Chapter Five
Albus awoke to the disturbing sight of a pair of huge purple eyes inches away from his. He yelled, threw out an arm, knocked whatever it was away, then fell off the bed. Dizzy and disoriented, he sat up to find the room spinning about him and the creature-he now recognized it as a house elf- blinking blearily at him from where it had landed several yards away. He had just started to get his breath back, and to wonder what was going on, when it suddenly sprang to its feet, let out a cry, and hurled something at him. Albus instinctively ducked, thereby just avoiding the large kitchen fork that bounced heavily off the stone wall inches from his right ear. He stared in disbelief at the elf, which shrieked something in some unknown language, then went bouncing out the door. As he lay against the side of the bed, several more house elves, wearing cooking pots on their heads, cheese graters over their chests and waving wicked looking kitchen knives, came running through the room, hot in pursuit of Dorien, who was limping as fast as he could away from them while occasionally shooting spells over his shoulder in their general direction.
That's it, I've gone mad, Albus decided. He should have suspected it before now, what with the way his day had been going, but there was no real doubt left now. Before he had time to ponder the very strange form his madness had taken, McGonagall came scurrying into the room, fell heavily to the floor and rolled under the bed. As he tried to maneuver himself more fully under its trailing coverlet, he came face to face with Albus, who was curiously peering at him from the bed's other side. He gave a screech and whipped out his wand, but stopped himself before he managed to curse his own student.
"Merlin's beard, Albus!," he clutched at his heart as if expecting an incipient attack. "What are you doing, sitting out there in the open? You'll get killed; get under here!"
Albus attempted to point out his concerns that there was hardly room enough under the narrow cot that passed for bedding at Durmstrang for McGonagall's not inconsiderable girth, much less for the two of them, but was dragged underneath before he could voice them.
"They've all gone mad-it's chaos out there," McGonagall was gazing about frenetically, with a wild look in his eyes. "Every house elf in Durmstrang has run amok!"
Several pairs of tiny feet ran through the room then, and a maniacal giggling could be heard. They exited through the far door, however, without noticing the large lump under the bed.
"But why? They were fine this morning." Albus had never heard of house elves rebelling; it went against their whole code of ethics.
McGonagall shifted uncomfortably, causing several books that Albus had left on the end of his cot to hit the floor with loud thumps. His teacher winced. "I didn't plan on this boy, I can tell you-how could I have known that they would sample the brew? It was SUPPOSED to be for Durmstrang's lot alone. They're the only ones who drink that syrupy brown beer anyway; certainly none of our students would touch it. Not," he remarked caustically, "that any of you besides poor Dorien bothered to show up at dinner. Where the hell have you been?"
But Albus was not about to be sidetracked. "You put something in Durmstrang's beer?"
McGonagall looked aggrieved. "I should have known better than to listen to that damned Slytherin!"
"Zosimus gave you something?" Considering the boy's appalling sense of humour, Albus was becoming seriously worried.
"I told him I wanted something that would distract the Durmstrang's champions-you know, rattle them a bit before tomorrow's challenge. He gave me some type of potion earlier today, and told me to slip it into their drinks tonight. So I snuck into the kitchen, opened the beer barrel, and tossed it in."
"But how did the elves . . . "
"How in hell should I know? Probably decided to have a little tipple before serving the meal, or maybe I got the wrong barrel. What difference does it make? The point is, old boy, that there is at present several hundred rabid house elves running about the place, half of them attacking anything that moves and the other half . . .," he shuddered.
"The other half?," Albus prompted, fearing he already knew the answer, considering what Zosimus' potions specialty happened to be.
Before McGonagall could answer, however, a procession of feet passed the open door of the room, carrying something aloft. Albus poked his nose out from under the coverlet long enough to identify Dorien, bound, gagged and looking terrified, being born aloft like a sacrifice headed for an altar somewhere. As there were at least ten elves milling around him, Albus didn't dare interfere, but slipped out from his hiding spot to follow the strange procession to whatever its destination might be. He felt a restraining hand on his ankle, but shook it off.
"Albus-you can't! It's too risky," McGonagall hissed at him from under the bed.
"I'm just going to see where they're taking him." He stooped and peered into the darkness, "Did Apollo tell you what the duration of the effects might be?"
"No, but I just asked for something to distract them for the night; you know, make them unable to get any rest and jangle their nerves a bit. So maybe it won't last long?" He did not sound at all certain and, indeed, probably didn't know. The only way to find out what the effects of the potion were was to locate Apollo and ask him, assuming, Albus thought with memory suddenly flooding back, that he could do so without being hexed into unconsciousness. He instinctively felt for his wand, and thankfully it was where it should be. He briefly wondered if Delaia and Apollo had somehow drunk a little of the brew themselves, but concluded that Zosimus was extremely unlikely to get caught out in such a way, not to mention that they'd hexed him well in advance of dinner. He looked briefly at his pocket chronometer, and noticed that he had been out almost four hours. Wonderful; by now, the two delinquents could be anywhere.
A muffled scream from the direction in which the parade had taken Dorien alerted him to the fact that he had a more pressing problem with which to deal at the moment. Gliding quietly out of the room, he trailed the group, which gradually became larger as they proceeded along the dimly lit corridors, attracting the attention of other elves. Albus felt himself blush more than once as he passed dark corners and shadowed archways, most of which were occupied with writhing groups of house elves doing things which, in a few cases, he hadn't even known were possible. After a few such shocks, he kept his eyes fixed on the group in front of him, who by now were waving torches nicked from wall sconces and singing as they staggered along, Dorien still held aloft, their less than steady footsteps causing him to sway dangerously from side to side.
By the time they reached the dining hall, the parade had grown to at least fifty elves, who staggered with their burden through the main doors and deposited it on a nearby table. Alongside, ranged in squirming rows, were several dozen faculty and students, all trussed up in a similar fashion. A row of house elves along one side of the room began a rhythmic beating on huge soup kettles, which he assumed had been brought up from the kitchens, and several dozen others started dancing among the bodies arrayed along the tables. Casks of wine and beer were passed around, couples began disappearing into the darkened recesses of the tables to do . . . well, whatever it was exactly that house elves did in these cases, and a few more struggling captives were brought in to join the others. From his vantage point behind a heavy tapestry near the door, Albus watched the display with wide eyes, aghast yet fascinated at the same time. Who would have thought the prim and proper house elves could be so . . . Bacchanalian?
Several elves, seated on the teacher's dais, began to speak in ringing tones, although not in a language Albus could understand; the gist of it, however, was quickly apparent by their actions. The head of Durmstrang Institute was hoisted aloft by a number of the small creatures and stood unsteadily on his feet to face judgment from the two elves who seemed to be in command. The whole thing was fast beginning to look like a trial of some sort. Wearing what might have been the remains of a pair of velvet curtains, with a few flowers tucked behind their overlarge ears, they looked down on him from the heights of the table and poured forth a torrent of what could only be accusations. After a few minutes, one of them clicked his long fingers together, and another elf came running up, dragging a huge battle sword behind him. The trial continued, but the outcome had apparently already been decided, as the new arrival began tugging a cut off pair of black hosiery over his head to form a makeshift executioner's mask.
Albus rather panicked at the sight, and gripped his wand harder, although he couldn't think of anything to do against odds of this magnitude. House elves had a powerful magic of their own when they chose to use it, and he had no doubts whatsoever that any attempts to interfere would end with him, trussed like a Christmas goose, laid out on one of the tables awaiting his own trial. The thought did not appeal. On the other hand, he could hardly allow the Durmstrang headmaster to end up sans head, which was definitely the way things were beginning to shape up. Just as he was starting to imagine the headlines-Triwizard Trournament ends in massive slaughter by house elves-and wondering if there could possibly be a more undignified way to go, a small figure appeared at his side. For one glorious moment he thought it was Delaia, who he had been extremely relieved not to recognize among the prisoners, but then he took a closer look. Same height, weight and hair color, but this woman's face was very different, with huge black eyes and features that were so perfect it almost hurt to look at them. With a shock, he recognized Augusta Zaglerin, still wearing a dark green traveling cloak and carrying a small valise.
She stood beside the doorway next to his hiding spot, but did not bother to attempt to conceal herself. Setting the valise on the floor at her feet, she looked around the room, a slight frown of irritation wrinkling her perfect forehead. She shook her head in wonderment, dark hair cascading around her shoulder as she did so. "I leave for one day and the whole place goes to hell."
Albus awoke to the disturbing sight of a pair of huge purple eyes inches away from his. He yelled, threw out an arm, knocked whatever it was away, then fell off the bed. Dizzy and disoriented, he sat up to find the room spinning about him and the creature-he now recognized it as a house elf- blinking blearily at him from where it had landed several yards away. He had just started to get his breath back, and to wonder what was going on, when it suddenly sprang to its feet, let out a cry, and hurled something at him. Albus instinctively ducked, thereby just avoiding the large kitchen fork that bounced heavily off the stone wall inches from his right ear. He stared in disbelief at the elf, which shrieked something in some unknown language, then went bouncing out the door. As he lay against the side of the bed, several more house elves, wearing cooking pots on their heads, cheese graters over their chests and waving wicked looking kitchen knives, came running through the room, hot in pursuit of Dorien, who was limping as fast as he could away from them while occasionally shooting spells over his shoulder in their general direction.
That's it, I've gone mad, Albus decided. He should have suspected it before now, what with the way his day had been going, but there was no real doubt left now. Before he had time to ponder the very strange form his madness had taken, McGonagall came scurrying into the room, fell heavily to the floor and rolled under the bed. As he tried to maneuver himself more fully under its trailing coverlet, he came face to face with Albus, who was curiously peering at him from the bed's other side. He gave a screech and whipped out his wand, but stopped himself before he managed to curse his own student.
"Merlin's beard, Albus!," he clutched at his heart as if expecting an incipient attack. "What are you doing, sitting out there in the open? You'll get killed; get under here!"
Albus attempted to point out his concerns that there was hardly room enough under the narrow cot that passed for bedding at Durmstrang for McGonagall's not inconsiderable girth, much less for the two of them, but was dragged underneath before he could voice them.
"They've all gone mad-it's chaos out there," McGonagall was gazing about frenetically, with a wild look in his eyes. "Every house elf in Durmstrang has run amok!"
Several pairs of tiny feet ran through the room then, and a maniacal giggling could be heard. They exited through the far door, however, without noticing the large lump under the bed.
"But why? They were fine this morning." Albus had never heard of house elves rebelling; it went against their whole code of ethics.
McGonagall shifted uncomfortably, causing several books that Albus had left on the end of his cot to hit the floor with loud thumps. His teacher winced. "I didn't plan on this boy, I can tell you-how could I have known that they would sample the brew? It was SUPPOSED to be for Durmstrang's lot alone. They're the only ones who drink that syrupy brown beer anyway; certainly none of our students would touch it. Not," he remarked caustically, "that any of you besides poor Dorien bothered to show up at dinner. Where the hell have you been?"
But Albus was not about to be sidetracked. "You put something in Durmstrang's beer?"
McGonagall looked aggrieved. "I should have known better than to listen to that damned Slytherin!"
"Zosimus gave you something?" Considering the boy's appalling sense of humour, Albus was becoming seriously worried.
"I told him I wanted something that would distract the Durmstrang's champions-you know, rattle them a bit before tomorrow's challenge. He gave me some type of potion earlier today, and told me to slip it into their drinks tonight. So I snuck into the kitchen, opened the beer barrel, and tossed it in."
"But how did the elves . . . "
"How in hell should I know? Probably decided to have a little tipple before serving the meal, or maybe I got the wrong barrel. What difference does it make? The point is, old boy, that there is at present several hundred rabid house elves running about the place, half of them attacking anything that moves and the other half . . .," he shuddered.
"The other half?," Albus prompted, fearing he already knew the answer, considering what Zosimus' potions specialty happened to be.
Before McGonagall could answer, however, a procession of feet passed the open door of the room, carrying something aloft. Albus poked his nose out from under the coverlet long enough to identify Dorien, bound, gagged and looking terrified, being born aloft like a sacrifice headed for an altar somewhere. As there were at least ten elves milling around him, Albus didn't dare interfere, but slipped out from his hiding spot to follow the strange procession to whatever its destination might be. He felt a restraining hand on his ankle, but shook it off.
"Albus-you can't! It's too risky," McGonagall hissed at him from under the bed.
"I'm just going to see where they're taking him." He stooped and peered into the darkness, "Did Apollo tell you what the duration of the effects might be?"
"No, but I just asked for something to distract them for the night; you know, make them unable to get any rest and jangle their nerves a bit. So maybe it won't last long?" He did not sound at all certain and, indeed, probably didn't know. The only way to find out what the effects of the potion were was to locate Apollo and ask him, assuming, Albus thought with memory suddenly flooding back, that he could do so without being hexed into unconsciousness. He instinctively felt for his wand, and thankfully it was where it should be. He briefly wondered if Delaia and Apollo had somehow drunk a little of the brew themselves, but concluded that Zosimus was extremely unlikely to get caught out in such a way, not to mention that they'd hexed him well in advance of dinner. He looked briefly at his pocket chronometer, and noticed that he had been out almost four hours. Wonderful; by now, the two delinquents could be anywhere.
A muffled scream from the direction in which the parade had taken Dorien alerted him to the fact that he had a more pressing problem with which to deal at the moment. Gliding quietly out of the room, he trailed the group, which gradually became larger as they proceeded along the dimly lit corridors, attracting the attention of other elves. Albus felt himself blush more than once as he passed dark corners and shadowed archways, most of which were occupied with writhing groups of house elves doing things which, in a few cases, he hadn't even known were possible. After a few such shocks, he kept his eyes fixed on the group in front of him, who by now were waving torches nicked from wall sconces and singing as they staggered along, Dorien still held aloft, their less than steady footsteps causing him to sway dangerously from side to side.
By the time they reached the dining hall, the parade had grown to at least fifty elves, who staggered with their burden through the main doors and deposited it on a nearby table. Alongside, ranged in squirming rows, were several dozen faculty and students, all trussed up in a similar fashion. A row of house elves along one side of the room began a rhythmic beating on huge soup kettles, which he assumed had been brought up from the kitchens, and several dozen others started dancing among the bodies arrayed along the tables. Casks of wine and beer were passed around, couples began disappearing into the darkened recesses of the tables to do . . . well, whatever it was exactly that house elves did in these cases, and a few more struggling captives were brought in to join the others. From his vantage point behind a heavy tapestry near the door, Albus watched the display with wide eyes, aghast yet fascinated at the same time. Who would have thought the prim and proper house elves could be so . . . Bacchanalian?
Several elves, seated on the teacher's dais, began to speak in ringing tones, although not in a language Albus could understand; the gist of it, however, was quickly apparent by their actions. The head of Durmstrang Institute was hoisted aloft by a number of the small creatures and stood unsteadily on his feet to face judgment from the two elves who seemed to be in command. The whole thing was fast beginning to look like a trial of some sort. Wearing what might have been the remains of a pair of velvet curtains, with a few flowers tucked behind their overlarge ears, they looked down on him from the heights of the table and poured forth a torrent of what could only be accusations. After a few minutes, one of them clicked his long fingers together, and another elf came running up, dragging a huge battle sword behind him. The trial continued, but the outcome had apparently already been decided, as the new arrival began tugging a cut off pair of black hosiery over his head to form a makeshift executioner's mask.
Albus rather panicked at the sight, and gripped his wand harder, although he couldn't think of anything to do against odds of this magnitude. House elves had a powerful magic of their own when they chose to use it, and he had no doubts whatsoever that any attempts to interfere would end with him, trussed like a Christmas goose, laid out on one of the tables awaiting his own trial. The thought did not appeal. On the other hand, he could hardly allow the Durmstrang headmaster to end up sans head, which was definitely the way things were beginning to shape up. Just as he was starting to imagine the headlines-Triwizard Trournament ends in massive slaughter by house elves-and wondering if there could possibly be a more undignified way to go, a small figure appeared at his side. For one glorious moment he thought it was Delaia, who he had been extremely relieved not to recognize among the prisoners, but then he took a closer look. Same height, weight and hair color, but this woman's face was very different, with huge black eyes and features that were so perfect it almost hurt to look at them. With a shock, he recognized Augusta Zaglerin, still wearing a dark green traveling cloak and carrying a small valise.
She stood beside the doorway next to his hiding spot, but did not bother to attempt to conceal herself. Setting the valise on the floor at her feet, she looked around the room, a slight frown of irritation wrinkling her perfect forehead. She shook her head in wonderment, dark hair cascading around her shoulder as she did so. "I leave for one day and the whole place goes to hell."