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crack_van2011-02-22 11:26 pm
perverse-idyll.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-02-22 11:26 pm
Entry tags:
Right Nor Wrong by Kelly Chambliss (NC-17)
Fandom: HARRY POTTER
Characters: Argus Filch, Severus Snape/Minerva McGonagall
Length: ~11,800
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellychambliss
Author Website: Kelly's masterlist of fics
Why this must be read:
Yes, I know this is a double-header, and I'm reccing two stories in a row by the same author. What can I say? It fits my narrative arc, and provides a marvelous contrast to the previous fic, since this tale is told from Filch's POV and belongs far more to him than to Snape. It's another character study with another fantastically convincing voice, as different from Snape's as could be—well, barring their shared cynicism and misanthropic disgust.
This is Argus the Watcher, the caretaker, the man of few words and hard knocks, a paragon of side-pocket comments and sly jabs. I love the voice Kelly has fashioned for him: dour, observant, pithy and colloquial, a man hugging his opinions suspiciously to his chest. He's an outsider who knows no other way to be, a marginalized character who does as he's been done by while stubbornly refusing to be shamed into subservience. His position as underling gives him a special perspective on those above him, and his resentful nostalgia for 'proper' discipline makes a painful sort of sense once you know where it comes from.
He is also a voyeur. His secret pastime is Snape-watching. In this the castle conspires to indulge him, and the Ministry's appointed usurper, Umbridge, feeds his obsession by requesting that he spy on the Potions master. Filch's glimpses into Snape's private life are intriguing, uncomfortable, an erotic trespass, although Snape remains to the end an unapproachable object of desire. Even so, I came away glad of the old Squib's company, entertained by his brusqueness, touched by his untouchableness, and impressed by the way his harsh sense of honor dictates his allegiance, despite his thumb-screwing reputation. This is a marvelous re-imagining of a figure often treated as a cliché henchman, one step up from Igor the sadistic hunchback. Here, Filch is lonely and kinky and scarred by his own childhood, and gruffly amusing to boot.
Adding to the many delights of this fic is a salty and appealing cameo by McGonagall, who rubs Filch the wrong way and thus provokes a wonderfully unflattering tribute.
~*~
Well, it were like this: When Argus had been a boy, there'd always been cats around his aunt and uncle's house; his aunt had been partial to them. And there'd been this one old tom -- Mouser, he'd been called, except that he weren't one.
Oh, he'd catch mice, all right, but once he'd caught 'em, he'd never wanted to eat or kill them. Didn't seem to want to do nothing with them but watch 'em. He'd use his paws to keep them right there in front him, running back and forth until he lost interest or the little things expired from fright.
Argus had long known that he were like Mouser: he didn't mind catching a lad now and then, but he didn't want to do nothing with them. He only ever wanted to watch.
Of course, he'd had his youthful sexual experiences, same as anyone. Had felt the rush of heat and need that made his heart pound and his head ring. Had felt actual hot hands upon his body.
But not for many years. Truth was, the hot hands of his youth had learnt Argus something: he didn't like to be touched. It made him feel like he couldn't stay inside his skin, like he might split open, his bloody organs laid out for anyone to see. Touches were like little bits of fire on his body, nice and warm at first but then too much. Too much.
At first he hadn't admitted it. He'd told himself that the reason he didn't have no one to warm his bed were an accident of geography. It were just his bad luck that he worked at Hogwarts among the wizards. Who'd have him there, Squib that he were?
But gradually he'd accepted the truth. He didn't like to be touched. Weren't no help for it. He preferred to look.
And it were men he liked to look at. Argus were bent; he knew that. Had always known it, really, and somehow it had never bothered him, although Uncle Stan would of pounded him to dust if he had ever twigged.
Most of the time, Argus did his looking in the Muggle world, in them peep shows where you put your coins in a slot and watched a little film in a booth just by yourself. It were safe and easy, and usually you could get in and out without having to talk to no one. He'd never felt a need to watch anyone he actually knew.
Until he'd had his vision of a naked Severus.
Right Nor Wrong
Characters: Argus Filch, Severus Snape/Minerva McGonagall
Length: ~11,800
Author on LJ:
kellychamblissAuthor Website: Kelly's masterlist of fics
Why this must be read:
Yes, I know this is a double-header, and I'm reccing two stories in a row by the same author. What can I say? It fits my narrative arc, and provides a marvelous contrast to the previous fic, since this tale is told from Filch's POV and belongs far more to him than to Snape. It's another character study with another fantastically convincing voice, as different from Snape's as could be—well, barring their shared cynicism and misanthropic disgust.
This is Argus the Watcher, the caretaker, the man of few words and hard knocks, a paragon of side-pocket comments and sly jabs. I love the voice Kelly has fashioned for him: dour, observant, pithy and colloquial, a man hugging his opinions suspiciously to his chest. He's an outsider who knows no other way to be, a marginalized character who does as he's been done by while stubbornly refusing to be shamed into subservience. His position as underling gives him a special perspective on those above him, and his resentful nostalgia for 'proper' discipline makes a painful sort of sense once you know where it comes from.
He is also a voyeur. His secret pastime is Snape-watching. In this the castle conspires to indulge him, and the Ministry's appointed usurper, Umbridge, feeds his obsession by requesting that he spy on the Potions master. Filch's glimpses into Snape's private life are intriguing, uncomfortable, an erotic trespass, although Snape remains to the end an unapproachable object of desire. Even so, I came away glad of the old Squib's company, entertained by his brusqueness, touched by his untouchableness, and impressed by the way his harsh sense of honor dictates his allegiance, despite his thumb-screwing reputation. This is a marvelous re-imagining of a figure often treated as a cliché henchman, one step up from Igor the sadistic hunchback. Here, Filch is lonely and kinky and scarred by his own childhood, and gruffly amusing to boot.
Adding to the many delights of this fic is a salty and appealing cameo by McGonagall, who rubs Filch the wrong way and thus provokes a wonderfully unflattering tribute.
Well, it were like this: When Argus had been a boy, there'd always been cats around his aunt and uncle's house; his aunt had been partial to them. And there'd been this one old tom -- Mouser, he'd been called, except that he weren't one.
Oh, he'd catch mice, all right, but once he'd caught 'em, he'd never wanted to eat or kill them. Didn't seem to want to do nothing with them but watch 'em. He'd use his paws to keep them right there in front him, running back and forth until he lost interest or the little things expired from fright.
Argus had long known that he were like Mouser: he didn't mind catching a lad now and then, but he didn't want to do nothing with them. He only ever wanted to watch.
Of course, he'd had his youthful sexual experiences, same as anyone. Had felt the rush of heat and need that made his heart pound and his head ring. Had felt actual hot hands upon his body.
But not for many years. Truth was, the hot hands of his youth had learnt Argus something: he didn't like to be touched. It made him feel like he couldn't stay inside his skin, like he might split open, his bloody organs laid out for anyone to see. Touches were like little bits of fire on his body, nice and warm at first but then too much. Too much.
At first he hadn't admitted it. He'd told himself that the reason he didn't have no one to warm his bed were an accident of geography. It were just his bad luck that he worked at Hogwarts among the wizards. Who'd have him there, Squib that he were?
But gradually he'd accepted the truth. He didn't like to be touched. Weren't no help for it. He preferred to look.
And it were men he liked to look at. Argus were bent; he knew that. Had always known it, really, and somehow it had never bothered him, although Uncle Stan would of pounded him to dust if he had ever twigged.
Most of the time, Argus did his looking in the Muggle world, in them peep shows where you put your coins in a slot and watched a little film in a booth just by yourself. It were safe and easy, and usually you could get in and out without having to talk to no one. He'd never felt a need to watch anyone he actually knew.
Until he'd had his vision of a naked Severus.
Right Nor Wrong