My Life As A House-Elf

My Life As a House-elf

Chapter Seven - The Episodes of My Enslavement, Act Two

* * * *

"It could very well be a thief," Mr. Parkinson suggested.

The Malfoys and the Parkinsons had gathered in the Forest Gardens, discussing their rather gruesome find, sitting upon the white lawn chairs, sipping tea, or, in Lucius' case, wine. They were surrounded by the gold and amber foliage of oak and maple, their voices threading through the emerald green spires of pine.

"What I mean," Mr. Parkinson continued, "there are a million things in this household that is worth stealing. The statues, the paintings -"

"I don't think it's the valuables they want," Lucius muttered darkly. Everyone turned to look at him, quietening down instantaneously to listen to his voice. A light breeze whispering through the overhanging oak branches was the only thing to interrupt the silence that accompanied Lucius' statement. "The thief crept in, seeing an unlit fireplace, saw it as a perfect opportunity to enter the Manor, oblivious to the Inferno Hex laced around the vent ..."

And was blown up the chimney in a searing jet of fire, Hermione finished, shuddering slightly. She crouched among the bushes near the table, close enough to listen to the discussion, but far enough to be ignored by Narcissa's acute sense of smell. Her elfin ears picked up the conversation clearly.

"He knew very well of the risks of breaking into Malfoy Manor," Lucius continued, running his finger along the rim of his wine glass. "It wasn't the statues, or the paintings, or the valuables in the drawing room that he wanted."

"Then what?" Mr. Parkinson faltered, his voice crinkled underneath the weight of suspense.

Lucius' voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the still silence like a knife. "I suspect the thief had more permanent motives in mind."

Narcissa stifled a gasp. "You mean someone wants to kill us?" she whispered breathlessly. Unconsciously, her hand darted to the silver necklace draped around her neck, fingering the pendant between her thumb and forefinger doubtfully. Hermione noticed that it glimmered strangely in the afternoon sunlight. "Why would anyone want to do that?"

"It's much too complicated for you to comprehend, my dear," Lucius said casually. "Mostly it involves prestige, blackmail and family rivals." He cast a significant glance at the suddenly silent Parkinsons.

Mr. Parkinson swallowed quickly, and rushed to say something. "Of course, we Parkinsons remain loyal to our companionship, Lucius," he exclaimed quickly.

"We wouldn't dream of harming our dear friends," Mrs Parkinson said, releasing a short, nervous laugh.

"Of course," Lucius replied. The note of suspicion laced within these two syllables hung ominously in the air.

* * * *

Hermione made her way to the Manor, deep in thought. Who was the unfortunate, would-be thief caught in the chimney? What did he - or probably she - want? Who had sent him? Were the Parkinsons involved?

Her thoughts circulating around this particular topic, Hermione didn't realize she had entered the Fountain Pavilion and had unconsciously stepped towards the white, carved bench where Draco had left his book, and picked up the black, hardcover volume without realizing it.

She stared at the book in hand. I actually fetched it, she thought in looming disgust. Like a puppy. Her face twisting in revulsion, she tossed the book into the carved, marble basins of one of the numerous, gilded fountains lined up in the Pavilion, staring in triumph as the book soaked in the crystalline jets of water, lying upon the base like an anemone as tiny, jewel-like fish darted through the pages. She felt awfully pleased with herself.

A small voice interrupted her glorious mood. "Excuse me ..."

Hermione turned around, slightly alarmed. One of the House-elves that helped out in the Gallery stood behind her, looking uncertain. "Are you Hattie?"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed a few times, before she finally grasped the words to speak. "You didn't see me do that, did you?"

He looked even more uncertain than ever. "Do what?"

Hermione sighed. "Nothing. Yes, I'm Hattie. Who are you?"

The House-elf hesitated for a while, before muttering, "My name is Gilly. Topsy has told us about you."

Hermione blinked. "Us?"

"The House-elves," Gilly swallowed. "Topsy told us that you ... that you know Dobby, Master Malfoy's previous House-elf."

Hermione's eyes brightened instantaneously. "Oh, yes! He works at Hogwarts, where I - where I used to work, in the kitchens," she fabricated hastily. "He's very happy there. Very happy."

"Does he ...does he work for wages?" Gilly shuddered slightly.

Hermione nodded, eyes bright. "Yes. He works for wages. And with his money, he can buy anything he wants. Food, presents ..."

Gilly's face looked as if he was about to say something dreadful. "Clothes?" he squeaked.

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "Clothes."

The thin, dishevelled House-elf shivered slightly, as if the air around him had suddenly turned cold. "Alright," he said, his voice quivering a little. And then he abruptly spun around and left, as if he couldn't bear to hear anymore. But he turned once, casting Hermione a thoughtful glance, as if he was considering continuing the conversation.

Hermione sighed. Well. It's a start.

* * * *

Dinnertime. The Malfoys and the Parkinsons sat in the Dining Room, underneath the brilliant peacock chandelier, clinking crystal wine glasses together, selecting from thirteen different courses served on golden platters, arranging their meals upon painted china, and carving slices of turkey with silver cutlery. Meanwhile, down in the kitchens, the House-elves dined on what Hermione later called, "Pond Scum".

They sat upon narrow, timber benches set in the lowest of the Malfoy's four kitchens, staring at the crude wooden bowl before her. It was filled with something green and bubbling and unattractively. Hermione lifted the spoon and saw, to her distaste, saw that the slop in the bowl stuck to it like taffy.

House-elves were fed once every three days. They were hardy creatures. Hermione realized, to her surprise, that she hadn't eaten ever since her arrival to Malfoy Manor, feeling more compelled to complete tasks, and think about how she could break her curse. House-elves ate rarely. Looking at the slop being served, Hermione scrunched up her nose and felt the strong obligation to fast the next few more days.

She turned to Gilly, who sat beside her, poking his meal uncertainly with his spoon. "You actually eat this slop?" she asked, with ever-growing dismay.

Gilly nodded. "It's what the Masters serve us. We must eat it, or starve." With that, he delicately spooned a bit of the gruel into his mouth. Hermione swore his face turned greener than it normally was. Gilly swallowed with much difficulty, and, eyes slightly teary, he took another spoonful.

"This is atrocious!" Hermione exclaimed, pounding the table. Her tiny fist didn't make much of an impact, but it caught the attention of Gilly and, as well as a few other House-elves who were sitting nearby. "They can't feed us this," Hermione continued. She held a hand out towards the large bowl of gruel the elves were sharing. "It's disgusting and degrading. Why, up there, they're dining on turkey and cakes! Why can't we?"

The elves who were listening shifted uncomfortably in their seats and tried to look away, but Hermione was such a spectacle, they couldn't tear away their attention. She continued with her speech, getting louder and more vehement as she went on. "Our Masters treat us like vermin, they feed us pigswill, and clothe us in dirty rags ... are we going to take this any longer?"

"Hattie," Topsy warned in a tinny, breathless voice. Her face was white. Hermione ignored her and stood upon the bench, more encouraged than ever.

"We're not vermin! We're not to be treated like vermin! It's up to us to make this clear to the world, and -"

"House-elf Hattie?" a voice called from the kitchen entrance. Hermione turned and peered across the dimly lit room to see another young House-elf hanging uncertainly onto the door. He looked about the hall for 'Hattie', his eyes finally coming to rest on Hermione, who stood out starkly like a red poppy head in a field of white grain. "Master Draco needs his fireplace lit. He sent for Hattie."

Oh, perfect, Hermione thought in exasperation. Putting on a haughty tone, she snapped loudly, "Tell him to do it himself."

The whole hall gasped.

The House-elf, stunned by this remark, withered suddenly under the prospect of delivering this message to Draco, knowing exactly what awaited him if he didn't do his job as required. At the sight of his glazed, panic-stricken eyes, Hermione sighed and got down. "Oh, very well," she muttered.

As she left the hall, murmurs erupted all over the tables, as each House-elf turned to his or her neighbour, chattering in low voices.

"Hattie may be right, you know," Gilly stated. Topsy bit her lower lip uncertainly and twisted the hem of her tea towel.

* * * *

Draco held the sopping wet, soggy book over the fireplace, growling under his breath. The black, hardcover volume shrivelled in the heat, and Draco knew that there wasn't any chance for the book to ever be perfect again. He threw a glance at the fire and turned around, casting a smouldering gaze behind him. Hermione sat upon a couch nearby, mending a tear in one of Draco's robes, the picture of sheer innocence. Once in a while she would look up and say candidly, "How's the book coming?"

To which Draco would answer, through gritted teeth, "Fine. Just fine." He added, "It's strange how my book suddenly ended up at the bottom of a fountain basin, don't you think, Granger?"

Hermione looked up, her face guiltless. "Oh, yes. Very."

"Why do I have the sudden feeling that you're involved in this accident?"

Hermione shrugged her tiny shoulders, and turned back towards her sewing. "I don't know." She swung her legs around in a more comfortable position, ignoring Draco's dagger-like stares.

Hermione's incompetence was beginning to irritate Draco. When she came storming to his room after being called from the Elves' Dining Hall, demanding to know why she had been called in an annoyingly demanding voice, he greatly considered giving her the sock, which meant, in House-elfin tongue, being fired. She stared at him and he stared back, both tossing threats back and forth, aiming insults like one would throw darts.

Draco greatly thought of getting rid of her. To hell with what Lucius thought, he wanted her gone. But then he remembered what Hermione had thought of him that afternoon, when he saw into her mind with the spell of Dark Sight. Her notions interested Draco. He decided not to fire her, not just yet. Not till he found out what Hermione meant.

His thoughts stirred. Brought back to the present, Draco said, "It'll be midnight soon. I'm going to bed now, and probably won't be around to watch your spectacular transformation. So you can go flouncing about my room in private, if you like. Good night."

With that, he placed the crinkled, slightly damp book on the mantelpiece, shed his heavy robes and climbed into bed, drawing the thick, velvet drapes around him like a lavish cocoon. After a while, the lack of movement and the soft rustling of bed sheets signified Draco had fallen silently asleep, encased in his own saccharine dreams.

Hermione sighed and set down her sewing. And waited.

* * * *

"Keep your eyes on the Snitch. The Snitch is all you see."

Draco was dreaming. He was hovering over the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, listening to the newly appointed Slytherin Quidditch captain, Julius Mallory, brief the team before practise began. He was addressing Draco. "Keep your eyes in the Snitch. Never let it out of your sight. Chase it down as if your life depended on it."

Draco knew he was dreaming. For one, the pitch was abnormally bright, as if it had been sprinkled on with luminescent powder. Secondly, he was riding atop an ancient Shooting Star instead of his Nimbus 2001, and it creaked and swayed beneath him, groaning with age.

Julius turned to look directly at each team member. "Don't disappoint me. We're going to win the Quidditch Cup this year, and if we don't, I'm telling Professer Snape to lock you all up in the dungeons. Now, off with you!"

The Slytherin team flew to their assigned positions, as Julius released the Quidditch balls onto the pitch. Draco caught sight of the Golden Snitch, glittering in the abnormally bright sunlight like a polished coin. He darted straight towards it.

The chase was strangely realistic. He felt the wind whip against his face, streaming against his hair and blowing back his robes, the humming sound of air speeding around him buzzing continuously in his ear. The Snitch glittered before him. It spun sideways and under, and Draco would lunge at it, arm outstretched, reaching to grasp its fluttering wings.

Suddenly, he was engulfed in a giant shadow. It completely blotted out the sun, casting a sheet of twilight upon Draco. He glanced up and saw the vast silhouette of a winged beast, its eyes glimmering an ominous red, its wing beats crashing furiously like thunder. It let out an unearthly shriek. Draco gasped.

Forgetting utterly about the Snitch, Draco darted across the field, feeling the oppressing shadow following close behind him. The distance between them was closed in the space of a few seconds. Draco felt claws tear at his ankles, the high-pitched screams of the creature filling his ears like a siren. To Draco's increasing horror, the racing broom he was riding suddenly splintered into tiny wooden flakes and he was falling, the Quidditch pitch below rushing up rapidly to crush his body.

He glanced upwards. The sky had turned a mottled grey, casting a sinister, black light onto the beast as it grappled the hem of Draco's robes. It let out another shrill, unearthly scream, tearing the skies open with its cry. Draco gasped when he saw what it truly was.

It was a Hippogriff. Like the one in his Third Year, that had nearly killed him, the one that that oaf Hagrid set upon him ... but this one's feathers were an evil, jet black, and its beak was jagged like the serrated end of a knife. It cast one smouldering look from its fiery-red eyes and lunged forward.

Draco woke with a start in his bed, throat raw from screaming.

* * * *