Kreacher in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with Knickers Title: Poor, Poor Mistress Author: eeyore9990 Character: Kreacher Location: Grimmauld Place Object: Knickers Other Characters: Implied Sirius, off-screen Mrs Black's portrait Rating: R Warnings: House-elf wanking and other icky, ouchy things Word Count: 562 Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Company belong to JK Rowling. No money was made writing this bit of fiction. Author's Notes: I am so, so sorry.
Summary: "It was my father's," said Sirius, throwing the ring into the sack. "Kreacher wasn't quite as devoted to him as to my mother, but I still caught him snogging a pair of my father's old trousers last week." -- Order of the Phoenix, page 117. If we assume this to be true, what would Kreacher have done with Mrs Black's knickers? One can only imagine…
Kreacher shuffled into the kitchen, looking behind himself for those blood traitor brats or… He wouldn't even think of Him. The ungrateful hell-spawn! His poor Mistress, broke her heart, He did. Kreacher heard the soothing tones of his own gravelly voice whispering about the way the House had been overrun as he crawled into his cubbyhole and slithered over the assorted bits and bobs.
He needed comfort tonight, comfort such as he was never allowed in this House now that He had returned with his Filthy Friends.
The gleam of the white, diaphanous knickers called him deeper into the recesses of the hole until he was within touching distance of the old-fashioned garment. With reverent, trembling fingers, Kreacher reached forward and plucked at the lacy edging of the silk material.
"Oh, my poor Mistress," Kreacher croaked in his deep, mournful voice. "Poor, poor Mistress with her bad, bad house-elf."
With a ragged sigh, Kreacher lifted the knickers and spread them out into their full, lustrous glory. Settling the cool material over his body, he moaned into the darkness and allowed his squat body to writhe under the silk that still, through the power of magic, carried the scent of his Mistress in its threads.
"Mistress," he breathed, knobby little fingers stroking under the knickers along his body. "Poor, poor Mistress." He pressed his bulbous nose into the knickers and slid it back and forth, allowing the lace to scratch at its sensitive tip even as his fingers edged under his tea towel to grip his knob.
The silk brushed the back of his hand and soothed the leathery skin of his body as he allowed his eyes to flutter closed. The sensation of the silk on his skin, his fingers gripping himself in a slow slide, and the scent of his Mistress surrounding him brought Kreacher to a very quick end.
After he finished pulsing quietly into his hand, he utilized a bit of house-elf magic and removed the stains of his disobedience. "Bad, bad Kreacher," he whispered to himself.
Folding the freshly cleaned knickers, he placed them lovingly back into their spot within his cubby hole. Feeling lethargy beginning to creep over him, Kreacher shook his head sharply and crawled back out of his hole.
Once back in the kitchen proper, he came to a stumbling halt and hissed in anger. The Traitor was sitting at his Mistress' table, arrogant as you please. Baring his teeth, Kreacher edged around the Traitor to the stove, where he had left an iron to heat. Grabbing the iron, he muttered his way to the door.
"That's right, Kreacher. Go iron your ears!"
Kreacher stopped, fury roiling within him. His muttering gained new volume as his instincts fought his desires; he so badly wanted to use his house-elf magic against the Traitor. Finally gaining control of himself once more, he continued his ranting against the Filth inhabiting his Mistress' House as he wobbled down the corridor, his goal now in sight.
Coming to a halt in front of the gently waving curtains, he allowed himself to bask in the soothing sounds of his Mistress' light snores. His whole body relaxing with the bliss of being so close to the one he loved, Kreacher pressed the iron to his tea towel.
As he revelled in his self-imposed punishment, Kreacher could only whisper, "My poor, poor Mistress."