Let the Match be a Match, a Harry Potter x Sherlock Holmes cross-over
Here is the beginning of a beautiful friendship a HP / SH crossover, loosely dedicated to the party that has already passed; no major angst here, and some characters are OOC.
Also, devious!Professors (except Clueless!Lockhart, naturally), Frustrated!Tom Riddle, and various, sometimes mangled, quotes by or about Sherlock Holmes courtesy of Wikiquote.
Title: Let the Match be a Match
Author: serenusc (Be3 on ff net)
Characters: er, Holmes!Luna and Watson!Dobby:)
Spoilers: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, mainly; other HP books.
Rating: G
Genre: Gen, friendship
Disclaimer: Not mine. Even the lady in the Prologue owes something to Carroll's Mad Mathesis:))
Summary: How do you save Harry Potter? The answer is - Logic! That is, if you ask a Ravenclaw...
Warnings: Some language. Some implied self-torture by the "Watson".
Author's Note: I based this on an earlier fic written in Russian, so if you see anything familiar, please don't accuse me of plagiarism.
Prologue
It was August.
In truth, the adventure had begun much earlier, with tragedies and triumphs chasing and tripping each other in deadly combat - but that belongs to History; and this is, after all, only a Story.
So August it was, and the garden was laden with fruit. Dragonflies flitted over the lush grass ringing a small pond. One hovered above a high stalk of bishop's lace. The creature's body was the deepest, velvety red, complimenting the magenta of four tiny flowers in the very middle of the umbel, surrounded by white reverent stars.
The ancient apple trees were planted rather haphazardly, reflecting the rebellious nature of the planter; rowans and even a couple of beeches were thrown in for good measure. The bramble had long grown so thick that he refused to cut it, fearing he'd be 'swallowed alive, beard and all.'
He would never tend his garden again.
His wife loved the place dearly; she loved her man dearer still; but every once in a year, she took out the garden shears and refused to 'listen to reason.' Which is why there was a spot of relatively clear ground mostly covered with an immaculate doormat. (The fact that no path led to it didn't bother the hosts. After all, the people were wizards. Their guests - the spot was maintained for guests' convenience, a landing of sorts - were darn well expected be wizards, too. They could either use a broomstick to get to their destination, wherever that was, or Apparate away, or wait to be rescued. Most chose either of the first two options, when they saw the 'welcoming' message.) Two quinces happened to stick nearby. One bore a square copper plaque with words that tended to be mis-read and mis-quoted, hacked in precise block letters. 'COME IF YE ARE.'
('Because the world knows better,' the engraver used to grumble.)
On a thick low branch of the other tree, the one farther from the garden's gate, hung an oval, neat silver plate, with 'Thank you for coming' flowing across it. A decidedly feminine touch.
The sun was slanting through the motionless leaves when with a sudden 'pop!', a tall figure appeared on the doormat.
The newcomer had once been an often visitor here; he immediately tapped the plaque with his wand. A low chime was heard, bouncing off the trunks like no echo should. It ran a circle around the wizard (no less than Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! 'Him's Elf,' the late owner would add) and scampered off to find the hostess.
Dumbledore politely waited. A dragonfly perched on bishop's lace. The Headmaster got the impression that he was profoundly ignored.
'Albus! What a present surprise!'
He smiled with sincere gladness in the direction where he was used to hear the greeting come from, and saw twin sturdy poles striding to him through the greenery.
'Ah, Penny. Renovating, I take it?'
The woman alighted from her stilts at the edge of the clearing.
'I simply have to stoop down to your level.'
Dumbledore's wand flashed, and he suddenly shot upwards. The soles of his boots were now five feet thick.
'Not at all, my dear lady,' he announced to her beekeeper's hat. The hat, the brim of her gown, and - disturbingly enough, if he was honest with himself - the tip of her wand, were all he could see of her now.
'I feel two inches high! And your socks don't match.'
'When have you last followed fashion?' he retorted. Fashion, in her informed opinion, was not to be followed, but dictated.
'Lame...'
A flick, and the monstrous, porous pillars of leather crackled, hardening into polished clinker-y cylinders.
She huffed. The brat was showing off!
'I win,' Dumbledore waved a hand. He was wobbling a bit up there.
'Au contraire, that was a warning,' and the bulk of his supports was reduced into needle-thin heels. He was down so fast, his head spun.
'Mercy!' he cried, chuckling.
'You were trampling my flowers.'
'There aren't any.' His boots were anchored, he suspected, until they would rot away; he stepped out of them.
'Rhizomes count.' She unveiled her face, snapped her fingers, and a table with tea set for two appeared between them, as well as chairs - a simple affair made of oak, with padded seats and high backs, and incredibly resistant scorch marks. The table was more interesting: outlandish runes hinted at coded messages, cryptic formulae ran every which way. (The tablecloth itself had so frequently been converted into a kerchief to wipe the sweat off the famous forehead, and snot from the famous nose, it tended to crawl out of the window at the mere suggestion of a meal, its embroidered flounce flapping... After a while, the novelty of catching it wore off. It was last seen in the spare room, twisting itself to the chandelier.)
'Leaving your mark? How very you. Do sit down.'
He did, taking in her appearance. It was as serene as ever. Penelope Flamel appeared middle-aged, with merry brown eyes, a pert small nose and laugh-lines barely visible around her sweet mouth.
They began sharing news. Penny liked gossiping; he had heard many a scandalous tale when they gathered, and she didn't disappoint him now.
The Grand Mothers (a.k.a. Grannies for Britain) had their Annual Ball, and Bathilda moved to have him elected an Honorary Member for Hogwarts - typical Bagshot nonsense, don't fret, I vetoed it for you; Gringotts was fortifying again, lest they be caught unprepared - are you in any way responsible? And take some squashes; we have excellent squashes this year…
(Only she stumbled at the ‘we’ part, and he jumped in with his tales.)
He talked mostly about 'his school'. Another Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had to be found; Minerva had some ulterior motive in this - or he hoped she had, because how else were they to survive a year in the company of Gilderoy Lockhart? Hagrid was plotting to legalize some of his shadier pets, inspired by the success with the three-headed dog. The dog itself was sold to dragon-keepers in Romania, with tears on both sides. And incidentally, the Department of Mysteries took the Mirror of Erised.
'But weren't you experimenting with it? Inanimate Pre-Occlumency, or was it Legillimency?'
Dumbledore hemmed and hawed. Trust a Ravenclaw to ask the difficult question. I hid the Philosopher's Stone there, and I have no further need of it was likely to put him into her Bad Graces for months; can't afford it on my salary would see her up and sell the house.
'The safety precautions proved inadequate. I deemed it too dangerous for my wards.'
An unbelieving stare.
'Dangerous? How?'
'Penny, the Mirror shows you not the truth -'
A pointedly raised eyebrow.
'And how, oh my wise Headmaster, is a heart's desire untruthful?'
'It can lead one astray,' he whispered.
She daintily took another scone.
'How can you be certain that the vision won't come true?'
'Have you ever looked into it?'
'Why ever for?' Her eyes twinkled. A question for a question - it always happened at some point into his visit.
'To know thyself.'
'Ah, Dumbledore, all mirrors are one.'
For a moment, they busied themselves with their tea.
'He left you a book. Here - '
She cupped her hands (wandless magic, he thought without envy), and an open volume appeared from thin air.
''The Complete Sherlock Holmes'? A favourite with him, as I recall.'
'It was,' she smiled fondly. ''A book of wonder,' he used to say.'
'Thank you, milady.'
It was already late; he would have to return to Hogwarts soon.
'Can you tell me the future?' he asked on impulse. She tutted.
'I don't hold with palm-reading, tea-reading, wax-reading, any of the kind.'
'Oh dear. You don't seem to be doing much reading at all!'
They laughed.
'I walked right into that one, didn't I? But seriously, my young friend: I am no Seer.'
'Exactly so,' was his warm answer.
The lady's gentle features softened even more, which was secretly half the reason he sought her advice even when the course of action was as clear as if mapped with fireballs.
Sometimes, when it was literally mapped with fireballs.
'Time and again,' she cocked her head to the side, listening to a wind he never was able to hear, 'I see children playing.'
The Headmaster of Hogwarts stood up, taking this as his clue to leave. Ceremony wasn't valued here, and when he bowed, it was out of sheer respect; she inclined her head, and the table vanished without a sound.
'Child's play,' Dumbledore muttered. 'I find I like this one.'
Part I. Told by Dobby.
(QQQ Report of the interrogation of Dobby the House Elf, late of Malfoy Manor. Use of Verbositerum justified on the grounds of total uncomprehensibleness. Shorthand justified on the grounds of unwarranted long-windedness and/or indicates pattering. Auto-Officialeze incurred to preserve dignity of the proceedings)
On July 31st of the last year, I, then a retainer and property of Mr. L. Malfoy, went to the house of Mr. H. J. Potter, Sav. of the W-g W-d, with the expr. purp. of warning him not to return to H-s [SoW&W] because the H. of S-n would open the Ch. of Scr…
No, Mr. Scrimgeor Sir, I did not know the details beyond the Detail of the Diary, and I couldn't take it away - couldn't touch it, actually, the curse was so strong. Talking to authorities? On which side?
[censored]
I guessed that Mr. Potter were the intended victim. Considering the role Mr. Potter played in the Dark Lord's downfall, it was a safe bet...
Dobby bad, bad, BAD...
Oh Sir, I cannot thank you enough for giving this order! I won't call him the Dark Lord ever again! Not banging my head on the wall? Certainly I can restrain myself. With a little help from you, Sir.
[Mumbling]
...The endeavour was of mixed success, of which you are already aware. I swear the pudding incident was not planned in advance.
Mr. Potter, in his inexhaustible kindness, forgave my intrusion, and was generally a pleasure to deal with, save for never taking my advice. It would've been a struggle to conceal my movements from my legal owner; therefore, by the time the school year began, I had alienated Mr. Malfoy Senior enough so that he either did not miss my long absences from the Manor, or attributed them to bouts of penance installed in proper Elfs.
Yes, he made sure to install them in me, too.
No, I do not regret deceiving him.
Yes, I do regret deceiving him.
[Inartic.: take that, you dolt!]
'My heart told me to come to Harry Potter's aid. And I came. I have chosen it as my true master.'
[A voice from the audience: 'The only one in the world.']
I had no means to act from afar. Going to Hogwarts was the obvious choice; I did not anticipate finding a helper there, even less a helper both compassionate and smart.
[A snap of fingers]
I would return Mr. Dovery to his customary man-like shape if he promises to stop insulting Miss Lovegood. You may, uh, rustle, Mr. Dovery.
[A snap]
[Inartic.: nothing wrong with porcupines. Endangered species.]
Beg your pardon, Mr. Moody Sir.
I faced a unique, and for a House Elf nigh unbearable, state of sole proprietorship, with nine months in which to conclude my desperate business.
Nine months. I dared not suppose it could take more than that. The rumour that even the Philosopher's Stone - a relic that'd survived even the Flamel's curiosity - I mean, Flamels' - was destroyed within hours after the Savior getting hold of it... and within nine months of the Savior getting wind of it... oh well. So the boy was - boisterous. But he had a heart of gold! And we all owe him for the, um. Beg your pardon. I'd have to iron myself into the floor if I said that out loud.
I did rather well on the Platform, didn't I. It resisted unlocking for twenty minutes. Too many Concealing Charms, I daresay. But the boys found a way around it... I wasn't really surprised... rather, I took heart in that I remained, once again, undetected.
I arrived in the same time as the students that took the train, and hid until the wee hours of the morning.
The castle was... intrigued, that was how it felt. It has its share of secrets, more than a chamber can contain... It didn't reject me, and neither did it accept me; I was hungry and worked-up, seeing monsters in every shadow and ray. The Elves there looked at me with horror and pity, permitting me to collect some remnants of the enourmous welcoming feast, and whispered behind my back. I persuaded them not to oust me, and promised I would only come once in a while, and only to protect Harry Potter; but they denied me food and shelter, because they are loyal to Hogwarts.
By dawn, I was too tired to bear vigil by the Gryffindor tower any longer, and staggered off, only managing to hide before the first child erupted out of the portrait hole - the Breakfast Race, you know? The halls were bustling within minutes. My prey - that is, Mr. Potter - was explaining something to his incredulous and somewhat hostile housemates. I let him be - there's strength in masses - and attempted to locate the Chamber, in order to maybe ruin the evil plot from that end.
[Inart.: no, I didn't know there was a Basilisk there! Honestly...]
But the Transfiguration Classroom happened first, and my fate, forgive the expression, was sealed.
A little girl was standing in the corridor - well, she is the other witness here, you'll see her yourself - nattering about half-needles, quarter-needles and doing wrong homework wrongly. There was noone else at that very moment, but I didn't think it particularly weird - people of her House (Ravenclaw) are bound to do this from time to time. I tried to edge past her, but she saw me - my shadow, to be exact - and began speaking to it. I quailed. Less than a day, I thought; Dobby, Dobby, you're no spy...
'I am wrong,' she said louder, and frowned. 'What does it mean - I am wrong?'
I shrugged. She squinted and pinched her ears, then the shadow's ears.
'Ow!'
'Sorry! I'm sorry,' she babbled. 'Can you forgive me? I didn't poke you in the eye, did I?'
There's another Ravenclaw trait. They talk like educated people.
'It's a good thing your shadow wasn't lost. Who are you?'
I leaped behind a statue as a platoon of Hufflepuffs trampled like bison where I'd been standing.
'Are you all right?' That girl again, crouching before me. 'Would you like an apple? I always thought non-vampire Elves should like them.'
Well, food was in high demand. I catiously leaned forwards and reached out to her.
'Are you dumb? Hang on - you aren't a vampire, right? Are you Peter Pan?'
I stared at her.
Than I stared at the apple.
I bit into it.
'No. I'm Dobby.'
'I'm Luna. Are you pure-bred?'
I choked.
'Why do you ask?'
'I wasn't sure what is a'dobby',' she nestled down beside me. A live shield.
'What are you doing here?' she ventured.
My nose pricked.
'Dobby's bad.' (Undestand that I was alone, in a strange place, and not as accustomed to freedom as I am now.)
'Can't be.'
'Dobby's HORRIBLE!'
She frowned again, looking off into distance. I kicked the wall to feel better for betraying Mr. Malfoy. She patted the wall absentmindedly. (Later she told me she thought I worked there, and she naturally followed my example.)
'Maybe you're wrong, too?'
I hiccuped and Disillusioned myself.
'I won't tell if you don't tell,' she promised…
Also, devious!Professors (except Clueless!Lockhart, naturally), Frustrated!Tom Riddle, and various, sometimes mangled, quotes by or about Sherlock Holmes courtesy of Wikiquote.
Title: Let the Match be a Match
Author: serenusc (Be3 on ff net)
Characters: er, Holmes!Luna and Watson!Dobby:)
Spoilers: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, mainly; other HP books.
Rating: G
Genre: Gen, friendship
Disclaimer: Not mine. Even the lady in the Prologue owes something to Carroll's Mad Mathesis:))
Summary: How do you save Harry Potter? The answer is - Logic! That is, if you ask a Ravenclaw...
Warnings: Some language. Some implied self-torture by the "Watson".
Author's Note: I based this on an earlier fic written in Russian, so if you see anything familiar, please don't accuse me of plagiarism.
Prologue
It was August.
In truth, the adventure had begun much earlier, with tragedies and triumphs chasing and tripping each other in deadly combat - but that belongs to History; and this is, after all, only a Story.
So August it was, and the garden was laden with fruit. Dragonflies flitted over the lush grass ringing a small pond. One hovered above a high stalk of bishop's lace. The creature's body was the deepest, velvety red, complimenting the magenta of four tiny flowers in the very middle of the umbel, surrounded by white reverent stars.
The ancient apple trees were planted rather haphazardly, reflecting the rebellious nature of the planter; rowans and even a couple of beeches were thrown in for good measure. The bramble had long grown so thick that he refused to cut it, fearing he'd be 'swallowed alive, beard and all.'
He would never tend his garden again.
His wife loved the place dearly; she loved her man dearer still; but every once in a year, she took out the garden shears and refused to 'listen to reason.' Which is why there was a spot of relatively clear ground mostly covered with an immaculate doormat. (The fact that no path led to it didn't bother the hosts. After all, the people were wizards. Their guests - the spot was maintained for guests' convenience, a landing of sorts - were darn well expected be wizards, too. They could either use a broomstick to get to their destination, wherever that was, or Apparate away, or wait to be rescued. Most chose either of the first two options, when they saw the 'welcoming' message.) Two quinces happened to stick nearby. One bore a square copper plaque with words that tended to be mis-read and mis-quoted, hacked in precise block letters. 'COME IF YE ARE.'
('Because the world knows better,' the engraver used to grumble.)
On a thick low branch of the other tree, the one farther from the garden's gate, hung an oval, neat silver plate, with 'Thank you for coming' flowing across it. A decidedly feminine touch.
The sun was slanting through the motionless leaves when with a sudden 'pop!', a tall figure appeared on the doormat.
The newcomer had once been an often visitor here; he immediately tapped the plaque with his wand. A low chime was heard, bouncing off the trunks like no echo should. It ran a circle around the wizard (no less than Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! 'Him's Elf,' the late owner would add) and scampered off to find the hostess.
Dumbledore politely waited. A dragonfly perched on bishop's lace. The Headmaster got the impression that he was profoundly ignored.
'Albus! What a present surprise!'
He smiled with sincere gladness in the direction where he was used to hear the greeting come from, and saw twin sturdy poles striding to him through the greenery.
'Ah, Penny. Renovating, I take it?'
The woman alighted from her stilts at the edge of the clearing.
'I simply have to stoop down to your level.'
Dumbledore's wand flashed, and he suddenly shot upwards. The soles of his boots were now five feet thick.
'Not at all, my dear lady,' he announced to her beekeeper's hat. The hat, the brim of her gown, and - disturbingly enough, if he was honest with himself - the tip of her wand, were all he could see of her now.
'I feel two inches high! And your socks don't match.'
'When have you last followed fashion?' he retorted. Fashion, in her informed opinion, was not to be followed, but dictated.
'Lame...'
A flick, and the monstrous, porous pillars of leather crackled, hardening into polished clinker-y cylinders.
She huffed. The brat was showing off!
'I win,' Dumbledore waved a hand. He was wobbling a bit up there.
'Au contraire, that was a warning,' and the bulk of his supports was reduced into needle-thin heels. He was down so fast, his head spun.
'Mercy!' he cried, chuckling.
'You were trampling my flowers.'
'There aren't any.' His boots were anchored, he suspected, until they would rot away; he stepped out of them.
'Rhizomes count.' She unveiled her face, snapped her fingers, and a table with tea set for two appeared between them, as well as chairs - a simple affair made of oak, with padded seats and high backs, and incredibly resistant scorch marks. The table was more interesting: outlandish runes hinted at coded messages, cryptic formulae ran every which way. (The tablecloth itself had so frequently been converted into a kerchief to wipe the sweat off the famous forehead, and snot from the famous nose, it tended to crawl out of the window at the mere suggestion of a meal, its embroidered flounce flapping... After a while, the novelty of catching it wore off. It was last seen in the spare room, twisting itself to the chandelier.)
'Leaving your mark? How very you. Do sit down.'
He did, taking in her appearance. It was as serene as ever. Penelope Flamel appeared middle-aged, with merry brown eyes, a pert small nose and laugh-lines barely visible around her sweet mouth.
They began sharing news. Penny liked gossiping; he had heard many a scandalous tale when they gathered, and she didn't disappoint him now.
The Grand Mothers (a.k.a. Grannies for Britain) had their Annual Ball, and Bathilda moved to have him elected an Honorary Member for Hogwarts - typical Bagshot nonsense, don't fret, I vetoed it for you; Gringotts was fortifying again, lest they be caught unprepared - are you in any way responsible? And take some squashes; we have excellent squashes this year…
(Only she stumbled at the ‘we’ part, and he jumped in with his tales.)
He talked mostly about 'his school'. Another Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had to be found; Minerva had some ulterior motive in this - or he hoped she had, because how else were they to survive a year in the company of Gilderoy Lockhart? Hagrid was plotting to legalize some of his shadier pets, inspired by the success with the three-headed dog. The dog itself was sold to dragon-keepers in Romania, with tears on both sides. And incidentally, the Department of Mysteries took the Mirror of Erised.
'But weren't you experimenting with it? Inanimate Pre-Occlumency, or was it Legillimency?'
Dumbledore hemmed and hawed. Trust a Ravenclaw to ask the difficult question. I hid the Philosopher's Stone there, and I have no further need of it was likely to put him into her Bad Graces for months; can't afford it on my salary would see her up and sell the house.
'The safety precautions proved inadequate. I deemed it too dangerous for my wards.'
An unbelieving stare.
'Dangerous? How?'
'Penny, the Mirror shows you not the truth -'
A pointedly raised eyebrow.
'And how, oh my wise Headmaster, is a heart's desire untruthful?'
'It can lead one astray,' he whispered.
She daintily took another scone.
'How can you be certain that the vision won't come true?'
'Have you ever looked into it?'
'Why ever for?' Her eyes twinkled. A question for a question - it always happened at some point into his visit.
'To know thyself.'
'Ah, Dumbledore, all mirrors are one.'
For a moment, they busied themselves with their tea.
'He left you a book. Here - '
She cupped her hands (wandless magic, he thought without envy), and an open volume appeared from thin air.
''The Complete Sherlock Holmes'? A favourite with him, as I recall.'
'It was,' she smiled fondly. ''A book of wonder,' he used to say.'
'Thank you, milady.'
It was already late; he would have to return to Hogwarts soon.
'Can you tell me the future?' he asked on impulse. She tutted.
'I don't hold with palm-reading, tea-reading, wax-reading, any of the kind.'
'Oh dear. You don't seem to be doing much reading at all!'
They laughed.
'I walked right into that one, didn't I? But seriously, my young friend: I am no Seer.'
'Exactly so,' was his warm answer.
The lady's gentle features softened even more, which was secretly half the reason he sought her advice even when the course of action was as clear as if mapped with fireballs.
Sometimes, when it was literally mapped with fireballs.
'Time and again,' she cocked her head to the side, listening to a wind he never was able to hear, 'I see children playing.'
The Headmaster of Hogwarts stood up, taking this as his clue to leave. Ceremony wasn't valued here, and when he bowed, it was out of sheer respect; she inclined her head, and the table vanished without a sound.
'Child's play,' Dumbledore muttered. 'I find I like this one.'
Part I. Told by Dobby.
(QQQ Report of the interrogation of Dobby the House Elf, late of Malfoy Manor. Use of Verbositerum justified on the grounds of total uncomprehensibleness. Shorthand justified on the grounds of unwarranted long-windedness and/or indicates pattering. Auto-Officialeze incurred to preserve dignity of the proceedings)
On July 31st of the last year, I, then a retainer and property of Mr. L. Malfoy, went to the house of Mr. H. J. Potter, Sav. of the W-g W-d, with the expr. purp. of warning him not to return to H-s [SoW&W] because the H. of S-n would open the Ch. of Scr…
No, Mr. Scrimgeor Sir, I did not know the details beyond the Detail of the Diary, and I couldn't take it away - couldn't touch it, actually, the curse was so strong. Talking to authorities? On which side?
[censored]
I guessed that Mr. Potter were the intended victim. Considering the role Mr. Potter played in the Dark Lord's downfall, it was a safe bet...
Dobby bad, bad, BAD...
Oh Sir, I cannot thank you enough for giving this order! I won't call him the Dark Lord ever again! Not banging my head on the wall? Certainly I can restrain myself. With a little help from you, Sir.
[Mumbling]
...The endeavour was of mixed success, of which you are already aware. I swear the pudding incident was not planned in advance.
Mr. Potter, in his inexhaustible kindness, forgave my intrusion, and was generally a pleasure to deal with, save for never taking my advice. It would've been a struggle to conceal my movements from my legal owner; therefore, by the time the school year began, I had alienated Mr. Malfoy Senior enough so that he either did not miss my long absences from the Manor, or attributed them to bouts of penance installed in proper Elfs.
Yes, he made sure to install them in me, too.
No, I do not regret deceiving him.
Yes, I do regret deceiving him.
[Inartic.: take that, you dolt!]
'My heart told me to come to Harry Potter's aid. And I came. I have chosen it as my true master.'
[A voice from the audience: 'The only one in the world.']
I had no means to act from afar. Going to Hogwarts was the obvious choice; I did not anticipate finding a helper there, even less a helper both compassionate and smart.
[A snap of fingers]
I would return Mr. Dovery to his customary man-like shape if he promises to stop insulting Miss Lovegood. You may, uh, rustle, Mr. Dovery.
[A snap]
[Inartic.: nothing wrong with porcupines. Endangered species.]
Beg your pardon, Mr. Moody Sir.
I faced a unique, and for a House Elf nigh unbearable, state of sole proprietorship, with nine months in which to conclude my desperate business.
Nine months. I dared not suppose it could take more than that. The rumour that even the Philosopher's Stone - a relic that'd survived even the Flamel's curiosity - I mean, Flamels' - was destroyed within hours after the Savior getting hold of it... and within nine months of the Savior getting wind of it... oh well. So the boy was - boisterous. But he had a heart of gold! And we all owe him for the, um. Beg your pardon. I'd have to iron myself into the floor if I said that out loud.
I did rather well on the Platform, didn't I. It resisted unlocking for twenty minutes. Too many Concealing Charms, I daresay. But the boys found a way around it... I wasn't really surprised... rather, I took heart in that I remained, once again, undetected.
I arrived in the same time as the students that took the train, and hid until the wee hours of the morning.
The castle was... intrigued, that was how it felt. It has its share of secrets, more than a chamber can contain... It didn't reject me, and neither did it accept me; I was hungry and worked-up, seeing monsters in every shadow and ray. The Elves there looked at me with horror and pity, permitting me to collect some remnants of the enourmous welcoming feast, and whispered behind my back. I persuaded them not to oust me, and promised I would only come once in a while, and only to protect Harry Potter; but they denied me food and shelter, because they are loyal to Hogwarts.
By dawn, I was too tired to bear vigil by the Gryffindor tower any longer, and staggered off, only managing to hide before the first child erupted out of the portrait hole - the Breakfast Race, you know? The halls were bustling within minutes. My prey - that is, Mr. Potter - was explaining something to his incredulous and somewhat hostile housemates. I let him be - there's strength in masses - and attempted to locate the Chamber, in order to maybe ruin the evil plot from that end.
[Inart.: no, I didn't know there was a Basilisk there! Honestly...]
But the Transfiguration Classroom happened first, and my fate, forgive the expression, was sealed.
A little girl was standing in the corridor - well, she is the other witness here, you'll see her yourself - nattering about half-needles, quarter-needles and doing wrong homework wrongly. There was noone else at that very moment, but I didn't think it particularly weird - people of her House (Ravenclaw) are bound to do this from time to time. I tried to edge past her, but she saw me - my shadow, to be exact - and began speaking to it. I quailed. Less than a day, I thought; Dobby, Dobby, you're no spy...
'I am wrong,' she said louder, and frowned. 'What does it mean - I am wrong?'
I shrugged. She squinted and pinched her ears, then the shadow's ears.
'Ow!'
'Sorry! I'm sorry,' she babbled. 'Can you forgive me? I didn't poke you in the eye, did I?'
There's another Ravenclaw trait. They talk like educated people.
'It's a good thing your shadow wasn't lost. Who are you?'
I leaped behind a statue as a platoon of Hufflepuffs trampled like bison where I'd been standing.
'Are you all right?' That girl again, crouching before me. 'Would you like an apple? I always thought non-vampire Elves should like them.'
Well, food was in high demand. I catiously leaned forwards and reached out to her.
'Are you dumb? Hang on - you aren't a vampire, right? Are you Peter Pan?'
I stared at her.
Than I stared at the apple.
I bit into it.
'No. I'm Dobby.'
'I'm Luna. Are you pure-bred?'
I choked.
'Why do you ask?'
'I wasn't sure what is a'dobby',' she nestled down beside me. A live shield.
'What are you doing here?' she ventured.
My nose pricked.
'Dobby's bad.' (Undestand that I was alone, in a strange place, and not as accustomed to freedom as I am now.)
'Can't be.'
'Dobby's HORRIBLE!'
She frowned again, looking off into distance. I kicked the wall to feel better for betraying Mr. Malfoy. She patted the wall absentmindedly. (Later she told me she thought I worked there, and she naturally followed my example.)
'Maybe you're wrong, too?'
I hiccuped and Disillusioned myself.
'I won't tell if you don't tell,' she promised…