Chapter 32: A Fork in the Pie

The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

The moment they stepped into the Hogwarts dining hall, Ron's sour mood seemed to evaporate like morning mist under the sun. The air was thick with the tantalizing aromas of sizzling bacon, juicy steaks, tender lamb chops, hearty casseroles, creamy mashed potatoes, and an assortment of pies and puddings that made his stomach growl in anticipation. The trio quickly found their usual spots at the Gryffindor table, and Ron wasted no time piling his plate high with everything within arm's reach. He dug in with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten in days.

Hermione, sitting across from him, watched with a mixture of amusement and mild disgust. She shook her head, her bushy hair swaying slightly as she tutted loudly. "Honestly, Ron," she said, her voice sharp but not unkind. "You're fourteen years old now. Don't you think it's time to grow up a little?"

Ron paused mid-bite, a lamb chop dangling precariously from his fork, his cheeks bulging with mashed potatoes. He chewed noisily, swallowed with some effort, and then mumbled, "Vut fiy yam frowin wup?" His words were muffled, and bits of food sprayed across the table as he spoke.

Hermione recoiled, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Ron! Speak English, for Merlin's sake! I can't understand a word you're saying. And stop talking with your mouth full! You're getting food everywhere!"

Ron rolled his eyes but obediently swallowed his mouthful before trying again. "I said, I am growing up. What are you on about?"

"Your table manners, for one," Hermione shot back, gesturing at the mess he'd made. "You're acting like you haven't seen food in two months. It's embarrassing."

"I had breakfast this morning," Ron protested, stabbing another piece of lamb chop with his fork.

"Then act like it!" Hermione exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Honestly, can't you take a page out of Harry's book? Look at him. At least he—" She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing as she turned to Harry. "Wait a minute. Since when do you like apple pie, Harry?"

Harry, who had been quietly observing the exchange while picking at his food, glanced down at his plate. A half-eaten slice of apple pie sat there, the golden crust glistening under the candlelight. He looked up at Hermione, his expression a mix of surprise and mild defensiveness. "Since forever?"

"No, it's not!" Hermione interjected, her tone incredulous. "In all the years I've known you, I've never seen you touch an apple pie. You always go for the kidney and steak pie or treacle tart. What's going on?"

Harry shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Maybe I just decided to try something new," he said, cutting another piece of pie with his knife and fork. He speared the bite with his fork and popped it into his mouth. "Besides, this is healthier than the alternatives. Important for an old guy like me."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and she stared at him as if he'd just announced he was quitting Quidditch to take up knitting. "Right. An old guy like you," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Since when is fourteen considered old? And since when do you use a fork and knife to eat pie? You usually just pick it up with your hands."

Harry froze for a split second, his fork hovering mid-air. He mentally kicked himself. He'd forgotten that, despite carrying the memories and mindset of a 92-year-old man, he was currently inhabiting the body of a teenager. "It's just an expression, Hermione," he said quickly, forcing a laugh. "You should be thankful I don't have dementia or something."

"You're too young to have dementia, Harry," Hermione replied, shaking her head. "Oh, well. At least you have some semblance of table manners, unlike someone sitting beside me." She shot Ron a pointed look.

Ron, who had just taken another enormous bite of food, glared at her. "Hey!" he protested, his voice muffled again.

Before Hermione could retort, the sound of shuffling feet interrupted them. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who had been sitting a few seats down, slid closer to join the trio. Fred plopped himself down next to Harry, while George and Lee squeezed in beside Ron.

"Couldn't help but overhear your little chat, Hermione," George said, his trademark grin plastered across his face.

"And while your critique of our dear brother's manners was spot on," Fred added, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"You might want to take a look at the sorry state of your own plate," George finished, gesturing dramatically at Hermione's empty dish.

Hermione glanced down and blinked in surprise. She'd been so caught up in scolding Ron and interrogating Harry that she'd completely forgotten to serve herself any food. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she reached for the serving spoon and began doling a generous portion of beef casserole onto her plate. "I was getting to it," she muttered, avoiding their eyes.

Fred chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "Attagirl," he said, his tone teasing. "You know, it'd be a poor repayment for all the hard work the house elves put into preparing these delicious dishes if you didn't eat any of it."

Hermione froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened, and she nearly choked on her food. "House elves?" she repeated, her voice rising an octave. "What do you mean, house elves?"

The twins exchanged a glance, their grins widening. Lee Jordan snickered into his goblet of pumpkin juice, clearly enjoying the unfolding drama. Hermione's expression shifted from confusion to suspicion, and she set her fork down with a clatter. "What exactly are you talking about?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing.

Fred leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, Hermione. You didn't think all this food just magically appeared on the table, did you?"

Hermione's face paled, and she looked around the Great Hall as if seeing it for the first time. The bustling students, the laden tables, the flickering candles—it all seemed to take on a new, unsettling significance. "You mean… house elves are cooking all this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

George nodded solemnly, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief. "And cleaning the castle, doing the laundry, polishing the armor… you name it."

Hermione's hands clenched into fists on the table, her knuckles turning white. "That's… that's slavery!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with outrage. "How can Hogwarts allow this? How can anyone allow this?"

Ron, who had been quietly eating through the exchange, finally looked up. "Hermione, it's not that big of a deal," he said, his tone dismissive. "House elves like working. It's what they do."

"They like it?" Hermione repeated, her voice rising. "Ron, they're being exploited! They're not paid, they're not given time off, they're—"

"They're happy," Fred interrupted, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Honestly, Hermione, you're making a mountain out of a molehill."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Harry, sensing the conversation was about to spiral out of control, quickly intervened. "Maybe we should talk about this later," he suggested, glancing around at the curious faces of nearby students who had started to take notice. "Not exactly dinner table conversation, is it?"

Hermione glared at him but reluctantly nodded. "Fine," she said, picking up her fork again. "But this isn't over."

The twins exchanged another glance, their grins returning. "Oh, we're counting on it," Fred said, raising his goblet in a mock toast.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. Hermione's determination was a force to be reckoned with, and he had a feeling this was only the beginning of a much larger battle—one that would ripple through the halls of Hogwarts in ways none of them could yet imagine.

Ron, who had been quietly observing the exchange, shook his head and leaned toward Fred. "You really shouldn't have mentioned it, Fred," he said, his voice low but tinged with exasperation. "You really shouldn't have."

Fred's grin faltered slightly as he glanced at Hermione, who was now staring at him with a mix of horror and determination. "Ah, right," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I forgot."

It was a well-known fact among their friends how sensitive Hermione was about the issue of house-elves, especially after the incident at the Quidditch World Cup. She had never quite forgotten Winky, the house-elf who had been dismissed by her master, Mr. Crouch, in such a callous manner. The memory of Winky's tear-streaked face and the injustice of her treatment had left a lasting impression on Hermione.

Ignoring Ron's comment, Hermione turned her full attention to Fred, her eyes wide and her voice trembling with urgency. "There are house-elves here?" she asked, her tone rising. "Here at Hogwarts?"

Fred sighed, exchanging a glance with George. "Oh well," he said, shrugging. "Better to tell the truth than keep on lying. Go on, Brother George. Let the light of enlightenment shine on those we deem lesser."

George nodded solemnly, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief. "As thou wish, Brother Fred," he said, adopting a mock-serious tone. He turned to Hermione. "Yes, there are house-elves in Hogwarts. Lots of them. Nearly a hundred, methinks."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "But—but—but I've never seen one!" she stammered, her voice rising in disbelief.

"Well, they hardly leave the kitchen during the day, do they?" Fred said, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms.

"Absolutely right, my dear Fred," George chimed in, nodding sagely. "They usually come out at night to do a bit of cleaning, light the fireplaces, do the laundry, and so on."

Lee Jordan, who had been quietly enjoying the spectacle, couldn't resist adding his two knuts. "We thought that being the cleverest witch of your year, you would've already figured it out," he said, grinning.

Hermione's cheeks flushed with irritation. "No, I haven't," she snapped. "How would I know? Filch—"

"What?" Fred interrupted, his eyebrows shooting up. "Do you think Filch does all that? Why do you think Dumbledore only employs one caretaker to take care of this massive castle? No pun intended." He paused, then added with a smirk, "Come to think of it, one might assume Hogwarts is on a severe budget cut, given how few staff they have."

"One caretaker," George said, holding up a finger.

"One gamekeeper," Lee added, raising another finger.

"And one living-dead teacher," Fred finished, referring to Professor Binns, the ghostly History of Magic professor who had been teaching at Hogwarts for longer than anyone could remember.

"That's enough!" Hermione exclaimed, slamming her hand on the table. The sound drew a few curious glances from nearby students, but she ignored them. "Now, about the house-elves. Like I said, I've never seen one. I take it this is one of your jokes or pranks, isn't it?"

Fred shook his head, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "It's not a joke. We're serious."

"No, we're not serious," George deadpanned, his face completely straight. "Serious is out there somewhere. The last I checked, I'm Feorge, you're Gred, and this is Michael Jordan." He gestured to Lee, who burst out laughing.

Harry, who had been quietly observing the exchange, felt a pang of unease when George mentioned Sirius Black, even though he knew it was just a joke. He couldn't help but wonder where his godfather was hiding and if he was safe. The thought of Sirius, still on the run and wanted by the Ministry, weighed heavily on his mind. He pushed the thought aside for now, focusing on the conversation at hand.

Hermione, however, was not amused. She crossed her arms and glared at the twins. "This isn't funny," she said firmly. "If there are house-elves here, working in these conditions, then something needs to be done about it. They deserve fair treatment, wages, and proper working conditions."

Fred and George exchanged a look, their grins fading slightly. "Hermione," Fred said carefully, "house-elves aren't like us. They like working. It's what they do. It's in their nature."

"That doesn't make it right!" Hermione shot back, her voice rising again. "Just because they're used to it doesn't mean it's fair. They're being exploited, and no one seems to care!"

Ron, who had been quietly eating through the exchange, finally spoke up. "Hermione, you're blowing this out of proportion," he said, his tone dismissive. "House-elves are happy doing what they do. They don't want wages or time off. They'd probably be insulted if you offered."

Hermione turned her glare on Ron. "That's exactly the problem!" she said, her voice trembling with frustration. "They've been conditioned to think that way. It's not right, Ron. It's—it's slavery!"

The word hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. Even Fred and George looked slightly taken aback by the intensity in Hermione's voice. Harry, sensing the tension, quickly intervened. "Maybe we should talk about this later," he suggested, glancing around at the curious faces of nearby students. "This isn't exactly dinner table conversation, is it?"

Hermione opened her mouth to argue but then closed it, realizing Harry had a point. She nodded reluctantly, though her eyes still burned with determination. "Fine," she said, picking up her fork again. "But this isn't over."

The twins exchanged another glance, their grins returning. "Oh, we're counting on it," Fred said, raising his goblet in a mock toast.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Hermione's determination would lead to something much bigger. He had seen that look in her eyes before, and he knew better than to underestimate her. Whatever she was planning, it was bound to cause ripples—not just in Hogwarts, but perhaps far beyond.

For now, though, Harry focused on his half-eaten apple pie, the taste suddenly less appealing as his mind wandered back to Sirius and the dangers that loomed on the horizon. The year was just beginning, but Harry already felt the weight of it pressing down on him.

"Shut it, you two!" Hermione snapped, glaring at Fred and George, who were still snickering over their earlier jokes.

"Okay! Okay! Sorry," said Fred, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Now, let's get serious—"

"We can't. We don't know where he is," George interjected, his face deadpan once again.

"Stop driving me crazy!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice rising in frustration.

"Okay, that's enough, you two," Ron said, stepping in to mediate. He took a long gulp of pumpkin juice from his goblet and set it down with a thud. "Yeah, Hogwarts has house-elves. At least, that's what Mum and Dad told us. Remember how Mum always wished she had a house-elf to help her around whenever she had too much to do?" he asked, looking at his twin brothers.

The twins nodded fervently. "Oh, yeah," Fred said, grinning. "She'd say, 'If only I had a house-elf, I'd get this done in no time!'"

"And since when were you going to tell me all this?" Hermione asked sternly, her arms crossed over her chest.

Ron shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "Must've slipped my mind. But then, given the way you react every time the word 'house-elf' is mentioned, I'm pretty sure keeping you out of the loop was a better idea."

Hermione huffed indignantly, her cheeks flushing with anger. "That's not the point, Ron! This is about basic rights and fairness!"

"Look, Hermione," Lee Jordan chimed in, trying to diffuse the tension. "The main reason you've never seen them work is because that's just the way they operate. They're meant to be unseen and unnoticed."

"Exactly," George added. "Being unnoticeable while doing their job is the mark of a good house-elf. All you see is the result—your bed made, your laundry cleaned, those foot warmers you find every night, and the fireplace lit. Filch definitely doesn't do any of that."

"Yeah," Fred said, nodding. "Besides, how would you feel knowing Filch broke into the girls' dormitories every night to perform his 'duties'?" He made air quotes around the word "duties," and Lee Jordan burst into laughter.

The twins and Lee broke into a long, hard laugh, their voices echoing across the Great Hall. It took them a while to calm down, and by the time they did, Hermione's face was bright red with embarrassment and anger.

"The—" George began, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "The contents of his dresser would be mightily interesting. Something lacy, probably. Sorry, Hermione," he added hastily, noticing her expression.

Hermione waved off his apology with a dismissive hand. "Alright, that's enough. Let's say what you're saying is true. Do the house-elves get paid? Holidays? Pensions? Sick leave? Anything?"

"House-elves want none of those things," Fred stated flatly, his tone serious for once.

"That's ridiculous," Hermione scoffed, her voice rising again. "Nobody in their right mind would want to do a job without getting paid. This school is a government institution. Every employee is protected by law."

Fred shook his head, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. "You really don't get it, do you?" he said, picking up a pudding and taking a bite. "House-elves don't want any of those things. They really don't. They just like the job. It's in their nature to serve humans like us. They need to have a master. I'm not making this up. You can ask any of the teachers—or even a house-elf, if you happen to see one."

Hermione fell silent, her brow furrowed in thought. She looked down at the half-eaten food on her plate, her appetite completely gone. After a moment, she put her knife and fork down and pushed the plate away. "Slave labour," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling with anger. "That's what's making this lunch. Slave labour." She refused to eat another bite.

The boys around her exchanged uneasy glances. Ron shook his head, while Fred and George looked slightly guilty. Lee Jordan shrugged, clearly unsure of how to respond. Harry, meanwhile, felt a pang of sympathy for Hermione. He understood her frustration, even if he didn't fully share her outrage. House-elves were just one of those things in the wizarding world that everyone seemed to accept without question—but Hermione wasn't one to accept things blindly.

"Look, Hermione," Harry said gently, trying to break the tension. "I get why you're upset. But maybe this isn't the best time or place to—"

"No, Harry," Hermione interrupted, her voice firm. "This is exactly the time and place. If no one else is going to stand up for them, then I will."

The determination in Hermione's voice was unmistakable, and Harry knew there was no talking her out of it. Whatever she was planning, it was clear she wasn't going to let this go. The rest of the meal passed in uneasy silence, the weight of Hermione's resolve hanging heavily over the table. Harry couldn't help but wonder what kind of storm she was about to unleash—and how it would change life at Hogwarts for all of them.

Lee Jordan leaned forward, breaking the tension with a mischievous grin. "What's the thing we wanted to talk about before we joined this table?" he asked, his tone light and teasing.

Fred and George exchanged a look, their eyes lighting up as if they'd just remembered something important. "Oh yeah!" George exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "I nearly forgot!" He turned toward Harry and Ron, his expression suddenly serious. "We had Defence Against the Dark Arts class before lunch."

Ron's eyes widened, and he leaned forward eagerly. "Wicked! So you had Moody? How cool is he?"

George let out a low whistle, his face breaking into a grin. "Super cool," he said, giving two enthusiastic thumbs up. "He's beyond cool," Fred agreed, nodding vigorously.

Ron's excitement was palpable. "So, what was it like?" he asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.

Fred, George, and Lee Jordan exchanged meaningful looks, their expressions a mix of awe and admiration. "Never had anything like it," Fred said, his tone unusually serious.

"He knows, man," Lee Jordan added, his voice filled with respect.

"Knows what?" Ron asked impatiently, his curiosity piqued.

"Knows what it's like to be out there. Doing it," George said, his voice tinged with awe. "Fighting dark wizards. I mean, he's seen it all, done it all. He was practically in the front seat the whole time, you know?"

Lee Jordan nodded in agreement. "Yeah, he was amazing. We had Quirrell for a couple of years before you did him in," he said, nodding at Harry.

"Quirrell was lame," Fred said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I couldn't stand the smell of garlic whenever I was in his class. Who could've guessed he was hiding something?"

"Then we got that fake, Lockhart," George added, rolling his eyes. "The girls swooned over him, though."

"Lupin was great," Lee Jordan said, his tone softening with respect. "But even he can't compare to Moody." The twins nodded in agreement, their expressions serious for once.

Ron immediately dove into his bag and retrieved his timetable, scanning it quickly. He groaned as he ran through it. "We won't be getting him until Thursday!" he complained, his voice filled with disappointment.

Meanwhile, Harry listened to the conversation with great disinterest. They didn't know Moody like he did. The Moody they were so impressed with wasn't the real Moody. He was, in fact, Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise, using Polyjuice Potion to impersonate the legendary Auror. The way "Moody" had strictly adhered to his timing, drinking from his flask during the Welcoming Feast, had been proof enough for Harry.

But this did raise the question of what kind of teacher the real Alastor Moody would be. Would he be as hard-charging as the fake Moody? Would he show his class the three Unforgivable Curses? Would he display the same twisted admiration for dark magic as the fake Moody and Snape? Harry guessed he'd never find out.

Still, the real Moody had proven to be just as intense—if not more so—during Harry's fifth year in the old timeline. Harry remembered the effort the members of the Order of the Phoenix had put into "kidnapping" him from the Dursleys all too well. He hadn't liked it, but he couldn't help but admire the dedication Barty Crouch Jr. had put into studying his victim. He'd managed to copy Alastor Moody down to the smallest detail.

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