No, I don't own any of this. But wouldn't it be spiffy to be richer than the Queen???

"What's the game?"

"Blackjack."

"Good. Deal me in."

"Hey Babe! Can't an elf get a Firewhiskey around this joint?"

"You gonna sit there all day, or you want to show your cards?"

"Goddamnit! I fold".

The smoke was thick in the small sub basement of the kitchens. The stench of

the unwashed masses was almost covered by the stink of cigars. . . almost.

The subterranean den was awash with lurid colors. The dancing elves with their

skimpy beaded towels, the servers in garish red handkerchief, the lounging

patrons wearing everything from a pristine white tea towel to a dingy pillowcase

ripped in several places. It was hard to make out individuals in the sea of

bat-like ears and bulbous heads, but that was fine with him. This was his

place, and he liked the cacophony of sights and sounds that surrounded him.

If everyone else was garish, he was positively obscene. He wore not two, but

six different socks, each of them a testament to his work here in the Club. A

bright purple tartan draped over his sequined tea cozy, but it barely cut down

the glare spangling off his attire. He looked slightly like a small disco

ball, but he didn't mind. He loved the attention. And the stranger he dressed,

the more elves came, like moths to the flame. Drinking, dancing, gambling. . .

and paying for everything.

"How's business tonight, Binky?"

"Not bad, boss. Not bad at all. If this keeps up, we might have a record night

over here. Want I should tell the girls to show a little more merchandise to

the customers??"

"Sure. But let me know if anyone gets out of hand. Bad for business."

"Right boss. Bad for business."

The star spangled manager strolled from area to area, checking tables,

gladhanding customers and making sure the booze flowed freely. It looked like

Binky was right. . . it WAS a good night. Maybe he'd get that new girl in the

red strapless number to come up and give him a private showing after the Club

closed. . .

"Uh. . Boss?"

"Yeah, Slurpie?"

"Dem kids is back. Upstairs, I mean. Wants me to take care of them?"

"No, Slurpie. They're friends of mine. I'll handle them."

"Okay, Boss. Want me to keep an eye out down here?"

"Sure, Slurpie. That'll be great. I should be back in a few minutes. Probably

be able to pacify them with some of those eclairs the Weasley kid likes. Make

sure no one gets too rowdy. Can't have anyone sneaking around down here."

"Right Boss. Don't forget to change outa your work clothes."

"Thanks, Slurpie. I almost forgot. Back in a few."

The Boss shuffled his small brown body up the stairs to his office and quickly

discarded his adornments for a modest red and gold sweater stamped with the

Hogwarts crest. He did, however, leave the socks on his feet. The Potter boy

would assume they were in tribute to him and his "rescue" from the Malfoys and

not a mark of his power here in the Underworld.

Once he had changed, he practiced his squeaky, company voice a few times before

heading up the secret stair into the back of the fireplace in the Hogwarts

school kitchen. He carefully made sure no one was around before stepping out

and into the adjoining room.

"Harry Potter, Sir! What an honor it is to see you here in the kitchens! IS

you needing anything?"

"No, Dobby, we just came for a visit. How are you?"

The Boss thought about everything going on under their feet for a moment and a

wolfish grin appeared on his face.

"I is fine, Harry Potter, Sir. Everything is great."