My Life As A House-Elf

My Life As A House-Elf

Chapter Eighteen - The Journey From The Manor

* * * *

Maybe it was the fact that the last days of summer were soon fading into cold, faltering autumn; or the skies were cloudy and shimmery that morning; but Draco awoke to a vast feeling of dread.

I'm still dreaming, he told himself, as he stared across the sunlit room. I dreamt last night I was dancing with Hermione Granger. On normal circumstances he would have considered that a horrifying nightmare, but these weren't normal circumstances.

He could still distantly hear the music playing, the laugh in her smile, and the clumsy dance steps he took as he tried to remember how to waltz. Draco shook his head.

At his bedside was a lovely prepared breakfast. Hermione was nowhere to be seen.

* * * *

Draco spent the rest of the morning in a daze, leafing through the Malfoy's vast Library, lost amid a labyrinth of books.

Currently, he was reading something that involved werewolves. A delightful illustration accompanied the passage, involving a man being eaten alive by a vicious, three-headed hellhound. Draco sighed, closing the book. He couldn't concentrate.

Everything - from the angelic murals painted on the Library ceiling, to the tapestries of playing nymphs tumbling from the walls - reminded him too much of Hermione. She was everywhere - in the gurgling fountains, in the singing sunlight. Draco had to remind himself constantly: She's leaving tonight, Draco. You'll never have to deal with her obscene presence anymore; you'll never have to worry about Mother detecting unpleasant Mudblood smells about the Manor.

You'll never find yourself dancing with her again.

A deep, sickening feeling twisted in Draco's gut. He scowled, stumbled across Library shelves, and emerged in the Library's main chamber. Someone was waiting for him at one of the great pine tables.

"Good morning, Draco," Lucius Malfoy spoke cordially. "I was told you could be found here, even after I sent message to you to see me in the study."

Draco frowned. He had received that message, but just couldn't bring himself to see his father. Not right now.

"I think I'm unwell," Draco remarked, clutching his stomach. This was not entirely untrue - he was feeling a bit dizzy. "I don't think I can talk at the moment. May I be excused?"

"Nonsense," Lucius announced. He swept over towards an elaborate, heavy chair and sat down. "There are important things I have to say to you Draco, and you will hear them. Sit down."

Draco sat down. He sulked.

"Recent events -" Lucius began, then paused, as if he were carefully selecting his next words, "Recent events, Draco, have caused me to think greatly on the security and safety of this Manor. If you are unaware of it, this Manor was once an invulnerable fortress in the days of your ancestors, and what has transpired in the past few days have been quite a worry to both your mother and our bank account." He shook his head. "Lethifold attacks, honestly.

"Anyway - since there doesn't seem to be a less-awkward way to do this - I want to give you something," he continued, tossing something silvery and glittering into the air.

With the skill and precision of a trained Seeker, Draco caught it with ease. He unclenched his fist and stared at the gift in hand.

It was a necklace. An amulet, more like, with the ever-familiar dragon-pendant resting in Draco's palm. Within it, resided the Malfoys' Guardian Charm, a Patronus caught in something silver. The pendant glinted strangely in the dim sunlight, and its emerald eye sparkled softly in an ever-subtle wink.

"Isn't this supposed to be mother's?" Draco asked, still staring at the gift in spellbound admiration.

"A new ornament is being fashioned by our craftsman," Lucius explained, rising from his seat with the grace and elegance of someone who was very, very bored. "Your mother always wanted a bracelet, anyway. Take good care of it, Draco," and with that mentioned, he left.

Draco held up the pendant to catch the light, watching it swing slightly. He stared towards the slowly disappearing shadow of his father's retreating figure.

And, with thoughtful deliberation, he fastened the amulet around his neck.

* * * *

Tonight is the night, Hermione thought nervously, tightening the cowl around her neck.

Outside, the full moon rose. It cast a dull, pearly light into the Grand Gallery, lighting the dusty chandelier and sleeping portraits of long-dead Malfoys in a ghostly glow. Hermione shivered. Patiently, she waited for the person she was waiting for to arrive.

Tonight is the night, she reminded herself again. She closed her eyes and sighed, repeating herself a prayer over and over. She didn't know why she felt so scared - all morning, she couldn't concentrate on her work, and hardly noticed the blur of her fellow House-elves around her. It was all as if she were walking through a dream.

But last night was no dream, she told herself, and, for a single moment, her fear seemed to evapourate.

Dancing through the ballroom ...no one to see us, but the stars and the sky and the sleeping chandelier. The softly playing piano, and the music of whispering clothes and carefully-placed footsteps.

All day, Hermione had been playing lovely visions of freedom over and over in her mind - seeing her parents once again, meeting Harry and Ron in Diagon Alley as they shopped for school supplies, and never having to worry about wearing too-small pillowcases. She conjured these thoughts and went over them like a fondly read letter - but after awhile, the visions lost their luster. Hermione began to ache for something else; something missing - something more.

"Granger," a voice murmured.

Hermione jumped. She searched the darkness, and caught sight of two startling grey eyes emerging into the moonlight.

"You were dancing by yourself," Draco Malfoy said, bemused. "It's a little too early to be celebrating your freedom just yet, Granger. Follow me."

He strode over towards one of the Grand Gallery's vast chimneys. Hermione stared at him, and found herself again with that wistful feeling that had been plaguing her all day. The familiar ache for something more. She followed close behind him, and found herself memorizing the way he took a step. She shook herself awake.

"Knockturn Alley."

The Manor disappeared from sight in a flurry of green flames, and a puff of what smelt like gunpowder.

* * * *

In a tumble of soot-stained robes and tangled hair, Hermione and Draco fell into the fireplace of a darkened, dusty shop.

Draco groaned as he tried to right himself. But something was holding him down - something with a substantial amount of bushy, brown curls and velvet robes.

"Granger - I'm sure you live by the 'women on top' philosophy - but this isn't the moment to be exercising it."

"Oh, sorry." Hermione was glad the shop was dark enough to hide her blushing. She rolled off Draco's sprawled, groaning body, and asked tentatively, "Are you alright?"

"Yes - I think my body broke my fall." Draco pushed himself upward.

"Sorry," she whispered again.

"This is why," Draco explained, "I prefer to travel by broom." He stood up and groaned. "Where do you suppose we've landed?"

"TRESSPASSERS! THIEVES! Get out of my shop, gutter scum!"

A tall, lanky figure in striped nightclothes came thundering down a nearby set of stairs, brandishing what seemed to be a large broom. He held a wand in his other hand, brightly-lit to illuminate the darkness.

"I warn you," the furious, breathless shopkeeper growled threateningly, "the last thief that tried to steal my merchandise ended up getting eaten by it. If you don't get out of my shop, I'll feed you to the furniture!"

A note of recognition rang within Hermione at the sound of the shopkeeper's voice, and at the mention of his bizarre and unnatural threats. "Barquel?" she asked, mystified. "You're Barquel the sorcerer, aren't you?"

He lowered his broom, and pointed the lighted wand towards Hermione's face. "Have we met?"

"A few weeks ago, you placed a curse on me," she explained quickly. "I accidentally broke a few of your potion bottles, and I'm terribly sorry about that - but we need your help to lift the curse."

The puzzled look on Barquel's face slowly melted into that of revelation. "You!" he cried in discovery. "You're that girl they've been looking for!"

Hermione exchanged a glance with Draco. "Who's been looking for me?" she asked.

Barquel shook his head, and sighed. His shoulders sagged as the earlier fury and defense left him, and with a complicated wave of his wand, the shop broke into brilliant light.

Hermione stared at the shop displays in curious wonder. In the darkness, she had not seen the fascinating merchandise on display - shelves filled with miniature animal skulls that chattered quietly, spinning Sneakoscopes, and large star models that twirled and glittered overhead.

Something hanging in the corner caught Hermione's eye. On closer inspection, Hermione recoiled slightly in horror - tacked upon the wall like morbid displays were shrunken House-elf heads, their eyes and mouths sewn up with thick twine. She turned away. Somehow she found Draco's hand to hold, and grasped it tightly without acknowledging the startled expression on his face.

Barquel brought out a folded copy of The Daily Prophet from underneath a counter. "There you are - on the front page, too."

Hermione studied the newspaper in surprise: splayed on the front cover, in clear black-and-white, was a large photograph of herself framed by screaming headlines.

"Girl Goes Missing - Last Seen In Knockturn Alley", the main headline proclaimed in thick, black letters. Accompanying the full report on page three was a photograph of Hermione's parents, their faces etched with anxiety and distress.

"Dark wizards have been blamed for her disappearance, though more rational sources place the blame on rogue goblins that have reportedly been seen in the Alley after nightfall," read the article. "Aurors have been searching the area for traces of the girl these past few days."

Barquel had poured himself a flagon of Firewhiskey, which he seemed to be emptying at distressing speeds. "They searched my shop nearly a dozen times," he sighed tiredly, "and I had to remove and rearrange my merchandise a hundred times over, while they searched. I've been fined for possessing illegal artifacts over and over, and I'm going to be put out of business if this continues."

"Then why did you do it?" confronted Hermione. "Why did you curse me in the first place?"

"I was acting on impulse!" Barquel cried, and then took a long, comforting draught of Firewhiskey. "I didn't mean to do it - and when the report came out in the Prophet, the first thing I wanted to do was look for you, and tell you the cure."

Hermione's eyes snapped fully open. "There's a cure," she breathed, "oh, please tell me what it is now."

"Well, that's what I wanted to tell you," replied Barquel painfully. "There is no cure."

A moment of silence passed like a winter's snowfall. Hermione stared at Barquel as if he had sprouted bright orange fins, a spangled tail, and announced his migration to the ocean. "No cure?" she asked faintly.

"The only two cures require specific ingredients," Barquel explained quickly, catching the dangerous look in Hermione's eyes. "But they're very specific - and can't be found just anywhere."

Draco stepped forward. "I'll pay any amount you ask. No price is too high for me to afford." With a flourish, Draco pulled out a pouch full of glittering Galleons. "How much does it cost?" he offered generously.

Hermione stared at him. This is uncharacteristic of him, she thought, astonished. When has Malfoy even done something nice for me? And he merely returned her gaze with a cold sneer.

Still, Barquel shook his head. Draco was momentarily stunned at the sorcerer's disregard for money, but recovered with Barquel's gloomy explanation: "What the cure requires, money cannot exactly buy."

"What is the cure, then?" Hermione demanded, pounding her hand on the glass countertop of a display cabinet. The little jade ornaments carefully-arranged inside clattered noisily.

Barquel held his arms out placidly, and dove underneath the counter. He emerged with a large, leather-bound book, and opened it to a bookmarked page. "The only two cures of a transfigured enchantment," he read, "are the twin immortal and passionate emotions of love and hate. Thus, the suitable cure for the enchanted would either be a mortal wound dealt by a sworn enemy ... or a kiss given to her by her true love."

Hermione stared at him, bewildered.

It was Draco who spoke first. "So," he reasoned, "the only way for me to cure her is to hurt her - or to kiss her?"

Barquel raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "That depends," he said, "do you happen to be her sworn enemy, or her true love?"

Draco snorted derisively. Without another word, he swept from the shop, his boots thundering across the wooden floor as if he planned to shatter it.

Hermione watched him leave. A mortal wound dealt by a sworn enemy, the words tolled through her head, or a kiss given to her by her true love.

But I don't have a true love, Hermione thought, staring into the inky nighttime gloom in which Draco had disappeared.

"We'll be back," Hermione muttered tersely to a stunned Barquel, and swept after Draco, into the darkened streets of Knockturn Alley.

* * * *

The alleyways seemed even more sinister at night than they were during the day.

Beggars coughed in the gutters, rats scampered over cobblestones, the shadows seemed to be filled with hollow spaces and hulking, sinister figures. Shop windows yawned emptily onto the streets like the mouths of giants.

"Malfoy?" Hermione called into the dark.

She was suddenly aware of the silence. Draco was nowhere in sight. In the dim light of the moon, she could see no trace of him, could not make out the familiar billow of his cloak, nor the reassuring resonance of his footsteps.

"Malfoy?" she called again bleakly. "Where are you?"

Then, she saw something flickering around the corner. A sliver of firelight. It could be anyone, she thought, biting her lip. But what choice did she have? Though she had read about numerous warnings in books on how one should never follow light under any circumstances (you would either find yourself drowning in quicksand, or find your boots terribly muddy), Hermione shouldered past her fear, and made towards the tiny, flickering flames.

She gazed around the corner. Surrounding a tiny campfire of burning twigs and rubbish sat a bunch of bedraggled figures, muttering in snappish, surly tones. They had beady, glittering eyes, sharp, pointed ears, and mottled skin. A few of them had rats skewered on sharp sticks, and were roasting them over the dismal fire.

Goblins, Hermione thought in repulsed fascination, like the ones that work at Gringotts. Except these was the meaner, nastier rogue version. What would they be doing here?

One of them suddenly spoke. "Where's Grappler?" he snarled, dribbling over his barbequed rat. "We all agreed to meet here precisely after midnight. I'll have his head on a pike for being late."

"Just tell us now why we're all here, Smad," one of the gathered goblins said, his voice sounding like wet sandpaper. "We'll tell Grappler the plans when he gets here."

Smad - apparently the leader of the band - cleared his tiny throat and announced, "Alright then, let's get started. Smek, please put the rat down. I have called you all here, my noble brothers, to tell you of my brilliant plan that will not only make us rich, but will humiliate and embarrass our pathetic brethren that have decided to work for the wizards."

This got the attention of the group. Their pointed ears twitched, and they sat silently, eyes glittering like beads. One of them asked, "Do you mean those stuffed, suit-wearing, poor excuses for goblins that work at Gringotts?"

"That's exactly what I mean!" Smad cried, eyes glittering. "We're going to rob them from under their noses - make sure it gets into the papers - then we'll be rich; and they would be punished by their pathetic wizard employers!"

This was met with murmurs of agreement. "How will we do it?" a younger goblin asked, clearly enthusiastic with the idea.

"It won't be a problem," answered Smad, "We have a friend who works in the vaults, who has come to see the error of his ways in serving the dirty wizard scum. His name is Gristle. He will help us get pass the magic barriers and the locks, and we'll all be swimming in all the Galleons we want ... and not only that, we will also ruin the wizards, who think they can lord over us by giving our unfortunate brothers poor banking jobs.

"The wizarding world will erupt into chaos! And they will see that us goblins are a force to contend with - like in the days of our glorious ancestors, the age of the goblin wars!"

A chorus of rousing cheers followed. Hermione watched and listened, spellbound, knowing she should tell someone about this as soon as she possibly could. The last few words froze her where she stood.

"When do we begin this?" one of the goblins asked.

"Why, tomorrow of course," answered Smad, licking his lips, "we have everything ready."

Hermione turned to leave. She had heard enough.

It was then she bumped into Grappler.

"Oi," the goblin remarked in surprise, his large orange eyes narrowing into slits, "'Ow long 'ave you been standing there, girl?"

Hermione gaped for something to say - until Smad and the gang goblins left the campfire, dispersing to meet their late comrade.

"What do we have here, Grappler? Looks like you brought a little witch with you to the meeting," muttered Smad, holding up what looked like a barbed goblin cutlass.

Taking this as a signal, hundreds of blades were suddenly pointed to her at once, wielded by far more goblins than Hermione could remember seeing before.

"Let's slit her throat," one of them proposed, balancing five knives in his hand.

"Let's cut her up to share," another croaked, razor-teeth glinting.

"Let's roast her over the fire and make a stew with her bones," another proposed, and the air was filled with barks and whistles of approval.

And Hermione found herself out of options - and out of escapes - very suddenly.

* * * *