Chapter Four

There was something wrong with Narcissa. Oh, there were many things wrong with her, but it seemed to Draco that there was something especially wrong. His concern wasn't really based on anything, and he definitely had enough problems on his own without adding to it, but for whatever reason he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a serious problem at his home.

A week after his first suspicions about Narcissa emerged, they were confirmed. Her letters stopped coming.

Given the content of her contrite messages and the slow madness they represented, Draco should have been elated rather than worried that they had stopped, but he could not shake the disconcerting feeling that they had not stopped because of a sudden relapse into sanity. Rather, he had an almost premonitory feeling that she had taken to her bed and refused to get up.

One night, as he studied for the Transfiguration test he had to suffer through the next day, Draco heard the familiar scratching of an owl at the tiny, high window in his dorm.

Relief filled him as he opened it and let in his mother's owl. Draco took the small scroll from its leg and unrolled it, surprised by its length. The parchment did not, however, contain his mother's flowing script, instead it was written in cramped, messy printing and signed in the same hand as "B. Lestrange."

Numbly, Draco read the letter, barely registering the words in his mind. He saw a mention of his father, and his mother's name written once or twice. The actual passages didn't seem to have much purpose, and the paragraphs were only joined by loose, vague references to the one before. There was, however, one word that seemed to leap out at him, grabbing his attention and disallowing him from continuing his read.

Kiss. Why would Bellatrix Lestrange write kiss? As Draco's narrowed attention widened ever so slightly, he saw that his father's name was in the same sentence as the unexpected noun. Valiantly, his mind rejected the sentence and it seemed to hold no other words.

Lucius. . .kiss. Slowly, the words appeared, one at a time. Lucius will receive the Kiss.

As the last word came into view, all words and all images seemed to disappear. The sentence pounded in his brain, reverberated in his skull.

Lucius will receive the Kiss. Could it be true? Could he trust any information provided by Bellatrix? Quickly, his mind conjured a defense against this difficult information. No. Bellatrix could not be trusted under any circumstances, and especially not these. Definitely not.

Still, he sat down on his bed and read through the entire letter, allowing each word to wash over and around him. The full force of this strange, foreboding missive struck him with a heavy blow.

Numb and cold and withered. His heart and his body and his mind closed upon him, until he could not see the scrawled words, could not feel loss or pain, could not begin to imagine his father's horror.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Draco opened his eyes to find himself neatly tucked into his bed. Bewildered as to how he got there, he sat up and saw a most familiar face gazing at him with large green eyes.

"Draco Malfoy, sir!" Dobby squeaked, obviously over-joyed to see his former master. "Dobby is happy to see you awake!"

Shaking his head, sure this must be some form or another of a dream, Draco replied groggily, "Dobby? How - what are you doing here?"

"Dobby works for Professor Dumbledore now," the house-elf explained. "But Dobby has been keeping an extra eye on Mr. Malfoy, sir. Dobby doesn't forget how good Mr. Malfoy was to him."

Astounded, Draco looked at the queer creature before him with a fresh eye. He wore blue soccer shorts, neatly pressed, and a scarf in Gryffindor red and gold. Several hats teetered precariously on his head. Dobby's feet bugled tremendously with more a few pairs of socks. "Why are you wearing. . ." Draco started, but dismissed the unusual question with a shake of his head, choosing instead to ask, "Why are you here?"

"Harry Potter has told Dobby to watch over you!" Dobby piped up, but the second the words were out of his mouth his facial expression froze itself in an affixture of horror. He ran to the stone wall and began bashing his head against it. "Bad Dobby! Very bad Dobby!" he repeated to himself, his cries growing louder with each bash.

Draco was too used to this to be overly-concerned, and allowed the house-elf to punish himself until its incessant screeches grated at his nerves, at which point he loudly commanded, "Cease!" And the air became still. "What do you mean, 'Harry Potter sent you to watch over me'?" he asked, indicating clearly that he expected an answer.

Dobby heed and hawed and rocked on the balls of his socks, averting his gaze from the Slytherin. "Harry Potter. . .Harry Potter is not a bad person!" Dobby squeaked, as though Draco had said something against the half-blood.

Delicately, Draco raised a single eyebrow. "No?" he mused. The elf's behavior was odd. "You are not Potter's servant, Dobby, and you aren't bound to him. There's no reason for you to defend him, or hide his secrets."

But Dobby shook his head violently. "Harry Potter needs no oath from Dobby! Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter! Harry Potter set Dobby free from - " And here Dobby stopped, for he had been suddenly struck again with his horrified expression, and took to bashing his head against Draco's oak desk.

"Enough!" Draco shouted, weary already of the house-elf. As a child, he had delighted in Dobby's antics, but as the sweet innocence of youth faded (far too quickly in Draco's eyes), he saw the creature for what it was; a servant. Nothing more than a slave to the will of the Malfoys. After this realization, much of his respect for Dobby crumbled. "You're not beholden to the Malfoys, either. Tell me what you meant when you said Potter sent you."

Reluctantly, Dobby began his story. "Dobby was called to Harry Potter two nights ago, to watch over Draco Malfoy. Dobby is to look for anything suspicious Draco Malfoy may be doing. Dobby is doing this favor for Harry Potter." The elf seemed dismally close once again to smashing his skull against a hard surface.

Quickly, Draco said, "It's okay, Dobby. You work for Dumbledore, not Potter, not me. You only have to punish yourself if you do anything against him." He wasn't taking pity on the inferior being, he assured himself, he was merely sick of its noisy flagellations.

Dobby looked at Draco with misty eyes. "Draco Malfoy has grown up to be such a good person, taking kindness to poor Dobby. Never did Dobby imagine he would be as noble and wise as he is." The wretched creature blew its nose on a corner of its scarf.

This type of flattery made even Draco uncomfortable, particularly because what Dobby was saying wasn't true in the slightest. Painfully, he remembered the Dobby of his youth, a kind caring soul. Draco had spent more time with Dobby than any childhood friend. Dobby had always had a smile and a kind word ready, and reflecting on his past Draco felt distinctly remorseful that he had shunned the elf after he understood that Dobby was his servant. Draco could, in fact, trace the few morals he had back to the teachings of this sweet, odd little creature.

Thinking about his childhood inevitably brought up his father, and flashes of grief so sharp they may as well have been knives gripped him, shaking him fiercely. Filled with alarm, Dobby was at his side in an instant, babbling sympathies and patting Draco's elbow. Just these small gestures were kinder than any other hand that had touched him, more soothing than any word whispered in his ear. "Tell Dobby," the elf worried and cooed, "Tell Dobby what upsets him."

So, achingly, feeling tears well in his eyes and emotion choke his throat, Draco told his sad, strange story to his small, insubstantial being, surprising himself by the poignancy of the words that tumbled from his mouth. He went back to the beginning, apologizing for treating Dobby badly, and receiving a sweet forgiving smile from the elf in return. He detailed the pressure of living up to the family name and how much harder it was without any real friends. The only one had had ever felt he could talk to was Pansy, and the way that relationship had ended produced a fresh wave of grief in the stricken Draco. He rambled about his father's imprisonment, his mother's madness, his own flailing efforts to succeed. Everything, substantial and otherwise, that had ever bothered him poured forth from a broken dam of emotion. Every Christmas he'd spent pretending elaborate gifts were the same as love, every summer he'd sat in the manor without company, every time Potter had looked at him with hate in his eyes because Draco hated him first. He saved for last the despairingly hopeless owl he'd received earlier in the evening, and here words could not describe the anguish, could not begin to explain his acute sense of loss. Instead, he relied on his increasing tears to tell the story for him, and even Dobby cried to hear of the impending fate of his former master, for though Lucius had been cruel he had also suffered through Dobby's whims and failings as a house-elf.

Together, they sat and cried and rocked and shook until the world did not exist, until, bound by their grief, this pureblood son of a prominent wizard and this tiny, wretched creature tied to a life of servitude became a single, grieving being, and the pain was slightly more bareable as they embarked on a solitary journey together, taking only their sadness to accompany them.

Time passed, though how much of it or how quickly it did so was beyond Draco. All he knew is that eventually he resurfaced to some semblance of sanity, and that when he did Dobby was still patting his arm. "Draco Malfoy is better than his father," Dobby told him, looking up at Draco with red-rimmed eyes. "Draco Malfoy is better than his family."

Pride swelled in Draco's thorat, but it was unlike any pride he'd ever had before. This pride felt somehow pure, and he wanted to be worthy of the respect he heard in Dobby's voice. This was a warm, emotional pride that filled him and held him. He looked the house-elf in the eye, something he'd been taught to avoid. With this strange, new emotion flowing in him, Draco replied, "Thank you, Dobby."

Smiling, his wrinkled face happy once more, Dobby said, "Draco Malfoy doesn't thank Dobby. Dobby would do anything for Draco Malfoy." The house-elf pulled the blankets around Draco, tucking him in. "Dobby must go back to work now," he informed Draco, and with a crack he was gone.

The absence of the house-elf made Draco question whether the entire experience had been a dream. Despite what he desperately wished to believe, the time he'd spent crying to and with his former servant had a painful, real quality that was difficult to forget. He remembered the pride, almost a fatherly pride, in Dobby's voice and found himself wanting to be worthy of it. Lying in his bed, staring at the cool green curtains, he began to understand the way his life would be if he continued to emulate his father. He would believe that his money and bloodline made him worth more than the rest of all society. He would marry a pureblood that he probably didn't love, and his children would have the best of everything except for the affection they deserved. He would follow whoever was in power like a coward, but swagger his confidence like a hero. He would take pride in his lack of emotion and sympathy, and allow only distate and scorn - just as his father had taught him - to sour his countenance. He would spend a lifetime making easy decisions, carefully avoiding any that required him to stick his neck out or involve his heart.

He would, in fact, be exactly the man he had already become. iWhat do I want?/i Draco asked himself, and for once he really listened for the answer.

But nothing came, and no sudden revelation hit him. Feeling empty and forlorn, Draco drifted asleep.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

He awoke with an awful idea. A terrible, wonderful, awful idea. Still grinning over his genius, Draco waited for Dobby to come to clean the dorm.

The elf did, cheerfully whistling out-of-tune. "Good morning, Draco Malfoy, sir!" he greeted in a bright tone.

The slightest of smiles creased Draco's lips, and he replied, "Good moring, Dobby."

"Does he need something special of Dobby, sir?" Dobby asked shrewdly.

Draco was surprised. He'd been waiting for Dobby to ask a favor of him, but the elf's ability to sense a request amazed him. "Yes, actually," Draco replied, "I need to ask a favor of you."

Delight animated the elf's features, and his green eyes lit up excitedly. "Anything Draco Malfoy asks, Dobby will do."

For whatever reason, Dobby's simple reply choked Draco's throat with the same pure pride he'd felt the night before. He tried to repress it as best he could. "I need you to watch Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter does nothing wrong, sir!" Dobby squeaked, setting about his elfly duties. "Harry Potter is a good person!"

Draco suppressed a grimace. He had his own reasons for tailing Potter, and it would be made significantly easier if Dobby would just cooperate. "I know he is," he said to appease the house-elf. "I just want you to watch. . .who he hangs around."

Dobby's already large eyes grew wider, and he nodded. "Dobby knows Harry Potter's friends!" he said, trying to be helpful. "Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger!"

With the smallest sigh, Draco replied, "I mean any. . .special friends Potter might have." He didn't expect Dobby to understand. He just needed him to do what Draco asked. "Please."

Dobby smiled. "Draco Malfoy has my word."