A/N: David Weasley, third in the trio of youngest Romione offspring. Enjoy—angsty cuz I'm very angsty right now…and in the mood for it…The format got all weird, that's why it's awry and abnormal. My apologies!
Disclaimer: David is mine, but Winky is not. The sandwich is mine, but Quidditch is not. David's room is mine, but the words "and yet" are not. Get it by now?
David Weasley
House-Elf
"Master David." Bows, polite words.
"Thank you, Winky." Nods. They never speak to each other, never get to know each other—he wonders why.
He's off to Quidditch practice now, and the gleam in his eye is never matched as when he's slamming into a Bludger with his giant bat and ferociously ripping it away from his team members.
And when he gets home, Winky again. Winky to take off his coat and give him the sandwich his mother prepared--they only had Winky because she'd begged to be of service, and Hermione had never allowed her to work very much--Winky to lead him to his room and bow as he walks in.
"Thanks. Thanks very much." He feels like he wants to say more--he feels like he wants to know her desperately. But she's shuffling away already, tugging on an ear. He sighs and collapses on his bed--she's just a house-elf, nothing special, and yet…
He's being Mum-like. He kicks himself mentally and stands, jogging in place. He doesn't need to know her. He's all right as he is.
And yet…