For the Quidditch League, Tutshill Tornados, seeker, Round 9, write about a witch or wizard seeing someone in a new light (goggles).

Word Count: 1172 by Google Docs

How is it possible that Draco misses something that he doesn't even like? Something, in fact, that is filthy, dirty, and just a bother.

How is it possible that Draco has become that thing?

Yet Draco is still here, stuck washing the dishes. He hates his life.

"Mum," he calls, extending the second 'm'.

"Yes, dear?" His mother's voice comes in from their dining area, where Draco's parents are having tea. Without Draco. Draco is in the kitchen, doing dirty dishes. With a groan, Draco puts down the plate he was holding and returns to his parents.

"I hate doing the dishes," he says, with a pout, when he's in front of his parents. "I hate this. Why can't you just use magic to clean them?"

"Cleaning magic is very unreliable, darling," his mother says, touching his cheek.

"Yes," his father agrees. "And besides, you need something to do while we're having evening tea. You know that you're not allowed to join us quite yet."

Draco gives his father a deep a glare. "I could be hanging out with my friends, or doing homework, or sleeping—"

"Go finish up, dear," his mother says, giving him a soft push out the doorway.

"—but instead I have to do dishes!" Draco sighs, turning once to glare again at his parents, and then returns to the soapy basin of water. His fingers have already turned pruney. What was he, a house elf? He already knew his mother's response to that question.

'No, but while we don't have one, someone has to do the chores. Lots of kids do chores for their parents. You'll be fine.'

Draco will not be fine. He has to do chores.

He misses Dobby. At least with Dobby around, there was someone else to do chores.

Draco might be scarred.

"What is this?" he asks himself, holding up a weird piece of cloth, with two bowl things connected to it. "Ugh."

Draco has been struck with another chore—laundry. He's currently in the process of washing his parent's clothes, and he had actually found a rhythm until he found this weird bowl thing and got distracted. What type of things is his mother—or father—wearing?

"How are you doing?" Draco's mother has floated into the washing room without Draco noticing her.

"What's this?" he asks, ignoring her question. Bloody miserable, he thinks in response.

His mom chuckles and takes the clothing from him. "A bra. Expect to see more of them, around your fifth or sixth year." She gives him back the 'bra' and Draco squints up at her in confusion.

"Oh," Draco says, realizing where a bra goes on the body. He blinks very fast and looks down into the laundry bin. "Why do I even have to do this anyway?" he asks, after a few seconds of silence. "This isn't even a chore Dobby had to do."

"Like we've told you, cleaning magic isn't foolproof, so we much rather it was done by hand. And Dobby didn't have to do it, only for fear of accidentally freeing him." The tone of her voice tells Draco that she's still not entirely over his father accidentally freeing their servant. "Anyway, it'd be good for you to have some responsibilities. Maybe we won't even get a new one."

Draco freezes, shirt in one hand. "No, no, no." He looks up at his mother, in utter dismay. "You have to get a new house elf."

"Well," his mother starts, looking straight through him. "Lots of other kids your age do chores. Maybe it'd be good for you to learn some responsibility."

"I can do that in other ways!" Draco yells, throwing down the shirt he was holding, perhaps acting a bit too dramatic. "I don't have to be a house elf to do learn responsibility."

"Calm yourself, Draco, or we're definitely not getting one." The statement sobers Draco right away. He picks up the shirt again. "It was just something we were thinking about, that's all."

He's about to yell again, but instead, Draco gives her a pleading look, trying to make his lip quiver in just the right way. His look never seemed to work on his mother. He wishes his father was here instead.

"Finish up here, then I have some other chores for you to do."

His mother motions to the pile of clothes next to him, and then glides gracefully out of the room.

After finishing the laundry, it was already the peak of the evening and Draco has to wash down their kitchen (Oh, that's what baking soda is used for), bake a couple of cakes for when their guests come for dinner (That's what baking soda is for?), and cook them dinner, which was the first baking-soda free task of his evening. He's learning to hate baking soda. It will take more laundry washing just to get the little white powder out of his clothes. He vows never to wear black again, as he flops himself onto his bed, having finished cooking tea, along with the rest of this evening's chores. He still needs to do the dishes, but that's only after they eat their meal. For now, Draco has free time, which he will enjoy for as long as he can.

He screams into his pillow.

"Dobby!" he shouts to his empty room, sitting up. A year previous the house elf would come running into Draco's room. Nobody comes this time. "Dobby," Draco says, quieter. He's actually sad that nobody comes. He misses Dobby. "I hate chores," Draco mutters darkly, to his room. He's about to lean back down into his pillow and take a short nap when a loud crack brings him back to the present.

"Dobby thought he was called, so Dobby came back to the house of Malfoy, even though Dobby doesn't—" Draco can hear someone—or something—choke.

"Dobby?" Draco asks, leaning over the edge of his master bed. Sure enough, there's a small creature with large green eyes standing at the edge of the bed.

"Master called, so Dobby came."

"I'm not your master, Dobby," Draco says, groaning.

"Dobby thinks that young master Draco will always be Dobby's master, at least in Dobby's heart."

"I'm sorry, Dobby," Draco says suddenly, looking down at him. "I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you enough."

"Dobby is never appreciated. Dobby is a house elf."

Draco's about to say something, but he doesn't. That statement is very depressing to Draco, but it's also true.

"I'm sorry anyway. Your job is—was really hard." Draco feels very small, in the grand scheme of life. "I'm sorry if I made it harder," he whispers, in a tiny voice.

"Thank you, young master Draco. Dobby forgives you." Dobby bows as he says this sincerely and Draco feels even worse. He's realizing, for the first time, that Dobby was more than a thing. Dobby had feelings.

When Draco doesn't speak again, there's another crack, and Dobby's gone. Draco leans back into his pillow, appreciating Dobby as a living thing for once.

"Sorry."