Harry Potter: The Golden Viper

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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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