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ap_aelfwineThe Heirloom (edited drabble, 404 words)
An Harry Potter fanfic by Andrew Aelfwine
Characters: Hermione, Kreacher
Pairings: none
Warnings: offscreen violence
Summary: Sequel to "The Heirloom". Hermione can't stop thinking about the axe...
Hermione can’t stop thinking about the axe. Every day she finds herself wandering into that cluttered sitting room, looking at the weapon where it sits on the table. Sometimes she strokes the handle, finding the comfortable spot where her hand fits just so. Once she hefts it, testing the balance, feeling how one grips it with both hands, how the muscles guide and focus the blow whilst the weight and speed and sharpness of the blade and the leverage of the shaft do the work. She brings her Old Norse lexicon, and deciphers the runes scribed on the blade, just below the eye: “Regin made me, for Svart Njal he made me, Troll-biter he named me.”
She tries to stay away, but it’s no use. One night she gets up and goes downstairs in her dressing gown. She’s sitting in a chair with the axe across her knees when Kreacher comes in.
“You needn’t tell me I’m a filthy Mudblood defiling the sacred axe of House Black,” she says. “I already know.”
“If it must put its paws on the Axe,” Kreacher says, “it could pretend to have honour.”
“Oh? And how would I do that?”
“By doing that which the Mistress can no longer do, that which Master Blood-traitor–“
”Use small words,” Hermione says. “I’m a Mudblood, remember?”
“It could send Kreacher to Kreacher’s ancestors.” The elf says. “Even in a Mudblood’s hands, the Axe would still be the Axe.”
“Where?” Hermione says.
“A House Elf’s place is in the kitchen.”
Hermione stands. “Let us go to the kitchen, Kreacher.”
“Yes, M...Mistress.” She has never seen a House Elf stand up so straight before, not even Dobby.
He kisses her hand before laying his head on the chopping block, with a flash of graceful formality that reminds her of Viktor’s great uncle whom she met over the summer in London. House Elf lips feel dry and cool.
It takes only one stroke, thankfully; she thinks of Nearly Headless Nick, and Mary Queen of Scots. There’s less blood than she expected; what there is is greenish and thin as tree sap. In a few minutes it soaks into the block, leaving no stain.
Only later, lying awake in bed after she’s consigned Kreacher’s body to the kitchen fire and mounted his head next his relatives', does she realise that tonight was the first time she had asked a House Elf's wishes.
An Harry Potter fanfic by Andrew Aelfwine
Characters: Hermione, Kreacher
Pairings: none
Warnings: offscreen violence
Summary: Sequel to "The Heirloom". Hermione can't stop thinking about the axe...
Hermione can’t stop thinking about the axe. Every day she finds herself wandering into that cluttered sitting room, looking at the weapon where it sits on the table. Sometimes she strokes the handle, finding the comfortable spot where her hand fits just so. Once she hefts it, testing the balance, feeling how one grips it with both hands, how the muscles guide and focus the blow whilst the weight and speed and sharpness of the blade and the leverage of the shaft do the work. She brings her Old Norse lexicon, and deciphers the runes scribed on the blade, just below the eye: “Regin made me, for Svart Njal he made me, Troll-biter he named me.”
She tries to stay away, but it’s no use. One night she gets up and goes downstairs in her dressing gown. She’s sitting in a chair with the axe across her knees when Kreacher comes in.
“You needn’t tell me I’m a filthy Mudblood defiling the sacred axe of House Black,” she says. “I already know.”
“If it must put its paws on the Axe,” Kreacher says, “it could pretend to have honour.”
“Oh? And how would I do that?”
“By doing that which the Mistress can no longer do, that which Master Blood-traitor–“
”Use small words,” Hermione says. “I’m a Mudblood, remember?”
“It could send Kreacher to Kreacher’s ancestors.” The elf says. “Even in a Mudblood’s hands, the Axe would still be the Axe.”
“Where?” Hermione says.
“A House Elf’s place is in the kitchen.”
Hermione stands. “Let us go to the kitchen, Kreacher.”
“Yes, M...Mistress.” She has never seen a House Elf stand up so straight before, not even Dobby.
He kisses her hand before laying his head on the chopping block, with a flash of graceful formality that reminds her of Viktor’s great uncle whom she met over the summer in London. House Elf lips feel dry and cool.
It takes only one stroke, thankfully; she thinks of Nearly Headless Nick, and Mary Queen of Scots. There’s less blood than she expected; what there is is greenish and thin as tree sap. In a few minutes it soaks into the block, leaving no stain.
Only later, lying awake in bed after she’s consigned Kreacher’s body to the kitchen fire and mounted his head next his relatives', does she realise that tonight was the first time she had asked a House Elf's wishes.
