Clothes
A Kreacher/Trousers story.
The fabric, soft against his worn and wrinkled skin. Reeking of musty age, left to decompose, fall away into ragged, moth-eaten holes.
Never will he let that happen.
Never will he let them rip, let them fall away in dusty, ragged strips against his twisted fingers. He presses them close to his face, feels the softness of their rotting splendor. They are beautiful. They are his master.
He would never put them on. He could not do it; he is but a house elf. They are so tantalizing, so close, but he cannot wear them. They are not to be worn, but to be folded round his body in enveloping folds, hiding him from the outside world. Hiding him from the man who stalks the house, invades his privacy, invades his time with the trousers.
Kreacher will never let you go, he murmurs softly, and the trousers cling to him, knowing that their love will last forever.
