Chapter 16: Shopping for a Minion

I have, though I say it myself, astonishing self-control in a crisis.

Well, I have astonishing self-control in a crisis related to my public image.

Ok. I have astonishingly sporadic self-control in such a crisis. That will, I think, be accurate enough for our purposes. What I mean is that the tip of Lockhart's wand did not, on this occasion, cause me to soil myself and whimper like a child (although some might suggest that given his demonstrated lack of ability or indeed common sense, soiling myself might have been the sensible option). Instead, I tried to put him off.

"Oh, there's no need to trouble yourself, sir! It's just a scratch…"

Lockhart grinned sadistically at me. He had me cornered, and he knew it. "Potter, as your professor, I'll be the judge of that. Let me see…"

He prodded my arm with his wand, and I couldn't completely hide the look of pain on my face, regardless of how good I was getting at bluffing in poker. His eyes lit up, while from behind him several members of my adoring public cooed in sympathy. "Ah-ha! I knew it, you're just putting a brave face on! Don't worry, we'll soon have you sorted out…"

He whirled his wand above his head in an impressive – not to mention highly inaccurate and needlessly flamboyant (so Hermione would later tell me) – gesture, and then flashed it down onto my wrist.

I braced myself, expecting pain at the least, but there was a curious lack of sensation. The absence continued even after he removed the wand, and it was only then that I risked a look at my arm. What I saw appalled me.

"You…you stupid bastard," I hissed under my breath. "What the hell did you do to my bones?"

"Ah, Harry," he tutted. "How little you understand of the healing arts. Far easier to replace than repair, y'know."

The look on his face suggested that this last comment fell under his only true ability: blatant lies. Forgetting myself for an instant, I found myself grasping in vain for my wand. I couldn't find it, and when I looked around I saw Hermione clutching it as she stared at Lockhart. The look of sheer disbelief on her face heartened me somehow – had Lockhart's vindictiveness gone awry? – but I said nothing. Lockhart looked strangely disappointed at my lack of obvious reaction, and he stood up.

"Well lads, best get him off to the Hospital Wing. Take care with him now."

McClaggen swept me up in a fireman's lift, to which I objected strenuously, and hurried off towards the castle. "Buck up, old man! Pomfrey'll have you all ticketiboo in no time, you'll see!"

"McClaggen, I'm fine!" I snapped. "Put me down, you lummox!" He ignored me, and I cringed as a rather attractive Ravenclaw filly in the sixth year shot me a pitying look. Then it hit me. I was being carried like a sack of injured coal through the castle after a (relatively) mild Quidditch injury. It would be the talk of the castle for weeks.

"That sneaky little shit!"

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In the end, I could just consider myself lucky that it was the end of term. Madame Pomfrey did indeed fix my arm in a jiffy, albeit a jiffy involving vast quantities of excruciating pain as my bones reformed themselves out of thin air in my empty skin. However, she decided that it would be in my best interests to be kept in for observation for a day or so; by the time I got out, most of the school had vacated the premises for the Christmas hols. Rejoicing in this, I headed back up to the common room and proceeded to get utterly bladdered.

When I had sobered up, two days later, I set myself to revenge.

Lockhart's reputation was his obvious weak spot, but I had nothing on him. The memories I had claimed to have of him whoring were a complete fabrication, so the only thing I could bring to bear against him was my word. That would count for something, obviously, but he had cold hard facts in his favour. I suppose his teaching career could have been held up as evidence of his ineptitude – and by extension, his fraudulent heroism – but being a piss poor teacher hardly made him unique.

My first step was to therefore try and find something I could use against him. I knew about Pensieves, so in theory I could simply take the memories and display them for the world, but then people would know I had been to Moor Alley. It wouldn't look good anyway, and put next to Longbottom's memories…no. Far from being the ace up my sleeve, it seemed that it would actually have to be a weapon of last resort.

Unfortunately, the rest of my arsenal amounted to sweet F.A.

Inspiration failed to strike, and I put it to the back of my head for a day or so. I've often found that the best way of solving a problem is to let it fester. The solution can strike you at any time. Or, if you're really, really lucky, it'll go away all by itself and you don't need to worry about it. On this occasion, it was Ernie Macmillan who presented me with a possibility.

It was Christmas Day, and those of us from the Set who were still at Hogwarts (surprisingly few, as it happened) had entertained each other with a little shindig in the quad. I had been a little dubious about the plan, due to the thick blanket of snow that had turned the world white, but a liberal sprinkling of charms had rendered the place entirely satisfactory, and actually rather cosy. A piquant beaker of mulled wine was warming me up nicely, and Macmillan was reading a letter from his parents. His rather pompous, plummy tones were doing a splendid job of lulling me to sleep, when he suddenly snorted.

"Merlin, you'd think they could find something more interesting to write about!" He folded the letter up and put it into his pocket. Now I had to confess, I hadn't entirely absorbed what it was he had been saying, so I was a little confused. I looked at him askance, and he tutted.

"Little too much of the good stuff? They're complaining about the dratted elf, of all things. Mother says he's not being prompt enough bringing their meals. Give the creature a hiding, that'll sort it out. Lord knows why that hasn't occurred to them…"

House elves. I imagined the quad lighting up with the glow from the lightbulb going on over my head, and I grinned. "House elves, yes…tell me, how do they work? They have to do everything you tell them, yes?"

Ernie nodded slowly. "That's right. They're bound to keep your secrets, obey all your orders, whistle on command…all that sort of thing, you know."

"Do they just help out in the house? Or can you send them off on errands?"

"Oh yes, my mother sends him off to get the weekly groceries, all that sort of thing. There's nothing they can't do, really. They've got their own powerful magic, in a way. Only limited by your imagination, to be honest. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just musing," I said, sipping my wine. "How do you get hold of them?"

"You just call their name," Ernie said, standing up. "Anyway. Must be off! See you chaps later."

I called after him ineffectually as he left, his answer not being quite the one I wanted. I didn't want to summon an elf, I wanted to buy one. However, his answer might not be entirely useless…

An hour later I was safely ensconced in the dorm. Ron was dutifully standing guard outside, although in all honesty I didn't expect to be disturbed. Seamus Finnegan was the only other Gryffindor lad who had remained over the hols, and he was passed out in the common room. Nevertheless, I have always been known for my caution. I lounged on my bed, and called out the half remembered name from the summer.

"Dobby? Dobby, get your arse over here!"

There was a loud crack, and the house elf appeared in front of me, cringing. Then it realised who I was, and it's repulsive features lit up with an obsessive glee. "Master Harry Potter sir! Oh, Dobby is so happy to see Master Potter safe and well! Dobby was worried after that Bludger…"

"Yes, that was quite impressive," I cut in. Usually I wouldn't have been averse to such fawning, but I had more important things to be getting on with. "And as a reward – " Ha! "I'd like to offer you a job. What do you say?"

His ears wilted dramatically, and he acquired an expression like a kicked puppy. "Dobby would love to work for Master Harry Potter, but Dobby is already employed."

"So? Write them a letter of resignation!"

"Dobby cannot write, Harry Potter sir! And Dobby cannot just leave service, Dobby must be sacked." His expression became ever more pitiful. "'Tis a grievous punishment for a house elf, sir, to be sacked."

"Damn it!" I swore loudly. "Well then, who do you work for? Maybe I can buy you from them…"

Dobby actually shuffled away from me, shaking his head wildly. "No! No Master Potter sir, please. Dobby cannot tell you!"

I drummed my fingers against the duvet. My plan was falling down around my ears rapidly. Unless… "In that case, where did they get you from?

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I took my first steps towards my cunning plan's fruition a week or so later. Strictly speaking, if you'd elected to stay at Hogwarts over the hols, you weren't allowed off the grounds. In practice though, so long as you had a decent reason for going (or said you did) and went accompanied, the staff didn't really mind. And so one day in January, Ron and I set forth to Diagon Alley, on the pretext of taking care of some banking at Gringotts. Technically, I wasn't lying – I did have to go to Gringotts. I was sure that a house elf would set me back a galleon or two, to say the least.

McGonagall agreed to let us use her fireplace to Floo travel, which was an experience. Have you ever tried it? It's rather fallen out of fashion these days, what with one thing or another, and a good thing too I say. Quite the most undignified form of travel, believe me. I ended up arse over tit on the floor of the Leaky Cauldron, which didn't actually attract that much attention due to the state of most of the clientele (also arse over tit, for the most part), and was most aggrieved to find that Ron managed a perfect dismount.

"You're good at something then," I muttered just loud enough for him to hear me. He gave me a slightly puzzled look, then helped me to my feet. "Right," I said, dusting myself off. "Which way now then?"

"Well, we need to get into the Alley first," Ron said helpfully.

"Well obviously, that goes without saying!" I replied, smoothly covering up the fact that I'd forgotten that little detail. What? I didn't go there very often. I can't remember everything. "But after that?"

He reached into his robes and withdrew a sheaf of parchment, intricate and arcane directions written in Dobby's childish scrawl. He peered at them, and smiled brightly. "Don't worry! I know exactly where it is!"

"Oh good," I said, leading the way towards the portal at the back. "I feel better already."

As it happened, he actually did direct us pretty well. The trip wasn't without incident, but in my experience – even now – going to Diagon Alley never is. The Wizarding equivalent of Oxford Street is always busy, and you certainly get a better class of busker. We went via Gringotts where, following the customary jovial encounter with the goblins (evil little shits), I was able to withdraw some money from my vault. I took the opportunity to check that the Philiosopher's Stone was still there. The little red jewel was indeed still nestled in a pile of Sickles, and I grinned. Once I'd figured out how to use the damn thing, I was laughing. Eventually we arrived at our destination, a rather dilapidated establishment with murky windows and a battered sign in the window: "Snitterfield's Bestiary".

I frowned, a little uncertain about setting foot inside. "Are you sure this is right, Ron? I can't see many Purebloods coming here…"

"I think most families inherit them," he explained a little uncertainly. "If you haven't inherited one, chances are you're from a background that doesn't agree with having house elves anyway, so I don't think it's that much of a problem."

"Hmm. Well, needs must I suppose." And with that, I pushed the door open.

The air inside the shop was as musty as the windows, and I coughed as the door disturbed a cloud of dust. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, and in the end I raised my wand.

"Lumos!" There was a faint flicker of light from the tip, but it quickly died. I swore, and tried again. This time the spell took, and I held it above my head, my lip curling in disgust. "God, it's a real sty here…"

The walls were lined with cages, which were in turn lined liberally with old straw and shit. Only a few of them were occupied; clearly business was either booming, or dying a slow and agonising death. It wasn't just house elves, although there were more of them than anything else, all big hopeful eyes fixating on me and Ron as if we were their own personal lord and saviour, but a few snakes, and creatures I didn't like to examine to closely. The elves huddled up to the doors of their cages as we walked past, pleading expressions on their ugly faces.

"You just can't buy loyalty like that, Ron," I remarked as we walked past. "Look at 'em, they're practically salivating!"

"Ah, I like to see an eye for quality," someone wheezed. I jumped, ever so slightly, and lowered my wand. A wizard, presumably Mr Snitterfield, had appeared behind a counter at the far end of the room. He was rubbing his hands together, and had plastered an ingratiating smile on his face. His hair was slicked down, and he had a bit of a hunch. He was clearly a complete scoundrel, and I had to resist the urge to adjust my bag of gold.

"Mr Snitterfield, I presume?"

"Oh, that's me sir, that's me, happy to make your acquaintance…" He reached out his hand, apparently for me to shake. I eyed it, and took a step back. He didn't appear offended, probably used to such rejection, and he stepped out from behind the counter. "And how can I help you two fine gentlemen this morning? Perhaps a Bandersnatch? Fresh in, lovely specimen, just lovely, and crying out for a good home sir. Good guard animal as well, I can tell you!" He leered, and flicked a glob of something foul from between his discoloured teeth. "Have yer throat out as quick as you like, if it don't know you."

"Charming," I replied, "but I was looking for something a little more…practical. One of these, in fact." I slapped the top of one of the cages, and the house elf inside did a little backflip of joy.

"A house elf? Oh, excellent choice sir, excellent choice! Always very handy, sir, very handy indeed. We've got a few in at the moment, as it happens. Any preference in sex or colour?"

"Does it make a difference?" I asked, intrigued. The proprietor shrugged.

"To some, sir. To some. You hear stories, if you know what I mean…"

I did know what he meant, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. "Well, there'll be none of that for a start! No, I just want a servant. One that's healthy, reasonably energetic, that sort of thing."

"Oh, I know the very one, sir. The very one!" He skittered over to one of the cages in the far corner, bringing it into the light. I perused the elf inside carefully. It didn't look too bad, to my untrained eye. Ugly as sin, of course, but that couldn't be helped. The eyes were bright enough, no tears on the ears, even the rag around its waist was relatively clean. I nodded. It would do.

"I'll take it. How much?"

He named a price, and I raised my eyebrow. "And the actual price?"

He repeated his statement, leaning back against the counter casually. "And not a Knut less."

I glowered at him. The price probably wasn't that unreasonable, taking into account what I knew about Wizarding economics. It was really just the principle of the thing. Never pay full price if you can help it, and certainly not without a fight. You don't want people thinking you're a pushover, or made of money. It just makes them more likely to try and rob you. Snitterfield sighed.

"Come now, sir, it's a good price! You said it yourself, you can't buy loyalty like that. Except in this case, you can. Let's not be churlish…"

"I'll give you sixty," I told him, roughly half of what he wanted. He smiled and shook his head.

"I couldn't possibly. I might as well give him away at that price!"

"I'm quite happy with that arrangement, if you like," was my response, to which he frowned. Then he sighed theatrically, his servile appearance disappearing instantly.

"Boys?"

Two shadows moved, and I let out a quiet little yelp as two veritable giants appeared behind Snitterfield. They looked like they'd been carved rather than born, and from low grade stone as well.

"Yes, boss?" One of them rumbled terrifyingly. I looked at Ron. He simply stood there, looking as gormless as ever.

"These gentlemen think they can set their own prices," Snitterfield remarked conversationally. He suddenly looked a lot more intimidating. "The twins here are going to show you why that's a bad idea, lads."

"Bloody hell, I just came in to buy an elf!" I exclaimed, backing away. "What is this, the Magical Mafia?"

"I just know how to look out for my interests," Snitterfield said, spreading his hands expansively. "What's it going to be?"

"Fine, take the bloody money!" I spat, throwing a bag at his feet. "Now give me my elf."

Snitterfield clicked his fingers, and the elf disappeared with a pop. I was all set to vent my rage on the man when it reappeared, attached to my leg and looking up at me with an adoring expression. I cringed, and shook it off.

"Nice doing business with you, sir," Snitterfield said with a smile. He pocketed the gold and turned away. I ground my teeth with rage, but didn't fancy my chances. Pausing only to spit on the floor, I called Ron after me and walked out of the shop, elf still hanging from my shin. Once outside, I turned to examine the shop.

"Quite old, wouldn't you say?" I asked my companion. He shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Good." I pointed my wand at the door, and cast a spell. A lick of flame leapt from my wand, but barely singed the door. I tried again, and it wouldn't even spark up. "Buggering fuck!" I yelled, almost ready to throw my wand at the door in a rage. Turning away, seething in my thwarted revenge, my eyes lit upon the elf.

"People tell me that you elves are quite powerful. Is that right?"

The elf nodded cautiously. I rather suspected its previous owner, or at least Snitterfield, had not treated it very well. I sympathised, but I was damn well going to make use of it.

"I'd like a demonstration." I pointed at the door, which had stopped giving off smoke now. By the sound of things, Snitterfield and his apes hadn't even noticed my pitiful attempts at arson. "Torch it."

The elf simply looked confused, and I rolled my eyes. "Set fire to it! Burn it! Turn it to ashes and dust!"

The elf's eyes lit up like Christmas baubles, and I saw far more of its teeth than I ever wanted to again. It scurried forward, and clicked its fingers. Instantly, the door went up like a bonfire. There were shouts of fury from inside, and the sudden sound of water cascading everywhere. Confident that the fire would be out soon, I turned and walked away, whistling.

"What's your name, elf?"

"I doesn't have a name, sir!" the elf replied forlornly. It was having to scamper to keep up, and it was panting heavily.

"Well, from now on, your name is Dudders, understand?" I told it with a grin. There was something of a resemblance, actually.

"Oh yes sir, Dudders understands perfectly!" The look of ecstatic joy on its face was almost heartwarming. Behind me, a plume of smoke was climbing higher and higher into the sky.

"Excellent. Now, I want you to keep an eye on someone for me…"