A/N: Hooray! Chapter two! A bizarre little chapter which deviates from the story set up in the last chapter and returns to the one set up in Death Eaters Don't Cry. We meet up again with everyone's favorite little house-elf. There are also a few tiny objects/places that were mentioned in OotP that I thought I'd drop in here to prove that I HAD read the book, even if I'm generally ignoring the plot line of said book.

Yours forever, Tsona

Potions was as bad as expected. Unable to concentrate due to suppressed, rampant emotions and thoughts firmly centered elsewhere, Draco somehow managed to melt his cauldron into a twisted blob of pewter. He could still hear the class' laughter echoing in his head as he made his way alone to Transfiguration; Snape had had to actually raise his voice to quiet them all. Most clear in his mind was Neville Longbottom's. Longbottom's notoriously bad memory and deep fear of Professor Snape had often before led to Potions accidents: melted cauldrons, fires, and broken glass. Draco had always ridiculed him relentlessly for these. He had hoped Longbottom might be a forgiving sort and forgo the opportunity of revenge for those occasions. But when he saw Longbottom in the corridors later that day, his glance was met with a smirk from Longbottom, who quickly looked away, and a glower from Potter, who was a few steps ahead. A gaggle of Hufflepuff girls walking behind the Gryffindors snickered when they saw him and began to whisper. Already news of his meltdown was spreading through the school.

At least those few Slytherin classmates he had left kept quiet about the incident as Professor McGonagall explained the day's task.

Entering the common room before dinner that night to drop off his bag, however, he was greeted by a few hearty guffaws from the Slytherin sixth years.

"Hey! Hey, Malfoy!" one of them called. "We were wondering, was your cauldron supposed to be some sort of message to the other Death Eaters--"

"Or a visual representation of what's left of your soul, Malfoy?" his friend finished. Beneath heavy laughter, the two boys exchanged high-fives and Draco stalked silently past and through the door to the boys' dorms.

He passed Blaise Zabini, his sole dorm-mate, but the tall African was as silent as ever, not even bothering to look at Draco.

He threw his book bag onto the bed and looked glumly about the room, carefully avoiding the looking-glass in the corner. He didn't want dinner, he didn't want to have to see anyone, to endure anymore of their taunts, their whispers, their glares and sneers. His eyes were drawn to the stone fireplace where a few logs were being gnawed on by low flames, throwing long, greyish shadows from the two lone beds, the trunks of the boys, the cheval glass, tangling in the deep green velvet of the beds' hangings. With just a pinch of Floo powder he might have escaped by it, but he had no where at all to go, no where safe.

A log snapped in the fire and the pile crumbled, dropping hot coals on the grate's flag.

What he really needed was someone to talk to, someone sympathetic. But he didn't dare risk the Great Hall to look.

---

He wandered distractedly down the deserted basement corridor some fifteen minutes later, passing only a few sniggering Hufflepuff fourth years on their way up to the Great Hall. He was glad to be alone and away from the menacing glares and accursed whispers of the other students. Having traveled the same path many times before, he did not pay for his absentmindedness and soon found himself facing a painting of the silver fruit bowl halfway down the passageway. He halfheartedly tickled the green pear in the picture, which gave a shrill giggle and transformed into a giant pear-green doorknob. Draco gave it a wrench and the painting swung forward on its hinges to reveal an enormous room whose high ceiling rose up into oblivion. Dozens upon dozens of brass pots and pans were heaped all around the wide room and the strong smell of baking and brewing wafted enticingly toward him from all sides. In the center of the room, heavy-laden with dishes and platters, stood four long tables, which mirrored those in the Great Hall a floor above, and a fifth that reflected the raised staff table.

A few of the Hogwarts house-elves glanced briefly up from their work as he made his way through the kitchen toward the great, brick fireplace on the opposite side. Draco's grey eyes roved over them all, searching out the one who had previously been employed at Malfoy Manor. He would be easy to spot. After being set free, Dobby had taken it upon himself to find the most outlandish clothes with which to outfit himself-- a pair of shining shorts with stripes down the side, a maroon sweater, a tie patterned with horseshoes, and a tottering pile of woolen hats were all staples-- perhaps in the spirit of rebellion; Draco's father had always kept him on a tight rein. All the surrounding elves, however, wore the uniform tea towel tied like a toga and stamped with the Hogwarts crest: lion, serpent, badger, and eagle surrounding a large letter 'H'.

Neither was Winky, a great friend of Dobby's and the only other freed elf within the confines of the castle, at her usual place before the fire, seated atop the short, wooden stool. Draco had hoped perhaps to find Dobby flitting about her trying to make her crack a rare smile. Winky had been very distressed by her dismissal from labor almost two years ago, having been raised to believe that to be free was to be disgraced. She had taken to drinking to drown her woes and it had become an unfortunate habit of hers to overdo it. It was not considered abnormal for her to pass out from overdose. What could have driven her from her stool, Draco could not imagine. Surely she hadn't wandered off on her own? Had Dumbledore sent her away and Dobby perhaps gone with her? Without saying goodbye?

Draco's search for Dobby became more desperate, but there was no sign of brilliant color among the white of the Hogwarts' uniforms.

There was nothing else for it. Draco stopped a passing house-elf.

The elf that turned to him had large, amber eyes, a nose the exact shape and size of a grape, and a politely curious expression. "You is wanting Bozy, sir?" she asked in a high squeak of a voice.

"Er... yeah," Draco replied somewhat nervously. "Do you know where Dobby is? Or Winky?"

The elf's expression became suddenly dark and Draco remembered too late that the elves considered Winky with her drinking habit and Dobby with his ecstasy at being freed a disgrace to them all. Nevertheless, the elf responded, "Bozy knows, sir. They is in the Come and Go Room, sir."

"The what?"

"Seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, sir," the elf called Bozy recited.

"Er, thanks," Draco said, turning back around. Wondering what Dobby and Winky could possibly be doing on the seventh floor during dinner, Draco crossed the kitchens and hurried out of the basement to the upper floors. Hoping not to be noticed, he passed quickly by the open doors to the Great Hall, from which drifted the smell of food and the babble of happy chatter, calling him inside. He felt a small pang of quiet yearning as he sprinted past and thought longingly of a time-- maybe even a time in the near future-- when he could join his carefree peers, free from the shadows of the past. He could not help recalling his first four years at Hogwarts when he had always been a central part of a group, never alone-- not physically, not exiled. Part way up the first flight, he peeked over his shoulder and found his eyes drawn to the packed Gryffindor table.

Alone in an empty corridor on the seventh floor, Draco glanced over at a tapestry depicting a wizard being clubbed by a gang of trolls, having tried to teach them ballet. This was the tapestry Bozy had mentioned....

Turning, he found himself facing a highly polished, cherry door that he had never noticed once before in his four years at Hogwarts. Feeling slightly apprehensive, having had some experience with dangerous magical objects and their methods of concealment, he walked toward it and knocked. What if this was some kind of trick? No. House-elves didn't play tricks; they lived to serve their masters and had a very raw sense of humor.

From the opposite side of the door, Draco heard a high-pitched yelp of surprise or horror, followed by an even higher hiccup. Draco pulled the door cautiously open and stuck his head inside saying, "Dobby?"

The room he found himself in was large and round. Crystal spheres, each cradling about a dozen magically lit candles, floated near the low ceiling, giving a dim light to the narrow room. They looked very much like overlarge soap bubbles. Along the whitewashed walls, shelves ran very low to the ground, bearing ceramic jugs of Albert & Albrecht's All Gone Alcohol Antidote, pillows, blankets, and other assorted objects. In the corner was a small bed, only slightly larger than a doll's, upon which lay Winky, her big, brown eyes unfocused and her mouth slack, her apron and dress stained, torn, and blackened. Above her hovered Dobby, his many clothes immaculate, who, upon hearing his name, gave another nervous squeak, dropped the bottle of Alcohol Antidote he was holding, and spun about in a kind of pirouette that would have made the ballet teacher in the corridor outside proud, though his tower of poorly knitted hats wobbled dangerously between his bat-like ears.

"Master Draco!" Dobby gasped, shuffling aside to try and hide the obviously drunken Winky from view, his emerald green eyes wide and staring. "What is you doing here, sir?"

"Looking for you," Draco replied with a shrug. "Do you mind?"

The elf shook his head, looking thoroughly bewildered. "Is something wrong, Master Draco?"

"Not really. Just...." Draco sighed. "Oh, it's not important, really. Winky okay?" he asked, stepping nearer the elves. He was feeling much calmer now, in the presence of a friend and with the knowledge that Winky had not perished.

Dobby's large, pointed ears drooped slightly. "Winky is been drinking again, sir," he whispered as the elf in question hiccuped loudly from the bed.

"I can see that," Draco said, trying to force a smile as he stood over the bed and the elf beside it. "But she'll be all right, won't she?"

"Oh yes, sir. Dobby is taking Winky up here so that she can rest it off, sir. But she is being better later, yes."

"Good."

"Why isn't Master Draco at dinner?" Dobby asked, looking at him with some concern.

"Didn't feel like it," Draco replied evasively. Then he decided to elaborate; after all, that had been his reason for wanting to find to the house-elf. "I honestly don't know how much more of this I can take, Dobby! Everyone thinks I'm scum and I'm starting to wonder if they're not right."

"Master Draco is not scum!" Dobby answered firmly, casting an eye over the broken bottle of Alcohol Antidote.

"I know you don't think so, Dob. But what if I am, really? What if I can't change? What if I'll always be the evil little flea bag I used to be?"

"You isn't," Dobby assured him, cleaning away the shattered remnants of the red clay jar and its spilled potion, which was a nasty blanched green in color, with a snap of his long fingers.

"Prove it," Draco challenged.

Dobby looked uncomfortable for a moment as he pondered an answer. "You is here, isn't you?" he said slowly. "You isn't with Master and the Dark Lord?"

"Try telling that to the world. Apparently, I'm here on a spy mission," Draco grumbled. He glared out at the bright blue sky beyond the paned window. The fair weather only dampened his spirits. While the rest of the world celebrated, he was left alone and friendless as he always had been and always would be.

"Dobby knows you isn't, sir, and so does you. That ought to be enough."

"It's not enough. Not while everyone is watching my every move, just waiting for me to slip, not when they take every opportunity to push me deeper into the mud. Almost makes me wish for the old days," Draco sighed.

Dobby threw his hands on his hips. "Master Draco mustn't be saying such things!"

"Not with him, Dob, but with... with my mother... and Father, when I had the Slytherins to fall back on at least."

Draco had once had everything, but had never felt quite right about it, had covered a small, dull ache with bravado. He had lost everything in a heartbeat, but the ache had only worsened. Something was missing and though he watched others, but could find no one who seemed truly content, who didn't ache for something too. He watched Potter-- precious Potter, who had no parents, no family to weigh him down, to make decisions for him. Draco envied him, but even Potter complained. He complained about the very unclouded air that Draco envied.

"You think I did the right thing, leaving them, don't you, Dobby?"

"Oh yes, sir," the elf answered, nodding fervently.

Draco sighed, still staring out the window without really seeing it. "Think I'll live long enough that people will start to believe me?" he asked, posing the question that had haunted his thoughts since he had landed in Hogsmeade two weeks ago: How much longer did he have?

Dobby carefully avoided looking at Draco as he answered. "Professor Dumbledore isn't going to let anything happen to Master Draco. Dobby knows it, sir."

"You honestly think he can hold off the Dark Lord?"

Dobby, looking so comical that it was all Draco could do to stop himself from laughing aloud, put his long-fingered hands on the hips of his too-long shorts in indignation. "Yes Dobby does! Professor Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever has! The Dark Lord is scared of Professor Dumbledore!"

"Well," Draco smiled, "all that may be true. However, if the Dark Lord's angry enough with me, he'll find ways around him."

Dobby did not answer but scurried across the room, scooping another bottle of Alcohol Antidote off one of the low shelves and popping the cork.

"Wonder what O'Toule's missing...."

"O'Toule, sir?"

Draco glanced nervously over at Dobby, realizing that he must have spoken out loud without meaning to. Seeing no escape, he answered, cutting his eyes sideways and feeling a flush creep into his cheeks, "Erm, Alana O'Toule. She let me sit with her House at lunch rather than with the Slytherins. She... she has a nice smile, a bright smile."

Dobby's face split into a toothy grin, setting his great eyes alight. "Is Master Draco liking her?" the elf asked mischievously.

Draco's grey eyes snapped back to the house-elf before him, narrowed in anger. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is Master Draco liking Alana O'Toule?" Dobby repeated in an annoyingly singsong fashion, grinning all the more.

"Me? Like a Gryffindor?" Draco repeated, flustered by the question. "Dobby, I thought-- You of all people ought to know me better than--" But noticing the elf's lingering grin, he quickly changed tact, "Look. No one's spoken a kind word to me in ages. It's just a nice change, that's all. Really!"

"Whatever Master Draco says, sir," Dobby muttered, still beaming like a fool.

A/N: Well, what say you? Good chapter? Who doesn't love Dobby? I know I do! Actually, I'm a house-elf fan in general. I thought that bit with Barnabas the Barmy was too funny; I just had to slip it in here. Anyway, thanks for reading, now review!

Yours forever, Tsona