Blood of Mud, Wing of Bat

Chapter 5: Gone to Ground

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The broomstick descended gracefully, skimming over acres of shabby industrial greenhouses. Their opaque glass roofs glinted in the morning sun, reflecting the broom in smoothly undulating waves like a steel-frame ocean.

Hermione rode the broom sidesaddle, leaning over its sleek gray handle. She was dressed in smart business-cut robes, her hair tied back for flight. She carried a leather briefcase across her folded knees.

Beyond the greenhouses, the rest of Batwing sprawled over nearly two square kilometers of urban ugliness. Its bricks were crumbling, its concrete riddled with fractures, its yards become rough meadows. The high gates surrounding the complex were patched with rust and rubbish lay strewn in the alleys between the buildings.

But yet, the factory hummed with the presence of thousands of active workers. A steady stream of cargo transports lumbered in and out of hulking stone-chimneyed floo ovens, waited in line under the saggy awnings of loading docks. People could be seen everywhere, loading and unloading shipping containers, sitting at picnic tables on break, waiting with their hands curled around worn iron portkey rings.

A patch of incongruous bright white sparkled from one small courtyard. It was a sky yacht with sleek racing lines, heeled over on its side with its twin masts folded back at rest. It was pristine, shining, and as wrong there as a swan nestled in a rubbish dump. Nobody came anywhere near it, as if its wrongness provided some powerful physical barrier.

As Hermione spiralled down toward the factory's main entrance, the gleaming white yacht passed out of sight behind the buildings, crouched down as if in hiding.

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Speaking of wrongness, Hermione was more sceptical than ever that Draco Malfoy had actually agreed to work with her on this project.

When Sibyll Trelawney had told Hermione that the first time, Hermione had been disbelieving enough. After receiving Malfoy's nasty owl regarding his children's run-ins with Hermione's, she was even more paranoid. Before coming to Batwing for her appointment, Hermione had actually gone so far as to stop in at the office on the way and confront Trelawney on the subject.

"Oh no, dear, you have nothing to worry about!" Trelawney insisted again, beaming and blinking her highly-magnified eyes.

"Prove it," said Hermione bluntly.

And so Trelawney had rubbed her hands on a bludger-sized glass ball and there appeared inside of it a tiny image of Trelawney asking Malfoy and Malfoy saying yes.

It wasn't until Batwing was already in view that Hermione realized she should have demanded to know if that was a recorded knowitall ball showing the past, or if it'd been a divination crystal ball showing a possible future.

Aargh!

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Like everything else Hermione had seen of Batwing so far, the main reception area had long since passed from ratty to dilapidated. It looked as if it had last been painted and furnished about a half-century before. A huge company crest in bas-relief graced the wall above the receptionist's desk. The stylized silhouette of a bat crowned the word BATWING, and the familiar plant/animal/mineral seal of the hallowed potions ingredients house was emblazoned underneath. The whole thing was faded and patched where paint and metal-leaf had flaked away.

"Hello!" said the receptionist brightly. "Can I help you?" She was about Hermione's age and much more cheerful and well-put-together than her surroundings. Hermione smiled in return.

"Hello, I'm Hermione Weasley with Sibyll & Co., I have an appointment?"

The witch beamed and pulled a schedule book over to her to verify. After flipping back and forth a couple of times, she asked "are you sure it was today?"

"Yes, I'm about ten minutes early."

"Do you remember who you were supposed to see?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Malfoy."

The receptionist let go of the schedule book as if it was poisonous and looked up at Hermione in an entirely different way.

"Oh… him." The tone of loathing was unmistakable. The receptionist gave Hermione an evil glare as if merely by having an appointment with Malfoy she'd become the enemy. Hermione smiled a bland air-headed professional smile, hiding her disquiet. It was a bad sign when employees hated the new owner of a company so much they'd show it in front of the public. Of course, if all had been well at Batwing, then Sibyll & Co. wouldn't have been called in, would it have? And after all, Malfoy was famous for making enemies of his perceived inferiors. Hermione shouldn't be surprised if he had already said or done something awful to the poor receptionist.

"I'll let his… staff… know that you're in," continued the obviously disgruntled witch.

She clapped her hands twice, and a Freed house-elf appeared with a BANG. The elf was wearing a women's business robe, the hem trailing behind her and the arms much longer than her own.

"Poopsie is here, what is Poopsie do for you ladies?" the elf squeaked, goggling her big green eyes and flapping her empty sleeve-ends.

Poopsie? Hermione winced despite herself. What cruel house-elf mother would name her child Poopsie? For her part, the receptionist wore an expression of extreme distaste. Hermione couldn't tell if she just didn't like house-elves, or if it was because the elf was associated with Draco Malfoy. Or maybe it was the name. The name was pretty bad. Not even Hermione, an outspoken supporter of tolerance of Freed elves and their culture, could deny that.

"Mrs. Weasley is here to see… him. Please take her up there."

"Oh, yes Missus Shortwater, right away! Poopsie is happy to help out!"

"Stuff a sock in it," muttered the receptionist under her breath. This was a very rude insult to freed elves. Hermione was shocked, but fortunately Poopsie didn't seem to have noticed.

As Poopsie dragged her enthusiastically out of the lobby, Hermione distinctly heard a new voice from behind them.

"Who was that?" asked a woman.

"Malfoy has gone and brought in a consultantcy," said the receptionist. "Sibyll & Co."

"Oh no, I suppose this means limbo is over and hell is about to begin," said the other woman sourly.

"It also means that Decker won the pool on why Malfoy made it in so early this morning," said the receptionist.

"I thought he bet it was to meet with his lawyers."

"Yes… but he was the only one who didn't bet it was because he pulled an all-nighter at a Death Eater meeting."

The two women snickered appreciatively.

Draco's father Lucius Malfoy was currently in Azkaban serving a 25-year sentence for Death Eater crimes. Of course, it may as well have been a Life sentence, because by the time he got out he was going to require humane restraint and a 24 hour nursemaid. Azkaban was not kind to its prisoners.

Lucius claimed he had been forced to obey the Dark Lord against his will, through a combination of threat and physical and psychological torture. Nobody believed it - far too much time had passed, and there would have been plenty of opportunity to ask for protection. The claim was far too similar to his claim to have been under Imperius during the first war. And everybody with an ounce of common sense knew that Lucius was just plain evil.

His lawyers managed to get him a trial, which was more than most obviously guilty Death Eaters usually got. But even so, after decades of persistently eluding justice Lucius had a lot of people waiting for an excuse to nail him for good, so in the end he was unable to escape a prison sentence.

Nobody had ever been able to prove that Draco Malfoy had followed in his father's footsteps and committed Death Eater crimes too, but most assumed he had. After all, Lucius had gone on for years and years without getting caught. Why not the son as well? Hermione shuddered and tried to push those thoughts away. It didn't matter. This was only business.

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As they passed out of earshot of the lobby, she turned to Poopsie.

"How do you like working for Batwing… er… dear?" Hermione asked the elf. She just couldn't bring herself to say the elf's name. She should be ashamed of herself! And her being the original founder of S.P.E.W. and all.

"Oh, Poopsie is not be working for Batwing, Missus Weasley, Poopsie is here for Master Malfoy."

Hermione's brow furrowed. Why would an apparently sane free elf work for Malfoy?

"Oh, my," she said uncertainly. "How… exciting. Er, how did that come to happen?"

"Poopsie used to belong with Malfoy Family," the elf explained. "Mistress Sherry wanted to take Poopsie with her when she left, but the courtroom man says Poopsie gets to stay with the family. So Mistress Sherry was angry, and she freed Poopsie!" she exclaimed. "Poopsie not know what to do, but Master was so good to Poopsie afterward."

Hermione figured "Mistress Sherry" was Sherida Lockholt, Malfoy's third ex-wife. Hermione's opinion of the woman went up a notch - anybody who'd free a house-elf, even to get revenge on someone else, was OK in Hermione's book. Malfoy was another story though. A freed house-elf often tried to cling to the idea of a master out of fear of the unknown, and Malfoy having handled house-elves since birth had probably taken shameless advantage of the poor thing. "He was good to you, you say?" mused Hermione. Somehow she doubted that.

"Yes, Poopsie is Master's assistant now!" squeaked Poopsie, excitedly. "Poopsie is so happy to have Master to work for every day, helping out and assisting with everything!"

"Didn't you want to work for er, someone else instead?"

The house-elf's droopy ears stood straight up in indignation, but before she could squeak out a retort, Hermione laughed.

"Never mind… it's none of my business. I'm just glad you're happy here." She wondered privately if any non-freed house elves remained at Malfoy Manor. They were a lot rarer than they'd once been, but trust Malfoy to have them if anybody did.

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They travelled to the fourth floor via an ancient cage-front lift of clearly Muggle design. Hermione had spotted some electric lights along the hallways, too. She was fascinated. How much of the complex had been built by Muggles? Were there Muggles working there too? She made a mental note to look up more of the factory facility's history later. Once out of the lift, they walked down a long corridor that had large multipane windows along both sides. One side looked out at more Batwing buildings. The other side looked inward over a vast production floor crowded with tables. Hundreds of busy workers laboured at sorting eyeballs, boxing up freeze dried starlings, pressing chopped frog guts, and countless other menial tasks. Hermione itched to fly over it in animagus form, exploring the workers' procedures and productivity. Well, time enough for that soon. For now, Poopsie let Hermione into a windowless, mustard-colored waiting room with an empty secretary's desk and a couple of tatty-looking chairs.

"Please waits here, Miz Weasley, and Poopsie will tell Master you're here!" Poopsie said with great importance.

"OK," said Hermione innocently. But the moment Poopsie had gone into the next room, Hermione switched to her Animagus form and flew after her.

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By the time she'd been an Animagus for a year, Hermione could no longer be angry with Rita Skeeter for spying on her, Ron, and Harry at Hogwarts. Indeed, she felt she understood fully. Being in Animagus form was addictive, and being nearly invisible was addictive, and the logical extension of the two was that spying was a compulsive and endlessly fascinating pastime.

For Hermione it had begun with "checking up" on the kids, making sure they were doing their homework and staying away from mind altering potions. Then she had tried checking up on Ron, but quickly figured out that the things he did when he was on the road were things she would rather not know about.

As she had grown more and more dissatisfied with her marriage, her compulsion to watch had grown ever stronger. She began to sample the lives of others - strangers, friends, family members, business contacts. During the long weeks of Ron's absences she had become a constant watcher of lives, some fleetingly to just keep tabs, others in deep and intimate subscription. There was no chance she'd be caught, and the danger of being accidentally killed just added to the thrill.

During the long three months of her holiday, she'd done almost nothing else.

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The inner office that the waiting room guarded was long and narrow, running along one wall of the building. It was as ramshackle as the rest of Batwing. Windows on one side overlooked the courtyard in which the white flying yacht was anchored. More windows on the opposite wall looked out over the production floor from a different angle. Low shelves and cabinets lined the walls underneath the windows, sagging under the weight of boxes of paperwork. They were labelled by year and they were all out of order: 1919, 1948, 1872. Everything had a greyish and dusty cast, as if nothing interesting had happened there in several decades. Even the jade plants and geraniums on the outer windowsills looked as if no one had bothered with them in a long time. A huge conference table took up most of the front of the room.

Lying on the table were a couple of items that, like the boat, had to belong to Malfoy rather than Batwing. A huge cage sat mostly-covered by a snake-patterned black silk cloth. Hermione could see the feet of an immense owl resting on a perch within. Beside the cage lay a vintage Bulgarian racing broom that was probably worth as much as the Burrow. Hermione knew from reading Trelawney's file that Malfoy could no longer actually fly a broom legally -- he'd been fitted with a restraining charm that would both deliver a nasty electric shock and draw Auror attention if he tried. It was the latest in a long series of harassments by those who wanted any excuse they could get to search him and Prior Incantato his wand. And with Malfoy's extensive record of flying violations, it had been easy to pull off legally, too. However, they had not yet caught him with Dark Artefacts in his pockets or anything Unforgivable left in his wand.

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Draco Malfoy himself was at the far end of the room, beyond the conference table, slumped at a cluttered executive desk.

When Draco had been a kid, there had been no question of who his father was. Even if he'd been able to shut up about Lucius for one moment, the family resemblance was obvious. Now that he was grown, he reminded people strongly of Lucius at that age. When Hermione had gone through Trelawney's folder she had closely compared the photos of father and son. Seen side-by-side, Draco was the more lightly built, and though he tried to pull off Lucius' imperial disdain, during its unguarded moments his face had a more nervous and ferrety cast.

In person, Draco was showing his age more than the other classmates Hermione had seen recently, his grey eyes shadowed and disillusioned. Though he maintained a glamorous image in public, here in private he appeared dissipated, unkempt and listless. He looked both painfully out of place and somehow permanent in the dull office, like a caged hawk whose wings have been plucked so many times the feathers stopped growing back.

There was an open bottle of Fire Orchid Whiskey on the desk in front of him. Each shot probably cost as much as a worker's daily wage.

Poopsie bounded halfway down the room, tripped over her too-long robe and fell flat on her face. Then she jumped up and disappeared in a sudden short cut, appearing with a loud BANG at Malfoy's side. He jumped as if he'd been half awake and she'd startled him.

"Master Draco! Master Draco! You has a visitor!" she squeaked, sounding beside herself with excitement.

Malfoy glared at her, looking a lot more like his photographs now that he had some life in him. "How many times have I told you to dress properly?" His voice was exactly how Hermione remembered it: lazy and menacing both at once. "You know how I hate it when you look ridiculous."

"M-M-master!" stammered the elf, taken aback. "Poopsie wears the latest fashions! The clerk assured Poopsie it is so!"

"The sleeves are too long. The hem is too long. It is completely unacceptable." said Malfoy. "You certainly can't parade about in front of company that way." He drew a slender, purply-black wand and Poopsie started back in alarm.

"No no, don't change it!" the elf shrieked. "Don't change it Master, please, Poopsie will promise to be good all the time! Poopsie will roll up the sleeves." If Hermione had fists, she would have clenched them. How dare he torment the elf in that way? Did he do things like this to her all the time?

"I won't have it said I cannot dress my servants properly. This will only take a moment -- come here, damn you!" Malfoy lunged half out of his chair and managed to grab the house-elf by the robes as she tried to get away.

"But Poopsie likes it the way it is!" the elf wailed, clearly distressed. "Mistress Sherry freed Poopsie, robe is Poopsie's robe to own! Poopsie buys it with last paycheck!" She struggled, then pushed Malfoy away with violent force. He fell back into his chair and Poopsie stood there twisting her ears with her hands and looking woefully ashamed of herself.

There was a long, long pause while Malfoy glared at her with eyes narrowed, panting. House-elves had some very powerful magic, and unlike a bound house-elf the freed Poopsie would be able to use it against him if desperate enough. No doubt there was a certain line Malfoy didn't dare cross, former Master or no. Hermione was glad to see Poopsie show some spine. It made her a little less worried about the elf's work situation.

"Very well then," he said at last, his tone grudging. And then, more haughtily, "Roll the sleeves up if you must, but don't let me catch you looking sloppy again. I won't have it, not at home and not here." He slipped his wand back into his own sleeve.

"Yes Master Draco, right away Master Draco." The elf's voice was small and subdued. "Yous appointment is here," she added after a pause. "Sibyll & Co."

"Yes yes, show them in after you have made yourself presentable."

"Yes Master, right away."

Hermione hurriedly buzzed back into the waiting-room and transformed into her human form. She sat down on one of the chairs and patted her hair back, feeling guilty and breathless. No, there was no thrill like spying.

From just outside the door she could hear a sound of rustling cloth and elf-muttering. Finally Poopsie reappeared, now with her sleeves clumsily rolled up. She seemed to have regained her enthusiasm, or at least put on her "public face". She bounced up to Hermione with a big grin on her goggly mug.

"Master Draco will see you now!" she yelled excitedly, nearly deafening her.

"Thank you, dear," said Hermione with a smile. She stood, picked up her briefcase, and took a deep breath.

Little did she realize it, but her hopes that Trelawney had been speaking at least partial truth were about to be brutally dashed.

---

The moment he got a good look at her, Malfoy shot defensively to his feet. He didn't - quite - go for his wand, but it was clear from his startled and appalled expression that she was the last person on earth he'd expected to see here.

Hermione marched bravely up to his desk and stuck out her hand with a professional smile. "Hello, Mr. Malfoy? I'm Hermione Weasley from Sibyll & Co." She extended her hand over his desk.

Revulsion flashed across his elegant features and he stepped back from her hand as if it might radiate germs at him. "I know who you are, Weasley," he hissed. "What on earth possessed you to have the poor taste to show your face here?"

Hermione recoiled from the hatred, loathing, and near-panic in his pale grey eyes. She had feared it would be bad, but she had never thought it would be as bad as this. Trelawney had promised!

"Miz Trelawney thought - " Hermione began.

"Well, she thought wrong!" Malfoy snapped. Now he did draw his wand, and pointed it straight at Hermione's face. "Get. Out. Now."

Hermione's heart hammered as she stared down eight inches of exotic hardwood and decided a strategic retreat was probably in order.

"OK… let's not do anything rash. I can tell you need some time to think about this." Hermione backed away carefully, not taking her eyes off the wand's quivering dark tip. She hadn't had a wand pointed at her in anger in more than twenty years. Malfoy had never been formally charged for assaulting anyone but Aurors, but the look on his face suggested he was seconds from making an exception. "I'll just go now," she gulped, "and you can… er… think things out, and send me an owl if you change your mind." She smiled weakly, then turned and fled, feeling the wand aimed at her back all the way out the door.

Poopsie jumped up from her desk as Hermione charged through the mustard-colored waiting room.

"Miz Weasley! Miz Weasley! Wait for Poopsie!" The elf bounced after Hermione.

"I'm sorry, I'm in a bit of a hurry," said Hermione, who planned to go strangle Trelawney and hide the body somewhere even Divination would never be able to find it. Poopsie latched onto her sleeve anyway and began aplogizing tearfully.

"Oh Miz Weasley, Poopsie is very, very sorry if Master was ill-tempered to Miz Weasley. Times is very hard and … not that that makes it OK at all, no Miz Weasley, not OK at all and Poopsie understands that, Poopsie does."

"It's quite all right," Hermione insisted, as she dragged the elf down the hallway on her free arm, with her briefcase and broomstick banging about her knees on her other side. She could hear Malfoy bellow Poopsie's name from back in the office. Somehow when uttered by an enraged wizard with a Death Eater's reputation, the elf's name didn't sound humorous at all. "Shouldn't you go see what he wants?"

"Oh yes, Miz Weasley, but first Poopsie wants to apologize again and again for all the hard feelings, and he shouldn't have threatened you not at all. Master is a bad Master, and Poopsie should go shut her ears in a file drawer for saying so even if Poopsie is free, because Master has been so good to Poopsie, but…" the elf continued to ramble on breathlessly as she bounced and jolted along at Hermione's side.

"No," Hermione interrupted firmly, "Malfoy has not been good to you, he's been taking advantage of you. You should go to the Department of Elf Services immediately for some counselling so you can get away from him as soon as possible. Now if you don't mind?" Hermione yanked her arm free and plunged into the lift.

Poopsie gasped, then hurried to follow, barely making it in before Hermione slammed the gate shut.

"Miz Weasley, you is not giving up is you?" The elf grabbed the safety button and moved the lever to "down", causing the lift to lurch into motion. "Giving up on Batwing and Master Malfoy? Because Master really needs Miz Weasley's help even if Master doesn't know it. Miz Trelawney sees, she knows what is best. Poopsie wishes Miz Weasley comes back very soon to help out."

"What Malfoy, who is not your Master, needs is to have some manners knocked into him once and for all. Then he needs to dump this useless company, go to a nice alcohol abuse centre, clean himself up, and get a job. And I don't mean his Ministry position, I mean a real job that requires actual work."

Poopsie's mouth dropped open, scandalized. "Miz Weasley! That not very nice!"

But Hermione's fear was fading quickly, with the result that she was really starting to get angry.

That Malfoy had the gall to actually threaten her with magic! Who did he think he was? She might have been doing research for most of her adult life, but she had beaten Malfoy's grades in both Charms and DADA for seven years running at Hogwarts. And she had five unruly children to contend with and the entire Burrow to keep up by herself. Charms and curses she knew. He was lucky she hadn't transformed him into a mouse and taken him home in her pocket for the cats to toy with and devour. In fact, she had half a mind to do that right now.

When the lift gate slammed open on the first floor, Hermione took one step out of it then spun on her heel and marched back in.

"Wait! Miz Weasley, where is you going?" Poopsie wailed.

"To teach that…"

"Poopsie doesn't think that's such a good idea Miz Weasley," interrupted the elf, dragging her back out of the lift by sheer brute force. The diminutive elf really was amazingly strong for her size. "Poopsie knows you is angry, but is best if yous just go home now. OK?"

"I can handle Malfoy."

"Poopsie knows that, Miz Weasley, and Poopsie is very sorry you is so angry but Poopsie can't let you do that."

As the elf dragged her through the lobby, Hermione saw the receptionist and three other people turn to watch them go by. A moment later, they all turned quickly back to each other and coins began to exchange hands. What had they bet on this time, how many minutes the new consultant would last before being thrown out or running screaming in frustration? She gritted her teeth.

A moment later, they had passed through the main doors and emerged into the fresh morning air. "Poopsie wants to thank Miz Weasley for coming and helping out," the house-elf began, bobbing zealously.

"Don't mention it," said Hermione abruptly, before the elf's mouth could really get motoring. She threw a hip over her broomstick.

"Bye bye Miz Weasley!" Poopsie squealed and waved, enthusiasm completely undampened by Hermione's rudeness. One more slave in an unfair system where rights weren't protected and people thought they could mistreat others any way they wanted.

Hermione growled and hurled herself toward the sky. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself somewhere, change to her Animagus form, and spy on people she had never heard of and would never see again. And to heck with Batwing, Malfoy, his house-elf, and Trelawney. And while she was at it, to heck with Ron too. Especially Ron too.

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