11. The Servant

It was as if all the tears she'd stored up over the past three days were bursting to escape her eyes at the same time. Ginny sat on the sofa with her legs pulled up to her chest, tears streaming silently but steadily down her cheeks. Her head throbbed in synch with her pounding heart, and every beat sounded like Tom, Tom, Tom. Kreacher had kindly brought her a cup of tea, but she hadn't even glanced at it. She cried for Harry, for Percy, for Bill, for Sirius, for Dumbledore, for the loss of love and innocence and good and evil, and most of all because crying was better than numbness.

"So you say Tom was some sort of Dark Lord?" she heard Billy asking Kreacher.

"Oh, yes, the Dark Lord was being powerful, he was," Kreacher said cheerfully. "He killed all the mudbloods, all the Muggles, all the unworthy, filthy blood traitors, oh, yes, Kreacher's old mistress adored him, she did." He sighed wistfully.

"Bloodmud?" Billy repeated. "What's bloodmud?"

"Mudblood," Kreacher corrected patiently. "Mudbloods are being the filth of the wizarding world, oh, yes, they are the impure ones, the ones who steal the magic from the poor purebloods like Lady Black!"

"That sounds a little bit biased," Billy began, but Kreacher interrupted with a speech about purity and blood traitors.

"And that's why Mistress Ginny had no chance with the Dark Lord, oh, none at all. She is being a filthy blood traitor, the Dark Lord deserved someone pure, like Kreacher's true mistress, not the traitor, not the mudblood lover."

"Don't say that word," Ginny snapped. It was the first time she'd spoken in hours. The elf jumped and looked up at her guiltily, as if he hadn't really meant for her to hear. "Don't say it ever again. Do you hear me? I forbid you."

Kreacher narrowed his eyes and turned away to spit into the fire.

Ginny's eyes blazed. "What happened to you?" she cried, grabbing him by the scrawny shoulders and spinning him to face her.

Kreacher looked confused. "Kreacher is begging your pardon?"

"What made you so bitter? Answer me."

Something in the elf's face twisted, and then Kreacher was on his feet. "Kreacher was abandoned by his rightful owner!" he shouted, and Ginny was shocked that his voice was capable of such a volume - she was used to the mutterings.

"We've been over this. Sirius's mum is dead," she said slowly and clearly. "That's not abandonment. That's death."

Kreacher was cackling, but there were tears rolling down his wrinkled face. "Not by Mistress Black," he choked, collapsing to the floor. "By Kreacher's other owner. By Harry Potter!"

Billy got up quietly and left the room. Ginny gaped at the elf. "Get up," she said disgustedly, but Kreacher didn't. "What do you mean, Harry abandoned you?" He didn't respond. He was still laughing on the floor. "Kreacher."

Kreacher glared up at her. "Master Harry went away," he said, voice cracking. "He never came back for poor Kreacher, and Kreacher was all alone again, all alone!" He began to tug on his ears and wail.

"Okay," Ginny said as soothingly as she could, carefully nudging him with her toe. "Okay, slow down."

"M-Master Harry left the house of Black," Kreacher whimpered, curling up into the fetal position. "He and Master Ron and the mudbl - " he emitted a strangled gasp " - the Granger brat," he amended, rubbing at his throat. Billy had slipped back into the room, a steaming cup of tea in his hands, and he considerately set it on the floor in Kreacher's line of sight. Kreacher pushed himself up into a sitting position and took a careful sip. "The Muggle makes good tea," he sniffled.

Billy's smile failed to cover his look of concern. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Kreacher didn't answer, just took another swig from the teacup.

"Come on, Kreacher," urged Ginny. "Tell me what happened."

Kreacher's lip began to tremble. "Kreacher cannot tell," he said after a moment.

Ginny wanted to throw him into the fire. "I swear to Merlin you are the biggest disgrace to house elves I've ever - "

"Kreacher cannot tell," he interrupted, setting the now-empty teacup back on the floor. "But Kreacher can show."

The room was quiet.

"What do you mean, show?" Billy asked finally.

"Dreams," the house elf answered, getting shakily to his feet. "House elves know about dreams."

Ginny understood before Billy did. "You said it takes dark magic to send dreams," she accused.

Kreacher nodded. "But not for house elves. It is coming naturally to house elves."

"You can send us dreams?" Billy said, incredulous. "This magic business, I swear, it's unbelievable!"

Kreacher didn't let his golf-ball sized eyes leave Ginny's face. "Kreacher can show," he croaked.

She sighed. "It's safe, right?" she asked. "You aren't going to - I don't know, poison my mind from the inside, are you?"

The elf shook his head so hard that his ears flapped around and hit him in the face. "Mistress has Kreacher's word."

"I think it sounds exciting," Billy offered. "Could you send dreams to me, too?"

"Send dreams to the Muggle?" Kreacher said. "Kreacher supposes."

"Excellent!" Billy clapped his hands once and began to rub them together. "Well, we'd better get to bed then, hadn't we? Evangeline - my wife," he added for Kreacher's benefit, "is taking the night shift at the inn, so Ginevra, if you'd like to sleep in our bed, it's all right with me. I can take the couch, or - "

Ginny waved her hand. "I don't mind the couch," she said.

Billy led her to the sofa and gave her a worn Afghan to cover herself with. "My room's around the corner," he told the house elf. "Is that a problem? Will the dreams be able to reach me through the walls?"

Kreacher snorted. "The Muggle doubts Kreacher's power," he said to himself, a smirk on his thin lips. "Go to bed, Sir Muggle. Kreacher will send the dreams."

Billy retreated into his bedroom, and Ginny reclined on the couch, exhaling slowly. She wondered what George and Katie were doing, or Fred, or even that git Ron. Were they looking for her? Were they concerned that she'd been away this long? Was there a search party tracking her down? Or had they forgotten about her, as usual, because she was the youngest, the baby, the tag-along annoyance?

"Mistress Ginny must clear her mind," Kreacher told her. He was sitting on the floor, back pushed up against the couch with his long fingers pressing against his temples. Ginny closed her eyes and exhaled again, trying to release her anxieties with the out-breath. It must have worked, because Kreacher didn't say anything, and within a quarter of an hour she'd drifted off enough to dream.

Ginny was standing in the foyer of number 12, Grimmauld Place. The entryway was dark, but she could make out the outline of Mrs. Black's portrait. She heard laughter emitting from the end of a long hallway - she picked out Ron's loud cackle immediately - and she began to walk toward the sound, her footsteps muted by a thick carpet of dust.

This hallway, she remembered, would deposit her in the basement kitchen. She hung back for a moment, debating whether it was wise to actually enter the room, but in the end her courage won out - she was a Gryffindor, after all - and she slipped into the room. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were huddled at one end of the long table, discussing the Ministry of Magic.

"Well, if all three of us go we'll have to Disapperate separately," Ron was saying. "We can't all fit under the Cloak anymore."

Harry stood up suddenly, and Ginny reflexively took a step toward him, but someone else beat her there.

"Master has not finished his soup," Kreacher said, hurrying forward. "Would Master prefer the savory stew, or else the treacle tart to which Master is so partial?"

Harry was already walking out of the room, his eyes pinched with pain. "Thanks, Kreacher, but I'll be back in a minute," he said over his shoulder, hurrying out of the room. Ginny flattened herself against the wall and narrowly avoided brushing his arm as he swept past her and headed for the stairs. "Er - bathroom," he added, ascending to the first landing. Ginny watched, her lip caught between her teeth, as he dashed into the bathroom and closed the door, grunting with pain.

"It was his scar," she heard Hermione say, but Ginny kept her eyes fixed on the bathroom door. "Something's happening."

"Come off it," Ron said, and Ginny tore her attention away from Harry and peeked back inside the kitchen. Kreacher was piling treacle tart onto her brother's plate. "He's just nervous."

Hermione shook her head. "He grabbed his forehead, didn't you see? He tried to cover it up, but I saw."

"Kreacher will check," the elf offered, setting down his serving tray and dusting off his hands on the towel wrapped round his waist. He snapped his fingers, and with a loud crack he was gone.

"It was his scar," Hermione muttered into her stew, and Ron sighed.

"Kreacher's been kinder lately, hans't he?" he said through a mouthful of tart, trying to change the subject.

Hermione looked disgusted, but she agreed. "It's because you and Harry are finally treating him with a bit of decency," she said, and Ginny sighed inwardly, recognizing the beginnings of another famous S.P.E.W. rant. "Ever since Harry gave him that locket, he's been much more willing to help us."

"What locket?" Ginny heard herself ask, and then she turned beet red and clamped her hands over her mouth.

Neither Ron nor Hermione appeared to have heard her. "He's grown on me," admitted Ron. Hermione tried without success to hide her beaming smile. "It's the first time in years he's had a real master, too. Sirius's mum has been dead for ages, and Sirius sort of tried to avoid him. We're the first ones who've had a need for him. Must be nice to feel useful."

There was a shout from upstairs, and then Kreacher Apparated into the kitchen with a crack. "Master is not well," he cried, but Hermione was already on her feet. With Ron at her heels, she sprinted up the stairs and began to pound on the door. Ginny watched the scene from down below, craning her neck back to see the landing.

"Harry! HARRY!" Hermione yelled. There was no answer. Looking panicked, Hermione drew her wand. After a moment of hesitation, Ron followed suit. "Harry, open up!"

The door flew open, and Hermione toppled inside at once, regained her balance, and glanced around suspiciously. Ron was right behind her, looking unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of the chilly bathroom.

"What were you doing?" Ginny heard Hermione ask sternly.

"What d'you think I was doing?" asked Harry with feeble bravado.

"You were yelling your head off," said Ron.

"Oh, yeah . . . I must've dozed off, or - "

"Harry, please don't insult our intelligence," said Hermione between deep breaths. "We know your scar hurt downstairs, and you're white as a sheet!"

Kreacher, who had hung back from the bathroom, started to make his way quietly back down the stairs. Ginny followed him into the kitchen and watched in silence as he busied himself tidying the countertops. They were eventually joined by the others, who ate Kreacher's stew and treacle tart and talked about their plans to infiltrate the Ministry until the early hours of the morning. Hermione went up to bed first, and then Ron. The kitchen was empty save for the elf, Harry, and the visitor they didn't know they had.

"Kreacher," Harry said softly. "Come here."

The elf hurried over to his master.

"If something goes wrong with the plan . . . Don't stay here. Don't wait for them to catch you. If we don't come back, find the Weasleys. Any of them."

"Master will return," Kreacher said, patting Harry's arm gently. "And Kreacher will have a lovely steak-and-kidney pie waiting for him when he does."

Harry gave the elf a brief smile. "Just in case, though. The Weasleys. Fred and George have a shop in Diagon Alley, go there."

Kreacher's smile looked forced. "And they will be Kreacher's new masters?" he asked.

"Yes. Oh - don't mention this to Ron or Hermione. I don't want them to think I doubt the plan." He gave a sad little half-smile. "Got to keep up morale, you know. So, er, are we clear? Go to the Weasleys, don't tell anyone why, just say - say - say that it's your master's orders."

"Is Master asking," Kreacher whispered, "or telling?"

Harry took a breath. "Telling," he said finally. "If I don't come back, I am leaving you to the Weasleys. Do you understand?"

Kreacher nodded sullenly. "Master should get to bed," he said shortly. "Master has a big day tomorrow."

Harry looked like he wanted to say something more, but he rose and left the kitchen. Kreacher pried open a cupboard door and curled up inside of it. Ginny heard muffled whimpers emitting from inside.

The world around her blurred, and then it was morning, and Kreacher was shooing the trio out of the house with promises of pies upon their triumphant return. As the door shut, Kreacher leaned heavily against it and exhaled slowly. Ginny followed him around, drifting in his wake as he completed chores and prepared the pies. By mid-afternoon, he was out of distractions, and he sat at the head of the table with his hands clasped, staring down the hallway at the door.

Night fell. The door remained closed.

The dream kept shifting before her eyes. As the time passed, Kreacher slowly descended back into his former self. By the third day, he was muttering under his breath again. At the end of the second week he stumbled out of his cupboard and pried apart the curtains covering Mrs. Black's portrait. The house grew filthier by the minute, the pie rotted away on the table, and Kreacher seemed to be in pain most of the time. Ginny could hear him shouting and wailing, and she wanted to help, but the dream wasn't under her control, and the days flipped by quickly, like pages in a book that someone was skimming, and there was nothing she could do.

The dream finally settled. Ginny didn't know how long it had been since Harry'd left, but Kreacher was in a bad way. "Mustn't lock the doors," he kept mumbling to himself. "Mustn't be locking the doors, Kreacher wouldn't want to keep out Master Harry, oh, no, Master would be so disappointed if Kreacher locked him out!"

Ginny had a fleeting vision of the elf failing to lock the doors at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

"All right!" Kreacher shouted suddenly. "Kreacher will go!"

"Go?" asked the portrait of Sirius's mum. "Go where?"

"To the blood traitors," Kreacher answered, tugging at his ears. "Master told Kreacher to go to the Weasley brats, and so Kreacher will go, Kreacher is a good elf."

"The blood traitors!" howled the portrait. "How dare you, Kreacher!" But Kreacher snapped his fingers, and Mrs. Black's curtains swung shut over her face. With a low grunt that might have been a sob, he flung open the door and took a step into the outside world.

Ginny made to follow him, but something stopped her.

The dream was changing again.

It wasn't like the other times, when the scenes had blurred and morphed between the time lapses. This was different. This was familiar.

Without warning, the cold, empty fireplace burst to life. Hot flames danced in mesmerizing patterns, twisting and writhing like snakes, and Ginny knew she should follow Kreacher, but she was drawn to the fire, it was talking to her, whispering her name in that entrancing tongue that only she and Tom could understand . . . They were saying Ginny, Ginny, Ginny, and she knew they were only in her head, she knew none of this was real, but she had never before had a dream quite so vivid . . . She stretched out her hand to touch the fiery snakes, she wanted to stroke them, even though she knew it would hurt, and the part of her that was still sensible was shrieking at her to stop. . . .

"Ginny."

Ginny froze, her hand inches from the fireplace.

"What are you doing."

It wasn't a question. A white hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut.

"What are you doing, Ginevra?" he asked. "Answer me. Tell me what's wrong."

"You're not real," she whispered, even as she felt his long fingers curling under her chin, forcing her head back.

"Open your eyes. Look at me."

Ginny wrenched her head out of his grasp and kept her eyes closed.

"Look at me, Ginevra, please."

"No."

Tom sighed. "You're being so difficult," he murmured, sweeping her hair back behind her shoulder. "Didn't you miss me?"

"This is just a dream," Ginny whispered firmly to herself.

"Just a dream?" he echoed. "Is that what you think? Just a dream?"

"I'm waking up now."

"You could stay asleep," he suggested. "You could stay with me, just for a little longer. We both know you want to."

"I'm waking up," she repeated, forcing her eyes to open. She saw his face, white and skinless as bone, and his long, fiery tongue, and the glowing eyes pressed deep into the sockets of his skull, and she screamed while he laughed, she screamed and screamed and screamed -

"Mistress Ginny!"

Ginny sat up, her face covered in sweat. "I'm fine," she said automatically.

"What happened? What did Mistress see?"

"You didn't - you couldn't see him?" she asked breathlessly.

Kreacher shook his head. "Kreacher lost control of Mistress Ginny's mind. Another dream slipped in. There is dark magic at work, too powerful for Kreacher to thwart, oh yes, far too powerful." He looked scared. Ginny had never seen him look scared.

Kreacher put a hand against her temple; she jerked away. "Mistress Ginny must be still," he ordered, reaching for her again.

She scrambled away from him, still breathing heavily. "What are you doing?"

"Kreacher is tracking the dream," he said seriously, climbing onto the couch so he could reach her head. "But Kreacher has only a few seconds before the traces fade, so if Mistress would be still, Kreacher would be able to - ah, yes." He had his bony fingers jammed up against Ginny's temples.

"Did you get it?" she asked anxiously a minute later. "Do you know who sent it?"

Eyes squeezed shut, the elf shook his head. "Only where it came from."

Her heart was in her throat. "The world of the dead?" She hated herself for hoping, but if there was even a chance Tom was trying to contact her . . . If there was even a prayer. . . .

But Kreacher shook his head. "Not from the dead. From a house."

She deflated. "A house."

"Yes." He opened his eyes.

She waited, but he offered no more information. "Whose house, Kreacher?" she finally prompted.

"A house with many people," he replied.

She licked her lips. "Hogwarts?"

"No, not Hogwarts." Under his breath, he mumbled, "If it were Hogwarts, Kreacher would have said Hogwarts, but no, the blood traitor is not thinking of that."

She ignored the jab at her intelligence. "The Ministry of Magic, then?"

He shook his head again.

"Where, then?"

"It is a house full of dark magic," he said. "Tall. Filled with rooms. A broken mirror. Unplottable. Muggle-repellant. It is - " He stopped and looked up at Ginny, who gestured that he should keep going. "The Dark Lord's manor," he whispered.

"Tom's house," she whispered. "Tom's house, that's where I last saw him, it's him, he's alive, I know it!" She didn't care that it was impossible. She was standing, reaching for her wand. Her heart, so heavy and conflicted these past few days, soared. "Where's my wand, Kreacher?"

"Here." Kreacher handed it to her. "Is Mistress going to the Dark Lord's home?"

She nodded, running a hand through her hair in a feeble attempt to unsnarl it.

"Then Kreacher is coming, too."

She was walking toward the door. "No, stay here with Billy. It's dangerous."

"No." Kreacher scurried around the couch and stood in the doorway, blocking her way. "Kreacher has let too many masters walk away into danger," he said, his eyes locking on to hers. "Too many masters have not come home. Kreacher will go with Mistress Ginny."

She sighed impatiently and pushed past him. "I order you to stay."

But Kreacher didn't stay. He stumbled after her, grunting with pain and clutching at his head. "Kreacher will not," he panted. "It hurts Kreacher to disobey his orders, but Kreacher will not stay, no, he will not, not again, not this time!"

Ginny was at the bottom of the porch steps. She took a deep breath and turned around to face him. "Kreacher," she began, but he interrupted.

"Kreacher knows how to find the Dark Lord's house," he declared. "And Mistress Ginny does not."

She opened her mouth to argue before she realized he was right. "All right, you've got me there - wait. How do you know how to find it?"

Kreacher swallowed and looked very, very ashamed of himself. "House elf magic," he tried, but Ginny saw through his lie easily. "Kreacher has been before," he admitted.

She squinted. "You went to Tom's? When? Why? Tell the truth."

"Many times," he told her. "To visit his old mistress."

But that didn't make any sense. "Sirius's mum's at Grimmould Place."

"Not Mistress Walburga," Kreacher said miserably. "Kreacher knows Mistress Walburga is dead, he knows she is being only a portrait now."

It was growing cold, and Ginny's patience was running thin. "Stop avoiding the question," she said. "Who do you go see at Tom's house?"

"Kreacher can't," he whimpered. "Kreacher promised not to tell."

In the back of her mind she heard Tom's voice whispering that word over and over: promise, promise, promise, promise. He'd broken so many promises. . . . "Tell me," she roared, drawing her wand. "Or so help me, Kreacher, it'll be clothes. An entire closet of them."

Kreacher threw himself face-first into the snow and began to howl. "Lady Lestrange," he cried, voice slightly muffled. "Kreacher goes to see Mistress Bellatrix!"

And then with a loud crack, he Disapparated.