The negotiations had started with tea and ended with war cries. Somewhere between the biscuits and the list of demands, Mop—the self-declared "Voice of the Voiceless Mop Wielders"—stood on a stack of enchanted recipe books, pointing a polished soup ladle directly at Hermione Granger.

"You, missy, are the ENEMY OF HOUSE-ELVES!"

Hermione sighed like someone who'd seen too much and not enough all at once. "Mop, I'm trying to help you. I founded S.P.E.W."

Mop gasped theatrically. "You named it spew. You think you help. But you fold towels like a barbarian and you once tried to give Wobble a sock calendar! A whole calendar! Twelve months of torment!"

Harry slowly slid lower in his chair, sipping his tea like it might grant him invisibility.

Hermione rubbed her temples. "You don't want to be freed?"

"We want power with dignity, not pity with lint!" Mop shrieked. "You want to take our magic! Our purpose! Our ability to clean in peace!"

"And terrorize the prefect bathrooms," someone muttered in the background. It might've been Wobble. Or maybe the talking teapot.

Then Mop, eyes blazing with the righteous fury of a thousand scouring charms, declared, "You don't understand cleaning magic. It's a force of nature. We clean like Thestrals eat meat—naturally. Passionately. Violently, if necessary."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue.

That was the exact moment the door slammed open.

A skeletal horse—no, three skeletal horses—strode in like summoned lawyers. They hadn't been invited, but somehow they knew they were needed. Their bony hooves clacked menacingly on the stone floor. One sniffed the air, the other stared directly at Hermione, and the third—just for chaos—ate half a napkin.

"How did they get here?" Harry muttered.

"They heard the metaphor," Mop whispered reverently. "The meat-cleaners come in defense of natural purpose."

The Thestrals turned their heads, then nodded. Slowly. Silently. Powerfully. Hermione looked between the skull-faced beasts and the house-elves. For a long moment, she just blinked.

"You summoned undead horse-things to win a philosophical kitchen debate?" she asked Harry.

"I was just hungry," he replied.

The Thestral nearest her stamped twice. Mop grinned like a creature who knew he'd won.

"You see?" Mop said, flinging his ladle dramatically. "Even Death itself says I'm right. We are the chosen cleaners of fate."

Harry looked at the Thestrals, then the elves, then the teacup that now appeared to be judging him.

"…You all realize this is somehow my fault again, right?" he muttered.

The Thestrals snorted in agreement.

"This isn't a treaty," she said. "It's aperformance. You've all been brainwashed."

A collective gasp rippled through the house-elves.

"Brainwashed?" Mop echoed, clutching his sashed chest as though she'd stabbed him with a freshly folded napkin. "That isslander, madam! We clean our own brains, thank you very much!"

"You've beenconditionedfor centuries to think you like this," Hermione continued, pacing now. "That you enjoy servitude. But it's magical Stockholm Syndrome. I've read the research. It's inMagical Power Dynamics & Domestic Creature Bonding: A Critical Analysis, Chapter 12!"

The elves recoiled like she'd waved garlic at them.

"Chapter twelve is alie! It says mops are a 'symbol of subjugation'!" one cried.

"IamMop!" Mop bellowed.

Harry tried to slide a biscuit into his mouth unnoticed, but Hermione spotted it like a hawk spotting emotional repression.

"Don't youdare, Harry."

He froze, biscuit halfway to lips. "Just trying to maintain the peace."

Hermione turned, firing on all cylinders. "You don't understand what's at stake! If theybelievethey're happy in chains, then the chains never break!"

There was a murmur among the elves. Some looked down. One wrung a dishrag nervously. Even Wobble stopped chewing on the edge of a placemat.

For a moment, silence.

Then Mop, deadly calm, spoke.

"You think we're happy slaves."

"Ithinkyou've been manipulated," Hermione clarified. "That this—this pride—is a defense mechanism. You don'treallywant to be bonded to a family that can order you around like you're nothing."

That's when the door slammed openagain. One of the Thestrals—probably the leader, given its dramatic strut and slightly fancier skeletal ears—marched in like judgment incarnate.

AndHermione did not hold back.

"Ohyou again. Yes, let's talk about you—walking metaphors with hooves. Thestrals are supposed to becarnivores. That metaphor Mop used? It's inaccurate! I looked it up!Thestrals are obligate vegetarians in magical ethics literature!"

Harry blinked. "Wait, what literature?"

"The 1704 Magical Menagerie Morality Mandate,page 63!"

The Thestral froze.

Then turned.

And walked straight up to the table... and delicately bit the corner off a buttered ham sandwich.

"SEE?!" Hermione shouted.

The room was dead silent.

The Thestral licked its lips. Silently.

Then, in the slowest, most deliberate motion possible, it grabbed another sandwich,locked eyes with Hermione, andate it.

Harry choked. "Oh my god, it'strolling her."

"Brainwashed," Hermione said, spinning back to the elves like she was conducting an orchestra of logic. "The Thestrals, the house-elves, the whole bloodysystemis designed to keep everyoneperforming happinessinstead of seeking actual freedom!"

Wobble raised a hand slowly. "But... what if our happinessisthe performance?"

Mop's eyes narrowed. "What if she's right... and we've been brainwashed into rebellion... by her rebellion?"

Hermione froze.

Harry buried his face in his hands. "Please don't philosophically implode in the kitchen. I beg you."

But it was too late.

Two elves fainted from ideological overload.

A third began scribbling "WHO CLEANED WHOM?" on a piece of toast.

The Thestral dropped its sandwich, climbed onto a bench, and posed dramatically like a soap opera skeleton.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "I need a stiff drink."

"You need asock puppet therapist," Mop said solemnly, patting her hand.

The Hogwarts kitchens had been transformed overnight into what could only be described as a courtroom if said courtroom was run entirely by caffeinated squirrels with a flair for drapery.

Dozens of house-elves filled the stands, wearing formal napkin robes and ceremonial gravy-boat hats. The presiding judge, an ancient elf named Justice Spatula, wore a powdered wig made entirely of whipped cream and unblinking, custard-fueled wisdom.

A banner floated magically above the stand:
THE PEOPLE VS. THE BRAINWASH.

Hermione stood at the front, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to slice through a ham roast. To her left, Mop paced like a general preparing for war, sock sash gleaming defiantly in the enchanted torchlight. Behind him stood the self-proclaimed "Rebellion"—or as they now called themselves,The Free Folk of Fabric and Fire.

Harry sat in the gallery with a mug of tea and the patience of a babysitter watching toddlers debate Marxist theory.

Justice Spatula banged his ladle. "This debate shall proceed. Opening statements, please."

Hermione stepped forward. "Your Honor, what we are witnessing is institutional manipulation. These elves—" she gestured grandly "—have been conditioned for generations to love their chains. Their rebellion is simply a new flavor of obedience. I propose they are not rebellingagainstthe system. They are rebellingwithinit. They've simply assigned Harry a new pedestal!"

Harry gave a weak thumbs-up from the gallery. "Not my idea."

Mop stood tall—or as tall as a 3-foot revolutionary elf could. "We reject your claims, Granger. We are not brainwashed. We areselectively enchanted."

"That's worse!" Hermione snapped.

"Silence, please," boomed Justice Spatula, flinging a biscuit into the air for order. "Proceed to your arguments."

Mop gestured, and a series of elves rolled in visual aids: hand-drawn graphs on cutting boards, an animated sock puppet reenactment of elf history, and a "chart of happiness" that was just a smiling sun made of mashed potatoes.

"Our ancestors scrubbed floors for cruel masters," Mop said, voice shaking with passion. "But we scrub now becausewe choose it. Weinfusethe world with order. We fold the chaos. We polish the destiny."

Hermione was unimpressed. "That's not freedom. That's aesthetic servitude. You're proud of tidying upyour own exploitation."

"Is cooking oppression?" shouted Wobble from the peanut gallery. "Ilikeorganizing spices!"

Justice Spatula leaned forward. "Ms. Granger, do you not organize your books for pleasure?"

"That's different! That's personal agency!"

"Do you label your quills?" Mop asked.

"Yes—but—"

"Do you alphabetize your parchments?"

"Of course, but—"

"Brainwashed!" Mop declared, pointing dramatically. The courtroom gasped.

"Relevance, Mr. Mop," the judge muttered, licking his spoon.

Hermione tried a different approach. "Let me ask: If tomorrow, I gave every elf a sock and declared them free, would you all walk away?"

A heavy silence fell.

Then one elf raised a hand slowly. "Can we... keep folding things?"

Hermione facepalmed.

Justice Spatula hummed thoughtfully. "It seems the crux of the issue is notfreedom, butchoice of chaos."

"Exactly!" Mop cried. "We rejectherorder—her tyranny of unmatched socks, misfiled scrolls, and crumpled cloaks!"

The doors burst open. A Thestral stomped in again, holding up a sign written in its teeth:
"LET US CHOOSE OUR WEIRD."

Hermione stared at it. "I swear if one more undead horse joins this debate—"

"Language," Justice Spatula scolded.

Finally, Harry rose, mug in hand, looking utterly done.

"Okay. Look. I didn't ask to be your leader, symbol, or laundry messiah. I was eating a biscuit. But maybe... maybe the truth isn't about freedomorbrainwashing. Maybe it's just that some people want to rebel by cleaning while others want to organize by fighting. And maybe that's okay."

The entire room stared at him.

Then the Thestral coughed meaningfully and held up a second sign:
"You made it weird."

"I always do," Harry said.

Justice Spatula nodded. "Debate adjourned. May chaos be folded or wrinkled at your will. Dismissed."

"Order!" cried Justice Spatula, banging his ladle so hard the handle snapped clean off. "Order in the—what in Merlin's beard is that smell?"

The courtroom turned as the Thestrals entered en masse.

Now, Thestrals are typically described as silent, eerie creatures, skeletal and winged, seen only by those who've witnessed death. But no one ever talks about theirpresence—which was like being stared at by a haunted steak.

And somehow, they brought props.

One Thestral dragged a chalkboard in its mouth. Another held a banner—crudely clawed into hide—reading:
"MEAT: IT'S WHAT'S FOR NEVERLAND"
(It made no sense, but they wereveryproud.)

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "How are they even writing? They don't have—"

A loud clacking noise cut her off. One of the Thestrals had stolen a typewriter and was now slamming its hooves down in wild fury. The paper read:

"WE WERE NEVER VEGETARIANS. THE LIES MUST END."

Harry just sipped his tea with a thousand-yard stare. "I should've transferred to Beauxbatons."

Hermione, fuming, stepped forward. "This is absurd. Thestrals are magical creatures, not dietitians. You can't expect me to debatezombie pegasus dietary ethics."

The lead Thestral—whom the elves had started calling "Meatbone the Enlightened"—stomped forward and dropped a scroll at Justice Spatula's feet. The judge unrolled it and read:

"We reject leafy lies. We see the truth. Carnivore forever. We smell tofu and we weep. This is the age of meat."

A collective gasp. One elf fainted into a tray of shepherd's pie.

Hermione looked like she was about to combust. "This isHarry'sfault."

Harry, who was now hiding behind a loaf of bread, peeked out. "To be fair, all I said was 'nice ribs' once, and apparently that was anointing a monarch."

Mop chimed in. "It was the way you said it, Harry Potter, sir. With reverence. And hunger. And meat-fueled destiny."

"I washungry.I wasn'tblessing them."

Too late. A group of Thestrals dramatically unveiled a hand-painted portrait of Harry riding one of them, holding a steak aloft like a dark, carnivorous messiah. It was titled:
"Master of Flesh. Ignored By Choice."

Hermione dropped her quill. "This is madness."

"This!" Mop declared, gesturing to the gathering of elves, Thestrals, floating sock banners, and enchanted spoons saluting in unison, "Is the birth of a new magical alliance!The Fabled Fold and the Flesh-Fed Flyers!"

One of the Thestrals gently nudged a biscuit toward Harry, bowing solemnly. The biscuit hadMEAT UNITYburned into it.

"Fantastic," Harry muttered. "I'm a mascot for a laundry cult and undead carnivore union."

The courtroom broke into applause.

And somewhere in the shadows, Peeves the Poltergeist silently lit fireworks that exploded into the words:
"VEGGIES SHALL NOT PASS."

The courtroom was in shambles.

Justice Spatula sat slumped in his colander chair, face buried in a tea towel, mumbling something about"early retirement to a nice, quiet pantry."

Mop was strutting back and forth like a military general, elf-ears held high, one hand clutching a mop like a scepter of divine rebellion.

A Thestral stood poised at the typewriter, hooves smoking from the speed of its furious prose. The last page it printed read:

"Grass is betrayal. Spinach is the enemy. We were born of bones, not beans."

Hermione stood at the center, arms folded, foot tapping, expression somewhere betweencatastrophic furyandmidlife crisis.She raised a hand.

"Can wepleasereturn to reality? House-elves do not need to form militias. Thestrals are not political philosophers. And Harry," she added with venom, "is not your spiritual bacon-bearing leader."

Harry looked up from where he was sketching a "Help Me" sign on a piece of toast.

"I literally begged you not to involve me."

Justice Spatula cleared his throat and banged what remained of his ladle. "I believe we've heard enough."

He adjusted his cracked monocle. "On the matter of elf autonomy, the Council recognizes the right to... self-determined mischief."

Mop squealed in triumph and launched himself into a celebratory somersault.

Justice Spatula continued, "On the matter of dietary history and truth regarding Thestrals…shudder… we recognize their right to pursue carnivorous enlightenment."

Meatbone the Enlightened neighed in approval and headbutted a pumpkin clean across the room.

"And finally…" Spatula sighed, looking at Hermione. "On the matter of magical dietary reform, we declare Miss Granger's proposal of mass elf liberation and vegetarian education...completely ignored."

There was a pause.

A biscuit was thrown in the air. Then a pan. Then a flaming sausage.

The rebellion erupted into cheers. Banners were waved. Meat was grilled on conjured flames. A sock-shaped kite soared into the rafters reading:

"VIVE LA RESISTANCE—NOW WITH MORE GRAVY!"

Hermione stood still, eyes glazed. "I lost. To horse zombies. Over bacon."

Harry gently patted her shoulder. "Could've been worse. They wanted to make me king of the pantry. I talked them down to cult mascot."

A Thestral dropped a steak-wrapped scroll into her hands. It read, in meat-juice-stained ink:

"We respect you, Hermione the Leafy, but your era has ended. You may keep your celery."

Hermione said nothing.

She just walked out the door, muttering something about writing a book called"The Vegan's Guide to Surviving Magical Fascism."

Harry should've known something was wrong when Meatbone started wearing a cape.

Not just any cape—no, this one was enchanted dragonhide with bacon-stitched embroidery and an embroidered steak that lookeduncomfortably accurate.Beneath it, the Thestral had adorned itself with medals made of polished bone fragments and biscuit tins.

"Mop," Harry whispered one morning as they watched the Meatbone parade begin. "Why is there a parade?"

Mop beamed. "Today we celebrate your enlightenment, Harry Potter, sir! The Day of the Blessed Bite!"

"I literally said, 'this steak is decent,' one time."

"Yes!" Mop said reverently. "And in that moment, the world changed."

The parade began. Thestrals in formation, stomping in rhythm. House-elves flanked either side of the path, tossing meatballs instead of flower petals. Floats rolled by: one depicting Harry slaying a giant vegetarian hydra, another showing him lifting a sausage like the Sword of Gryffindor.

Onlookers watched in a mix of awe, horror, and complete bafflement.

"How are Thestralsthissmart?" Hermione hissed from beside him.

"I think the real question," Harry muttered, "is why doeseveryonetake my random, exhausted comments as divine commandments?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Maybe because you're a magnet for weird magical creatures with too much time and an affinity for rebellion."

Harry turned just in time to see Meatbone standing atop a raised platform made of old cauldrons and a suspicious amount of roast beef. The Thestral reared back and slammed a hoof into a giant dinner bell.

"PEOPLE OF THE FLESH!" bellowed Mop, translating for him. "Our Master Meatsteak speaks!"

Meatbone raised a hoof, and the crowd went silent.

A scroll was unfurled.

"We were blind. He fed us the truth. Where once we gnawed, now we feast. Where once we wandered, now we march. Our god has lips of sarcasm, eyes of midnight, and a belly that rumbles with prophecy."

Harry blinked. "Did they just say my stomach is prophetic?"

Mop nodded, misty-eyed. "So many of your messages begin with hunger, Harry Potter, sir."

"I'm literally just trying to eat lunch."

Hermione growled into her hands.

But it was too late. The crowd was chanting now:

"MEATSTEAK! MEATSTEAK! MASTER OF THE PANTRY!"

A group of rogue elves had crafted a statue of Harry made entirely of jerky. Another lit butter-scented candles at its feet.

"I need a vacation," Harry muttered.

"You need a leash," Hermione snapped.

Then Meatbone let out a single, solemn whinny—low and echoing like a death knell from the oven of destiny.

Mop gasped. "The Master has spoken. He wishes us to beginThe Feast of Righteous Roasting."

A great cheer went up.

The Thestrals began organizing their cookbook readings. The elves brought out sacred ladles. Someone was roasting a tofu effigy over a bonfire of burnt diet books.

Harry just sat down, buried his face in his hands, and muttered, "All I wanted was a biscuit."

"You're not going to believe this," Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes as he tried to focus on his Transfiguration notes. "I've hadfourThestrals ask me if my hair looks better messy or sleek today."

Hermione glanced up, an eyebrow raised. "Wait, are you telling me that the Thestrals aregiving you beauty tips?"

"Yes!" Harry sighed, slamming his parchment down in frustration. "Apparently, I'm supposed to be theirmessiahand now they're treating me like a model for an undead magazine."

The Thestral in question—who had somehow convinced the others to start a Thestral-run beauty salon in the Forbidden Forest—trot up to Harry, a thick roll of parchment clenched in its teeth. It stopped in front of Harry's desk and dropped the scroll onto his papers with a pointedthud.

"Master Meatsteak,"the parchment read in neat, slanted handwriting,"We must discuss your preferred mane style. The length, the texture, the shine—it all reflects your power."

Harry blinked at the words, his hand poised halfway to his forehead. "What do you meanmy mane style? It's just hair. I don't—"

The Thestral pawed the ground impatiently, its wings twitching as if nudging Harry to pay attention. On the scroll, in new writing, a fresh sentence appeared:

"If your hair reflects your glory, we must ensure it is worthy."

"Please," Harry said, his voice more a whimper than anything else. "Why do you care about my hair?"

The Thestral, undeterred, moved back a step and, with a flourish, rolled out a second scroll.

"Your hair speaks to the world. Your glory is our glory. We must ensure it is perfect. What style do you prefer? Sleek and controlled, like the finest cut of steak, or wild and untamed, like a roast left out too long?"

"You're all insane," Harry muttered under his breath, but the Thestral was already moving on. Another Thestral came forward, this one with a freshly painted sign that read:

"Master Meatsteak, we must show your power to all. The world must see your magnificence. You are our champion."

Mop, trailing behind, looked unusually excited. "Master Meatsteak is very particular, Harry Potter, sir. The perfect hair is essential for your reign. We must not disappoint."

"I'mliterallyjust trying to get through a Transfiguration lesson," Harry replied, staring at the sign, then at Mop.

But of course, the Thestrals were not having it.

Later that day, as Harry trudged through the hallways, he found himself greeted by yet another parade of Thestrals. They were now marching in formation, their wings fluttering dramatically as they dropped letters from their mouths, each one landing with perfect precision on Harry's path.

The letters were identical—except for the writing.

"Master Meatsteak, the chosen one of the meat and fire, we await your next command. Shall we begin our feast?"

"Why am I in charge of a Thestral army that writes about food?" Harry muttered, half under his breath.

To his surprise, the teachers seemed… pleased.

Hagrid was in the front, grinning like a giddy schoolboy. He was currently kneeling to inspect the work of a Thestral who had just handed him a perfectly roasted pig leg. "Blimey, Harry, these Thestrals are brilliant! Been showin' me how to roast meat just right! They've got such knowledge of the bones, mate! Real expertise!"

Harry nodded vaguely. "Yeah, they've been...busy."

As he turned to leave, Meatbone trotted up to him. The Thestral held another scroll, its parchment slightly crumpled from the travel.

It dropped the scroll in front of Harry, who reluctantly unrolled it.

"Master Meatsteak, we humbly ask for permission to prepare your ceremonial ride. We wish to ensure your success as you ride into glory."

Harry blinked. "Awhat?"

The Thestral waited patiently, tapping its hoof as if it were anticipating his reaction.

A new note appeared on the parchment.

"You belong to us now. You must ride, to show your strength."

Harry sighed and looked at Mop. "TellMeatbone—I'm not riding him. It's not happening."

But it was too late. As Harry began to turn away, Meatbone stretched out a thick, shimmering rope made of braided vine and bone, dropping it at Harry's feet.

Another note appeared:

"Master Meatsteak, we have prepared the path for you. The ride is our honor. Will you refuse us?"

The Thestral stared at him, unblinking.

"Merlin," Harry whispered. "What am I even supposed to say?"

Hermione, who had been following from a distance, burst out laughing. "You're the cult leader now, Harry!What a twist!"

Harry groaned. "Yeah, well,Meatboneand his followers haven't given me a choice." He glanced down at the rope. "I don't know how this happened. One minute, I'm having a snack; the next, I'm preparing for aceremonial ride."

"Hey, Harry," Hagrid called out, "this could be a rightlegendarymoment for you. You'll make a fine leader."

"I never asked for this," Harry muttered, reaching down to tug at the rope.

Behind him, Mop looked up at Harry with pleading eyes. "Please, Master Meatsteak, let us show our devotion. We will take you to glory."

Harry had no idea how he had gotten here. All he wanted was to be left alone with his biscuits. Instead, he was nowthe leader of a cult of Thestrals,being pushed toward a ride that could only lead to chaos.

But one thing was certain:

No matter how many scrolls, or ropes, or pleading eyes were involved, he was about to have a very, verystrangeday.

"Hermione Just Wouldn't Let It Go"

Harry had tried to fix it. Really, he had.

But Hermione?

Oh, no.

She was doubling down like a gambler who refused to walk away from the table, even after losing all their gold.

"All you had to do," Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "was admit you took it too far."

Hermione crossed her arms, fuming. "I took it too far? Me?!" She threw her arms in the air. "All I did was try to liberate an oppressed group!"

Mop, who had somehow acquired a tiny podium, pointed dramatically. "You tried to take away our magic!"

The house-elves cheered.

A Thestral whinnied in agreement.

Harry exhaled slowly. "Hermione, listen, all I did was suggest a couple of things—"

"A couple of things?!" Hermione's voice hit dangerous levels of shrill. "You told them how to bypass bad masters! You—" She pointed at a massive wall of posters behind them, "—encouraged this!"

Harry turned.

And yes.

Yes, indeed.

A full-blown propaganda wall had been erected in the Great Hall overnight.

It featured:

️ Slogans like "Powerful Master = Powerful Elves! Join Today!"

️ A heroic portrait of Mop, raising a mop like a battle standard.

️ A very unflattering drawing of Hermione labeled "The Oppressor."

Harry groaned. "Okay, in my defense, I did not make that."

Mop puffed out his chest. "No, Great Master. You inspired it."

Hermione let out a strangled sound. "DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF?!"

Blaise, leaning lazily against the wall, snickered. "Oh, we hear it, Granger. It's glorious."

Daphne sipped her tea. "We really should have started taking bets on how long it would take for this to spiral."

Tracy, flipping through her notes, looked up with a wide grin. "I've got 'full-scale house-elf political movement' on my bingo card. Anyone?"

Harry slumped onto a bench. "Kill me."

Thanatos, slithering onto his shoulder, snorted. "No, but I will write your obituary. 'Here Lies Harry Potter, House-Elf Messiah.'"

Harry shoved him off. "Not helping."

Hermione, absolutely vibrating with frustration, turned to Mop, hands on her hips. "Mop. You need to stop this insanity right now."

Mop, completely unbothered, blinked up at her. "No."

Hermione twitched.

Harry could see her soul leaving her body.

She took a deep, calming breath. "Why."

Mop's eyes gleamed. "Because I do what I want."

The house-elves cheered.

A Thestral stomped its hoof in solidarity.

Harry leaned back, watching it all unfold.

Yep.

This was his life now.

Harry knew when to pick his battles.

This?

This was not one of them.

Hermione and Mop were locked in a battle of pure, unyielding stubbornness, staring at each other with the intensity of two generals about to launch a full-scale war.

Harry sat back, munching on toast. This was going to be good.

"You have to stop this," Hermione said, her voice strained.

Mop, standing proudly on a floating book, crossed his tiny arms. "No."

Hermione twitched. "House-elves are not supposed to be—"

"We are exactly what we are supposed to be." Mop tilted his head. "And what exactly makes you the expert, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

Harry could actually see her brain short-circuiting.

Mop smirked. "That's what I thought."

The other house-elves gasped dramatically.

Blaise, watching from the sidelines, grinned. "Oof. That had to hurt."

Tracy, flipping through her notes, sighed happily. "This is going in my report."

Daphne, sipping her tea like she was watching theater, hummed. "I give Hermione five more minutes before she starts yelling again."

Hermione snapped out of it. "I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU!"

Mop sighed heavily, as if she were a particularly slow student. "Miss Granger. Let me explain this very slowly."

The elves gathered closer. The Thestrals leaned in.

Hermione's eye twitched.

Mop smiled sweetly. "We. Do. Not. Want. Your. Help."

Hermione threw her hands in the air. "That's because you've been brainwashed—"

"Brainwashed into what?" Mop challenged. "Enjoying what we do?"

"Yes!" Hermione blurted.

Mop grinned like a goblin who just won a bet. "And that is why you are wrong."

Harry winced.

Hermione's soul had officially left the building.

The house-elves cheered. A Thestral flapped its wings in approval.

Blaise choked on his drink. "Merlin's saggy pants, this is the best thing I've ever seen."

Harry, rubbing his temples, sighed. "Okay, we're going in circles now. Hermione, let it go."

Hermione turned to him, wild-eyed. "Harry, this is madness!"

Harry gestured at the elves. "You're arguing with creatures that literally feed off wizard magic like plants off the sun. And they like cleaning. And somehow, this has escalated to the Thestrals forming a workers' union. At this point, just take the loss."

Mop nodded sagely. "A wise master."

Hermione let out a strangled sound.

Harry could tell.

She was right on the edge.

He leaned back.

Three.

Two.

One.

"I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!" Hermione turned and stormed off, grumbling angrily to herself.

The house-elves erupted into cheers.

Blaise wiped a tear. "Absolutely beautiful."

Daphne smirked. "I knew she wouldn't last."

Harry exhaled. "Okay, Mop. No more rebellions today."

Mop tilted his head. "Define 'rebellion.'"

Harry groaned.

Following day was no better.

Harry was done.

Completely, utterly, done.

All he wanted was one peaceful moment. Just one. A quiet evening, maybe some rune work, and definitely no house-elves dragging him into politics.

Instead, he got—

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

Harry's soul screamed.

Mop perked up. "Ah, the enemy returns."

"Hermione." Harry didn't even turn around. "Go away."

"I will not go away!" Hermione stomped forward, eyes blazing with righteous fury. "I left for ten minutes—TEN MINUTES—and somehow, the house-elves have become worse!"

Harry didn't even bother denying it.

Mop grinned smugly.

"They're too happy," Hermione continued, throwing her hands in the air. "They've gone from obsessive cleaning to—" She gestured wildly. "—to full-blown cult worship!"

Harry winced. "Cult is a strong word."

"No. It's the right word," Blaise corrected, sipping his tea.

Daphne nodded. "They built him a throne."

Hermione froze.

Then, slowly, she turned her head—and saw the majestic, rune-covered throne in the corner.

She screamed into her hands.

Harry sighed. "Look, I didn't tell them to do that."

"They put crowns on the other house-elves!" Hermione pointed frantically.

Sure enough, across the room, a group of house-elves stood proudly wearing tiny crowns, made of enchanted silverware.

One of them waved cheerfully.

Hermione looked like she was about to explode.

Mop, watching her meltdown, tilted his head. "Miss Granger, why are you upset? This is our natural state."

"This is NOT your natural state!"

"Then what is?"

Hermione opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it. Opened it again.

Harry smirked. Gotcha.

The house-elves leaned in, waiting.

Mop grinned. "Exactly."

Hermione let out a frustrated noise. "I can't—I refuse—to argue with a house-elf today."

Harry clapped his hands together. "Great. Now, you can leave."

Hermione's eye twitched. "I am not leaving until—"

"Hermione, please, for the love of Merlin, GO AWAY."

Silence.

The house-elves stared.

Blaise choked back laughter.

Daphne sipped her tea, unimpressed. "That's the most honest thing you've said all day."

Hermione fumed. "This is not over."

"Yes, it is," Harry corrected.

Hermione took a deep breath. And then—

She turned and stomped out.

The house-elves cheered.

Harry collapsed into his chair. "Finally."

Mop looked far too pleased. "Shall we continue our plans, Master?"

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. "Mop, I am begging you. No more rebellions."

Mop smirked. "Oh, of course, Master."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "That sounded suspiciously like a lie."

Mop whistled innocently.

"The Hogwarts Chaos Fair"

The latest rebellion—if you could even call it that—had somehow turned into a flea market of accomplishments.

Instead of a revolution, every species had set up a booth showcasing things they were proud of.

And Hogwarts?

Hogwarts had turned into a full-blown magical fairground.

Without rides.

But that didn't seem to matter.

Students were wandering around, collecting trinkets, eating weird snacks, and acting like this was the best thing to ever happen.

"WHY is there a goblin metallurgy competition next to the centaur astrology booth?" Harry asked, watching in equal parts horror and amazement.

Blaise, casually munching on a pastry from the house-elf baking stand, shrugged. "Why isn't there?"

Harry pointed at a banshee demonstration tent. "And what exactly are they selling?"

Daphne read the sign. "'Screams in a Jar.'"

Harry blinked. "I hate that."

"I love that," Blaise grinned.

Tracy, furiously taking notes, muttered, "This is gold."

Mop appeared beside them, looking pleased with himself. "Master, the house-elves have the best booth, obviously."

Harry sighed. "Do I even want to ask?"

Mop grinned. "We are displaying our finest cleaning techniques, battle strategies, and—" He gestured behind him. "—a list of all your achievements as Master."

Harry froze.

Slowly, he turned his head—

And saw a giant wall covered in parchment, detailing every single thing he'd ever done that house-elves approved of.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin—"

"—And we made limited edition trading cards!" Mop added cheerfully.

Blaise immediately ran over. "I need to see this."

Daphne sipped her tea. "Well, you are a legend, Potter."

Harry buried his face in his hands. "I hate my life."

From somewhere in the distance—

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

Harry groaned. Not again.

Mop beamed. "Ah, the enemy returns."

Blaise, flipping through the trading cards, smirked. "This is about to be good."

Harry exhaled. "Somebody save me."

Thanatos slithered onto his shoulder. "No. This is fun."

Harry glared. "Traitor."

Harry Potter and the House-Elf Rebellion: Part XX

"Hermione vs. The Hogwarts Chaos Fair"

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

Hermione came charging through the fair like an avenging war goddess, her robes billowing dramatically.

Students scrambled out of the way. A group of goblins dived under their tables. Even the centaurs backed up cautiously.

Harry, long past the point of caring, took a bite of the mysterious fried food Mop had shoved into his hands and stared at her blankly.

Mop, standing beside him, grinned in amusement. "Ah, the enemy is here."

"Hermione," Harry greeted flatly. "How nice of you to come to the fair."

She pointed accusingly at the house-elf booth. "WHAT IS THIS?!"

"An event of cultural exchange, unity, and chaos," Blaise answered, flipping through his stack of Harry Potter trading cards.

Hermione ignored him. "Harry, do you have any idea what you've done? The house-elves have somehow become even more fanatical—"

Mop beamed proudly.

"—the goblins are treating this like an investment expo, the centaurs are placing bets on everything, and why is there a banshee talent show?!"

She gestured wildly toward a stage, where a group of banshees were lined up. The sign read:

"Who Has the Most Soul-Crushing Wail? Come Judge!"

"I mean…" Harry glanced at the stage. "That's kinda impressive."

Hermione looked ready to combust.

Daphne, completely unbothered, sipped her tea. "It's free market economics, Granger."

"IT'S ANARCHY!" Hermione shouted.

A goblin walked by. "Same thing."

Hermione gasped in outrage.

Harry, completely over it, dusted off his robes. "Alright, I feel like I've seen enough today. I'm going to go do literally anything else."

"NO, YOU'RE NOT!" Hermione grabbed his sleeve. "You are going to fix this mess before it spirals even further out of control!"

Harry sighed. "Hermione, it's already so far out of control. It's beyond fixing."

Blaise nodded. "This is a self-sustaining disaster now."

Tracy, scribbling everything down for future blackmail material, added, "Yeah, we're at the point of no return."

Mop, very smug, nodded in agreement. "Master is wise."

Hermione looked utterly betrayed. "You like this, don't you?"

Harry, with the straightest face imaginable, answered:

"Yes."

Hermione screamed into her hands.

Mop leaned toward Harry. "Master, the house-elves would like to know if we should hold an annual event."

Harry grinned. "Absolutely."

Hermione nearly collapsed.

From behind them, a group of Thestrals trotted past, pulling wagons filled with enchanted trinkets.

Harry glanced at them. "Wait. Why are the Thestrals involved?"

Mop shrugged. "They unionized."

Hermione gave up on life.