Disclaimer: I don't own this.

Chapter 26: A Real House Elf

"I apologize, my lord."

The young man - a boy, really - was on his knees, and his voice shook as he failed to stifle the tremors wracking his body. His harsh breaths sounded hollow in the cold, cavernous room.

He chuckled softly, causing the boy to timidly look up at him with the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"You apologize? How...quaint."

He met the boy's eyes for but a moment, before he lifted his foot and stepped on his head, forcing his brow to touch the cold stone floor.

"My friends, did you hear that? He apologizes."

A tide of uneasy laughter washed over the room.

"My lord...please..."

The boy's voice was strained, thin and twisting.

"Please?"

"Please...have mercy..."

He chuckled again. "Mercy...what a curious thought. Mercy..."

He stepped backwards a pace, releasing the boy's head.

"Look at me."

Reluctantly, the boy lifted his eyes once again, recoiling at the sight of the malicious grin being directed at him. Indeed, there was nothing kind, nothing benevolent, nothing merciful about whatever sentiment stretched and curled his lips.

"What is it you desire?" he asked slowly, patronizingly.

"Mercy...my lord. Mercy..."

"Very well. Your lord will show you mercy..."

"Thank you, my lord, thank you -"

"...eventually. Crucio."

A scream tore through the boy's throat, and he relished in the sound of it, breathing deeply as dark magic boiled in the air around them, caressing his skin and burning through his veins with a delicious sort of electricity. The rush was incredible – he could feel himself becoming dizzy with pleasure, as a sweet melody buzzed in his head and sensual static danced under his skin; he felt so there, so present, so alive.

The young man was writhing on the ground, now, and he could feel his grin widen at the sight of the fool's muscle spasms and violent twitches, punctuating his hoarse screams. There were times he actually craved the failure of his followers, just because moments like this were so...enjoyable.

However, it was bad for morale. His followers didn't seem to perform quite as well after seeing their comrades being tortured into insanity...this much was obvious from past experience. And while it was a treat to punish them, they had to actually get things done. If they couldn't do that, why would he put up with them in the first place?

He sighed, and then released the curse, watching curiously as the boy tried to compose himself.

"M-my lord...p-p-please...g-grant me -"

"Mercy? You already said that."

"P-please...please...please..."

"SILENCE!"

Everyone obeyed. Not even the faintest trace of breathing could be heard.

"You beg for clemency, and I, your merciful lord, shall give it to you."

"Thank you my lord, thank you -"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry's eyes snapped open and he bolted upright so quickly that he felt nausea stir in his stomach. He gripped his head in his hands.

His skin was on fire, but it was not a painful fire – it was the fervent caress of dark magic. He was light-headed, breathing heavily, and excited. And he hated it.

He grit his teeth, willing himself to calm down. He didn't enjoy that. He definitely didn't enjoy that.

Delusion is a sign of insanity, Harry.

He could hear the humour in Tom's voice.

"Shut up, Tom," he hissed furiously, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shot through his forehead.

He glanced out the window – it was still dark out, but he could see a faint grey glow on the eastern horizon, soft and barely there. What day was it again? Uncle Vernon had locked him in his bedroom for three days following his visit with Hermione, which was on the 23rd, and this had forced him to switch to his nocturnal schedule (in which he would unlock his doors long after the Dursleys were asleep and go about making his meals and stretching his legs). Then he'd spent the next three days pulling weeds and chatting with garden snakes, forcing him out of his nocturnal schedule again. He tracked dirt in the house accidentally (no, really, it had nothing to do with the fact that he was tired and wanted some extra time to do his potions readings), so he'd been locked in his bedroom again for a day, but he had yet to change his schedule around so...

Was it August already?

No, it had to be...

Happy Birthday, Harry

Tom's voice was malicious now, mocking, and Harry could sense the vindictiveness in it. He shivered, and he felt Tom's satisfaction at his discomfort.

Collapsing back onto his pillow, he shut his eyes forcefully. Maybe if he was lucky he could get a couple more hours of dreamless sleep.

Five minutes later he sat up again. Tom's smug amusement still echoed in the back of his mind, causing him to sigh heavily. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.

This was not going to be a good day. That was already evident.

Sometimes he...

Well, sometimes he wished he didn't have to bother at all.

"I think we should run through the schedule one more time," Uncle Vernon said, some degree of nervousness evident in his voice.

His bloody relatives were so thick they needed a schedule to entertain guests.

"We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be -?"

"In the lounge, waiting to welcome them graciously to our home."

Aunt Petunia was a lot of things, but never gracious.

"Good, good, and Dudley?"

"I'll be waiting to open the door...May I take your coats, Mr. And Mrs. Mason?"

"They'll love him!"

Honestly, he felt a bit sick now. No, seriously - his stomach was squirming at this point.

"Excellent, Dudley. And you?"

Splendid, now it was his turn.

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said in deadpan.

"Exactly." The man took a moment to smirk viciously at him, his pudgy face turning a pleased shade of red, before he turned back to his eagerly listening wife and son. "I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight fifteen -"

Exactly eight fifteen, Harry wanted to snark.

"I'll announce dinner," his Aunt said proudly, as though she was impressed with her own ability to remember to announce dinner.

"And Dudley, you'll say -"

"May I take you through to the dining room, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?" Dudley rehersed smugly.

"My perfect little gentleman!"

Harry almost choked on air.

"And you?" Uncle Vernon turned to him with a nasty scowl.

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he repeated tonelessly, straightening his face and doing his best to look as witless as the rest of his...family. The very word made his skin crawl. There were times when the fact that he was related to these stupid muggles truly disgusted him.

"Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?"

"Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason...Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason..."

Harry doubted Aunt Petunia even knew what a wonderful golfer was. He sure didn't. He didn't even realize you could be 'wonderful' at golfing.

"Perfect...Dudley?"

"How about, 'we had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you'."

Aunt Petunia burst into tears of joy at that, embracing her son with rapturous pride.

Meanwhile, Harry's eyes were wide. That was...he was mentally speechless. Not a single intelligent thought managed to take tangible form in his brain.

The stupid muggle had broken him.

Hopefully it was only temporary.

"And you, boy?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said automatically, the slightest bit of wonderment in his voice.

Uncle Vernon looked at him a bit oddly, before saying, "Too right you will!"

Now focusing on piecing back together his own sensibilities, he drowned out the rest of the conversation, repeating, "I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there" whenever necessary.

It was times like this when he really wished he could do some real magic outside of school. Not just silly unlocking charms, disillusionments, and levitations. It was all so tame, all so boring. The cruciatus curse -

He almost slammed his head on the table. His dream was still messing with his head. He grit his teeth, suddenly aware of how Tom-ish his thoughts had been up until that point. Honestly, he didn't feel like himself at all.

After that ordeal - that impressive test of his never ending patience and longsuffering - he'd, predictably, been expected to do some last minute yard work, which he was thankful for; there was nothing like a bit of hard labour to make him feel more like himself. Tom didn't have a very happy childhood, but one thing he'd never experienced was a mile-long chore list. In fact, to the best of his knowledge, Tom had never done a day of hard labour in his life. Lucky him.

Well, maybe not. The fact that tasks like weeding or mowing the lawn were clear-cut divisions between his experiences and Tom's was enough to make Harry less averse to his more physically demanding chores. There were times when he still struggled to separate himself from the boy that haunted his dreams – in fact, there were times, like that morning, when he thought it was getting worse. More and more, his experiences were mirroring Tom's – learning magic, attending classes at Hogwarts, and even performing spells with a wand that was a brother to Tom's (which felt remarkably similar) – and it was disconcerting in some ways. Every night he witnessed a few poignant moments of his best friend's journey from being a model Hogwarts student, much like himself, to being the most feared dark lord in history, which Harry never wanted to become...and bearing witness to this journey always served as a sobering reminder of how close he was to becoming somebody he didn't want to be. He didn't want to take pleasure in hurting people – he didn't want to enjoy killing people. That wasn't Harry Potter – that was Tom Riddle, and they were not the same person. They weren't.

So these days, Harry valued every departure his life took from the template Tom had laid out in front of him; and physical exertion was a big part of this.

Tom was an extremely cerebral being. The dark lord was clever, cunning, and unmatched magically – he could defeat most of his foes while lounging casually on a cozy sofa (really, Harry could just picture it) – and so had never felt the need to play Quidditch or run, which were activities Harry was keen on enjoying. And he really did enjoy them. It was so easy, when his best friend was in his own head, to forget to really savour how it really feels to be in the world. Too often, he was caught up in his own mind – where everything really happened – and even his own body seemed far away, at times.

He would always remember that first time he lost control of his own body – the first time he became a being of pure spirit, without physical grounding...at least, the kind of physical grounding that makes you feel truly alive. He knew what it was like to feel far away from his own finger tips; to witness the world through a veil; to breath hollow breaths – and sometimes, knowing this didn't bother him so much, which scared him. He didn't want to relinquish control of his body. It was one of the few things his parents had given to him that he still had, and he'd die before he let that be taken away from him.

So while Harry was a rather cerebral being himself, he valued the aching of his sore muscles, the feeling of sweat dripping from his brow, and the kiss of the fresh summer breeze on his face. He savoured the frailty of the human body, because it reminded him that he was there. That's why he never complained when Aunt Petunia gave him his list of chores for the day – there was a part of him that craved exhaustion and pain. It somehow felt comfortable. When he was there he couldn't be guilty, sad, restless, or lonely – he was there. And sometimes that's exactly where he wanted to be.

But that was not to say he did not feel immense relief when shutting himself in his room after a few hours of hard labour.

When he did so, he always removed Tom's mirror from beneath his pillow for a friendly hello.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Tom said immediately that day, holding an expression on his face that Harry believed he was supposed to interpret as encouragement, but really just came off as what it really was – Tom's haphazard attempt to put Harry in a mood that was agreeable to him.

Harry smiled at him weakly nonetheless. "Thank you, Tom."

"I'm afraid I don't have any presents for you -"

"It's really alright," he said with a little bit of a laugh. For some reason, Tom had become more insistent on things like presents in the last couple of years. Harry wasn't going to complain.

"But we can pick one up next time we're in Diagon Alley."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Now, are you going to open the present from the mudblood?"

Harry sighed. "Her name's Hermione, Tom..."

"I am aware," Tom replied carelessly.

Harry rolled his eyes, and then reached under his bed to retrieve the two presents Hermione had given him the week before.

"Hmmm..." he mused, "Which to open first..."

One was clearly a book, and the other...well, he had no idea what to think of that one.

He settled on the one that looked like a book. After removing the bright red, glittery wrapping, he let out a gasp of excitement.

"A Structural Analysis of Magical Contracts, by Eviatar Erlinger!"

He flipped through the pages excitedly. "It looks so complicated and hard and amazing!"

He glanced over at Tom, who actually looked quite impressed.

"Perhaps I don't give the mudblood enough credit."

Harry smirked at him. "No, perhaps you don't.," he said, ignoring the pain in his head. "She probably remembered the argument we had over the blood oath I took."

"Which you were a fool for taking."

"It was the only way I could ethically practice legillimency."

"Ethics," Tom scoffed.

"I wonder," Harry said thoughtfully, reverently placing the book on the bed beside him, "What's in the other package. It looks like a shoe box."

Curiously, Harry picked up the other box and cautiously unwrapped and opened it, finding a pair of headphones, a discman, and a few of CDs inside.

He blinked. "Muggle music technology," he said in surprise. He looked at the CDs. One had Bach – Preludes and Fugues I written on it, and another Bach – Preludes and Fugues II; the others were Bach – Cello Suites parts I and II.

"What's Bach?" wondered Harry.

"A wizard who lived approximately approximately two and a half centuries ago. A world-renowned composer."

Harry blinked. "Oh, like music."

"Yes, Harry," Tom said patronizingly, "Like music."

"Oh, well that was awfully nice of her."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "I doubt she knows, though, that he was a wizard. There have not been many prominent musicians in our history, and he's even more well known in the muggle world than he is in the magical one."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Oh, so I bet this is part of her no doubt impending plot to make me like muggles, then."

"I would imagine so."

"Well, it was very nice of her anyway."

Tom looked at him blandly. "Indeed."

"Anyway, when will we next visit Diagon Alley?"

"A week or two. It depends on when you get your letter with your book list. You likely won't need any new books for most of your classes, but the Defence against the Dark Arts curriculum will no doubt be chosen by your new professor."

"Oh, right, Professor Quirrell is..."

"Dead. You killed him."

Harry hung his head, looking very ashamed at that. "I really didn't mean to. I still feel very awful about it."

Tom looked at him disdainfully. "He was a poor excuse for a substitute horcrux. Good riddance."

"Tom, that's a horrible thing to say."

"Sometimes I fall under the impression that you have forgotten that I used to make a name for myself torturing and murdering 'innocent' people. If you can really call them that," he added on darkly.

"Well, it's easy to forget. I mean, you're so nice to me," Harry said earnestly.

"And sometimes I forget how starved for affection you are."

Harry frowned. "Well, that's not a very nice thing to say."

Tom scoffed at him.

Meanwhile, Harry yawned. "I think I'll take a nap now, actually. Perhaps I can sleep through the Durselys' dinner party."

"It's probably for the best."

He stood up and closed his curtains. "Goodnight, Tom."

"It's not night, you stupid child."

When Harry woke up, there were two enormous green-ish yellow eyes staring down at him, opened impossibly wide until they were just about the size of tennis balls.

"Hello," Harry said cautiously, not moving. "My name's Harry, who are you?"

The creature, which had perhaps the largest, pointiest ears Harry had ever seen, jumped off his bed and onto the carpet, bowing so low that its long, thin nose touched the ground.

"Harry Potter!" it exclaimed, and Harry winced, hyper-aware of how jarring the small creature's voice was.

"Muffliato," he whispered performing a vague movement with his hand, hoping the spell would have at least a marginal effect even though he cast it without a wand.

In the meantime, the small creature was blubbering on, sounding quite star-struck. "...so long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir...such an honour it is..."

Harry blinked. Well that was...unexpected. "Mr. Dobby -"

"Oh, just Dobby sir. Dobby the house elf," the creature said, wringing its long, bony hands a bit.

Harry's eyes widened. He'd never met a house elf before. Tom was quite clear on the fact that Harry was treated like a house elf, but he'd never actually met these creatures he was always compared to. This was a house elf? This is what Tom was always comparing him to? He didn't want to insult Dobby or anything, but...he couldn't help but feel a little insulted, himself, about the comparison.

"Alright, well, Dobby, it's lovely to meet you -"

The creature looked at him with eyes filled to the brim with wonder and excitement. "Harry Potter...says...it's lovely to meet Dobby..." Tears were gathering in the elf's eyes.

Harry nodded absently, still at least somewhat oblivious to the small creature's fragile mental state. "Indeed it is. Now, Dobby, may I ask why you're here?"

"Oh yes, sir," Dobby said, pulling himself together. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir...it is difficult, sir...Dobby wonders where to begin..."

"Well, why don't you sit down, and we can talk about it?"

However, his statement had the opposite of the desired effect, and the elf burst into tears

Harry could feel Tom's irritation in the back of his mind.

"S-sit down!" the elf wailed, shocked into hysterics, the volume of his voice causing Harry to wince,"Never...n-never, ever..."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, hoping the elf would follow suit, "I really didn't mean to make you upset. It wasn't my intention to offend you."

"Offend Dobby!" the elf choked. "Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard before – like an equal –"

Feeling a little horrified for the poor thing, he tried to smile weakly. "You can't have met many decent wizards, then."

Dobby shook his head. Then, all of a sudden, he leapt up onto Harry's desk and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

"Wait, stop, what are you doing?" Harry cried, frantically tearing the creature away from the window.

Tom had gone from being irritated to laughing bemusedly in his mind, no doubt relishing in the pathetic creature's pain.

"Dobby had to punish himself, sir," said the house elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. "Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir."

"The people who...own you?"

Dobby nodded. "The family Dobby is bound to serve forever..."

"Do they know you're here?" asked Harry curiously.

Dobby shuddered. "Oh no, sir, no...Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir -"

A brutal shiver shook the elf's frame.

"But won't they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?" Harry asked with a frown, somewhat concerned with the plausibility of Dobby's plan.

"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments..."

What horrible people, he could not help but think. Surely, the elf had its faults, but he clearly meant well. And he was rather cute, in an odd way. Yes, Dobby the house elf had most likely been divested of every last marble he ever had, but at least his evident insanity was endearing. Who could possibly wish him harm? Well, Tom did, but Tom took pleasure in everyone's pain. "Is there anything I can do? To make this whole thing easier for you?"

At that, Dobby erupted into wails of gratitude and awe.

"Please," Harry said frantically, "Please be quiet, Dobby. I'll be in a lot of trouble..."

"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby...Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, of your goodness, but Dobby never knew..."

Harry was just very confused now. "Oh...well, I assure you, Dobby, there's nothing particularly great about me. Not yet, anyway..."

"Harry Potter is humble and modest," said Dobby reverently, his impressively large eyes nearly glowing in the dark of Harry's room. "Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Ummm..."

"Dobby heard tell," the elf continued hoarsely, "That Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago...that Harry Potter escaped yet again."

Harry nodded slowly, wondering what the elf was getting at.

"Ah, sir," the elf gasped, dabbing the wet corners of his eyes with the hem of the...grubby pillowcase-looking thing he was wearing. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later, Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."

"...what?"

"Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

Harry blinked. "Really?"

Dobby nodded. "There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year...Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!"

"May I ask what sort of terrible things are going to happen?"

Dobby made a horrible choking sound, and then started hitting his head violently against the edge of Harry's bed.

"Ok, ok," Harry said, trying to appease him. "I see, I understand. You can't say anything. It's alright, Dobby."

"...it is?"

Harry nodded. "I get it, I won't go back to Hogwarts, I promise you."

Dobby looked positively blissful, at that. "Really, sir?"

Harry nodded, trying to smile. "I'm sure my relatives will be thrilled to have me around longer, and then I can go to this lovely muggle school they had lined up for me..."

Ok, maybe he was laying it on a little thick.

Meanwhile, Dobby seemed to have bought his little act. "Oh, Dobby is so, so pleased, sir. Dobby is so happy that Harry Potter will remain here where it's safe."

Harry nodded with feigned fervour. "Thank you so much, Dobby, for coming to warn me. I really appreciate it." And he did...the sentiment, at least.

"Oh, Dobby is so, so happy to help, sir! Dobby hopes that Harry Potter has a very pleasant evening!"

And with one last adoring look, the elf disappeared, leaving Harry sitting on his bed with a puzzled look on his face.

That was unexpected. Very unexpected.

Alas, he was too exhausted to even think about it.

Sighing, he reached under his bed and pulled out the discman from Hermione, and popped a CD in. Placing the headphones on and collapsing into his bed, he fell asleep to the lulling dialogue of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major.

His sleep was dreamless that night.

And this marks the beginning of year 2! Wish me luck, preferably in the form of reviews and chocolate, if you can manage it.