My Life As A House-Elf

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter Sixteen - The Elaboration

* * * *

Draco woke suddenly from sleep to see three rather sceptical individuals standing over him, muttering quietly. A lamp was held close to his face. Its searing light lit up their faces clearly, though it nearly blinded him.

"Hello, Mother," he muttered, voice dry. "Father ..." He peered through the lamplight towards the third figure. It was the family physician.

"He seems to be alright," the Healer said, carefully removing the lamp and replacing it on the shelf. The figures before Draco were once more enveloped in darkness, standing starkly in the shadows like spectres.

"The bandaging is very well done," the Healer carried on, "and the bleeding stopped before it got too serious. The boy's fine."

Draco wanted to say something about not being fine, he was bleeding to death and his dreams aren't very reassuring either, but he felt immensely tired. Instead his listened sleepily to the doctor's medical drivel about him - get enough water into the boy, feed him some decent food, change the bandaging and cast Healing Charms often to prevent infection.

Lucius mentioned something about knowing how to take care of his own son, thank you.

Hearing his father's voice startled Draco out of his reverie. He blinked and peered through the darkness, to see the tall, shadowy frame of Lucius Malfoy standing in the darkness.

"You may expect your payment transferred to your Gringgots account by morning, doctor," said Lucius tersely, his voice professional and polite. "Thank you for calling in at such an inconvenient time."

"It is my duty, Mr. Malfoy," the doctor said cordially, and, with a tip of his pointed hat, he Disapparated.

"Incompetent twit," Lucius muttered, as soon as he was gone.

Narcissa turned a concerned, milky-blue gaze towards Draco. The necklace was once more draped around her neck, and she was playing with it almost reflexively, twining the silver chain upon her finger. Her voice was gentle as she asked: "Are you alright, dear?"

"I'm fine," Draco winced, a spasm of pain shooting through his chest. He changed his mind abruptly. "I'm in pain," he continued, "and I need dutiful care and attention. What happened to me?"

"You were attacked," answered Lucius plainly, "by a Lethifold. The Guardian in your mother's necklace was called upon, and the creature was destroyed before it could finish devouring you."

"The Guardian? You summoned the Guardian?" Draco asked in disbelief. That hadn't happened since ... oh, since Octavious Malfoy nearly burnt down the Manor in the Dragon years.

"There's nothing odd about us summoning the family Guardian," Lucius answered tersely. "You would have been dead if I hadn't done it myself."

The Patronus, caught in something silver, was one of the family's best means of defence for generations. Narcissa kept it dangling from a pendant around her neck, presented to her by Lucius on their wedding day. It was a token of protection. No one expected it to be used at all - but then, no one expected Lethifolds, either.

Lucius' statement was followed by a lengthy silence. The lamplight flickered, as if all the flames were leaning in curiously to listen to the conversation. Draco picked uncertainly at the hem of his covers, examining the coverlet's elaborate patterns with ardent concentration.

There's something I should say ...Draco thought, his brow knotting with thought as he tried to think past the upwelling headache. Something I forgot to say ...

"Well. I must be off now -" Lucius muttered contemptuously, "I have matters to attend to - important letters to write - ruined Manor to restore ..." he adjusted his gloves and dissolved into the shadows, striding towards the doors.

Something I have to say -

"Father," Draco called. Though he said it quietly, his voice seemed to grow in volume as it echoed across the chasm-like room. He whispered as if he was trying to make his voice as indistinct as possible.

Lucius' footsteps died abruptly.

Draco paused - for the first time in his life, at loss at what to say.

- then, finally, "Thank you," Draco said formally, distant and polite, "for getting rid of the Lethifold before it got rid of me." The sentence died with a note Draco didn't find very satisfactory.

He could not see his father's face in the shadows, nor distinguish where he was. The darkness was a shimmering, shiny curtain separating them both. Lucius' voice seemed to come disembodied and ethereal ... as if he wasn't really there, and the shadows were answering for him.

"I'm your father, Draco," the darkness whispered. "Gratitude isn't necessary."

The silence that followed satisfied everything they needed to say, voiceless shadows filling in the rest of the conversation. Narcissa, out of impulse, began stroking her son's hair in a very uncharacteristic and motherly fashion. Her eyes were bright and tinged with worry, her lips pursed with an almost-guilt.

Draco closed his eyes, in comfort and fatigue. The firelight faded, and his thoughts spiralled into starry nothing, the dreamy blackness lulling him to sleep. He'd tilted his face away from the candlelight, so no one could see the trickle of tears slide down his cheek.

* * * *

Hermione spent the day as if she were walking in a dream.

The Manor, by daylight, appeared jaded and unreal - the hallways carried an air of polite indifference, and everything was silent, save for the chirping birdsong and the musical sound of splashing fountains.

It was exactly as Hermione pictured the rich to spend their holidays: bored, sighing, lavishly uninterested in everything around them. Nothing fascinating, except for the breeze whispering through the ivy on the roof, and the gentle tinkle of yawning chandeliers.

Lucius was far too busy overseeing the reconstruction of the ruined Tower Room and answering the questions of the occasional nosy reporter to issue any new orders to the House-elves - while Narcissa was constantly out in town on extravagant shopping trips, 'recovering' from her state of 'shock'. The Parkinsons had gone home - they were convinced the Manor wasn't safe anymore, and weren't planning on visiting anytime soon.

Suddenly idle, Hermione would find herself occasionally polishing a brass figure here, emptying a coal brazier there, or dusting out a random tapestry, all dreamily and half-heartedly. She would constantly glance out the tall, polished windows and stare into the rolling green countryside, sighing.

Her friends Topsy and Gilly would approach her with questions such as, "Hattie, what does 'Revolution' mean?" and, "Does Hattie like red paint?" - and she would answer them vaguely, with with a half-hearted smile. The only time she actually paid full attention when Gilly complained his ears were getting cold. That started Hermione thinking about knitted hats. But that was ages ago.

She knew she had been set free, and could go wherever she wished. She knew she could go to Knockturn Alley and find a remedy for her curse, she knew she could finally fly from Malfoy Manor and go home. But instead, she preferred to stay. She wouldn't go, not just yet. She was waiting for something.

"When is he coming out of there?" Hermione would irritably ask as she prepared herself for sleep in the House-elves dining hall for yet another night.

"Who is Hattie talking about?" Topsy asked, putting her banner aside (It was a stolen white tablecloth smeared with dollops of red paint).

"Him," Hermione replied scathingly. "Draco. He's been locked in his room for two days now. When are they going to let him out?"

"When the Healer says Master Draco is well, Topsy supposes," her friend replied, returning to her painting. She looked up at Hermione. "How does Hattie spell 'Welfare'?"

Draco had been locked in his room for the past few days, and the family physician wouldn't allow anyone inside, except for his parents. Hermione was frequently irritated by the fact that she wasn't allowed in, not even to deliver a cup of tea. Though the Healer would constantly reassure Lucius and Narcissa that their son was recovering perfectly fine, Hermione wanted to see for herself how he was coming on.

He's probably being spoilt rotten in there, she thought poisonously, lying luxuriously on his bed and pretending he was in dire pain, while being waited on hand and foot. I'd like to give him a tight slap, and see how'd he heal from that.

Finally, she got her chance.

"Master Draco would like to see his House-elf," the Healer announced with a queer stare, stepping out of the bedroom with his hat tucked underneath his shoulder. He dropped his gaze to Hermione, who was crouched low next to the bedroom door, silently knitting what seemed to be a grey, misshapen hat.

"He wants to see me?" she asked, dropping her knitting instantly.

The Healer nodded. "Very strange. He was snapping constantly about no one understanding of his extreme misery, and then he requested to see you. Ah ... I must see Master Lucius ... my bills haven't been paid ..." the Healer dropped his wand into his bag and rushed down the hallway in a flurry of distraction.

Hermione strode into the room.

Sitting at the side of his bed, a copy of The Daily Prophet balanced in his lap, was Draco Malfoy. He was not wearing a shirt - instead, rolls of white bandages were wrapped around his abdomen, and this seem to be causing him great discomfort - and his hair was uncombed and askew, falling over his eyes, which were furrowed in an expression of profound thought.

He noticed Hermione come in. "Oh, you," he muttered, putting away the newspaper. "Yes, I wanted to see you. I forgot to ask you something." Draco turned to face her, confronting. His gaze was level and sombre. "Why?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"Why did you do it," he continued, crossing his arms. When the bandaging across his chest didn't permit him to do this comfortably, he uncrossed them and settled to place them leisurely at his hips. "Why did you bother to save me from the Lethifold, when I had clearly set you free?"

His accusatory tone hit Hermione's nerves. "Well," she huffed, glaring at him, "that's a peculiar way of saying thank you! Oh yes, I could have left you to die spectacularly and read your obituary in the papers, but I didn't. Instead I selflessly tried to save you. I rushed to the Tower Room without thought of myself, threw myself in the Lethifold's path and had no reason to do so. The least you could do is say thank you."

She spun around and was determined to head towards the doors, but she realized she had been vying to get inside his room for days. So she sat on a couch instead. Facing away from him. She hoped he would get the hint that she was very unhappy.

The rustling of paper behind her signalled that Draco was reading The Daily Prophet again. A few pages were turned. Then, very softly, as if he wasn't planning to be heard, Draco muttered, "Thank you."

Hermione turned around, eyes accusatory. "I beg your pardon?" she prompted.

"I said," Draco strained through gritted teeth, "thank you. Thank you for not reading my obituary in the papers. Thank you for not leaving me to die. Thank you," he threw a glaring look in Hermione's direction, "for making me feel like an absolute bastard for not saying thank you."

With this as a final note, he threw himself back into his bed - and then clutched agonizingly at his stomach, wincing in pain. Hermione stood up suddenly.

"What's happening?" she asked, voice slightly tense. "Are you hurt?" Then she realized how anxious she sounded. "Not that I care," she added.

"I'm dying in bizarre and spectacular ways," Draco said breathlessly. "My bandages are far too uncomfortable." He suddenly looked thoughtful. "Death by bondage. Now that's something to read in the papers."

Hermione found herself laughing. She stopped herself just in time.

Draco stared at her, apparently perplexed. Then, fluidly, he got up and retrieved the copy of the Daily Prophet from the bedside shelf.

"Have you read this, Granger?" he asked, tossing it in Hermione's direction. She caught it and stared at the front page.

Looking back at her was a black-and-white picture of herself, sitting patiently by Draco's bedroom doors, knitting a pair of gloves absent-mindedly and smiling slightly.

She didn't remember posing for any photos. Rita Skeeter must have found a new way of infiltrating buildings and getting photographs that shouldn't really be published.

The story underneath read:

"Relationship Between Master and Servant - How A House-elf Saved Her Master's Life!

(told to you truthfully by Rita Skeeter).

"The spectacular relationship between servant and master cannot be any stronger than the one featured here. In an article told in The Daily Prophet on August 1^st, young Draco Malfoy - son of the illustrious Hogwarts school governer and Ministry worker, Lucius Malfoy - was nearly murdered in his own home by a Lethifold, if it weren't for his dutiful House-elf.

"The valiant little servant threw herself into the Lethifold's path just before Lucius Malfoy himself stepped into the fray and disposed of the dark creature. Right before Draco was carried to safety, the elf had pledged, 'I won't leave, I promise I won't.'

"Such a bond between servant and master is indeed rare."

Hermione put the paper down. "I did not say that," she said sombrely. "And it was your father who did all the work."

Draco gave a small laugh. "Apparently Rita's views didn't agree with my father," he sighed. "And she wrote this article as a sign of revenge towards him. Oh - " he added, stretching luxuriously into his bed, "she was in the rafters during the attack. She probably knew about the murder attempt and knew what a good story it would make, even if I lived or died. She listened to every word being said."

There was a deep, undisturbed pause between them. The air seemed thicker than a fog, and the room was as silent as an tense exam hall during the OWLs. Hermione felt exquisitely uncomfortable. Then she coughed.

"Do you have August 1^st's copy of the Daily Prophet?" she asked.

Draco rooted underneath his bed. He was still carrying that air of studious silence, brow furrowed slightly in a contemplative stare. "Here," he said, tossing the paper towards Hermione. He returned to leaning back into his bed and staring dreamily at the canopy.

Hermione gazed at the front page article.

"Almost-Murder at Malfoy Manor! - it read,

"A strange occurance took place at the Malfoy residence two nights ago, on the 2nd of August. Rita Skeeter writes:

"Draco Malfoy - the only son of Hogwarts school governer and prestigious Ministry worker, Lucius Malfoy - was nearly the victim of what seemed to be an elaborate murder plan. On the 2nd night of August, at approximately seven minutes to midnight, the Malfoy's Wiltshire manor had been breached by a Lethifold.

"Lethifolds - considered 'Extremely Dangerous' by the Ministry of Magic - are dark creatures that devour their victims while they sleep, departing without a single trace of the victim, leaving Aurors baffled by the apparent disappearance. The creature is described as, 'resembling a thick, black cloak' in, 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' by Newt Scamander (Obscurus Books).

"Wizarding authorities had speculated that this particular Lethifold was a wild specimen that evaded capture in last month's Lethifold Obliteration Act - although certain other parties confirmed otherwise.

"After receiving advice from the incensed Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry acted against Murdoc MacNair, a Ministry worker in the Disposal of Magical Creatures Department. Authorities have marked him as the mastermind behind an elaborate murder plot - involving a Lethifold - against Mr. Malfoy's son.

"Mr. Malfoy quotes, 'He [MacNair] had been breathing down the back of my neck for far too long ... I suspect he had been planning this endeavour for months.'

"Substantial evidence has been found to testify against Mr. Macnair - instruments of dark origin were found in his tavern room in a town nearby to the Manor, as well as numerous, dangerous tomes containing information on how to control magical beasts.

"Mr. MacNair is being withheld temporarily in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. The said Lethifold has been destroyed by the Malfoy family Guardian."

"Well," she put the article down. "That explains a lot of things."

Draco cast her a curious look, questioning.

"Someone was trying to murder you," she said in reply. "Two people - talking in the Topiary Gardens - they were apparently plotting your demise. But you wouldn't listen to me."

Draco narrowed his eyes, getting more and more impatient. "What do you mean, I wouldn't listen to you?"

"I tried to warn you about the murder attempt," she answered, glaring. "I heard people talking in the gardens - I listened to every word. I wanted to tell you."

"Why didn't you?" Draco asked, exasperated.

"Because," Hermione said hotly, her voice growing louder, "you were far too busy hopping into bed with Pansy Parkinson to notice me!"

Draco stared at her in reply, apparently speechless. There was a profound silence.

Then, presently, he began to laugh.

* * * *