Author’s Note:
I had this idea in the middle of responding to SlytherinSal’s story Who let the Dad out? woof! woof! (found at https://www.fanfiction.net/r/14184915/ - go read it!) in a first chapter review and of course, I had to run with it.
That idea was: what if Family Magics recognized all house elves of that Family, no matter when they served and no matter how old the Family is? And like Jedi Force ghosts, they become part of the Family Magics when they pass on?
This being me, well, of course it’s not necessarily gonna fit with canon. It might be as closely as I’ve done before, however.
=-#-#-=
Seiche Sortiārius
Unknown Date, Early A.D.
Drex shivered as the aches and pains began to recede from his old body. He had served his master for ninety years, his master’s father for forty, and his master’s grandfather for twelve. He had been purchased to help the oldest master with the things that came with age and had been welcomed. All three masters had treated him well, for wizards, and there had been little to no complaints. Of course, there had been a learning period, but they had been mostly patient. It was much, much better than some of the things he and the other house elves had heard of.
The things that had been whispered of in passing and with the abilities of their kind had prompted much reaction in their free time, such as it was. There really wasn’t much that there could be done, as the increasing lot of a house elf was to be unseen and unheard. Stories came, from this elf and that elf, of the things that wizards and witches of all manners and all types.
Some of the stories were happy. Those elves that had masters and mistresses that treated them well were envied by those that didn’t. They didn’t brag – well, most didn’t brag. There were some bad apples that couldn’t help it, and they didn’t last long.
Some of the stories were terrible. Drex knew that in his final hours that he didn’t want to leave this life with those atrocities on his mind, so he tried to think of something else. It wasn’t easy, as his mind wandered so much now. The other house elves spent time with him on his sickbed, and the young mistresses did, too, but not all the time. The elves had work that needed doing and the little girls had schooling that needed doing.
Even Mistress Freya had come to see him. He hadn’t been assigned to her specifically, but The Mistress came anyway. All the elves thought of her with the capital letters, with the way that she interacted and loved all her elves as part of the Family.
She had asked him a question that he did his best to answer, even with the power of speech permanently taken from him by the gradual infirmities of his much greater age and the disease specific to house elves. Drex feared that he wouldn’t have been able to respond well enough for his Mistress. He struggled to communicate, but after a moment of his pained gasps, he felt the warmth of her larger hand over his weakened heart.
His body tightened for a final time, as his magic made a final coursing round through the nerves and pathways they had traveled for so long. He didn’t know how, but he knew then that she had understood despite his struggle to hold off Death long enough to answer her. The Magic of the Family had reassured him. It spoke to him, soothing his fears as much as the soft voice of Mistress Freya.
“It’s time, Drex. Let go. It’s all right for you to finally rest, old friend. We will be fine and the Family will endure. Do you understand?”
A smile came to his lips as easily as it had a century ago, as the body relinquished to Magic the pain that had been resident for a long time now.
“Yes, Mistress. Thank you for…”
He never finished the sentence. Drex didn’t get to tell his Mistress what he was thanking her for, as his heart wavered and stilled under her hand. His body relaxed for the final time, completely. Completely, but for the radiant smile sitting naturally on his face.
Tears shone in her eyes as Freya whispered, “You’re welcome.” She removed her hand from the still chest and watched as the body suddenly shone and sublimated itself into a magical ether. It was of a hue of yellow strikingly similar to sunflowers, the favorite of the house elf that had just left her presence. She watched as it faded away.
All on the grounds of the manor, and family on various assignments around the world, felt their Family Magic accept the entrance of Drex’s being. It slid into place as naturally as he had ever done and it was welcomed as the old friend that he’d ever been. It got that much stronger with the energy the old house elf contributed.
She stood. It was going to be a sad few days in the week to come - if not more - but the Family would endure, just as she promised him.
The Family kept its promises to any member. There were many house elves that knew that and they buttressed the Magic to make sure that happened.
=-#-#-=
967 A.D.
“Worm! Where is your dreadful hide?”
Edmund shouted. It was something that every house elf in his household knew. He shouted, somehow under the impression that it was something that had to be done when interacting with a house elf, subordinate, wife, mistresses, whores, or anyone really. Children got a break of a few decibels, but as they grew they were lumped into the same category as everyone else.
He wasn’t deaf, either. He had ears like a fox and could hear every little word spoken against him. After that, there was more shouting. Bruises, beatings, blood and worse came, if he was in the mood for it. As he was the Lord of the Manor and indeed, the surrounding area for many miles around, no one could say anything about it. Those that did made sure he was asleep first or at least very, very far away.
Edmund was a cruel man. He was on his fifteenth wife, fourteen of which weren’t given the choice of holy matrimony. The priests with magical talents despaired, both for Edmund’s soul and for those trapped with him. They did what they could to relieve the various agonies of the humans in their erstwhile flocks, but were forbidden to give aid or otherwise interact with house elves.
The priests without magic just despaired. Someone wearing a cassock was quite close to being murdered ‘just because.’ Edmund didn’t care who died whenever someone opposed him in any way, which explained both the priestly despairing and the many marriages.
“Worm!”
The young house elf sighed to himself. He’d hoped that there would be at least an hour’s peace so he could try to get his work done, but apparently not. He stepped out into the hall, managing to hide the flinch when he saw his master standing there.
“Yes, Master?”
“Worm.” The name was an epithet, spoken with as much slur and disgust as Edmund could pack into the single syllable. “I want to be served food. Now.”
The man turned without another word and stalked off to his chambers, pausing to kick a female elf that was on her knees to scrub at the threshold and the mud that had collected there. She flew through the air and landed on a pile of boots with a muffled squeak that didn’t hide the injuries. Edmund smiled, pleased at the result.
“Well? Hurry up or you’ll be next!”
“Yes, Master,” Worm replied in a rush, and hurried to get the master’s food. It was waiting and while he wanted to go to Queynte’s side and assist her, he knew that it was a bad idea. He could already hear the bubbling in her ragged breathing even from his position across the room.
He didn’t look, and the reproving tone of his own mind for that lack of action made his steps drag.
“WORM!”
“Right here, Master.” Luckily, he’d been able to use some of his magic to call the food-laden tray to him without Edmund seeing it. As far as the despicable man was concerned, he was the only one allowed to use the gifts of magic and the only one to bequeath it to others to use in his name. The house elves knew that it didn’t work that way, but also knew that it was better to keep that to themselves.
The room was quiet as the elf put the tray on a side table and arranged its contents before Edmund in just the way that he preferred. Soup directly in front, with a platter of meat directly behind it. Steaming bread to the left, wine to the right. Peas above the bread, in a small bowl, although sometimes he ate them and sometimes he didn’t.
Worm had to be vigilant. If Edmund didn’t like any of it, he often tossed it over his shoulder. It didn’t matter if the plates, platters, or bowls had anything in them still or not. Off it went, and Worm had to catch the crockery.
Edmund remained quiet as he ate his soup, guzzling it straight from the bowl held in his heavily callused hands. Worm supposed that was better than –
“WORM! You bastard!”
There wasn’t time to wonder what had happened, but he did see a small bone jutting through Edmund’s bloody cheek as the man jumped to his feet. There wasn’t time to wonder if that had been in the soup and Edmund had nearly swallowed it. There wasn’t time to wonder if he could duck as he felt those same hands grip him. Worm did wonder if he was going to feel the ground again.
He never did. Worm was dead from a snapped neck before a minute’s time had passed. The long-suffering house elf never heard Edmund stomp out of his chambers in a towering rage. He did what he wanted to do, then left the keep cursing and striking everything and everyone with both body and blade.
Almost an hour passed as the rooms fell silent but for the sobbing of those attacked. Worm’s body had long since stilled. Had anyone been in the mood to watch, they could have seen energy left in a soft blue hue, joined by seven others – some darker, some lighter. None of them wanted to join with the Family Magics thanks to their experiences with Edmund, but their servitude didn’t give them any choice in the matter.
However, Magic did allow them to remain in a watchful pose to wait for the day they all wanted to see. Many other shades of house elves watched as well.
=-#-#-=
March, 1998 A.D.
The attack had been violent, even as the group escaped. There had been struggles, with the ravages of the fighting showing on the faces and frames of all present. There had been sacrifices made, and it had not been a good or easy thing to do for any of them. The wind whipped through hairs and cut the chill through to everyone’s bones as the stress of the fight bled out.
For one in the small group, that was more literal.
The loyal little house elf lay cradled in Harry Potter’s arms. It was evident that he was dying. Harry was beside himself, the anger and worry and sadness-tinged denial powering his reactions to what he was seeing.
The cursed blade that Bellatrix had whipped toward them as they disappeared in the disapparition from Malfoy Manor had found a target, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Dobby had manipulated the Apparition stream to move between his Harry Potter Sir and himself. The young wizard didn’t even know if or how something like that was possible but it was also something that he wouldn’t have put past Dobby – at all. He had noticed that the little elf was sneakier than any three Potters put together.
There wasn’t much that could be done, as much wizarding healing magic didn’t necessarily work well on elves thanks to some of the incompatibilities. It was all too obvious that even if any of the young wizards had the knowledge or experience that their older compatriots possessed, there was simply too much damage. What the magic in the cursed blade hadn’t done, simple physics and the differences in the dense blade and Dobby’s softer, slighter frame had. The blade had been thrown with such force by the mad witch that while Dobby had intercepted the blade with his body, it was a wonder that it hadn’t sheared completely through him.
Still, they did what they could, magical methods mixing with the muggle methods that Hermione and Harry knew from living away from the wizarding world. Luna tried too, having long been fond of the little elf. The others tried, but they felt too much like they were all in the way and didn’t know what to do in the first place.
A small voice drifted up, sailing serenely through the hubbub and frantic activity.
“Dobby is happy to be with his friend, Harry Potter.”
Everyone knew then that there would be nothing more from the loyal elf. No one wanted to believe it, but there was a finality, not in Dobby’s words, but in the freedom with which he spoke. Dobby was a free elf. Free from the Malfoys’ abuses, free from the shackles of enforced servitude, free from the pain of battle. Slowly, one by one, they all stopped their efforts. Harry was the last one. Tears flowed freely in the open air.
Later, as Harry dug the grave by hand, Dobby’s body released the magic it contained in a rich green vapor. It went unnoticed and faded into something that couldn’t be perceived by something as simple as eyesight, but waited. It watched as Harry dug and dug, and dropped his tears with each bite of the shovel into the ground.
Finally, Harry stopped. The grave was dug and he paused for a moment to rest before the next part needed to be done. This was what Dobby’s magic had been waiting for, and made its way to Harry. It soaked itself into his skin and traveled along the nerves and magical pathways of Dobby’s undeclared Master to surround his heart.
Dobby was gone, but death wouldn’t stop him from serving his Master still, with the help of the Potter Family Magic. He had the company of every Potter house elf from times past and they all stood guard.
The End