In Which Draco is Led to the Kitchens
Draco was alone again.
He huffed, actively clearing out his lungs of McGonagall’s office. This was going to be a lot to adjust to, even with the news just beginning to settle in the pit of Draco’s stomach. It was certainly something to stew over, but it would have to be later. He could unpack all of the implications of this cry over not knowing what was going to happen later, shut up in the dorm while everyone else went to extracurricular activities. He began down the halls of Hogwarts again, his echoing steps fading into obscurity underneath the buzzing of his mind.
Draco was lost.
This was a part of the castle he hadn’t been to since his first year, and he didn’t remember the layout at all. One would think he would just retrace his steps, at least to the potions classroom if not the common room, right? Nope. The halls had decided to move while he was talking with Professor McGonagall. There were no portraits here to ask for directions, and even then, Draco wasn’t about to regress to his insufferable, haughty, and naive First Year self.
And so, he wandered. He made himself move, never lingering in one hall or corridor for too long. His hand continuously brushed the rough, pitted walls of the castle, the pads of his fingers going numb with the unchanging texture. Every staircase he encountered, he took it down to the level below. ‘Down’ was a good place to start, right?
“Hey!” a squeaky voice echoed through the halls, startling Draco. His head spun, anxiously searching for the source of the voice. His gaze landed on a duo of house elves scampering down the hall towards him.
Both of them were thin, as most house elves were. The apparent leader, the taller of them, was about a head shorter than your average first year and had skin the color of young tree bark. The other was barely tall enough to grab onto Draco’s tie. Its smock had been taken in, giving the elf a rather feminine shape, and its hands were almost paper-white.
“You’re the one Missy sent us after!” The leading elf said, sounding undecided between a statement and a question. This was the elf who’d spoken before.
“Yes?” Draco’s answer was far more clipped than he’d intended. Dammit, now he sounded like an ass when he didn’t want to! “Yes, I was told a ‘Missy’ was looking for me.”
That wasn’t going to save the interaction. Shit.
“Missy said you might be upset, Professor McGonagall did call you in. Let’s get you to the kitchens, she’ll know what to do.” The pale elf broke in meekly, its voice far less grating than the first’s.
“Hold on, he’ll at least need to know our names!” the first elf squawked, glaring indignantly at the second.
“Fine. I’m Cayenne, and this is Broom,” The pale elf- Cayenne- huffed, sending Draco an exasperated look. “Just follow us, Mr. Malfoy, we’ll get you to the kitchens.”
Cayenne proceeded to turn on its- their- heel, dragging Broom with them. Draco had no choice but to trail behind while the two whispered at each other so he couldn’t hear.
He followed the elves, the two of them bickering quietly amongst themselves. Something about how a turkey was to be cooked for the Ravenclaw’s table, Draco wasn’t really paying attention.
One of them- Broom, Draco remembered- flicked its wrist towards the wall where the Hufflepuff common room was set. A tapestry close to the entrance flew open, revealing yet another of the castle's secret passages. The competing smells of hundreds of delicious foodstuffs and a blast of heat assaulted Draco, as the elves hurried him through.
When they’d finished bundling him down the narrow corridor as if he were a basket of laundry, they dumped him out in the only corner of the kitchen that wasn’t MOVING. House elves scurried back and forth, a constant din of shouted instructions and requests while various meats sizzled and spat, pots boiled and steamed, and other such kitchen-associated chaos dominated the room.
Magic made chickens roast themselves as pans of sauces and various utensils whizzed overhead into a plethora of open hands. Considering how much of a minefield this room of the castle was, Draco was glad that he’d ducked into the closest corner he could find. None of the elves seemed to pay attention to him, short of a few glances and a short, loud string of questions, answers, and affirmations about him.
He stood. He watched. He waited.
The elves cooked. They talked and gossiped and shouted at each other all the while, their hands completely detached from their mouths (a notion many other students couldn’t hope to comprehend).
One particular little house elf came up to him after a while, their hands knobbier and longer than the rest. Their head tilted down, their gaze directed to the floor so that Draco couldn’t see their eyes. Quietly, gently, they took Draco’s hand and led him through the chaos to a stool on the other side of the room for him to sit. As soon as he was there, they nodded to themselves and hurried off, flitting between a number of pots and pans before Draco lost track of them.
Which one was Missy? McGonagall said that she was concerned about Draco in particular, so why? The house elves knew how Dobby had been treated in his house, they had to by now, so why be concerned about him?
He sat heavily on the little stool and sighed, letting his bag drop to the ground next to him. When would this end? This whole ordeal was tiring him.
— — —
He sat and watched as the house elves prepared the legendary feast of the Great Hall, the grandiose display gradually coming together more and more. Massive swathes of food and completed displays slowly overtook every horizontal surface that wasn’t actively cooking something else or cleaning itself. Fumes of spicy curries that made your eyes burn and hearty roasted pork choked the room. Entire racks of beef ribs dripped with rendered fat and spices, each piled on top of a bed of steamed or roasted veggies. The skins of whole lambs cracked and hissed as spiced oil was brushed on. Hell, one of the turkeys had been deep-fried, with no indication of which House table it was going to!
Sweets of all kinds piled themselves up, treats both hot enough to burn and cold enough to freeze blood. Apples were mashed and strained into hundreds upon hundreds of cups and goblets, and then topped off, one by one, with the usually quite bitter pumpkin juice.
It was only after watching all this come together that Draco noticed a small house elf with large, floppy ears, and pale blue eyes roasting a bird on a spit over an open fire. The first thing he noticed was their eyes, locking with his in a way that made glancing away feel disrespectful. Eyes that pierced the heart and soul. How long had they been staring at him? That little elf, with their thin, knobby hands and striking eyes, continued to stare, refusing to let Draco look away. That stare continued, morphing in a way that made Draco feel both safe- and terrified.
It felt as if they could see right through him. That they could, at a mere glance, see what words he was tortured with every day in Malfoy Manor. The futile struggle he faced, knowing he would never be enough and trying anyways. This, he was sure, was the elf he had been told would find him. How could they not be, when they refused to look away from him?
Draco felt pinned, as if this little elf had called the very walls of the castle forward to hold him in place. That little elf, with those impossibly pale blue eyes, had to be Missy. What a small, benign name for such a crushing presence.
Another elf crossed between Draco and ‘Missy’. The pressure was gone, those blue eyes averted to their original task.
What the hell was that? Draco knew he wouldn’t think like that on his own. He wasn’t some hopeless romantic, he wasn’t a naive first year, so what was that?
Draco directed his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap, and decided to keep it there until the Hogwarts kitchens finally went still.