All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 19

House-elves... tonight, he tells himself firmly at regular intervals during that evening's Quidditch practice. There is no excuse for putting it off any longer, and with his improved appetite, biscuits and toast triangles are no longer sufficient. The practice, during which he watches from the sidelines as Roxanne takes her team to task, is by far the most satisfying yet, but he cannot say the same for tonight's dinner, which he thinks may have been some sort of corned beef hash-egg salad hybrid. Whatever it was, he had eaten it as quickly as he could in an attempt to avoid tasting it, and as he walks back to the castle over the squelchy grass, it sits uneasily in the pit of his stomach as though it's not sure it wants to be there.

Resolve to make up with the house-elves strengthened, he is just debating whether to go straight to the kitchens and get it over with or shower and change first when he almost walks into a third-year Slytherin boy in the Entrance Hall.

"You're covered in mud," he points out, stepping back.

"Well spotted, Charlie," Draco says easily. "Any other observations?"

The boy frowns, surprised. "I meant... why are you covered in mud, sir?"

"I see. You know, we can save a lot of time and energy if we just say what we mean the first time," Draco says. He's enjoying himself now. "In answer to your question, I have just come from a Quidditch practice."

Charlie's expression turns sour. "It's not fair that you're helping them."

"Excuse me?" He frowns, aware of something large in his peripheral vision, but he doesn't turn.

"It's not fair," Charlie repeats sullenly. "You were a Slytherin. Why can't you help our team?"

Draco folds his arms and looks down at his student. "The team that's captained by Joseph Ryan? The same Joseph Ryan who is currently being fought over by Wimbourne Wasps and Puddlemere United?"

Charlie's look of astonishment is immensely satisfying. "Er... yes, sir," he says after a moment.

Thank you, Roxanne Ainsley, he says silently. Knowledge is power.

He gives Charlie a little smile. "I think the Slytherin team will be just fine."

Looking utterly baffled, the boy slinks away. The thing in the shadows moves out into the lamplight and towards Draco, grinning all over its whiskery face.

"Yeh certainly told 'im, didn't yeh?" Hagrid laughs. It's an infectious sound, and Draco laughs, too. It feels strange and frightening and wonderful just to stand there in the middle of the vast Entrance Hall, sharing a moment with this unexpected new ally.

"Yes, I don't really know where that came from," he admits. "I enjoyed it, though."

"I noticed. 'Ow's young Stanley?"

"He's fine. When I left, he was trying to get onto the mantelpiece. I doubt he'll manage it, but he seemed to be relishing the challenge."

"That's good. You look much 'appier today as well," Hagrid says, casting an almost fatherly eye over him.

"I had some sleep," Draco confesses. "Just a little, but it's a start."

"Is that all? You look as though you 'ave a secret," Hagrid says, wriggling his bristly eyebrows. "Whatever it is, it's doin' yeh good."

Draco's stomach tightens quite without his permission. "Oh. Well, I don't know about that, but... thank you, I suppose. And thank you for the sandwiches. They were fantastic."

Hagrid just laughs and heads for the front doors. "'Ouse-elves," he booms over his shoulder. "Alright once yeh get on the right side of 'em."

The door bangs behind Hagrid and Draco hovers in the Entrance Hall for a moment, lost in thought.

He's right. Of course he is. Hopefully.

All he needs, he thinks as he hurries back to his rooms, showers and makes himself look presentable, is something for them to mend. The trouble is, it has to be something interesting. Something important. The last thing he wants is for them to think he's just humouring them, or worse, mocking them, and oh, bugger, he's going to have to do the unthinkable.

He walks into the bedroom, braces himself, and, with the help of a silver letter opener, rips several squares from his beloved autumn quilt, cringing as he pulls at the stitching and tries to make it look as though there's been some sort of unfortunate accident.

When he's finished, he holds up the quilt and sighs. It looks terrible: sad and unloved, and he hopes fervently that Hagrid was not overstating the mending talents of the house-elves, because he bloody loves this quilt and he can't quite imagine life without it.

"You can't befriend a house-elf without ripping a few quilts," he mumbles to himself, picking up the folder containing the menus, slinging the quilt over his shoulder, and heading to the kitchens.

As always, the room clears instantly as soon as he steps inside, but he's ready for it this time.

He takes a deep breath. "I need your help," he says loudly. "Please."

Nothing happens. Carefully, he lays out the quilt on the table and tries again. "I was hoping you could fix this... it's... it's very important to me," he says, surprised to hear his voice cracking slightly. "My mother gave it to me and her mother made it for her."

From the back of the kitchen comes a soft rattle, and there is a creak as someone opens the larder door a crack.

"I know you don't like me," Draco continues, eyes flitting around the dimly-lit kitchen. "I didn't really like you either. I thought you were rude, and the food these past two weeks has been terrible. A lot of people are pretty unimpressed with me about it, which is probably what you wanted, but... things have changed, and I..." he stops, feeling idiotic about talking to what looks like an empty room. "The thing is, Hagrid... he's my... friend," he says awkwardly, forcing himself to go on. "He saw my quilt and he said that you were good at fixing things, but perhaps he made a mistake," he says, dropping his eyes and waiting. Hoping.

Slowly, the larder door creaks all the way open. One elf creeps out and approaches the table without a word, reaching out a long finger to touch the torn quilt, and then suddenly they are everywhere, emerging from cupboards, leaping out of flour bins, popping out from behind crates of fruit and sacks of onions. In seconds, the floor is swarming with them, and Draco steps back, flattening himself against the wall and watching with astonishment as they surround the quilt, whispering amongst themselves. It is impossible to see what they are doing once they close ranks and set to work, but for two or three minutes the table is lost in a flurry of activity, and when they step back, all Draco can do is stare.

His quilt is perfect.

They have restored the damaged sections beautifully, but it's more than that. All the loose threads and tiny marks that have resulted from years of use are gone; the warm russets and bright golds and rich, deep browns seem to glow in the lamplight, and the whole thing just gleams with newness.

He looks up from the quilt to find himself to focus of many, many pairs of bulbous eyes, and for a moment, no one in the kitchen seems to breathe.

"Thank you," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "Thank you so much."

"We are fixing things," says the elf nearest Draco, looking up at him fiercely.

"Yes, I can see that," he murmurs, and a ripple of satisfaction spreads around the room. Carefully, he gathers up his quilt and folds it into a fat square. "Could we perhaps... start again?"