AN: Since the last time I posted I've finished all my AS-levels and turned seventeen. Double Yay!
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Stage Two – Induction
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Several miles from London, just past the edge of rural Green Belt land, there was a town.
The town was distinctly muggle with a pleasant country feel and two oast houses standing proudly over a road sign inscribed, "Welcome to Kent, the Garden of England." The place itself was called Rittlewater after the Rittle stream which flowed through the village green, and the villager's themselves were very proud of their colourful hanging baskets, which they'd be quick to tell you had won them many awards.
Beneath and slightly to the left of two of these famed Rittle baskets there was a picnic bench and on it sat a woman dressed in a beige suit and dark glasses.
"Miss Granger?" asked a short old man, nervously fiddling with the tweed muggle hat that was clearly a new addition to his poorly selected wardrobe.
The woman looked up and smiled, "Ah, Geoffrey, glad to see you could make it. Are the others here?"
He smiled toothily. "Barbara's in the pub. She acting very friendly with the muggle barman last time I saw… George say's he's running late and Amelia came in robes and had to go back to change. The others are over there." He pointed to the other side of the green where a gaggle of mismatchingly dressed 'muggles' sat uncomfortably on two park benches.
"Right," smiled Miss Granger, "And the elves?"
Geoffrey gave her a look that suggested such jokes were not in good taste, "the volunteers," he stressed, "are in the safe house down the road, as you requested."
"Very good," she replied, "Would you mind fetching Barbara for me? I'll wait by the others."
The following five minutes saw a mother frogmarch her curious child past the gathering of muggle-dressed wizards smiling forcedly while her eyes darted and the corner of her mouth twitched with whispered warnings to the girl trailing from her arm. From the nearby pub benches there were craning necks of locals and when the sound of a car backfiring like a gunshot rattled around the green all eyes in the strange party turned to glare at the newcomer.
"It's called a silencing charm, Amelia," hissed one witch.
"Sorry," muttered the other sheepishly, "I was in a rush. You make it sound like we're on a raid or something."
"You're lucky old Mad-Eye wasn't here to hear that," muttered the first. "You'd be on filing duty for a year."
"Ladies…" interrupted Miss Granger reproachfully. "Now that we're all here, I'd like to say a few words of thanks to all of you. This programme means a lot to me and I'm truly honoured to have your support."
There was scattered nodding while the old witch sent Amelia one final glare.
Hermione paused and looked around. "I hope you've all had a chance to talk a little to each other because this is the team you will be working in for the next few months. As I am sure you are all aware you each have an Azkaban convict in your care and you are charged with ensuring his or her safety and cooperation in the programme which will allow them to live as a house elf in the hopes of reintroducing them to society."
"Why are we all here dressed as muggles then?" asked one grey haired woman. "I feel right silly with this dress on."
Hermione smiled, "Well, it was a nice day, that pub does excellent food and I appreciate that you'll all most likely need a good drink when you're done breaking the news to your supervisees." At the unconvinced faces she added, "We had hoped that it would heighten your sensitivity, being an outsider surrounded by another race of humans, and that you might be a little more understanding should your convict suffers any troubles settling in to their new workplace."
"Hmph," was the general consensus from the elderly aurors sitting around her.
"Well, back to business," said Hermione, nervously wringing her hands. "I'll make this quick as your letters describe most of what you have to do and I've got to go and brief the supervisors of the 'muggle' branch of the programme, so, if you'll all listen closely…"
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Draco was lying on a bed, looking at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling.
It was a real bed.
With feather pillows.
Almost against his will he felt his features twist into a smile. He hadn't had feather pillows since he'd ran from Hogwarts.
The typical Azkaban cell consisted of three rough hewn stone walls, a ceiling so nondescript it may as well just have been the walls merging into one a few feet above his head, and a fourth wall consisting entirely of heavy black metal bars, sunk into the rock and woven with allsorts of ritual magic that needed far more than a wand to be broken. There was a chamber pot, emptied (to his initial horror and lasting disgust) every two days and then what he presumed was meant to be a bed. A woven straw mattress wrapped in some kind of scratchy wool. It was awful.
But now he was sitting on a real bed with legs and a mattress with springs, he'd just used a bathroom with taps and a toilet with a flush, he was wearing new robes, black and boring but new and clean all the same. He had the vague feeling his mother would be ashamed of his utter delight at such small pleasures, but right now he did not care. He'd just washed his hair and life was (dare he say it?) good.
Or at least, for those few minutes it was. Draco was never a superstitious man but later he would curse himself for such idly optimistic thoughts. Had his father taught him nothing? Had his own spell as a Death Eater taught him nothing? Things could (and by his own experience would) always get worse.
"Ah, Mr Malfoy, enjoying your spell of freedom I see."
The door closed behind Martina with a snap.
"Glad to see you have some sense left in you, one poor woman downstairs tried to get out the window," laughed the old witch, "I must say the organiser of this programme has been extremely thorough with her preparations, the would be escapee was tied back to the bedpost with her own hair."
Draco cringed almost in spite of himself. He had to admit with some surprise that the moment he sat down on the bed all thought of escape left his head entirely, replaced with a warm fuzzy knowledge that the pillows were soft. He frowned to himself, that probably meant the bed was charmed, next time he really should be more careful.
"What the hell are you doing here?" was all he said on the matter.
The old witch laughed.
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Michael Strapford was first and foremost a businessman.
Half-blood and ambitious he had married into a pureblooded family not to ensure his own happiness or even that of his new wife, but to gain a foothold in the predominantly pureblood and highly competitive business sector of the wizarding world. And the foothold had been granted, his father-in-law's contacts became his contacts, the family business now included him, and papers were signed ensuring that upon the death of his spouse's parents all their earthly possessions would be passed onto him.
In his eyes the deal had been a very good one.
That is, until the week following the old widow's funeral, a year since the father-in-law had passed away. It was only then that the family's rotten estate was clearly shown to him and instead of a wealth of riches and gold Strapford was left with a million galleons worth of debt.
He'd started by selling the family's vast country house for a large sum to a muggle organisation who opened stately homes to the public, much to his wife's distaste, he'd then moved on to selling the house elves and then auctioning off the priceless artefacts of magical curiosity, mostly dark and mostly to Lucius Malfoy, which just about covered the majority of the remaining problem. The family account was emptied, the estate close to non-existent but the contacts remained and with this Strapford rebuilt his business.
Now, at fifty years old and with three children of his own Michael Strapford was a prospering businessman with pretty much the monopoly on transporting rare magical species of animals and plants across wizarding Britain. He still had the same wife, though it was little secret that she hated his guts and the only thing preventing a divorce was her adoration of their children.
This was the initial root of the problem. Born to be a lady of leisure, a pureblood whose skill was beauty and career marriage, Abigail Strapford, the wife in question, had never been one for housework. Originally Michael's own mother had been living with them and managing the household while Abigail shopped and made polite conversation with other pureblooded women, but the old woman was now to frail and bitter to be of any use about the home. This was when Michael first began listening to his wife's requests for a house elf, but of course they were all far too expensive and he'd flatly refused.
However a seed had been planted in the recess of his mind and soon he found himself seeing all sorts of jobs about the work place that would be far better done by an elf. The fetching and carrying such a creature could do was phenomenal and he was certain it would pay its way ten times over were he ever to have the cash to buy one.
But he didn't have the cash and it would seem prices very much reflected the wonder he was seeing in their merits. House elves stayed with the family they were born to and freed house elves were rare and, apparently, nervous liabilities. The house elves he had sold decades back were now religiously loyal to a new set of owners and no one seemed willing to sell.
It was then that he was contacted by a Miss Hermione Granger of the Ministry of Magic.
It was perfect. He'd discussed it with his wife and even she thought it was perfect. Human maids were quite the up and coming thing in the pureblood circles, she had told him, and this one wouldn't even need to be paid.
It was free labour and as a businessman Michael Strapford had jumped at the opportunity. He'd sat down with his children and together the three had settled on a suitably ridiculous name for the new arrival, while his wife speculated at great length with her friends at what conviction their new 'elf' could possibly have had.
It was with great anticipation that Michael Strapford paced his office in his best work robes ready to receive the elf and its supervisor, they'd even decked out the attic with a bed for it to sleep in.
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"Sitting comfortably, Draco?"
He shot the woman a dry look. She chuckled.
"I've got here the information on your new employer. As traditional for house elves you will work as many hours as your master asks of you and will be paid in food and accommodation." She appeared to be holding back a smile. "Your time spent in the service of the family and their business will depend on the time it takes you to fulfil your list of tasks."
"Tasks?"
"Yes, Mr Malfoy." She was grinning now and it was making him feel particularly nauseous, "that list you wrote me during your stage one theory exam, detailing everything a house elf ever did for you? Well that is your specification list. You will spend the next however many months fulfilling the exact criteria you specified as what you'd expect from a house elf along with any other tasks your master asks of you. Any questions?"
There was a brief silence in which Draco's brain fought to comprehend such work loads, damned his quick writing, damned his in-built desire to do well in exams, damned the entire programme and whoever organised it, thought of Azkaban and weighed up his options and then settled on dragging a look of grim determination onto his face.
"No."
"Excellent. We'll be taking a muggle taxi so do tell me if you feel you are going to be sick. I'll explain the finer points of your working relationship en route."
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A shipment company? His mind hissed at him as her looked at the parchment in the car. It sounded like some menial blend of Care for Magical Creatures and Herbology.
All the same, another little voice noted, it's an improvement on Azkaban.
The thing that really got to him was the fact that he'd have to work for the family as well. A real house elf would have one or the other, it was hardly fair to give him both. Then he glanced at Martina and down at the magical cuffs encircling his hands, and he could practically hear her voice giving him a list of all the things he'd done that 'hadn't been fair'. Damn conscience. That was one thing Dementors really knew how to bring out in you.
He'd just taken his appearance altering potion and been thoroughly briefed on what was and was not allowed. Martina would accompany him everywhere for the first few days and then move to a rented accommodation later in the week from where she could check up on him every hour and be contacted were any emergencies to occur. The potion he'd taken would link him to the father of the family in a similar way to the bond between house elf and master. The potion was to be taken every twelve hours and would be administered by Martina by force if necessary. Once a week the mysterious head of the rehab programme would pay a visit but he would not be given her true identity and her business would mostly be in talking to his supervisor and employer.
And Rule Number One? No magic.
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"Just remember, Mr Malfoy, let me do the talking."
She knocked on the door.
"Come in," came their muffled invitation.
Behind a large oak desk a balding man with dark grey hair beamed at them.
"Do sit down," he said excitably, looking to Draco as though Christmas had just materialised before his very eyes several months early.
"You must be Ms Figgot," he offered his hand to Martina, smiling all the while. Draco was verbally ignored though he could see the man shooting curious glances at him. Looking around the office sullenly he wondered what exactly the potion had done to his face.
"We're very excited about this, an excellent move for both the company and my home life… if you must know Mrs Strapford has been asking me for an elf for years, I just haven't been able to afford one."
Draco stared unenthusiastically at the man; he was quite clearly an idiot.
"We've made ready a bed and what will he eat? I've never been sure of the procedure for feeding house elves."
"His specification states that they eat whatever leftovers they can find," offered Martina helpfully with a cruel smile in Draco's direction. Damn paper, he thought bitterly.
"He does cook, doesn't he?" the man looked concerned, "only I'd wanted to surprise my wife, she doesn't know it's arrived yet and I thought it would be nice to make her a meal."
"Of course he cooks," the old woman grinned. Draco could feel a detached area of his brain enter panic mode. He'd never cooked in his life and she knew it.
"Can he tend roses?"
"Of course."
Erm. No.
"How is he with children? Does he know any bedtime stories? Can we ask him to do that?"
"It's certainly in his specification."
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.
"Housework?"
"Absolutely everything Mr Strapford, you really needn't worry. I will be here at all times for the first week so if there are any issues you may address me and they will be dealt with straight away."
Strapford beamed again. Draco sneered back. The man didn't seem to notice.
It was going to be a very long week.
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The older muggles of Rittlewater Green, namely a group of ex-farmers and their gossipy wives, had had an awful lot to talk about over their evening pints.
"You think it was some sort of pensioners club from the city?" asked one elderly man.
"Nah," responded another, "I'd say there were from way up North," he said with a knowing frown. "Get up to all sorts up there, they do."
"Yeah!" offered the barmaid, "Did you see the clothes they were wearing? Some of those dresses looked like they came from the middle ages."
"Nah, I though more of sixties curtains…" commented the barmaid's friends.
"Yeah. You're right."
"Mhm, now that you say it…"
"So… a circus?"
"Don't be silly, Granddad!" uttered the little girl sipping a glass of lemonade, feet dangling from her barstool, "I heard them. They said they were part of a program. One of them made a noise like a gun!"
The adults muttered and craned their necks to see the girl.
"I think," she started matter-of-factly, "I think that they were filming a television program," she paused, "about a circus from UpNorth, like you said…" her eyes lit up, "only the circus is at war with other circus's and there are elves that they have to protect with guns!"
The adults blinked.
"Filming on our green?" said one man in wonder, "You'd have thought they'd tell us."
"The council wouldn't have," spoke one woman, known for her control of the neighbourhood watch and loud arguments with the local MP, "Never tell us anything, that lot. I'll bet they just don't want to have to pay us, or to have us making an impression on their fancy actors. Bet we wouldn't have even known 'til it was on TV."
There was a grumbled assent.
"Didn't see any cameras, mind."
"That's technology for you," said another white haired man. "My grandson does all sorts of things with computers… he's got one of them digital cameras. Very good zoom, he says."
"Ah, yes. Zooms."
"Funny looking bunch, all the same."
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AN: To everyone who reviewed: you are wonderful and made my day.
To the people who added me to favourites/alerts and did not review I issue an indignant poke. If you liked something enough to fav/alert it surely you could spare time just to tell me, the author, that you do? I got more alerts than I got reviews for last chapter which I find very strange. I review the stories I read and like enough to alert without fail.
If you've read it please review it.
