Chapter 14

Lucius Malfoy was furious. It had been months and he was still being denied his rightful position. Ever since those money-grubbing goblins had stolen what was rightfully his, nothing had gone right for him.

First, every establishment that normally allowed him to run a tab or credit denied him. His friends had denied him sanctuary since they were in the same boat as he was. None of them could pay for anything, their Gringotts vaults had been closed and all their belongings repossessed.

Even his home had been taken. The unpleasantness when the Dark Lord had been forcibly evicted without any warning because the goblins put up wards keeping everyone out still sent tremors through him. His master had spent days expressing his displeasure at him, and even now he still suffered the after-effects.

One good thing that came out of the whole fiasco was that it had accelerated their plans to take over the wizarding world. In less than three months, they had completed their goals and every single manager and director in the Ministry was under their control, including the Minister himself.

The loss of Hogwarts had seen dear Dolores tortured to a near catatonic state for a month, much like the Longbottoms in the last war. The bitch still had the shakes to this day. Unfortunately with her out of commission, the Dark Lord's ability to discreetly manage Fudge had been greatly diminished. When the old fool had tried to demand further bribes, despite knowing about his lack of funds, well, accidents happened.

With Fudge dead, it had been relatively easy to get Pius Thicknesse elected. The small man was a weasel, but he was the Dark Lord's weasel. The irony of the Dark Lord taking up residence in the Minister's mansion had brought smiles to everyone's faces, but the events following the election had been confusing. The Wizengamot had confirmed Thicknesse's position, yet none of the normal transfers of power had happened. It had taken five days and a team of ward breakers to allow Pius entry into the Minister's office. Once he did occupy the office, things seemed to go wrong everyday. From nearly poisoning the new ICW representative to not being able to get his floo to work, it seemed like if anything could go wrong, it did. Even the seals the Minister used to affix to his orders and to induct new legislation into law wouldn't work.

At least Lucius was now staying in the very posh New Avalon Arms on the Ministry's dime. The Five Wands magical hotel was serving his every desire, though the one wish he had they couldn't accommodate was to return to his master's side. The loss of his fortunes after the announcements from Gringotts months earlier had seen his star plummet, and while his political power was still impressive, he was no longer the main mover in the political world.

Still, things are getting better, he thought as he sipped the 1928 Delacour he had been drinking. Then the taste hit him and he spit it out, spraying the coppery tasting crimson fluid across the snow white linen of his dinner table.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded of the empty room and then froze. He wiped the offending liquid from his lips and his eyes caught the blood red stains still on the tablecloth. The elves had not come and instantly cleaned it, that meant something was wrong.

"That is blood," a cold voice spoke up from the seat to his right, and Lucius felt his insides freeze as he saw the armored figure sitting there. The same figure who had entered the Wizengamot chambers in November and cut him off at the knees. The same one who put Flint in the hospital for a week to regrow bones and tissue. The one rumors said could change into a dragon. "I'm curious, can you tell me how pure it is?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You claim to be a pureblood, while calling others mudblood and half-blood. Can you tell how pure the blood in your cup is? Is it pureblood? Half-blood? Muggle? How do you define how pure the blood is?"

"You see," the woman stepped around and took the seat to his left. How the pair had entered, Lucius couldn't fathom for even he, who was permitted entry, took three minutes to pass through the wards. "You claim there is a difference, so we want to know what it is? Is one more refined? A better bouquet? Is one more sour or something? How do you define how pure that blood is?"

"You're twisted," Malfoy spat, still trying to get the coppery aftertaste of the blood out of his mouth.

"Are we? Or do we just acknowledge that magic is Magic and it can express itself in anyone it chooses, regardless of their parentage?" The man leaned forward and Lucius sat back, keeping his distance while covering a surreptitious hand reaching for his wand. "You see, we know that you are wrong. Magic is all around us, part of everything from faery to human to dragon. Who and what it blesses with its gifts is irrelevant. That it is gifted is the point."

"The fact is magic really doesn't care about your barely forking family tree," the woman smiled sarcastically at him. "Magic cares about the blessing it gives. And if you don't want more blood on that tablecloth, I would put both of your hands on the table without your wand, Mr Malfoy."

Lucius froze, his hand inches from his wand and stared at the pair. They hadn't moved, hadn't changed position, yet he knew if he continued to reach for his wand he would die. It wasn't a feeling or a hunch, it was a fact. Slowly, his hands returned above the table, empty, and laid flat upon the linen.

"Better," the man spoke calmly, as if commenting on the weather.

"Now you present us with a problem, Mr Malfoy. You have been a very very bad boy, both during your master's last reign and since. I mean, you were bad enough when you were raping and murdering your way across the country, but the damage you have done since Harry Potter defeated the dark wanker in '81…" the woman trailed off, leaving it hanging.

"I…"

"Spare us your denials, we aren't the feeble minded Ministry or the half-blood whose robes you kiss. We don't care why you think it was right, just that you did it." The man stared at him, and Lucius began to fidget in his seat. He could feel the power and the sheer presence both exuded. Not even his master in a towering rage could strike such… such… he couldn't think of a word to describe it but both these beings fairly breathed power.

"My master…"

"Will die. Soon," the woman replied simply, and Lucius looked up at her. Up? He looked around in surprise and found he was shrinking. He was getting smaller and smaller, his hands wrinkling and his magic felt… off. He couldn't tell for sure but it too was changing, altering in some undefinable way.

"Yes, you are changing," the man stood and moved closer, leaning over him as Lucius tried to stand and failed. He fell to the floor and got back up, then gasped as he realized he was facing the man's thigh. "You see, Lucius, while you have been one of the worst of all the Death Eaters we met, we found this punishment would be rather poetic. You abused our friend for years, blaming and beating him at the drop of a hat. Well, now it is his turn. Dobby!"

There was a soft pop, then a gasp as the wretched little elf he'd lost to that brat Potter looked at him. Not up at him but straight at him. With a gleeful smile the elf snapped his fingers and a large mirror appeared before Malfoy.

He screamed. He wailed and threw a tantrum, demanding he be changed back. That they couldn't do this, he was a pureblood wizard, not a… a house-elf. For that is what stared back at Lucius Malfoy when he looked into the mirror. Not the regal personage he had spent years refining, but a sickly, stoop shouldered, long eared house-elf. His fine blonde hair was gone, replaced by sparse coarse hair and not much of it. His wrinkly head was visible through it and his large floppy ears drooped to the sides. His fine robes had become a tattered old and stained pillowcase, and his fine boned body had become shriveled and weak-looking. His left arm however, was the worst. The Dark Lord had blessed him there, marking him as his own. Now, however, it was shriveled and blacked, like an untreated curse. He could barely move it, much less use it.

"Silence!" Dobby snapped, and Lucius stopped. He raged and shouted inside his head, but he could not say a word of it.

"You have tormented others, denigrated the most noble of creatures, and now you shall serve him as you would have had him serve you," the man spoke with finality, and Dobby grinned with glee. "Dobby, would you have your new friend take this letter to his former master, then you may do with him as you wish."

"Yes, Great Master H-" Dobby stopped at the raised hand, then nodded before turning to Malfoy. "Yes my friend. You, you shall be called Monkey now. You will take this letter to the dark wanker, then come back here."

"My name is…" Lucius tried to say his name, but couldn't. He tried and tried but nothing came out. Then the pain started, it intensified every time he tried to defy the little- Pain wracked him for almost a minute before he gave up. "Monkey. I will take the letter to the Dark Lord, then return to you and your bastard friend."

He sagged in relief as the pain disappeared, and then his stomach dropped when he saw the dismay in the other elf's eyes get replaced with anger.

"Monkey will iron hands for disobedience when he returns, then he will shut ears in oven five times for disrespecting the Great One," Dobby declared, and Monkey felt the magic in him force his agreement, his… self punishment. The defiance in him must have shown however, because Dobby wasn't finished. "That is five times for each ear. Then you will wash all dishes, without magic."

Dobby waved his hands, and the pair moved. That was the only way Malfoy could describe it. One second they were in the Avalon Arms dining room, the next they were in an immense kitchen. A kitchen with a mountain of dirty dishes and a single scrubbing brush beside a large sink. Monkey the house-elf, formerly the pureblood lieutenant of Lord Voldemort Lucius Malfoy groaned and knew his fate was sealed. He was now a house-elf.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the self-styled Lord Voldemort, heaved a sigh as his anger was finally sated. The wretched looking house-elf who had appeared and given him a letter was curled up in the corner, moaning. It was still alive, but there were four of his Death Eaters who weren't, and six more who would take days to recover from his wrath.

The letter had been simple and straight to the point. His enemy had challenged him, two on all, bring your friends and make it a fight. The armored mysterious pair had called him out. Not only that, but they had called him out with a charmed letter before all of his minions. It had begun reading itself as soon as he had touched it, and the words were incredibly infuriating.

He almost began torturing those minions still in the room and alive just thinking about the base insults and undertone of contempt in the letter. He couldn't let it stand, yet everyone who had gone up against these two had been soundly defeated. Dumbledore was powerless in the Ministry, Hogwarts was impervious, and he could feel his horcruxes had been compromised.

He had been called out.

It had been public.

He could not refuse.

And for the first time in years, he felt fear.