Disclaimer: I own nothing about Harry Potter and even less about the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

She was beautiful, his cat, truly beautiful. At least, she always was to him.

"Patches", he'd called her, as a lad. Not the most apt name, dusty stray that she was, but James Argus Filch was only a little boy when he named her. He had no imagination for pretty names or clever names... He had little to no imagination in general.

He is eleven when his cat is struck by a muggle car. If he had magic like his mother or his uncles or the children who mock him, perhaps he could save her. She is his dearest friend. Patches is nearly all young Argus has, defective boy in a world full of magic. Defective and common and reminded every day through the kindness of his doting mother, using her magic for him, and through the taunts of others who see him for the broken thing he is.

The cat had been a gift from his mother when he was seven.

The muggles sped away, leaving his precious darling mewling in the ditch, leg twisted unnaturally and blood on her mouth. He picks up a stick like a wand and tries to use spells he'd heard from his mother. Just because they'd seen no signs of magic by this age doesn't mean it isn't possible, right? Like muggle adrenaline in a crisis. Maybe he just needs the proper motivation…

He tries casting spells until the mewling stops and her shallow breath is the only indication she hasn't yet left him; eyes barely open.

He couldn't say how long he was there. His mother probably called him home for supper but he certainly didn't hear and would absolutely not heed regardless. He wouldn't leave her alone and he knew enough that moving her would only cause her pain. Dusk settles around him and he curls up beside her in the cold grass and weeps little boy tears on her fur, gingerly resting a small hand on her haunch.

The stars wink at him and he is probably asleep when he hears a soft voice.

"What's this? Oh you poor, poor dear."

His red, wet eyes look into a lined and haggard face with a sympathetic smile but a telling glint in her almost-yellow eyes.

"My… my cat. She's been hit, you see. I can't do anything to help her…"

"Ah yes… the Filch boy, is it? Well my boy, you are in luck." She reaches a hand down, offering to him to help him rise. Frail though she seems, she hardly strains to lift the boy. There is a beauty in the hard lines of her face, a whisper of the woman she might have been. "I just happen to be a witch and I can help you and your unfortunate little friend."

His eyes light up and he grabs her hand with both of his. "You can?! Really?! Oh missus please! I don't know what I'd do without her!"

She pats his hand and says with syrup in her voice, "I see that. Poor, poor boy. But…" She lifts a crooked finger and waves it in his face, "if I do this, this very old magic, you will have to protect her always. Love her forever. Can you do that, boy?"

He nods fervently, tears streaming down his face. He's already growing impatient, terrified the woman will talk just a moment too long and he will lose her.

"Well then young master Filch, let me see to her. Come round my home tomorrow evening. I live just there, in that cottage at the end of the lane." He follows the line of her finger, pointing into the distance, and sees a quaint home that was never there before, he's sure.

Nodding dumbly, he watches her levitate the body. She does seem to be taking the utmost care and that relaxes his frazzled nerves only slightly. He has no choice but to trust this stranger who has been his neighbor all along.

Remembering his manners, he asks, "What do I call you, ma'am?"

"Well, I'm Mrs. Norris, my boy. Don't presume you've heard of me? Most of the locals have forgotten about old Mrs. Norris these days."

He hasn't heard of her but assumes it would be rude to dwell on that. "Thank you so much. She's a great cat. Best in the whole world!"

The woman looks down at the feline and strokes her fur softly. "I see that. And you promise you'll care for her then? She'll love you always if you treat her right."

He nods solemnly and promises, "Always. I love her more than anything. I'll take super good care of her, you'll see."

"Well then. I'll be off. See you tomorrow evening."

His night is restless. He was late coming home and his mother scolded him for making her worry. He told her about his poor pet and the kind woman who was taking care of her. His mother had bit her lip, eyes rolled to the ceiling as she searched her memory.

"Mrs. Norris… no I can't say I know her. But it was terribly kind. I'll bake you a little treat for her, in thanks."

He would lie awake until well after the witching hour, worrying over Patches and praying to Merlin or Nimue or Salazar Slytherin or any muggle God who might listen. (Of which he understands there are quite a few. Surely one of them has a moment for a lonely little boy's wish?)

The next night he virtually runs to the cottage at the end of the lane, nearly spilling the apple pie he carried into a shrubbery. "Mrs. Norris? It's Argus, ma'am! I've…I've brought you a pie!" He announces the gift he carries for lack of anything else to say to the wooden door.

No one answers and he starts to grow worried. His innocuous thoughts of 'perhaps she stepped out' or 'maybe she's on a floo call' start to evolve and twist into 'what if she couldn't save her?' and 'what if it was a trick to steal her away and hurt her more?'

After five minutes of silence, the boy rests the pie on the wide bannister that lines the porch and gingerly tries the door. When it opens, he's not sure if he should continue or not. Does he push through? Tresspass? He tries to justify. She's an old woman. What if something happened to her? She could be lying alone, unable to stand and waiting for help.

It's a flimsy excuse but it's enough and he continues into the room. He's greeted by the soft mew of his pet and his heart leaps in this chest, beating hard.

"Patches!" The cat immediately gruffs a little sound of disapproval and he's not sure how he knows but he knows she doesn't like the name.

Scooping her up, he strokes her fur. "You're right. It's a dumb name. You need a proper one. I'm practically a grown up. I'll think of something better, alright?" The cat nuzzles his hand with her nose and he feels the tears well up, threatening to fall. She'd done it. The woman had saved her and now he would take extra special care of her forever and always.

He looks around and the room and notices the place looks barely habitable. The furniture, what little there is, has a layer of dust and is nearly threadbare. The light is dim, only the trickling of sunset falling through the doorway, creating an eerie orange rectangle on the floor. Argus remembers he's yet to find the woman he has to thank for this miracle.

"Mrs. Norris?"

The cat in his arms purrs and runs her head under his hand again. He absently scratches between her ears and ventures a bit farther into the house. "Mrs. Norris?"

Again, the cat purrs and rubs against him but there is no answer from the house.

He looks another minute before shrugging and turning to leave. Noticing the pie, he places it gently on a small table by the sofa, knowing it's the best he can do for a gift since the woman isn't home. He thinks perhaps he will come back tomorrow to thank her properly.

Cuddling his pet, formerly known as Patches, close, he carries her back down the road to show his mother what has happened. She is happy for her son and allows him to open a package of canned tuna for their nearly lost family member.

The next morning, he tries once again to visit his savior but is met with a peculiar site. Men in robes are inside the house, the door ajar, levitating a body with them. His eyes go wide and they shoo him out of the way.

"Mrs. Norris?"

One of the men snaps his eyes back. "Did you know her, lad? This woman."

"I umm… I met her once. A couple of days ago." Warning bells alight in his mind and he makes his answer vague.

"Had you ever met her before?"

He shakes his head in the negative. "No, just that once. She said…" He readjusts his statement, "She invited me to visit yesterday but when I got here she didn't answer the door." He takes a breath and looks up at the man's face. "Is she dead?"

The man grimaces but nods. "Appears that way. Though if she's who she said… well it was past her time anyway. Run along, kid. Nothing to be done here."

Argus nods and walks home. He misses the second, and more broken, body being levitated from the house.

When he finds his cat curled up on his bed, her eyes much more yellow than he remembered, he pets her and says quietly. "I think maybe it would be appropriate to call you Mrs. Norris from now on," he ventures, testing. Later, his mother will say it's a fitting tribute. An homage to a stranger's kindness.

Mrs. Norris outlives Argus Filch's mother and uncles and some of those little monster children that called him names and pushed him in the mud. He takes excellent care of her and she is a steadfast companion. He spends his days with her. Speaks nearly only to her. Pets her and loves her and holds her to his heart every day. She is still his Patches, he knows, but also more. She loves him, he can tell. They only have each other.

When she is petrified, he means it when he threatens to murder Potter where he stands. The boy is lucky to be exonerated: Fortunate she came out unharmed.

No one questions why Argus Filch has had the same cat since coming to Hogwarts in 1973. No one asks why a cat, known to be a fickle creature, sticks to him like a hound.

No one notices much of anything about common, broken, defective, Argus Filch and his cat, but they don't mind, the pair of them, because they have each other.

A/N

Why does Filch have a first/middle name? I couldn't find one in cannon but added simply to use the poetic reference.

So in this lovely Facebook group affectionately abbreviated to A.R.S.E., RunningQuill posted a collage today, in honor of Valentine's, of the inseparable duo: Argus Filch and Mrs. Norris. Oh we chuckled. There was a cat in a bikini. But then my muse, not that good one that makes me want to write more FTC or start some heartfelt epic like Dreams... no this muse just hangs around my brain not doing much. She dangles a cigarette lazily and wears a robe that is falling off her shoulders, dirty slippers on her feet. "Hey," she nudged, half-hearted, blowing smoke in my face, "you could do something with that. Bet you don't find many Filriss fics."

Filriss... is that the ship name here?

So... Happy Valentine's Day? Love accepted gratefully in review and fave form!