My Life As A House-Elf

My Life As a House-Elf

Chapter Four - The Revelation

* * * *

Narcissa's normally perfect hair was askew, hanging loosely across her face in very unglamorous tendrils. She was seething. Her mascara-lined eyes were opened wide and were gazing across the room wildly, her perfectly manicured, painted fingers held like claws. "Where is it?!" she muttered throatily, her voice low and threatening. "Where is the Mudblood scum?!"

Lucius got up and calmly took his wife's forearm. "Not in front of the guests, Narcissa," he said. His voice was quiet and subtle, yet seemed to calm her.

"It's no matter," she said pleasantly, sitting down graciously once more, straightening her hair and adjusting the folds of her skirt. "It's gone now."

Which was very well, since Hermione had pelted away from the room in a rush of panic. How does Narcissa KNOW? She asked herself, leaning against a wall for support. How does she know there's a Mudblood in the room? Unless she can somehow sense it ...

Gathering up her courage, Hermione edged closer to the Dining Room, leaning against the doorframe, careful not to step any closer. She listened.

"Forgive my wife," Lucius apologized serenely, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "She happens to be a Seer. Some people might call her psychic. But unlike all those common clairvoyant duplicates who can only predict the future, Narcissa has the extraordinary talent to detect those of tainted blood in the surrounding area. Isn't that right, Narcissa?"

"It smelled foul," she agreed, scrunching up her pretty features. "I'm relieved it's gone now."

The Parkinsons looked stunned. Apparently, this was the first time they had seen Narcissa display her particular talent. "Ah, well," Mr. Parkinson said, blinking. "What a very ... practical talent, Narcissa."

"Quite sensible, for us of pure blood," Mrs. Parkinson agreed. "To be able to sense the presence of any nearby Mudbloods. Honestly, they must be eradicated, impure things they are."

Those at the table nodded in unified agreement.

Hermione's temper began to simmer. But she wisely said nothing, listening in to the conversation in hope of obtaining more information, no matter how unwelcoming it seemed.

"Which reminds me," Lucius said, his voice gaining a slight hint of foreboding. Everyone at the table instantly snapped to attention. "Narcissa ... when did you notice this trace of Mudblood?"

She glanced at her son. "When Draco entered the room," she said quietly.

Draco became aware of all the sudden stares hovering above him. Calmly meeting as many gazes as he could in one stare, he asked, "Yes?"

"Draco," Lucius said, his voice terrifyingly calm and frighteningly ominous, tinged with the slightest trace of subtle disapproval. "Care to explain?"

It wasn't a question. It was a demand, and Draco knew better than to refuse it. "I suppose it's from my House-elf," he explained.

Hermione sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling light-headed. No, no, please no, she begged to no one in particular. Rocking slightly, terrible visions of what would happen to her if her secret were discovered flashed before her eyes. Oh, please, no ...

"She was handling a tainted cloak earlier today. The silly creature must have forgotten to wash her hands," Draco continued.

"Ask it to simmer its hands in boiling water," Lucius said casually, in a very cavalier manner. "And burn that cloak. We can buy you a new one, Draco."

Hermione released the breath she had been holding. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, which she hastily wiped away in relief. They thought it was the cloak. No matter how much she detested the idea, she owed Draco a life.

She glanced back in the room. Narcissa and Mrs. Parkinson were engaged in a conversation about the McNairs, and Lucius and Mr. Parkinson in a conversation about the Goyles. Pansy Parkinson was looking very much like a contented puppy, clinging onto Draco's arm and gazing at him with jelly brown eyes.

Hermione stared at Draco. He seemed strangely calm, quiet, engaged in deep thought. He ignored Pansy's batting eyelashes and attempts to play footsie underneath the table, poking at his dinner thoughtfully, as if he could read his fate in the mushroom-lined depths of his soup bowl.

Once, he glanced at the door, eyes narrowed. Hermione dashed out of sight. The watchful, knowing look in his stormy grey stare unnerved her slightly.

"Draco," Pansy chirped, smiling brightly.

He looked up, looking extremely tired.

"Isn't it fun that we're both together this summer?" Pansy continued, stirring her spoon in her untouched soup, head leaning in her palm, eyes twinkling flirtatiously. "I'm so glad to be here. The carriage ride was so dusty and boring -" (it was at this point Draco stopped listening and entertained his thoughts instead) "- and it all seemed to last forever ... but I'm finally here, with you, and I'm ever so happy. Aren't you, Draco?"

He didn't bother looking up. "Yes, evidently."

Pansy continued, now that she was on a roll. "Your manor is becoming somewhat like my manor, you know. I can feel right at home here. I always look forward to staying here throughout the entire summer."

"Like you do every summer," Draco mumbled, face frowned in deeper thoughts.

"Yes, of course!" Pansy replied, smiling. "Like I do every summer." No one but Hermione noticed the shrewd gleam in Pansy's eye, and the slight tug at the edge of her mouth, the beginnings of a sly grin.

* * * *

It was nearly midnight when Draco staggered into his room.

Hermione watched as he, completely oblivious to his surroundings, reached into the laundry basket and threw the offending, midnight blue cloak into the steadily burning fire. She watched as he emptied his pockets, throwing a gauze handkerchief, a pink paper flower corsage, and a several scraps of paper scrawled with excerpts from love poems - presents from Pansy - into the roaring flame, and crashed unceremoniously onto his four-poster bed, apparently worn out.

Nothing happened for a few seconds. The room was silent save for the crackling fire and the occasional hoot from Draco's perched eagle owl.

"Hattie," Draco muttered, voice muffled through layers of cushions.

Hermione's eyes widened. "Yes, sir?"

"Tomorrow, be sure to immerse your hands in boiling water. I'm too tired to make sure you do it now."

She shuddered slightly. "Yes, sir."

With that, Draco rolled over, and, still in his dress robes, promptly fell asleep.

* * * *

Hermione lay curled upon a couch. She was listening to the silence, unable to sleep, watching the stars roll slowly and silently across the sky.

Her thoughts drifted from one thing to another, finally coming to rest on the thought of her parents. Hermione could imagine them, worried and frantic, scouring the neighbourhood, looking fruitlessly for her. She realized, with a sickening twist of guilt, she had set off for Knockturn Alley without their permission. They had no idea she was in the wizarding world. And they had no way to get there, they were Muggles. Hermione realized, with a terrible sinking feeling settling in her gut, they had no wands to tap against the wall of the Leaky Cauldron, or Floo Powder to travel with. She felt very, very cold all of a sudden, and awfully alone.

What am I going to do? She thought. She glanced out the nearby window, searching the stars for an answer. The moon hovered above, shrouded behind a veil of clouds, watching from its lofty perch, terribly silent. Hermione sunk into despair ... two slender, salty tears trickled from her slowly closing eyes down her cheek, down towards the nape of her neck.

A sudden feeling of electricity dancing upon her skin caused her eyes to dart open. The moon, she observed, had emerged from its cloak of gossamer cloud, its brilliant, ether light falling gently upon her skin ...

... which was slowly beginning to change.

Hermione watched in shocked fascination as her faintly green, speckled skin began to alter, morphing into her familiar fair, pastel flesh in the moonlight. Her bony House-elf digits shifted into her regular fingers, ones that she used so often to flip through magical dictionaries or delicately hold a quill while writing an essay ...

Hermione became faintly aware of her legs becoming lengthier and suppler, her toes stretching forth to brush against the plush carpet below, and her bushy, mouse-brown hair falling softly across her shoulders.

Oh my god, she thought in ecstatic wonderment, hardly daring to hope. I'm human again.

She spend a full few minutes staring at her restored hands, breathing sharply, a smile slowly spreading across her face. She felt her heart pound against her chest in a fast-paced crescendo, caught in her ecstatic chant, I'm human, I'm human, I'm human ...

"Hey ..."

Hermione turned, startled. She met the rather quizzical, questioning glare of Draco Malfoy, who sitting up in his bed and looking very much awake.

It was then Hermione became aware of what she was wearing. To her extreme horror, she was still wearing the House-elf pillowcase, and it barely covered what was necessary. With a strangled cry, she reached for the nearest piece of fabric - a rug - and wrapped it around herself, blushing furiously. Draco gaped in utter speechlessness.

This lasted for several tense seconds, in which the two of them stared at each other, minds completely blank.

It was Draco who spoke first. "Would you mind explaining why you're in my bedroom, and half-naked for that matter?"

Hermione blushed furiously with embarrassment and indignation. "Well, I -"

"And what have you done to my House-elf?" he asked, in slight irritation. "You haven't killed her or anything, you stupid Mudblood, she cost us Ninety Galleons -"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "I haven't done anything to your House-elf. I am your House-elf."