My Life As A House-Elf

My Life As A House-Elf -

Chapter Eleven: The Appropriate Warning

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Lightning flashed across the sky like a hundred cameras going off together, accompanied by a chorus of drumming thunder. Meanwhile the sky cried, bitterly and softly. The dripping heavens watched in silence as the thin, dishevelled House-elf beneath dashed through the colourless puddles left streaked in the mud.

Hermione was unmistakably upset. Her tears rivalled the sky, falling softly down her cheeks, joining the multitude of raindrops that rolled down to the base of her neck. She was soaked to the skin and shivering.

Yet she ploughed through the rain as if it were cause of all her torment, when the source of her misery lay inside the Manor, curled up in silken sheets, warm and cosy by the fire.

With ... her.

Hermione had rushed, in a streak of distress, out the front doors into the soaking rain, a spell of blind rage taking over her for a moment. Her mind was reeling. But somehow, in the cold rain and biting winds, she managed to regain her senses and think on how ridiculous she was behaving.

Rushing out into the rain, she thought, with temper. For him? He can go gadding off with any girl he wants to. I have nothing - absolutely nothing - to do with him.

She paused, pounding this thought into her head, with little success. I think I´ll go inside now. With gravity, she back headed towards the immense, oaken doors. It seemed a logical enough thing to do.

Hermione strode past the glittering hallways - which seemed muted and dull in all their dreary finery - towards the Kitchens, where the some of the House-elves were indulging in a rare game of Gnome Dice. The stoves were unlit; the ovens sleeping like dormant black toads. Everything seemed to be hushed underneath the bout of rain.

Hermione sat unceremoniously next to Topsy, who was busy polishing spoons. "Hello, Hattie," Topsy chirped. Then she gasped. "Hattie, your dress is soaking! Let us get that changed," and, with a clatter of spoons, she rushed off towards the far recesses of the kitchen.

Sighing, Hermione picked up one of the newly polished spoons. She saw her bulging reflection in the silver surface, staring back at her with exaggerated mottled green eyes, laden with sadness, while her freckled olive reflection stretched towards the edges of the spoon, etched with a clear frown. Her mind was frothing with all strange, bizarre thoughts.

It´s not as if I´m that pretty, was one of them. Moments later, she cocked her head to one side in defeat, thinking, She´s definitely pretty - and rich - enough.

And then continued, I wonder if she´s ever seen him in his sleep.

Followed by, I wonder if she´s ever told him how nice he looks in white. She glowered.

I wonder if she´s ever listened to his nightmares, or called him Malfoy, or tore up his curtains in fury, or threw his books into fountains or mended his torn robes ...

I wonder -

"Hattie," Topsy chirped, scattering Hermione´s thoughts in an instant. "Here you are. One new dress." She presented a thin, folded pillow case to Hermione like she was presenting the Commonwealth flag to the Queen, setting a steaming cup of watery tea next to it. Hermione stared at the humble offerings blankly, before forcing a weak smile at Topsy, and gingerly picking up the steaming cup.

"Thanks," she managed to whisper, before taking a sip.

Topsy stared at Hermione queerly. Her brow was knotted in thought. "Why was Hattie standing in the rain?" she asked tentatively, carefully choosing her words as if she was treading upon eggshells.

Hermione replied with a slow sigh. She could feel the tears prickling at her eyes, threatening to burst forward if she didn´t withhold them quickly. "Nothing, I ..." she held her breath and quickly fabricated something. "I was told to stand in the rain. I - I was being punished. By ... by Master Draco."

Saying that, Hermione retched mentally.

She took a long, lengthy draught of tea.

"Oh," Topsy gasped, visibly troubled. "What happened? What did Hattie do? Why was Master Draco upset?"

That did it.

Hermione set her mug down with a vehement slam. "Why is it always what Draco wants?!" Hermione suddenly screamed, toppling her chair over as she rushed to stand up. "WHY is it always what he wants? Why can´t it be what I want? Why doesn´t anyone care if I´m upset? Why is it always MY fault?!" Her voice was almost hysterical, fractured with sobs.

She abruptly burst into tears. The House-elves now stared, completely stunned, at their sobbing comrade. Topsy looked shaken. "Hattie - friend Hattie, please stop crying, there, there ..." she patted Hermione´s shoulder comfortingly, though a little rigidly, and led her away.

The rest of the House-elves turned to each other and softly began to chatter.

"Hattie asks for what Hattie wants," whispered Gilly, looking enthralled. "We have never asked for what we want before ...."

This statement was carried down the table, slowly mounting louder in volume and in fervour, like the prospect of an impending flood. Hattie asks for what Hattie wants. The excited House-elves unknowingly - and enthusiastically - gave fire to one of the greatest milestones in House-elf Revolution.

* * * *

Topsy waited patiently while Hermione carried on crying until there were no tears left, handing in tissues once in a while, and offering a comforting pat on the back when the situation required it. Finally she asked, in a tiny, faltering voice, "Is Hattie alright now?"

Hermione sniffed and nodded. She twisted the soggy tissue in her hands. "Yes. I suppose - I think I´m alright ..."

Topsy looked at Hermione pityingly, her large eyes diluted with concern. "There, there, friend Hattie," she murmured. "It was not Hattie´s fault. Hattie does not deserve to be punished."

Hermione didn´t look up. "I wasn´t being punished."

Topsy stared. "Then ..."

"I stood in the rain because I was angry," she answered truthfully, her voice morbid. "I - we - had an argument." Topsy gasped, her thin hand flying towards her mouth. "We argued before, and ..." Hermione bit her lip doubtfully, before uttering, "Oh Topsy, what is that girl doing here? Why in the world does she stay here?"

Topsy gaped for several moments, before abruptly stumbling across her voice. "Oh ... Hattie, Miss Parkinson is a friend of Master Draco´s ..."

At this, Hermione crossed her arms, lips pressed thin.

"Miss Parkinson comes every summer," Topsy continued, "and stays until school begins. Miss Parkinson and Master Draco are supposed to become lord and lady of the Manor when they are old enough. We are to serve Miss Parkinson then, as if she were one of our own Family."

Hermione stared. "Lord and lady of the Manor? You mean ... they´re going to ... Draco and Pansy?" She paused, her glare severe. "Married?"

Topsy looked surprised. "Of course," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Ever since they were born, Miss Parkinson and Master Draco were promised to each other."

"What ... By who?"

"The Families," Topsy answered, blinking back astonishment. "Did not Hattie now?"

"I ... I just thought they just were ..." Hermione took a deep breath. "You mean he´s been betrothed since the day he was born?"

Topsy nodded, slowly and deliberately. "That is the way of the old families."

Hermione buried her face in her hands. This is absurd, she thought, feeling like laughing and crying all at once. How could I have been so stupid. It didn´t start at the Yule Ball. It´s been going on since he was born. Maybe even before that. The very thought of Draco belonging to someone beyond his own control gave her the sensation that a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest, and she minded terribly. It was bizarre.

There was a short, pensive silence. Finally, Topsy squeaked, "Friend Hattie?"

Hermione glanced up, looking extremely sickly. "Yes, Topsy?"

The House-elf chewed her lip thoughtfully, uncertainly shuffling her feet. "Is Hattie ... Is Hattie, um. Attached to Master Draco?"

Hermione never expected this question. It had come strangely from the mouth of her friend, when, for the past few days, she had been asking herself the very same question, trying to silence the answer.

Finally, she stood up, slowly and deliberately. "I have to go," Hermione muttered, grabbing the spare pillowcase, stepping behind a shelf to change.

"Hattie?" Topsy asked. "Is everything alright?"

Hermione looked extremely distracted as she rushed from the room, turning to Topsy just once and muttering, "Sorry Topsy. Thanks for everything. I understand now, he can´t help but be with Pansy Parkinson ... and that doesn´t mean he has to die."

Ignoring Topsy´s questioning cries, she dashed through the Kitchens at an incredible speed, and, if she had been taking notice to her surroundings, she would have heard the House-elves cheering her on and crying, "We want what Hattie wants!"

* * * *

Damn all these buttons, Draco thought in irritation.

He fumbled with the numerous silver buttons on his unkempt shirt, annoyed at their quantity, their shininess, and the fact they were stamped with the Malfoy coat-of-arms. Glancing into the mirror, he checked his reflection, before catching sight of Pansy lounging on the bed behind him. Draco groaned.

"What, pray tell, are you doing?" Pansy asked sweetly, a thin sliver of malice and irritation slipping through her saccharine mask.

"I´m getting dressed," Draco answered. "I understand if it´s something you rarely do properly."

With a short, fake bark of a laugh, Pansy continued, "Where are you going, then?"

Draco didn´t bother meeting her gaze. His voice and face were expressionless. "Tower Room. And I won´t say when I´m coming down."

Pansy stared unsmiling at Draco´s back. Different rooms in the Manor meant different moods for Draco. If he was in the Library, he needed to think. If he was on the Quidditch pitch or off riding in the fields, he wanted to escape. If he were in the dungeons, it either meant he was being punished, or he was busy punishing someone else.

The Tower Room meant isolation.

Pansy whipped out a cigarette from a dress pocket, igniting it with her wand. "Go ahead," she muttered, a little irritably.

Draco straightened his shirt smartly in the mirror, and smoothed out his hair. He checked to see if there were anymore lipstick stains in sight. With a nod of approval, Draco deduced, You look terrible and yet still devastatingly handsome. Sometimes I wonder how I do it. He turned with much dignity towards the bedroom door.

And - slowly - fell over.

Pansy suppressed a chuckle. "Maybe you shouldn´t go up to the Tower after all. You´d probably never survive the third step."

"Oh, shut up, Pansy," Draco growled. His bootlace had caught onto a rug, causing him to stumble and fall. He muttered a few choice curses as he pushed himself up, stopping abruptly when he caught sight of piece of parchment out of the corner of his eye.

Draco´s faint scowl became more potent as he pushed the offending rug aside, revealing wisps of stray threads, pieces of lint, layers of dust -

... and a small folded letter.

Draco lifted it up and unfolded it. The writing in it was unmistakably Hermione´s. Draco scanned the neat, straight rows and the flowing, cursive script he found so familiar after sneaking glances into Hermione´s exercise books, his gaze darkening after every word. His jaw tensed, and his grip on the paper tightened considerably, but he made no sound nor moved an inch.

When he was done, his face was expressionless.

Pansy was sitting up in the bed, taking long draughts from a cigarette she held between her manicured fingers. She glanced at Draco. "What is that?" she muttered half-heartedly, waving her cigarette towards the parchment in Draco´s hands.

If Draco´s mind wasn´t being distracted by a myriad of hounding thoughts, he would have said something about Pansy smoking in his bedroom, getting ash on the covers and filling the chamber with tobacco smoke.

However, he merely said, "Nothing," in a strange, light tone of voice, before crumpling the parchment into a tight ball within his fist. He added, in something more subtle, soft and ominous: "Someone is going to be very, very sorry."

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