Out of the Silent Planet

Title: Out of the Silent Planet (21/39)
Author: moirasfate/ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Plot driven smut, Darkfic, Romance, Drama, Angst...
Warnings: M/F, Bondage, slight non-con, voyeurism, oral, anal, Dom/sub issues, Dark!Draco, and HBP spoilers.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts - Hermione Granger fulfills Severus Snape's final wish, to journey to Japan to ‘retrieve' something of importance. Set eleven years after HBP.
Author's Notes: This is my first DM/HG ficlet, so please be kind to the newbie! The title of this fic is taken from C.S. Lewis' book, first in the Perelandra Chronicles.

Many thanks to kazfeist for improving this chapter!


Out of the Silent Planet
Chapter Twenty-one - Of solicitors, house elves, and annoyances



Hermione was glad that she had had her apartment outfitted magically, especially when it came to the amount of hot water than ran through the flat. It had been over twenty minutes, the shower was still running, and hot steam had seeped from under the door and had begun dampening the wallpaper in the hall between the bathroom and the main entry. Hermione only hoped that her designer cream-colored wallpaper, Muggle in manufacture, could handle several drying spells without coming off the walls.

She had busied herself in the kitchen, limping around the white counter-topped island, setting a kettle to boil on the flat panel burner. Hermione enjoyed her kitchen, modern on one side with marble counters, smooth white cabinets, a stainless steel cooler and sink; and magical and rustic on the other side with a large, open fireplace which served as the main Floo, stainless steel rack on the bare brick of the chimney hanged with cooking cauldrons and implements. The old kitchen table with small shelves underneath had been procured at an estate auction of a Wizarding family who had luckily died of old age and not by the War. The chairs were wicker bottomed with spindly backs and legs, and a vase of fresh lavender sprays sat warmly arranged in a crystal cut vase in the centre of the table. It was a strange mixture of decor that somehow worked, and Hermione loved how the horizontal windows over the sink and on either side of the fireplace let in warm sunlight. However, today, only cool, cold light filtered into the kitchen, the rain not giving any clue as to when it would let up.

Hermione jumped as the kettle whistled, and began making a pot of spicy Indian tea, something that would put the warmth back into her bones. Abandoning the china teapot for the tea to steep, she ambled to the fireplace, steeling herself for what she expected to be a long process of employing a house elf. She hesitated though, her hand about to dig into the pot of Floo Powder resting on a small wooden shelf on the side of the chimney.

Who was she supposed to contact about hiring...or contracting for a house elf?

Her brain, once in only a handful of times, failed her. She furrowed her brow for a moment; angry for not remembering something she had once been quite passionate about. It seemed almost against her nature to contract for a house elf, but with Draco Malfoy now taking up residence in her home, she was sure that she could not manage on her own...

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures...

About to dig her hand into the Floo Powder pot again, Hermione hesitated again, hearing the water shut off from the bathroom and the door open with a bang.

"...Bloody Muggle shite!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away from the fireplace, about to see what the matter was with Malfoy. She had the feeling that there would be many things 'wrong' where Malfoy was concerned...particularly with her 'bloody Muggle shite.'

Limping to the kitchen door that led into a short hall, she peered around the corner of the door to see that steam was rolling out in waves from the bathroom at the very end. Inside the steam, she could see a form moving and a flash of silver where the light bulbs above the sink reflected off Malfoy's silver arm. Hermione shuddered slightly, remembering the night that the arm had attached itself to Draco's body.

Hermione shook off her chill and moved into the kitchen again, preparing a tray for tea to be served in the sitting room, but first, she thought, she had to contact the Ministry. It was late in the day, but Hermione was sure that someone was still in the offices. Moving to the fireplace again, her hand poised above the Floo Powder, Draco's voice interrupted her.

"Who are you Flooing?" a voice growled from the doorway.

Hermione did not bother turning and dug her hand into the light powder, gathering a bit in her hand. "The Ministry."

"Why?"

"I did not expect you, and at the moment, I am not sure if I can manage on my own with a guest," Hermione sneered, suddenly quite annoyed that someone was questioning her in her own home.

She raised her hand to throw the powder into the fireplace when a silver hand grasped her wrist and stopped her. It was then Hermione glanced at Malfoy, hair still damp, but pulled back in a neat pony tail laying across his shoulder where his shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open over black trousers. Hermione ran her eyes up and down Draco's form as he moved her hand to shake the powder from her hand and back into the pot hanging on the side of the brick chimney.

Slowly pulling her arm from Draco's grasp, Hermione averted her eyes to Draco's bare feet upon the tiled kitchen floor. "I was going to contract with an elf to take care of things... I will be going back to work next week, so I won't be able..." she continued her voice fading into a whisper as Draco moved around her, taking up Floo Powder in his hand and calling out a name as green fire sprang up in the fire and Draco knelt before the hearth.

Blinking her honey eyes at the face that appeared in the flames, she listened and fell back so that she was not in the line of sight of the person Draco had contacted.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy, is something the matter...I was about to step out for the day, so I..."

"Quiet yourself, Halley, and listen. I need you to have the Floo to the Manor's kitchen unblocked."

Leaning against the kitchen island, Hermione could see that Halley was a ruddy-faced older man with a piggish face and heavy gray mutton-chops. She recognized this man, a solicitor of great fame in the Wizarding world who had once been Millie's family solicitor, but had been fired when Millie took charge of her estate after the War. Hermione knew that Halley's clients were all Pureblooded families, while he himself was only a half-blooded wizard. It was a strange concept, but not so strange to the old Wizarding families, for Halley was famous for winning every one of his civil cases against the Ministry throughout his career.

"What ever for? I have not settled your case yet, Mr. Malfoy, and I doubt the Ministry would take kindly if you were to enter the Manor without..."

"Shut up, Halley, and let me explain."

The old piggish man bristled at Draco's tone, but did not retort.

"I cannot enter the Manor, but I have not been prohibited from removing certain items of my property. Is this correct?"

Halley cleared his throat, "This is true. While all the proper documents have to be approved yet, you can still request your property 'inside' the Manor. Until the lower courts approve our proposals, which they will in a matter of days, you cannot take charge of the Manor, but can remove your belongings at any time."

Hermione blinked. It really did not make any sense, really...how could Malfoy remove his belongings if he could not enter the house?

"What is it that you want, Mr. Malfoy, I can have it arranged myself, there would be no need for you..."

"I want one of my family's house elves."

Halley blinked. "I see. That can be arranged, perhaps tomorrow?"

"Today, Halley, and only I have the authority to order my own damn elves about! If I want my own elf as a valet, only a Malfoy can order a Malfoy elf to work in that capacity..."

"But, Mr. Malfoy, it will take time for the Ministry to unblock the Floo! There are wards, passwords..."

Draco sighed. "Did the Ministry apply their own wards and passwords?"

The fat face seemed to freeze before a puzzled expression reddened the already ruddy face floating among the licking green flames.

"I...uh...I don't think so..."

Draco began chuckling, startling Hermione slightly for she first thought that the sound was perhaps coming from the other end of the Floo connection. "Those idiots..."

"Mr. Malfoy?" Halley asked, revealing the same level of confusion as Hermione was experiencing at that moment.

"Never mind, Halley, it was a waste of time calling you. Go on home now...and be ready to push those documents through so I can have my bloody Manor back by weekend!"

"Sir...I..." Halley started, but Draco stood, pulling away from the flames and terminating the connection. He turned to Hermione, his eyes gleaming with what seemed like triumph. He was grinning, but it was not anything that would inspire comfort for any person looking upon Malfoy's face.

"I see that the Ministry is still as inefficient as always," Draco muttered more to himself than to Hermione as he began buttoning up his shirt. He moved around the chimney, grabbing another handful of Floo powder and throwing it into the fire. However, instead of calling out his intended connection, he muttered something quickly under his breath and whipped his silver hand before him as if using a wand. Hermione did not recognize the pattern of movements that would correspond with any spell she knew of, and watched in fascination as Draco went to his knees before the fire.

"...la mauvaise foi rend le sang pur, je suis l'héritier du sang pur."

The fire, once green and demure as flames could be, now raged at Draco's words, roaring sound through the kitchen and sending a surprisingly cold blast of air through the room.

"Hobbin, you are summoned!" Draco called into the fire with a tone of sheer irritation.

Hermione took a breath, realizing that all the while Draco was muttering into the fire, she had been holding her breath and as she waited along with Draco, she suddenly realized that she understood Draco's words muttered in French.

'Bad faith makes blood pure; I am the heir of pure blood.'

"Who calls Hobbin?"

The voice that came from the fire reminded Hermione of the sound of rustling autumn leaves, rough, but not unpleasant.

"Draco Severian Malfoy. Pop your head in the fire, you silly beast," Draco growled, his voice growing more gruff with every word, revealing his annoyance quite plainly.

"Master Draco be dead, you a liar!" the voice rasped and still Hermione did not see an elfish face in the green flames.

Draco growled deep in his throat, clenching his fists at his sides where he knelt.

"Then how would have I have known the passwords, you fool? Pop your head in the fire so you can see me, Hobbin...do not make me have to give you Grandfather's old socks as punishment!"

Hermione frowned, as suddenly a horrible little face appeared in the flames, more ghastly than Kreacher's face, and much older by the looks of it. This elf, Hobbin, seemed to be older than the heads mounted in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but strangely similar. Hobbin was a hairy old elf with swooping white eyebrows that obscured large jaundiced green eyes. He, as Hermione assumed Hobbin was a male elf, had long drooping ears that were wrinkled as was the rest of his face, with sagging jowls and a horribly crooked, pencil–thin, long nose. His skin was the shade of a rotten peach, slightly brown, slightly ashen and slightly pink, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Hermione could see several green and broken teeth in the elf's lower jaw.

"You looks like Master Draco, but Hobbin wants to hear the secret...the one Master Draco told Hobbin when Master was three...and then Hobbin will know."

Draco seemed to shudder, but if it were from anger or laughter, Hermione could not tell from her vantage point.

"Fine!"

Hermione peered forward slightly as Draco seemed to lean his face so close to the elf's that his lips were touching the fetid skinned ear that hung like the floppy ears of some basset hound on either side of the elf's narrow face. She strained to hear Draco whisper and quickly fought the urge to laugh out loud.

"...Lucius likes when Mother tickles his feet in the mornings to get him out of bed..."

Leaning back from the fire, Hermione noticed that Draco's face was a particular shade of pink, and she tried to picture a three-year-old Draco Malfoy whispering in the elf's ear, him being possibly the same height as the child, this little childhood secret that seemed to embarrass the nearly thirty-year-old Draco Malfoy to the point of blushing.

"Aye..." the elf rasped, nodding his head slowly so that his nose, ears and jowls swayed. "Aye, you be Master Draco."

"Is that all you have to say, Hobbin?" Draco snarled, apparently holding himself back from throttling the ancient elf.

"What should Hobbin say, Master Draco? You be Master Draco...and that is that."

Draco chuckled cruelly. "Fine. Now, will you come through the Floo?"

"Is Hobbin needed?"

Draco smacked his forehead in frustration, and Hermione smirked. It was perhaps fitting that for once Draco Malfoy felt a bit of frustration just as she had ever since finding him in Japan. Slowly Draco composed himself and cleared his throat as if to swallow a fit of rage.

"Yes, you are needed, now come through."

With the sound of a pop and whirl of fire, Hermione could not help but feel a bit repulsed by the small form tracking soot from the fire and onto the tiles of the floor. Hobbin stood only as high as her knee on two bowed, and mottled coloured legs. The Floo connection terminated as Draco rose to stand and move toward where Hermione stood, his sharp eyes scrutinizing the elf that was brushing soot off what looked like a scrap of an old green velvet drape with frayed golden tassels hanging just above the elf's twisted and hideous toes. Hobbin was perhaps the oldest elf Hermione had ever seen, and perhaps the ugliest, but as she stood leaning against the kitchen island, she could not help but feel a bit of sympathy for the creature that had apparently served the Malfoy family for generations. If Dobby had been any indication what it was like to be a Malfoy elf, Hobbin had surely had a rough life.

With a snap of yellowed nailed fingers, all the soot that had accumulated on the tile, vanished and Hobbin stood gazing up at Draco, studying his former ward.

"Master Draco looks like the Mistress more than the Master..." Hobbin mused, his voice even raspier, Hermione noted, as he stood in the same space as she.

"There will be time for reunions later, Hobbin," Draco drawled, crossing his arms before his chest. "As you might very well know, I cannot return to the Manor at this time, therefore I am staying in this house...and I want you to serve me here until I can return to the Manor, do you understand?"

Hobbin's old eyes cast slowly about the kitchen before fixing upon Hermione who stood slightly behind Draco. Hermione shuddered as she felt Hobbin's eyes move from her head to her feet and then to her cane and then her face.

"Master Draco, there is a Mudblood in this house," Hobbin stated as if it were nothing of great import, but something like stating that Albus Dumbledore had been Headmaster at Hogwarts...a mere fact and nothing more.

Draco chuckled as Hermione stiffened at the sound of the reprehensible word.

"You shall not use that word, Hobbin. This is Hermione Granger, Hobbin, and she is the Mistress of this house...if you want to call it a house. It is a flat, in London, and I will be staying here until I can return to the Manor."

"Aye, milord. The Manor is a'ready, and we's wait, but if Master says Hobbin must serve the Master in the 'flat' of a Mud-Muggle, Hobbin will stay," the elf rattled, his eyes moving from Hermione at last and to Draco's silver arm.

Hermione recognized a bit of a change in Hobbin's stance as the elf stared at the silver arm, and noticed that Hobbin quickly averted his eyes to the floor... She blinked and moved her eyes to Draco's back, wondering to herself idly.

"You will be needed in the kitchen for the most part, and you may use the other elves in the Manor if need be. Now, I would like a hot meal for our dinner, something with a cream sauce, perhaps a bisque. Can you manage that, Hobbin?"

"Yes, milord, Hobbin will begin preparing."

"Dinner at seven, breakfast in the morning at seven, if I am here for tea, I want tea...the same for lunch."

"Master Draco does not take elevenses now?" Hobbin rasped, his voice betraying no emotion.

Draco chuckled. "I am a grown man, Hobbin; do you think I need elevensies?"

Hobbin glanced quickly at Draco and turned his eyes to the floor again. "Nay, milord, Master Draco has grown to be a man."

"Very well then, acquaint yourself with this flat later, it will soon be six, and I am feeling a bit hungry already."

"Aye, milord, Hobbin will start," the elf said, bending in half, and for a moment Hermione thought the elf was about to somersault into the floor, but the elf only bowed, its ears and nose flopping against the floor.

Draco turned on his heel, his chin up and marched toward the door leading into the hall, but stopped and turned slightly when Hermione did not follow. With a jerk of the chin, Hermione scowled and limped after him. Once they were both in the hall, Draco shut the kitchen door, chuckling to himself and moving into the entry hall and across to enter the sitting room. Hermione tapped her cane as she ambled to follow, pausing in the door way as Draco flopped down on one of the two couches in the room, both a shade of tomato red.

"I am adverse to the idea of using a Malfoy elf; I thought I should let you know..." Hermione started watching as Draco stretched out to lie across the couch and threw his right arm over his eyes as if preparing for a nap.

"I have just saved you time and money, Granger, why should you be 'adverse' to the idea of a Malfoy elf? Are they not good enough for you?" Draco drawled, ending his words with a lazy yawn.

Hermione sighed and leaned against the jamb of the door, disliking the fact that Draco Malfoy was acting as if he lived in her flat, and taking up a station on her couch.

"It is not that, I am 'adverse' to the idea of using elves in general, but if I remember correctly, it was a Malfoy elf that rebelled and was later freed to work for a wage at Hogwarts...all because your family was quite cruel to said elf..."

Draco snorted, but did not remove his arm from over his eyes. "Exaggerations. Dobby was the odd elf born from Hobbin's brood...and you will always get a strange elf from old breeding stocks like Hobbin's."

Hermione gaped. "What are you saying? Brood? Breeding stock?"

Finally, Draco removed his arm from his eyes with a groan and sat up properly on the couch, gazing at Hermione as if she were some alien being from another world.

"Didn't you have some silly crusade in school to free the house elves, and yet you know nothing about the elf itself?" Draco asked in mock incredulity

"I was fourteen and far too idealistic for my own good!" Hermione protested, moving from the door to fall onto the couch facing adjacent Draco's, a tasteful glass-topped coffee table separating them. "And because I was so idealistic, I never got to learn much about elves save what was written in the few books on the subject of elves...I effectively labelled myself as an enemy of elf kind with S.P.E.W."

Draco smirked, crossing his arms before his chest again. "Well, let me inform the ignorant..."

Hermione snarled, turning slightly on the couch so that she could stretch her leg out straight from her body, her hip still ached a bit, and before long she knew she would have to down another nasty potion.

"House elves such as Hobbin come from a long line of elves that have served the older Wizarding families for generations, that much you must know. However, to insure that a family has enough elves to run the household, other elves are contracted and brought into the house. Of course, I do not know much about the mechanics of how house elves are conceived and born, and honestly I do not want to know, but I DO know Hobbin and his brood are from a line of elves that served my family even before they came to Britain, say in the late 11th century. My mother's family, the Blacks, had Kreacher, whom I am sure you remember quite well. Kreacher was part of a branch of elfish bloodlines that came from Germany...some evolution of the Erkling bred with house elves. Perhaps that would explain his disposition, for Erklings eat children..."

At this, Draco began chuckling, pushing a strand of silver hair from his face.

"You could ask an elf about its heritage and you will be listening to them go on and on for weeks. Just as we Purebloods take pride in our ancestry, map out our progenitors, and blow our noses at these modern ideas of procreating with Muggles, elves take pride in the fact that they have served the great Wizarding houses. The House of Black, Malfoy, Rosier, Nott, Bulstrode, and yes, even Longbottom, Weasley, and...Potter...all have or had scores of house elves attached to them. And to have house elves means that a family has power and influence."

Hermione sighed. "Then...Hobbin, was he your elf?"

Draco grinned. "It was more like I was his ward. You are only seeing what Dobby put into your head. Dobby was an enlightened thing, strange and so unusual that his own kind was glad to get rid of him. You have to understand, elves do not usually think of themselves as 'slaves,' but integral parts, irreplaceable parts for humans to exist. To serve is to honour...and not necessarily the family to which they belong, but themselves. And perhaps, through the hubris and decadence of the old families, the elves began to think of themselves in this way, but that is the past so far beyond our reach that it is a concept that will never be changed. That is why, my dear Granger, your S.P.E.W. campaign would never work, which I am sure you have realized at some point or else you would have been measuring old Hobbin for clothes."

Hermione laughed aloud, despite herself. It took growing up, living through a War, and accepting the fact that her childhood dreams of justice for all were just that, nothing more than dreams, for her to laugh at her own naiveté.

"But enough about elves, I'm bored...is there anything to drink in this place?" Draco sighed, stretching his arms about his head and then running his silver hand over his face as if he could not get over the sensation of having a left arm again.

"I have cognac in the library, which I forbid you to enter," Hermione growled, annoyed once again with Draco's familiarity in her home.

"Oh? Why? Afraid I might find old love letters and read them aloud?" Draco drawled, crossing his legs so that his bare left foot rested against the coffee table.

Hermione scowled. "No. I just don't want your...your arm to interfere with the computer or the stereo. I don't take my wand into the room for the simple fact that I might inadvertently short out my laptop and lose a lot of important data."

Draco sighed. "Do you not have wards around your Muggle bits and bobs?"

"I do, but your...you...might short everything out."

Draco grinned. "I do have that affect, don't I?"

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Can you not call Hobbin to bring you something? Oh, and do tell him that the library is not part of what he should 'acquaint' himself with..."

"So all your rubbish about elfish welfare is gone?" Draco asked with a hint of amusement.

"It is..."

"All right then..." and in an instant Hobbin popped into the room with a dull thud only to pop away again and back with a tray of whiskey with a glass already poured over ice. It was not anything that Hermione knew she owned, the silver tray too ornate, the whiskey bottle of a brand Hermione knew she could never afford and still be able to keep up the rent in a year's time. Obviously, or so Hermione thought, Hobbin was using items from the Malfoy household and not anything from her own.

And when Hobbin appeared again to announce dinner was served in Hermione's small dining room, the supper ware was definitely not Hermione's...

* * *

Hermione had given Draco the guest room with the requirement that he stay in his own room and not bother her while she slept in her own, separate room. After a bit of witty repartee and scowls, Hermione prepared for bed.

Her bedroom was of modest size, with a full-sized sleigh bed covered with dark blue bedclothes, and made more for comfort than fashion. The bed was pushed up against the wall, the bottom board just meeting the window's bevelling. There was a dresser against the wall opposite the window and a table with a cheap lamp beside the bed, but other than that, the room was quite bare. The only decorations on the cream-coloured papered walls were three small-framed photographs, two wizarding photos that moved, and one Muggle photo. The Muggle photo was of Hermione and her parents the day before she went off to Hogwarts, her parents beaming at the camera while Hermione was entangled in their loving arms, smiling with a sort of happiness that Hermione knew she would never experience again in her life. The Wizarding photograph that hung directly to the left of the snapshot of her parents was one of Hermione, Harry, and Ron, taken during their fourth year, just after Harry had gotten around the Norwegian Ridgeback. It was a time where they were smiling, moving about the frame, acting like teenagers...it was also a time when they did not worry about the War, and truthfully a time when anything horrible was far from their minds...

The last photograph which hung closer to the corner of the room than the others, and the photo which Hermione saw quite clearly from her bed, had been taken only four years before. In this sepia toned picture, Hermione knelt beside a very aged and battered Severus Snape, both of them holding medals of Honour, Order of Merlin First Class...for curing lycanthropy... Severus was trying to smile, but kept glancing out of the corner of his dark eyes at Hermione who was also trying to smile. Severus sat upon a sturdy folding chair and in the background, Millie, Neville and Minerva milled about talking to other people who had been present at the awards ceremony. It was the last public appearance Severus ever made, far too sickly to venture far from his cottage on the moors.

It had been an awkward time, but Hermione liked the photo. At times, she and Severus chatted in the photo, other times they were laughing, but as Hermione looked at the picture, lying in her bed about to drift off to sleep, she and Severus were sipping champagne and arguing. Hermione missed Severus...especially now.

Tucked into her bed, her pillows fluffed, and her cane and wand resting within easy reach, Hermione turned slightly and shut off the light. Moonlight, from a now cleared sky, filtered through the sheer curtains, and the yellow ambiance of the street lamp outside tinged the room in a strange pale light. Hermione rested her hands upon her chest and shut her eyes.

The flat was thankfully quiet, and she could not hear Draco Malfoy in the room just on the other side of the wall. She had added an enchanted window to the normally windowless room, Charmed the bed to be a bit larger, changed the bedclothes from Gyffindor red to a plain white, and hoped that she would not have to endure his complaints on the lack of decor or flare in the morning. Hermione felt uncomfortable enough just having a strange person in her home on normal occasions, but to have Draco Malfoy living, although for thankfully a short period of time, under her roof, was akin to Hermione suddenly inviting a hippogriff to take up residence in the guest room.

She had firmly told Draco not to bother her, since she was technically still on the mend, and he had said nothing...not about her third house rule (first being not to enter the library and the second not to leave hair in the drain). In fact, Draco had not commented at all on her condition after being thrown about by Blaise Zabini. Hermione had only vaguely recalled that Draco had threatened Zabini after her skull had decided to fracture and her hip to break. Hermione felt like an ancient invalid... It seemed after the War she was prone to more injuries as a result of the curse that had hit her on the battlefield. Since coming out of the hospital with a lame leg she had fallen twice, accidentally, and broken a wrist and broken her lame leg again... There was no explicable reason why her bones had been reduced to the consistency of chalk, and at times when Hermione was knocked about and thought she had surely broken some bone...she had been fine...and then other times...

It did not matter. The potions for pain, for bone growth and fortification, and sleep were beginning to take full affect. Hermione sighed as she began to let her mind travel down a dark path to dreamless sleep. The last coherent thought was to see if Millie and Neville wanted to come for tea the next day, like they usually did on Fridays...



* * *

A strange sniffing sound woke Hermione before dawn and as her eyes opened and focused on the gray lit ceiling, she was quite confused and somewhat alarmed by the sound. Through the haze of a potion induced sleep, Hermione rolled her right side, snatching up her wand instinctually, and there, just on the rug by the bed, sat Hobbin, wiping his long hideous nose on the edge of his velvet drape wrap.

"Hobbin?" Hermione whispered, thinking she were still half asleep and dreaming.

"Hobbin is here, Mud-Muggle, and Hobbin wants to speak," the old elf rasped quietly, glancing up at Hermione with dull eyes from where he sat upon the rug. "Hobbin has been waiting for the Muggle to wake."

Hermione blinked several times and felt as if she wanted to laugh for some odd reason, and call Hobbin a 'strange little thing' so she could roll over and go back to sleep, but she did not.

"Call me Hermione, Hobbin. I am not a Muggle, I am a witch, although Muggleborn," Hermione yawned, dropping her wand back onto the bedside table and pulling her blankets back up to her chin.

"Hobbin will call you Granger; Hobbin is not familiar and crude like Muggles."

Hermione shrugged. "What do you want to speak to me about, Hobbin?" she asked sleepily.

Hobbin sniffed again, but Hermione could tell that the elf was not crying; apparently he had a bit of a cold, perhaps? He wiped his pointed nose with the back of his long-nailed hand and sighed. "Hobbin can see that you have a blood oath with the Master."

"Yes?" Hermione said, her voice rising slightly as if asking a question when she was really trying to stifle a yawn.

"Hobbin can see that Master wears an arm that is not his own...and it should be removed," Hobbin said blandly, although his words had a weight to them which meant to Hermione, though half-asleep, that Hobbin was saying something important.

"It is the Arm of Vulcan, Hobbin. Draco lost his arm many years ago..." Hermione whispered, resting her head heavily into her pillow.

"Aye, Hobbin sees that, Granger, but Hobbin sees that the arm is beginning to hurt the Master...and the blood oath that binds Granger to the Master."

Hermione blinked, suddenly very awake. "What do you mean?"

Hobbin huffed in a long; slow exhale, as if annoyed, but continued slowly in the same low, ancient voice. "The arm is changing Master into someone else. His blood is changing, but he remains the same. Hobbin can see that the Master is not always the Master, but someone else."

"Draco had been warned...but he took the warnings far too lightly. But..but the arm is not a 'Dark' object..." Hermione muttered to herself, pushing back the blankets and sitting up painfully in the bed.

"The arm talks to Master, Granger, Hobbin can hear it whisper."

Hermione balked, "What does it say?" she whispered.

Hobbin sighed, drawing in a loud breath. "It tells Master to do things to Granger...it tells Master to kill the ones who hurt Granger...it tells Master to build things..."

Hermione frowned. She did not like the sound of what il braccio di Vulcan was possibly saying.

"What sort of things does it tell Draco to do to me?" Hermione asked in a tight whisper.

Hobbin twittered in a strangled laugh. "Hobbin will not say, but things that a man does with a woman..."

Hermione blushed. What sort of perverted artifact did Fabrizio Divina give Draco? Recovering herself, Hermione asked: "What sort of things does it tell Draco to build?"

"Empires."

"Empires," Hermione repeated, her brow furrowing as she leaned back against the headboard.

"Aye, houses, buildings, businesses, all for Galleons and fame."

"I see...that does not sound like the arm of Vulcan is 'hurting' Draco though."

Hobbin scoffed, "Master is a Malfoy! Master is possessed, but Master is fighting...Master's power is great...Master is a great wizard, but Master is greater with the arm. Hobbin is afraid though...afraid that Master will not be Master, and the blood oath that makes Master have power over the Mud-Granger will disappear."

Hermione smirked. She had been correct in her earlier suspicions about the oath weakening, but she had had no real clue linking the weakening oath to the Arm of Vulcan. It made sense, now that she thought about it. The Arm of Vulcan was a sentient artifact, having a will of its own, just as Signore Divina had said, but she could not see the harm in it, not now and after so long since the arm had attached itself to Draco.

"I see no worry about the oath weakening, Hobbin, and just so you know, Draco has no 'real' power over me. And despite what you might think of my heritage, or me, Draco would have no right to hold any power over me. I am not inferior and I am not his slave," Hermione said sternly, peering down at the elf twiddling his thumbs nervously on the rug at the side of her bed.

"Hobbin means no disrespect, Granger, but Master is the Malfoy heir...he must continue the line...with a Pureblood," Hobbin muttered dully although his words were significant.

Hermione laughed loudly, "Are you implying that...that Draco intends to continue his family line with me? You have to be joking!"

"Hobbin only knows what the arm says to the Master..."

Hermione cut her laughter short. A spreading tingling of horror swept through her body and she shivered, fisting her hands into her blankets. Memories of the night he had taken her...the night that he had let the arm attach itself...and the passion of that night swirled back into her mind, just behind her eyes.

'Shall I tell you that you were my ideal, as bossy, pathetic and weak as you were? And now, you're here, with me...all grown up and alive... And you're beautiful and refined, wearing your battle scars with dignity...'

There were other words, other nights, and Hermione felt as if her mind had stopped functioning and only the trace memory of his touch remained to consume her. Slowly, Hermione mastered herself, and the memories were tucked back away in the filing cabinet of her brain.

"I...I think you must be mistaken, Hobbin."

Hobbin narrowed his old yellowed eyes so that his long eyebrows obscured his somewhat credulous and sceptical gaze. Hobbin was no fool, and not some silly elf that did not know passion or love when it was brewing like a storm between his Master and the Granger woman...

"Was that all you wanted to tell me, Hobbin?" Hermione asked her voice a pitch higher and her nose in the air.

Hobbin scowled, or tried to, but his old, wrinkled face was nearly as emotionless as his voice. He knew it would be useless to speak anything more to the woman; he also knew that she would most likely do nothing about the thing attached to his Master since it was not exactly life-threatening. Hobbin had dared to hope that the woman would understand, remove the arm and herself from his Master's life... A Pureblood and a Mudblood...in love, although they barely knew it, was just unthinkable, especially when the Pureblood was a Malfoy and the last of his line. Hobbin knew the traditions, he knew that the bloodlines must remain pure, but even Hobbin was unsure...unsure about his Master, back from the dead, apparently only his Master in part because of the parasite attached to his Master, and because his Master wanted the Mudblood...and the Mudblood, somewhere hidden inside, wanted Hobbin's Master.

Hobbin, sitting on the cold rug, upon the cold floor, wished that he had died years ago instead of having to watch the catastrophe of the Master he now had to serve. With Master Abraxas and Master Lucius, things had been so much simpler. But Hobbin had known, even when Master Draco had been born, that the boy would be different from his sires...and Hobbin had waited for this difference to manifest for almost thirty years.

"Hobbin is done talking with Granger. Hobbin will have the Master's breakfast ready soon. Granger will get the leftovers..."

And with that, Hobbin faded away, propelling himself through space and time and back into the kitchen, which was now his to command as long as his Master was in Granger's 'flat.'

The ancient elf was troubled, to say the least, and could only hope in his old heart that his Master would return to the Manor soon...and maybe then the Granger woman would somehow fade from his Master's mind. It was wishful thinking at best, but Hobbin had a feeling that it would not be so easy. The Granger woman could not see how much of a problem the thing attached to his Master could be...it was not a 'Dark' thing, as the woman had said, but it was a 'Troublesome' thing.

Hobbin groaned as he moved through the ugly and terrible small Granger woman's kitchen, snapping his fingers to summon three more elves, quietly commanding them to bring food and dishes from the Manor, which had been pre-prepared beforehand. Hobbin would not use Granger's food, it was too course and common for a Malfoy, and he would not use Granger's dishes for they were cheap and Muggle, and Malfoys dined with the best china and the finest silver.

Hobbin did not really care much for Granger and wished his Master did not care so much for her either.