Dust in the abandoned classroom on the fifth floor lay in such thick layers it looked like grey velvet. Sunbeams piercing the filthy tall windows illuminated myriads of motes swirling with every movement.
Hermione stood leaning against the rickety teacher’s desk, feeling a warm, almost forgotten sense of rightness spread inside her. They were together again. All of them. Harry and Ron, reconciled only a couple of hours earlier, were now bantering as they cleared space of piled old chairs. The tension that had hung over them like a thundercloud for days had finally lifted.
Though now there were four of them.
Kieran sat on the windowsill, examining with interest an ancient globe where mould had replaced the oceans.
‘Right, enough chatting!’ Hermione clapped her hands. A cloud of dust rose, making her sneeze. ‘We haven’t much time. Harry, the first task is Tuesday. You need to master summoning charms so well you could call your broom in your sleep, even with a dragon breathing in your face.’
‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it,’ Harry said, adjusting his glasses and obediently walking to the furthest, darkest corner where cobwebs hung from the ceiling like grey garlands.
Hermione took from the desk a hefty, musty-smelling volume, *A History of Magical Artefacts*.
‘We’ll start small,’ she announced. ‘Harry, concentrate. Picture the book in your hand. Clearly. And… go!’
Harry flicked his wand.
‘Accio book!’
The effect exceeded all expectations. The heavy tome didn’t simply fly — it launched like a cannonball. Hermione barely snatched her hand away. The book whistled through the air, crossed the distance in a fraction of a second and thudded into Harry’s chest. He grunted but held on to the volume.
‘Careful!’ Hermione cried.
‘I told you,’ came Kieran’s calm voice from the window. ‘Troll-level strength. Control’s the problem, but the power’s impressive.’
Hermione frowned, analysing the result.
‘Too strong, Harry. Practising on books is pointless — you won’t feel the resistance. We need heavier weights.’
She looked around for something suitable, but Kieran beat her to it.
He jumped down from the windowsill, walked to one of the massive carved oak desks — ancient and filthy — and sat on top, legs dangling.
‘Weasley,’ he called, patting the desktop beside him. ‘Over here. You’ll be the counterweight.’
Ron, who had been kicking the leg of a broken chair, froze. He shot Morgan a suspicious look that clearly read distrust. Hermione noticed: while he had fully and unconditionally made up with Harry, he still regarded Kieran with wariness.
‘What for?’ Ron muttered.
‘Because one of me isn’t enough for “troll strength”,’ Kieran smirked. ‘Sit. I don’t bite.’
Ron snorted but walked over and clambered onto the desk, trying to keep some distance.
‘Seriously?’ Harry called from his corner, rubbing his bruised chest. ‘You want me to summon a desk with both of you on it?’
‘Yep!’ Kieran nodded, gripping the edges. ‘Hold tight, Weasley. And… pull, Potter!’
Harry drew a deep breath, aimed his wand at the furniture and barked:
‘Accio desk!’
A nasty grinding screech filled the room, setting Hermione’s teeth on edge. The heavy oak desk jerked and began sliding across the stone floor. It gathered speed, scraping sparks from its legs. Ron clung to the edges, eyes wide; Kieran merely leant forward slightly to balance.
The desk shot across the classroom and stopped a metre from Harry, crashing into a pile of junk.
‘Well?’ Harry asked, lowering his wand. He wasn’t even out of breath. ‘Still too easy. I barely felt resistance.’
Morgan jumped down, brushing off his trousers.
‘Of course you didn’t. You’re putting all your force into one yank. But we need endurance. Repetition. Run to the far end. Now you pull us faster. Again. And again. Until your magic remembers the effort the way muscles remember weight.’
The next two hours turned into a mad marathon. The old classroom filled with crashes, creaks and laughter.
Hermione, forgetting her role as strict instructor, joined in. They bound three desks together with Incarcerous into a makeshift ‘train’, climbed aboard, and Harry — drenched in sweat — dragged them across the room.
‘Faster, Harry!’ she shouted, clinging to Ron’s robes as their improvised vehicle tilted on a turn.
‘Accio!’ Harry yelled, and the ‘train’ lurched forward.
At one sharp corner Ron lost his grip and flew off the last desk with a yell, rolling across the dusty floor and collecting centuries of grime on his robes.
‘Ron!’ Hermione gasped, but burst out laughing when she saw him sitting upright, whole but resembling a large dusty snowball.
Even Kieran — usually restrained — smiled as he helped Ron up.
By the time the sun began to set, painting the dust motes orange, they were utterly spent. Harry slid down the wall to the floor, breathing hard, but he looked satisfied. His wand hand trembled pleasantly.
Hermione, Ron and Kieran collapsed beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
‘Merlin,’ Kieran exhaled, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. ‘I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now. Strong, black coffee.’
‘Coffee?’ Ron repeated, wiping his filthy face on his sleeve. ‘Don’t you know where the kitchens are?’
Kieran opened one eye.
‘No. I know where the Great Hall is. The kitchens…’
‘I don’t know either,’ Hermione admitted, tucking back her dishevelled hair. ‘I’ve read they’re somewhere below the castle, but *Hogwarts: A History* doesn’t give the exact location.’
Ron looked at them with genuine astonishment that quickly turned to smug superiority. At last he knew something these two clever-clogs didn’t.
‘You’re kidding,’ he snorted, grinning. ‘Living at Hogwarts and not knowing where the kitchens are! Fred and George showed me in first year. You can ask the elves for anything. Coffee, pie, a whole chicken.’
With a groan he rose and beckoned them.
‘Come on. I’ll show you paradise.’
Ron led confidently through corridors that grew wider and — surprisingly — warmer. They descended almost to the dungeons but turned away from Slytherin’s gloomy domain into a brightly lit stone passage decorated with paintings of food.
‘I’d never have guessed,’ Hermione murmured, looking around. ‘I read about the kitchens in *Hogwarts: A History*, but it said the entrance was hidden by magic only staff could access.’
‘Or anyone who knows how to tickle a pear,’ Ron grinned.
He stopped before a huge still-life of fruit and reached for the painted green pear. A tickle of his finger made it giggle, wriggle and turn into a large green door handle.
Ron pulled, and Hermione gasped.
Behind the painting opened a gigantic hall with a high ceiling, exactly the size of the Great Hall. But here reigned organised chaos. Along the walls towered gleaming copper pots; in the centre, beside four long tables, scores — no, hundreds — of small creatures laboured.
House-elves.
It resembled a vast underground factory. They scurried with trays, stirred enormous cauldrons, chopped vegetables at machine-gun speed. Steam, the smells of roasting meat, baking and spices filled the air. The elves worked feverishly, ears twitching with effort, yet their faces shone with happy, servile smiles.
Hermione froze on the threshold. Her Muggle mind conjured images of sweatshops from the Industrial Revolution. No health and safety. No regulated hours.
Suddenly one creature detached from the throng and raced towards them at incredible speed.
‘Harry Potter, sir!’ came a shrill squeak. ‘Harry Potter has come to visit Dobby!’
The little elf collided with Harry at waist height, hugging him with all his might. His appearance was… eccentric. Dobby wore a T-shirt with a garish pattern, child-sized checked shorts, and on his feet mismatched socks: one black, one pink with polka dots. A tie with horseshoes adorned his neck.
‘Dobby!’ Harry smiled, patting the elf’s back. ‘Hello! How did you end up here?’
‘Dobby is a free elf now, sir!’ Dobby declared proudly, stepping back and beaming with enormous green eyes. ‘Professor Dumbledore took Dobby on and pays Dobby wages! One Galleon a week and one day off a month!’
Hermione noticed how nearby elves averted their gazes and shook their heads disapprovingly at these words, as though Dobby had confessed something indecent.
‘Wages?’ Ron repeated, staring at Dobby as though he were mad. ‘And you take money?’
‘Dobby loves freedom, sir!’ the elf insisted, straightening his tie. ‘How may Dobby serve Harry Potter and his friends?’
‘Er…’ Harry glanced at the others.
‘Good evening,’ Kieran said politely. He regarded the elf without disgust but also without the fondness in Harry’s eyes. ‘We wouldn’t say no to a small snack. And, if possible… black coffee. Strong, no sugar.’
Dobby nodded eagerly, ears flapping.
‘Coffee for Harry Potter’s friend! Right away!’
‘And food for us!’ Ron cut in. ‘Steak and kidney pies, chicken sandwiches… and cakes, if there are any left!’
Ten minutes later they were back in the Gryffindor common room. The basket Dobby had packed gave off heavenly aromas. Kieran cradled a steaming mug of coffee, his face showing the bliss of someone receiving a caffeine fix after long abstinence. Ron, mouth full, demolished a pie.
Hermione sat untouched. Inside her a storm raged.
‘This… this is simply wrong,’ she finally said. ‘Did you see them? Hundreds of elves! Cooking, cleaning, washing… Ron, does no one pay them except Dobby? Do they have sick leave? Pensions? Social security?’
Ron swallowed a mouthful of pie and looked at her in genuine puzzlement.
‘Hermione, what’s wrong with you? They’re house-elves. They don’t need money. They like working. Did you see how the others looked at Dobby? They think he’s odd for wanting pay. It’s in their nature. Law of nature.’
‘Law of nature?!’ Hermione flared. ‘It’s slavery, Ron! Plain slavery right in the heart of a modern school!’
Harry shrugged, biting into an eclair.
‘Dobby’s happy, at least… but the others clearly don’t understand him. Maybe they really are better off this way?’
Hermione turned sharply to Kieran, seeking support and justice. He came from another culture, another world. He must see the absurdity.
‘Kieran, tell them! Does your family have elves?’
Morgan slowly lowered his cup, savouring the aroma.
‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Three. Tilly, Binky and old Hawk.’
‘And you pay them?’ Hermione asked hopefully.
Kieran shook his head.
‘No. They don’t need money, Hermione. They live in the manor, have their own rooms, eat the same food we do. Tilly nursed me when I was a baby — she’s closer to me than some relatives. We treat them courteously; no one makes them wear rags — they have special livery with the family crest. But money… where would they spend it? They don’t go shopping. Their life is service to the house.’
‘But that’s still wrong!’ Hermione leapt to her feet, unable to sit still. ‘It’s… exploitation! Feeding them doesn’t change the fact they have no choice! They can’t leave!’
‘They don’t want to leave,’ Ron countered, reaching for another cake. ‘Hermione, you’re trying to force Muggle standards on magical creatures. Their minds work differently.’
‘That’s called indoctrination!’ she shot back. ‘They’ve been taught for centuries that they’re slaves!’
Kieran gazed thoughtfully at the coffee grounds.
‘Perhaps from the outside it does look barbaric,’ he conceded, earning a grateful glance from Hermione. ‘By Muggle ethical standards it’s pure racism and oppression.’
‘Exactly!’ Hermione cried. ‘We must do something! Start a movement, demand wages…’
But Kieran immediately tempered her zeal with the same calm fatalism as Ron and Harry.
‘But it’s the foundation of wizarding society, Hermione. The world has rested on it for centuries. You can’t just walk in and say: “You’re all living wrong.” Well, you can — but no one will understand. Not even the elves themselves. Dobby is the exception that proves the rule.’
‘But we can’t just sit here eating their food, knowing this!’ Her voice trembled with outrage.
The three boys exchanged looks. Ron took another bite of cake; Harry sipped pumpkin juice; Kieran lifted his coffee again.
‘The food’s good,’ Ron observed philosophically. ‘And the world’s unfair. Sit down, Hermione — the pie’s getting cold.’
She looked at them — her best friends and the boy who seemed so reasonable — and realised that on this issue she had hit a wall no logic or emotion could breach. The wall was called ‘that’s how it’s always been’. And that realisation made the food stick in her throat.