#elf magic

Kreacher turned and cleared away the coffee and hot rolls he had served for breakfast.  Master had not eaten much today—none of them had.  A pity, that.  They would need their strength.  But Master never knew what was good for him.  He would be hungry when he returned, and Kreacher must not disappoint him. Kreacher crossed to the pantry and paused to take stock of the necessary ingredients for a steak-and-kidney pie. There was tinned beef stock in the pantry.  It would cut down quite a bit of time to use the tinned variety.  Making stock from scratch was such an arduous affair, even with magic to speed it along.  Mistress Walburga was always very particular that he should not use the tinned stock. She always claimed it was too salty. But Kreacher doubted Master Harry would know the difference.  Perhaps he could skip that step.  His back was aching, and he did not much fancy standing at the hob for all that time skimming off the fat.  He stared at the dusty tins of stock, absently sucking on his teeth.  One gnarled hand reflexively came up and ran across the smooth metal of Master Regulus’s locket which lay against his chest.  Then he set about gathering the necessary marrow bones and vegetables to make the stock from scratch. The morning ticked by.  Kreacher glanced at the clock on the wall as he finished crimping the pastry over the top of the pie.  It was near lunchtime and Master and his friends had still not returned. Had their plan gone awry? Kreacher could feel Master in the corner of his mind, just like he always could.  Just like he had been able to feel Master Sirius before him.  And Mistress Walburga and Master Orion and… and Master Regulus.  Over the course of his six hundred years on this earth, Kreacher had shared room in his brain with countless members of his noble family.   An elf could always feel his Master’s presence. It was a part of their magic. What good was a house-elf who could not immediately Apparate to his master’s side when he was needed?  Once, Kreacher had happily shared his mind with several members of the Black family.  But they had gone out, one-by-one, like the snuffing of candle after candle at the end of a long day.  Then there had been only Master Sirius.  Then there had been only Master Harry.  Sometimes it felt lonely with only one master left.  Kreacher still felt the empty places where so many others had once been. When Master Sirius had died, Kreacher had reviled at the feeling of Master Harry entering his mind.  It had been an infringement of all he believed in.  The Black family line had ended and now a half-blood Potter had forced his way in, just because of a slip of paper Master Sirius had spelled.  It was violating!  It was not to be born!  Kreacher had begged and begged whatever god might listen that Mistress Bellatrix would replace Master Sirius and had cried and sobbed when he had found it not so. Without thinking, Kreacher again caressed the locket hanging around his neck.  Things had changed since that day. Kreacher had changed.  Master Harry had changed.  They understood each other better now.  And Master Harry cared about Kreacher, Kreacher was sure of it.  Back then, Kreacher would never have believed that he would now find comfort in Master Harry’s place in his brain.  This small corner where his master’s presence sat quiet and undemanding.   Kreacher focused on this small corner of his mind for a moment, cocking his head to the side.  Master was not so very far away.  He was here in London—Kreacher could feel him in the direction of the Ministry, just as he should be.  Kreacher had no reason to think things were not going according to plan.  But why then was it taking them so very long? And why then was he so worried? Kreacher sliced a slit in the top of the pie to allow steam to escape, snapped his fingers to preheat the oven, and slipped the pie in.  He distractedly dusted off his hands on the tea towel he wore as he looked at the clock again.  Then he jumped.  He looked down at himself and furiously brushed the flour away.  Master must not return to see him looking so filthy!  Oh, the shame of it!  Kreacher would not have it.  He waved his hand over the table to clean away the remnants of flour and bits of pastry.  Then looked around the kitchen for his next task to complete while the pie baked.  But it was all sparkling clean.   Perhaps he would have a chat with Mistress Walburga’s portrait.  Kreacher hesitated.  He knew Master Harry did not like Kreacher talking with his mistress.  But he had never expressly forbidden Kreacher from doing so.  Still… Knowing that Master Harry would not like it made it feel like a betrayal. But he did so miss his mistress.  For so many years, she had been his only company. After Mistress Walburga had died, the only one left in his mind had been Master Sirius, and he had been locked away in Azkaban.  Kreacher had been left in this house with no one but his mistress’s portrait to give Kreacher instruction.  One little chat could not hurt. Kreacher climbed the stairs from the kitchen onto the ground floor.  All these steps in the house were becoming more and more challenging for his old stiff knees.  He wondered when his body would give out, and he would be unable to work.  At such time, he was sure Master Harry would do him to honour of mounting his head on the wall beside those of his forebearers. Master Harry respected Kreacher, after all.  Master Harry would want to do him this honour. He approached the dark velvet drapes covering Mistress’s portrait.  But before he could do more than pat the frame, he froze and jerked his head to the front door, ears flapping.  Master Harry was home! But something was wrong.  Kreacher had felt Master disappear from the Ministry of Magic to the south and reappear immediately just outside the front door as planned.  But why then would he immediately Disapparate again?  Now, Kreacher could feel him some two hundred miles to the west.  So far!  Why?  Why would he go so far and leave Kreacher behind? Kreacher was looking to the west in the direction of his master, but he startled as he heard the sound of an unmistakable scream of fury coming from the other side of the front door.  Then there was a thump, and he suspected whoever was on the other end had just punched the door in frustration.  Then there was silence.   Kreacher dared not move.  He sank into the shadows behind the curtains covering his mistress’s portrait, peering out toward the front door.  Then he heard, rather than saw, the doorknob being jiggled. Another pause.  And with a bang the door flew open off its hinges.  Kreacher sunk back still further into the folds of the drapes.   Two cautious footsteps sounded as the unknown trespasser crossed the threshold.   “Severus Snape?” the voice whispered out of the darkness as Kreacher knew it would. The new-comer had not expected it, however, for Kreacher heard him jump and curse as he stubbed his toe on the doorframe. “Lumos!” came a harsh voice, and a light ignited, shining down the hall into the darkness.  It passed over Kreacher’s location, but he was well hidden.  Gingerly, another footstep crossed further into the hall. And, as Kreacher peered out through a gap in the curtains, the tall, ghostly figure of Albus Dumbledore rose up from the carpet and charged toward the intruder. “What the bloody hell!  I’m not Snape!  I didn’t kill you!  Gerroff me!” But the figure of Albus Dumbledore had already burst into a cloud of dust and disappeared.  For a moment, there was just the sound of a few shaky breaths coming from the dark figure, shrouded in the resultant dust cloud. But this gradually transitioned into quiet huffs of laughter.  “Not so scary now, are you, you old codger?” Then the figure advanced again.  And as he emerged from the cloud of dust, Kreacher could make out a tall man with hard, blunt features.  Kreacher recognised the face from photos he had seen in Master’s Daily Prophet.  This man worked in the Ministry.  High up in the Ministry.  Which meant he was no friend to Master Harry. “Homenum revelio,” the figure muttered, looking around the hall.  He waited, but nothing happened.  The man merely stood there, looking around the entrance hall. “This is headquarters….” the man muttered to himself.  “The fools brought me straight into the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix!” There was quiet again for a moment.  Then a sound escaped the man’s throat that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  “Thank Merlin.  Harry Potter may have escaped, but I can give him this!  The Dark Lord will not punish me too harshly!  I’m saved!” And then the man began to laugh.  It was a small quiet laugh of relief at first. But it grew.  Became more hysterical.  More manic.  And as the pitch and volume crescendoed— “FILITH!  HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS ON THE HOUSE OF MY FATHER?” “What the—” The man whipped around, pointing his wandlight directly at the portrait of Mistress Walburga who was now screaming at the top of her lungs.  Kreacher reflexively patted his mistress’s frame to calm her, even if he shrank further back behind the curtains.   “BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE!  HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE HOME OF MY FOREBEARERS WITH YOUR UNWORTHY PRESENCE?” He could hear the man approaching cautiously. Kreacher had to leave.  And leave quickly.  He would be discovered at any moment.  And then what?  He did not care for his own safety.  But Master… Kreacher knew too much.  And he feared what methods the Dark Lord would have to extract that information.  He would be putting Master at risk.  No, he must leave.  But where? Where could he go?  He could not return to Master—Kreacher was bound to this house and Master had not summoned Kreacher to his side.   Hogwarts.  It was the only option.  Master had sent Kreacher to work in the kitchens in Hogwarts last year, so his bindings extended there.  If staying in the Black ancestral home was not an option, he would default to his previous instruction.  He would be safe there.  He could blend in with the other house-elves.  No one would look for him there.  For he was below their notice.  He must go to Hogwarts.  He would wait there until Master Harry summoned him, as he was sure to do.  For Master Harry cared for Kreacher.  He was sure to call for him, sooner or later. And just as a long-fingered hand curled itself around the drapes just over Kreacher’s head, preparing to rip them aside, Kreacher Disapparated.   Even as he deserted his post, Kreacher found himself thinking of the steak-and-kidney pie, still in the oven. It would be burned by now. Kreacher must punish himself. Mistress Walburga was always very adamant that he should punish himself should ever he burn the dinner.

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The months stretched on.  And still Master did not summon Kreacher.  Oh why, oh why would he not summon Kreacher?   Kreacher could feel Master Harry inside his head.  His master moved frequently.  Every couple of days, Kreacher would feel his presence disappear from one place only to reappear immediately somewhere quite different.  Constantly, his master moved all about the country.  To everywhere except to Kreacher’s side. Frequently, Kreacher thought of going to him. But it was not the place of a house-elf to go to his master if his master did not have the mind to summon him.  A house-elf’s place was not to be seen or heard.  It was to serve his master quietly, efficiently, and out of sight. But how could Kreacher serve him from here?  How frustrating this was. At his place in the Hogwarts Kitchens, Kreacher chopped vegetables in preparation for the evening’s dinner.  He wiped his hands on the tea towel he was wearing.  He had spilled soup down his front at lunchtime, but he had not bothered to change. Who was there to care if he was dirty? Abruptly, Kreacher dropped his knife and turned his head.  Master was moving again.  But it was different this time.  Master Harry had stopped for an unprecedentedly long time somewhere far to the southwest.  He had stayed there for two full weeks.  Kreacher had never known Master to stay in one place so long since he had abandoned Grimmauld Place.  It made Kreacher worry that Master had been injured. But just that morning, Kreacher had felt his Master disappear and reappear in the direction of London.  Yes, Kreacher was quite sure Master was in London. Diagon Alley, he thought.  This seemed a most dangerous a place for Master to be going.  Kreacher did not like it.  And he had been there for several hours now. But now Master Harry was moving.  He was moving north.  But something was odd.  Very odd.  Normally, Master would simply Apparate to his next location.  But this time, he was moving at a steady pace.  Fast, but nowhere near as fast as Apparition.  And far too straight a line to be using any Muggle transportation.  Kreacher cocked his head, staring across the kitchen, but not really seeing it. Staring in the direction of his master. “Kreacher finds this very odd. Very odd indeed,” he muttered to himself. “Kreacher is still waiting for his master to summon him,” came a mocking voice beside him.  Kreacher looked around to see Tobbin depositing an armful of carrots on the counter, next in line to be chopped for dinner.  “Ooh, when will Kreacher give up and accept that his master has forgotten Kreacher.  That his master does not want him.  Kreacher must be a very bad elf for his master to have sent Kreacher so far away.” Kreacher glowered at the other elf. Kreacher would never truly fit in here. The loyalty of these elves lay with the Headmaster of Hogwarts.  And they all knew that Kreacher’s loyalty was elsewhere.  And they looked down on him for it.  “Tobbin tells lies,” Kreacher croaked.  “Tobbin should shut his mouth and not say things he understands not. Master Harry cares for Kreacher. Master Harry merely wants Kreacher to be safe,” he snarled.  “Tobbin is just jealous that he does not have so great a master as Kreacher has!” And he grasped a carrot and with a harsh swing of his knife, cut away the greens with unnecessary force.  But as he continued peeling and chopping carrots, he knew he was so angry at Tobbin because he spoke the things that Kreacher feared.  Perhaps Master Harry had forgotten him.  Perhaps Master Harry did not care for Kreacher. He suspected that the only reason the Hogwarts house-elves continued to tolerate Kreacher was that Master Harry still held their respect.  Rumours had reached them last week that Dobby, their former colleague, was dead. Killed by Bellatrix Lastrange. And rumour also said that Master Harry had been seen digging a grave for him.  A grave with a tombstone.  A grave such as would be dug for a wizard.  Such as would be dug for an equal.  It was a great honour.  And the elves of Hogwarts recognised it.  Kreacher wondered if his master would do him the same honour one day.  But no.  Kreacher was not ambitious.  He wished for nothing more than for his head to be mounted on the wall among those of his forebearers. Dinner prepared and laid out on the five tables of the kitchen, Tobbin snapped his fingers to send the meal up through the ceiling to their corresponding tables in the Great Hall above.  Tobbin was very proud of this duty and was sure to be available every mealtime to complete this most privileged task. “Nasty little show-off, Tobbin is,” Kreacher muttered to himself.  “Lording it over the rest of us hard-working elves.  Oh one day, Kreacher will show him.  One day he will see.” As they all set about washing up, Kreacher again paused, head swivelling.  Master had stopped.  He had settled directly to the south, but closer than he had been to Kreacher in some time.  The Lake District.  Yes. He seemed to have stopped here. Kreacher suspected he would set up camp for the night.  It must be getting dark outside at this hour.  Kreacher went back to washing dishes.   The evening was drawing to a close.  Soon the students would be in their beds and the house-elves would venture out to clean the house common rooms.   CLANG! Kreacher had just dropped a large soapy stock pot.  It now rolled back and forth on the floor of the kitchen, its hollow sound ringing around the room.  All eyes had turned to stare at Kreacher.  Then they sighed and shook their heads at him and returned to their work. But Kreacher didn’t care.  He didn’t care what these elves thought of him.  For his Master was here.  He felt him.  He had just Apparated into Hogsmeade.  He was here! He had come for Kreacher! But the joy Kreacher felt dissipated as fast as it had come.  Master Harry must not come here!  It was not safe!  He must know the Death Eaters had control of the school.  He would be caught for sure!  He must go away.  Far far away. Kreacher stood there, stock pot forgotten on the floor.  He sucked his teeth unsure what he should do.  A particularly small and kindly elf named Kiffy zipped over and picked up the stock pot.  She patted Kreacher on the shoulder sympathetically before proceeding to take over washing the dishes Kreacher had abandoned. Tobbin Disapparated.  It was his job to provide turn-down for the Headmaster. Tobbin thought himself very important because of this.  But at that moment, Kreacher was too preoccupied to care about Tobbin’s self-importance. Kreacher did not know what to do.  He did not want to do anything that might alert the Death Eaters to his master’s presence.  He stroked the locket hanging around his neck over and over to bring himself comfort. He, of course, felt the moment Master Harry entered the castle a short time later.  Kreacher paced the floor in front of the fire.  He prayed his master would give him instruction.  The minutes ticked by, excruciatingly slow.   There was a crack as Tobbin reappeared in the kitchen.  “Elves! Master Headmaster Snape warns us there may be an attack on the school!  He tells us to keep to the kitchens out of the way!” There were squeals and a flurry of commotion as elves around them cried, “How?” and “Why?” and Tobbin was immediately surrounded by elves seeking more explanation.  Tobbin proceeded tell all he knew (which Kreacher did not think much), looking very important. But Kreacher did not listen.  His fear for his master had redoubled.  Let him call Kreacher.  Let Master call him.  He could Apparate him away from this place.  Just let him call him. Sounds of commotion could be heard from above. Hundreds of students were thundering down the stairs above them in the direction of the Great Hall.   Outside the kitchen door, he heard the Hufflepuffs leaving their dormitories, heading up.  The elves stared up at the ceiling trying to discern what was going on above. And still Master Harry did not summon him. And then a voice rang out.  A high-pitched cruel voice.  A voice Kreacher would know anywhere, though a voice he had not heard in nineteen years.  “I know that you are preparing to fight.”  There were screams amongst the house-elves as they clutched at each other, looking around in terror for the source of the voice.   “Your efforts are futile.  You cannot fight me.  I do not want to kill you.  I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts.  I do not want to spill magical blood.  Give me Harry Potter and none shall be harmed.  Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.   You have until midnight.” Kreacher looked up.  All around him, elves were looking at him.  But he didn’t know what they could possibly expect of him. There was more commotion up above as students seemed to be ushered out of the Great Hall and up the stairs again.  But the elves merely settled in to wait.

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The hours stretched.  The house-elves of Hogwarts huddled together in fear, flinching and whimpering at the sound of every bang and crash and explosion from above. A few times, the castle rattled so hard, dust drifted down on them from above.  Kreacher hoped they would not all get buried down here if the ceiling caved in. He did not cower like the rest. He paced back and forth, back and forth. He must be ready when his master called him. A couple hours into the battle above, Kreacher felt as Master Harry moved away across the grounds.  He was far from the castle now.  Or was he in Hogsmeade?  He would be near the boarders, but Kreacher could not understand how he could have gotten out of the grounds during such a battle.  

Then a shudder went around all the elves of the kitchen as one.  Kreacher squinted at them trying to understand why they had suddenly all gone white and cried out in shock.  But then Kiffy wailed, “Ooh, Master Headmaster Snape.  He is gone, he is gone!  Ooh, my master!”

“I is feeling Mistress Professor McGonagall,” Tobbin said, looking very shaken.  And several house-elves nodded that they too cool feel a new Mistress taking charge.  And around the room there was crying and moaning.  Kreacher could not say if they truly grieved for their master’s death or merely for the loss of his place in their minds.  It was not a pleasant feeling and one Kreacher knew only too well.

But he could not dwell on this long.  For just a few minutes later, the harsh voice of the Dark Lord sounded again.

“You have fought valiantly.  Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one.  I do not wish this to happen.  Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.”  Kreacher seethed.  Not elf blood.  The Dark Lord cared nothing for elf blood.  He had been plenty willing to sacrifice Kreacher to the inferi.  He was responsible for the death of Master Regulus. And now he claims that magical blood is precious to him?  “Lord Voldemort is merciful.  I command my forces to retreat immediately.  You have one hour.  Dispose of your dead with dignity.  Treat your injured.”

“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.  I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest.  If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences.  This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me.  One hour.”

Kreacher did not realise he was shaking his head until his ears smacked him in the face one after the other.  “Master Harry must not listen to him.  Master Harry must not go.  Master Harry must call Kreacher to him, and Kreacher will Apparate him far from this place.”  But still, master did not call him.

But Kreacher felt relief as he felt his master turn away from the forest.  Master re-entered the castle from his place far far out on the grounds.  Kreacher felt him upstairs now.  Kreacher breathed a sigh of relief.  He was not laying down arms so easily.  

His relief was short-lived, however.  For not long after, Kreacher felt Master leaving the castle again.  Walking in the direction of the Forest.  No! Why was no one stopping him! Where was the blood-traitor brat and the Mudblood?  Was that not what they were good for?  “Call Kreacher to you, Master,” he groaned, still pacing back and forth.  “Call Kreacher.”

The designated hour came and went. Kreacher and the others watched the clock on the wall.  They knew when the hour was up.  And with no sounds from above, Kreacher saw as the elves began to fidget and fret again.

But Kreacher felt hope.  The hour was up.  And still his master lived!  He had not gone to the Dark Lord.  He had a different plan!  A better plan.  Master was clever and resourceful.  He had found a way to escape!

Kreacher felt his knees make hard contact with the floor.  

It was very swift in the end.  One minute Master Harry was there, a comforting weight in Kreacher’s mind.  

And then he was gone.  

One more candle snuffed out.  The same as Master Regulus.

“Nooo,” Kreacher croaked.  Tears were streaming down his snout-like nose, but he made no effort to wipe it.  “No no no, Master Harry!   Noooooo.”

Kreacher knelt there on the kitchen floor, rocking backwards and forwards.  Sobbing into the quiet kitchen.  Dimly he was aware of the other elves watching him sympathetically.  They knew.  They understood.

Kreacher was clutched his hands over his ears, screaming his grief at the loss of a part of himself that had so needlessly been torn away.  He was gone. Master was gone.  He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying.  But after a bit, he was left gasping on all fours as the shock wore off.  And slowly his mind began to register something even more horrifying.  

Master Harry was dead.  He was gone.  And no one had taken his place.  He had left Kreacher behind again.  But now… now Kreacher was horrifyingly, terrifyingly alone.

When Kreacher had passed to Master Harry, he was no longer a member of the Black family.  He had passed to the Potter family.  But Master Harry was the last of the Potters.  There was no one left.  His line had ended.  His house was finished.  And Master Harry had not written a will as Master Sirius had done.  There was no one there.    

Kreacher stared in horror at nothing. Tears no longer streaked down his face, for he was beyond tears.  He could feel the crunching stiffness of the skin of his cheeks from the dried salt on his face.  Gently, he probed the corner of his brain where his master should be.  But there was no one there.

Kreacher was a free elf.

“No.  No,” Kreacher muttered.  “No. Kreacher is not wanting it.  He is not wanting to be a free elf.  Come back, Master Harry.  Come back.”  Anyone. Please please, anyone!  He would even serve the blood-traitor Weasleys, he didn’t care, but there must be someone.  He could not be alone.  He could not. “Come back, Master Harry!  Come back!” he screamed into the quiet void.

And then Kreacher blinked.  For much to his surprise, Master Harry did come back.

Kreacher sat up slowly.  His back was stiffly erect where he still knelt on the floor.  He probed at the corner of his mind again.  And sure enough, that was Master Harry.  He was sure of it.

His eyes roved around the room, trying to see if this made sense to any of the other elves, but of course they could not feel what he felt.  They were merely sitting, avoiding eye contact, giving him privacy in his grief.

There was an eerie silence that had fallen around the castle as they sat, waiting.  All that he could hear was the crackling of the fire and the periodic sniffs of the frightened elves around him.  

And his master was moving.  Moving out of the forest in Kreacher’s direction.

Kreacher merely sat, perfectly still, trying to make sense of it.  How? How was it possible?  Master Harry had been gone.  He had died and left Kreacher behind.  But now that place in his mind told him that his master was back. He was there.  Moving closer and closer.  At last Kreacher felt Master’s presence nearly just above him.  He cocked his head and stared up toward the ceiling of the kitchen, completely mystified.

“NO!”  Several elves jumped as the sound of a scream from the Entrance Hall above broke the silence.   Then more screams joined in.  

“No!”

“No!”

“Harry!  HARRY!”

“SILENCE!” came the Dark Lords scream, magically amplified to ensure not one person missed a single word.  “It is over!  Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”

There was quiet for a moment.  Then, “You see?  Harry Potter is dead!  Do you understand now, deluded ones?  He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

All around the kitchen, eyes were darting toward Kreacher.  Eye full of pity.  For the house-elves knew the pain of losing one’s master.  Or they thought they did, for Kreacher doubted the elves of Hogwarts who passed from Headmaster to Headmaster could ever understand in earnest. Kreacher ignored them.  He merely sat there, shaking his head in bewilderment.

He did not understand.  His master was alive!  He could feel him!  It made no sense!  “Master is alive,” he croaked, more to himself.  “Kreacher can feel him.  Master is alive.”  The other elves merely looked at him with even greater pity.  They thought him mad.  Slowly, Kreacher rose to his feet.

There were more cries and voices from above, but Kreacher paid them no mind.  It was too difficult to gather what was going on upstairs.  But of one thing Kreacher was certain.  Master was alive.  And Kreacher would go to him.  He did not care that Master had not summoned him.  If he had to punish himself for it, it did not matter.  He had to see his master.  Had to understand.

But in that moment, he had a sense of clarity about one thing.  No, Master Harry would not call him to his side.  But Master had not forgotten Kreacher.  He had not left him behind.  He had been fighting for something bigger than Kreacher.  Bigger than himself.  But he would not fight alone.  Kreacher would not have it.  

There were bangs and screams coming from above again, and his fellow house-elves were cowering where they crouched, frozen in fear.  Scoot surreptitiously sneaked closed to the table, clearly preparing to dart underneath it, and Kiffy buried her face in a handkerchief.  No one spoke, but with every

bang

from above, there would come a flinch and a whimper from around the room.

“Is the house-elves cowards,” Kreacher said into the quiet.  All around him, wide eyes turned his way again.  “Is the house-elves not serving this school?”

“We is serving as best we can,” piped up Scoot indignantly.  “But we is not knowing what to do.”  The other elves nodded their agreement, ears flapping, eyes brimming with tears.  

Kreacher stared around at them in awe of their idiocy.  “We fight,” said Kreacher plainly.

“We is house-elves, Kreacher,” reasoned Tobbin. “We clean.  We cook.  We is not knowing how to fight.  We is not strong enough.”

Kreacher stared around the kitchen.  Then he marched deliberately to the nearest knife block on the counter, and drew out a sharp carving knife in one sweeping motion. “House-elves is strong enough,” he declared.  All eyes were on him, and Kreacher was not sure if their looks were out of awe of his bravery or of his insanity.  “House-elves is not weak.  House-elves is powerful.  House-elves is having more powerful magic than any of those wizards upstairs. Maybe even the Dark Lord.  It is time house-elves learned to use it!”

All around him, his fellow elves were exchanging glances.  Yes, Kreacher was quite sure they thought him mad.  But it did not matter.  “My master is giving his life for this cause.  He is giving his life to save everyone in this castle.  Kreacher include.  Tobbin included.  Scoot and Kiffy and Nippin included!  My master is dying so the elves can have a better life.  My master is giving Dobby a wizard’s burial because he is believing elves are good.  He is believing elves deserve more.

“Kreacher knows the Dark Lord.  The Dark Lord cares nothing for the lives of elves. He is seeing us as expendable.  Weak.  Less than nothing.  But Kreacher will prove him wrong.  Kreacher is alive because wizards like Master Harry and Master Regulus think otherwise. And Kreacher will fight for their cause. Kreacher will fight for Master.”

Kreacher glared around the room, challenging them.  “And the elves of Hogwarts will fight with him,” he concluded, his voice dropping deadly soft.  Again, the elves exchanged glances amongst themselves.

“But… Master Headmaster Snape instructed us to stay in the kitchen,” said Nippin hesitantly.

“Master Headmaster Snape is dead,” Kreacher replied savagely.  “Mistress McGonnagall is being the house-elves mistress now.  And your mistress is now upstairs fighting.  Defending Hogwarts as the house-elves should be doing!”

There was a murmur around the room, and again. Uncertain looks were exchanged.  

“We fight,” said Kreacher vehemently, staring around at all the frightened faces around him.

After a small pause in which several house-elves merely stared at him in fear, Tobbin rose to his feet, giving a small nod. Kreacher could see him trembling, but he stood with his chin held high in that self-important way that Kreacher always hated.  Kreacher braced himself for the inevitable argument.  But it did not come.  “We fight,” Tobbin intoned back.

Kreacher glared around at the rest of them. “We fight!” he said, louder this time.

There was a murmur. And then more elves were getting to their feet.  “We fight!” they called back.  

“We fight!”

Kreacher cried.

“WE FIGHT!” the whole room chorused back. And no one was left seated.  And in a flurry of motion, all around the kitchen, elf after elf was helping himself to knives and cleavers.  One grasped the poker from the fireplace and another the small hatchet used to make kindling.

“FOR MY MASTER!  FOR THE DEFENDER OF THE HOUSE-ELVES!” Kreacher called.

“FOR THE DEFENDER OF THE HOUSE-ELVES!!!” they all screamed back in unison.

And as Kreacher stormed up the stairs toward the Entrance Hall with a hundred elves at his back, he cared not that his back ached or that his knees were stiff.  He cared not that he could be killed in this effort.  As Kreacher charged out, carving knife held high, all he cared about was getting to his master who needed him.

And as they burst through the doors and swarmed out into the Entrance Hall, Kreacher called to rally his compatriots. “Fight!  Fight!  Fight for my master, defender of the house-elves!  Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus!  Fight!”

Kreacher made this choice for himself. It was not because he was ordered to do so.  He made this choice because it was want he wanted.  He made this choice because it was what he believed in.

Kreacher was not a free elf.  Kreacher would never be a free elf.  

For he was a part of something bigger.  Something more.