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Dobby's Christmas
Dobby was a house-elf.
To be a house-elf meant you had no dignity, no rights, and had to obey every word your master spoke. To be a house-elf meant you had to stay alert at all times, waiting for your master's call…
"Dobby!" his master called.
To be a house-elf meant even your name was a command.
CRACK.
Dobby appeared before his master instantly. He bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor. He could see dust lurking in the middle of the long, plush carpet.
He sniffed. He could almost smell it. An urge to clean them seeped from his bones, but Dobby tensed his body, holding the stiff bow.
"Why is Draco's bedroom not yet tidied?" his master asked coldly.
Dobby looked up at his master, Lucius Malfoy. The man wasn't even looking at him. He just stood there, one hand on the shoulder of young master Draco Malfoy. Mistress Narcissa Malfoy was slowly combing her fingers through the young master's hair.
Dobby's voice trembled. "Young Master Draco—Young Master Draco said no one was to touch his bedroom—" He darted a sideways glance toward the boy. Draco, just like his father, wasn't looking at Dobby at all.
Lucius made a smooth, drawn-out "Oh" sound. Dobby flinched violently.
"So," Lucius asked, his voice oily and cold. "It's Draco's fault?" He kicked Dobby sharply.
Sharp pain exploded in Dobby's head.
He'd angered his master. He was a bad elf. Bad Dobby. He'd angered his master— Dobby began banging his head against the wall, hoping to dull the stabbing ache.
"Enough. Stop," Lucius commanded, impatient. "Tidy the room. Quickly. No more excuses."
"Yes, master," Dobby said, bowing deeply. He shuffled backwards, bent double, all the way into Draco Malfoy's bedroom.
There wasn't much to tidy in Draco's room. Dobby vanished the dust from the carpet, made sure every corner under the bed was spotless, arranged the curtain folds perfectly on either side of the window, polished the crystal chandelier until it shone, freshened the air until it smelled clean, and plumped the mattress, pillows, and duvet. It all took a single snap of his fingers.
Dobby wanted to stay in the room a little longer, but the master had said "quickly." So he cracked back before his master, wringing his hands. "Young Master Draco's room is tidied, master."
His master gave a dismissive grunt through his nose, waved a hand to shoo him away with a frown. Dobby heard the young master complaining to the mistress about the admirable Mr. Harry Potter.
"…as if everything revolves around him, that Potter. Oh, and he's not staying at school this year—they say it's Black's ancestral home, Mother—left Weasley at school. How funny. He finally understands Weasley's value… being abandoned. From the way people act, you'd think they were inseparable best friends! I wish everyone else could see Potter isn't what they say he is…"
Dobby vanished, but lingered nearby, listening secretly. Mr. Harry Potter was nothing like the young master said. Mr. Harry Potter was great and kind, and he never abandoned his friends. Even after Dobby warned him of terrible danger at Hogwarts, Mr. Potter refused to stay safely with his family or leave the school.
"Draco," Lucius said, his voice heavy with warning. "What did I tell you before term started? If most people like the Boy-Who-Lived, a wise person does not voice opposition."
"Don't be so harsh, Lucius. It's Christmas. Draco just got home," Narcissa murmured softly. She gave the sulking Draco a gentle push on the back. "There now, Draco. Go and rest properly. We're visiting Nott Manor tomorrow, and the Parkinsons are calling in the afternoon."
"I should have just stayed at school. Pansy—" Draco stopped, considered it. "…Fine."
Dobby slipped away silently. He didn't care about the Malfoys' social calendar. For him, it just meant his daytime hours might be a little more free…
Oh. Freedom.
Dobby savored the word in his mind. A shiver of excitement ran through him. Freedom. Freedom. He repeated it in his head, over and over.
"You should have tidied Young Master Draco's room sooner."
Dobby heard Pobby's raspy voice as he crawled into a cupboard in the old storeroom.
Pobby was the other Malfoy house-elf. He was old. So old that no one wanted to see his ancient, wrinkled face and hands, so they'd ordered him never to appear before anyone again. Since then, Pobby had been… forgotten by the Malfoy family. Just growing older, day by day, in the storeroom.
Dobby had once tried to suggest Pobby slip away from the Malfoy house.
"They don't remember you!" Dobby had said, envious. "And they told you 'never appear again,' but they never said you had to stay at Malfoy Manor! You could sneak out—you could be free!"
Pobby's response was to glare at Dobby with cloudy, resentful eyes, pick up a lamp from the storeroom, and thump Dobby on the head with it in the dark.
Pobby loved Malfoy Manor. Or rather, Pobby was loyal to Malfoy Manor, like any proper house-elf should be. He never wanted to leave the manor, and he'd always wait for the day his master remembered his name.
Sometimes Dobby knew he wasn't normal. In a very small voice, he would admit to anyone who would listen that he didn't like his masters. He didn't like Malfoy Manor. The person he respected most was Mr. Harry Potter. He also liked Mr. Albus Dumbledore, because the Hogwarts elves seemed to have more dignity than Pobby. More like people.
Dignity. Dobby rolled the word around in his mind.
"If the master would let me tidy Young Master Draco's room…" Pobby muttered to himself.
Dignity, Dobby thought, crawling into the cupboard. Freedom.
He tilted his head, listening magically to Young Master Draco's breaths growing slower, longer. The boy was asleep. After the young master said he needed a house-elf to accompany him to school, the mistress had ordered Dobby to "serve Draco properly." Ever since, he had to fulfill every one of Young Master Draco's demands.
But Dobby had to admit he preferred being with the young master to being like Pobby, stuck forever in Malfoy Manor, waiting in the dark for his master's call—or death's. With the young master, he could go to Hogwarts. When the young master didn't call for him, he could sneak off to catch a glimpse of Harry Potter.
But—Dobby thought with deep regret—after that Quidditch match, the young master had forbidden him from contacting Mr. Harry Potter. Perhaps he needed to find another way to warn Mr. Potter…
Once Christmas was over, Dobby could return to Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, the elves had clean beds of their own. Dobby had once asked them if they got wages. Then he'd said he didn't like working for the Malfoys. After that… no elf would speak to him.
But it didn't matter. Dobby still loved Hogwarts. He'd stand at the kitchen door, listening to the elves happily, respectfully sending food to the professors.
In the cold storeroom, Dobby burrowed into a pile of old papers, full of hope, and fell asleep.
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