My Life As A House-Elf

My Life as a House-Elf

Chapter Seventeen - The One-Winged Owl

* * * *

If there was anything Hermione hated more than incompetent blonde brats, badly timed curses, and House-elf enslavement, it was an ill-fitting dress with far too many sequins.

Outside, it was midnight. The light of the tiny full moon was bright against the coffee-black sky, framed by a mass of sugary stars. It looked lonely, distant and vague.

Hermione thought there wouldn't be enough moonlight for her transformation, but here she was, fully human, draped in something flimsy and extravagant. The dress she wore fell elegantly from her shoulders, ending in a white, fluffy mass of besequinned feathers that whispered as she moved.

Hermione hated it.

Although it was comfortable, she felt strange wearing it - she supposed it would look almost tasteful if she were a few inches taller and had long, blonde hair. She stared sullenly at her bare shoulders and plunging neckline. Trust Draco to pick out something far from appropriate, she thought.

As Hermione thought about him, so did she start to remember the past few days' events: She had just saved Draco Malfoy, her long-time arch nemesis, from an elaborate murder attempt. The suspect - a certain Mr, McNair, who had strategically placed a Lethifold in the Manor and looked to blame Lucius Malfoy for the crime - had been apprehended, and now awaited trail. Meanwhile, the Manor's Tower Room was left in ruins after the Malfoys' protective Guardian Charm burnt the furniture, the carpets and the curtains in a moment of pure destructive glory.

Throw in an interesting curse which turned her House-elf by day and human by moonlight, saving the life of her worst enemy and not minding it one bit, as well as trying to lead a squadron of kitchen-working House-elves into the beginnings of a Revolution ... and Hermione would have summed up her summer quite well.

When will I ever have a normal life again? Hermione thought, sighing.

But the question that she really wanted to ask herself was, why?

Why couldn't she just have fled the Manor when she had the chance? Why couldn't she have left McNair to his own vengeful deed? Why couldn't she just have minded her own business, and left the Malfoys to handle their own petty little rivalries on their own?

Then - she realized - the answer lay sprawled upon the bed, wrapped in bandages and a bathrobe, reading idly from The Quidditch Digest.

"Are you done back there?" Draco said, the casual drawl of his voice stirring her thoughts. "Or perhaps you'd like to marvel at my mother's explosive dress sense a bit more?"

Hermione stepped briskly from behind the dressing screen. "I'd prefer it," she said, "it didn't look like a swan was killed, and had all its feathers glued to the hem of the dress in a moment of severe prejudice. Besides that, it looks alright."

Draco didn't say anything for awhile. The bottom half of his face was shielded by the spreadsheet of The Quidditch Digest, while his eyes stared levelly from over the top of the pages, gazing directly at Hermione.

There was something different in those eyes - they had somehow lost most of their artificial silver glitter, to be replaced with something greyer and stormier, like the threat of oncoming rain.

Hermione frowned. She wondered if Draco was laughing silently and mockingly at her awkward modeling of the dress, or skeptically eyeing for rips and tears she might have caused when she was slipping it on. Then she realized he was staring at her - not the dress.

Hermione reached for her bare shoulders. Her cheeks were beginning to colour slightly.

Draco blinked and shook his head slightly. "Um," he muttered, and added hastily, "I don't suppose you've seen the papers today, Granger."

No, she hadn't. Hermione recalled spending the entire day boiling hot water for dressing Draco's bandages, making his tea, fluffing pillows, and generally ensuring Draco's summer as comfortable as possible while she grumbled and cursed and wished him a beautifully wasting disease.

"There's something there which might interest you," Draco continued. "Look at page six."

He tossed her The Daily Prophet, far enough for it to land a few feet away from where Hermione was sitting. Throwing him an irritated glare, Hermione plucked it from the carpet, and turned to page six.

Lost among colourful prints of yesterday's Whisking Witch Baking Competition and advertisements for Gannings' Goblin Glassware, was a tiny photograph of McNair flanked by two burly guards, being led away from Azkaban, the beginnings of a sinister smile on his face.

Hermione glanced at the caption: 'Murdoch McNair is led away from Azkaban prison, after his murder charges were dropped.' There was no accompanying story. McNair walked away and disappeared shortly out of the picture.

"How could they -?" gasped Hermione. "But he tried to kill you ..."

Draco wasn't looking at her. He was solemnly examining his fingernails.

* * * *

As Hermione continued to fume in disbelief, Draco paid half-attention towards her, his thoughts drifting towards a few nights ago as he lingered in the Manor's cavernous library, flipping through sacred wizarding texts and amusing himself by doodling idly on pictures of tragic martyrs and long-dead heroes.

He heard his father enter the library, signature footsteps of leather boots upon marble floors echoing through the candlelit emptiness.

Then he heard his father's voice.

It sounded like a one-sided conversation at first, until he heard a second voice drift through the silence of the room, whispery and serpentine and beautifully mellifluous, in a way.

"You summoned me, my Lord?" Lucius whispered, unaware that he wasn't alone.

"Ah, Lucius," the voice said enthrallingly, sounding much like a dagger wrapped in expensive silk. "Finally. I trust you are alone? Is the library empty?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good, good. How magnificent. Now - have you received word on what happened to our long-absent comrade, McNair?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Trapped in prison," the voice uttered in mock pity. "Most unfortunate. How did he get there, I wonder?"

Lucius didn't answer. Suddenly, the voice grew harsh, cutting through the silence like a knife.

"I want him freed, Lucius."

Lucius sounded as if he was restraining his voice from rising out of a low, level murmur. "My Lord - he tried to murder my son."

"I don't care about your petty rivalries or competitive relationships, Lucius," the voice said sharply. "I need all my Death Eaters ready and convenient for my next task. I need them prepared. Do you understand me?"

"I understand, my Lord."

"Now, do what must be done. I don't want this to happen again."

"Of course not, my Lord. I shall not disappoint you." There was a sound of footsteps. A closing door. Then silence.

Draco glanced from behind the shelf he had been leaning against, and saw the surface of a gilded mirror - which hung grandly upon the walls ever since Draco was born - distort from a murky grey to its original, clear, reflective self. There was a smell of burnt sage in the room, which quickly faded into the flickering candlelight.

Draco leaned quietly back on the bookshelf and began to think for quite a while. He didn't bother erasing the markings he'd made in the books littered around his feet, and didn't seem to notice the grandfather clock gently toll the sounds of midnight.

* * * *

"Why would he do that?" Hermione continued, shaking Draco out of his recollected thoughts. "It's pointless. He is your father, after all."

"There are some things, Granger," Draco pointed out, "that are far greater than family."

Hermione threw him an irritated glance, simply tossing the paper onto a nearby couch and retrieving a half-completed grey knitted woolen bundle from underneath it. "Oh, go and get some sleep," she muttered, stabbing the knitting needles back and forth as the hat she was making began to take shape.

Draco watched her for a while. "Sounds like a lovely idea to me," he said, drawing the shrouding curtains about his bed to block out the bright chandelier-light. "It's awfully tiring listening to you rant, anyway."

* * * *

Hermione woke up from her sleep to the sound of faint, flowing music.

She hadn't realized she had fallen asleep. Yawning, she glanced through the darkness towards the clock at the end of the room: 3.15 AM. The chandelier had extinguished itself, drenching the room in darkness.

Glancing at Draco's bed, the first thing Hermione realized was that the curtains were drawn apart, revealing a very messy bedspread - sheets askew, cushions scattered, a few magazines lost among the ample folds of the coverlet. I can't believe I have to clean up all that in the morning, she thought in irritation. Then the most obvious detail hit her - the bed was empty.

Frowning at Draco's unannounced disappearance, Hermione's attention moved towards the faint, floating music she heard from the outside hallway. The door was ajar, a thick beam of muted candlelight spilling into the darkness.

Hermione roused herself from the couch. She began to follow the tiny thread of music.

The melody was being played on a solitary piano - haunting and almost melancholic in the dappled moonlight and dimly lit hallways. Hermione tried to recognize the tune - it wasn't any Muggle song, or popular Weird Sisters track, either. It sounded very sad and beautiful. The pianist was quite a skilled player too, she remarked, wondering whom it could be.

She entered the Music Room. It was a grand ballroom with a chessboard marble floor, and an echoing domed ceiling painted with ghostly angels and winged horses. Tall, arched windows spread from floor to ceiling, letting pale shafts of moonlight fall into the darkened room.

At the far end of the chamber was a beautiful, black, grand piano. Someone was sitting at it and playing, back turned towards her.

Draco.

Hermione watched him, transfixed. Her first thought was, 'I didn't know Malfoy could play the piano', until she suddenly noticed the beauty of the melody, the grace of Draco's performance, and the sweet echoes vibrating through the hollow room. She listened intently.

Suddenly the keys stopped. The music faded. Draco turned around to face Hermione and asked, "Recognize the tune?"

Hermione stopped in her tracks. She embarrassingly tried to look like she had just arrived, and hadn't been listening for the first few minutes. "No, not really."

"I thought not," Draco remarked with minor disdain. "It's from a famous wizarding opera - The One-Winged Owl, by Etienne de Reverie. Quite a sad story, actually. I watched it when I was ten.

"It was about a young lady who got herself turned into an owl and was forced to the paltry task of delivering letters for her lover, who was unaware of the fact that his snowy owl was, in fact, his true love. She had to watch him piteously pen love letters meant to be delivered to her, unable to tell him the truth of why she wasn't answering.

"In the end, she was helpless to stop him from dying of a broken heart. Come to think of it," Draco added thoughtfully, "It was quite pathetic, really. And very dramatic."

"That sounds very sad," Hermione commented, feeling like a broken-heart herself. She felt like abruptly changing the subject - suddenly the storyline of the opera seemed far too familiar, for some particular reason. "What was that song you were playing?"

"It's called Flighting Moon," he answered. "It pretty much speaks for itself, actually. What are you doing here?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I would very much ask you the same question."

Draco glanced outside the windows, towards the lonely moon hovering above the shadowy topiaries. "I had to think." Suddenly he did something strange: he pulled his wand out of the depths of his night-robes, tapping the tip of his wand upon the piano gently like a conductor testing his baton.

The piano seemed to groan gently, and new melody formed, playing itself upon the keys as if an invisible pianist sat at the chair.

"Care to dance?" Draco asked casually, holding out a hand towards Hermione as the song echoed around the room.

She stared at him oddly. He looked almost ethereal in the moonlight, standing poised and ghostly, his silver-blonde hair forming a vague halo about his face. There were the beginnings of a smile upon his lips, which bordered along the lines of a very handsome smirk, and his eyes looked starrier than before, somehow.

Hermione threw him a condescending look as she accepted his hand. "You puzzle me, Malfoy."

"Ah, yes, well," he admitted, "I like mysteries."

He swept her off her feet.

The melody floating from the piano echoed across the marble dance floor as Draco and Hermione waltzed, seemingly enamoured by the lilting tune and each other's footsteps. There was no other sound in the room but the music and the whispering of their clothes, and the soft steps they took as they glided across the marble.

Hermione grew dizzy, little by little. Too much spinning, she thought breathlessly, feeling the colour rise to her cheeks. She found herself becoming aware of the subtle grace of Draco's movements, the accuracy of his footsteps, the warmth of his hand in hers, how lithe his limbs were, how silvery his eyes looked under the influence of moonlight.

It was as if she had been kept in a cage before, and she was discovering flight for the first time.

The space between them began to close little by little, the drunk europhia of dance flirting with their minds. Hermione was distinctly aware of Draco's face inching towards hers, her lips parting slightly to brush against his...

The music suddenly died and the dance itself stopped - and both the dancers were silent as they took their last few steps. Hermione did not say anything. Draco was silent. Both felt strangely awkward and horribly flushed.

"Um," Draco began.

"Mmm," Hermione agreed.

They looked at their feet and frantically began to piece sentences in their heads.

"Hermione," Draco offered, staring at her regally in the eyes, "I have a proposition to make."

She looked expectantly at him, surprised at the suddenness of his declaration.

"I think keeping you here is far more troublesome than I expected," Draco continued. "After you arrived ... look what happened; an attempted murder, a ruined Tower Room - things just get too exciting when you're around."

Hermione looked downwards, unable to resist a smile.

"So now, I've decided I'll let you go free - free and far away from the Manor. And help you lift your rather unfortunate curse," he added in a mutter, with as much dignified superiority he could muster.

Hermione looked at him. "Would you really? This isn't some sort of scheming ploy to get at me or my friends, is it?"

"Of course not," Draco retorted hotly. "Why would I want this to happen all over again?"

Hermione was silent. She would rather like it to happen all over again, actually, if it were to end in another dance.

But the moon was setting and it would be dawn soon, and they had to head back to Draco's room before the sun chased away the last few strands of moonlight.

"Alright, then," she said. "I accept your offer. First thing tomorrow night, we set off for Knockturn Alley and we find the sorcerer Barquel, and hopefully a cure for my curse." And then she added, "Thank you, Mister Malfoy," holding her chin high.

Draco gave her a roguish smirk in return. "Anything for you, Hattie," he replied.

* * * *