To the Masses: I know it's been a while, but…yeah -I don't have any excuse. I just didn't feel like writing for BS. Now I do, so thanks for sticking with me and the story. To address one of the issues from the previous chapter. I'm never going to claim to be any sort of medical or anatomical expert, or even half competent, so the thing about the nerves -noooooot true. I claim creative liberties with monster anatomy. Yup. There must have been another issue or two. Oh! Flames! There was one mildly insulting review that I discounted as a flame because English wasn't their first language and I figured their culture was far more direct then this mixed one I've got. Another review that I got from someone, I forgot who, but they asked why I didn't have any warnings in the summary -that's because I hate how fan fiction is less about a good story and more about engineering the best porn for a fandom, and I believe that the gratuitous use of tags or warnings only enables us to skip over, what could turn out to be, truly epic works of writing. I'm not going to get any more into it…I actually typed in a really long rant before I thought to myself 'maybe lets try not to be a bitch today.' Also, thanks a million for all of the quotes and song suggestions. Most of you are awesome.

Soundtrack: Hello by Martin Solveig & Dragonette, Filistata by Stolen Babies, and Some Nights by Fun.

Warnings: Same warnings from previous chapters. Too lazy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural. That's probably a good thing, because I couldn't handle that level of responsibility.


Chapter Eighteen

"A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked," Bernard Meltzer.

Harry was sorry for everything he ever put his friends through. Not the troll killing, escaped convict chasing, Voldemort fighting things. It was all of the times they waited at his bedside while he was injured that he felt he needed to apologize for. He realized that, and it only took ten minutes after the initial rush to get Dean out of his bloody clothes, wrap his shoulders in clean bandages (and not just clean-ish grease rags), and being told no less than four times that Dean was going to be alright and there was no reason to worry, for Harry to realize just how nerve-wrecking the bedside vigil thing actually was. Harry wasn't worrying though, there was no reason for him to worry, Dean was fine, and Harry was sure all of the grown people trying to reassure him were also trying to reassure themselves. Harry was just sitting there because, umm, because -Harry was sure there was an actual reason.

"Drop," a voice said from the doorway, Lolanillel's voice, Harry knew it was coming because he'd felt the elf's energy climbing the stairs. Lolanillel preferred windows, but Bobby had almost shot him twice and Missouri certainly had whacked him over the head with her purse, Home & Garden's September edition, one of her Sunday shoes, a chess board, and Harry's English notebook. He had eventually gotten the point. Harry didn't mind his sneaking so much, because the elf emitted very bright energies. Drop was the shorthand for 'drop into a meditative state' and Harry did what he was told, just long enough to find that calm place in his mind and chill the fuck out. It took ten whole minutes, but it was becoming easier, and when he'd completed the task his eyes opened and wondered back to Dean's unconscious form.

The thing Harry liked about the elf was that he didn't try to tell Harry that the magic-less human that was just lying there, with less blood than he probably should have, would be just fine in the morning -because Harry knew that, Dean would wake up when he was ready to. To reassure Harry of something he already knew, rationally anyway, would be a waste of human words, and Lolanillel thought that English was nasty and crude. Instead he stood inside of the white ring of salt and looked down at the hunter. His sharp, golden eyes saw things that Harry's eyes couldn't, and when he was finished scanning and cataloging Dean's injuries he turned to Harry with a look that clearly spoke of how stupid he thought Harry was being for just sitting there, watching. Doing nothing, wasting his very limited, mortal time. "I'm also studying," Harry replied to the elf's unspoken complaints and held up the text he was reading. It was one of Bobby's older tomes, written in an old Gaelic dialect that Harry sort of-kind of had a grasp of. Just months prior he'd been working on translating a book of a similar nature with Hermione. Yeah though, that meant Harry had been there for a while.

The mentor didn't say anything more, and just turned to walk out of the room again. Now that Harry thought about it, Missouri probably sent him up to check on the two of them. She would have sent Bobby, who had better social skills, and Harry thought that in the same way someone would think Crookshanks was a docile cat compared to a wild mountain lion, but Harry's dad was too busy staring angry and accusing holes into the side of John Winchesters head. Just hours prior to that moment, John had opened a can of rage-worms and had referred to Harry as Bobby's magic pet. He'd actually said it, just like that, he'd said "your fucking magic pet," and it pretty much sounded bad in any context, but the point that John was trying to make was that Harry was less than human and potentially dangerous. John had been okay with Harry when he was just a little boy from Surrey, and his magic had been an abstract thought. It seems that the little California stunt the boys pulled made it seem like Harry was undoing all of the careful training John had put Dean through, and was trying to get them to sympathize with the fucking things. Not killing a kid-monster was fine, but becoming a champion for a kid-monster who was being controlled my another monster and then not ganking his mom when she almost attacked them? Not alright.

The notion was so 'not alright' with John because those fuckers had taken his wife. Harry hadn't known that before, but he'd gleaned the gist while John was yelling and waving and generally just being a dick. He didn't know what or who exactly had done it, so he just blamed everyone that wasn't human. There seemed to be concern for victims and potential victims, if they were human, but that only came second to the ever-burning, soul-enveloping need to find who had killed Mary Winchester. Harry thought of Cedric and understood, even though John would never know it, Harry understood. Cedric and he hadn't had any sort of physical relationship, because Harry was too young, too famous, and too not-Cho Chang. However, he'd seen Cedric murdered right before his eyes. His friend, someone he looked up to and admired, was discarded with a simple Latin phrase and the same green light that haunted Harry's nightmares. So yeah, Harry understood a bit of what John had been through, but he couldn't imagine holding on to that much hate. T

Harry reached out with his mind for, what was probably, the fifteenth time in the last few hours. He was trying to find Dean's thoughts, but while he wasn't conscious everything just looked black. Missouri had told him not to use that type of magic unless it was an emergency, like his illness had been, or like how being bound and gagged could be. She said it would be safer that way, because if Harry pressed to hard or twisted his magic a certain way then he could wreck a persons entire being. But it was Dean, and Harry missed the reassuring buzz of the hunters thoughts against his. He still couldn't find anything though, and he dropped into his meditative state before he would work himself up about it.

That time it only too nine minutes and forty six seconds, but when he opened his eyes Dean was still just lying there in his black shorts, white gauze was packed tightly around his chest and injured shoulder. He had other scars, Harry had noticed long before then, but he hadn't been able to really observe the damage while Dean was awake and constantly in a state of motion. There were pale claw marks, crescent shaped bites, old tears. It did something to calm his mind to see that there was someone more scared up that he was. Harry turned his attention back to the book in his lap. He had already finished his high school homework, so there was nothing left to distract his mind from live in general but whatever book he'd picked out. It was technically possible for him to veg in front of a television like the rest of the kids his age, but if he wasn't watching some Dean approved movie with the hunter right next to him to provide commentary then he got restless and annoyed. The memory of the entire Star Wars, original trilogy, which took ours and ours of just sitting and not doing anything productive, despite Dean's opinion that becoming acquainted with the films was something productive, brought Harry's gaze to just over the cover of his book, and to the body in front of him.

The anger wasn't sudden, but it seemed to rejuvenate itself every time Harry checked to see if maybe that would be the moment Dean opened his eyes and then his big mouth. The emotions were so profound that everything began to tremor in the second it took Harry to get a grip on his self-control. He'd already broken a lamp. He'd also fixed it, but that was beside the point. He needed to get a better handle on his anger before John blew another gasket and deemed Harry too dangerous to be around his son. Or did he consider Dean more of a soldier, Harry wondered murderously, then crushed the thought. He needed need to add any more negative thoughts to the one's that already made up his opinion of John Winchester.

Dean was home though. Harry paused and corrected himself. He didn't know where Dean considered home, and it was presumptuous of him to assume it was Bobby's place. Even though Dean hadn't referenced of such a place in their conversations, or mentioned any place with much significance other than the salvage yard and a fondness for Vegas Show Girls. Despite all of the thoughts that Dean was close to him, gave him a running commentary about his day, listened to everything Harry told him, ate all the pie and hogged the bed, and despite that it all seemed like what Ron would call a home-life, Harry reminded himself not to just go ahead and think that such a place was with him and Bobby. He looked back down at the tan page and got through another sentence.

He thought maybe he was projecting those thoughts onto the hunter because of what had happened earlier that week. It would make sense, because Dean had been around just after he'd been freed from the demon and his parents had handed him off to the other hunters, Dean had riled him up and broken him out of the quite, servant-like demeanor that Harry adapted in stressful situations. Dean's charm and immaturity had made it easier for Harry to adapt, and even though he was gone most of the time they still kept in touch and Harry confided in him, so it would be pretty obvious that Dean would be the one that Harry would cling to in times of trouble. Trouble like what PB and Pascal, his first friends at a new school, had gotten into.

Harry didn't even know where to begin explaining what all had happened. He'd wanted to, he really did, but every time he tried to text Dean about it, he just couldn't do it. He thought maybe telling him over the phone would be easier, but then his mind would sputter to a halt and there was just no way he could explain everything that had happened without there being a massive freak out.

He could start simple. PB, Peach Blossom as Pascal had told him between breathless laughter, announced that she could nominate herself for 16 and Pregnant. Apparently that was some sort of television show that glorified teen pregnancy, which only made Harry more glad that he didn't really like watching television, if that was the sort of program that was considered entertaining. Naturally though, Harry and Pascal had congruent heart attacks and it was very possible that Harry's magic may have gotten out of control and blew up some of the water pipes. The closest ones, anyway. Harry could still remember holding his breath and the feeling every one of his thoughts drop out of his mind. Everything but panic, anyway.

The baby wasn't Harry's. The timeline didn't fit, which meant it was Pascals, and yeah -Pascal cried. Just a little bit. Harry wasn't sure if it was because he was happy that he and the other half of his soul were going to have a kid, or because his childhood was over so abruptly. It was probably a mix of both.

"I wanted to tell you guys later, like -way later," PB said later, when the school had been evacuated and they were back at her place. Her mother was suspiciously absent, but now that Harry thought about it from his perch it made more sense. Harry's eyes had slid along his girl-lovers naked body and she hadn't even been showing. "Just because it's hard to say, you know? Then mom told my grandmother, that evil old lady, and the bitch is threatening to take her to court for something like 'endangering the welfare of a child."

"It's no problem though, right? Your mom is all sorts of awesome," Pascal had tried to reason. He'd burrowed under some of the covers, as a sort of measure of security because the entire situation required literal security blankets.

"The problem is that she's all sorts of awesome," PB explained, and Harry knew what was up. PB's mom was a hippie, and that sort of lifestyle came with all sorts of problems. The most concerning issues were that she didn't believe in paying taxes, grew her own medicinal herbs, had never registered her car. So yeah, her grandmother would have no problems getting custody. PB explained all of that her main squeeze. "…So that means I'm moving to Montana soon."

'Soon' apparently meant that her grandmother would show up sometime during the night and whisk her away to some estate in the middle of nowhere. PB's mother, Audrina, had been forced to give up custody or face trial. Blackmail was actually one of Harry's favorite methods, because the shock on the other persons face when they realized they were in some deep shit was one of his favorites when he was pissed off. However, that was before Audrina was crushed and PB was gone, just like that. Harry was -hurt wasn't a strong enough word for it.

What the two, three, or sometimes just the one of them if the other two were tired, had done was revealing, loving, mutually consensual. Harry knew that he would carry those memories for the rest of his life, and it wasn't even just about the sex. PB had known he was damaged, both of them did. The warnings signs were so obvious that even Harry had to take a moment to himself and think that something was seriously wrong. He'd feel the bite of the silver cuff on the top of his ear and he would remind himself that not everyone was like she was, Petunia -he meant that not everyone was like Petunia. In fact, people like his aunt were statistical anomalies. PB knew he was an emotional wreck but she kept on trying anyway, and she hadn't pushed him. Neither of them had, thought if Harry were to put it into honest words then he'd have to say that Pascal's massive boner and the thought of it going places that had never been explored before was far less frightening than the thought of the cavern of soft flesh enveloping him. It was just that over the years he'd been conditioned to recognize the feeling as something more like an attack. She'd given him reason to think otherwise. Then she was gone.

Harry was only an emotional wreck though. Pascal, her brain twin, was downright catatonic with pain. PB was his everything when all he had been given was a drunk mother and a father who more than likely had other, secret families. Harry was only sort-of surprised that he showed up at school. Then again, his option was to stay home with his mom and her sherry. Harry wrinkled his nose and reread the same like for the tenth time as he recalled the look about Pascal that afternoon. His limp hair and his plain clothes were a shock when all Pascal had been in the past months was flamboyant and the perfect picture of happiness. That morning Harry had dug through the drawers until he'd found one of Dean's plain black shirts, it hung half way down his thighs, and the jacket that looked like it was leather but it most certainly wasn't from the first unofficial hunt he'd been on. He'd been trying to make himself feel better buy wrapping himself up in happy memories, but it didn't really work.

Pascal had reiterated the explanation that Audrina had given him that morning, chocking back tears. Harry couldn't help but think that was a terrible look on the boy, his lover with the blue and black hair, and he'd preferred all of his clear expressions of happiness and ecstasy. Harry had sat down close. Wedging himself into someone else's personal space was new. He'd never done it before, not in all of those months he had in South Dakota. His think arm, thankfully free of his cast, wrapped around Pascal's hips and his boyfriend leant over to rest a sharp cheekbone on the crown of Harry's head and he began weeping openly. Harry waited.

Really though, he waited and planned because he was never good at just sitting there without processing any thoughts. He couldn't think of a way to get PB back without putting everyone he cared about in the United States in danger. If he brought the law enforcement to his door, he wouldn't just have a black mark on his fake records, he wouldn't just put Audrina in a bad position, he'd expose Bobby's home. That home with all the hidden weapons, the illegal phone lines all labeled with the government alphabet, and the occult lore that would most certainly alarm Child Services. So getting PB back was out of the question, as much as that broke his heart. However, he could probably get Pascal to her. Harry would miss him, but he always knew that he wasn't in on whatever it was his friends shared. Sure, he was loved and he was respected and he got off a lot. It wasn't the same as what those two kept between them though, it wasn't as soul-wrenching.

"We'll get you there," Harry said aloud. If his plan was going to work then Pascal had to know what it was.

Pascal pulled away just enough so that he could look own at Harry, his large blue eyes were swollen and raw. Harry recognized hope there too, he'd always know that emotion when he saw it. It was there in the eyes of the Champions from the tournament every time they talked about victory, when they went off to face more danger despite how down-right terrified they all were. It had been in Sirius' eyes every time he looked at Harry, it had been written across Hermione's entire face when Harry and Ron had appeared in the girls loo, back in first year and the troll was looming over her like a big, dumb creature of terror. Harry realized exactly how much it meant to Pascal, that if this didn't work out his life was as good as over. Harry only hoped he would find someone to love so much.

"Harley?" Pascal asked, just to drag Harry out of his thoughts, and Harry remembered chocking down his own emotions so he could speak.

The shouting from downstairs interrupted Harry's thoughts. It seemed that one of the dad's had finally gotten enough of the silence and they were at each others throats again. Harry closed his eyes and felt out the living energies from downstairs. There were a few artifacts that Bobby kept around, like those petrified heads from the Amazon that Bobby had received in the mail just a week ago, that emitted their own magics, they confused his senses just a tad. Missouri was in his kitchen, fixing a cuppa, probably as a means of escaping the living room and finding something to calm her nerves. She could hear every thought flying through the house and it must have been wrecking her patience. Bobby was at his desk in the library, the shrunken heads were staring at him and sharing thoughts, impressions really, about Harry's dad. John was in the living room, sitting in front of the idiot box. The heads seemed to be favoring Bobby's side of the disagreement, and Lolanillel was sitting on top of the television, his legs were crossed in a lotus position. It was probably the elf that sparked the recent outburst.

Missouri had left Lawrence, Kansas to stay with Bobby for a little while. That much was obvious, that she had planned to stick around long enough to give Harry the basic pointers of surviving as a freakishly powerful human. She had been teaching Harry control, of his emotions and his powers, and when it was less dangerous they would move back to the mind reading thing and then maybe on to reading the future. Lolanillel was on the opposite side of the teacher spectrum. He showed up whenever he pleased, expected Harry to drop everything and became annoyed when Harry couldn't, he tortured the hell out of Harry, staid without considering what everyone else wanted, and then left when they least expected it. The pattern had gone on for months.

Elves, Harry learned, usually waited until their children had finished growing before they began to teach them. That meant that the students were already adults, and in much better condition than Harry was in, when they began training. Dean was probably under the impression that his lessons consisted of more meditation and communing with nature. There was meditation involved, but it wasn't 'clear your mind' type shit that most people expected it to be. More than that, elves considered training their magic as just a part of conditioning themselves to become warriors. Training for Lolanillel involved shaping his magic to fit him physically, and then going through the motions of learning hand-to-hand and occasionally the sword.

Bobby had talked mixing in some weapons training in the beginning, when Harry was still grounded from Dean and Harry still shrunk away from PB and Pascal. Then Harry told him about his conversation through the mirror with his friend named Ron, Missouri and Lolanillel had flipped their shit and began yelling at him and one another, because it was a type of magic that Harry didn't know anything about and shouldn't have known anything about. It was something the faerie's did, they smeared the blood along a reflective surface and called out with their magic. Lolanillel had accused Missouri, Bobby, and people that Harry didn't even know of sharing secrets and breaking treaties. Missouri had been shouting at him because he should have learned his lesson when he connected with the moon, that unknown spells were dangerous, and at Lolanillel because she was convinced he was a terrible person. Bobby just turned to Harry and said "It can wait a while," and got back to his tamales.

The point was that Lolanillel had very little knowledge of how to interact with humans and didn't really care when he pissed people off. It seemed that Harry was the only one that wasn't constantly annoyed with the Canadian elf. It was also very likely that he was the one that set John and Bobby off again, with some carefully chosen words, and he was just sitting on top of the television watching it all play out. Knowing all he needed to, Harry pulled his magic back towards him, wrapping it tightly against his body, but he let it wash over Dean as he did so. Then dropped. The entire situation was too stressful. He'd rather be trampled by a hippogriff than for things to continue on as they were.

The arguing had stopped sometime during his meditation, nine minutes and fifty six seconds. Heavy feet fell on the stairs and Harry felt John's energy drawing closer. As it did, Harry shrunk into himself, he brought his feet onto the chair so that he could rest his chin on his knees if only the giant book weren't in the way. John opened the bedroom door only moments later. Harry could even feel him taking in all the details of the room while he decided what to do next. He could either kick Harry out or join him in his worried watch.

John walked up to the bed, hesitating only a little as his feet came in contact with the salt rings that were pressed flat into the hardwood floor. That salt would never budge, not unless someone dug it all out with some heavy duty tools, and even then it was made so that it would repair itself as quickly as possible. John didn't take the second chair that someone had brought up from the kitchen table. He just stood at the foot of the bed and stared down at his son, who would be fine.

Neither one of them wanted to speak first, Harry most certainly wouldn't because he knew that if he did he'd say something in anger, probably blame John for Dean's injuries, so he waited and pretended to read. John eventually broke the silence, because there were some things they needed to work out before their problems became any worse than they were. "I don't trust you," John said.

That was fine with Harry, he didn't trust John either, and it was painfully obvious since John had returned that neither one of them liked each other. Harry wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud, so instead he said "Dean does," which was probably worse than just coming out and calling John the biggest asshole of all time.

John's hardened gaze honed in quickly on Harry, the boy could feel the heat of his gaze on his head. "He does," John growled out moments later, "Lord knows why." Harry knew why, it was because they spent days in one another's thoughts, feeling what the other was feeling, but that was something that would actually get Harry shot and killed.

"He trusts you," Harry snapped back, accusingly. He blamed John for Dean's injuries, he blamed him for keeping Dean away for so long, he blamed him for those awkward stretches of silence during their phone conversations when Harry just knew Dean wanted to tell him how hard it was to share his life with someone who didn't even want to look at him. He blamed John for a lot. Harry counted to ten, which was far quicker than meditating his rising anger away. He really was going to have to get faster at centering himself. He couldn't just spend ten minutes in his own head every time he became upset. "He trusts us both," Harry continued, "that's going to have to be enough for now."

"Going to have to be," John agreed reluctantly, and then demanded "you can't keep him distracted during hunts with all your little messages." Harry refused to flinch at that. He didn't bat his eyes at Voldemort then he wouldn't flinch for John Winchester.

"You can't just keep him away for months and months," Harry demanded in return, feeling rather ballsy.

John turned his entire body that time, and his glare was intense, "I'm his father." Basically, that was a blanket response that meant he could do whatever he damn well pleased, it was a statement of ownership.

"He's an adult," Harry finally looked back, and he knew his own green eyes were probably eerie to look into, but John met his gaze steadily.

"You're a child," he said it as if that meant something profound, Harry wasn't sure why. Harry's age had nothing to do with whether or not Dean could stick around for more than a couple of days at a time and the only exceptions were when he was injured.

"He'll burn out," Harry threatened. He knew it was a pretty empty threat too, because Dean was young and wouldn't feel the wear and tear of the world until he was a bit older, a bit more mature. "Everyone needs a break once in a while," Harry pressed, "time to decompress." Harry needed to decompress, he needed that terrible week to be over.

John seemed to see a bit of reason there, but he didn't want to admit that Harry maybe might have had a point there. Harry knew John took time to himself, so there was no reason not to let Dean. "You stop sending him little messages during active missions and he gets a week every other month."

Harry couldn't believe it, they were really going to haggle over custody of Dean. It seemed wrong, but what John was offering was stupid. "I won't text him during work hours and you make it a week every month. In return I can send you verified cases." There were such hunters who didn't like to look through all the papers for a case, and chose to just call Bobby for work. They still had plenty of hunts to outsource, and that way the lines of communication were more open and would put John and Harry in work together -they could keep better watch on each other that way.

"Plus one favor," John amended, "a big one, outside of regular hunts."

Harry didn't like the sound of that, and weighed what John knew about him against things John wanted. John wanted the monster that killed his wife dead and John wanted his boys with him to hunt down those things. Sam Winchester, Harry thought slowly, recalling memories that Missouri had shared with him while he was in cold pain.

"Nothing to do with Dean's brother," Harry stressed, he didn't want to be forced under any circumstances to ruin the chance that Sam had at that fancy school Dean occasionally bitched about. Despite how much Dean missed his brother, he still wanted the kid to have what he wanted, and if that was a college education then so be it.

John clenched his teeth at the mention of Sam, Dean seemed to be the only one that called him Sammy. "Fine," he growled, and Harry felt the deal wash over him. He'd just been given something, Harry realized with a slow blink, he'd eventually give John something in return. Startled, John spent just one more second staring at Harry with a shit ton of anger and stormed out of the room. He was probably going to go shoot things in the back yard.

Oddly enough, Harry was left relaxed, secure in the knowledge that he'd get to see Dean far more often and that he wouldn't be left in the very dark corner of all of the hunting business, he'd get some information at least. He looked down at his book and moved on to a new sentence.

Moments later a groan filtered through the room, a noise that came from the lump of flesh on the bed. Dean was waking up. At lightning speeds Harry stood, dropped the tome in the chair and was hovering over Dean's prone form, one hand was resting on Dean's collar bone. His eyes bore down and his mind reached out, "Dean?"

Moss colored eyes finally opened.

Bonus

Days before Dean was to arrive back at the Singer Salvage Yard Dobby contemplated tea. Dobby enjoyed tea. He liked how the water changed color slowly, the bite of flavor on his tongue, the sweet swell of it all as sugar was poured in. He liked delicate little tea cups on matching little saucers, all the different colors and patterns. He had his own tea set, one that Missy Granger had given him for his Freedom day the year before. His Freedom day was like a birthday, but it was the day that Mister Harry Potter Sir had set him free from the evil-mean-Malfoy family. The Weezy's had all given him knitted socks. He liked them made that way better because they would always be unique and he appreciated the hard work that went in to making them. Mister Harry Potter Sir needn't have gotten him anything, not after he'd freed Dobby, but every year he was there with a carefully woven ribbon called a Friendship Bracelet. Dobby couldn't bring himself to wear them often, because he didn't want them damaged by cleaning solutions or warn out so much that they wore in half. He kept them carefully tacked to a carriage wheel that hung from his wall, like a portrait. Dobby mostly enjoyed tea though, because he enjoyed sharing it with others.

There were children who would sneak into the kitchens and sit at a low table as Dobby bounced around and got things ready. There were students from all houses, even the Slytherin house, who joined him, and they would tell him about their day and listen about his. Dobby liked rainy days the best, because then numerous students would crowd around the low table and allowed him to pour their tea and they did kind things like save him a seat and a cup and they all listened while he talked. Dobby did not, did not like tea with the Headmaster.

He used to, because the wonderful Headmaster of Hogwarts had a great many stories to tell and always listened with interest. However, once Mister Harry Potter Sir had gone off to meet his greater destiny the Headmaster had…fallen, somewhat. He wasn't as caring or attentive, he wasn't as calm. He was much like the former Master Malfoy was when he wasn't getting his way. He only asked Dobby to tea because he had other motives, and Dobby knew just what they were. The Headmaster of Hogwarts wanted Dobby to find Mister Harry Potter Sir. He said so himself, in kind words with bright eyes that twinkled like he was happy as happy could be. However, Dobby knew better. Granted, Dobby only knew better because of a natural intuition that was honed after years and years of watching for even the slightest shift of moods in those Pure Of Blood, and it was just the twitch of his hands and the slight strain of his upper lip, but Dobby could tell the Headmaster of Hogwarts was upset and he was upset because Mister Harry Potter Sir was not where the Headmaster could easily have him.

Dobby agreed to find Mister Harry Potter Sir. Dobby popped back to his room, agitated, he already owned his very own Hogwarts trunk with a lovely large, golden D in the center of the crest. In a haste, he filled it with his clothing things, quickly piling socks and pillow cases in, and carefully taking down every woven ribbon that he'd received and stowing them as well. He could say goodbye. It had crossed his mind. He should say goodbye to Winky at least. She was his closest. He should say goodbye to Winky, he decided.

No, Dobby thought, the less she knew the less she could confess to the Headmaster -her employer, but Dobby didn't have to work for Dumbledore, he was proud to be a free elf and he could find work later. Just like he could find Winky later, when maybe the Headmaster was less mad…or dead. Hopefully then he would know how to help her, such a sad free elf.

Dobby carefully wrapped his tea set, it was painted carefully with butterflies, he could fix it all later but he'd like it better if nothing broke, and it too went into the trunk. Then the Weezy Christmas Sweaters, bright blue with brilliantly bold D's right in the middle, his many trainers. He did so enjoy owning shoes, and he packed away the pictures some students had given him, some Weezy Wheezes, and also his pillow. He had no spare parchment so he wrote his note on the wall, big and in his favorite orange ink. Then he was done and he was popping himself to where he knew his greatest friend of all time would be. He did promise to find Mister Harry Potter Sir.

He did not promise to share that information, he did not promise to ask Mister Harry Potter Sir to abandon his greater destiny, he did not offer to help Mister Harry Potter Sir. Mister Harry Potter Sir was his own person, he could clean his own things, mend his own clothes, put his own things away in the places that they aught to be. Dobby stayed unseen to the eyes and to the magic. Dobby observed the small room, the salt markings, the carefully clean environment. He popped downstairs. The kitchen was clean, just as Dobby suspected, all herbs were labeled perfectly, all dishes were clean, there was no rotten food, no dust, no bugs. In the other rooms, the one with the great elf, there were signs of a long ago Dust Bunny invasion, but that was all. Everything was as perfect as Mister Harry Potter Sir liked, and it was a good place to be.

Dobby could ask to stay, he'd like it very much if he could. However, Dobby knew that offering to stay would imply to his greatest friend that he didn't believe Mister Harry Potter Sir could care for his space and his family on his own. Offering to help would only make Mister Harry Potter Sir feel inferior, and Dobby understood that better than any human could.

Dobby didn't clean anything, he just followed silently. Dobby did feel a little bad that Mister Harry Potter Sir's privacy wasn't nearly as private as he thought it was. It was a good thing though, Dobby assured himself as he followed Mister Harry Potter Sir to a train station late at night, when he was sure that Mister Harry Potter Harley Singer Sir had not told his patter where he would be or why.

He watched as Mister Harry Potter Sir's heart broke a million times in just a moment, as he said goodbye to a boy with Ravenclaw hair. Dobby had never seen his friend so sad, not when the Sirius Black had to leave without him, not even when his Weezy wasn't talking to him. No, it was a goodbye of a different kind. It was the goodbye of letting someone go, and Mister Harry Potter Sir reached out for touch to comfort them both. Dobby had never seen that before, so the boy with the Ravenclaw hair must have meant a great deal to him yet he was sending him away. Dobby's natural intuition said it was for a good reason, but that Mister Harry Potter Sir was very nervous.

Dobby would be nervous too, sending a child out into the world without any protection spells or even any armor. Dobby knew his mission then and it filled him with many feelings of happiness and excitement. Dobby popped his trunk in with the rest of the luggage and felt deep within the boy for something to hold on to, his heart and soul, and Dobby anchored himself to that feeling, the boy's very person. The Pascal that Mister Harry Potter Harley Singer Sir loved, and Dobby would help him when his greatest friend could not. Dobby would help him with is entire family; that girl with the bright pink hair and the baby she was going to have, Dobby could feel it all welling up inside of him. Dobby could feel his family.


To the Masses:

I sort of miss when it only took a hand full of hours to get a chapter done. Now it takes days. Granted, those days have a lot of breaks in them. You'll notice this chapter doesn't have a lot of dialogue in it, that's because I'm lazy. I feel like a lot happened though, and I hope it still goes well with the rest of the story. It's kind of hard to tell since I take so many unexpected breaks.

Ummm…Is that it?

I like quotes, song suggestons, and reviews.

Much appreciated,

Al