James Potter and the Crimson Thread

13. THE TRIUMVIRATE REVISITED

James slept in late the next morning, missing breakfast, so that by the time he came blearily to the table in search of tea everyone else was already gone for the morning, apparently on a final Christmas Eve shopping trip to Sartori Alley. The glare outside the broad windows was so bright with new snow that it was painful to look at. Cold light filled the dining room and reflected from the glossy wood of the table so that James had to squint as he plopped to a seat. To his embarrassment, he was waited on by Blake, who was once more dressed in his formal tails and white shirt, his hair combed severely and gleaming black.

"I trust Sir had a restful night," he commented perfunctorily as he poured hot water into James' cup.

James couldn't bring himself to answer or even to make eye contact. Blake, for his part, seemed to enjoy James' discomfiture.

"Toast, Sir?" he asked brightly.

"Sure," James answered dully, watching the steam rise from his steeping cup.

"Jam, Sir?"

"No. Thanks."

"Honey, Sir?"

"No."

"Butter, Sir?"

"No. Wait. Yes."

"Straight or diagonal sliced, Sir?"

James finally turned and looked up at Blake where he stood nearby. "Tell the house elf who makes it that she can draw and quarter it for all I care. And while you're at it, feel free to take it down a notch, why don't you."

It was like kicking a statue. Blake didn't blink, merely smiled his small, insincere smile. "Very good, Sir. I shall have that for you in just a jiffy."

When the toast came, it was diagonally sliced, perfectly buttered, sitting on a China plate without a single crumb visible, and decorated with a twist of orange and a sprig of parsley.

"I hope this is to Sir's satisfaction," Blake said, with just a trace of courteous doubt.

James sighed and gave up, stuffing a slice of toast into his mouth before anything he regretted could come out of it.

Blake went out a minute later, leaving the servant's door to swing in and out on its hinge. His voice echoed back dully, impatiently, and as the door swung, showing regressively smaller slices of the hall beyond, James caught a glimpse of a female house elf standing just inside, observing him with her large, strangely somber eyes. She was probably the one from the kitchen, checking to assure that James found his toast acceptable. The expression on her face, however, showed less servile efficiency and more watchful intent. As the door swung one last time, showing only a few inches of dark hall and one large elven eye, James saw her face tilt back in the direction of Blake, her expression sharpening, her brow lowering with undisguised contempt.

James chewed his second slice of toast and thought about his conversation with the Gryffindor house elf, Piggen. Things seemed to be coming true just as he and his fellow elves feared. Humans were taking over house elf duties, all in the name of equality and progress. Aunt Hermione would heartily approve. And yet the house elves themselves were obviously painfully unhappy with this new reality. James wondered briefly what had happened to the former upstairs house elves that had been replaced by Blake and Topham and the rest. Where did house elves go

when they were dismissed? Did they all still live in the downstairs warren of rooms, only without any purpose or duties to occupy them? If so, it seemed like an arrangement destined to end badly.

Impulsively, James jumped up, tossed the last bite of his toast onto the plate, and strode to the servant's door. He pushed it open with one hand, certain that he would be too late to speak to the female house elf, to ask her his questions, and he was right. The hallway was empty, dark except for the glaring light from one window at the far end, reflecting on the polished wooden floor, turning it into a blind, imperfect mirror.