Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable from the Potterverse.

Author's Notes: Oh, I've enjoyed writting this so much. So very much. It was almost like some sick pleasure. I loved it. I realise that, at the beginning and through most of the 'fic, Winky sounds a bit more intellegible. Keep reading, though. She'll start talking a bit more in-character at the very end. I promise. Also, I made up the 99 Bottles of Butterbeer song. Well, not the song in general as I'm sure so many people have thought of the idea and made their own versions. I've made up the one Winky sings here. Enjoy.

My name is Winky, and I am a House Elf.

Well, that's not quite why I've been locked in this dark room, but it sounded better than "My name is Winky, and I am a Drunk."

Which I'm not, by the way.

I've just happened to...dip, sometimes dabble, into Master's butterbeer supply. I never take more than one or two swallows, and always replace the bottle back on the shelf. (I do organize so wonderfully.)

Sometimes the bottle is empty, true. That's not my fault, though. Well, it kind of is. Kind of. It's not because I've drank the whole bottle, of course. It's because sometimes, on the rarest occassion, I've spilled some of the butterbeer on Master's carpet.

And I know what you're thinking. No, I wasn't drunk at the time. I don't really remember why I spilled it, but it certainly wasn't because I was drunk. I think I might have missed my mouth in a failed attempt to sneak only the tiniest sip from Master's supply. I don't remember all the way, though. It's kind of a blur.

This room is dark, have I said that already? I think it might be the basement, but the carpet on the floor doesn't feel like the basement. It doesn't really matter where I am, because I know that I won't be here for long. Master needs me.

He even told me so himself.

"Winky, I need you..."

To stay away from my firewhiskey...

We'll just ignore the second part, though, right? I bet I'm far away from the kitchen, even farther from the storage room where the bottles of firewhiskey wait to be plucked from their places.

You know, the Master thinks I actually want to drink his precious firewhiskey. His butterbeer. His fine wines.

I don't, though.

In fact, I hate the taste of the stuff.

I wouldn't even drink them if they didn't call to me so sweetly.

Oh, I haven't mentioned that yet, have I?

The damn things sing. Oh yes. They call to me with the sweet siren's song.
"99 Bottles of Butterbeer on the Wall, 99 Of Us Rest Here. Take one of us down, drink 'till you drown, 98 Bottles of Butterbeer on the wall..."

They want me to drink them.

I bet Master has enchanted them to sing, just so he can punish me after I have a few sips. Filthy Human. It's funny, though. They only start to really sing after I've already had a couple sips. They sing loud and off-key, and the other House Elves never hear them.

In fact, the other House Elves blame me. They think I sing. It's really the bottles, though. The only reason they start to really sing after I've snuck a few sips is because the other bottles are jealous.
It isn't fair for me to love just one, so they all sing me the Butterbeer song. They count themselves down.. 99, 98.. as I sneak them away.

I've never had more than one or two, though. And only more than one because the bottles have started to sing.

That's a reasonable explination, isn't it?

Oh, hey, I think I've found an old Butterbeer case. It sure feels like it. Why would there be a case in here? Maybe it's a forgotten wine cellar, with a group left behind who miss their friends.

Maybe I should just end their pain. Make it quick.
Don't give me that look. It's in their best interest.

.....

Ah, now that was the good schtuff. Schtuff. Now there's a funny word. It just covers everythin'. Every 'ittle thin'. Amazing. See, now? I'm fine. Not slurring my words or nothin'. Man, I feel a 'ittle thirsty.

....

Y'know how they says, the first is better than the last? Or something like that. Poor 'ittle 'ottles don't suffer no mores. It's 'cause I'm here. The 'ittle thins. The wirefiskey. Ha, wirefiskey. See, I said it better the second time.

.....

I wonder what this big schtick is for. I bet itssused to..uh. Somethin. I really hate bein' an 'elf. I mean, the 'ouse kind. Of course. But the doors. Doors. Snores. Chores. Yeah, Chores. But y'know who sssnores? Mastah ssssnores. Som...Sometimes. And sometimes I have to mix his drinks. He duzzn't want me near his buzz. Booze. His boozey because he thinks I'll drink him. Them. Not him!

Haha.
I'll won't be drinking nothin. I'm only drinkin them now 'cause no one else will. Forgotten. Like meh.

Hiccup.

I even mix da' man's drinks. I's mix them! He's obeeously not caughtus about lettin' me near the goods.

Hiccup

Wuzzat? Oy, I thinks he'll be letting me out now. I thinks the toor is durning. Yeah, or somedink.

I's best hurry and stand up, 'fore he thinks I've drunk again. I wonder if anyone else hhhears that noisee?

"Winky! What have you done!"

"99 Bottles of Butterbeer on the Wall. 99 Bottles of Butterbeer. We call you to come, so you drink 'till your dumb! 98 Bottles of Firewhiskey on the wall...."

99 Bottles of Butterbeer on the Wall, 99 Bottles of Butterbeer. We wait on the wall, for you to drink us all, 98 Bottles of Butterbeer on the wall...

Want me to stop singing loudly and off-key?
Hit that review button.