickering brown and black in the lantern's light. I am stunned into silence, by the fact that I spoke that name, the name I haven't spoken for months, not since... not since...

Filch has also fallen silent. We're frozen like that, staring at each other in disbelief. That peculiar expression is back on his face now, only more acute--almost as if someone else entirely is trying to crawl out from behind the weathered mask of his face. For a moment I have a wild memory of Mad Eye Moody, and maybe Filch is someone else too...

But then a tattered cloak is thrown across my shoulders, along with a long, wiry arm. It is whipcord strong, and drags me forward. He is supporting me--somehow, the lamp is in his other hand again--and I'm almost falling against him, but he's holding me up.

He doesn't say anything.

I'm surprised, I expected him to say something, like 'So, that's why you're getting drunk. Trying to forget the boy you murdered, eh?', or words to that effect. But nothing. Nothing.

The rain is awfully loud around us, as if trying to make up for my saying that name.

Shaking, I glance up at him. He is motionless--peering down at me, sharp nose shining under raindrops like a knife in the dark. It would be amusing in another context. Water beads his silver grizzled face, and he is remarkably solemn. I am vaguely surprised to see that his snarl is gone. It makes him look different, somehow. Just tired, although the scar and broken nose and still lend him a fierce cast.

Slowly, slowly, I raise a disbelieving hand to his face. Alcohol and grief have ripped me from myself, freed me, and I feel myself floating somewhere--somewhere far out there--carried like a leaf on the wind and the rain. I barely notice when my fingers first brush him--the rough, wet stubble of his face--and my palm gathers water from it, as if it were a pine tree with dew dripping along its foliage. He gives no sign that he is surprised, save for a slight widening of his eyes. He is still, like stone, his arm steady around me. He is a rain-drenched, ugly statue--eyes deep-set in a hard, lined face. Yet, yet, he is not stone. I am shivering and dead, inside, but in some strange way completely different to me, Filch is alive, and his face under my hand is warm. And suddenly, in the light of the lantern, amongst the silence of the trees and the loud murmur of the rain, I realize that Filch is someone else.

He pulls back quickly.

I nearly stumble, head still heavy from drink. His arm is back--swiftly--before I can ask for it. I think he doesn't want me to speak. I don't blame him. Who'd want me to speak, to say that name again, though it's the only name that's been in my mind, day and night, in the long, prolonged nightmare that is each day. That name and the memory of the Killing Curse.

He pushes slightly with his arm, and starts walking. I'm forced to follow, shielded by cloak and arm. I wonder why he's shielding me from the rain when I'm already soaked through.

The walk back to Hogwarts is long and quiet. Our feet squelch in puddles--his steady, mine not--and every time I trip all he does is tighten his hold, and I'm stuck to him, pinned like a butterfly, until I find my footing again and he loosens his arm. All the way, he says absolutely nothing, and I'm shivering and pressed against the scent of warm leather and dust, and wonder why I'm feeling cold when the night felt so humid just a short while ago.

Then we're inside, and the rain stops. I drip water on the stone floor as he drags me across it.

We reach the main steps of the Gryffindor Tower, and suddenly my mind reels. 'No...' I whisper weakly, and he glances down at me sharply. 'No,' I say louder, insistent. 'My friends, I can't... they mustn't...'

I can't say anything more before my teeth start chattering. He glares at me, and I try to tell him what I mean silently. I can't let them see me like this. It would ruin the mask I've built so carefully for so many months.

Miraculously, his hold tightens and he abruptly turns us around. It is a silent assent to my request, and I'm amazed he even knew what I was asking. His expression hasn't changed.

I close my eyes in relief and lean against his shoulder, not knowing or caring where he takes me as long as it isn't there, that other dream-world where boys fall asleep with thoughts of wanking off instead of Voldemort. Where Hermione might still be awake in the Common Room, working on her Arithmancy assignment. Anywhere but there. I'm not ready to face them. Since... since that time... every day has been a war. A war with them, although they don't know it--a war against them, against their forgetfulness, against their blithe acceptance, against the shadows they cast over their memories so they don't have to wince every time they look at me. With blame and guilt and pity.

Suddenly we stop, and my head rolls forward to smack against wood. Hissing in pain, I frown up at Filch in angry surprise. He isn't laughing at me, exactly, but the sneer is back and his eyes seem to be glittering. 'Bout time you woke up, boy,' he says, the sudden words startling me. Changing his grip on the lantern, which dips as it casts shadows around us, he hooks a thumb in the door's handle and pushes.

It swings open with a slight creak. Immediately, I hear a plaintive meow.

'Mrs Norris,' Filch says calmly, as if greeting a wife. (Actually, Hermione did have a theory about a McGonagall-like animagus...)

He tugs me into the small room. And it is that, just a room--lined with shelves that seem filled with all sorts of brick-a-brack--spare wizarding souvenirs, lost remembralls, cloak clips, broken pensieves. It looks more like a storage room than anything else. There is a clean fire lighting the hearth. A rickety-looking wooden chair graces one corner, and a huge sofa with half-rotted upholstery hulks in the other. Mrs Norris pads back and forth in front of me, studying me with sullen yellow eyes. After giving a disdainful sniff, she turns and hops ungracefully onto a small stool by the chair, and begins to lick her ugly, patchy fur.

I find myself smiling at this little display even though I'm still jittery. If Filch notices, he gives no sign. He shoves me roughly into the sofa, which swallows me like the embrace of a big-bosomed and mouldy aunt. Dust rises, and I cough.

He flicks an annoyed glance at me as if I just insulted him. Muttering something under his breath, he takes off his cloak and throws it on the floor. Silence falls as he searches along the shelves for something.

I shift uneasily in the smelly sofa. I'm still soaking wet and slightly cold, my hair plastered to my face. How in hell did I end up in Filch's room? Mrs Norris seems oblivious to me now, absorbed in sniffing the spot underneath her tail. This embarrasses me somehow, and I look away.

To find Filch staring at me.

I really wish he'd stop doing that. Then it occurs to me that he's probably never done this before--I mean, what with hanging drunk students by their thumbs and all--and really he's been remarkably kind, although I'll probably want to kill him for it when I'm sober again. And there's no saying he still won't hang me by my thumbs...

Clearing my throat, I try to mumble my gratitude. 'Th... Thank you, Mr Filch.' I pause. What more should I say? Hey, you've got a nice place here? 'Er...'

'Be quiet, boy.'

The harsh words startle me. Somehow...

What? You thought he'll be nice on his own turf? He's Filch, you idiot.

A vial of some dark green substance is pushed in front of my face--held by scarred brown fingers. My eyes flick up to Filch, who's face is as cruel and gaunt as ever. Hesitantly, I reach out and take the vial from him, my fingers brushing his.

He pulls back and scowls at me. 'Drink it. It'll help your... state. And help you sleep.'

I stare at him in dumbfounded surprise. I still feel slightly drunk, and I wonder if this is one of the side-effects of too much firewhiskey. Delusions starring the Hogwarts caretaker? I shake my head to clear it.

Filch's scowl deepens. He stalks over to the wooden chair, sitting down stiffly and crossing his arms. 'I said drink it, boy. Or have ye gone deaf as well as drunk?'

I flinch and close my eyes, trying not to see what I'm drinking. I tip it into my mouth, tensed for a horrid taste--but it slides down quickly, almost like oil, tasting pleasantly of mint. A moment of coolness against the back of my throat, then warmth begins filling me from the centre of my chest--spreading out along my arms and legs, climbing up my neck and flushing my face. I sag into the sofa bonelessly, feeling a spectacular sense of relief flood me. The heaviness in my head seems to have disappeared, and my blood isn't pounding in my temples anymore. The vague feeling of sickness that had been gathering in my stomach is likewise gone. And I feel strangely... lighter than before. Much lighter.

A smile curves my lips. I open my eyes gradually. Filch is watching me intently, with a peculiar fixed intensity I find mildly disturbing. My smile fades. I look away.

Mrs Norris is still curled on her stool. Filch's long bandaged hands are stroking her, his knotted fingers tangling and untangling in her fur. The movements are repetitive, habitual, as if they've been done the same way for years. Mrs Norris seems to think so too, relaxing into a purring little puddle of contentment on the stool. I wonder why Filch bandages his hands. I'm reminded of how cold they'd felt in the rain, how gentle...

'So it's working.'

My eyes snap back to Filch's face, and I blush. Somehow I feel like I'm intruding on something, and I really shouldn't be here.

I nod slowly. 'Y-yes, sir. Thank you for it.'

He's still staring at me.

'I... what was it, sir?'

It's his turn to look away. 'Doesn't matter. You should go up to your bed now, boy.'

I get up unsteadily from the sofa, and my head spins just a little bit. But it's manageable. I nod at him uncertainly, and head over to the door.

At the last moment I turn back, hesitant. Something happened today, something... I'm not entirely sure what, but Filch could have punished me, given me a detention, even forced me back up to Gryffindor immediately.

But he didn't.

I'm still not sure why, but I think saying Cedric's name had something to do with it. Why Filch changed because of that, I don't know. I'm even more unsure why I feel... slightly mended, as if someone's laid new stitches along wounds that were threatening to open. Someone with calloused, bandaged hands.

I hover uncertainly, but Filch isn't looking at me anymore. He's turned his face to the fire--his features are in shadow. The broken nose, scarred cheek, frowning forehead and dark, slowly drying hair. It looks like he's closed his eyes.

And that's how he's still sitting as I close the door slowly and turn around. The dark hallway is lit by a few guttering sconces, and I head back in the direction of the Gryffindor Tower. My shadow seems tall and thin against the walls, and I think I still smell of leather and Norris and dust.

It's only when I'm standing in front of the Fat Lady, with her blinking sleepily and suspiciously at me, that I realize I'm still holding the vial.

Further notes: The title for this story was taken, ironically enough, from Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. Here is an extract...

'But there is no such man; for, brother, men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion...'