Harry Potter: The Golden Viper

0488 Incidents

"I must admit, you are a noble young witch," Professor Moody's deep voice echoed in the dim entrance hall. Hermione, caught off guard, turned pale, her flushed face draining of color. She stared blankly at Moody's frightening blue eye, trembling slightly with fear.

Beside her, Harry's emerald eyes widened in sudden realization, his heart performing a spectacular acrobatic feat as it leapt into his throat. The memory of a fleeting blue light outside Hagrid's hut earlier suddenly clicked into place. His gaze darted between Moody's normal eye and its magical matching part, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled from his lips: "You were outside Hagrid's window earlier!"

"Very good, Potter," Moody made no attempt to deny it. He looked at Harry and growled with admiration in his voice. "You're quite perceptive. I suppose there's no point in denying it."

He shifted his weight, his wooden leg making a dull thud against the stone floor. "When I was returning from my nightly patrol of the Forbidden Forest, I caught sight of three figures skulking towards Hagrid's hut under an Invisibility Cloak. As a professor, I had no choice but to investigate, did I? After all, what if it had been three ill-intentioned dark wizards?"

Harry's mind raced, a silent protest forming in his thoughts. 'If you could see through the Invisibility Cloak, how could you not have known who we were?'

But he bit his tongue, instinctively sensing that challenging Moody's lie might not be the wisest course of action.

"Well then, Miss Granger," Professor Moody continued, his magical eye swiveling to focus intently on Hermione. Despite the gruffness of his tone, Harry could sense an undercurrent of... was it approval? He didn't seem angry at all. If anything, he appeared almost pleased with their actions.

"I must admit, you've surprised me," With a series of uneven thuds, Moody said making his way across the flagstone floor, closing the distance between himself and Hermione. Though he wasn't significantly taller than her, Hermione's bowed head made him seem to loom over her like a weathered oak tree. His voice, when he spoke again, rasped like autumn leaves skittering across stone.

"In my long and often dark career, I've encountered more rotten characters than I care to count. I've personally escorted many of them to the cold embrace of Azkaban's cells." His magical eye ceased its constant movement, focusing with laser-like intensity on the top of Hermione's bowed head. "But never, in all my years, did I expect to find a young witch quite like you."

Hermione's chin lifted slightly, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and cautious hope as Moody continued. "You respect life, Miss Granger. Not just the lives of your fellow witches and wizards, but even those of the poor, often overlooked house-elves. You want to fight for their rights." A note of genuine admiration crept into Moody's gravelly tones. "I can tell you with absolute certainty, there aren't many so-called righteous wizards out there with hearts as pure and good as yours."

Hermione's face was full of conflicting emotions. She had steeled herself for a barrage of rebukes, her mind flashing back to Moody's harsh treatment of Malfoy when he had attempted to curse Harry. She had even harbored secret fears of ending up on the receiving end of one of Moody's jinxes. Instead, here she stood, being showered with praise from one of the most scary wizards she had ever encountered. Strangely, this unexpected turn of events only served to intensify her feelings of shame and remorse.

"I shouldn't have lied to you, Professor Moody. I, I just—" Hermione's explanation was choked with tears, but before she could continue her stammered explanation, Moody cut her off with a wave of his gnarled hand.

"No need to explain, Miss Granger," Moody said, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Nobody wants to face punishment, after all."

With a deliberate movement, he stepped aside, leaving a clear path for the trio to make their leave. "But now, you lot really should make your way back to your dormitories. Watson sometimes wanders around the castle at night, and I'm not entirely certain he'd be as understanding as I'm being."

Ron, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, finally found his voice. "You're letting us go?" he exclaimed, his freckled face a mask of shock and disbelief. "No points taken? No detention? You're not going to tell Professor McGonagall about us sneaking out?"

A sound that might have been a laugh – if laughs could be this terrifying – erupted from Moody's throat. "If that's what you'd prefer, Weasley!" he growled, his magical eye spinning wildly. "I'd be more than happy to oblige!"

Not needing to be told twice, Harry, Ron, and Hermione fled up the grand staircase from the entrance hall, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space as they ran as if their very lives depended on it. They remained blissfully unaware that Moody lingered in the shadowy hall, his mismatched eyes following their retreating forms with a deep, pensive gaze until they vanished from sight.

Breathless and still reeling from their encounter, the trio finally reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Balderdash," Harry panted, and the portrait swung open to reveal the warmly lit Gryffindor common room.

"I can't believe he just let us off like that!" Ron exclaimed as they scrambled through the portrait hole, his voice still shaky with a mixture of relief and lingering fear. The crackling fire in the hearth cast a warm glow across the room, seeming to chase away some of the tension from their unexpected confrontation.

"And that eye of his," Harry added, collapsing into one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire. "It can see through Invisibility Cloaks! I've never known anyone who could do that except Professor Dumbledore and Professor Watson!"

But Hermione, it seemed, had already moved past their narrow escape. Her eyes shone with renewed determination as she headed towards the girls' dormitories. "I need to get back to the dormitory and start planning how we're going to promote S.P.E.W.," she announced, her voice brimming with enthusiasm.

Ron gaped at her retreating form, his face a picture of disbelief. "Have you gone completely mental?" he shouted after her, his voice rising in pitch. "That house-elf of yours nearly got us killed by Moody!"

But Hermione was already bounding up the spiral staircase to the girls' dormitory, either deaf to Ron's protests or choosing to ignore them entirely. Her mind was clearly focused on the task ahead, undeterred by the evening's close call.

"She's lost it, I tell you," Ron grumbled, turning to Harry with an exasperated expression. "When is she ever going to give it a rest?"

Harry just shrugged, saying nothing. He knew all too well that once Hermione set her mind to something, there was little anyone could do to dissuade her.

True to form, Hermione didn't "give it a rest" as Ron had fervently hoped. Instead, she threw herself into her campaign with renewed vigor, putting her words into action with a determination that was both admirable and slightly terrifying.

Over the next month or so, while life at Hogwarts continued in its usual magical fashion – with classes, homework, and the occasional mishap in Potions – the most notable occurrence was the rise of Hermione Granger's S.P.E.W. (Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare).

Since that night of their encounter with Moody, Hermione's passion for house-elf rights had only intensified. Though she no longer visited Hagrid's hut on a daily basis, she still managed to drag Harry and Ron along whenever she could spare the time, apparently to check on Fréodom's progress.

Harry and Ron found themselves unwilling witnesses to the house-elf's remarkable growth rate. In just over a month, Fréodom had undergone a startling transformation. From being barely larger than a garden gnome when they first encountered him, the young house-elf had shot up to stand almost eye-to-eye with Dobby.

Hermione's attempts to teach Fréodom the 'art of relaxation' and 'leisure-life' proved to be futile. Her orders forbidding Fréodom from tending to Hagrid's housework fell on determinedly deaf ears. For Fréodom, it seemed, the very act of working was his form of rest and enjoyment. The concept of idleness was as foreign to him as advanced arithmancy would be to a flobberworm.

The impact of Fréodom's presence on Hagrid's humble abode was nothing short of miraculous. The cabin which had always been gloomy and filled with the smells of various magical creatures (except on the sunniest days), had undergone a remarkable metamorphosis since the house-elf had taken up residence. Where before the windows had been smeared with a film of grime, allowing only the barest hint of sunlight to filter through, they now sparkled like cut crystal, flooding the interior with warm, natural light.

The ancient wooden floorboards, which had creaked and groaned under the weight of countless footsteps over the years, now gleamed with a soft, honeyed luster. Every surface in the cabin seemed to have been scrubbed clean.

The old iron stove, which had faithfully served Hagrid for nearly half a century, had been transformed from a grease-spattered relic into a gleaming centerpiece. Its surface now reflected the dancing flames of the hearth, adding an extra layer of warmth to the cozy interior.

Hagrid's bed, which had always seemed slightly damp and musty no matter how often the linens were changed, now had crisp, fresh bedding that smelled faintly of lavender and sunshine. Even Fang, Hagrid's enormous boarhound, had benefited from Fréodom's attentions. The dog's usually matted black coat now shone with a healthy gleam, and he seemed to carry himself with a newfound dignity.

But Fréodom's industriousness didn't stop at the cabin's threshold. Under cover of darkness, while Hagrid's thunderous snores shook the rafters, the tireless house-elf would slip out to tend to the vegetable patch. With nimble fingers, he would pluck out weeds, gently remove harmful insects, and ensure that each plant received just the right amount of water. As a result, Hagrid's pumpkins grew to record-breaking sizes, and his herbs flourished with unprecedented vigor.

In short, Fréodom had managed to bring order and cleanliness to every aspect of Hagrid's life – with the notable exception of the Blast-Ended Skrewts, which remained as chaotic and unpredictable as ever. Even a house-elf's magic, it seemed, had its limits when it came to Hagrid's more exotic pets.

As the weeks passed, Hermione's frustration with Fréodom's relentless work ethic reached a boiling point. One crisp autumn afternoon, as golden leaves swirled around their ankles on the path to Hagrid's hut, she announced her intention to smuggle the house-elf back to the castle and keep him hidden.

Hagrid's reaction was immediate and heartfelt. "Just leave 'im 'ere with me, Hermione," he pleaded, his beetle-black eyes widening pleadingly. His massive hands, each the size of a dustbin lid, clasped together as if in prayer. "I promise I'll teach Fréodom 'ow to enjoy life!" The sincerity in his voice was palpable, tinged with a hint of desperation at the thought of losing his diligent little helper.

Despite Hagrid's impassioned plea, Hermione remained resolute. With a combination of wit and sheer determination, she managed to take Fréodom away to Gryffindor Tower, hiding him in an unused chest of drawers in a quiet corner of the common room. Her plan, however well-intentioned, was doomed from the start.

Within just two days, the common room had undergone a transformation that rivaled that of Hagrid's hut. The worn stone floor now gleamed with such a high polish that students could see their reflections in it, leading to more than one near-miss as distracted first-years admired their shoes while walking.

But it was the inexplicable appearance of freshly laundered and neatly folded undergarments on the girls' bedsides that finally unfastened Hermione's scheme. These were items that the students never sent to the school laundry, preferring to handle such personal things themselves. The sudden and mysterious cleaning of these sent ripples of confusion and alarm through her fellow housemates.

Lavender her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation, had shrieked that she was going to report this bizarre occurrence to Professor McGonagall. It had taken all of Hermione's considerable powers of persuasion – and a fair few hastily concocted excuses – to stall her roommate's march to their Head of House's office.

Realizing the unsustainable nature of her plan, Hermione had no choice but to return Fréodom to Hagrid's now-chaotic hut. The brief absence of the house-elf had allowed Hagrid's natural lifestyle to reassert itself, and the contrast between the cabin's current state and its former cleanliness was stark.

Meanwhile, Hermione's Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare faced an uphill battle in gaining widespread support among the student body. Undeterred by the lukewarm reception, Hermione seized every opportunity to spread her message, including during Professor Watson's physical education classes.

One particularly memorable incident occurred while the class was lined up, practicing their dodging techniques. Hermione took advantage of the captive audience to launch into an impassioned lecture about the unfair treatment of house-elves.

The Slytherins, predictably, had a field day mocking her about this impromptu speech. Pansy Parkinson's shrill voice cut through the air like a knife, dripping with malice. "Have you seen yourself in those little creatures, Granger?" she jeered, her pug-like face contorted in a sneer. "Is that why you're so obsessed with them? Finally found your own kind, have you?"

But Hermione remained resolute, clutching her collection tin for membership fees with white-knuckled determination. She moved through the crowd of students; her chin held high despite the mocking laughter that followed in her trail. When she approached Ernie Macmillan, her voice took on a coaxing tone as she tried to persuade her to join the society.

It wasn't that Hermione's efforts were entirely in vain. A small but dedicated group of students had indeed joined her cause.

Ginny had been one of the first to sign up. Luna had also enthusiastically joined, speculating that house-elves might be distant relatives of the elusive Blibbering Humdinger. Hannah, her round face flushed with compassion, had also paid the two Sickle membership fee as her Hufflepuff sense of fairness was stirred by Hermione's impassioned pleas.

Cho Chang, much to Harry's barely concealed delight, had also become a member of S.P.E.W. However, the circumstances of her joining were somewhat less than ideal. Harry, in a moment of nervous bravery, had personally invited her to join the society. The memory of Cho's bewildered expression when she first heard about S.P.E.W. still made Harry cringe inwardly. Her dark eyes had widened in confusion as she tilted her head, trying to make sense of the concept. In the end, Harry strongly suspected she had only joined to save face.

Perhaps the most surprising supporter of Hermione's campaign was Professor Watson himself. He had made a 'generous' contribution of ten Galleons to the cause. Moreover, he had not prevented Hermione from carrying on with her campaign during his classes, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the other students.

Harry, recalling Hagrid's words about Professor Watson being a truly remarkable wizard, felt a surge of admiration for the man. It wasn't just Professor Watson's undeniable magical prowess that set him apart, but his willingness to support a cause that many others dismissed or ridiculed. In Harry's eyes, this quiet endorsement of Hermione's efforts spoke volumes about their professor's character.

As October wore on, the castle grounds transformed into a drapery of autumnal hues. The Forbidden Forest became a riot of reds, golds, and deep burgundies, its usual unfriendly characteristic softened by the season's beauty. The Black Lake reflected the changing colors of the sky, its surface rippling with the crisp breeze that heralded the approach of winter.

It was on one such picturesque late October evening, during Professor Watson's physical education class, that a new situation arose.

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