The Last Dragon Thief: III 36 - 38
Hello, all! I know it's only been 5 days since the last release, but I'm here on other business -- and bored. Perhaps someone can benefit from that.
This Part: III 36 - 38
Length: 2,320 words
Disclaimer: Propetery of all Harry Potter owners
No warnings or high rating
Summary: Harry meets Worrall, and discovers that the world is a whole lot bigger than he thought.
-x-
III.36
The practice pitch of the Heidelberg Harriers was set off to the north of the club arena. Approaching it, Harry wondered aloud how they would be let in to a club’s practice session without some sort of credentials. But Hermione recited what the florist witch had said, augmented in truth by witnessing three potential spectators head into the stadium unmolested. Ron shrugged, allowing no qualm to stand between him and witnessing a team practice. Harry’s pace livened. And Hermione straightened her shoulders and tried to look as if she belonged.
The green field unfolded before them, a masterful carpet carefully manicured. The three goal rings, high above the pitch, caught the sunlight and glimmered, their beauty irrepressible. Ron gulped. Harry gaped.
‘This brings back memories,’ said Harry, fixing his spectacles on his nose for the highest quality perception.
‘It does,’ uttered Ron, flabbergasted at a vision comparable to Heaven.
‘I haven’t seen a pitch in person since Hogwarts.’
‘Me neither.’
Hermione allowed the two boys their indulgence, not exceeding forty seconds. Then she goaded them into swift advancement. To her relief, and to the boys as well had they been paying attention, she saw a crowd gathered alongside the length of the pitch. Some had conjured blankets and chairs, some wore badges to indicate their association with the Harriers, while others stood, occasionally pointing and muttering in German.
They each conjured a chair and waited. The team had not yet taken the field. Three minutes later, elated watchers chattered as the Harriers appeared.
‘Wonder which one he is?’ Ron asked, straining his eyes to see the names printed on the back shoulders of the Harriers’ kits.
Harry’s stare had fixed on a man smaller than the others, but broader in shoulder, and far more graceful. Dishevelled brown-black hair and clear, fair skin. ‘Number eight.’
Ron and Hermione searched and found number eight. Ron gave a repulsed look.
‘Him? Awful small, isn’t he? Great Merlin,’ he leaned into his seat, ‘I hope for the sake of the Harriers he’s not a Beater.’
‘He’s not,’ Harry said, watching Worrall, on a very familiar broomstick, kick off, ‘he’s a Chaser.’
A Chaser that used the same broomstick as Malfoy. Harry dropped his gaze, too thoughtful to look into the sky. But Ron left a smack on his shoulder, snapping him from the trance. Harry was thankful for the presence of Ron and Hermione. They kept him from indulging in memories of last night and that morning. And how often had he begun to fade away, into remembering Draco, into the mystery that had passed between them, before he was dragged unmercifully from the introspection of his feelings? Harry reasoned there would be time for the unravelling of his feelings later, after he found Draco’s secret.
I knew you better when you were my enemy.
The line no longer dripped with the same honest essence. And Harry wished he could take it back, and put something else, anything else, between him and Draco.
III.37
While Harry and Ron were vocal over the players’ performances at practice, Hermione took quill to parchment and jotted out notes for a report she wanted to start on Monday. If some event happening on the pitch excited the crowd, she would dart her look upward, examine, then continue with notes. Fifty minutes later, she was forced to put the work away when the gathered began dispersing.
‘Now’s your chance, Harry,’ Hermione told him.
Harry spotted Worrall beneath the triad posts, pausing between animated talks with his team mates to quaff cold water. Worrall was charismatic, friendly, vastly approachable.
‘Right,’ Harry said bracingly to toughen himself up, ‘I’ll go. Wait here for me, would you?’ If they had a response, he didn’t hear it.
The only moment of hesitation came when he was within earshot of Worrall and the rest of the Harriers. They were all speaking German. Harry feared he wouldn’t be understood. Worrall had his back to him, cup of water in a petite hand, and Harry was close enough to see the back of the hand mottled with faded freckles. The Harrier Beater Geimlen spotted Harry, but Harry looked quickly at the glistening gold highlights in the back of Worrall’s messy head. Troffelsen tapped Worrall on the chest and indicated the stranger’s presence. Harry felt the burden of speaking first fell upon him, and was ready with an introduction when Worrall took over.
‘I thought you would come.’
Harry found his hand being shaken. ‘You-sorry-what?’
Worrall’s eyes matched his hair, thickly brown like treacle, and he was much freckled, beardless, triangular-faced. Young he looked, much younger than Harry had first surmised. The lilt was a common tenor, no flawed accent in his English. ‘You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?’
Stunned, Harry stuttered affirmation. ‘I-I am. But how did you know-’ But Harry stopped, the old, tired affliction proclaiming his identity to all.
‘Not by your scar,’ Worrall interpreted the embarrassed legion of apprehension storming across Potter’s countenance. With a firm gesture, he led Potter from the members of the team, till far from earshot on an empty area of the pitch. ‘Malfoy told me to expect you. But he thought you would be longer. A couple days longer. I didn’t expect you until Monday. This means you are much quicker than even he supposed. And Malfoy always hated to be wrong.’ Worrall had made Potter speechless. As a means of distraction, he located the two remaining crowd members, a young man and a young woman in plain wizard garments. ‘And those are your friends?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said quickly, relieved to answer something so simple, ‘Ron and Hermione.’
‘The Weasleys,’ Worrall spoke it with a flourishing grin. ‘Draco mentioned them, too. And so you have come, Harry. This means Draco has gone and you are trying to find him.’ Worrall watched the lids of Potter’s keen green eyes, known by description, narrow to a slice.
‘What do you know?’
‘I was Draco’s best friend. We lived together for three years. And if you know him at all, you’ll know that means he told me very little. I say we were friends, but he is not a friendly sort. He’s difficult to know. I suppose the war influenced him more than anything. You knew him at school, isn’t that right?’
‘We were enemies at school.’
‘Everyone is your enemy at school.’
‘How did you know Draco?’ Harry placed the enquiry while Worrall drew breath. Harry sensed he’d touched a nerve, and wondered if Draco had a way of making friends that always involved hating them at first, and provoking them near to madness. Worrall all but confirmed this notion with a playful sneer, and in it Harry recognised Draco’s influence. ‘You said you two lived together for three years. That means you must’ve met right after he came to Germany.’
‘That’s true, we did. One of the players for our team then, a British Beater named Crafton, experienced an enormous amount of trouble obtaining his salary. Yes,’ Worrall almost laughed with Harry’s astounded expression, ‘believe it or not. Seems that the war and post-Restoration badly influenced the wizarding banks.’
‘And Draco’s profession was money. He worked in the Goblin Liaison Office for our Ministry for Magic. So he was around the team, then.’
‘He eventually fixed the problem, though it required him to return to England for a time. Two days, if I recall.’ But Worrall calculated the length. ‘No, it was longer than that. Four days. He was gone four days, but meant to be gone two.’ And here his shaggy mane, slightly curly, was sent into a bob as he nodded himself into assurance. ‘I remember. He came back with an injury. Just a faint limp. When I asked him what happened, he said he’d had an accident. Draco never favoured details. But I avoided your question, Harry. Draco and I met and became friends, or as friendly as he could ever be with anyone. He was looking for a place to live. And I had just moved to Heidelberg from Zurich.’ One of his wide shoulders lifted, indicating the rest of the tale would be given in summary. ‘It seemed, what is the word, coincidental. He found the house in Schneestadt. I rented it, he roomed there, and I liked it enough to buy it a year ago.’
Harry had a strange desire to see this period in Draco’s life, to watch it lived before him. The only places he’d seen Draco live were the Slytherin Common Room and Malfoy Manor. But they were places far removed from the inner kindling of Draco. ‘What was he like?’
‘Quiet,’ Worrall had the adjective ready. ‘He worked many hours. Long hours. Sometimes he would come to a match, but that was rarely, and only if his mother had come, too. But he was very quiet.’ Worrall inhaled a sharp breath, as though about to confess, and held back.
Harry tried goading it out of him. ‘That’s all? Just quiet?’
‘No,’ Worrall exhaled slowly, ‘no, not entirely. The only times he talked to me on a deeper, personable level were those times he was ill.’
Harry attempted ignorance. It failed. Worrall peered through it, and divined the question Harry hadn’t seconds to form.
‘He was sick ever since I knew him. Not often, but sometimes, for an hour, three, six, or until the next day. Never longer than that.’
‘What were his symptoms?’
‘Fever and chills. Like the flu. Mrs Malfoy often sat with him. And if she couldn’t, if I was around, I would.’
Worrall hesitated again, and Harry had patience with this natural reluctance. He was imagining Draco ill: hot to the touch, shaking, the hue of winter’s frost. Harry withstood the prick of regret. If he’d only forced Draco to talk, if he’d been more successful with Legilimency- Worrall spoke and ended the spinning tandem of regrets.
‘Harry, Draco wanted me to tell you something very important. He never asked me for a favour those years I knew him. And before he left he said you’d be coming to Germany, and I would likely see you. Because he never asked me for anything, I made the promise. Keeping the promise is the only way I know how to help him. But what I have to say is not general knowledge, and I hope you will maintain the secrecy.’
Humbled, mind racing, Harry relayed his honour using a firm nod. ‘You have my word.’
Worrall twitched at the mouth but trusted Harry. Draco had been right, after all, and Harry had come. That alone was beyond value. ‘When you first saw me with the rest of my team, you probably noticed I don’t exactly look like the others.’
The faintest indication of a smirk could be seen. ‘You are a little, er, vertically challenged.’
‘Short is the term,’ Worrall joked, a merry star of self-confidence in his eye.
‘But graceful.’
Worrall shot a glare at Harry.
‘You’re a Chaser. I’m sure loads of people have noticed your grace.’
‘Grace is always one of the last qualities people see in those with Elven blood.’
Harry froze. Icicles trembled in his veins. ‘What?’
But Worrall failed to repeat it. Instead, he pressed the conversation forward. ‘Draco was very interested in Elves, particularly those like me, descendants of Elves. My great-grandmother was a Western Elf and married a wizard. She left her family and came to Germany.’
‘But aren’t Elves like,’ Harry’s brain frantically searched for corroboration, ‘like house-elves? Short, yes, but far shorter than you. Big ears, big eyes, saggy skin. That sort of thing.’ Then Harry blinked, honing in on Worrall’s facial features. A delicate brow, enormous brown eyes heavily lashed and wide apart, pointed aquiline nose to a pointed, hairless chin. The tips of his ears were veiled behind tendrils, and Harry supposed Worrall kept his hair at that length to dull the appearance of elongated pinnas. ‘But I’ve never heard of-’
‘You wouldn’t have. Before your Ministry of Magic was initiated in the early eighteenth century, there was a Wizard-Elf Declaration of Secrecy, followed three years later by Decree of Voluntary Isolation and Indifference. Wizards and Elves, to this day, do not associate with one another. There is a large amount of antipathy on either side, but a larger amount of dispassion. If anyone discovered that I told you, or if anyone found out you know, not only would it be terrible for us but for Draco as well.’
Harry was enthralled. And fascinated. ‘But how did Malfoy find out?’
‘I don’t know.’ Worrall sympathetically grasped Harry’s shoulder. ‘I wish I had a better answer. Wizards do find out. One or two for every generation. Elves rely on those that know. Someone has to regulate the decrees. Someone has to keep the worlds separate. But I don’t suppose it was Draco.’
‘No, it wouldn’t have been.’ Harry recalled dim images mechanically stored, of Malfoy around the Ministry, early in the morning to, sometimes, late at night. ‘He was devoted to his position at the Ministry. I doubt he had a second job.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Worrall sighed and scanned the horizon, ‘he had an interest in Elves. And your task, as far as I’ve been able to figure out, is to find out why.’
‘Don’t worry,’ resolve firmed Harry’s demeanour and stiffened his figure, ‘I plan to find out. And I’m going to find him.’
‘I thought he was your enemy.’ Worrall had a questioning intonation tagged to the last word. ‘Why find your enemy?’
None of Harry’s resolve had faded. If anything, it was bolstered, layered by a crystal of melancholy. ‘He is not my enemy. And I will find him because it’s expected of me.’
III.38
With a swish of her wand, Hermione had vanished the chairs. Both she and Ron watched Harry’s slow walk from mid-pitch to sidelines.
‘He doesn’t look very happy,’ Hermione had a chance to say.
‘He doesn’t,’ Ron admitted, ‘but I know that look.’
Harry was upon them, shushing their whispers.
Hermione used her gentle voice, uncertain of Harry’s mood. ‘You two talked for a long time. I hope that means he was helpful.’
Using a sweat-dampened palm, Harry tried to flatten his wayward locks. A movement of distraction, really, as any movement of his hands provided a scant second to think. But he no longer required drafting a plan. Everything untangled.
How to tell them? Bluntness worked with the Malfoys, Harry had learned that through intuitive analysis. Ron and Hermione were clearly not the Malfoys. Would they handle bluntness just as well?
‘Elves,’ Harry drawled out the noun, and a faint sprinkle of joy came attached. ‘Malfoy was interested in Elves. And no, Ron, before you say anything, not house-elves. Other elves exist.’
Hermione rescued Harry from further explanation. Working for the Department for the Care of Magical Creatures had its fringe benefits. ‘Of course there are. Loads of them. But what kind of elves?’
Harry’s head shook in frustration. ‘That’s what we have to find out. How much do you know about elves, Hermione?’
She shifted weight between her left foot and right, worried her knowledge would fall short. ‘Not enough. There are just too many. Hundreds of species of elves. I only know a few, the ones native to Britain and one or two in Ireland.’
Ron sighed, changing the position of Hermione’s travelling bag on his shoulder. ‘I’d say this would require a trip to the library and another late night in the Common Room. But that’s not exactly going to happen now, is it? Elves,’ he chewed on his lips, eyes cast away and downward in thought. ‘Who was it I talked to not too long ago that studied elves? I say not too long ago, but it might’ve been on New Year’s. Do you remember that, Mione?’
‘Ron, you’re a genius,’ Hermione smiled.
‘And it only took you ten years to say it.’
Hermione spun to Harry, ecstatic as in the days of old. ‘We did speak to someone recently about elves. At our wedding, Ronald,’ she threw that insult to Ron, who blanched and mumbled apologies. ‘If we need to know about elves, he’ll be the man to talk to.’
Harry inclined his memories to the near past, the mid-winter reception of Ron and Hermione’s fabulous location wedding in Scotland’s snowy north. Positively everyone they’d known throughout the years had attended, schoolmates to professors to the whole bustling Weasley brood. Harry demanded his memories to find a mention of elves somewhere in the faint displays of chatter echoing poignantly through his mind, beyond the downy white beauty, the scents of alcohol, the having to see Ginny again, the subtle burn of cursed loneliness. Who was it? Elves. Someone elf-like himself-
When it came to him, his features brightened and relaxed. He and Hermione shared it aloud at the same time.
‘Seamus.’
-x
Continue...
This is one of my favourite cliffhangers in the story, moo ha ha ha ha!
This Part: III 36 - 38
Length: 2,320 words
Disclaimer: Propetery of all Harry Potter owners
No warnings or high rating
Summary: Harry meets Worrall, and discovers that the world is a whole lot bigger than he thought.
-x-
III.36
The practice pitch of the Heidelberg Harriers was set off to the north of the club arena. Approaching it, Harry wondered aloud how they would be let in to a club’s practice session without some sort of credentials. But Hermione recited what the florist witch had said, augmented in truth by witnessing three potential spectators head into the stadium unmolested. Ron shrugged, allowing no qualm to stand between him and witnessing a team practice. Harry’s pace livened. And Hermione straightened her shoulders and tried to look as if she belonged.
The green field unfolded before them, a masterful carpet carefully manicured. The three goal rings, high above the pitch, caught the sunlight and glimmered, their beauty irrepressible. Ron gulped. Harry gaped.
‘This brings back memories,’ said Harry, fixing his spectacles on his nose for the highest quality perception.
‘It does,’ uttered Ron, flabbergasted at a vision comparable to Heaven.
‘I haven’t seen a pitch in person since Hogwarts.’
‘Me neither.’
Hermione allowed the two boys their indulgence, not exceeding forty seconds. Then she goaded them into swift advancement. To her relief, and to the boys as well had they been paying attention, she saw a crowd gathered alongside the length of the pitch. Some had conjured blankets and chairs, some wore badges to indicate their association with the Harriers, while others stood, occasionally pointing and muttering in German.
They each conjured a chair and waited. The team had not yet taken the field. Three minutes later, elated watchers chattered as the Harriers appeared.
‘Wonder which one he is?’ Ron asked, straining his eyes to see the names printed on the back shoulders of the Harriers’ kits.
Harry’s stare had fixed on a man smaller than the others, but broader in shoulder, and far more graceful. Dishevelled brown-black hair and clear, fair skin. ‘Number eight.’
Ron and Hermione searched and found number eight. Ron gave a repulsed look.
‘Him? Awful small, isn’t he? Great Merlin,’ he leaned into his seat, ‘I hope for the sake of the Harriers he’s not a Beater.’
‘He’s not,’ Harry said, watching Worrall, on a very familiar broomstick, kick off, ‘he’s a Chaser.’
A Chaser that used the same broomstick as Malfoy. Harry dropped his gaze, too thoughtful to look into the sky. But Ron left a smack on his shoulder, snapping him from the trance. Harry was thankful for the presence of Ron and Hermione. They kept him from indulging in memories of last night and that morning. And how often had he begun to fade away, into remembering Draco, into the mystery that had passed between them, before he was dragged unmercifully from the introspection of his feelings? Harry reasoned there would be time for the unravelling of his feelings later, after he found Draco’s secret.
I knew you better when you were my enemy.
The line no longer dripped with the same honest essence. And Harry wished he could take it back, and put something else, anything else, between him and Draco.
III.37
While Harry and Ron were vocal over the players’ performances at practice, Hermione took quill to parchment and jotted out notes for a report she wanted to start on Monday. If some event happening on the pitch excited the crowd, she would dart her look upward, examine, then continue with notes. Fifty minutes later, she was forced to put the work away when the gathered began dispersing.
‘Now’s your chance, Harry,’ Hermione told him.
Harry spotted Worrall beneath the triad posts, pausing between animated talks with his team mates to quaff cold water. Worrall was charismatic, friendly, vastly approachable.
‘Right,’ Harry said bracingly to toughen himself up, ‘I’ll go. Wait here for me, would you?’ If they had a response, he didn’t hear it.
The only moment of hesitation came when he was within earshot of Worrall and the rest of the Harriers. They were all speaking German. Harry feared he wouldn’t be understood. Worrall had his back to him, cup of water in a petite hand, and Harry was close enough to see the back of the hand mottled with faded freckles. The Harrier Beater Geimlen spotted Harry, but Harry looked quickly at the glistening gold highlights in the back of Worrall’s messy head. Troffelsen tapped Worrall on the chest and indicated the stranger’s presence. Harry felt the burden of speaking first fell upon him, and was ready with an introduction when Worrall took over.
‘I thought you would come.’
Harry found his hand being shaken. ‘You-sorry-what?’
Worrall’s eyes matched his hair, thickly brown like treacle, and he was much freckled, beardless, triangular-faced. Young he looked, much younger than Harry had first surmised. The lilt was a common tenor, no flawed accent in his English. ‘You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?’
Stunned, Harry stuttered affirmation. ‘I-I am. But how did you know-’ But Harry stopped, the old, tired affliction proclaiming his identity to all.
‘Not by your scar,’ Worrall interpreted the embarrassed legion of apprehension storming across Potter’s countenance. With a firm gesture, he led Potter from the members of the team, till far from earshot on an empty area of the pitch. ‘Malfoy told me to expect you. But he thought you would be longer. A couple days longer. I didn’t expect you until Monday. This means you are much quicker than even he supposed. And Malfoy always hated to be wrong.’ Worrall had made Potter speechless. As a means of distraction, he located the two remaining crowd members, a young man and a young woman in plain wizard garments. ‘And those are your friends?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said quickly, relieved to answer something so simple, ‘Ron and Hermione.’
‘The Weasleys,’ Worrall spoke it with a flourishing grin. ‘Draco mentioned them, too. And so you have come, Harry. This means Draco has gone and you are trying to find him.’ Worrall watched the lids of Potter’s keen green eyes, known by description, narrow to a slice.
‘What do you know?’
‘I was Draco’s best friend. We lived together for three years. And if you know him at all, you’ll know that means he told me very little. I say we were friends, but he is not a friendly sort. He’s difficult to know. I suppose the war influenced him more than anything. You knew him at school, isn’t that right?’
‘We were enemies at school.’
‘Everyone is your enemy at school.’
‘How did you know Draco?’ Harry placed the enquiry while Worrall drew breath. Harry sensed he’d touched a nerve, and wondered if Draco had a way of making friends that always involved hating them at first, and provoking them near to madness. Worrall all but confirmed this notion with a playful sneer, and in it Harry recognised Draco’s influence. ‘You said you two lived together for three years. That means you must’ve met right after he came to Germany.’
‘That’s true, we did. One of the players for our team then, a British Beater named Crafton, experienced an enormous amount of trouble obtaining his salary. Yes,’ Worrall almost laughed with Harry’s astounded expression, ‘believe it or not. Seems that the war and post-Restoration badly influenced the wizarding banks.’
‘And Draco’s profession was money. He worked in the Goblin Liaison Office for our Ministry for Magic. So he was around the team, then.’
‘He eventually fixed the problem, though it required him to return to England for a time. Two days, if I recall.’ But Worrall calculated the length. ‘No, it was longer than that. Four days. He was gone four days, but meant to be gone two.’ And here his shaggy mane, slightly curly, was sent into a bob as he nodded himself into assurance. ‘I remember. He came back with an injury. Just a faint limp. When I asked him what happened, he said he’d had an accident. Draco never favoured details. But I avoided your question, Harry. Draco and I met and became friends, or as friendly as he could ever be with anyone. He was looking for a place to live. And I had just moved to Heidelberg from Zurich.’ One of his wide shoulders lifted, indicating the rest of the tale would be given in summary. ‘It seemed, what is the word, coincidental. He found the house in Schneestadt. I rented it, he roomed there, and I liked it enough to buy it a year ago.’
Harry had a strange desire to see this period in Draco’s life, to watch it lived before him. The only places he’d seen Draco live were the Slytherin Common Room and Malfoy Manor. But they were places far removed from the inner kindling of Draco. ‘What was he like?’
‘Quiet,’ Worrall had the adjective ready. ‘He worked many hours. Long hours. Sometimes he would come to a match, but that was rarely, and only if his mother had come, too. But he was very quiet.’ Worrall inhaled a sharp breath, as though about to confess, and held back.
Harry tried goading it out of him. ‘That’s all? Just quiet?’
‘No,’ Worrall exhaled slowly, ‘no, not entirely. The only times he talked to me on a deeper, personable level were those times he was ill.’
Harry attempted ignorance. It failed. Worrall peered through it, and divined the question Harry hadn’t seconds to form.
‘He was sick ever since I knew him. Not often, but sometimes, for an hour, three, six, or until the next day. Never longer than that.’
‘What were his symptoms?’
‘Fever and chills. Like the flu. Mrs Malfoy often sat with him. And if she couldn’t, if I was around, I would.’
Worrall hesitated again, and Harry had patience with this natural reluctance. He was imagining Draco ill: hot to the touch, shaking, the hue of winter’s frost. Harry withstood the prick of regret. If he’d only forced Draco to talk, if he’d been more successful with Legilimency- Worrall spoke and ended the spinning tandem of regrets.
‘Harry, Draco wanted me to tell you something very important. He never asked me for a favour those years I knew him. And before he left he said you’d be coming to Germany, and I would likely see you. Because he never asked me for anything, I made the promise. Keeping the promise is the only way I know how to help him. But what I have to say is not general knowledge, and I hope you will maintain the secrecy.’
Humbled, mind racing, Harry relayed his honour using a firm nod. ‘You have my word.’
Worrall twitched at the mouth but trusted Harry. Draco had been right, after all, and Harry had come. That alone was beyond value. ‘When you first saw me with the rest of my team, you probably noticed I don’t exactly look like the others.’
The faintest indication of a smirk could be seen. ‘You are a little, er, vertically challenged.’
‘Short is the term,’ Worrall joked, a merry star of self-confidence in his eye.
‘But graceful.’
Worrall shot a glare at Harry.
‘You’re a Chaser. I’m sure loads of people have noticed your grace.’
‘Grace is always one of the last qualities people see in those with Elven blood.’
Harry froze. Icicles trembled in his veins. ‘What?’
But Worrall failed to repeat it. Instead, he pressed the conversation forward. ‘Draco was very interested in Elves, particularly those like me, descendants of Elves. My great-grandmother was a Western Elf and married a wizard. She left her family and came to Germany.’
‘But aren’t Elves like,’ Harry’s brain frantically searched for corroboration, ‘like house-elves? Short, yes, but far shorter than you. Big ears, big eyes, saggy skin. That sort of thing.’ Then Harry blinked, honing in on Worrall’s facial features. A delicate brow, enormous brown eyes heavily lashed and wide apart, pointed aquiline nose to a pointed, hairless chin. The tips of his ears were veiled behind tendrils, and Harry supposed Worrall kept his hair at that length to dull the appearance of elongated pinnas. ‘But I’ve never heard of-’
‘You wouldn’t have. Before your Ministry of Magic was initiated in the early eighteenth century, there was a Wizard-Elf Declaration of Secrecy, followed three years later by Decree of Voluntary Isolation and Indifference. Wizards and Elves, to this day, do not associate with one another. There is a large amount of antipathy on either side, but a larger amount of dispassion. If anyone discovered that I told you, or if anyone found out you know, not only would it be terrible for us but for Draco as well.’
Harry was enthralled. And fascinated. ‘But how did Malfoy find out?’
‘I don’t know.’ Worrall sympathetically grasped Harry’s shoulder. ‘I wish I had a better answer. Wizards do find out. One or two for every generation. Elves rely on those that know. Someone has to regulate the decrees. Someone has to keep the worlds separate. But I don’t suppose it was Draco.’
‘No, it wouldn’t have been.’ Harry recalled dim images mechanically stored, of Malfoy around the Ministry, early in the morning to, sometimes, late at night. ‘He was devoted to his position at the Ministry. I doubt he had a second job.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Worrall sighed and scanned the horizon, ‘he had an interest in Elves. And your task, as far as I’ve been able to figure out, is to find out why.’
‘Don’t worry,’ resolve firmed Harry’s demeanour and stiffened his figure, ‘I plan to find out. And I’m going to find him.’
‘I thought he was your enemy.’ Worrall had a questioning intonation tagged to the last word. ‘Why find your enemy?’
None of Harry’s resolve had faded. If anything, it was bolstered, layered by a crystal of melancholy. ‘He is not my enemy. And I will find him because it’s expected of me.’
III.38
With a swish of her wand, Hermione had vanished the chairs. Both she and Ron watched Harry’s slow walk from mid-pitch to sidelines.
‘He doesn’t look very happy,’ Hermione had a chance to say.
‘He doesn’t,’ Ron admitted, ‘but I know that look.’
Harry was upon them, shushing their whispers.
Hermione used her gentle voice, uncertain of Harry’s mood. ‘You two talked for a long time. I hope that means he was helpful.’
Using a sweat-dampened palm, Harry tried to flatten his wayward locks. A movement of distraction, really, as any movement of his hands provided a scant second to think. But he no longer required drafting a plan. Everything untangled.
How to tell them? Bluntness worked with the Malfoys, Harry had learned that through intuitive analysis. Ron and Hermione were clearly not the Malfoys. Would they handle bluntness just as well?
‘Elves,’ Harry drawled out the noun, and a faint sprinkle of joy came attached. ‘Malfoy was interested in Elves. And no, Ron, before you say anything, not house-elves. Other elves exist.’
Hermione rescued Harry from further explanation. Working for the Department for the Care of Magical Creatures had its fringe benefits. ‘Of course there are. Loads of them. But what kind of elves?’
Harry’s head shook in frustration. ‘That’s what we have to find out. How much do you know about elves, Hermione?’
She shifted weight between her left foot and right, worried her knowledge would fall short. ‘Not enough. There are just too many. Hundreds of species of elves. I only know a few, the ones native to Britain and one or two in Ireland.’
Ron sighed, changing the position of Hermione’s travelling bag on his shoulder. ‘I’d say this would require a trip to the library and another late night in the Common Room. But that’s not exactly going to happen now, is it? Elves,’ he chewed on his lips, eyes cast away and downward in thought. ‘Who was it I talked to not too long ago that studied elves? I say not too long ago, but it might’ve been on New Year’s. Do you remember that, Mione?’
‘Ron, you’re a genius,’ Hermione smiled.
‘And it only took you ten years to say it.’
Hermione spun to Harry, ecstatic as in the days of old. ‘We did speak to someone recently about elves. At our wedding, Ronald,’ she threw that insult to Ron, who blanched and mumbled apologies. ‘If we need to know about elves, he’ll be the man to talk to.’
Harry inclined his memories to the near past, the mid-winter reception of Ron and Hermione’s fabulous location wedding in Scotland’s snowy north. Positively everyone they’d known throughout the years had attended, schoolmates to professors to the whole bustling Weasley brood. Harry demanded his memories to find a mention of elves somewhere in the faint displays of chatter echoing poignantly through his mind, beyond the downy white beauty, the scents of alcohol, the having to see Ginny again, the subtle burn of cursed loneliness. Who was it? Elves. Someone elf-like himself-
When it came to him, his features brightened and relaxed. He and Hermione shared it aloud at the same time.
‘Seamus.’
-x
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This is one of my favourite cliffhangers in the story, moo ha ha ha ha!