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The Truest Master
By: Bugland

Part I:

He holds the wand as steadily as he can, guiding the shrouded bundle through a maze of saplings and scrub. "Acids and bases," he says aloud. For once unconcerned with the sound of his own voice, he sends the words ahead, a beacon and a warning, to let the boggarts and centaurs know he is a Man of Insight. He will trust in his night vision and considerable common sense. He will let the magic words guide him. It will be all right-

His wand hand wavers slightly.

Before he can correct the error, threadbare white linen snags on a twig. The tablecloth slides, exposing a bleached jade foot with rigid, tentacular toes. He lunges to catch it and finds himself poised uncomfortably between two extremes. He can't step forward, or the bundle will move with him. He can't step back or the shroud will fall.

The magic words have abandoned him. My voice, he thinks, mine, but still they won't obey.

A layer of cellophane-thin flesh covers the ribcage under his hand. Will it tear if he presses too hard? Will it slide like his makeshift shroud, opening the abdominal cavity and letting all manner of horrors loose? How quickly do house-elves' bodies decay? Holding his breath, he reaches to snatch up the hem, but even this slight movement sends everything bobbing merrily off again. The shroud slides further, and this time he can't stop it. Spindly hip, hand-arm-and-shoulder and a jutting, blood-streaked jaw-

He feels it all slip and turns away quickly, dropping his wand on the grass. A soft thud follows. The shroud collapses, like a parachute, against the backs of his legs.

Boots- his mind's voice, dreadfully childish. Boots, these are my boots. The contrast inverts suddenly into unearthly pallid mud and white leather. Black frost glazes the silver grass.

His uncles are right. He can't take it. He will indeed go mad.

"Acids," he hears himself whisper. Darkness is a Lethifold, creeping stealthily over his back. "Acids and bases."

He spits out the taste of bile and closes his eyes.

When he can open them again, the night has drifted a little lower. Glancing back toward the house (or citadel, rather, massive against the violet sky), he sees his footprints stamped clearly across the wet lawn. It makes him want to swear. They will see, of course; unless some brainstorm arrives before dawn, They will follow his solution and criticize it roundly.

Circumspection, idiot boy! Grandfather roars inside his head. Learn to cover your tracks!

So teach me the effing footprint spell.

He bends to retrieve his wand, eyeing the black ground dubiously. A practical digging charm would also help.

There's always the Demergus Curse. Even his pig-ignorant cousins can cast that one. Still, the way this evening's going, he'll probably find himself up to his neck in mud and centipedes until They return from Caernarvon, while every badger within miles zeroes in on the scent of his sweat.

"Acids and bases!" he says, quite loudly.

No. Demergus is out.

He clears his throat and tucks the wand into his pocket so he can gingerly flex both hands. Feels like glass in every joint. He tries to be grateful the botched Curse didn't kill him instead, but it's hard when no one else seems to think so either. House elves don't grow on trees! You'll just have to stay behind and clear up this mess. A nearby tree even looks like her, twisted, tall and pale, with roots like the scalloped hem of her dressing robe.

He wants to stomp his feet and scream (Bitch-witch! Go have another baby!), but instead snatches the wand from his pocket.

"Mobilihumus!"

The very earth rears up.

Yards thick, underside furred with living roots, it bucks him over onto his back. Shrubs stoically ride the wave. The smaller trees, their branches thrashing, tilt against the sky-

"C-Cessacantio!"

Everything drops with a massive floomp, drenching him in mud.

Like a bug, he flips onto his stomach and crawls blindly away until grass tickles his palms. The sweetly herbal smell, so much cleaner than he is now, makes him want to cry like a little kid. "Practice your Curses- living target- not on the carpet, idiot boy!" Someone will pay for this humiliation. Not his grandfather. Not his father- they're too powerful. Said pig-ignorant cousins, maybe. Will he ever make them squirm.

Inconcinnus. Serpensortia. Why? Because you're here!

Still not crying, but gritting his teeth, he sits up to survey the damage.

The vegetation, rustling softly, seems to be in order. He still has his wand, but his hair and clothes are filthy, with dirt driven under his robes and the familiar grit of dirt in his teeth. Something glints pallidly in his peripheral vision. Hoping it's only the tablecloth, that the 'evidence' has been buried, he slowly turns his head to catch a whiter glimpse of bone.

Acids and bases, remember.

They are magic words, deep magic, leaving no room for horror or guilt as he walks slowly over, looks for a moment upon the space where a head should have been (the withered lower palate, the voiceless stump of tongue), and drops the shroud to cover it. He'd burnt the head in his first panic, tossing it into the stove, but the rest of the body was too large; it would have taken hours and still probably left traces. Nonetheless, he begins to think a funeral pyre preferable to this ignominy of trees and twigs and mud, though it would have earnt him days in the cellar for casting Incendius unsupervised. Mother insisted on this rule after he immolated her wardrobe. Mother refused to believe Grandfather when he said the boy was still too young to control a blaze once started. Mother would have risen to new heights of paranoia had she been able to read his thoughts: I could set a Fire Doll on you. I could kill you while you sleep.

They'll be apparating back shortly before dawn. He has yet to dispose of the body, clean the kitchen walls and floor, clear out the stove (how much remains of the house-elf's skull? Will he have to bury it too, or can he curse it into powder and cast it to the wind?), wash his clothes, take a bath, stow away his collection bottles and somehow remove those footprints- without leaving more footprints- without the footprint spell!

It isn't fair. He's so tired.

More than tired... He's Unutterably Weary.

He plops down again, right next to the shrouded corpse, and scratches at the earth with the tip of his wand. The slow way, then, by inches... or perhaps a banishing charm? Focusing on a patch of ground, he modifies the classic sweep and soil shoves neatly over, leaving a shallow groove.

"Aren't I creative," he said dully.

Sweep, rest. Sweep, rest. Dirt patters against a nearby yew. The moon rises on a scented breeze. It seems strangely particular, courting with light the dewy mud and clods, a late-budding twig- even the shroud, for pathos, he supposes- while he sits alone in a circle of stagnant darkness.

Just playing in the dirt, like any other child.

Part I -=- Part II -=- Part III

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