The Gryffindor common room glowed warmly that September night, lit not by the fireplace but by enchanted lanterns and clusters of floating candles that cast a soft golden light across the scarlet hangings and worn but comfortable armchairs. A group of second-years sat cross-legged on the carpet, shuffling a deck of Exploding Snap cards, the occasional crack of sparks making them jump and laugh. At one corner table, several fifth-years were hunched over rolls of parchment, muttering to themselves as quills scratched furiously. Near the windows, two seventh-years were half-hidden behind the curtains, whispering and stealing shy kisses when they thought no one was looking.
On the sofa nearest the portrait hole, a pair of fourth-years lounged shoulder to shoulder, clearly more interested in each other than the half-finished homework spread out on their laps. Across the room, another knot of students were passing around a Chocolate Frog card collection, trading with noisy enthusiasm. The entire space carried the cozy, buzzing energy of early term—when lessons were new, friendships were still settling into their rhythm, and the long school year stretched endlessly ahead.
Harry sat slouched in one of the armchairs near the low table, parchment sprawled before him. His quill scratched hurriedly, though most of the words weren't his own—he was copying directly from Hermione's neatly written essay on basic human-to-animal transfigurations. McGonagall had set the homework back in June, a summer assignment meant to keep their minds sharp, but Harry hadn't written a single word until now. Tomorrow was their first Transfiguration class of the new term, and the thought of facing Professor McGonagall empty-handed made his stomach sink.
Ron sprawled beside him, a half-eaten Chocolate Frog wrapper crumpled in his fist. "Ugh, I swear, McGonagall wants us to write an entire bloody book on Animagi. I'm not even done with the introduction yet."
Harry muttered something noncommittal. His mind was elsewhere—he'd caught a glimpse of Cho Chang again at dinner, laughing with her friends, and the sound had followed him up to the tower.
Hermione, meanwhile, sat upright in a high-backed chair, her parchment neatly stacked, her quill hovering with intent. She had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past ten minutes, her brow furrowed, her eyes shining with some private determination. Finally, she set down her quill with a decisive snap.
"I've been thinking," she began, her voice pitched just enough to catch Harry and Ron's attention.
Ron groaned. "That's never good."
Hermione ignored him. "I've been thinking about the house-elves."
Harry blinked. "The what?"
"The house-elves, Harry. At the Quidditch World Cup. Don't you remember what happened with Winky?"
Ron shifted uncomfortably, pulling his legs up onto the chair. "Blimey, Hermione, you're still going on about that?"
Hermione sat up straighter, her cheeks flushed. "Yes, I am. Because it was disgraceful! She was dismissed, humiliated, just because she was found in the wrong place at the wrong time. Barty Crouch treated her like she was nothing."
"Yeah," Ron said carelessly, "but that's just how it is. House-elves like working for wizards. They're happy. My gran's had one for years—loves it, apparently. Thinks ironing's the best thing in the world. Bit mental, really."
Hermione's eyes flashed. "That's exactly the problem, Ron! They've been forced into this—into centuries of obedience. They don't know what freedom even means anymore."
Harry shifted in his seat, trying to appear engaged while his gaze strayed back to his parchment. "Er—yeah. It was a bit rough, I suppose. Poor Winky."
Hermione gave him a look that told him she knew he wasn't really listening. She leaned forward, lowering her voice to something more conspiratorial. "That's why I've decided we need to do something. Something official."
Ron groaned again. "Merlin's beard, here it comes."
"I'm serious!" Hermione pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and held it up like a proclamation. "I've written out a manifesto. I'm starting an organization—the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. S.P.E.W. for short."
Ron stared at her as though she had sprouted antlers. "Spew? You're calling it spew?"
"It's not spew, Ronald," Hermione snapped. "S-P-E-W. Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. Our goal is to secure fair treatment for house-elves, starting with proper wages, holidays, and freedom if they want it."
Harry fought to keep a straight face as Ron collapsed into laughter. "Spew! You're gonna have us all spewing, Hermione. Brilliant name. Really inspires confidence."
Hermione's lips thinned. "It's meant to inspire justice, not mockery."
She thrust the parchment toward Harry, who reluctantly took it and skimmed the lines. It was filled with earnest handwriting, outlining goals, methods, even a plan to petition the Ministry of Magic.
Harry cleared his throat. "Er… it's very thorough."
Ron leaned over to glance at it, sniggering. "What's this? 'House-elves must be paid a fair wage, and treated with respect…' Hermione, they don't want wages! They don't care about respect. They like doing work. Always have."
"That's what you think," Hermione shot back, her voice sharp. "Because you've grown up in a wizarding family where slavery is considered normal. But it isn't. It's wrong. Just because they've been conditioned doesn't mean we should accept it."
"Conditioned," Ron repeated, smirking. "You sound like Dad when he's going on about plugs and batteries."
Harry set the parchment down carefully. "So… what do you want us to do?"
Hermione brightened slightly. "Join. Be founding members. We'll collect signatures, raise awareness, and demand change from the Ministry. Imagine—Hogwarts as the birthplace of elf-liberation."
Ron snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that. Tell you what, Hermione—why don't you go straight to your good friend, that matriarch White girl? Eira White, right? She's a governor of Hogwarts. If anyone can 'liberate' the elves, it's her."
Hermione froze, color rising to her cheeks. "Ron—"
But Ron was on a roll, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, but wait—Eira's not gonna do that, is she? Nah, she's exactly like the Malfoys. Rich, pure-blood, family name going back centuries. Bet she's got a house-elf or two to kick around at her manor. Who knows, maybe she's killed one already—"
"Ron!" Hermione's voice cracked with indignation, her fists clenched at her sides.
Harry looked uneasy. "That's a bit much, don't you think?"
But Ron only shrugged, leaning back with a smirk. "Just saying what everyone's thinking. These old families—they all love their power. And you're daft if you think any of them would give it up for a bunch of elves."
Hermione's eyes shimmered with unshed frustration. "That's not true. You don't know her. And even if she doesn't help, I will. Someone has to stand up for them, even if I have to do it alone."
One of the enchanted lanterns flickered, casting long shadows across the common room walls. For a moment, no one spoke. Harry shifted uncomfortably, caught between his two friends. Ron ripped open another Chocolate Frog with a loud crinkle, muttering something about lunacy.
Hermione drew herself up, her chin trembling with conviction. "S.P.E.W. will make a difference. You'll see."
And with that, she bent over her parchment again, furiously writing as though the very act of putting ink to paper could hold her fragile dream together.
Harry and Ron exchanged glances. Harry offered Hermione a weak smile she didn't see. Ron rolled his eyes.