Tweedle-tweedle-tweedle-twee-twee-splatt! Carefully tucking her wand away, the witch raised a hand to her aching head. Bloody birds! she raged. What were they even for? It would be safe to say that Narcissa Malfoy had never been a "morning person". There was just something about the whole bloody, pink-and-gold-skied, mist-on-the-meadows, jolly smugness of it all that got to her; a tendency only augmented by recent events and lack of sleep. Then, finally, as the sun had come up, she had remembered the roses. Morphean roses. A birthday present from Lucius.

Allegedly.

If they had truly been intended for her, surely they would have been in the rose garden under her window, where she could actually benefit from their famed soothing scents. Or even in pots along her balcony. Not in the middle of the bloody pavilion. A pavilion conveniently located, via a series of meandering paths made to accentuate various "vistas", away towards the furthest edge of rather extensive formal gardens. And, incidentally, replacing the quite lovely fountain that she had personally bought and brought back from Rome and which had since disappeared with no satisfactory explanation. She did not dare apparate. Not feeling as she did and with every spell coming out of her wand obliterating things. Sod it all. She was taking a short cut through the maze. It would grow back.

Or it would not.

As she approached the tall ranks of hedges, she was not particularly surprised to see them edging carefully out of her way. Of course they bloody did, she concluded, wearily She held the wards of the manor. Lucius and his "superior spatial awareness" be damned. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her husband wasn't all that bright. A horcrux under the drawing room floor? And not just any drawing room either: one of hers; dammit. And, despite this, he had already sent her a list of instructions with a view to getting him released from Saint Mungo's. That was so not going to happen. She had already received an exceedingly vexatious visitation from Call-me-Cornelius Fudge. 'Know that I am here for you, Dear Lady,' he had murmured, her hand clamped between his clammy ones. And then the parting pat, just a little low, on the back. Not that she couldn't get Lucius out, of course, even without the Minister's assistance. She had been born and raised a Black. But no. Her beloved husband had hidden a horcrux under her blue, drawing room floor. He would remain in Saint Mungo's. She had a child to consider.

Narcissa emerged from the cool, green shadows of the maze, only to be struck full in the face by early morning sunlight ricocheting off the surface of the reflecting pool that surrounded the pavilion. She winced, pulled her hat down further over her face and struggled on, across the lawn, over a bridge and under an archway only to stop, in her tracks, at sight of something she had neither expected nor wanted to see: to wit, one small, green backside, bobbing about in the central flowerbed while its owner patted soil into place around the base of one of her Morphean roses. Two more of them, she noted, were lying, bare rooted, on the ground behind it. Questions first, she reminded herself. Questions FIRST. Questions after generally did not work so well. The elf became aware of her presence and spun round, attempting to hide the trowel behind his back, glanced off to each side, met her eyes and vanished.

Dobby.

Of course. It would be him.

She might have guessed that something was off with Lucius just from the way his elf was. What on earth had the insane little beast thought he was doing with her roses? She took off her hat. Merlin, she was tired. Tea just wasn't going to cut it and only a lush drank before lunchtime. Or so Lucius had decreed, because, of course, Coffee cognac was not drinking. Unfortunately, except for occasionally after dinner, Narcissa didn't care for coffee. It had an unpleasant tendency to wake her up. All she wanted to do, right now, was sleep. Oh, well. Duty first. 'Dobby,' she said.

The elf reappeared with a knife. And an odd sort of smile. Also, a small table and a jug with ice and herbs in it, along with a bowl of oranges. She became aware that something had appeared behind her. Half turning, Narcissa discovered, very much to her surprise, an old friend. Yes, it really was: the old sofa which, upon marriage, she had brought with her from her childhood home. It had disappeared, probably for the crime of being "unsightly", during the mess that had been the birth of her son. At the time, she had been too disappointed and too tired to fight. Knees collapsing beneath her, she sank down onto it. When she opened her eyes, Dobby was topping off freshly squeezed orange juice with what looked like one of Lucius' more expensive bottles of Champaign. There was a tall chilled glass with condensation beginning to mist its surface. Dobby filled it from the jug.

Fruit cup, thought Narcissa, resting rapidly emptied, chilled glass against her face. Now why hadn't that ever occurred to her. Bless the elf's little, green bahookie. Fruit cup. Feeling infinitely better, she set down the glass. Dobby refilled it and got back to the gardening. He replanted the remaining roses and summoned a small cloud to rain gently upon them. Under the sweet shade of it, as a blissful wave of scent swept over her, she sank into the faded yellow cushions of the most comfortable piece of furniture on all of any god's green earth.

Quietly, the elf walked to her side and waited for further instruction. Reluctantly, she roused herself. 'Dobby,' she asked, 'what were you doing with my roses?'

'Dobby is putting them back. Now that nasty, sticky fingered ministry types is gone away.'

Narcissa considered that. The ministry types had indeed managed to confiscate and/or destroy quite a number of valuable objects. 'Makes sense, I suppose,' she conceded.

'Of course. Master is not here.'

'What?'

'Master is not wanting to do what master promised to do,' explained Dobby, standing on one foot and then the other. 'Or has promised to do different things. Magic is being . . . all confused.'

She stared at him. It was, of course, impossible for an elf to lie to its owner. But if what the elf had reported was true . . .

Lucius could never again be entrusted with any sort of power. At least, not until they were entirely convinced of the Dark Lord's demise. Perhaps not even then. Merlin! As soon as she could think straight, she would need to make an appointment with Gringotts's Bank. She had warned Lucius not to annoy the goblins. At least this particular failure to listen would, probably, work in her favour. Or, at any rate, against his current desires. With the arms of Morpheus beckoning, another thought drifted across her mind. 'Don't let the gardening elves catch you, Dobby' she murmured as she laid herself down. Whilst she enjoyed murder and mayhem as much as the next witch, never before eleven.

From seemingly far away, she heard the confusing elf's assurance. 'Dobby is not getting caught.'