Chapter 8
Poor Winky was so surprised that she dropped her mop and burst into tears.
"Sorry," Harry said uncomfortably, "I didn't mean to scare you…er… bye."
"Oh! Wait, sir!" sniffled Winky, drying her eyes on the edge of her toga. "Is Harry Potter needing anything, sir?" she asked more composedly.
"No, I just… er…." Harry stuttered, a bit taken aback. The last time he had seen Winky, she was sobbing uncontrollably at the feet of her master, Barty Crouch Jr., who was under the influence of Veritaserum. She had been devastated when she was fired from the Crouch household and had been drunk off of butterbeer more than once in an effort to drown her grief and forget her disgrace of being free. "You-you look different Winky."
Winky smiled sadly. "Winky has had time to think things over since last Harry Potter saw," she said in her high squeaky voice. "Winky is… resigned to freedom." She made a face as if still getting used to the word but it was a vast improvement over what she had been two years earlier. "Dobby is helping Winky to understand that getting… paid…" She made another face. "…isn't terrible bad disgrace. Master-Professor Dumbledore is very kind and when Master wants to pay Winky, there is nothing for Winky to do but get paid." Harry grinned. Hermione would be pleased to see Winky's change of heart.
"What is Harry Potter needing?" she asked after a moment of silence, an eager look on her face that spoke volumes of her need to still be useful.
"Er… I was looking for Dobby. Do you know where he is?" asked Harry, quickly collecting his thoughts.
"I is not knowing where Dobby is," she replied rather hastily, mopping the same spot on the floor with furious abandon.
Harry scratched his head in confusion and was about to ask her where she'd last seen him when there was a small pop. Dobby materialized right in front of Harry and there was a clatter as Winky again dropped her mop. Dobby and Harry looked at her but before they could say anything, she squeaked loudly and disappeared.
"Winky seems a lot better than… than the last time I saw her," commented Harry to Dobby, who skipped over to pick up the discarded mop.
"Yes, Winky is lots better," replied the nimble house-elf, tapping the mop so that it flew over to a storage cupboard and put itself away. He trotted back to where Harry stood beside the portrait hole. "Winky has been acting strangely. Dobby tries to help but Winky is seeming scared of Dobby." Dobby shook his head in confusion but seemed to put aside the matter as his ears perked up and he looked adoringly at Harry. "What is Harry Potter wanting, sir?"
"Right… er, Dumbledore said you'd help me get started."
"Oh! Dobby remembers!" With an excited squeak he zipped over to a cupboard and soon returned, his arms full of cleaning supplies. "Ready sir!"
Harry looked askance at the bucket, mop, scrubbing brush, and large bottle of Mrs. Skower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover. "Uh, Dobby? I thought I'd be using magic to clean and stuff."
Dobby's tennis ball sized eyes widened further if possible. "Harry Potter must not be using much magic while professors are repairing wards, sir. Ward-weaving is hard magic, can often be messed up by tiny spell. Harry Potter is to use as little magic as possible for cleaning."
"Oh," Harry's enthusiasm lowered another notch.
They exited the kitchens and decided to go to Professor McGonagall's room first as it was relatively nearer to their location. Harry sighed as they stood in the open doorway and surveyed the large classroom. It was going to be a long summer.
* * *
Christopher stepped quietly into the mouth of the alley where Maggie and Michael had first found him. He had spent the better part of the last couple of days traipsing around London, hoping for something, anything to trigger a memory. He'd walked most of the way, not wanting to borrow any more money other than what was necessary for a bite to eat, but even when that came about, it was just as bothersome as he didn't know how much the various coins and paper bills were worth. Finally, after getting directions from a street vendor, he located the alley. It was an offshoot of a quiet street with more residential buildings than commercial. The alley itself wasn't even a true alley; it was more of a tiny, dead-end space in between two flats where, apparently, the residents put out their trash bins for the garbage collector.
There was no logical reason for him to be there. More than a fortnight had passed since he had lain on the dirty asphalt, unconscious and injured. The signs of a struggle, if any had been there in the first place, were gone. His attackers, of course, were long gone; fled before Maggie and Michael saw them. Most of the trash bins were all sitting up, haphazardly arranged in clumps, some overflowing with their contents.
Why on earth would he have been there at all, dressed in flowing black robes and carrying an apparently useless wooden stick? Christopher knew that he hadn't been there on an innocent garbage-disposing mission from his home. When he had first entered the street, a woman had walked up to one of the flats, glanced at him without recognition and had entered her home without a backward glance. He wasn't known here.
A step echoed alarmingly around the enclosed space as a pair of teenagers chattered mindlessly, walking down the street just outside the alley. Christopher frowned at the noise. His attacker or attackers couldn't have surprised him, their footsteps would surely have alerted him…. A thought struck him then, what if he or they had waited for him in the alley? He looked around; the trash bins were too low to hide behind effectively. No, if they had been in the alley before him, then he must have walked into the trap with eyes wide open….
Christopher leaned against the brick wall and massaged his chin with his good hand, brow furrowed in thought. Had it been a trap at all? Had he gone to meet a person or persons yet unknown without knowing that he would end up unconscious in the gutter?
A simple mugging was far easier to explain. After all, there had been nothing in his pockets when he was found, and the stick, presumably, had been clutched too tightly in his hand for anyone to pry out, assuming that it was worth something anyway.
Another thought struck him as he looked around the alley and remembered what Maggie and Michael had told him. They had come upon his body right after the incident, an angry shout alerting them to a problem. But when they had looked in, only he had been there. Where had the attacker gone? The alley was a dead end, there were no doors on either of the walls, and the Childes would have mentioned it if they had seen suspicious persons fleeing from the alley. Mystified, Christopher stared at a scrawny cat rummaging through a tipped over bin.
What had happened that day?
Poor Winky was so surprised that she dropped her mop and burst into tears.
"Sorry," Harry said uncomfortably, "I didn't mean to scare you…er… bye."
"Oh! Wait, sir!" sniffled Winky, drying her eyes on the edge of her toga. "Is Harry Potter needing anything, sir?" she asked more composedly.
"No, I just… er…." Harry stuttered, a bit taken aback. The last time he had seen Winky, she was sobbing uncontrollably at the feet of her master, Barty Crouch Jr., who was under the influence of Veritaserum. She had been devastated when she was fired from the Crouch household and had been drunk off of butterbeer more than once in an effort to drown her grief and forget her disgrace of being free. "You-you look different Winky."
Winky smiled sadly. "Winky has had time to think things over since last Harry Potter saw," she said in her high squeaky voice. "Winky is… resigned to freedom." She made a face as if still getting used to the word but it was a vast improvement over what she had been two years earlier. "Dobby is helping Winky to understand that getting… paid…" She made another face. "…isn't terrible bad disgrace. Master-Professor Dumbledore is very kind and when Master wants to pay Winky, there is nothing for Winky to do but get paid." Harry grinned. Hermione would be pleased to see Winky's change of heart.
"What is Harry Potter needing?" she asked after a moment of silence, an eager look on her face that spoke volumes of her need to still be useful.
"Er… I was looking for Dobby. Do you know where he is?" asked Harry, quickly collecting his thoughts.
"I is not knowing where Dobby is," she replied rather hastily, mopping the same spot on the floor with furious abandon.
Harry scratched his head in confusion and was about to ask her where she'd last seen him when there was a small pop. Dobby materialized right in front of Harry and there was a clatter as Winky again dropped her mop. Dobby and Harry looked at her but before they could say anything, she squeaked loudly and disappeared.
"Winky seems a lot better than… than the last time I saw her," commented Harry to Dobby, who skipped over to pick up the discarded mop.
"Yes, Winky is lots better," replied the nimble house-elf, tapping the mop so that it flew over to a storage cupboard and put itself away. He trotted back to where Harry stood beside the portrait hole. "Winky has been acting strangely. Dobby tries to help but Winky is seeming scared of Dobby." Dobby shook his head in confusion but seemed to put aside the matter as his ears perked up and he looked adoringly at Harry. "What is Harry Potter wanting, sir?"
"Right… er, Dumbledore said you'd help me get started."
"Oh! Dobby remembers!" With an excited squeak he zipped over to a cupboard and soon returned, his arms full of cleaning supplies. "Ready sir!"
Harry looked askance at the bucket, mop, scrubbing brush, and large bottle of Mrs. Skower's All Purpose Magical Mess Remover. "Uh, Dobby? I thought I'd be using magic to clean and stuff."
Dobby's tennis ball sized eyes widened further if possible. "Harry Potter must not be using much magic while professors are repairing wards, sir. Ward-weaving is hard magic, can often be messed up by tiny spell. Harry Potter is to use as little magic as possible for cleaning."
"Oh," Harry's enthusiasm lowered another notch.
They exited the kitchens and decided to go to Professor McGonagall's room first as it was relatively nearer to their location. Harry sighed as they stood in the open doorway and surveyed the large classroom. It was going to be a long summer.
Christopher stepped quietly into the mouth of the alley where Maggie and Michael had first found him. He had spent the better part of the last couple of days traipsing around London, hoping for something, anything to trigger a memory. He'd walked most of the way, not wanting to borrow any more money other than what was necessary for a bite to eat, but even when that came about, it was just as bothersome as he didn't know how much the various coins and paper bills were worth. Finally, after getting directions from a street vendor, he located the alley. It was an offshoot of a quiet street with more residential buildings than commercial. The alley itself wasn't even a true alley; it was more of a tiny, dead-end space in between two flats where, apparently, the residents put out their trash bins for the garbage collector.
There was no logical reason for him to be there. More than a fortnight had passed since he had lain on the dirty asphalt, unconscious and injured. The signs of a struggle, if any had been there in the first place, were gone. His attackers, of course, were long gone; fled before Maggie and Michael saw them. Most of the trash bins were all sitting up, haphazardly arranged in clumps, some overflowing with their contents.
Why on earth would he have been there at all, dressed in flowing black robes and carrying an apparently useless wooden stick? Christopher knew that he hadn't been there on an innocent garbage-disposing mission from his home. When he had first entered the street, a woman had walked up to one of the flats, glanced at him without recognition and had entered her home without a backward glance. He wasn't known here.
A step echoed alarmingly around the enclosed space as a pair of teenagers chattered mindlessly, walking down the street just outside the alley. Christopher frowned at the noise. His attacker or attackers couldn't have surprised him, their footsteps would surely have alerted him…. A thought struck him then, what if he or they had waited for him in the alley? He looked around; the trash bins were too low to hide behind effectively. No, if they had been in the alley before him, then he must have walked into the trap with eyes wide open….
Christopher leaned against the brick wall and massaged his chin with his good hand, brow furrowed in thought. Had it been a trap at all? Had he gone to meet a person or persons yet unknown without knowing that he would end up unconscious in the gutter?
A simple mugging was far easier to explain. After all, there had been nothing in his pockets when he was found, and the stick, presumably, had been clutched too tightly in his hand for anyone to pry out, assuming that it was worth something anyway.
Another thought struck him as he looked around the alley and remembered what Maggie and Michael had told him. They had come upon his body right after the incident, an angry shout alerting them to a problem. But when they had looked in, only he had been there. Where had the attacker gone? The alley was a dead end, there were no doors on either of the walls, and the Childes would have mentioned it if they had seen suspicious persons fleeing from the alley. Mystified, Christopher stared at a scrawny cat rummaging through a tipped over bin.
What had happened that day?