章 485: 0484 Follow
In the dimly lit, musty classroom, Hermione found herself caught in a moment of profound bewilderment. Her gaze darted frantically between the tiny, newborn house-elf clinging desperately to her feet and the impassive face of Professor Watson. The weight of the situation seemed to press down on her, robbing her of speech.
In the quiet, dark classroom, only the faint pleading of the house-elf and the howling wind outside could be heard.
"But... but what am I supposed to do with it, Professor Watson?" Hermione stammered; her words tinged with panic. She attempted to move her foot, hoping to create some distance between herself and the creature, but the house-elf, driven by an instinctual fear of abandonment, only tightened its grip on her leg.
"I can't take care of it, Professor, I have classes to attend " Hermione continued, her voice cracking with emotion.
Bryan's response was not what Hermione had expected or hoped for. "Oh, you don't need to take care of it, Hermione—" he began, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth showing his amusement at her complete bewilderment.
"House-elves are incredibly resilient creatures," he continued, his tone taking on a more educational note. "Don't let this little one's size fool you; it's fully capable of taking care of itself. Plus, it possesses the magic inherited from the bloodline of house-elves, so—" He paused here, carefully considering his next words before continuing, "You only need to give it orders—"
"Orders?" Hermione repeated dumbly, her voice hollow with disbelief.
At Hermione's feet, the house-elf's enormous eyes, which had been brimming with tears moments before, now lit up with an almost manic joy upon hearing the word 'orders.' The creature finally released its death-grip on Hermione's shoelaces, wobbling unsteadily to its feet. It lifted its excessively large head, staring up at Hermione with eyes that seemed to take up nearly a third of its wrinkled face. The adoration in that gaze was unmistakable and, to Hermione, deeply unsettling.
"Mistress Granger, command. Serve!" the tiny creature squeaked; its high-pitched voice filled with an eagerness that made Hermione's heart ache.
"It knows my name!" Hermione exclaimed, her surprise momentarily overriding her discomfort.
"Of course, it knows your name," Bryan explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "When you gave this little one your clothes, a mysterious contract was formed between you. You should give it a name. That's your responsibility." With these words, he took a deliberate step back, physically and metaphorically distancing himself from the situation.
Hermione felt a surge of indignation at the professor's words. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea of naming the creature, of accepting any sort of ownership over it. Naming the young elf wasn't her duty, she thought fiercely. It should be its mother's responsibility. But even as this thought crossed her mind, the memory of Reega's departure – how she had vanished without so much as a backward glance at her newborn child – rose in Hermione's mind.
She pressed her lips together tightly, a mixture of anger and sorrow welling up inside her. The way house-elves passed on their legacy, their apparent indifference to their own offspring, defied her imagination. These small creatures, she realized with a pang of anguish, were even more pitiful than she had initially thought. They were subjected to a form of enslavement, so absolute, that it began quite literally from the moment of their birth.
"Alright, a name. Let me think—" Hermione muttered, her voice catching in her throat. She gazed down at the house-elf, taking in its submissive posture – head bowed, eyes downcast, waiting with patience that seemed unnatural in a newborn creature. A flicker of anger sparked in Hermione's amber eyes, kindled by the sheer unfairness of it all.
For a long moment, Hermione stood silent, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Her expression shifted rapidly, cycling through frustration, determination, and finally, a flash of inspiration. Suddenly, her face lit up.
"Dom—" she began, then quickly corrected herself, her voice growing more certain. "Fréodom. If you're willing, that's the name I'd like to give you."
At this, Bryan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of recognition passing across his face.
Fréodom – the pronunciation of 'freedom' in ancient runes.
The newly named Fréodom struggled with the unfamiliar word, its tiny brow furrowing with concentration. "F-Fréodom—" it repeated, stumbling over the syllables. As it spoke, it bowed even lower, its nose nearly touching the dusty stone floor. Despite this show of subservience, its protruding large ears twitched with unmistakable excitement.
"Great, kind Mistress Granger has bestowed a name, Fréodom—, Mistress!" the little elf squeaked, its voice filled with a joy that seemed inconsistent to the simple act of naming.
Fréodom tilted its small head, its enormous eyes fixed somewhere around the level of Hermione's knees. It seemed to be gathering its courage before speaking again. "What can Fréodom do to serve the great Mistress Granger? Fréodom forever belongs to the great Mistress Granger!"
The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. "Don't say that!" she cried out, her voice a mixture of anger and fierce determination. The vehemence of her own reaction startled her, but she pressed on, driven by a deep-seated need to right what she perceived as terribly wrong.
"I'm not your mistress, Fréodom," she insisted, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I... I just gave you some clothes and helped name you, that's all. You don't belong to anyone, understand? You're free. You can do anything you want to do." A thought struck her, and she added quickly, "Of course, if you want to find your mother, that's fine too. I'll help you find her!"
But Hermione's impassioned speech, far from having the liberating effect she had hoped for, seemed to provoke an even more intense response from Fréodom. The little creature, its face contorting with distress, immediately threw itself at Hermione's feet. Its large, clear eyes overflowed with tears, quickly soaking through the fabric of Hermione's trouser leg.
"Oh, don't cry, Fréodom. I—" Hermione began, her voice softening with concern. But before she could finish her thought, Fréodom's demeanor changed dramatically.
"Mistress Granger gave an order!" the tiny elf exclaimed, leaping to its feet with surprising agility. All traces of distress vanished from its face, replaced by an expression of unabashed excitement. It stared up at Hermione with eyes that seemed to glow with eagerness, awaiting her next command.
Hermione's mouth fell open in shock. She turned helplessly towards Professor Watson, her eyes wide with confusion and growing dismay.
Bryan, who had been observing the exchange with an air of detached interest, now spoke up. His voice was calm as he explained, "Serving wizards is the cursed purpose of house-elves. This idea is deeply ingrained—" He paused, noting Hermione's expression. It was clear she wanted to argue. But, before she could voice her objections, he continued, "This matter isn't as simple as you think. This servitude is embedded in the very soul of house-elves, and it's passed down through their bloodline to the next generation."
Hermione's posture stiffened, her chin protruding out stubbornly as she prepared to counter this argument.
"But that's no reason for us to ignore the unjust treatment they suffer!" she insisted, her voice rising with passion. "I can't believe wizards would treat them like this. They are independent beings. They should work for themselves, have holidays, receive wages... They..." She faltered for a moment, then rallied, her voice taking on an edge of righteous anger. "Oh, Hogwarts even had a house-elf about to give birth doing heavy housework!"
Her amber eyes flashed as she turned her glare fully on Bryan. "The school should pay them, Professor, they should also enjoy various holidays. It's their rightful entitlement!"
Looking at the bristling young witch, Bryan seemed a bit helpless in the face of her fervent idealism. "At heart, I believe what you're saying makes sense, Miss Granger, but in reality, it's not as simple as you think. First..." He paused, choosing his words with care. "Well, if you want to fight for house-elf rights, you first need to convince them to accept it, right?"
This statement gave Hermione pause. Her brow furrowed as she pondered the implications of what Professor Watson was saying. The idea that the house-elves themselves might resist efforts to improve their situation was a complication she hadn't fully considered.
Seeing that he had successfully silenced Hermione, at least temporarily, Bryan breathed a small sigh of relief. He rubbed his stomach absently, muttering, "I've missed two meals today. I must find something to eat—"
His words seemed to snap Hermione out of her contemplative state. "Wait, Professor Watson—" she called out, her tone once again tinged with panic. "But what about the house-elf, Fréodom? What should I do? I... I can't find a place... I mean, I have to go to school, Professor—"
"Ah—" Bryan paused in his movements, considering the dilemma. A student with a house-elf constantly following behind, shouting 'Mistress' and 'serve,' would indeed be rather inappropriate, not to mention disruptive to the school environment. After a moment's thought, he offered a suggestion. "If you don't want it to follow you... I suggest you could send it to the kitchen to work with the other house-elves. There are many of its kind there; I'm sure it would be happy there."
"Work? Fréodom was born less than half an hour ago, Professor Watson!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice rising in pitch with her indignation.
Bryan looked at the young witch, who seemed determined to cast him in the role of a cruel exploiter. He shrugged his shoulders, "In that case...just keep it in your dormitory. There's no school rule against students adopting house-elves, is there?"
With those parting words, Bryan turned and left the classroom, his footsteps echoing in the stone corridors. He left behind a frantic young witch and a house-elf whose eyes were filled with unquestioning adoration for her.
As the night deepened, its inky darkness settling over the castle like a heavy blanket, the Gryffindor common room remained a pocket of warmth and light. The crackling fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows on the walls, creating a cozy atmosphere despite the late hour. In a quiet corner near the fireplace, Harry and Ron hunched over a table, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight as they worked on their homework.
They had spent the last two hours fabricating next month's fortune charts for Professor Trelawney's Divination class, a task that had left them both feeling mentally drained and slightly silly. Now, with that dubious assignment complete, Ron found himself at loose ends, idly tapping his quill against the parchment as he searched for something else to occupy his time.
Harry, on the other hand, seemed to have found a new wellspring of motivation. He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. Sucking thoughtfully on the end of his quill, he pondered how to approach his essay for the new Physical Education class.
This assignment was unprecedented at Hogwarts. An essay on dueling was not something any student had been asked to write before, and there were almost no examples in the library to reference. Harry, however, felt a spark of confidence. He believed he had some talent in dueling, and after listening to Professor Watson's theoretical lecture, he found he had some thoughts of his own on the subject.
After a moment of contemplation, Harry began to write, his quill scratching softly against the parchment.
Ron's attention, however, had begun to wander. His blue eyes roamed around the spacious common room, taking in the familiar sights of his fellow Gryffindors bent over their own homework or engaged in quiet conversations. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he turned back to Harry.
"Where's Hermione?" he said, breaking the silence. " We haven't seen her all evening. Even if she's in the library, Madam Pince should have chased everyone out by now—"
Harry looked up from his essay, surprised not only by Ron's observation but also by the fact that Ron even remembered the librarian's name. It took Harry a few seconds to recall who Madam Pince was, despite seeing her stern face every day at meals in the Great Hall.
"No idea—" Harry replied casually, his tone showing that he wasn't particularly concerned. In his mind, Hermione had probably just lost track of time while reading, which wasn't an uncommon occurrence.
Ron glanced at Harry a few times, watching as his friend continued to work on the essay for Physical Education class. Across the room, he could see Neville struggling with the same assignment. Over the course of the evening, Neville had chewed his quill down to a stub without making much progress on the parchment in front of him.
The peaceful atmosphere of the common room was suddenly disrupted as the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open with a creak. Ron's head snapped around at the sound, his eyes widening as he recognized the figure climbing through the portrait hole.
It was indeed Hermione returning from what they assumed had been a marathon study session in the library. Ron raised his hand, ready to greet her with his usual casual wave, but the gesture froze halfway as his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Oh, what's wrong with her?" he muttered, more to himself than to Harry.
Hermione's appearance was far from her usual neat and composed self. A large piece of her robe's hem was conspicuously missing. Her schoolbag, which she typically slung casually over her shoulder, was now clutched tightly to her chest like a shield.
Hermione's entire demeanor screamed that something was amiss; she looked as if she had just stolen a priceless-artifact(Books) from the restricted section of the library. Her eyes darted nervously around the room, and her eyebrows were drawn together in an expression of barely concealed panic.
Harry, hearing the concern in Ron's voice, glanced up from his essay. His gaze quickly found Hermione, and in an instant, his quill-holding hand froze mid-sentence. The sight of Hermione in such an unusual state immediately set off alarm bells in his mind.
As soon as she entered the common room, Hermione's eyes, wide with a mixture of anxiety and determination, scanned the room until they landed on Harry and Ron by the fireplace. She walked towards the two boys, pretending as if nothing had happened, but even the daydreaming Neville noticed that Hermione was hiding something.
When Hermione finally reached their table, she all but collapsed into the empty chair beside them. Her arms remained wrapped tightly around her schoolbag, knuckles white with the force of her grip. She was breathing heavily, as if she'd just sprinted the length of the castle.
Ron, never one for patience or subtlety, blurted out his question as soon as Hermione sat down. "What's going on?" He stared suspiciously at the bag she was clutching tightly. "Don't tell me you've been stealing something?"
Hermione's head snapped up at Ron's words, her eyes flashing with a combination of indignation and barely suppressed panic. If looks could cast spells, Ron would have found himself on the receiving end of a particularly nasty hex.
This guy, Hermione thought bitterly, had no idea that she had gone to find Professor Watson for him tonight, only to bring back a big problem for herself.
"I need help!" Hermione said, taking a deep breath after glancing around guiltily.
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Hermione & S.P.E.W
Many readers have talked about Hermione and the usefulness or uselessness of S.P.E.W. So, Here is a theory on Hermione and SPEW:
Hermione's fight for house-elf rights through S.P.E.W. was a complex projection of her own struggles and fears as a Muggle-born witch in an increasingly hostile wizarding world. Hermione's voice for house-elves was, in fact, a subconscious way of addressing her own experiences with discrimination and her fears about the rising tide of blood purism.
As a Muggle-born witch, Hermione had faced constant prejudice from pure-blood supremacists like Draco who called her a "Mudblood." Despite her exceptional magical abilities and academic achievements, she must have realized that a significant portion of the wizarding community would never fully accept her due to her heritage. This realization likely became more acute as Voldemort's influence grew and he tried to eradicate the Muggle-born wizards like herself.
Hermione had her intelligence and the drive to make a difference, but she found herself in a difficult position. She wasn't the "Chosen One" like Harry, nor did she have the pure-blood status of Ron. Her attempts to directly address the treatment of Muggle-borns might have been dismissed as personal bias or self-interest. In this context, the plight of house-elves presented an opportunity for Hermione to channel her activism and fears into a cause that, while related, was not directly tied to her personal circumstances.
The parallels between the treatment of house-elves and historical justifications for human slavery were likely obvious to Hermione, given her Muggle background and education. The common refrain that house-elves were "happy slaves" eerily echoed similar arguments used to justify the enslavement of Black people throughout history. For Hermione, this connection was clear and deeply troubling.
S.P.E.W., therefore, became Hermione's proxy battle – a cause she could champion without being accused of self-interest, and one where she could make difference in a world where she often felt powerless. It was her way of fighting against systemic oppression and ingrained prejudices in wizarding society.
But, Ironically, in her eagerness to liberate the house-elves, Hermione sometimes overlooked their own expressed desires and cultural differences, pushing her own vision of freedom onto them. This misstep was a reflection of her youth and inexperience in activism, as well as her intense need to effect change in any way possible.
In essence, S.P.E.W. represented more than just a campaign for house-elf rights. It was Hermione's attempt to grapple with larger issues of discrimination and injustice in the wizarding world, filtered through the lens of a passionate, intelligent teenager trying to find her place and make a difference in a society that often made her feel like an outsider.
章 486: 0485 Hermione's Secret
Harry and Ron exchanged glances, both seeing the surprise in each other's eyes. They had known Hermione for so long, yet they had never heard her speak in such a tone.
"What's wrong?" Harry immediately sensed that Hermione was in big trouble. She seemed reluctant to let anyone know. After looking around to ensure no one was paying attention to them, Harry lowered his voice and asked, "What happened, Hermione?"
Hermione's fingers tightened around the strap of her worn leather school bag, her knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. Her eyes darted around the common room, scanning for potential eavesdroppers.
Only when she was satisfied that no one was paying them any attention did she speak. "You must keep this a secret,"
"Do you even need to ask?" Ron said eagerly. "Come on, Hermione, tell us what's going on!"
Perhaps it was the genuine worry evident in her friends' expressions that gave Hermione a modicum of courage. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though her grip on the bag remained firm. She cast another furtive glance towards Colin Creevey and his younger brother Dennis, who were huddled over a magical camera nearby, before motioning for Harry and Ron to come even closer.
"What are you up to?" Ron grumbled, reluctantly abandoning the comfortable embrace of the sofa. He and Harry pushed the heavy oak coffee table back a few inches. They perched on its edge, effectively creating a barrier between Hermione and any potentially prying eyes in the common room.
"Remember to keep your mouth shut, Ron!" Hermione hissed, her tone carrying a warning that made Ron's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Finally, with agonizing slowness, she loosened her death grip on the school bag she had been clutching so tightly. The sound of the zipper opening seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence that had fallen over the trio.
Harry was holding his breath, half-expecting Hermione to reveal that she had actually broken into a professor's office and stolen something. After all, it wouldn't be the first time. But as the zipper parted, revealing the contents of the bag, Harry's eyes widened in shock. A small, timid head peeked out from the gap, its large, tennis-ball-sized eyes blinking owlishly in the dim light of the common room. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat, his entire face freezing in an expression of utter disbelief.
"My God, are you cra—" Ron's exclamation of surprise was abruptly cut short as Hermione's hand shot out, quickly pushing the little creature's head back into the bag. Her eyes flashed dangerously as she hissed, "Shut your mouth, Weasley!" She then shot a warning glance at Neville who had looked up from his textbook, curiosity piqued by the commotion. Frightened by Hermione's fierce gaze, Neville quickly lowered his head, pretending with all his might that he hadn't seen or heard a thing.
"Have you gone mad, Hermione?" Ron's voice had dropped to a barely audible whisper, but the intensity of his shock was evident in every syllable. His eyes were fixed on the bag Hermione was once again hugging protectively to her chest. "Even if you want to stand up for these house-elves, you didn't need to adopt one! They're not owls or toads, for Merlin's sake!"
"Thank you for the reminder, Weasley!" Hermione's tone could have frozen the Black Lake solid. The icy sarcasm in her voice made Ron visibly recoil.
Harry, his mind racing to make sense of the situation, couldn't help but ask the question that was burning in his thoughts. "Where did you get it from?" he whispered urgently.
A wild thought occurred to him, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "Did you sneak into the Hog's Head and win it from a stranger in some bizarre magical bet?"
The reference to their first year at Hogwarts hung in the air between them. They all remembered all too well how Hagrid had been tricked by Quirrell, who was possessed by Voldemort. Quirrell had used a dragon egg and a few well-placed drinks to loosen Hagrid's tongue, coaxing out the secret of how to get past the three-headed dog guarding the Philosopher's Stone.
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Hermione said, her irritation evident in the set of her jaw and the furrow of her brow. "Nobody sells house-elves like they're trinkets in a shop!" She took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm herself. "Can you both just be quiet for a moment? I'm about to explain everything, and I'd rather not have to repeat myself."
"We're all ears!" Ron said quickly, his curiosity clearly overriding any lingering fear of Hermione's wrath. He leaned in even closer, nearly toppling off the edge of the coffee table in his eagerness to hear the story.
The common room had grown quieter still as the night deepened. The newly appointed Head Boy was lax in his duties compared to his predecessor. His influence had spread to the prefects under his command, who were no longer as vigilant in their nightly patrols of the common room. Gone were the days when Percy Weasley, Ron's older brother, would lurk in the shadows, ever ready to send dawdlers scurrying back to their beds with a sharp word and a disapproving glare.
As Hermione began her tale, the flames in the grand fireplace gradually dwindled, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The enchanted candles suspended from the vaulted ceiling, sensing the dwindling occupancy of the common room, dimmed their light to a soft, amber glow. In the vast space that usually buzzed with the chatter and laughter of Gryffindor students, only Hermione, Harry, and Ron remained, huddled together.
Hermione finished her story though she carefully omitted certain details she deemed too sensitive to share. She recounted how she had sought out Professor Watson alone after their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, supposedly to inquire about the part in the lesson he had skipped during class.
Harry and Ron stared at Hermione's bulging bag, falling into a long silence.
"Professor Watson and you, helping a house-elf give birth—" Ron finally broke the silence. He turned to Harry, his blue eyes wide with bewilderment. "I've never heard of anything so utterly bizarre in my entire life!"
Harry nodded emphatically. Despite having spent over three years in the Wizarding world, experiencing magic and adventures that would seem outlandish to any Muggle, he still found himself utterly flabbergasted by Hermione's experience.
Hermione's gaze was fixed on her bag, her eyes brimming with a cocktail of emotions – concern, determination, and a hint of fear.
"What do you plan to do, Hermione?" Harry asked tentatively, his voice gentle as he broached the question, they were all silently contemplating.
"I originally intended to return Fréodom to its mother, the elf called Reega—" Hermione said without hesitation, her tone suggesting she had been pondering over this dilemma for hours. She turned to Ron with a flicker of hope in her eyes. "But I don't know where the school kitchen is located—"
"Oh—" Ron immediately understood Hermione's intention. He hesitated before saying, "Fred and George do know. They often sneak food from the kitchen for their parties. I've asked them about their secret route countless times, but they've always refused to spill the beans." He paused, his brow furrowing deeper. "But hang on a minute – you really want to return this little elf to its mother?"
Harry understood the unspoken question lurking behind Ron's words. The events Hermione had experienced that night – the unsettling dynamics between the house-elf mother and child, the cryptic teachings of Professor Watson – all pointed to a harsh reality that made Harry feel that returning the little elf to its mother was probably just Hermione's wishful thinking.
"It was just born!" Hermione's voice rang out sharply in the quiet common room, startling both boys. "It needs care and nurturing. It must return to its mother!"
As if in response to Hermione's outburst, her bag wriggled slightly. The young Fréodom inside seemed to want to make a sound, to join the conversation about its fate, but bound by Hermione's earlier command, it could only remain quiet and still.
"Oh, come on, Hermione—" Ron's exasperated tone carried a hint of their long-standing disagreements about house-elf welfare. "Are you treating this house-elf like it's a wizard child, Hermione? Professor Watson has already explained that house-elves are inherently drawn to following orders. They're born with an instinct to work and serve. It's in their nature to love working!"
"No one is born inherently loving to cook, mop floors, and do laundry, Ronald Weasley!" Hermione snapped back, her cheeks flushing with anger. Her eyes flashed dangerously, daring Ron to continue his argument.
Harry, caught in the middle of this familiar tension between his two best friends, felt torn. He could see the flaws in Ron's argument, remembering all too well their encounters with Dobby. Yet he hesitated to voice his thoughts, wary of inadvertently 'encouraging' some of Hermione's 'unrealistic' ideas. So, he swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue, watching as Hermione and Ron glared at each other across the coffee table.
The standoff between Hermione and Ron was a scene Harry had witnessed countless times over the years. So, he was somewhat used to this scene by now.
"But what if—" Harry began hesitantly, trying to find a diplomatic way to voice his concerns. "What if the house-elf called Reega doesn't want her child back? Then what would we do?"
Even as he spoke, Harry knew his words were a gross understatement of the situation. Ron, for all his lack of tact, was right about one thing: you can't treat house-elves like wizards. If this was the way elf parents and children interacted, Hermione probably couldn't change it.
Hermione bit her lip and said nothing. From her reaction, Harry believed she was well aware of this issue. Although it was indeed hard to accept that a mother would willingly reject her newborn child, and that the child would in turn ignore its birth mother and chose a stranger who had only given it a piece of clothing as its master.
Although his parents had died at Voldemort's hands when he was very young, Harry at least knew that his parents loved him and were willing to sacrifice their lives for him.
"I can't allow Fréodom to simply go to the kitchen and join the ranks of the working house-elves—" Hermione's voice cut through the heavy silence, her tone resolute and filled with determination. "At the very least, I need to teach it to fight for its own rights, to understand that it deserves better than a life of servitude!"
"Oh, brilliant—" Ron's sarcastic clap echoed in the quiet room. "So, you're planning to keep it in the dormitory, are you? I bet by tomorrow at lunchtime, the entire Hogwarts will know you're hiding a house-elf in your dorm. What do you reckon Professor McGonagall will have to say about that?"
Ron's words struck at the heart of the practical issues surrounding Hermione's impulsive rescue. Despite her remarkable intelligence and usually meticulous planning, even Hermione couldn't deny the impossibility of keeping a house-elf hidden in the crowded Gryffindor tower.
Professor McGonagall, with her strict adherence to rules and her no-nonsense attitude, would never allow such a blatant violation of school regulations. Moreover, Parvati and Lavender, Hermione's chatty roommates, were unlikely to keep such a juicy secret to themselves. This was a house-elf, not a bug living in the wall cracks. There was no way they wouldn't notice, and she had no right to keep a talking house-elf in their shared dormitory.
A heavy silence fell over the trio once more. Hermione stared at her bag, her teeth worrying her lower lip until a bead of blood appeared. Seeing her upset like this, Ron's lips quivered a few times, and he stopped his taunting.
Harry didn't feel good either. Although he couldn't understand why Hermione was so adamant about helping the house-elves, Hermione was his good friend. They had faced countless challenges together over the years, and Harry knew without a doubt that he wouldn't have survived many of those ordeals without Hermione's help. She had always been the smartest among the three of them, always having ideas when they encountered problems. Seeing her look so helpless and cornered made Harry's heart ache with the desire to help.
"Let's go!" Harry's sudden declaration shattered the gloomy atmosphere that had settled over them. With a burst of energy, he quickly gathered up the half-written PE class essay on the table stuffed it into his bag, and then pulled out his invisibility cloak.
"Where to?" Hermione stared at the invisibility cloak in Harry's hand for a moment, then looked into Harry's green eyes.
"We're going to ask Hagrid for help—" Harry said, his voice filled with a sudden burst of determination. "Hagrid always used to secretly keep all sorts of magical creatures in the castle when he was a student. He's got loads of experience with this kind of thing. Maybe he can give you some advice on how to handle this situation."
"Hurry up," Harry urged, already moving towards the portrait hole. "We've got Potions first thing tomorrow morning, and you know Snape would love nothing more than for us to be late. He's probably dreaming up point deductions for Gryffindor as we speak."
With that, Harry grasped Hermione's arm gently but firmly, guiding her towards the exit.
"Great—" Ron shrugged helplessly again and followed them. "That's exactly why he was expelled."
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