"What will happen to Winky?" Hermione asked him, the moment they left the clearing.
"I do not know," Draco said.
"I do not like the way they treat her," she said stubbornly. "Neither those officials, nor Mr Crouch, treat her as anything like a person!"
"Yes," Draco said. "Wizards have always been rather like that, especially those from the old pure-blood families. They do not believe house-elves have feelings at all."
"That is exactly what saddens me... I feel so sorry for Winky." Hermione rested her head gently against the back of his neck, a few strands of her hair falling against his skin, tickling faintly.
"Mm," he replied patiently, letting her go on.
"She clearly has a fear of heights, and yet Mr Crouch still sent her up to that high box, simply to save him a seat; tonight, those masked men were stringing Muggles up in the air, who would not be frightened by that? It is only natural she wanted to get away from it all! And yet Mr Crouch was furious, simply because she disobeyed his orders and fled the tent... It is utterly unreasonable!" she said, angrily.
"Crouch holds a high position, with a good many eyes upon him. He cannot afford to be seen taking responsibility for his own elf running about causing trouble with a wand.
You know, that would breach the Code of Wand Use, the clause forbidding any non-human creature from carrying or using one," Draco reminded her, slowly.
"But Mr Crouch knew perfectly well she had not done it, and dismissed her regardless! He did not care in the least how frightened or upset she was... that condescending manner of his... he did not care whether she lived or died!"
Hermione was furious.
"Yes. I do not care for Crouch either; he is far too heavy-handed," Draco said calmly.
"Though, perhaps you have come to realise, over these past few years, that some wizards even sort people themselves into different classes, let alone non-human beings."
Hermione fell quiet.
Her anger was entirely extinguished by those words. Just now, she had only been furious at the plain injustice of it all, and had not yet had the chance to properly consider the deeper meaning behind it.
Yes. House-elves were hardly the only ones to suffer such unfair treatment.
She lay silently against his back for a while, then finally asked softly, "What about you, Draco? Do you see people in classes too? I am Muggle-born. Do you look down on me, the way those pure-blood wizards do, thinking me somehow lesser?"
"And you? Would you look down on me, for being the son of a former Death Eater?" Draco asked her, a note of bitterness in his voice.
"Of course not! None of that is your fault!" Hermione said urgently. "I know exactly what sort of person you are..."
"Then I shall return that very sentence to you." Draco walked steadily on. He heard Hermione let out a soft, cheerful little laugh, close to his ear.
He smiled slightly, the bitterness in his heart easing somewhat. He tightened his hold, securing her more firmly on his back.
Draco could sense how genuinely angry Hermione was over what had happened to Winky. He had known from the start that the matter of house-elves' rights would prove a powerful spark, liable to set off some deeper store of feeling within her.
He admitted that, had it been his old self, he would very likely have thought it perfectly reasonable, a master punishing a disobedient elf. A house-elf that defied its master's orders, that failed to uphold his good name, surely deserved severe punishment; otherwise, every servant in the house might feel free to disregard their master's wishes, and chaos would follow.
Only through the strict enforcement of orders could a well-run household be properly managed... or so Narcissa, at least, had always believed.
No one ever spared a thought for the rights, or the feelings, of house-elves. Within the old pure-blood families, they had never once been treated fairly, nor regarded by their masters as anything resembling people; and, gradually, the wizarding children raised under such influence came to feel, quite naturally, that house-elves existed only to be treated simply, roughly, and unjustly.
And yet, Draco had once seen Dobby break into Malfoy Manor, in his past life, to save Harry and his friends.
In that moment, he felt he understood something of what she was so insistent upon.
He was deeply grateful to Dobby. Grateful that he possessed such human feeling, such an independent spirit, enough to do what Draco himself had never dared to.
Thank goodness. Thank goodness for that...
Had it come even a little later, he did not know whether Hermione could have withstood much more of the Cruciatus Curse, under Bellatrix's hand...
Had it come only a moment later still, he did not know whether she might have been ruined entirely, left a permanent resident of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, or torn apart by that filthy werewolf Greyback, walking straight through death's own door.
The very thought left him breathless.
Do not think of it! She is perfectly safe on your back, she will be quite all right, Draco tightened his hold, desperately trying to reassure himself.
He turned his thoughts instead back to the house-elves she felt such sympathy for.
Draco still had not quite worked out one thing: what the proper way to treat a house-elf really was.
He had already made a few small changes of his own. As for Dobby, he was resolved to be far more patient with him, to reward him generously, even raise his wages, all because Dobby had once saved his life.
But the elves belonging to other wizarding families lay quite beyond his power to help, for now.
"Am I heavy?" she suddenly asked him. "Are you tired?"
"You are very light. Not the least bit tiring." He smiled softly.
"Draco, that Dark Mark..." Hermione nudged his shoulder, quite without meaning to, and said slowly, "who put it there? Was it a Death Eater?"
"Yes." After a pause, Draco said, trying to sound calm, "Only Death Eaters know how to cast it. Whoever conjured that mark must have been a Death Eater once, though perhaps not any longer."
"Why conjure it up tonight, of all nights?" Hermione asked. "Simply to frighten Muggle-born wizards?"
"I do not know." Draco's throat felt rather dry. "But I would wager any wizard who was once a Death Eater was thoroughly terrified by it. Did you notice, once the Dark Mark appeared, all those hooded figures simply vanished? No more screaming, no more wailing, not a single new tent set alight. The mark alone frightened them all off... I would wager every one of them Disapparated at once."
"It does seem so. Tonight was dreadful," she whispered.
"Whether it was what those men did to the site manager's family, or that mark hanging in the sky, or the way the wizards treated poor Winky..."
"I know. It was all dreadful. My only comfort is that you were not hurt." He paused, then added, "I am always so worried about you."
"I was worried about you too... you very nearly got wrongly accused by Mr Crouch..." Hermione said drowsily. After such a whirlwind of emotion, she finally felt properly exhausted.
"Thank you," he said softly. "I did not expect you to stand up for me like that. Thank you."
"Of course I shall protect you... I always shall..." She yawned against his ear, "Oh, you smell so lovely."
"Do you like it?" he asked, smiling. "It is from that French perfume factory I mentioned before."
"Mm..." she murmured lazily, "it smells so lovely, I really do like it... on you..." She lay against his warm back, breathing in the scent of cedarwood, feeling comfortable and at ease, her mind gradually filling with a blissful blankness.
The jacket draped over her shoulders was his too. She was entirely wrapped in his scent.
She sighed contentedly, nuzzled his neck, wrapped her arms round him, and gradually fell silent.
Had Draco possessed a tail, it would have been wagging happily just then. All those worries that had plagued him the whole holiday vanished in an instant.
She had not ignored him. She had not avoided him. She had stood before him, defending him, protecting him. She had leant on him, just as she always had, trusting him enough even to fall asleep against his shoulder.
She rested in his arms, softly nestled against his back. This silly girl, worrying that he might be tired. She was the sweetest burden any boy in the world could ever hope for; how could she possibly tire him?
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