DISCLAIMER: My name is NOT J. K. Rowling, so no, this is not written by her. Why the heck would SHE write on ? Anyway, this is all a product of my odd imagination.
A short note: Okay everybody, this is a brief story about a...er....situation between the house-elves of Hogwarts. It takes place during Harry's fourth year (though there is no mention or appearance of him), so there are NO spoiler warnings. Well, enjoy, and please R&R!
WINKY'S PROBLEM
The house-elves of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were silent as their master, Professor Albus Dumbledore, appeared, ushering two peculiar- looking elves forward. The one on the left was male, and wore an expression of absolute glee, along with several mismatched socks, a battered tea-cosy, and a green polka-dotted tie. Next to him stood his exact opposite, a female wearing a simple dress and hat, and expression that suggested that she wished to be elsewhere.
"These are the kitchen quarters, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask someone," said the wise headmaster. "Everyone, this is Dobby," he said, gesturing to the male, "and this is Winky," nodding to the depressed female.
After Dumbledore left, the house-elves resumed their cheerful banter, and one of the older elves led the new arrivals to their sleeping quarters. From the kitchen, they followed him past a secret door, into a wide and dimly-lit hallway. The sounds of the elves' padding feet carried a strong echo through the large expanse. After about ten minutes of conversation-less travel, they arrived at a large portrait, featuring a small and wrinkled elf bowing to a very portly man.
"Faithful servant!" the old elf squeaked, and the portrait moved to reveal a vast room, full of elf-sized bunk beds.
Winky and Dobby's beds were in a dark, gloomy corner. The female elf could care less about her surroundings. All of the thoughts that ran through her bloated head involved her old master, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, to a certain extent. What she wouldn't give to return to his grand manor, and serve him and his guests tea.
With the thought of her master, tears flooded Winky's tennis ball-shaped eyes. Dobby, who was sorting out his socks, rolled his eyes, and groaned in a squeaky sort of way, "Not again!"
After Dobby slapped Winky across the face, telling her that they needed to return, they did just that. It was about half an hour to dinner, so all of the house-elves were quickly preparing food or finding spare cutlery.
Well, that is, all of the elves except for Winky. She merely stood there, quaking with sobs, as the kitchen was abuzz with excitement.
"Roast beef," Winky screeched, "was Master Barty's favourite dish!"
Dobby heaved a great sigh, pushed her to the small table, and shoved a Butterbeer into her small hands. Just by reminiscing of her old master, Winky had managed to ruin four job interviews, and even threw one of Professor Dumbledore's many trinkets at Dobby when he mentioned him the day before. Dobby had enough common sense by then to just leave her to herself during one of her frequent sentimental moments.
It seemed that Butterbeer was the only thing that could calm her down. Of course, by "calming her down," I mean that she was so drunk that she wouldn't dare open her mouth to even let out a belch. It took four strong house-elves to drag her to bed, so that she wouldn't get in their way.
While Winky was highly antisocial, Dobby proved how different he was by engaging in conversation with other elves, every now and then.
Once dinner was served, the elves marched from the kitchen, and into their cosy beds. Winky was snoring loudly when they arrived, still clutching her empty bottle of Butterbeer. To faze out her dreadful snores, Dobby held his pillow to his bat-like ears the whole night, and wasn't alone in doing so.
Even after a few days had past since winky and Dobby's arrival, Winky remained her now usual pitiful self. To avoid the hustle and bustle of the other busy house-elves, and to keep out of the way, she was resigned to sitting in front of the crackling fire, clutching a Butterbeer tightly, taking a sip every few seconds. In fact, Winky was now on her fifth Butterbeer, and it wasn't even noon yet.
Several elves had asked Dobby what was wrong with her (as he was the one who knew her best), and he said with a shrug, "Master throw her out of house for no reason."
Winky, though highly intoxicated, could still hear what they were saying, only a few feet away from her. Her nose twitched, and her ears were peaked in wonder.
"One does not speak ill of another elf's master," chimed in one of the smaller elves, "but Fred and George Weasley tell me that Mr. Crouch was evil."
That was the final straw for Winky. How dare he badmouth her beloved master, while she was just a few feet away! Gathering all of the strength she could muster, Winky pulled herself out of the tiny, wooden chair, and smashed her bottle of Butterbeer on the table, with glass and the sweet beverage flying everywhere. With a ferocious glare, she held up the broken bottle end.
"How...dare...you...Master...Barty...not...evil..." she moaned, wobbling over to the small herd of house-elves.
The elves turned as one to Dobby, wondering what they should do. Dobby's eyes were wide with fear and backed away from the maniacal elf, that now resembled a psychotic killer about to strike.
Savouring their expressions in her mind, for when she would reunite with her master, Winky lunged at the elf (who couldn't seem to have shut his mouth about her Barty) with the broken bottle, wrestling him to the ground. The bottle managed to cut the elf's chest several times, and she was just about to get him in the eye, when...
"Winky! Stop immediately!" came the voice of an angry headmaster.
"He...is...insulting...m-my...Master...Barty!" she said, panting from the struggle.
Dumbledore approached the wrestling house-elves and pulled Winky's weapon of choice out of her cold, clammy hands. "I suggest that Winky go back to bed. Chauncy, please follow me to the infirmary. Those cuts appear to be deep. And Kimmy, please clean this mess up. As for the rest of you, please get back to work. Smells good," he added as he left the kitchen, followed by the cut elf.
The elf named Kimmy dutifully swept up the remains of Winky's temper tantrum, while the aforementioned elf left the kitchen with her head hung in shame.
But little did she know that the elves had now started a betting pool, regarding the predicted amounts of time before she would "crack" again. The most likely outcome, of course, was "within two days."
THE END!
(A/N: Well, there you go. That's what you get when you leave me in front of a computer, unattended, for 30 minutes. I hope you enjoyed the "brawl", and if it wouldn't kill you, PLEASE REVIEW! I need to see if I should actually write something with a plot, or just drown my self in Moaning Myrtle's toilet. Adios!)
A short note: Okay everybody, this is a brief story about a...er....situation between the house-elves of Hogwarts. It takes place during Harry's fourth year (though there is no mention or appearance of him), so there are NO spoiler warnings. Well, enjoy, and please R&R!
WINKY'S PROBLEM
The house-elves of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were silent as their master, Professor Albus Dumbledore, appeared, ushering two peculiar- looking elves forward. The one on the left was male, and wore an expression of absolute glee, along with several mismatched socks, a battered tea-cosy, and a green polka-dotted tie. Next to him stood his exact opposite, a female wearing a simple dress and hat, and expression that suggested that she wished to be elsewhere.
"These are the kitchen quarters, and if you have any questions, feel free to ask someone," said the wise headmaster. "Everyone, this is Dobby," he said, gesturing to the male, "and this is Winky," nodding to the depressed female.
After Dumbledore left, the house-elves resumed their cheerful banter, and one of the older elves led the new arrivals to their sleeping quarters. From the kitchen, they followed him past a secret door, into a wide and dimly-lit hallway. The sounds of the elves' padding feet carried a strong echo through the large expanse. After about ten minutes of conversation-less travel, they arrived at a large portrait, featuring a small and wrinkled elf bowing to a very portly man.
"Faithful servant!" the old elf squeaked, and the portrait moved to reveal a vast room, full of elf-sized bunk beds.
Winky and Dobby's beds were in a dark, gloomy corner. The female elf could care less about her surroundings. All of the thoughts that ran through her bloated head involved her old master, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, to a certain extent. What she wouldn't give to return to his grand manor, and serve him and his guests tea.
With the thought of her master, tears flooded Winky's tennis ball-shaped eyes. Dobby, who was sorting out his socks, rolled his eyes, and groaned in a squeaky sort of way, "Not again!"
After Dobby slapped Winky across the face, telling her that they needed to return, they did just that. It was about half an hour to dinner, so all of the house-elves were quickly preparing food or finding spare cutlery.
Well, that is, all of the elves except for Winky. She merely stood there, quaking with sobs, as the kitchen was abuzz with excitement.
"Roast beef," Winky screeched, "was Master Barty's favourite dish!"
Dobby heaved a great sigh, pushed her to the small table, and shoved a Butterbeer into her small hands. Just by reminiscing of her old master, Winky had managed to ruin four job interviews, and even threw one of Professor Dumbledore's many trinkets at Dobby when he mentioned him the day before. Dobby had enough common sense by then to just leave her to herself during one of her frequent sentimental moments.
It seemed that Butterbeer was the only thing that could calm her down. Of course, by "calming her down," I mean that she was so drunk that she wouldn't dare open her mouth to even let out a belch. It took four strong house-elves to drag her to bed, so that she wouldn't get in their way.
While Winky was highly antisocial, Dobby proved how different he was by engaging in conversation with other elves, every now and then.
Once dinner was served, the elves marched from the kitchen, and into their cosy beds. Winky was snoring loudly when they arrived, still clutching her empty bottle of Butterbeer. To faze out her dreadful snores, Dobby held his pillow to his bat-like ears the whole night, and wasn't alone in doing so.
Even after a few days had past since winky and Dobby's arrival, Winky remained her now usual pitiful self. To avoid the hustle and bustle of the other busy house-elves, and to keep out of the way, she was resigned to sitting in front of the crackling fire, clutching a Butterbeer tightly, taking a sip every few seconds. In fact, Winky was now on her fifth Butterbeer, and it wasn't even noon yet.
Several elves had asked Dobby what was wrong with her (as he was the one who knew her best), and he said with a shrug, "Master throw her out of house for no reason."
Winky, though highly intoxicated, could still hear what they were saying, only a few feet away from her. Her nose twitched, and her ears were peaked in wonder.
"One does not speak ill of another elf's master," chimed in one of the smaller elves, "but Fred and George Weasley tell me that Mr. Crouch was evil."
That was the final straw for Winky. How dare he badmouth her beloved master, while she was just a few feet away! Gathering all of the strength she could muster, Winky pulled herself out of the tiny, wooden chair, and smashed her bottle of Butterbeer on the table, with glass and the sweet beverage flying everywhere. With a ferocious glare, she held up the broken bottle end.
"How...dare...you...Master...Barty...not...evil..." she moaned, wobbling over to the small herd of house-elves.
The elves turned as one to Dobby, wondering what they should do. Dobby's eyes were wide with fear and backed away from the maniacal elf, that now resembled a psychotic killer about to strike.
Savouring their expressions in her mind, for when she would reunite with her master, Winky lunged at the elf (who couldn't seem to have shut his mouth about her Barty) with the broken bottle, wrestling him to the ground. The bottle managed to cut the elf's chest several times, and she was just about to get him in the eye, when...
"Winky! Stop immediately!" came the voice of an angry headmaster.
"He...is...insulting...m-my...Master...Barty!" she said, panting from the struggle.
Dumbledore approached the wrestling house-elves and pulled Winky's weapon of choice out of her cold, clammy hands. "I suggest that Winky go back to bed. Chauncy, please follow me to the infirmary. Those cuts appear to be deep. And Kimmy, please clean this mess up. As for the rest of you, please get back to work. Smells good," he added as he left the kitchen, followed by the cut elf.
The elf named Kimmy dutifully swept up the remains of Winky's temper tantrum, while the aforementioned elf left the kitchen with her head hung in shame.
But little did she know that the elves had now started a betting pool, regarding the predicted amounts of time before she would "crack" again. The most likely outcome, of course, was "within two days."
THE END!
(A/N: Well, there you go. That's what you get when you leave me in front of a computer, unattended, for 30 minutes. I hope you enjoyed the "brawl", and if it wouldn't kill you, PLEASE REVIEW! I need to see if I should actually write something with a plot, or just drown my self in Moaning Myrtle's toilet. Adios!)