Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Little People

Gabrielle made her way back downstairs slowly. There were occasional shooting pains in her rib cage. Probably from the punitive dose of Skele-Gro, thought Gabrielle. She also smelled faintly of Bruise-Be-Gone even though she had washed. Ginny had been very thorough, and a tin and a half of anything was bound to stay with a person. Gabrielle was back in the denims and wearing one of the embroidered shirts. The skirt and the jumper were both in desperate need of a magical cleaning. Crookshanks had better not be expecting salmon, thought Gabrielle. It was mostly his fault, after all.

Gabrielle headed back toward the kitchen. Officially she had had a single piece of toast. Ginny had only been allowed half a piece of toast and some tea, since Fleur did not believe that she had not eaten the sausage Gabrielle had carried. Unofficially, the two girls had eaten their fill from the tray Dobby brought. Dobby came via Harry, who was in enforced hiding in his room and would not be able to go to the wedding. At least, not as himself. Or as Ginny's escort, something that clearly annoyed Ginny even though she tried not to show it. Gabrielle could tell, though, from the vigorousness of the ointment application. Dobby had needed some of the Bruise-Be-Gone as well. The house-elf did not explain why, but admitted that Geff had punched him. Dobby said that he had deserved it, but didn't seem too upset.

"Dat's de wun Coop!" said a small voice in a whisper that carried. A shout would have been only slightly less noticeable.

"Shuddup," hissed another voice. "Didja see wot de last'un dat was de wun did ta Corner? Dis place is crawlin' wid bigjobs. If'n I hadna prom'sed yer ma..."

"Hello?" said Gabrielle brightly. A contingent of the Second Corps guardin' gnomes could only mean one thing: A present from George. Or Fred.

"Aw, badgers! Git ready ta run - 'ere she cooms," muttered the second voice. The voices came from the far side of the stairs. Probably close to the little cupboard beneath the stairs, thought Gabrielle. She bent close and peered around the railing.

"Hello? I will not hurt you," promised Gabrielle. Two red-capped gnomes stood next to the little cupboard's door, which was slightly ajar.

"Eas' now, bigjob, cuz I will 'urt you," warned the slightly taller of the two, Coop.

"You have anozzer, eh, rock?"

"Yeah, an' itsa magic wun dis time, rit," claimed Coop. He looked nervous, still.

"Eh, can I see it?" asked Gabrielle curiously.

"'Course not. It'd be inv'sible, rit?"

"Zen how do I know zat you have ze rock?"

The gnome tilted his head and stared at her. "I jes' tol' you."

Gabrielle was about to order the gnome to stop being difficult when the smaller garden gnome asked, "Can I give it t'er? Dat's dried feverfew, I'm sure o' it."

"It is not dried feverfew! It is yella - is blond," protested Gabrielle.

"Wrong bigjob Coop! Run fer it!"

"Shuddup Pipe. Worms 'ave more guts'n you," admonished Coop.

"Worms're all guts Coop," replied Pipe, licking his lips. Gabrielle wrinkled her nose.

"Is zere a package for me?" asked Gabrielle. "Geor- eh, Forge has sent one before. And, eh, Gred."

"You 'ere dat? Dis is da rit'un!" announced Pipe excitedly.

"Why not jes' ask ta be trown over de wall? Keep it doon," said Coop irritably. "G'on an' give it t'er."

"Zank you," said Gabrielle politely. She was somewhat disappointed in that the object passed to her was wrapped in plain paper and string. "Is zere, eh, a paper, also?"

The gnome named Pipe suddenly looked panicked, and rummaged in his crudely made shirt and then, to Gabrielle's horror, his equally crude trousers. Coop scrunched up his face in concentration. Pipe stopped rooting in his trousers, and pulled them open at the waist. Gabrielle was about to say that she did not need the paper, in case the gnome Pipe had found something. Coop spoke up before she could, "Naw, no paper. Jes' da package, rit."

"Den wot's dis?" asked Pipe, poking at something in his trousers.

Gabrielle decided that she did not want to know. She stood and moved to the stairs, taking a seat on them as far from the members of the Second Corps as she could. Gabrielle really hoped George and Fred did not rely too much on the gnomes to guard the house.

"Hah! Dat's no' a paper, ya cobber," chortled Coop. Gabrielle untied the strings holding the wrapping on. If it was a new Wheeze, she knew she would have to wait until tomorrow to try it.

"Can I eat it?" asked Pipe, still louder than his compatriot. Gabrielle revealed a small bottle of milky liquid. It looked the same as the hair-coloring Wheeze she had.

"Did wun o' dem worms crawl outa yer guts an' eat yer brain? Dat's wot we bunged up de holes in ya wid aft' dat hen got ya tryin' to take dat egg," snapped Coop. He sighed, "No. You canna eat it." Gabrielle discovered that the wrapping had a message written on it. Her eyes were first drawn to the part where the letters bounced around and flashed red. It was a warning not to use the liquid if it had separated. That part was underlined three times. The advisory 'do not shake' was underlined four times. Gabrielle looked at the liquid in the stoppered bottle again. It seemed all right as she swirled it around. A second thought wondered if shaking meant the same thing in Britain as it did in France, so she stopped twirling the bottle.

It was, read Gabrielle, a variation on the hair-coloring Wheeze, as she had guessed. The twins had changed it so that one could choose the colors, up to three, and the colors would change once a minute. The only problem Gabrielle could see was the next sentence, which simply read, 'Probably.' That was a pretty powerful sentence for being so short. That it was just before the dancing, flashing warnings only increased its effect.

A shadow fell across the crumpled note and Gabrielle looked up. It was Mrs. Weasley; Gabrielle realized that was why she didn't hear the garden gnomes anymore.

"There you are, dear," said Mrs. Weasley. "Your mother is asking after you. And - what - is that?" Gabrielle had tried to slip the bottle into a pocket as she stood. She wasn't sure if it was because Mrs. Weasley was used to spotting George and Fred's tricks, or if it was because she had needed two hands to fit in, that she was noticed.

"It is for my hair. Fleur said I was to wear colors in my hair." Gabrielle suspected that anything attached to the phrase 'Fleur said' would be accepted today.

"Oh, er, fine, fine then. You haven't seen Hermione, perchance, have you? I'm afraid there's a bit of a house-elf crisis at the moment."

"She was wizz Monsieur Moody," supplied Gabrielle.

Mrs. Weasley's expression darkened considerably. "Alastor told me what you all had gotten into. Thought you could hide it from me, did you?"

"Non, no," said Gabrielle honestly. It was Maman that she hoped to hide it from.

"It's going to be a nightmare!" spat Mrs. Weasley. "I'm relieved, of course, that you, dear, are all right. You will not set a foot outside the Burrow again! Is that clear?" asked a suddenly looming matron.

"Eh, yes, eh, of course," agreed Gabrielle instantly, smiling in what she hoped was a grateful way. "Perhaps Hermione is wizz Pick- eh, Ron," she added to try and be helpful. Gabrielle immediately regretted her words. Hermione was surely in enough trouble already; getting caught with her boyfriend would not help at all. Gabrielle knew what they could be up to.

"Do you think so? Ron needs a bit of a push on his studies, but maybe his complaints about Hermione riding him too hard are spot on." Gabrielle's mind's eye brought up an image for the phrase Mrs. Weasley had used. It was from her Grandmere's little book, and she felt her face heat up. "Yes dear?" prompted Mrs. Weasley suspiciously.

"I should see Maman," blurted Gabrielle.

Mrs. Weasley sighed, "I suppose I could shrink some of the boys' old clothes for him. Why his old tea towel is no good now is beyond me."

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape, his black robes almost snapping in the air, fled down the long hall of the southern wing of Malfoy Manor. The long, hand-woven carpet, showing a fanciful woodland scene turning into a fiery inferno and then back, muffled the sounds of his boots. It had not, the former professor had come to know, been a good idea to share his suppositions on Bellatrix's fate with Narcissa. The much put-upon Madame Malfoy had reacted poorly, as if another pillar had been kicked out from beneath her wobbling world. That had been a surprise to him, and he had emphasized that there was no evidence or indication as to what had occurred. Though perhaps, thought Snape, given Bellatrix's penchant for violence and her obvious instability, Narcissa knew there was little hope. A further surprise was her desperate plea for him to avoid Diagon Alley, to stay safe for Draco's sake. A ludicrous proposition, thought Snape. He knew that without contact with Potter, tedious as that was likely to be, there was no safety for him nor Draco. As it stood now, it was possible only the Dark Lord was more wanted at the Ministry. He had to know if Potter had received the parcel.

A pleading, whimpering voice brought Snape up short. Ah, grimaced Snape, either Dickinbottom has lost his mind and is trapped in a nightmare, or the Dark Lord has successfully transferred. Now the trick was to determine which it was. He waited for a lull in the lamentations, then knocked on the heavy door. There was a cry of anguish, a clatter, and then the softly high voice of Dickinbottom called out coldly, "Enter, Severus." The dallying on the ess sounds ruled out insanity, thought Snape. He pushed the door open.

Dickinbottom stood in a lavender bathrobe next to a jumble of grooming items that had tumbled to the floor. He looked pallid, with a clamminess dampening his brow, but stood firm and proud without the usual mincing. The real difference between this being and the true Dickinbottom was the face. Snape had heard the tales of the Dark Lord emerging on the back of Quirrell's head, but this was more horrible. Here something moved beneath the visage of Dickinbottom, moving it like the hand inside a child's puppet. It was disconcerting. The eyes looking out, though, were clearly the Dark Lord's, and were redder and more snake-like. Severus approached silently, then bent on one knee, "My lord."

"A curious choice, Severus. Tell me why."

"He is a powerful wizard and a willing participant. He has a talent for magics of the mind. I thought that might prove helpful," replied Snape. He could see now that it was a matter of coordination. When the former Dickinbottom was not speaking, the mouth on the face did not always align with the Dark Lord's underneath.

"Talents and abilities squandered for small, mean perversions," noted Voldemort. "I can not feel Nagini."

Blast. "My lord, I was unable to revive her after the ritual," explained Snape, trying not to tense up. If one expected punishment then the Dark Lord could be quite generous.

The puppet that had been Ogden Dickinbottom sat on the bed. "This body is old and ravaged by excesses."

"That was a motivating factor in Dickinbottom's submission. It is a temporary measure until a new body can be formed," said Snape. He pulled out the selection of potions. "I have several elixirs -"

"Set them on the dresser," interrupted Voldemort. He picked up Dickinbottom's wand from the bedside table and gave it a dexterous twirl with his fingers. "A surprisingly good wand. Where is mine?"

"I will have Amycus bring it immediately," replied the potions master quickly.

The Dark Lord hissed. "I know it is not good that you did not bring it with you. Lord Voldemort sees all."

"Yes, my lord."

"I can see that there is more news that you believe I will hold you responsible for. Tell me, Severus." Snape could not stop a gasp as he was swept into the air before being lowered smoothly into a chair.

"My lord, Ollivander sent word. Buried beneath colorful tales is a failure to achieve results. The ships ferrying the giants were scuttled after the creatures ate the muggle crews. The ships were adrift and attracting the attentions of the muggle authorities," informed Snape. He risked a glance at the Dark Lord's face, but could not discern anything from the mask of flesh he wore. "Wormtail missed his booked passage." An uncomfortable silence ensued. Snape noted that, except for the eyes, the Dark Lord appeared to have receded. Several mannerisms of Dickinbottom's returned. The way the hands were held; the stroking of the goatee.

"My lord, Narcissa has met with several emissary's to the Chairman," said Snape carefully. "We have made it known that he had fallen quite ill. The Prophet suggested Scrofulus."

That which was slowly becoming more like Dickinbottom suddenly snapped back to the Dark Lord, and he waved the wand in angry, slashing motions. The sting of an invisible whip landed across Snape's chest, spinning him to the ground. "Fools! Malfoy is a tainted name. There was to be no association with my Death Eaters," seethed the Dark Lord. He paid no heed to the gasping his host body was doing. Snape said nothing. "A plan," continued the Dark Lord as he settled heavily back onto the bed, "that worked only too well. You could not have known better. I require every edition of the Prophet since my... illness."

"Of course, my lord," answered Snape. This was going as well as could be expected, and Dickinbottom would not survive long at this pace. The Dark Lord would need him. There was, however, one more thing to deal with. "My lord? Bellatrix is missing."

The dull red glow from the eyes sparked. "You suspect something, Severus."

"Yes. It is -"

"It is of no consequence at the moment. You suspect the same or you would have moved from the manor. You will make enquiries as to what has transpired. I will make my own as well," ordered Voldemort. "Now, the potions. What have you brought?"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle pushed open the door to the kitchen and stopped short at the sight. The room was packed with wizards and witches, and the table was bigger than she had ever seen it. Gabrielle recognized many from past meals at the Burrow. They were not all guests, she realized. More then a few of the men were eating haphazardly, staring, with varying levels of surreptitiousness, at Fleur, Maman, and - Aunt Laurel! Oh great, thought Gabrielle. Why is she here now? It was too late to turn around now; Maman was already watching her. Gabrielle moved to her father's side.

"(Gabrielle, say hello to your Aunt,)" hinted Madame Delacour.

"(Hello Aunt Laurel,)" said Gabrielle in a monotone. "(How are you?)"

"(I am quite well, child. You are looking very... foreign today,)" replied her aunt as she looked at the denims and slightly over-sized blouse Gabrielle wore. "(Do I detect a hint of your favorite perfume, bruise ointment, as well?)"

"(I fell, earlier this morning,)" said Gabrielle, as if it were a skinned knee. She tried to work out how to ask Aunt Laurel why she was here already without it sounding rude.

"(She broke six ribs,)" added Maman in what Gabrielle considered an unhelpful way. Gabrielle glared at her mother, who was used to such things and able to disregard it.

"(Quite the fall. So, no hint of protective magic then?)" asked the least favorite relative.

"(It may have been the only thing that kept her alive,)" offered Papa, also unhelpfully.

"(I got a letter from Beauxbatons,)" reminded Gabrielle. She knew what her aunt was implying.

"(Of course you did,)" said Aunt Laurel with a smirk. "(Apolline, Henri has such influence in the Ministry these days.)"

"(It is true,)" acknowledged Gabrielle's mother proudly, cupping her hand under her husband's chin. She beamed at him and planted a kiss on his cheek. Gabrielle's father's eyes glazed.

"(It was nothing. I would do anything for you dear,)" burbled Henri. "(I shall become Minister and rename Paris in your honor. I
shall -)"

"(He is a silly man, though,)" interrupted Aunt Laurel playfully.

"(I can do things,)" declared Gabrielle, and she knew she could. "(I can,)" started Gabrielle. She could almost silencio loud noises, she could summon an item if it wasn't too far away and it was soft, and she could conjure a flame. But, Gabrielle realized, if she said any of those things then her Maman would go looking for the little wand. She was still a proper witch though. "(I can See the past.)"

This proclamation did not have the effect that Gabrielle desired. There was no moment of quiet awe, filled with the sudden and shameful realization that they had underestimated her all those years. Aunt Laurel, in fact, pursed her lips in a polite attempt not to laugh. Perhaps, thought Gabrielle, they had not caught her use of
the word see. "(I can - See - the past,)" said Gabrielle again, trying to enunciate the capital. She had deserved the letter.

"(Yes, dear, your very special,)" giggled Aunt Laurel. Maman stared at the ceiling. Papa, saw Gabrielle, was nodding his head in agreement. It was very sweet, but not of much help to her.

"(Gabrielle. Come here so I can look at you,)" commanded Fleur's voice. Gabrielle spun around instantly, glad for an excuse to get away even if it just meant Fleur would take over criticizing her. Fleur was already back to talking animatedly with her friend and maid-of-honor Gisselle. Gisselle was nearly as tall as Fleur, nearly as blond, and nearly as pretty. She was nearly Fleur herself, really. The two girls were very close. Gabrielle knew it was because Gisselle agreed with and followed Fleur in everything, something Fleur approved of. The only flaw Fleur could see in her friend was that Gisselle's bust was slightly fuller.

"(... teeth were as black as coal! Absolutely disgusting. And, the most awful smell every time she opened her - ah, Gabrielle,)" said Fleur as Gabrielle approached. Gisselle, who had been laughing at Fleur's story, wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself. "(Come over here. You remember Gisselle, of course.)"

"(Yes. Good morning Gisselle,)" said Gabrielle politely, although it took some effort to be polite as Fleur's near twin had not stopped snickering. "(How was the port - hey!)" yelped Gabrielle as the bottom of her blouse was lifted high. She clamped her arms at her sides.

"(I want to see that the bruises are gone,)" insisted Fleur continuing to lift the back of the blouse.

"(Not here!)" said Gabrielle shrilly. Has Fleur gone mad? Again? "(Ginny took care of them.)"

"(Oh for goodness sake, there nothing for anyone to look at anyway. You are not wearing the little helpers,)" said Fleur, still tugging.

"(What do you mean by little helpers?)" asked Gisselle.

"(Oh my God, Gisselle. Madame Malkin is a treasure. My dress is her master-work, of course, but she could do - nothing - with the dress on Gabrielle. She just has no shape at all,)" explained Fleur. "(Madame Malkin had to order her a set of Mrs. Udderly's Magical Mammaries!)" The two girls burst out laughing, Gisselle always laughed at Fleur's jokes, and Gabrielle broke away. Would, groused Gabrielle, Fleur tell everyone that? She hurried for the kitchen proper, turning back to send a deadly Look at Fleur as another squeal of laughter erupted. Gabrielle turned and looked ahead almost in time to avoid colliding with a red-haired wizard carrying a plate of fried eggs and toast. The plate was caught between them; Gabrielle got the side with the food. She kept hold of the plate as they separated. Nothing fell to the floor, but her shirt was decorated with yolk.

"La naiba! That was my breakfast," complained the wizard. He was clearly a Weasley, not as tall as George and wider than Ron. It had to be Charlie, thought Gabrielle.

"Eh, I am sorry!" said Gabrielle quickly. And quietly. She hoped that neither Maman nor Fleur were watching. It would look a little odd, Gabrielle knew, but she could get to the kitchen proper with her back always turned to the table, without having to show the mess. She tried a smile that suggested a little discretion would be useful, but gave up when the wizard only squinted at her. "Please, do not say anyzing. Eh, my mozzer, eh -"

The wizard's wand slid into his hand from the sleeve of his leather greatcoat and he vanished the dripping breakfast. "You're Fleur's little sister, right? You were at that ruddy tournament."

"Eh, yes, I am Gabrielle. You are Charlie?" Not little, thought Gabrielle, only younger.

"I am. Scourgify. You don't seem to have grown much," noted Charlie as he cleaned the worst of his breakfast from Gabrielle's blouse. She decided that this must be where Pickle had learned his manners. Charlie tapped the plate with his wand. "How 'bout a refill Gabby?" Definitely the place, frowned Gabrielle.

"It is Gabrielle, please. 'G' is for Gabrielle," corrected Gabrielle. It would have been more effective if had she still been wearing the jumper, which she was not. Gabby is awful, decided Gabrielle. Charlie furrowed his brow at her.

"Don't see why they call you the Blond Bludger. I barely felt a thing," shrugged Charlie. "I'll have some of the bacon too, Gabby. It should be done by now."

Gabrielle did not truly feel that she owed Charlie another breakfast, but she took the plate with her anyway. It concealed the remaining stains on the blouse, and she didn't want to argue and attract attention.

When Gabrielle entered the kitchen proper, she found that the bacon was, indeed, done. It sat on a platter waiting to join the rest of the food in the buffet. No one was in the room. Gabrielle put a generous helping on Charlie's plate - that was bound to improve his opinion of her, she thought. He was a Weasley, after all. Gabrielle wished that Mrs. Weasley was there. She could clean the blouse properly, and would not make a fuss over the mishap. Not much of a fuss, anyway. Now Gabrielle would have to wait.

Of course, considered Gabrielle spying an apron, she could not really just sit and wait. Fleur or Maman would probably check up on her soon, or even Aunt Laurel since there were knives in the kitchen proper. The apron, envisioned Gabrielle, would cover the egg on the front of the blouse, and would imply that she had volunteered to help their hosts. Clearly a mature thing to do - a mature act by a young woman who thought of others besides herself. Gabrielle tied the apron on. It hung past her knees, and had a small, ridiculous embroidered pan on it which flipped an embroidered fried egg every so often. She took the platter of bacon and Charlie's plate, and went back out.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry sat on the bed in his room, fingering his wand. This had, he thought, for a few days at least, been the best summer of his life. Now it was all cauldron crud again. His scar ached and had burned sharply early this morning. All the magic he might do could not fix things now. In fact, it seemed to need the reverse. Was it possible, wondered Harry, that the best thing he could do was just to sit locked up in his room? While he had almost gotten Ron killed on a trip to Hogwarts for a few books, Percy Weasley had nearly killed Voldemort. Percy of the thin-bottomed cauldrons, who hated him, had gone up against Voldemort himself. That made Harry think. Did the Ministry still not know the contents of the prophecy? They, or at least the Prophet, had called him the 'Chosen One,' but if they knew the prophecy then they must have known they could not defeat Voldemort. Either way, Percy had been unexpectedly brave. No, Harry resolved, he could not just sit in his room. If people like Percy were
willing to go up against Snake-face, then he would do everything he could to help.

That is, if he could do something without it turning into a losing hand of Exploding Snap. A simple shopping trip to Diagon Alley had turned deadly, and his friends, Ginny, had been hurt. That had kept him up at night, more than the horror of Bellatrix's end. Also, thought Harry as his eyes strayed to the package on the table, it had
been expected.

Harry, though, had a plan that he was fairly certain would not be expected. It wasn't a very Gryffindor-like plan, but that didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. Ron didn't like it on principles, and Hermione didn't like on principles. Except the principles they used were completely different, so they almost cancelled out. Ginny liked the idea of the plan, which made Harry more determined to see it through. She thought it worthy of Fred and George. Harry still had not worked out if that had been high praise or a dire warning. The twins had built an empire starting from a few fireworks, but then nearly lost it over the love potion debacle. Which had Ginny been thinking of?

It wasn't like there was much to lose, though, thought Harry. Particularly after seeing the morning's paper. There was time too. He couldn't go to the wedding as himself; if Moody had his way, Harry wouldn't even be allowed to go at all. Attending disguised as cousin Barny meant staying concealed until most of the other guests arrived. Might as well not waste the day. The potion was finally done too. Ron's involvement had slowed the brewing, but Harry did not know if it was from his lack of skill, or the snogging. Harry moved to the table and poked around for his notes. Tomorrow, he pledged, he would clean up his room.

Harry read through the notes on the scraps of parchment and added another vow. Tomorrow he would get a new quill, as the current one was spotting badly. Harry cleared his throat and called, "Kreacher."

There was a loud bang as the old house-elf appeared. Harry was sure that the elf did it on purpose, as every other house-elf Harry had met apparated with no more than a polite pop. The house-elf, his skin flabby with age and sagging, was bent low in a bow. "Master," he croaked reluctantly. He continued sotto voce, "Lives like an animal he does, and the smell is wretched. My Mistress knew how to raise boys right. Then the nasty one betrayed his blood and my Mistress. Got what he deserved in the -"

"Shut up, Kreacher," snapped Harry. "Keep your mouth closed except to answer my questions. Or, er, if you need to breath." One had to be careful with house-elf commands.

"Mmmm mmm-mmm. Mmmm mmmm mmm mmmmm," hummed the house-elf, his lips clamped shut. Harry wondered if he should have waited for Hermione. He might strangle the elf yet.

"I am the head of the Black estate. Right, Kreacher?" asked Harry.

"Yes, Master," replied the house-elf, twisting the horrible rag he wore in his hands as if wishing it were Harry's neck.

"And you are magically bound to obey me, as long as I control Grimmauld Place, right?"

"Yes. Mmmm mmm mmm mmmm."

"But you think there is a better choice for the head of the Black family, don't you? The family motto was Toujours Pur?"

"The motto - is - Toujours Pur!" cried Kreacher, jerking in agitation. "The heir should have been Draco Malfoy, noblest scion of a great and ancient family!"

"I agree with you!" said Harry sharply, cutting off the house-elf before the creature began describing the ferret's 'supple alabaster skin' again. Some things were just wrong.

"Mmmm mmm?"

"Yeah. Draco, er, deserves it," said Harry honestly. Kreacher eyed Harry suspiciously. "There's a problem though. The fer- er, Draco is a servant of Vold-"

"Mmmm! Mmm mmm mmm mmmmm," interrupted Kreacher loudly.

"He's a servant of the Dark Lord, then, all right? And you do know the Dark Lord can't stay at Grimmauld Place, don't you?"

"It would be an honor! If only my Mistress could see it," said Kreacher.

"No, sorry. Toujours Pur, right? Your Dark Lord, he's half muggle. His father was a muggle and his mother was a witch!" declared Harry over the elf's moaning protestations. "Not the proper kind of Dark Lord for Draco to be trailing after, is he? What do you think?"

"Master is... must be mistaken," said Kreacher hesitantly.

"I'm not. I know more about Moldy-vort than almost anyone. I've seen both his parents in a pensieve; I know which muggle cemetery his dad is buried in. I - aargh," hissed Harry suddenly as the lightning-shaped scar flared painfully.

Harry's room faded from view, to be replaced by another bedroom. The scene careened rapidly; he felt panicked. This new room was almost bare, with lighter wood showing where furniture had recently been moved from. A corpse, it had to be a corpse, flayed of all its skin, spun slowly where it hung in thin air. Below it was a broken wand, his wand. A black-clad figure lay motionless on the floor. The roving focus moved to the bed, and Harry felt a surge of rage and hate at the sight of his own face, pale and fumbling, in the Prophet. For the briefest instant, now that he knew what to look for, there was a flash of silver. The Locket! There was no mistaking it. The old fool had told Potter after all. How was it possible for the boy to have retrieved it? Or was this Dumbledore's last curse? Lucius lost the Diary; Dumbledore had destroyed the Ring. Nagini had not survived the transfer. There was the Cup, but where was Wormtail now with it? Was the other still safe? He would have to make a trip soon, very soon, to -

Harry had fallen into a lake, the cold water taking him by surprise. He coughed violently to clear his lungs and flailed to get to the surface. No, the thought came to Harry, there is no lake. He was wet though. He opened his eyes. Kreacher stood over him with a bucket. "What the bloody hell was that for?"

"Master was having a fit. Kreacher wanted to... help," said the old house-elf with the barest traces of a grin.

"Right," said Harry sourly. He went over mentally the scene he had witnessed. Voldemort's wand was destroyed, but he clearly had another. Harry knew that was no advantage to him. He needed the protection of the brother wands. Voldemort had a body as well, which was bad, and he also knew now that Harry knew about the Horcrux. That wasn't good either, but Nagini was thankfully dead. Also, it seemed that Wormtail had the cup. And, Harry thought grimly, Wormtail owed him. The bit about the other bothered him. It wasn't Wormtail's arm then? If only Kreacher hadn't splashed him, then he would have learned where the other was. Thinking of Kreacher reminded Harry that he was wet, and not done with the house-elf. He drew his wand and dried himself and the floor. And the bed. And tried to dry the parchment of his notes, now all ink-smeared. "Er, where were we?"

"Master was having delusions about the Dark Lord," suggested Kreacher.

"No, what I said was the truth," asserted Harry. "Er, did you know that I sometimes see what he sees, can see what he's doing? That's what happened just now." Kreacher did not speak but rolled his eyes. "I can see you doing that, you know. And I have, er, seen the way the Dark Lord treats Draco. Night after night he punishes Draco," lied Harry. "I can hear him scream and, er, I can see him grovel. I - you all right?"

The elderly servant's eyes were unfocused and his skin clammy. "Kreacher is fine, Master," the elf mumbled. Harry considered conjuring a bucket of water as payback - Kreacher looked as if he would faint.

"So you see, we need to, uh, save Malfoy from the Dark Lord. As long as the Dark Lord can get at him, Malfoy can't have Grimmauld Place. Understand?"

"Is Master really seeing through the Dark Lord's eyes?"

"Yes. First we need to get Draco away, and make sure the Dark Lord can't find him. You will do that. Then I will, er, get rid of Voldm - okay, the Dark Lord. Once the wanker is gone, Draco can have the Black estate in its entirety," promised Harry. If any of this was at all possible, then that was nothing to give up. "With me so far?"

"Kreacher is... not certain. My Mistress liked the Dark Lord..."

"But he's not a proper Dark Lord in the first place! He's half-muggle for Merlin's sake! Anyway, both Sirius and Regulus saw through him." Whoa, thought Harry as Kreacher collapsed at Regulus' name, that's a bit of a sore point. Kreacher began pounding his head against the floor, shouting about being a bad elf. It was the surprise,
rationalized Harry, that let Kreacher get two solid blows in. Nothing to do with the bucket.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle carried another plate from the kitchen proper, and set it on the sideboard. She wasn't sure why there were plates of food in the kitchen proper every time she went in, as there was no one in there that she could see. It did not make sense for Mrs. Weasley to hide each time Gabrielle entered. On the plate was something greenish in little pastry cups. She had seen something like them before at the Tri-Wizards Tournament at Hogwarts. It had not looked appetizing then either. And, they were so small! Gabrielle just couldn't picture any of the Weasley brothers daintily nibbling on them. A whole ham, perhaps, but not the sickle-sized servings.

No one noticed her. Wearing the apron was almost as good as the invisibility cloak, provided one did not protest when a used plate was pushed into one's arms, or the teapot. She had overheard many of the witches and wizards, the free-loading ones, speculating on the true number of Harry's victims. That seemed mean. She had overheard Bill and Charlie puzzle over a girl called Gigi who Fred had claimed was driving George nutters, mostly because Bill was very sure George was still seeing Mathilda Vane. Gabrielle even listened to her own mother remind her aunt that while Gabrielle had perhaps gotten the thin end of the wand when it came to looks, manners, and talent, her father believed that she would be a fine witch... someday. Aunt Laurel gave Maman a dubious look, and Maman had stressed the word someday a bit too much in Gabrielle's opinion, but it made Gabrielle feel better. Especially since Maman dumped their breakfast plates on her without recognizing her. That, realized Gabrielle, sort of defeated the purpose of wearing the apron. No one would know how selfless and mature she was being if no one saw her. It had to be that the apron had a charm on it. Gabrielle hurried back to the kitchen proper when she saw Mrs. Weasley return. Hermione followed Mrs. Weasley. Gabrielle wondered if she had been caught.

There was another platter of food ready, full of what appeared to be small sausages with sticks stuck in them. A very peculiar item for breakfast in Gabrielle's opinion. She saw Mrs. Weasley hand up a small bundle of clothes to the top of the icebox.

"I'm afraid that's the best I can do at the moment, dear," said Mrs. Weasley in a soothing voice. "Now come out and tell us what is wrong."

"Yes, Mistress." Gabrielle recognized the voice - it was Geff, the old house-elf. He slid down the side of the icebox awkwardly, as he had to hold his trousers on.

"Er, yes, well. Geff was it?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Yes, Mistress. It is Geff." Gabrielle was surprised by his earnest tone. Why had he been so rude to her?

"All right, Geff. Now what happened to your tea towel?" Mrs. Weasley held up the item with the end of her wand. Gabrielle didn't blame her, it was not the cleanest-looking thing.

"Geff can only wear what the house Geff is bound to gives to." Geff kept a distance from the offered tea towel.

"Erm... I'm not quite following you," said Mrs. Weasley.

"Yes, Mistress. Geff is following you," nodded Geff.

"Geff," piped Hermione. "Are you saying you are bound to the Burrow?" The house-elf nodded again fervently. "Why? How did that happen?"

Geff ducked his head and pulled at his shirt. "Geff was left here by that bad Dobby. Geff had to sleep here and eat in this house. Geff was caught stealing food, so now Geff must serve the house," explained the elf miserably.

"Oh you poor thing," comforted Mrs. Weasley. She patted Geff on the head.

"Why didn't you go back to Hogwarts?" prompted Hermione.

"Geff did not know the way, and no one called for Geff."

"But you came with Dobby, right? So you knew where you had been?" tried Hermione.

"Geff didn't follow that Dobby! Dobby carried Geff off without so much as a, as a -"

"As a by your leave?" suggested Mrs. Weasley, who began fitting the clothes to Geff better with her wand. At least he didn't have to clutch at his trousers to keep them up now.

"Thank you, Mistress. Geff didn't see the steps here, so Geff couldn't do the steps back. No one called for Geff to show the way, and Geff was hungry."

"Well that's all just nonsense," declared Mrs. Weasley. "No one should go hungry in my house; I'm sure you don't eat much. You just calm down and we'll see about getting you back."

"Geff is a good elf, Mistress! Geff will work hard or Geff will use the waffle-press on his ears!"

"And no more of this mistress silliness either. Call me Mrs. Weasley please."

"Yes, Mis- sus Wheez-lee," replied Geff carefully.

"This is just awful! They have no control over their destinies at all!" complained Hermione. Gabrielle thought that made sense. Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to order them around. It was an obvious thing. What interested Gabrielle more was that she was standing right next to Hermione, and the older girl appeared not to notice her at all. Gabrielle moved around Hermione to stand between her and Mrs. Weasley.

That turned out to be a mistake. While Hermione reeled off plans to free Geff, to the elf's obvious discomfort, Mrs. Weasley casually poked the towel into Gabrielle's hands with her wand. Gabrielle couldn't help herself, "Eww!"

Mrs. Weasley startled. "Oh! Gabrielle. I, er, didn't see you there."

"Yes," said Gabrielle. "Eh, I ran into Charlie, Mrs. Weasley."

"Is he here already? Oh dear, you don't need more of the Bruise-Be-Gone do you? I'm not sure there's a dollop left in the house."

"No!" said Gabrielle with some irritation. It was not like she had fallen on purpose. She untied the apron and pulled it off. "He, eh, spilled his breakfast on me." Gabrielle was comfortable with that. He had been holding the plate, not her.

"Ah, that's easily taken care of," said Mrs. Weasley with a look at the blouse.

"What about Geff?" asked Hermione.

"I'm sure you'll think of something clever, dear. He can stay for now; there's no need to distress him so. Geff, you will stay out of trouble, all right? There's too much going on today for anymore fussing."

"Yes, Missus Wheez-lee," said Geff. He bowed and disappeared with a pop. A second pop echoed from the top of the icebox.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry sat looking out the window, somewhat elated. That had gone, he decided, far better than he had any reason to expect. Kreacher's wailed tale of how he and Regulus had stolen the locket had surprised Harry. It hadn't made a lot of sense given Kreacher's subsequent betrayal of Sirius and the devotion to Mrs. Black, but house-elves seemed to have not only their own kind of magic but their own level of sanity. The revelation to the house-elf that he, Harry, had completed Black's last task for the elf resulted in a flood of gratitude. Passing on to Kreacher the locket that the two of them had left in the cave reduced the elf to blubbering pledges of loyalty. That made explaining the plan to snatch Draco a lot easier, although Harry took no chances and followed his smeared notes as well as he could read them when giving the instructions. Kreacher would find Draco, serve him until he could slip the potion into the ferret's tea, and then transport Malfoy to the prepared room at Hogwarts using the box from the twins. Kreacher hadn't even argued that he couldn't apparate with a wizard. Harry had emphasized that while Draco would appear dead, he really would be quite alive and would regain consciousness once the antidote was given, and then he could be given control of Grimmauld Place. He had counted on a lot more resistance when he explained that Draco had to be kept in that death-like state until Voldemort was gone, lest the Dark Lord sense him through the Mark, but the new bond with Kreacher left the elf just nodding his head. It was sort of unsettling how quickly Kreacher had changed, thought Harry, and how he trusted what was said completely. Harry sent the house-elf to Malfoy Manor anyway, to watch for and follow either Narcissa or Snape. When it came to magic, one never knew what would
work.

Now, thought Harry as he pulled out a clean, or at least cleaner, parchment, how to find Wormtail...