Jupiter | Harry James Potter

viii ; death wish

   Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet as Neville regained his consciousness, after Hermione shook him aggressively. "Why's it always me?" Neville mumbled, sitting back on the bench.

Dumbledore was smiling around at all of the students, his arms opened wide in welcome.
"I have only two words to say to you," he told said, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."

The empty gold dishes in front of us filled magically before our eyes, and Ron immediately began to stuff his mouth with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. "Aaah, 'at's be'er."

"You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," Nearly Headless Nick said as he appeared in the center of the table. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."

"Why? Wha' 'appened?" Harry said, through a sizable chunk of steak.

"Close your mouth." I said, my old instincts from Lestrange estate kicking in.

He stuck his tongue out at me, making an 'aaaaa' noise, showing off the half-chewed mixture of steak and potatoes.

"You're disgusting." I gagged, rolling my eyes at him as he chewed loudly. Sometimes I would get carried away and forget just what Harry truly was. A teenage boy.

"Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something," Ron said darkly as I pulled my focus back to the conversation. "So what did he do in the kitchens?"

"Oh the usual," Nearly Headless Nick, shrugged. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits —"

CLANG.

Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention.

"There are house-elves here?" she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. "Here at Hogwarts?"

"Certainly," Nearly Headless Nick said, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."

"I've never seen one!" Hermione argued in disbelief.

"Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?" Nearly Headless Nick said. "They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning, see to the fires and so on... I mean, you're not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?"

Hermione stared at him, her mouth agape slightly. "But they get paid?" she asked. "They get holidays, don't they? And- and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"

Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck.

"Sick leave and pensions?" he said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her.

"Oh c'mon, 'Er-my-knee," Ron said, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. "Oops, sorry, 'Arry-"  He swallowed. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"

"Doesn't feel so good, does it?" I asked Harry as he scrunched his face and wiped a bit of pudding off his cheek.

"Shuddup." He muttered.

"Slave labor," Hermione said, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labor."

And she refused to eat another bite.