Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
Chapter 18-The House-Elf Liberation Front
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I go up to the Owlery that evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry can send Sirius a letter telling him that he has managed to get past his dragon unscathed. On the way, Harry fills Ron in on everything Sirius has told him about Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that Karkaroff was a Death Eater, by the time we enter the Owlery Ron is saying that we ought to have suspected it all along.
"Fits, doesn't it?" he says. "Remember what Malfoy said on the train, about his dad being friends with Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other. They were probably running around in masks together at the World Cup. . . . I'll tell you one thing, though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name in the goblet, he's going to be feeling really stupid now, isn't he? Didn't work, did it? You only got a scratch! Come here — I'll do it —"
Pigwidgeon is so overexcited at the idea of a delivery he is flying around and around Harry's head, hooting incessantly. Ron snatches Pigwidgeon out of the air and holds him still while Harry attaches the letter to his leg.
"I dunno it could still be someone else. Though Karkaroff has made himself a very big target." I speculate petting Dionysus' beak after he had flown down onto my shoulder.
"True, but there's no way any of the other tasks are going to be that dangerous, how could they be?" Ron goes on as he carries Pigwidgeon to the window. "You know what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry, I'm serious."
Well where was Mr. Over Enthusiastic when we needed him huh? Hermione, however, leans against the Owlery wall, folds her arms, and frowns at Ron.
"Harry's got a long way to go before he finishes this tournament," she says seriously. "If that was the first task, I hate to think what's coming next."
"Right little ray of sunshine, aren't you?" says Ron. "You and Professor Trelawney should get together sometime." I roll my eyes at the bickering. I can't believe that they're already going at it.
He throws Pigwidgeon out of the window. Pigwidgeon plummets twelve feet before managing to pull himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg is much longer and heavier than usual. We watch Pigwidgeon disappear into the darkness, and then Ron says, "Well, we'd better get downstairs for your surprise party, Harry — Fred and George should have nicked enough food from the kitchens by now."
Oh how could I forget the possibility of a victory party being thrown by my favorite pair of redheaded twins? A grin is plastered permanently to my face all the way back up to the tower.
Sure enough, when we enter the Gryffindor common room it explodes with cheers and yells again. There are mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee Jordan has let off some Filibuster's Fireworks, so that the air is thick with stars and sparks; and Dean Thomas, who is very good at drawing, has put up some impressive new banners, most of which depict Harry zooming around the Horntail's head on his Firebolt, though a couple show Cedric with his head on fire.
We help ourselves to some food and find a table to sit at. Harry looks pretty ridiculously happy. I can understand that feeling he just completed the first task brilliantly and he has about three months until the next one, so that's good.
"Blimey, this is heavy," says Lee Jordan, picking up the golden egg, which Harry has left on a table, and weighing it in his hands. "Open it, Harry, go on! Let's just see what's inside it!"
"He's supposed to work out the clue on his own," Hermione says swiftly. "It's in the tournament rules. . . ."
"Oh come on Mione lighten up." I tell my friend lightly.
"I was supposed to work out how to get past the dragon on my own too," Harry mutters, so only Hermione and I can hear him, and she grins rather guiltily while I smirk.
"Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!" several people echo. I have to admit that I am rather curious to see what is inside the egg that will lead us to the next task. I guess the thrill of adventure hasn't completely left me yet.
Lee passes Harry the egg, and Harry digs his fingernails into the groove that runs all the way around it and pries it open.
It is hollow and completely empty — but the moment Harry opens it, the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing, fills the room. The nearest thing to it I have ever heard is the ghost orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party, who were all been playing the musical saw. I cover my ears in pain feeling like my ears are bleeding.
"Shut it!" Fred bellows, his hands over his ears.
"What was that?" says Seamus Finnigan, staring at the egg as Harry slams it shut again. "Sounded like a banshee. . . . Maybe you've got to get past one of those next, Harry!"
"I think I'm deaf." I comment more towards myself.
"It was someone being tortured!" says Neville, who has gone very white and spills sausage rolls all over the floor. "You're going to have to fight the Cruciatus Curse!"
"Don't be a prat, Neville, that's illegal," says George. "They wouldn't use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing . . . maybe you've got to attack him while he's in the shower, Harry." I grimace thinking about how many mornings of mine have been ruined waking up to that god awful warbling.
"Want a jam tart, Hermione?" asks Fred. Hermione looks doubtfully at the plate he is offering her. Fred grins.
"It's all right," he says. "I haven't done anything to them. It's the custard creams you've got to watch —"
Neville, who has just bitten into a custard cream, chokes and spits it out. Fred laughs, and I can't stifle my chuckle in time. I like Neville, I really do but you have to admit that was pretty funny.
"Just my little joke, Neville. . . ." Hermione takes a jam tart. Then she says, "Did you get all this from the kitchens, Fred?" Oh boy, here we go.
"Yep," says Fred, grinning at her. He puts on a high-pitched squeak and imitates a house-elf. "'Anything we can get you, sir, anything at all!' They're dead helpful . . . get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish."
"How do you get in there?" Hermione says in an innocently casual sort of voice. That is something that I will never tell her.
"Easy," says Fred, "concealed door behind a painting of a bowl of fruit. Just tickle the pear, and it giggles and —" He stops and looked suspiciously at her (I slap my forehead in annoyance). "Why?"
"Nothing," says Hermione quickly.
"Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike now, are you?" says George. "Going to give up all the leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?" Several people chortle. Hermione doesn't answer. That's going to be a pointless speech that she will give them unfortunately. I feel for them, but honestly they're happy working at Hogwarts so we should just leave them be.
"Don't you go upsetting them and telling them they've got to take clothes and salaries!" says Fred warningly. "You'll put them off their cooking!"
Just then, Neville causes a slight diversion by turning into a large canary. "Oh — sorry, Neville!" Fred shouts over all the laughter. "I forgot — it was the custard creams we hexed —"
"I remember that one! Gin, remember Percy turning into the ugliest canary you've ever seen with wire rimmed glasses?" I call out laughing to Ginny. She's hanging out with some friends a few feet away and she bursts out laughing at the memory.
"If I remember correctly Jamie, you took a couple and had some fun as a yellow bird yourself!" She smirks. I smirk and shrug my shoulders. What can I say? It was a slow day.
Within a minute, however, Neville has molted, and once his feathers have fallen off, he reappears looking entirely normal. He even joins in laughing.
"Canary Creams!" Fred shouts to the excitable crowd. "George and I invented them — seven Sickles each, a bargain!"
I think that it's safe to say that this was one of the best days that we've had in a long time. It was nearly one in the morning when we decide that the night is finally over and its time to go to bed. After bidding goodnight to the boys Hermione and I climb the steps back to our dormitory.
Once there I have to roll my eyes at the excited chatter between Lavender and Parvati about how Harry is really hot winning the first challenge. Oh Merlin no! I can't deal with this. "Excuse me while I go and smother myself with a pillow." I say to Hermione as she rolls her eyes.
When I get to my bed I collapse, and pull my pillow over my head attempting to drown out the twittering of the airheads that I unfortunately live with. Well this night could have ended on a better note.
The start of December brings wind and sleet to Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always is in winter, I am glad of its fires and thick walls every time I pass the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which is pitching in the high winds, its black sails billowing against the dark skies. I think the Beauxbatons caravan is likely to be pretty chilly too. Hagrid, I notice, is keeping Madame Maxime's horses well provided with their preferred drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in the corner of their paddock is enough to make the entire Care of Magical Creatures class light-headed.
This is unhelpful, as we are still tending the horrible skrewts and need our wits about us.
"I'm not sure whether they hibernate or not," Hagrid tells the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch next lesson. "Thought we'd jus' try an' see if they fancied a kip . . . we'll jus' settle 'em down in these boxes. . . ."
There are now only ten skrewts left; apparently their desire to kill one another has not been exercised out of them. Each of them is now approaching six feet in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful, scuttling legs; their fire-blasting ends; their stings and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the most repulsive things I have ever seen. The class looks dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid has brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets. I'm not exactly looking forward to this either.
"We'll jus' lead 'em in here," Hagrid says, "an' put the lids on, and we'll see what happens."
But the skrewts, it transpires, do not hibernate, and did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes and nailed in. Hagrid is soon yelling, "Don' panic, now, don' panic!" while the skrewts rampage around the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class — Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead — have fled into Hagrid's cabin through the back door and barricaded themselves in (wimps); Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I however, are among those who remain outside trying to help Hagrid.
I'm seriously starting to reconsider my adventures for some people (Ariana and Luka) are going to start wondering if I have a death wish. I don't— I think.
Together we manage to restrain and tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt is left. I feel like I'm starting to look like Moody. That's not a good thing.
"Don' frighten him, now!" Hagrid shouts as Ron, and I use our wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at the skrewt, which is advancing menacingly on us, its sting arches, quivering, over its back. "Jus' try an' slip the rope 'round his sting, so he won' hurt any o' the others!"
"Yeah, we wouldn't want that!" Ron shouts angrily as we back into the wall of Hagrid's cabin, still holding the skrewt off with our sparks.
"Well, well, well . . . this does look like fun." FUN? IS THIS LADY MENTAL?
Rita Skeeter is leaning on Hagrid's garden fence, looking in at the mayhem. She is wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag is over her arm.
Hagrid launches himself forwards on top of the skrewt that is cornering Ron and me and flattens it; a blast of fire shoots out of its end, withering the pumpkin plants nearby, poor pumpkins what a waste.
"Who're you?" Hagrid asks Rita Skeeter as he slips a loop of rope around the skrewt's sting and tightens it.
"Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter," Rita replies, beaming at him. Her gold teeth glint. Oh great just what I needed today that hag writing about us in the paper, just my definition of fun. Harry and Hermione join us, Hermione looking over me to make sure that I'm not too badly injured.
I brush her off after a few seconds. "Thought Dumbledore said you weren' allowed inside the school anymore," says Hagrid, frowning slightly as he gets off the slightly squashed skrewt and starts tugging it over to its fellows.
Rita acts as though she hasn't heard what Hagrid has said. Someone should really just pop this woman a good one. Okay maybe I do have a slight anger problem.
"What are these fascinating creatures called?" she asks, beaming still more widely.
"Blast-Ended Skrewts," grunts Hagrid. She has an interest in them this can't be good.
"Really?" says Rita, apparently full of lively interest. "I've never heard of them before . . . where do they come from?"
I notice a dull red flush rising up out of Hagrid's wild black beard, and my heart sinks. Where did Hagrid get the skrewts from? Hermione, who seems to be thinking along these lines, says quickly, "They're very interesting, aren't they? Aren't they, Harry?"
"What? Oh yeah . . . ouch . . . interesting," says Harry as she steps on his foot.
"Ah, you're here, Harry!" says Rita Skeeter as she looks around. "So you like Care of Magical Creatures, do you? One of your favorite lessons?"
"Yes," says Harry stoutly. Hagrid beams at him. Well at least Hagrid is happy out of all this.
"Lovely," says Rita. "Really lovely. Been teaching long?" she adds to Hagrid.
I notice her eyes travel over Dean (who has a nasty cut across one cheek), Lavender (whose robes are badly singed), Seamus (who is nursing several burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where most of the class stands, their noses pressed against the glass waiting to see if the coast is clear.
"This is on'y me second year," says Hagrid. Oh this is not good.
"Lovely . . . I don't suppose you'd like to give an interview, would you? Share some of your experience of magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological column every Wednesday, as I'm sure you know. We could feature these — er — Bang-Ended Scoots."
"Blast-Ended Skrewts," Hagrid says eagerly. "Er — yeah, why not?"
"No Hagrid. I don't think that Miss Skeeter is really qualified to be conducting an interview about zoological matters. She's not qualified for that type of reporting aren't you Miss Skeeter. Only the society pages for you I'm afraid." I speak up glaring at the woman heatedly. Rita's eyes snap to me and I can see the recognition dawn in them.
"Ah Jamie Pendragon… I was wondering when I was going to be seeing you." She states her voice flat and hard. Yeah you smarmy cockroach I've got you right where I want you.
"Well that might be because I was attempting to avoid you." I quip. Her mouth turns downward into a frown and I can tell that she's fighting a glare.
"You know I ran into your brother the other day. I asked him a few questions about your rather abrupt change in living situations. What is it going from living with a respectable Auror like Kingsley to living with the overcrowded Weasleys. Tell me Jamie— does it feel like he's abandoned you?" She asks me sweetly. I clench my hands into fists.
Ron places his hand on my arm to keep me from leaping at her even though he looks like he wants to attack just as much. "One, don't you speak ill of the Weasleys they are amazing people and Luka and I are lucky to live with them. Two, don't you dare insinuate that we were abandoned. Kingsley as you said is a very important Auror and his job needed him. He only parted with us so that he could keep us safe." I state deadly.
At that she twists her face into an unpleasant smile and turns around to Hagrid to schedule a longer interview this week. I growl lowly, and Harry shoots me a look to cut it out. Who knows what will come out in the blasted prophet now?
Then the bell rings up at the castle (finally), signaling the end of the lesson. "Well, good-bye, Harry!" Rita Skeeter calls merrily to him as he sets off with Ron, Hermione, and me. "Until Friday night, then, Hagrid!"
"She'll twist everything he says," Harry says under his breath.
"Well Hagrid won't be the only one just you wait we'll get a Pendragon special sometime soon." I grumble.
"Just as long as he didn't import those skrewts illegally or anything," says Hermione desperately. We look at one another — it is exactly the sort of thing Hagrid might do.
"Hagrid's been in loads of trouble before, and Dumbledore's never sacked him," says Ron consolingly. "Worst that can happen is Hagrid'll have to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry . . . did I say worst? I meant best."
Harry and Hermione laugh (I'm still too stressed), and, feeling slightly more cheerful, go off to lunch.
I thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that afternoon; we are still doing star charts and predictions, but now that Harry and Ron are friends once more, the whole thing seems very funny again. Professor Trelawney, who has been so pleased with the three of us when we had been predicting our own horrific deaths, quickly becomes irritated as we snigger through her explanation of the various ways in which Pluto can disrupt everyday life.
"I would think," she says, in a mystical whisper that does not conceal her obvious annoyance, "that some of us" — she stares very meaningfully at Harry — "might be a little less frivolous had they seen what I have seen during my crystal gazing last night. As I sat here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to consult the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself before it, and I gazed into its crystalline depths . . . and what do you think I saw gazing back at me?"
"An ugly old bat in outsize specs?" Ron mutters under his breath.
"Rita Skeeter being squished like a bug?" I hope softly. Harry fights hard to keep his face straight.
"Death, my dears."
"Close enough." I sigh. Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their mouths, looking horrified. I seriously need to get out of this class.
"Yes," says Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively, "it comes, ever closer, it circles overhead like a vulture, ever lower . . . ever lower over the castle. . . ."
She stares pointedly at Harry, who yawns very widely and obviously. "It'd be a bit more impressive if she hadn't done it about eighty times before," Harry says as we finally regain the fresh air of the staircase beneath Professor Trelawney's room. "But if I'd dropped dead every time she's told me I'm going to, I'd be a medical miracle."
"You'd be a sort of extra-concentrated ghost," says Ron, chortling, as we pass the Bloody Baron going in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring sinisterly. "At least we didn't get homework. I hope Hermione got loads off Professor Vector, I love not working when she is. . . ."
"That's mean Ron." I state not really bothering to push the subject.
"Oh come now Jamie I know that you like it as well." He says elbowing me.
But Hermione isn't at dinner, nor is she in the library when we go to look for her afterwards. The only person in there is Viktor Krum. Ron hovers behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum, debating in whispers with Harry and me whether he should ask for an autograph — but then Ron realizes that six or seven girls are lurking in the next row of books, debating exactly the same thing, and he loses his enthusiasm for the idea. I have no idea what is so appealing about him.
"I don't understand what's so appealing about him?" I question readjusting my ponytail.
"What's so great about him? Are you mad? He's only the great seeker of all time!" Ron squeaks. I raise my eyebrow at him.
"Just because you find Krum attractive doesn't mean that I have to." I state. Ron turns as red as a tomato at that. Harry is roaring with laughter now.
"Wonder where she's got to?" Ron says (after recovering and hitting me) as we go back to Gryffindor Tower.
"Dunno . . . balderdash." Harry says. But the Fat Lady has barely begun to swing forward when the sound of racing feet behind us announces Hermione's arrival.
"Harry!" she pants, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stares down at her, eyebrows raised). "Harry, you've got to come — you've got to come, the most amazing thing's happened — please —"
She seizes Harry's arm and starts to try to drag him back along the corridor. "What's the matter?" Harry says.
"I'll show you when we get there — oh come on, quick —"
"Hermione did you get into the sugar again?" I ask her slightly worried for my friend's sanity.
Harry looks around at Ron and me; we look back at Harry, intrigued. "Okay," Harry says, starting off back down the corridor with Hermione, Ron and I hurrying to keep up.
"Oh don't mind me!" the Fat Lady calls irritably after us. "Don't apologize for bothering me! I'll just hang here, wide open, until you get back, shall I?"
"Yeah, thanks!" Ron shouts over his shoulder.
"Hermione, where are we going?" Harry asks, after she has led us down through six floors, and starts down the marble staircase into the entrance hall.
"You'll see, you'll see in a minute!" says Hermione excitedly. Realization dawns on me and dread starts to build up. Please let this not be what I think it is.
She turns left at the bottom of the staircase and hurries towards a door. We follow Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the one that leads to Snape's dungeon, we find ourselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food.
"Oh hang on . . ." says Harry slowly, halfway down the corridor. "Wait a minute, Hermione. . . ."
"Please no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no." I chant.
"What?" She turns around to look at us, anticipation all over her face.
"I know what this is about," says Harry.
He nudge Ron and points to the painting just behind Hermione. It shows a gigantic silver fruit bowl.
"Hermione!" says Ron, cottoning on (finally). "You're trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!"
"No, no, I'm not!" she says hastily. "And it's not spew, Ron —"
"Changed the name, have you?" says Ron, frowning at her. "What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I'm not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I'm not doing it —"
I have to admit that he comes up with better names than Hermione by a long shot.
"I'm not asking you to!" Hermione says impatiently. "I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found — oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!"
She seizes his arm again, pulls him in front of the picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched out her forefinger, and tickles the huge green pear. It begins to squirm, chuckling, and suddenly turns into a large green door handle. Hermione seizes it, pulls the door open, and pushes Harry hard in the back, forcing him inside. I follow seeing an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end, when something small hurtles towards Harry from the middle of the room, squealing, "Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!"
Well I'll be, I thought we'd seen the last of that elf. Harry's hit hard in the midriff, hugging him so tightly it looks like his ribs will break.
"D-Dobby?" Harry gasps.
"It is Dobby, sir, it is!" squeals the voice from somewhere around Harry's navel. "Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come to see him, sir!"
Dobby lets go and steps back a few paces, beaming up at Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped eyes brimming with tears of happiness. He looks almost exactly as I remember him; the pencil-shaped nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and feet — all except the clothes, which are very different.
When Dobby worked for the Malfoys, he was always wearing the same filthy old pillowcase. Now, however, he is wearing the strangest assortment of garments I have ever seen; he has done an even worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the World Cup. He is wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on which he has pinned a number of bright badges; a tie patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of what looks like children's soccer shorts, and odd socks. One of these, I see, was the black one Harry removed from his own foot and tricked Mr. Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free. The other is covered in pink and orange stripes.
"Dobby, what're you doing here?" Harry asks in amazement.
"Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!" Dobby squeals excitedly. "Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby and Winky jobs, sir!"
"Winky?" I say. "She's here too?"
"Yes, yes!" says Dobby, and he seizes Harry's hand and pulls him off into the kitchen between the four long wooden tables that stood there. We of course follow. Each of these tables, I notice as we pass them, is positioned exactly beneath the four House tables above, in the Great Hall. At the moment, they are clear of food, dinner having finished, but I suppose that an hour ago they were laden with dishes that were then sent up through the ceiling to their counterparts above.
Quite a fascinating system really, Merlin now I'm starting to sound like Hermione. At least a hundred little elves are standing around the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as Dobby leads Harry past them. They are all wearing the same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky's had been, like a toga.
Dobby stops in front of the brick fireplace and points. "Winky, sir!" he says.
Winky is sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike Dobby, she has obviously not foraged for clothes. She is wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a matching blue hat, which has holes in it for her large ears. However, while every one of Dobby's strange collection of garments is so clean and well cared for that it looks brand-new, Winky is plainly not taking care of her clothes at all. There are soup stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt.
This is quite sad to see. It brings up the memories of Crouch being a bastard. "Hello, Winky," says Harry.
Winky's lip quivers. Then she bursts into tears, which spill out of her great brown eyes and splash down her front, just as they had done at the Quidditch World Cup.
"Oh dear," says Hermione. "Winky, don't cry, please don't . . ." But Winky cries harder than ever. Dobby, on the other hand, beams up at Harry.
"Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?" he squeaks loudly, over Winky's sobs.
"Er — yeah, okay," says Harry. Instantly, about six house-elves come trotting up behind us, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.
"Good service!" Ron says, in an impressed voice. I elbow him, and Hermione frowns at him, but the elves all look delighted; they bow very low and retreat.
"How long have you been here, Dobby?" Harry asks as Dobby hands around the tea.
"Only a week, Harry Potter, sir!" says Dobby happily. "Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed —"
At this, Winky howls even harder, her squashed-tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though she makes no effort to stem the flow. I really do feel dreadful for her.
"Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!" Dobby squeaks. "But Dobby hasn't found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!"
The house-elves all around the kitchen, who have been listening and watching with interest, all look away at these words, as though Dobby said something rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, says, "Good for you, Dobby!"
"Thank you, miss!" says Dobby, grinning toothily at her. "But most wizards doesn't want a house-elf who wants paying, miss. 'That's not the point of a house-elf,' they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby's face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid, Harry Potter. . . . Dobby likes being free!"
The Hogwarts house-elves have now started edging away from Dobby, as though he is carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remains where she is, though there is a definite increase in the volume of her crying. What do we do?
"And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky, and finds out Winky has been freed too, sir!" says Dobby delightedly.
Oh Dobby— wrong thing to say. At this, Winky flings herself forwards off her stool and lays facedown on the flagged stone floor, beating her tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with misery. Hermione hastily drops down to her knees beside her and tries to comfort her, but nothing she says makes the slightest difference. Dobby continues with his story, shouting shrilly over Winky's screeches.
"And then Dobby had the idea, Harry Potter, sir! 'Why doesn't Dobby and Winky find work together?' Dobby says. 'Where is there enough work for two house-elves?' says Winky. And Dobby thinks, and it comes to him, sir! Hogwarts! So Dobby and Winky came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor Dumbledore took us on!"
Dobby beams very brightly, and happy tears well in his eyes again. I'm glad for Dobby and all but it seems like Winky is going to kill herself by the look of things. Hermione shoots me a desperate look but I shrug my shoulders desperately. I'm not good at comforting others!
"And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!"
"That's not very much!" Hermione shouts indignantly from the floor, over Winky's continued screaming and fist-beating.
"Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off," says Dobby, suddenly giving a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches are frightening, "but Dobby beat him down, miss. . . . Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn't wanting too much, miss, he likes work better."
"And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you, Winky?" Hermione asks kindly. Oh Hermione why can't you just leave this alone?
If she thought this would cheer up Winky, she is wildly mistaken. Winky does stop crying, but when she sits up she is glaring at Hermione through her massive brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and suddenly furious.
"Winky is a disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting paid!" she squeaks. "Winky is not sunk so low as that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!"
"Ashamed?" says Hermione blankly. "But — Winky, come on! It's Mr. Crouch who should be ashamed, not you! You didn't do anything wrong, he was really horrible to you —"
But at these words, Winky claps her hands over the holes in her hat, flattening her ears so that she can't hear a word, and screeches, "You is not insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr. Crouch! Mr. Crouch is a good wizard, miss! Mr. Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!"
"Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harry Potter," squeaks Dobby confidentially. "Winky forgets she is not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to speak her mind now, but she won't do it."
"Can't house-elves speak their minds about their masters, then?" Harry asks.
"No." I say simply.
"Oh no, sir, no," says Dobby, looking suddenly serious. "'Tis part of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family's honor, and we never speaks ill of them — though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to — to —"
Dobby looks suddenly nervous and beckons us closer. We bend forward. Dobby whispers, "He said we is free to call him a — a barmy old codger if we likes, sir!"
Dobby gives a frightened sort of giggle.
"But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter," he says, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that his ears flap. "Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him."
"But you can say what you like about the Malfoys now?" Harry asks him, grinning.
A slightly fearful look comes into Dobby's immense eyes.
"Dobby — Dobby could," he says doubtfully. He squares his small shoulders. "Dobby could tell Harry Potter that his old masters were — were — bad Dark wizards!"
Okay not really shocked there, but that is rather worrying. Dobby stands for a moment, quivering all over, horror-struck by his own daring — then he rushes over to the nearest table and begins banging his head on it very hard, squealing, "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"
Harry seizes Dobby by the back of his tie and pulls him away from the table. "Thank you, Harry Potter, thank you," says Dobby breathlessly, rubbing his head.
"You just need a bit of practice," Harry says.
"Practice!" squeals Winky furiously. "You is ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dobby, talking that way about your masters!"
"They isn't my masters anymore, Winky!" says Dobby defiantly. "Dobby doesn't care what they think anymore!"
I find myself immensely proud of the small house-elf. I have a feeling that he will change stuff one of these days.
"Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!" moans Winky, tears leaking down her face once more. "My poor Mr. Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her . . . oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was freed? Oh the shame, the shame!" She buries her face in her skirt again and bawls.
"Winky," says Hermione firmly, "I'm quite sure Mr. Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you. We've seen him, you know —"
"You is seeing my master?" says Winky breathlessly, raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more and goggling at Hermione. "You is seeing him here at Hogwarts?"
"Yes," says Hermione, "he and Mr. Bagman are judges in the Triwizard Tournament."
"Mr. Bagman comes too?" squeaks Winky, and to my great surprise (and Ron's, Harry's, and Hermione's too, by the looks on their faces), she looks angry again. "Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn't liking him, oh no, not at all!"
"Bagman — bad?" I ask quizzically.
"Oh yes," Winky says, nodding her head furiously. "My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not saying . . . Winky — Winky keeps her master's secrets. . . ."
She dissolves yet again in tears; we can hear her sobbing into her skirt, "Poor master, poor master, no Winky to help him no more!"
We can't get another sensible word out of Winky. We leave her to her crying and finish our tea (Hermione looking none too happy), while Dobby chats happily about his life as a free elf and his plans for his wages.
"Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!" he says happily, pointing at his bare chest.
"Tell you what, Dobby," says Ron, who seems to have taken a great liking to the elf, "I'll give you the one my mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from her. You don't mind maroon, do you?" I roll my eyes at this. Mrs. Weasley is going to kill him.
Dobby is delighted though. "We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you," Ron tells him, "but it'll go well with your tea cozy."
As we prepare to take our leave, many of the surrounding elves press in upon us, offering snacks to take back upstairs. Hermione refuses, with a pained look at the way the elves keep bowing and curtsying, but Harry and Ron load their pockets with cream cakes and pies. I only take one small pumpkin pie since I can't resist.
"Thanks a lot!" Harry says to the elves, who have all clustered around the door to say good night. "See you, Dobby!"
"Harry Potter . . . can Dobby come and see you sometimes, sir?" Dobby asks tentatively.
"'Course you can," says Harry, and Dobby beams. I do really like that Harry is so nice to Dobby. Most people wouldn't give house-elves the time of day but he does. Then again, Harry isn't most people.
"You know what?" says Ron, once he, Hermione, Harry, and I have left the kitchens behind and are climbing the steps into the entrance hall again. "All these years I've been really impressed with Fred and George, nicking food from the kitchens — well, it's not exactly difficult, is it? They can't wait to give it away!"
"I know I was shocked too the first time." I say flippantly. Everyone stops and looks at me with wide eyes. I heave a sigh and brush some hair out of my eyes.
"You've been there before, and you didn't tell us!" Ron and Harry cry together. I shrug my shoulders and shift my weight nervously.
"Well I was with Fred and George you see. I didn't exactly know if I was allowed to tell you. I'm honestly surprised that they told Hermione." I say shocked.
"You still should have told us… think of all the food that we've missed out on." Ron moans. I give them a sheepish smile, and all is forgotten except for the annoyed look on Hermione's face.
"I think this is the best thing that could have happened to those elves, you know," says Hermione, leading the way back up the marble staircase. "Dobby coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it'll dawn on them that they want that too!"
"Let's hope they don't look too closely at Winky," says Harry.
"Oh she'll cheer up," says Hermione, though she sounds a bit doubtful. "Once the shock's worn off, and she's got used to Hogwarts, she'll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man."
"She seems to love him," says Ron thickly (he has just started on a cream cake).
"Doesn't think much of Bagman, though, does she?" says Harry. "Wonder what Crouch says at home about him?"
"Probably says he's not a very good Head of Department," I say, "and let's face it . . . he's got a point, hasn't he?"
"I'd still rather work for him than old Crouch," says Ron. "At least Bagman's got a sense of humor."
"Don't let Percy hear you saying that," Hermione says, smiling slightly.
"Yeah, well, Percy wouldn't want to work for anyone with a sense of humor, would he?" says Ron, now starting on a chocolate eclair. "Percy wouldn't recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby's tea cozy."
"No he wouldn't, lets just hope he never makes it to Minister of Magic or fun will probably become outlawed." I mutter. That would be a very sad day.