My Life As A House-Elf

My Life As A House-Elf -

Chapter Twelve: The Voice Behind The Design

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Somewhere below the Manor, in a small, tumbling emerald valley nestled in a framework of pine forests, and some time before the dramatics in the Manor ever took place, the Parkinson and the Malfoy parents had gone on an outing.

An ominous black ebony carriage passed gloomily through the winding cobbled streets, met with angry leers and dagger-like stares from the local populace. The Malfoys weren´t popular among the townsfolk, considering considering their homes and livelihood belonged to Lucius Malfoy, and they had to pay monthly tribute to his household. The townspeople grumbled but did little else, living in the looming shadow of the Manor, which stood prominently upon the overlooking cliff.

"Those who wish to counter the tax rates," Lucius had told them one memorable morning a few years earlier, "are all welcome to raise their hands and say, `I commit myself to unspeakable tortures, and a cursed life hereafter.´" That kept them from uprising, most of the time.

The medieval-style homes were well maintained and neat. The fountain in the Town Square flowed crystalline water from the brass urn of a gleaming centaur sculpture. Flowers lined the road. The smell of baking bread and the occasional puff of Floo Powder mingled in the sharp, clear air. It would look a picturesque town, if not for the angry stares from the tinted windows and the occasional, "We hate you, Malfoy!" from a random, disgruntled townsperson.

"The peasants are revolting," Narcissa giggled from the interior of the carriage, smiling at the double meaning of her statement.

The carriage stopped silently by the door of a less-than noticeable tavern, and Lucius stepped out. He stared at the sign hanging above him. `Ogden´s Alehouse - Best Cider in all Ireland´. It looked almost unflattering in a dull, greyish light, half-hidden behind a curtain of deep green ivy.

"This is the place," he told a flustered-looking Mr. Parkinson, who was tagging mournfully behind. "We can discuss the matters there."

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"There´s a room upstairs, sir ..."

Mr. Parkinson surveyed the small, dimly lit room. Weak and speckled sunlight filtered through a solitary, dusty window, illuminating the cobwebby beams and faded carpet, the two simple chairs and unfurnished table.

The room looked harmless in its simplicity, but Mr. Parkinson knew that the walls were riddled with silencing charms and the door laced with protective hexes, invisible and ancient. He seated himself calmly at one chair and cleared his throat. "What did we want to discuss?"

"The body found in the chimney, you idiot," Lucius snapped. "Why else would I drag you and your wife, and Narcissa as well, all the way into town?" Lucius leaned back into the high-backed armchair and poured himself a goblet of wine. "Certainly not to enjoy the company."

"Um. To pop over at the nearest tavern and order a few drinks, while Narcissa and Athina spend a month´s worth of tax money on three hours´ worth of splurging? I don´t know Lucius," Mr. Parkinson added quickly before his host could interject, "that body may have just been a Santa Claus gone wrong." Nervous laughter.

"Poor attempt at humour, Parkinson. Try again."

Mr. Parkinson blinked, realizing something. "Why are we discussing this here? Isn´t the Manor a safer place?"

"No." That was definite. "The Manor is too easily broken into, and there are probably those watching and listening to us there. The town is much safer."

Your townsfolk are protesting against you, Mr. Parkinson thought. And how unfortunate for you to not feel safe in your own home. "It could be a harmless robber," he suggested. "A - a cat burglar. A jewel thief. He wasn´t after lives, he was after the ... artefacts you have underneath the drawing room floor." He lowered his voice at this statement.

"We found weapons on the assassin," Lucius continued, ignoring Mr. Parkinson´s elaborate explanations. "A knife that was almost saved from the fire, a length of flame-resistant goblin rope, and several scorched poison darts. And, of course, a wand that was intact enough to be examined."

"And?"

Lucius´ gaze was steely. "Willow, eleven and a half inches, dragon heartstring. After consulting the records of Mr. Ollivander, there are over three hundred people who have purchased this wand type over the period of ten years. But only one - only one - person who could have been the unfortunate individual who met his death in the Manor."

"Who?" Mr. Parkinson´s voice was but a hoarse whisper. "Who is it?"

"Wait," Lucius muttered suddenly, looking around, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "There´s someone inside this room." His voice was no louder than a whisper. "Someone is here... listening to every word we say."

Mr. Parkinson gave a start. Eyebrows raised, he glanced about the room, as Lucius roamed from corner to corner, prodding the shadows and dusty edges with his cane. He opened the door and gazed into the empty corridor, listening to the telltale footstep or soft breathing of an invisible, cloaked eavesdropper.

Up in the wooden beams, there was a critter. It was the size of a button, half-hidden behind dust and cobweb and shadow. It had heard enough. When it was obvious Lucius Malfoy wasn´t going to say anymore, the creature unfolded its wings that had been tucked underneath its tough carapace, took flight and buzzed soundlessly out of the doorway.

It landed a few buildings away, upon the windowsill of a man who sat quietly in a high-backed armchair, sipping sparkling champagne in the bright afternoon sunlight, listening to a softly playing opera aria in an isolated inn.

People like this demanded special attention.

"Well?" the champagne-drinker asked, in a distinctly sinister voice. "What information have you gathered for me?"

The beetle changed back into her original human form, shaking out her frizzy red hair and sighing. "They already know. Malfoy gave a guess, and now he knows."

"Oh, I expected as much," the speaker muttered irritably. "Lucius is much too clever to be fooled by empty tributes and the like. I suppose he has gotten wind of the entire plot by now."

"I wouldn´t doubt that," the woman said, re-applying her lipstick in a nearby mirror. "What are you going to do now, hmm?"

"I suppose we could have a change of plans." The first speaker spoke calmly and threateningly. "We could have it carried out by ... tonight."

"Tonight?" the woman asked in disbelief. "But that´s too soon! Draco Malfoy will be -"

" - Dead by tomorrow. Thank you Miss Skeeter. I´m sure I know how to do my job well enough. And I expect you to carry out your job just as efficiently."

The woman sniffed irritably. "And my payment, sir?"

The voice was smiling. "Already deposited into your Gringotts account, don´t fret. And a bonus will be provided ... once our newspaper story is published on the front page of the Daily Prophet, of course."

"`Lucius Malfoy Murders Own Son,´" the woman quoted maliciously. "This will be the story of the year. My career is made." She gave an ominous laugh. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Miss Skeeter." The voice paused. "And please tell Sergio in the lobby to please release his little pet."

"Yes, sir," was her grinning reply. Presently she left, and the door closed.

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