Summary: Small, abused, bulging-eye creature with speech impediment ISO another SABEC w/ SE. Enjoys grovelling servitude and traitor-like tendencies. No smokers.

Warning & Disclaimer: Deliberate BadFic. Dobby/Gollum-Smeagol. Uh, sorry. Dobby and the Harry Potter crew belong to J. K. Rowling. Gollum and Company belong to J. R. R. Tolkein.

Notes: This is all Flidget's fault.

~Gandalf the Gray

When he falls, the heat scorches him like Yellow Face, except it is a thousand, thousand times worse than Yellow face. There is pain as he falls and the only sensations left to him are the heat and the pain, flames and wind as he falls. Briefly, there is the taste of the Baggins's-- not the Master anymore, no-- blood and the feel of flesh and bone yielding to his teeth.

He understands fire all too well.

Perhaps though it is the glory, the pure consuming throb of rightness as the Precious returns that allows him to breathe through seared lungs as the red-gold-black flies toward him and--

The wind around him changes before he hits. It feels… cooler.

***

There's a song that Dobby hears quite often around this time of year. It's got a lovely beat to it and Dobby often finds himself humming it to distract himself from whenever the Master is upset or things are not going well in the house. No one is ever really calm at this time of year, though.

Today, he is cleaning silver in the kitchen, keeping one ear-- the one he didn't shut in the oven door-- alert for any call from the Master or the Mistress. The younger Master is away at the school where Harry Potter is, much to Dobby's fear. Terrible things are in the air, not the least of them being the smell of the polish. Dobby sings to keep himself on task.

"On the seventh day of Christmas, Dobby gave to Dob~by… seven knocks a-banging, six fingers burning, fiiiiive flooooooggings…"

"What is that racket?!" Master screams out from the library. "Narcissa! Don't admit any carolers, for God's sake! We're trying to work here!"

Dobby pauses to punch himself briskly in the nose five times for disturbing Master and then wonders if he should do three more to make the next verse. He tries to work it out but the rhymes get tangled up on his tongue and by then, he thinks it would be easier to just go on with the song. Counting on his heavily bandaged fingers as to which verse is up, Dobby checks himself over. Ah. That's it. "Four ear-pulls, three pii~nches, two ironed hands--"

"DOBBY!"

"Dobby is coming, Master!" he cries, as he drops his lapful of silverware-- later, he will jab himself with a fork to make up for it-- and runs to the library. Perhaps there will be a new verse coming out of this. Master has been very agitated lately and tonight there is a big meeting in the library with all of Master's other people, those who wear black robes and support He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Maybe they need more preserved jewel-snake eyes, or perhaps some dragon's blood measured in a scale. Dobby has already carried bottles and boxes of evil-smelling things to the library and he fears what they plan to do with all of them. His family house holds many secrets and Dobby sees far too many of them, yes.

"DOBBY!"

The library doors practically vibrate and Dobby hurtles through them, yelping as he skids through a sea of black robes. "I is here, Master!" he says anxiously.

The Master turns and casually kicks him into the fireplace. Yes, definitely a new verse.

Crawling out and coughing on soot, he cringes and waits for his instructions. "Master was calling for Dobby, yes? Dobby is here to do what Master orders. Shall Dobby get more things from the supply room?"

"Silence," the Master barks sharply. The room smells of oil of bloodweed and singed fairy wings. The followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named stand uneasily in a circle with their hoods drawn over their faces and shift their weight from foot to foot.

"I had a list," the Master says slowly, "of things you were to fetch. You did fetch them all, didn't you Dobby?"

"Dobby has!" he says anxiously. "But Dobby will get more if needed! Dobby can find the pufferfish spines and the beetle shells and the manticore scrapings and the gneedle stalks and--"

A motion of the Master's wand cuts off his voice. The Master takes a deep breath and his voice is suddenly silky and soft. "Did you, or did you not bring me the fresh unicorn water?" The Master releases the spell, slowly-- very slowly.

There is a trap here somewhere. Dobby ducks his head and twists his fingers into peculiar contortions and gurgles. "Dobby is bringing Master the unicorn water from the blue jar… Dobby has thought that was the only unicorn water left…"

Dobby has a marvelous view of the writing desk when he goes flying into it. Real mahogany wood punishes so much better than any other.

"That jar was at least thirty years old so I bought another jar! Go get the new jar on the double and see to it that you deal with yourself accordingly for delaying the spell." The Master is practically seething with rage. Something must have gone with what he is doing.

Dobby can find it in himself not to feel too badly about that. But he tries to ignore it. So he hastily scrambles to his feet and bows. "Yes, master, sir! Dobby goes for the unicorn water! As he begins to run for the door, a sharp yelp echoes from outside the open window and there is a faint sound of splashing water.

The Master stiffens, then strides to the casement. He sticks his head to the open window, peers, and glares. "Foxes near the lily pond again, no doubt," he murmurs. "Dobby! Go deal with that and then get me the unicorn water. And mind, I paid a good deal of money for those koi in the pond, so I want you to make sure there's nothing to damage them in the least when you finish or else…"

The Master's boot makes its point quite clearly. Dobby understands that, yes. He scuttles out, pillowcase flapping about his legs, and makes for the kitchen back door. Dobby leaps over the spilled silverware and longingly looks at his cleaning rag. Even polish is better than wet work in the cold outdoors.

But Dobby is helpful and Dobby is obedient. Dobby will do this for his Master and it will count as a punishment he thinks, and then Dobby will go find the bottle of butterbeer he hid beneath the coal-chute. After all, it is almost Christmas. And he sorely needs it.

Dobby also makes a note to remember that "boots a-kicking" would scan very nicely in the tenth verse.

***

"Explain one more time?" one of the black-robed figures asked in a heavy, perplexed voice. Judging from size it was either Goyle or Crabbe. Since Lucius could see at least three inches of hairy wrist protruding from the sleeve of the of the robe, he ventured the guess that it was Crabbe.

Bloody minions, never keeping a thought in their heads. Lucius resisted the urge to snarl and rub his head solely because there was still extract of leech on his fingers and he had no desire to anoint his temples with it. "We are trying," he gritted out in a clipped tone, "to do the work of our Lord by raising him an agent of power."

"Oh," the probable Crabbe replied. Then, "It doesn't seem to be working."

If Lucius hadn't personally attested for himself that nearly all the Death-Eaters couldn't find their asses with both hands and a lumos spell, he would've thought that Crabbe was being sarcastic. As he was sure that the remark was merely blatant stupidity, he settled for glaring out of the depths of his hood and looking haughty. "That was merely the first summoning portion of the spell. We still have yet to finish the binding portion."

Once we figure out where the hell the item actually is. Lucius kept that last bit to himself and folded his arms in one of the previous favorite poses of the Dark Lord-- number 16, if he wasn't mistaken. Passive-aggressive arms folded on chest, chin at sixty-degree angle. Very good for simultaneous confusion and intimidation and could be expanded to pose number 16A with one hand impatiently tapping a wand.

The Death-Eater next to him raised his hand, also sounding bewildered. "But after we raise it, then what?"

Damnation, he wanted to aim a curse and he really couldn't tell if it was Crabbe or Goyle. Not that it would've made too much difference in the long run-- he could always just curse them both and probably feel twice as better. But the curse would no doubt do terrible things to the Persian rug. He wondered if he could just imperio them both into acting like intelligent people.

"The spell," Lucius said slowly and carefully, choosing words of few syllables, "was meant to summon the nearest most powerful creature possible." Deep breath. "However, we have changed the spell to summon the most powerful nearby item as to improve our chances of immediate control. Any creature or being around the item will also be summoned to expand our power but the focus was for an item."

The hood was too hot and Lucius could feel his drawers riding up. The Dark Lord certainly had an eye for style when he picked out the robes, but their functionality really left something to be desired. Then again, perhaps what that was what the Dark Lord was trying to do-- a cruciatus had nothing on a really good wedgie.

Sometimes, Lucius hated the fact that he was never sure if the other Death-Eaters were making faces at him from beneath the hood.

Crabbe-Goyle paused and obviously was thinking long and hard. The process looked quite painful. "So we'll use the item and its bearer to help the Dark Lord rise again? I mean, again-again, since he already rose."

Avada Kedavra leaves scorch marks, Avada Kedavra leaves scorch marks, Avada Kedavra leaves scorch marks, no scorch marks on the rug… "Very good, Goyle. You managed to draw a conclusion."

"What?"

Three syllables. Damn. It had been going so well, too.

"Just stand there and try not to look too stupid. Both of you," he added, just to be on the safe side.

Where in the world could the object be? He knew that the spell had been successful but nothing had appeared in the circle. Lucius didn't know how much longer he could keep bluffing. Damn the house-elves and their mistakes; he knew it was the unicorn water that must have done it. Or could it have been the hen's teeth? Were they ground too finely? Damn Severus too for not letting Lucius cheat off his potions notes back in Hogwarts.

He hoped, anyway, that the miserable little Weasely girl in the school had managed to get involved in something horrible with the book he had slipped into her parcels. No harm in having some optimism in that.

***

Coolness. Wetness. He crouches bewildered in shallow water and the horrible pain and certainty of his falling is gone. Now he is in another place entirely and it is both familiar and unfamiliar. Water, water is good but this water moves and splashes down into the pool. Not like his nice home was, no, still and dark and old.

Above him is White-Face and while this is not a bad as Yellow-Face, he hisses and scuttles into the darker end of the pool, peering cautiously from beneath the water-weed and stone overhang.

Think, precious. His grandmother has told him of this, yes, when he was Smeagol. Tricksy memory is, but he pulls it up like a handful of weeds from the deep. It happens to all when they die, Smeagol-Gollum knows this, he knows they go to a place where the waters are deep and clear and full of fish. No one goes hungry, no one serves to a Bagginses, birthday presents everyday, yes.

Dead, his body must be but it feels real. Wet-cool-mud, tickling brush of scales from pale fish darting among his feet. Fish. Fish. Scale-crunch, raw-salt taste of fish between his teeth, so good, so juicy-sweet and not tasted in a long time.

But, oh, Precious! Surely he is in the place his grandmother spoke of, but where is the Precious then? He can't have lost it, not when it was in his fingers again? Where, where? He splashes anxiously and grabs handfuls of mud and pebbles but no Precious.

A wail builds up in his throat-- what use is this place without the Precious-- and he raises his arms to rail at the sky in hopeless rage and fear. And then--

"Sir must remove himself from the Master's pond right away! Sir must go or Dobby will have to make sir go!"

And he sees a Precious that he never expected.

***

Dobby is nearly moaning in anxiety by the time he makes his way out into the darkened estate. The other house-elves in the kitchen have caught the feeling hanging in the air. Fearful whispers fill the air and are punctuated with slams of the oven door and splashes of boiling water and high yelps for the treachery.

Outside, the moon is bright and full and Dobby sees his breath in the air. Before him, the lily pond is being churned and disturbed by a dark figure splashing through the water. One especially great wave sends a fish flopping and writhing on the side of the pool, trying desperately to get back in the water. The dark figure suddenly leaps with great agility from the water and crouches by the side of the pool, stretching thin arms towards the sky.

Emboldened by the plight of the fish and the thought of what the master will do if this fish or any of them die, Dobby darts forward and throws the fish back in before confronting the unknown. "Sir must remove himself from the Master's pond right away! Sir must go or Dobby will have to make sir go!" It never hurts to be polite, except when it's to the Master, in which case it'll hurt in any case.

The intruder turns to see him and Dobby's heart seizes up, the way it feels when Dobby has clothes-dreams and sees himself walking out Malfoy Hall, never to return. The strange other by the side of the pond has yellow eyes, large and bright, fingers and limbs that are quick and agile, whip-thin body. Dobby has never seen anyone like this before, not even the other house-elves.

"Sir must…" he fumbles as the stranger glances at him oddly. "Sir must not be here! Sir must be…must be…" What is this feeling of strange lightness?

This strange new person cocks his head and stares. Dobby falls in love, as quickly as he falls into the depths of the other's eyes.

"Precious?" The creature takes a step towards him, looking confused. "Who is this? A Bagginses?" His voice is as sibilant and erotic as perfectly made thick pudding sliding off a ladle.

"I is Dobby," Dobby manages to breathe out. "This is the Master's home. Who is you? Why is you here?"

A sly look enters those great, lovely yellow eyes. "Who is us, yes? We is Smeagol and we is searching for our Precious."

Smeagol. The most beautiful name he has ever heard, rival to that of the Boy Who Lived. Dobby rolls it over his tongue, softly. "Smeagol."

As Dobby stands in the cold, his fingers begin to ache. They remind him of his purpose in being out here. Yet, the words will not come and they stick in his throat. "This is not a safe place for sir," he finally says desperately. "There is no precious here. Sir must leave… Smeagol must not be caught and punished…"

Agony is overwhelming. How can he turn this newfound beauty away? His Master's command rings in his ears; Dobby's job is to deal with the intruder and no doubt it is dangerous for him to be near someone like the Master as well. Duty and desire war in his heart.

"Punished?" Smeagol's throat bobs convulsively. "No, precious, not punished. The Bagginses punished us harshly, we suffered under the Bagginses. Bagginses was a cruel master, he took Smeagol's precious from him."

Dobby's heart is full of pity. Why must the servants always suffer? He wishes a fierce justice taken towards poor Smeagol's abusing master; surely it is all right to wish for as long as he does not think of his own Master. "Smeagol punished? Poor Smeagol! Why?"

"Yes," sighs Smeagol, "Tricksy, tricksy. Smeagol does not know where he is and has lost his precious."

"A precious?"

The light of his eyes flares green and he nods. "Precious is what Smeagol loves most. For a long time, we held our Precious all to ourselves down in the water until the Bagginses tooks it." A long sigh. "Many people want our Precious. Many people hurts us for it."

The crystalline tear that drips down his cheek is beautiful and painful to Dobby. If only he could give this sought-after thing to Smeagol! "Dobby will help Smeagol find his precious, but Smeagol must not be seen! The Master will be most upset if he finds out Dobby is hiding someone!"

"No. Smeagol will not leave without his Precious."

"You must run and not be caught here! Dobby cannot bear to think of Smeagol in pain!"

Smeagol's eyes slowly rise. "No. Smeagol does not go." One long, thin finger reaches out and caresses Dobby's ear. "Smeagol will stay. With this Precious."

Joy surges warm in his heart and loins as though the word incendio has just been murmured. "Smeagol stays with Dobby…" he breathes incredulously. "No one has ever stayed with Dobby." His own eyes fill with tears. "Dobby has never been anyone's Precious…"

Smeagol's hands are thin and callused but terribly dexterous. They are creeping downward and beginning some extremely interesting things. Dobby did not know such feelings were possible. He tries his best to copy what Smeagol does. Really, it is no different of a motion than polishing silverware is.

The stones of the lily pond are damp and cold beneath him and so is Smeagol. Dobby is determined to warm him. He clings to his lover's body, memorizing every knotted joint, every slick orifice and curve with his hands. The bandages hinder his sense of touch, but he tries to make the most of it.

The moon is bright overhead and his breath hangs cloudy in the air before him yet all he feels is a blazing heat, better than butterbeer. Dobby writhes and then cries out, going limp under the light of the moon and amog the dark trees. And all he is aware of at the end is the gollum-gollum-gollum cry of Smeagol's ecstatic release.

For a bare moment, they lie there and there is peace in Dobby's world. No plots, no evil masters, no terrible gnawing fear for the fate of the world and the fate of Dobby. All that is important is here now.

"Come with Smeagol," his lover breathes, as soon as they have rested. "Two pairs of eyes better than one, yes? Together we find Precious and together we go."

Dobby yanks his own ears in agony for his wild desire to leave. "Dobby cannot! Dobby is sworn to stay with his Master until he dies."

"Dobby does not love Smeagol? Dobby does not think Smeagol is his Precious?" There is hurt in the question.

"Dobby gives Smeagol his whole heart!" He clasps his lover's hand. "But Dobby's body and service belongs to Master. Dobby cannot leave," he finishes miserably.

Smeagol's eyes light with new resolve. "Then Smeagol will find his Precious and use it to free his other Precious!" he cries triumphantly. "Will Dobby wait for Smeagol?"

"Dobby will!" he gasps, and then they are one again, this time joined in the most intimate way possible. He has never dreamed of this.

Much later, Dobby lies alone on the brink of the lily pond, trying to hold back tears. He can still taste the glorious dankness of his lover's salt-fish kisses and wishes and wishes that there would be clothes waiting for him when he goes into the house-- clothes that will free him and allow him to spend the rest of his days tangled in the slick embrace.

But it is better not to hope. Dobby breathes heavily and sighs. Tired, he drags his pillowcase over his frame again and looks around the pool before he starts back to the house for the unicorn water. There is one fish missing and no doubt master will be angry for having had to wait. But, still.

All things considering, Dobby thinks he got a very good holiday present indeed. He starts to hum again as he goes back to the house.

The End.