A/N: guys I want to upload more but my motivation is all time low so for now you get what you get. Well enjoy and comment, review and give some ps.
"What did you do to Kreacher, Hermione?" Ron wailed that evening. "He won't even make dinner — my herb-roasted ribs!"
Hermione hung her head, eyes red.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"Ron, eat your food and leave her be for a bit!" Ginny said coldly, slamming a plate of freshly made sandwiches down in front of him. "Aren't these sandwiches enough to keep your mouth shut? — Shut up!"
"Thank you, Ginny, these are delicious," Harry said quickly.
Hermione was in a poor mood the rest of that night.
She said she needed to keep working on her Forgetfulness Potion recipe, and skipped the usual wizard chess marathon and card games with Harry and the others.
Before heading upstairs, Ginny opened the potion-room door once more, leaning against the frame. "Hermione — should I stay with you?"
"It's all right, Ginny — go have fun with the others." Hermione nodded toward the steaming cauldron. "The next steps need my full attention, so I probably won't have much time to talk."
Ginny hesitated, then offered a few quiet words of comfort. "Hermione, please, just leave Kreacher be, all right? He's not worth all this effort. You could spend your time on something that actually matters—"
"Thank you, Ginny." Hermione managed a small, forced smile. "I'm past caring, really."
"All right, then. Call if you need anything." Ginny sighed and gently shut the door, leaving Hermione alone with her potions.
The moment the door closed, Hermione's composed expression crumbled.
With a flicker of hope, she reached out to the ring.
Busy? she asked.
Busy, came the reply.
So Hermione let the conversation drop.
She knew he was probably still stuck at one of those tedious social functions he hated; better to let him focus on getting through it.
Thoroughly miserable, she shut herself in the potion room and went back to tinkering with her Forgetfulness Potion.
At one point she genuinely wanted to drink some of it herself — to forget Kreacher's anguished cries that evening, to forget the pain "freedom" had caused him, to forget the doubled ache of missing Draco and not being able to reach him.
Was "freedom" something Kreacher could never accept?
Was he truly beyond saving? Hermione wondered miserably.
Wrapped in self-doubt, she still managed to finish a fairly respectable batch of Forgetfulness Potion — though she felt no satisfaction in it at all.
Downhearted, she bottled the last of it, set it on the shelf to settle, and dragged herself out of the room.
The living room stood empty and dark; it was late, and the pale light of the full moon crept listlessly through the window.
Looking at that lonely moonlight, she felt a sudden ache of solitude in her chest.
The light was so bright it stung her eyes — it reminded her of Draco's hair.
Her heart was a tangle of things she wanted to tell him, a thousand words that, by the time they reached her lips, shrank down to just three.
I miss you, she whispered to the ring, her heart aching.
The ring stayed silent — he was likely too busy.
Hermione found she didn't want to think about Draco anymore just then; she wanted a bit of darkness to hide the disappointment on her face.
She drew the heavy curtains shut, blotting out the moonlight.
Curled up on the sofa, she let the dark swallow her.
Darkness sharpens everything. In that silence, her hearing grew as keen as an owl's on the hunt.
She could just make out her friends' laughter drifting down from the third floor.
"No fair! How do you keep winning, Ron?" Harry groaned.
"Told you already—" Ron's smug voice carried clearly through the door, "—when has anyone ever beaten me at wizard chess?"
"Should we switch to cards?" Ginny's voice was muffled. "Or Gobstones, maybe?"
"Doesn't matter what we play, I'm unbeatable," Ron said confidently. "King of Gryffindor."
Ginny laughed, sounding defiant.
"You think ruling Gryffindor means anything? There are three other Houses at Hogwarts, you know."
"Ginny's got a point. I actually know someone who might give you a real run for your money," Harry said. "In fact, I've never met anyone more competitive than him — even though he acts like he couldn't care less, on the surface."
"Who's that, then—" Ron asked, interested.
"Guess," Harry said, lowering his voice, "someone you really don't want to underestimate..."
A burst of mysterious laughter followed.
It was bright, almost giddy — cheerful to the point of absurdity.
Close as those voices were, they might as well have been a world away from Hermione.
Because she knew, deep down, that none of the three of them truly understood her fixation on house-elves — to varying degrees, they all thought she was being a bit silly.
Hermione had always known everyone was losing patience with S.P.E.W.; she'd just never wanted to admit it, or face it head-on.
Then, just as the tears began to come, the ring on her finger suddenly grew warm.
I miss you too.
The words bloomed slowly in the darkness, patient, glowing softly before her eyes.
Try to find something you enjoy doing.
Try to be happy.
Your happiness is what keeps me going.
Draco must have found a rare quiet moment in his busy evening, taking the time to spell it out for her, word by word.
Hermione stared blankly at the letters flickering between her fingers.
They brought her no real comfort — if anything, a fresh wave of loneliness gripped her heart.
It was a loneliness that stretched across time and space, as if she were spinning alone in the dark while her star hung impossibly far away.
Her star, her Draco, seemed to wander hundreds of millions of light-years off, burning as brightly as he could, snatching every free second to talk to her — as though afraid she might stop believing in his light if he didn't.
She knew he was struggling — far more than she was, right now — even though he'd never say so outright.
He'd only ever say, carefully, that he hoped she'd be happy.
That alone was enough to break her heart, and to make her feel wronged on his behalf.
"You're right," Hermione replied sadly, unwilling to add to whatever weight he was already carrying.
He was right — she should find something she enjoyed and hold on to it, instead of standing here feeling like the loneliest, most pitiful, most misunderstood girl alive.
She should go back to the potions she'd always wanted to study but never had time for — memory potions, forgetting potions, resurrection draughts, and so on — and try to replicate the improved energy potion Professor Snape had given her. Those rare, expensive ingredients sat there waiting, as if they cost nothing at all.
She should keep working on her attempt to reproduce the improved Dragon Pox treatment — the description in The Practical Potions Master had astonished her; she hadn't even known Draco and Professor Snape had quietly pulled that off.
She should keep openly practicing the spells she hadn't had time for last term — the Disillusionment Charm, the Silencing Charm — or get a head start on next term's material, here where no one would bother her.
Draco had already arranged everything for her.
She was surrounded by friends and books. There were house-elves to study, which interested her endlessly. And there was Sirius Black himself, welcoming her without hesitation simply because she was his godson's friend, and dear to his nephew Draco.
To ease the ache of missing someone across a distance, Hermione had been throwing herself into anything meaningful she could find.
She'd been sharpening her potion-brewing skill. Lupin's feedback after drinking her latest batch had been glowing — he'd even come all the way to the Black house to thank her in person, praising how much milder the side effects were compared to before.
She'd worked through nearly every old spellbook the house had to offer, made a few private discoveries along the way, and couldn't wait to share them with Draco.
She'd finished her summer homework ages ago and was already previewing next year's material.
Harry and Ron were always desperate to copy her work, and she always refused without mercy — though she didn't mind "showing them how homework was properly done," much to Ginny's gleeful amusement.
She hadn't given up on her house-elf research either.
She kept trying to reach Kreacher, even though he never once looked at her directly, hoping to understand the stubborn creature a little better.
And yet, even now, after everything that had just happened, Hermione found herself lost, helpless, and fragile — with no one able to pull her out of it.
The one person who might have been able to save her had no idea how much pain she was in.
She wanted to cry. She missed him.
She wanted to breathe in his scent. She wanted to kiss him.
It had been two or three weeks since she'd last smelled him — far too long.
At Hogwarts they'd been practically inseparable.
In June especially, she'd have caught his scent a dozen times a day, and he'd kissed her constantly, always finding some new excuse to.
Back then, no matter what trouble came her way, she hadn't been afraid — she'd always felt certain she'd get through it.
Then the holidays came, and suddenly they only saw each other once in a great while.
The very idea of "seeing him" now felt like something borrowed from another life — like the dream that had been Paris.
Hermione didn't know if this was healthy. All she knew was that the constant swing between highs and lows felt like a rollercoaster, and it was driving her half mad.
Even surrounded by friends, even welcomed warmly upstairs to join in the laughter, she still felt lonely.
She realized, all at once, that he was irreplaceable.
If she could just breathe in his hair, his neck, right now — if he could kiss her senseless just once — perhaps she wouldn't lose her nerve and slide so easily into despair.
Perhaps she should ask him for a piece of clothing — something that still carried his cool, clean scent, maybe a hint of cedar — something to soothe the ache and lift her spirits a little.
Hermione stared blankly at the silver ring on her finger, then sighed, dejected.
The snake coiled around it seemed to shift, winding gently but mercilessly tighter around her heart.
"What's wrong?" he asked suddenly, his voice sharp. "Are you all right?"
Hermione couldn't hold it back any longer.
"No," she told the ring miserably. "Not at all."
"Tell me what happened," he said at once.
"You said you were busy." She hesitated.
"None of that matters. You do," he said.
In the sweltering August night, amid the clink of glasses and the din of some party, Draco said firmly through the ring, "Tell me."
Hermione stared at the ring and let out a laugh through her tears.
She didn't have time for more crying — instead she busied herself recounting, piece by piece, the whole "Kreacher Collapse."
Finally, she asked him, forlorn, "Was I wrong?"
"No — but you need to understand," came the reply, quick and calm and fierce all at once. "Loyalty constrains freedom."
"I know," she said listlessly.
Draco frowned. He could still feel the sorrow underneath her words, and guessed she was close to tears.
He should be there with her, facing all this — not leaving her to bear it alone.
Draco Malfoy had never imagined that one day he'd end up hiding on his own terrace, away from his parents and their guests, seriously turning over the question of house-elves in his mind.
He'd assumed, at first, that if she took a crushing defeat at the hands of the most stubborn house-elf in existence and finally gave up on S.P.E.W., it would honestly be a relief to everyone.
"Do you want to give up?" he asked, careful.
"No," she said firmly, even through her sadness.
Of course. Hermione Granger never simply gave up.
Draco gritted his teeth, stared at that single word — No — and sighed, already knowing that what he was about to say made no sense at all.
Because when he'd first agreed with Sirius Black, thinking Kreacher was a lost cause, he'd caught something — a flaw in Kreacher's reasoning, buried somewhere in the story Hermione had told him.
That flaw, handled right, could become a lever.
A dangerous one — enough to make Kreacher question the entire meaning of his existence.
Draco knew that handing her that lever would only cause more trouble down the line. He told her anyway.
He'd do anything to make her happy — anything to stop her crying alone, somewhere he couldn't reach her.
As Narcissa called his name, Draco said hastily to the ring, "I have to go — just think about this—"
Hermione watched the ring, waiting, as the words slowly formed in the dark:
Friendship has its priorities. So does loyalty.
She understood the idea that friendships had priorities — Ginny cared about that a great deal.
But what did he mean, that loyalty had priorities too?
Hermione turned the words over, lost in thought.
Before she could puzzle it out, a strange noise came from the living room doorway.
She turned to look and found a short, hunched figure standing there — Kreacher.
He looked very different from before.
Not that his manners had improved — he was still cursing and hurling insults as usual.
But this time he was clutching a bottle: the half-empty Firewhisky Sirius had finished off that afternoon.
Kreacher was drunk.
He swayed unsteadily in the doorway, shot Hermione a look, and muttered to himself.
"Filthy Mudblood!"
"Kreacher, I do wish you'd address me differently," Hermione said, wiping her eyes, calm. "You could call me 'Hermione.'"
"Bah! Kreacher hasn't sunk so low as to be friends with that traitor Dobby, and Kreacher won't be friends with the Mudblood the mistress despises most, either!" Kreacher said, his bullfrog voice rising in outrage. "That shameless, meddling wretch showed up with an entire scroll of parchment and made Kreacher memorize every word on it!"
Hermione studied him and decided he was likely drunk — that would explain the sudden flood of words.
Sober, he'd have shot her a fearful, sidelong glance as always, or given a contemptuous sniff and swept off as though avoiding the plague — not glared at her, or spoken to her at all, resentful as he was now.
She thought it over and decided to seize this rare chance — a chance to trade a few words with "the most stubborn, freedom-hating, hopeless house-elf alive," according to Sirius — and let the occasional "Mudblood" slide.
It was an ugly thing to be called, but then, no one had ever taught him what politeness even meant, had they? Hermione thought, a little sadly.
Kreacher's upbringing had come entirely from the Black family matriarch and her prejudices.
The fault lay with her, not with him.
Despite her discomfort at the slur, she pressed her lips together and asked, stubborn, "Remember what?"
"Remember what?" Kreacher swayed, braced himself against the doorframe, and flung the bottle furiously down the stairs.
Over the muffled thud of it rolling down the carpeted steps, he ranted on. "Remember the precious preferences of young Master Malfoy's Mudblood girl! She loves Avalanche Strawberry Cake, so Kreacher must learn to bake it! She loves Butterbeer, but no more than three a day, so Kreacher must trek to Hogsmeade for it! Her favorite fruits are strawberries and cherries, and only the biggest and best will do, so Kreacher must be at the market before dawn, picking through the stalls before the roosters are even awake!"
"Oh, Kreacher, I had no idea I'd caused you so much trouble," Hermione said, taken aback. "I'm terribly sorry."
Kreacher seemed too far gone in his fury — or perhaps just too drunk — to care that he was still in the same room as Hermione, and he staggered further into the living room.
"Curse Dobby!" He tottered to a corner, crouched down, and began attacking a section of carpet, muttering, "That worthless creature's told Kreacher a hundred times — a hundred times!"
"A hundred times what?" Hermione asked, curious.
"A hundred times, 'Miss Hermione Granger doesn't eat olives!'" Kreacher gave a brief, mocking impression of Dobby's high, cheerful voice in his own croaking rasp, though the disgust in his tone was unmistakable.
Having finished his impression, Kreacher panted like a winded ox. He said nothing more, only shoved the carpet aside in the shadows and began prying up the floorboards beneath it, revealing a wide gap underneath.
What on earth? Hermione took a step closer to see, but the room was too dark to make anything out.
So she pulled back the curtains, and at last, by moonlight, she could see Kreacher clearly.
His eyes were bloodshot, watery, and gray, and he was hauling a fresh bottle of Firewhisky up out of the gap in the floor.
In a fit of temper he ripped the cork free with sharp precision; it shot straight up and lodged itself in the ceiling.
Amid a light rain of falling wood shavings, Kreacher sneezed and muttered, "The master's secret stash... no one but Kreacher knows... the master's secret cellar..."
"Listen, Kreacher — thank you, truly, for going out of your way to pick the olives out of my food. That was very kind," Hermione said, a little shy.
"Thank me — how dare you say thank me!" Kreacher's voice came out strangled, as though someone had pinched him hard.
He paused abruptly, then resumed his hoarse, froggy croak, mournful now.
"Me? What's 'me'?"
He beat his chest, fierce and bewildered all at once. "This is Kreacher. Not 'me.' Kreacher only calls himself Kreacher, never 'me' — that's what the noble mistress taught Kreacher, from the time he was small!"
"No, Kreacher — you can call yourself 'I,'" Hermione said, frowning. "You're a person before you're a name. 'Kreacher' is only what you're called. You could go by another name if you wanted, but you can always say 'I.'"
"Kreacher can't make sense of this Mudblood nonsense!" The old elf shook his head violently, his ears flapping and cracking with the motion.
He took a long swig of Firewhisky, coughed twice, dropped onto the carpet, and muttered to himself.
"Oh, my poor mistress... if she knew a Mudblood spoke to Kreacher as though they were friends, and that Kreacher did those things at the young master's bidding... how it would break her heart!"
"Kreacher — is that why you've been secretly covering Mrs. Black's portrait in the hallway? So she wouldn't know I was talking to you?" Hermione asked suddenly. "I saw you draping a curtain over her while she slept, yesterday."
"Shh! The mistress mustn't know!" Kreacher's drunken eyes went wide with alarm, and he swallowed hard.
He coughed at the sting of the liquor but kept swallowing it down regardless.
"The young master told Kreacher to keep it secret. Forbade Kreacher from telling the mistress where he went, or what he did!"
"Which master — Master Regulus?" Hermione asked. "Your favorite?"
Kreacher blinked at her through hazy, drunken eyes, and a sorrowful crease appeared across his ugly, wrinkled face.
"So depraved. That Mudblood girl won't stop talking to Kreacher, insulting him, and Kreacher can't even strike her." He hiccupped, aggressive. "She shamelessly took up with the young master of the Malfoy family, and he made Kreacher complete his task. Kreacher should be endlessly grateful to him!"
He took another long swig and said, mournful now, "The young master ordered Kreacher to see to the Mudblood girl's every need, and Kreacher had no choice but to obey. If Kreacher didn't pick the olives from her plate, if Kreacher didn't serve her properly, it would shame Kreacher worse than any house-elf—"
He spat, and went on. "That little brat threatened to bring the sword of Gryffindor and duel Kreacher over it! Kreacher can't lift that sword — they all bully him for it—"
"So how did you destroy the locket, then, if you couldn't lift the sword?" Hermione asked.
"So difficult! Kreacher tried everything!" Kreacher said, aggrieved. "Nothing worked! Kreacher couldn't so much as scratch it! Kreacher punished himself, tried again, punished himself again, tried again. Kreacher failed the order — Kreacher couldn't destroy it!"
As he spoke he swayed and looked around, as if hunting for a poker to punish himself with all over again.
Hermione said quickly, "Kreacher, stop looking. You did finish Regulus's task in the end, didn't you?"
At that, Kreacher's face went suddenly serene.
"Yes — Kreacher finally finished what Master Regulus asked of him... Kreacher had nearly given up hope... never thought he'd manage to complete Master Regulus's very last task."
He reeked of drink, his face glowing with pride.
"Young Master Malfoy said he wanted it destroyed... that mad old blood-traitor, fond of foreign male wizards, actually agreed to help... ha! Young Master Malfoy gave Kreacher the fangs, Young Master Harry spoke the words to open it, and Young Master Sirius ordered Kreacher to destroy it..."
He gasped for breath, peering into the bottle. "Kreacher must treat them with the utmost respect. Kreacher must always be grateful to them... grateful, for Master Regulus's sake..."
Hermione watched him carefully, choosing her words with care.
"I think Master Regulus would be very proud of you, Kreacher, don't you?"
"That's right! That's right!" He flung the empty bottle onto the carpet, tears streaming, and shouted up at the ceiling. "Master Regulus! Did you see? Kreacher finished it! Aren't you proud?"
The ceiling gave no answer — even the laughter from the third floor seemed to have gone quiet, just for a moment.
"Will Master Regulus smile at Kreacher again? He always smiles at Kreacher. Only he ever smiles at Kreacher."
In the silence, Kreacher wiped his face, warmth creeping into his froggy voice. "Kreacher always listened to Master Regulus... Master Regulus was always so pleased with Kreacher... Kreacher must never tell the poor mistress what happened..."
Hearing that, Hermione suddenly remembered what he'd sobbed out that afternoon.
The young master ordered — Kreacher to leave — pay him no mind. Told Kreacher — to go home — not to tell the mistress — what he'd done... The mistress asked, again and again, where the young master had gone — Kreacher never said — and then — the mistress went mad with grief!
In a flash, she remembered what Draco had told her: Friendship has its priorities. So does loyalty.
Loyalty had its priorities too.
That was it — Kreacher's loyalty had an order to it.
Hermione's eyes lit up.
"Kreacher — of everyone in this family, you loved Master Regulus best, didn't you? Because he was the kindest to you?"
She spoke gently, as though afraid of startling a butterfly. "For his sake, you defied the mistress — never told her what he'd done — even though she raised you, spent the most time with you, shaped you more than anyone. Isn't that so?"
Kreacher stared at her through drunken eyes and began to shake.
"Master Regulus..." he whispered. "The mistress..."
"You preferred how Regulus treated you. So you put his orders ahead of hers, didn't you? All on your own," Hermione's voice rang out, clear, in the quiet room. "Who told you to rank them that way, if not yourself?"
Kreacher's thin hand trembled violently around the bottle.
"Kreacher — I think you have a sense of 'self.' When their orders conflicted, you chose Master Regulus — kept his secret from the mistress, even after he died." Hermione said, wondering. "Do you see, Kreacher? You've always had a 'self.' You've been making your own choices for a long time, not just blindly obeying."
"The choice of self?" Kreacher repeated the words slowly, his ugly face twitching.
He spat in disgust, curling in on himself like a slug doused in salt, hugging the bottle and trembling.
"Kreacher — that idea of 'I' — it's inside you. Think about it—" Hermione meant to say more, but the old elf suddenly doubled over and was sick in the corner of the carpet, and the room filled with a foul smell.
"Oh, honestly!" Hermione waved her wand and cast a few cleaning charms over him until he was tidy again.
Kreacher, freshly cleaned but looking more miserable than ever, clutched his stomach and groaned.
"I'd say you're quite drunk," Hermione said gently, pulling out the hangover potion Draco had insisted she always carry.
She crouched down and offered it to him.
The old elf tried to bat her away, but he was too drunk to stand, barely able to lift his own arms.
So Kreacher swallowed the potion reluctantly, crying and wailing the entire time.
"What— what's the Mudblood girl feeding Kreacher— Kreacher's stomach hurts—"
"It's a hangover remedy — Madam Pomfrey gave it to me, from the school hospital wing. The stomachache should pass shortly," Hermione said.
Kreacher squinted at her through swollen eyelids, trying his best to look furious.
"Bah! Some worthless cure! Kreacher's never even heard of it! Kreacher only knows how to brew hangover cures the master actually praises! That Mudblood's probably trying to poison Kreacher!"
Why would I poison you?
"Kreacher doesn't believe she's really that sort... why would a Mudblood do such a thing?" The old elf smacked his lips, clutching his stomach, looking a shade better. He frowned, wrinkles deepening. "Why does that mud-blooded girl have so many potions she can't even use them all...?"
"Actually, that was my only dose — Draco insisted I take it with me," Hermione said.
At that, the old elf went suddenly alarmed and began weeping again.
"Only one dose, and you gave it to Kreacher?" he cried shrilly. "Only one person could take that potion — why didn't you keep it? Master Regulus — why did you drink it instead?"
"Kreacher—" Hermione said, startled.
"Only one of you could get out alive — why did you let Kreacher live, Master?" He wept, tears dripping onto the carpet. "Your life was precious as a jewel — Kreacher's is worth no more than a blade of grass! Why trade something so precious for something so worthless? Master Regulus — why?"
Kreacher suddenly beat his small fist against his own head. "Kreacher can't understand it! Kreacher can't understand!"
"No — you already have, haven't you?" Hermione caught his fist. "You've known all along."
Kreacher stared at her, eyes red and swollen, teeth gritted in resentment.
"Known what? What's there for Kreacher to know? Filthy Mudblood girl!"
"Your Master Regulus valued your life more than his own," Hermione said.
Kreacher's face twisted, growing more and more furious. "Kreacher shouldn't matter more than Master Regulus—"
"But Regulus didn't see it that way! If you truly only follow your master's orders, shouldn't you follow his thinking too?" Hermione pressed. "If your master believed your life mattered more than his, and gave you the chance to live it — then you should honor that. You should live a life worth something, just as he wanted. That's true obedience, isn't it?"
The hangover potion was starting to take effect.
Hermione could see Kreacher's eyes clearing, and with the clarity came a fresh surge of hatred for her.
But he seemed frozen by her words, his body still unable to move, only his eyes blinking, unwilling.
"If you truly have no 'self,' then you should obey your master completely — and never think so little of yourself!" Hermione stared into his hateful eyes and pressed on, stubborn. "You carry two lives on your shoulders now — your own, and his. How can you bear to waste one of them living so small? Whoever makes you live that way isn't just disrespecting you — they're disrespecting your master's orders, his choices, his wishes too!"
Hermione had no idea if what she was saying made any sense — but she couldn't stop now.
She closed her eyes and delivered her conclusion, unflinching. "Anyone who thinks so little of your life is thinking just as little of your master's."
Someone was disrespecting the great Master Regulus? Kreacher trembled, his thoughts spinning.
His mouth fell open, showing a row of gray teeth. "I—"
"That's right — you see, you can say 'I,' can't you?" Hermione smiled.
"You're a bit self-centered, aren't you?" she said warmly. "Listen — I respect your feelings, and I won't push you toward freedom right now. But at the very least, you should think about your life, and what you're owed for it. Think about wages. About time off—"
Self. Freedom. Wages. Time off.
The words seemed to be too much for Kreacher all at once.
His frayed nerves and battered ears couldn't take another word.
The old elf, teetering on the edge of collapse, let out a strange howl, sprang up, wrenched himself free of Hermione's grip, and bolted from the second-floor living room like a gust of wind, tumbling down the stairs in a clatter.
"Kreacher?" Hermione leapt up and rushed to the doorway to look.
The small, hunched, pitiful figure never once looked back. He let out a scream as shrill as Mrs. Black's own, and scrambled away down the first-floor corridor.