Harry Potter (c) JK Rowling. A small humor piece I wrote five or six years ago, pulled from my archives, dusted off, polished up, and re-posted. If you enjoy it, please review. Thank you.

Hermione's Deprecation
by Stormlight

Harry knew that, eventually, he was going to have to tell Hermione that all of the hats and socks she kept knitting for the house elves were not doing them quite as much good as she assumed. That they were, in fact, going to Dobby, and - seeing as Dobby was already free - it made her "gifts" seem rather pointless. He supposed he ought to add that the elves they were meant for wouldn't even come into the common room anymore, as they had been mortally offended at being offered clothes and no longer trusted the room as being a safe haven to clean, lest they be tricked into picking up a hidden sock by accident.

If he had thought it would help, he would have also urged his friend to stop knitting (although the practice was doing her good; she was considering moving on to sweaters) and do something more constructive with her time. Like his homework. But Hermione, as he had long since discovered, could be quite bull-headed when she set her mind to something. So telling her the house elves didn't really want to be free was about as practical as telling the Quidditch bludger to get out of the way, he was flying there, darn it!

The trouble was, every time he got up the nerve to mention his discovery, something always happened to put it out of his mind. When he wasn't being attacked by Voldemort or being bled to death by Umbridge (whom he secretly suspected to be Voldemort's long-lost sister), he was being attacked by blubbering girls and thoroughly kissed under sprigs of mistletoe.

Wait. Okay, the last one wasn't all that bad. Well, except for the blubbering part. Yeah. He could have really done without that.

At any rate, time kept passing and opportunities kept passing until, as he staggered off to bed one night after completing his usual mountain of homework, he couldn't help but notice Hermione crouching in a rather ridiculous fashion behind one of the dilapidated sofas in the common room, which she had shoved up against the wall. She was peeking out from behind its shabby upholstery, and now looked like nothing so much as a giant, mutated dust bunny.

Apparently, Dobby had missed a few spots in his nightly cleaning.

"Uh." Harry paused to stare at her, thankful for her sake that most of the other students had already gone to bed. He could only imagine what they'd have to say about one of their prefects apparently going completely off her rocker. "What are you doing, Hermione?"

"I'm waiting," she replied simply, smiling at him as if it was perfectly normal to hide behind dusty sofas.

"Waiting … for what?" he pressed. For her sanity to return, perhaps? He had always thought she studied way too much.

"For the house elves. I'm waiting for them to come and pick up their hats. For once, I just want to see their faces when they realize they've been set free. They must be so happy!"

Harry choked so violently that, had he been drinking butterbeer, it would have sprayed halfway across the room. "Y-you're staying t-to watch them?" he spluttered, gaping at her like a dying goldfish.

"That's what I said."

"Um, Hermione, I think maybe you should know something." He scratched his head nervously. "You see, uh, Dobby is the one who … erm … who…" He trailed off, looking into her expectant eyes. He gulped, scratched his head some more, and muttered, "He's the one who's been telling all the elves about the clothes hidden in the room."

"Oh, really? Then I've got to knit him a sweater to thank him," Hermione exclaimed happily. "Now go to bed. You look exhausted, and they won't come anyway until everyone is asleep, you know." And with that, she pulled a dusty, moth-eaten afghan over her head and crouched back down behind the sofa.

"It isn't Santa Claus you're waiting for," Harry muttered guiltily, turning around to trudge up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. Now would have been an excellent time to tell Hermione what he'd discovered all those weeks (months?) ago. But, as usual, right when the perfect chance arose, he'd gone and chickened out. And he couldn't even blame Voldemort, this time.

Well, he mused as he crawled beneath his covers, at least he wouldn't have to worry about Voldemort murdering him in a slow and painful manner after tonight. Because once Hermione discovered the truth about where those clothes were going, she would cheerfully murder Harry for him.

Saturday dawned bright and clear. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Harry was seriously considering snitching some skiving snack boxes from Fred and George and remaining in bed for the entire day, or at least until the worst of Hurricane Hermione blew over. Of course, the twins and Ron would want to know what in the world was wrong with him, and if Harry ever admitted to being scared of a girl, his reputation as a man would be ruined for life. Even Ron wouldn't let him live that one down, much less the twins. And heaven help him should Malfoy ever discover his moment of weakness!

After serious contemplation, Harry reluctantly crawled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, then clambered down the stairs, looking around cautiously for any potential attacks from behind that might cause him to wind up with his stomach in place of his nose or something. None were forthcoming. He did, however, notice Hermione curled up dejectedly on that selfsame couch, looking so distressed that he couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

Squelching down his nervousness, he grabbed Ron's arm as he passed, for moral support (ignoring the resulting yelp of protest), and cautiously approached the girl. "Hi," he greeted, scuffing his foot against the floor.

She sighed and looked up at him. "What did you really want to tell me last night?" She never was one to beat around the bush.

"Tell you? What's she talking about, Harry?" Ron regarded them suspiciously, and they, in turn, ignored him.

Harry grimaced. "Well ... I was going to tell you that Dobby has been the one taking all your clothes. I guess you figured that out for yourself now, huh?"

"Imagine my surprise when a giant hat monster snuck into the room," Hermione deadpanned. "I barely recognized him under all those things. I wonder how he can even move properly."

"Just be glad you didn't start leaving out sweaters," Harry joked weakly, earning a small smile in return.

"Wait, wait, wait. D'you mean to say Dobby's been the one taking all your clothes? Not the other house elves?" Ron looked inexplicably delighted at the news. "Are you bloody serious?"

"Of course I am," Hermione snapped, "and if you're going to laugh about it, go and do it somewhere else. I'm disgusted enough as it is!"

"Right." Ron tried to look serious, but could not quite tame his grin. "C'mon, mate, let's go get breakfast." He tugged at Harry's arm.

"Just a minute," Harry grumbled. "Look, Hermione, I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Things just kept coming up and … well … sorry."

"How long have you known, exactly?" She regarded him seriously.

"How long?" Harry gulped. And this was the part where she finally went nutters and started beating him with a couch cushion or something. "Well … erm … I saw Dobby in the room slightly before th-the holidays. I think." He strove to sound as casual as possible.

Hermione's eyes widened. "But that was two months ago!"

"Er, that long? My, time sure flies when you're … being possessed by Voldemort … and all." Harry cleared his throat. A little sympathy act never hurt anything.

"Arrgh!" Hermione flopped back onto the couch and glared up at him. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'm sure you've had plenty of opportunities!"

"His sense of self-preservation probably kicked in and shut his mouth," Ron sniggered.

Hermione switched her glare to him. "Shut up, Ronald," she snapped. "Do you know how much time and money I've wasted on … on Dobby?" She scrambled to her feet and began pacing the floor like an agitated tiger. "Where d'you think I got the money for the yarn and needles? D'you think I just pulled it out of my ass? And all that time I could have spent catching up on my reading, learning new spells and … I wasted it knitting all those hats and socks and … and … I don't even like knitting! And those ungrateful little bastards don't even appreciate me! Don't they get that I'm the only one on their side?" she ranted, throwing her arms out dramatically.

Harry and Ron stared at her, wide eyed, and slooowly backed toward the exit. Hermione was using words they'd never heard her use before. It was high time to get while the getting was still good. "You distract her, mate, and I'll make a mad break for it," Ron whispered.

"Why do I have to distract her?" Harry hissed.

"Because you're the reason she's in this snit," Ron hissed back, and pushed him forward while beating a hasty retreat.

Hermione immediately rounded on Harry, her eyes flashing as she stuck a finger directly under his nose. "Listen up," she ordered. "The next time you see me wasting my precious time on stupid things like knitting hats, you have my permission to smack me on the head with a textbook. Understand?"

"Er … right. Got it." He almost wished it was Umbridge he was facing off with at the moment. Almost.

"Good. Now." She straightened up and fixed her bushy hair. "Ron had the right idea. Let's go get some breakfast. I'm starving!" She flashed a cheerful smile, turned on her heel, and marched away. Harry stared after her, slack-jawed, as his brain sought to process what in the world had just happened, and why he was still all in one piece, with his stomach in exactly the same spot as it had been the night before.

He slowly shook his head, giving it up as a lost cause, and began to shuffle toward the open portrait door. "I will never understand girls."

Ron, who still waited outside on the stairway, patted Harry's shoulder in a show of camaraderie. "Join the club, mate," he enthused. "Join the club."