Not many people could claim to remember their infanthood. But Fulcran could. His first memory was when he was one and a half years old. It was a pair of wide blue eyes that seemed to engulf the rest of a small, wrinkly face. Wisps of white hair dangled over him and tickled his face. He remembered grabbing at it. It earned him a soft yelp and a smile.
Gabby's was the first face he remembered. And her face was the first thing he thought of when he thought of his home in Paris.
She had been with the french branch of the Lestrange family for over four hundred years, his mother told him once. She served his mother and her mother before her. And even further than that.
He was not surprised when she told him. After all, Gabby's wrinkles had wrinkles. He knew because whenever she smiled, her entire face seemed to become one giant wrinkle as line connected with line.
She smiled often when he was younger. Especially when he ate the entire bowl of whatever mush she had made him. She used to feed him and change his diapers whenever his mother was too indisposed by drink. And that was the vast majority of the time.
He saw her smile less as he grew older. But that was not for a lack of trying. Like most house elves, she preferred to do her work discreetly and efficiently. The moment he learned how to eat his meals by himself, she stopped appearing before him. He'd summon her of course, but seeing her punishment for being late to answering his mother's summons put that to an end.
Once he was old enough to floo by himself between London and Paris, he saw her even less. She became an invisible presence. But he could tell she was there. Dinner was always made on time - and deliciously too. The estate was always impeccably clean. His baths were always the right temperature.
The only times she'd ever appear before him, was when he'd be on the receiving end of his mother's fury. Her big blue eyes would always seem to bulge even more as she wrung her hands in distress. Afterward, he would always find a piece of cake along with some cheese on his nightstand. Sometimes, it was a cream cake, others, a rich chocolate cake. But usually, it was a lemon drizzle cake - his favourite kind.
These little comforts made living with his mother bearable. And when he tried with great effort, he could even dredge up a few good memories. His mother's treatment of Gabby was much like his own - with either absolute kindness or cruelty. He would always remember the day his mother said "thank you" to the old elf. Gabby lit up like a lumos charm on a dark evening.
Living with his father had been an entirely different experience. The house elf in the English manor was called Snead. Snead was only a hundred years old, so he was told. He never smiled. Fulcran could not blame him.
In the English manor, the house elf's name never called with a hint of kindness. Snead was always at the toe end of a harsh kick made by his father, or the subject of a beating by Corvia whenever she could not find Fulcran. He was not as invisible and discreet as Gabby was, and Fulcran was horrified to see his little ragged body limping away daily.
However, while the little elf never smiled, he was far more verbose than Gabby. Fulcran found that out the day he attempted to make his bed by himself.
Snead appeared on top of the bed with a pop, feet pressed firmly on the blanket Fulcran was haphazardly trying to arrange.
His entire little body shook with anger and grief as he asked quietly,
"Does little master think Snead bad at making bed?"
Fulcran blinked. Twice.
He had never known elves were able to speak until that very moment.
"N-no. Nothing of the sort Snead." He hastily stumbled through his words. "I just wanted to help y-"
A wail came from the elf, and he immediately began slamming his head against the stone walls. "Bad Snead! Bad! Bad Snead not good at job! Little master thinks Snead needs help! Bad Bad BAD!"
In a panic, Fulcran rushed to try to stop him, throwing himself between the elf and the wall.
"No! Please Snead. I'm sorry. I was trying to hel-" he had to forcibly shove the elf away as Snead gave another wail and tried again to punish himself. "Stop hurting yourself Snead! I command you!"
It was only when Snead was given a direct order did the distraught elf cease.
"Please. Don't take Snead's work. Snead will do better. Snead will." He pleaded, his big brown eyes watering as he looked up at the little boy.
Fulcran felt his own eyes watering in response. "I'm sorry Snead. I didn't mean it. I thought it would make you happy."
"Little master...wanted...Snead...to be...happy?"
Worried the elf would break into another fit of hysterics if he said something wrong, he nodded, not daring to speak.
Thankfully, Snead did not. He merely stared at the boy with wide eyes. Just as Fulcran began to feel extremely uncomfortable, the familiar sound of the bell ringing for Snead came. And the elf vanished before his eyes.
They never spoke of the incident ever again, but afterwards, Fulcran always found an extra helping of pudding, or a few slices extra of meat on his plate. And occasionally, he would wake up to a vase of his favourite iris flowers on his table.