Chapter Text
There are some moments in one’s life that determine the fate of the world.
James Potter going against the wishes of his wife is one of them.
*
Whisk is the bloodtrue elf of the Potter family. The two elves working under her were bought because of necessity; she – or rather, her bloodline – has been in the family for centuries. Her mother worked for the Potters, as did her mother’s mother, and the elf before that, and before that as well.
Three house elves to cover a pureblood mansion isn’t quite enough while someone lives there, but no one has set foot in the Potter mansion for years. Between the three of them, they manage to stave off the dust and the grime just fine.
The Potters are aware of their existence, of course. Still, none of them have been called upon since master James moved in with mistress Lily.
Until now, that is.
Whisk stands tall and proud before master James, pillowcase straightened in an excited hurry, hands balled into fists to keep her from fiddling with its hem. “Master called?” she asks, voice trembling.
Master James is bent over an office desk, the candlelight flickering over his once-wild hair. He looks over at her, a tired glint to his eyes. It’s the first time she sees him in years. Time hasn’t been kind on him. “I did,” he admits, and even his voice sounds tired. “Whisk. I’m about to give you the most important task you will ever be faced with.”
Whisk straightens. A task in itself will always be important - but the most important of them all?
She nods eagerly to show she’s listening.
Master James hands her a printed picture. On it is a young human toddler, skin and hair the same dark as master James’, giggling silently as he thrashes around. “This,” master James says, and Whisk snaps her focus back up at him, “is Harry James Potter. My son.”
Whisk gasps delightedly, hands coming up to clasp beneath her chin. “A child! Master James didn’t tells the elves about master James’ child!” she exclaims.
“I didn’t,” master James hurriedly whispers, “but that is not what’s important right now!” He visibly calms himself down, rubbing his thumb across his brow. “The Potter line is in grave danger,” he says. Whisk remains silent. The fireplace crackles; master James glances over at it, lines of worry etched permanently into his flesh. After a moment he looks back at her. “If anything happens to me and Lily, I want you to take care of Harry. People will try to stop you, but you must not let them.” He straightens up, then, taking a deep breath. “I trust you, Whisk,” he admits. “But in these times, I can’t trust anyone. Don’t be offended at the strict language - I need to be sure everything will go according to plan.” He hands her a folded parchment. It’s splotched with ink and coffee. “Everything written on this paper is hereby a strict command, overriding every and any command you have gotten before. Read it. Read it all.”
Whisk nods, taking the paper from his steady hands.
When she looks up again, there are tears streaking her cheeks. “Whisk understand, master James,” she whispers.
He looks away, into the fiery fire. He rubs his knuckles. Again, then again, skin worn and dry. “I hope it doesn’t come to this,” he whispers. “But you need to understand that it might.”
Whisk nods again. “Whisk understand, master James,” she repeats. She hesitates, then looks up at him with solemn eyes. “It has beens an honor serving yous, master.”
He glances back at her with a warm smile that almost blurs out the worry lines marring his face. “It’s been an honor being served by you, Whisk.” Then the smile fades, and he returns to his desk. “Dismissed.” It’s a grave word, handed over in absolute seriousness.
It's a death sentence.
When Whisk pops out of the room, apparating back to the manor to pass the information on, they both expect it to be the last time they talk.
And in a baby crib up the stairs in a house on Godric’s Hollow, baby Harry Potter beams at his doting mother.
*
Months pass. Whisk doesn’t forget about these new orders, because house elves never forget an order.
She returns to her other duties. She works side by side with her two friends, sings with them as she cleans, tends to the gardens and falls in love with the Potter mansion over and over again. This is, after all, the place she’s grown up in. This is where she’s loved and been loved, and where she hopes to spend her very last days.
And then, one fateful and dark day, her magic twinges around her, twisting around her wrists in agony, wailing, screeching -
She stands up so abruptly that the pillow she’d been sitting on is flung across the room. Misty and Tops look at her with wide eyes; they’d felt it, too, just not as strongly.
They don’t say anything to each other. They just nod.
Before Whisk has the time to do anything, the magic twinges again - less painfully, this time, and she grits her teeth against the knowledge that both Master James and Mistress Lily are now gone forever.
“Good luck,” Misty whispers, the soft tones of Täk falling easily off their tongue after years of practice.
Whisk nods then apparates out of the mansion -
and straight into the smoking remains of master James’ house.
She raises one hand to her trembling lips; master James is laying in the hallway, half-buried beneath rubble from the roof. Closing her eyes, she whispers a brief farewell, hoping to ease his passing somewhat.
(her heart wails, for a few brief moments, and will continue to do this for years to come. he was a good master, and her mother taught her well.)
Stepping over his body she hurries past the living room and up the stairs. Every step seems fateful, bearing some sort of imaginary weight and meaning. The house is quiet, except for the creak and groan of collapsing wood.
A piece of the roof lets go and crashes into the floor beside her; she keeps on walking, determined to make it to the top.
Young master Harry is still alive. She knows he is; there were only two deaths today.
The roof has caved in - half of it is missing - in young Harry’s room, but the babe is still sleeping through the cold.
Or...
Whisk steps over the discarded robes on the floor and waves a hand over young Harry’s face. She sighs sadly, then reaches for him, careful to bundle and wrap him up in the blanket from the crib. Poor babe has fainted from stress. There’s blood trickling down his face - a curse wound, by the looks of it. She has to hurry back if she is to heal it properly. Gently she brushes her knuckles across the thin cut, cooing softly when young Harry squirms.
“Harry,” she whispers, her voice a soft whisper on the breeze ruffling through the broken remains of the house. She speaks Täk, for Täk is the language of the house elves. “You’re safe, dear heart,” she continues, caressing the sleeping babe’s cheek. “You’re safe.”