Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I do, however, own a map of the London Underground...
Rated T for adult themes and language
Unrequited
Every day he listens for her, watches her from afar, knowing he'll never get the girl.
In seven years at the school Pansy Parkinson has never taken a second glance at him.
Not many people do take second glances; after all he's only the caretaker. The squib caretaker, at that...
It's a cold December day in her last year that he finally gets the courage to speak to her.
"Merry Christmas, Miss Parkinson." He stutters.
She looks at him and laughs along with her friends.
"Did you hear something?" she asks her friends.
"Not a thing." They reply with an evil grin in Filch's direction.
He turns away and punishes some first years for loitering.
Lousy brats. He thinks. It's not like anyone cares for rules nowadays anyway.
He doesn't speak to her after that – he's too good for scum like her – and anyway, he has a job to do.
At least, that's what he tells himself. Repeatedly.
He still watches her though, despite his claims, he does love the insolate girl-whore.
On Mondays he watches her; the way her body moves when she walks, the way her hair falls just so, the way her chest moves when she's happy...
He watches the Malfoy brat break up with her and take her back – only to break up with her again.
He watches her love another.
He likes Mondays. He can watch her life unfold like a muggle soap opera.
On Tuesdays he listens to her. Her harsh, captivating voice, a voice he can never resist.
He learns a lot on Tuesdays – how her friends are planning to prank the Weasley girl, how good a kisser Malfoy is, how she can't wait until the dark lord takes care of all the mudblood scum that line the corridors of her school.
He likes Tuesdays. He can listen in on her conversations, pretend he's included in them.
On Wednesdays he smells her. He catches her scent on the breeze; she smells of roses and honeysuckle and cedar and cruelty.
One Wednesday she brushes past him accidentally in a crowded corridor and he smells her gorgeous aroma and shivers with desire. He realises then that his love for her is so much more than love.
He likes Wednesdays. He can love her without loving her.
On Thursdays he touches her – feels the supple skin under his own and knows that one day it will belong to him.
He grabs her by the wrist and takes her to the dungeon for punishment. And he touches her soft, soft skin and he touches the cold wall that she's bound to and he touches her in places that he's longed to touch for six and a half years.
And then he wakes up from his daydream and knows it can never happen – she has magic he can only dream of possessing – she could easily overpower him...
So instead of touching her hair and her skin and her clothes he touches himself.
That seems more appropriate – squibs belong with squibs; not with beauties such as her.
He likes Thursdays. He can escape into his own imagination.
On Fridays he tastes her.
Well – he imagines he tastes her.
In his head she tastes of roses and honeysuckle and cedar and love and (more importantly) she tastes of him.
In reality the muggle whore he's really with tastes of booze and cigarettes and other men.
He doesn't like Fridays. The reality really hits him; Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin beauty, will never taste his lips on hers.
On Saturday he watches, listens, smells, touches and tastes her. This happens once in his life.
It's a Saturday night in May 1997; the night of the Final Battle. Pansy has told the teachers to grab Harry Potter – to hand him over to the Dark Lord.
Filch gets to escort her out – his dream come true. He grabs her by the wrist and takes her into the entrance hall.
"If it's any consolation Miss, I would have said the same thing." He tells her.
"It's not. But thank you." She says to him harshly and sweetly. Filch doesn't know how she can sound both harsh and sweet but she does. And it sends chills down his spine.
She kisses him then and he returns it hungrily. She doesn't taste of roses and honeysuckle and cedar, she just tastes of cruelty and booze and cigarettes and other men.
Filch doesn't care. He touches her everywhere – her back, her behind, her breasts, her face... nowhere goes untouched as he kisses the plump lips and the long, slender neck of his love.
She smells heavenly and he breathes in her intoxicating scent like its oxygen.
Her breathing is uneven and their heartbeats are intertwined, beating erratically as each participant devours the other.
"This is what heaven feels like..." he murmurs into her long, soft hair.
"No... This is what heaven feels like..." she says, dragging him into a broom cupboard and falling to her knees.
Five minutes later he watches her leave the small cupboard with a smirk to rejoin the rest of Slytherin house.
"Maria!" she calls. "I was right! The old wank fell for it! You owe me ten galleons!"
"No shit? You went all the way then?" replies her gleeful friend.
"As far as I dare go with an old pervert like that! Where's Draco? He has to hear about this..." laughs Pansy.
Filch watches as the love of his life, the object of his desires, leaves his life forever.
"stupid bitch" he mutters to himself beffore ushering some third years towards the room of requirement.
He hates Saturdays. They remind him of a girl he used to love.
A sandy-haired second year catches his eye and he watches as her hair falls just so and her chest moves in such a familiar way that his breath catches in his throat.
As she brushes past him he smells her hair:
Roses, honeysuckle, cedar and love.
That September, he started watching the girl, his love unrequited once more.
Written for the never before seen pairing challenge and the five days and senses challenge on the HPFC forum. Reviews are the only payment I get so please take a couple of seconds out of your day to leave me one! –Moge..x