Chapter Twenty-one – The House-Elf Liberation Front

Liberation Front sounds familiar. Oh well, since these are Harry Potters and Rowling, I’m sure it’s nothing good.

Anyhow, I have a public service announcement:

DUMB TRIPE IS NEITHER ‘DARK’ NOR ‘MATURE’.

And don’t let your kids touch Harry Potters before you’ve taught them how to question what they read. Instead, give them classic — and when I say classic, I mean things older than the 20th century — books as reading material. If you need recommendations, ask.

But for the love of all that’s good and intelligent, do not make them read Harry Potters.

Now that’s out of the way, let’s talk about the Triwizard Tournament of Four some more, shall we?

Rowling wrote in the previous chapter that cheating is part of the fine tradition of this tournament. And yet she didn’t actually do anything creative with this — such as making the kids try to outwit and outcheat each other. None of the kids actually cheat out of their own agency and free will, it’s all done for them. By the adults. Who are the judges. And then the noble little darlings help each other cheat.

In other words, Rowling added that bit about cheating literally as an excuse to handhold Harry through this tournament while at the same time pretending she isn’t doing it.

I’m serious. What the fuck is wrong with that woman?

Though shocked at first to hear that Karkaroff had been a Death Eater, by the time they entered the Owlery Ron was saying that they ought to have suspected it all along.

‘Fits, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Remember what Malfoy said on the train, about his dad being friends with Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other. They were probably running around in masks together at the World Cup …’

Oh, look. At least one of these characters knows how to deduce something in these books. Though, I suspect he’s wrong about the Quidditch World Cup. It’s not like there’s any evidence that Karkaroff was there, and I have a hard time imagining Lucius would act like a drunken hooligan, and I still refuse to call that crowd “death eaters” because there was no death eating and that crowd consisted of regular wizards as well.

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upwards, was marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at them … they didn’t seem to have faces … then he realised that their heads were hooded and their faces masked.

More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled.

As I said back in chapter nine, there are thirty-seven Death Eaters overall according to the credible source of potterwikia. Most of those are either dead or in Azkaban. But in my infinite generosity, I added the number of “death eaters” in the Quidditch World Cup up to a dozen. In summary, the rest of these arses:

More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled.

must be your regular wizards. Which isn’t implausible if you’ve been paying attention to how all wizards behave and treat Muggles.

If there is any lesson to be derived from Harry Potters, it’s that the elite can pretty blatantly write that they hate you and want you oppressed, abused and dead, and the masses will just giggle and cheer it on.

One more thing, though:

Loud jeering, roars of laughter and drunken yells were drifting towards them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.

What’s this strong green light since the dark mark was conjured later by Bartemius Jr?

‘I’ll tell you one thing, though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name in the Goblet, he’s going to be feeling really stupid now, isn’t he? Didn’t work, did it? You only got a scratch!’

Isn’t it so sweet that Ron went back to blowing Harry’s horn? Heavens know the kid needs a sidekick who doesn’t let him forget how wunderfull he is.

What’s better than a “best friend”? Nothing, I tell you.

‘There’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be that dangerous, how could they be?’ Ron went on, as he carried Pigwidgeon to the window. ‘You know what? I reckon you could win this Tournament, Harry, I’m serious.’

I feel my will to live withering away and dying.

Harry knew that Ron was only saying this to make up for his behaviour of the last few weeks, but he appreciated it all the same.

And no, this lip service isn’t making it better. Because this is just Ron back to his Book One hero-worship of Harry.

Pigwidgeon plummeted twelve feet before managing to pull himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg was much longer and heavier than usual – Harry hadn’t been able to resist giving Sirius a blow-by-blow account of exactly how he had swerved, circled and dodged the Horntail.

Harry is a totally humble character who doesn’t like fame or boasting. *massive eye roll*

‘Well, we’d better get downstairs for your surprise party, Harry – Fred and George should have nicked enough food from the kitchens by now.’

Heavens know the kid needs a school full of people who don’t let him forget how wunderfull he is.

. . . Dean Thomas, who was very good at drawing, had put up some impressive new banners, most of which depicted Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his Firebolt, though a couple showed Cedric with his head on fire.

. . . though a couple showed Cedric with his head on fire.

A kind reminder:

The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on excellent terms with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold towards the whole lot of them.

And this is what Harry thought in chapter nineteen:

… cheering on Cedric with everyone else . . .

I’m honestly surprised that the rest of the school hasn’t told the Gryffindors to go fuck themselves by now. If anything, they should be siding with the Slytherins. Not these petty psychopathic conformist morons who shun even their own if they lose some house points.

I’ll never forget nor forgive.

Harry helped himself to food; he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down with Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t believe how happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side, he’d got through the first task, and he wouldn’t have to face the second one for three months.

Yeah. Not that it isn’t totally great that Harry got his obsequious cheerleader back, but can we already move on because this thing disgusts me?

‘He’s supposed to work out the clue on his own,’ Hermione said swiftly. ‘It’s in the Tournament rules …’

‘I was supposed to work out how to get past the dragon on my own, too,’ Harry muttered, so only Hermione could hear him, and she grinned rather guiltily.

Cheating is part of the fine tradition of this tournament. Either make it an actual part of the tournament or stop lampshading it. Okay? Thanks.

It seems that it is impossible for Rowling to go on for three seconds without completely and thoroughly contradicting herself.

‘Blimey, this is heavy,’ said Lee Jordan, picking up the golden egg, which Harry had left on a table, and weighing it in his hands. ‘Open it, Harry, go on! Let’s just see what’s inside it!’

It was hollow and completely empty – but the moment Harry opened it, the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing, filled the room.

These kids had to read Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander for whatever class in their first year. They studied Grindylows last year. Miss Plot and Exposition Device is in the room.

And still none of these kids recognised this as Grindylow sounds.

Write stupid books, you win billions of prizes.

‘It was someone being tortured!’ said Neville, who had gone very white, and spilled sausage rolls over the floor. ‘You’re going to have to fight the Cruciatus Curse!’

And she just had to make this into a joke. Just like she had to make this:

‘Petrificus Totalus!’ she cried, pointing it at Neville.

Neville’s arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang together. His whole body rigid, he swayed where he stood and then fell flat on his face, stiff as a board.

Neville’s jaws were jammed together so he couldn’t speak. Only his eyes were moving, looking at them in horror.

Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have looked more stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind curse put on him.

into a joke. Bolded by yours truly.

‘Don’t be a prat, Neville, that’s illegal,’ said George. ‘They wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing … maybe you’ve got to attack him while he’s in the shower, Harry.’

Oh, like they used it on regular students, y’mean?

Also, these twins are going off a cliff. It’s disgusting what they’re doing to Percy. Another also, Weasleys are bad at singing confirmed:

. . . Ginny Weasley, blushing furiously, turned up with a ‘get well’ card she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit.

Assuming, of course, that she enchanted her own singing into the card.

‘Canary Creams!’ Fred shouted to the excitable crowd. ‘George and I invented them – seven Sickles each, bargain!’

Seven coins of silver for a pastry? And this is a bargain?

I guess Rowling skipped all the classes on inflation. And on the value of silver and gold.

Before he pulled the curtains of his four-poster shut, Harry set his tiny model of the Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed, where it yawned, curled up and closed its eyes. Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on his four-poster closed, Hagrid had a point … they were all right, really, dragons …

You know, as I progress through these books, I can stand this woman’s writing less and less.

This is a bit of a tangent but recently I had a film night with my sisters. They wanted to see that… what was it again… Jungle Cruise and I wanted to see the original Japanese Godzilla. And the sheer contrast between how these two films handled the issue of nature and animals was so stark it was almost funny. Disney did what Disney always does: dumbed it all down, made every wild animal into a cutesy little anthropomorphised pet, and the most intelligent commentary was: “Aw, but look how cute it is!”

This is reminding me of that.

This was unhelpful, as they were still tending the horrible Skrewts, and needed their wits about them.

Their thick grey armour, their powerful, scuttling legs, their fire-blasting ends, their stings and their suckers, combined to make the Skrewts the most repulsive things Harry had ever seen.

Most of the class – Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle in the lead – had fled into Hagrid’s cabin through the back door and barricaded themselves in; Harry, Ron and Hermione, however, were among those who remained outside trying to help Hagrid.

Bolded by yours truly. But it’s Draco who is the idiot. Because he refuses to take care of the moron’s — that is, Hagrid’s — problems for him. Unlike Ron, Hermione and Harry who have been suffering the consequences of this sixty-year-old man’s behaviour since first year.

And instead of thanking them for the help, Hagrid tells them not to hurt the things.

I feel like I’m way too tired for this today, but I guess I’ll go on.

‘Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter,’ Rita replied, beaming at him. Her gold teeth glinted.

‘Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside the school any more?’ said Hagrid . . .

Hey, look. The useless old creep actually tried to do something. And in true Dumbles’ fashion, it was useless.

‘What are these fascinating creatures called?’ she asked, beaming still more widely.

‘Blast-Ended Skrewts,’ grunted Hagrid.

‘Really?’ said Rita, apparently full of lively interest. ‘I’ve never heard of them before … where do they come from?’

Harry noticed a dull red flush rising up out of Hagrid’s wild black beard, and his heart sank. Where had Hagrid got the Skrewts from?

‘Lovely,’ said Rita. ‘Really lovely. Been teaching long?’ she added to Hagrid.

Harry noticed her eyes travel over Dean (who had a nasty cut across one cheek), Lavender (whose robes were badly singed), Seamus (who was nursing several burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where most of the class stood, their noses pressed against the glass, waiting to see if the coast was clear.

Rowling is actually presenting Rita in the wrong here.

Like, imagine this. Hagrid is making the kids take care of his apparently ill-gotten magical creatures and endangering them in the process — with that useless old creep of a headmaster’s implicit approval. After Harry and Hermione already got detention because of him in Book One, after Harry and Ron almost got eaten because of him in Book Two, after Draco was slashed because of him in Book Three. After he attacked a terrified eleven-year-old for something his dad said and after he threatened another terrified eleven-year-old and not terrified fourteen-year-old to do what he says. Which, incidentally, involved said kid endangering himself. After he got this job because of nepotism instead of any sort of actual competency.

And then. Rowling is actually presenting Rita in the wrong here.

I’m dead serious, what the fuck is wrong with that woman?

Also, max tolerance for Harry Potter reached with this. I need a break. The sweet break of death.

*sometime later*

Okay, let’s see how far I can get this time. It really doesn’t help that I’ve been having a low-key headache since morning.

Harry had a very bad feeling about this, but there was no way of communicating it to Hagrid without Rita Skeeter seeing, so he had to stand and watch in silence as Hagrid and Rita Skeeter made arrangements to meet in the Three Broomsticks for a good long interview later that week.

‘She’ll twist everything he says,’ Harry said under his breath.

Well, you know, you could tell him after Rita has gone off? And then Hagrid could just — not show up for the “interview”?

Not to mention, he totally deserves to be exposed as the terrible teacher that he is.

Then the bell rang up at the castle, signalling the end of the lesson.

Ha! I remembered it right!

‘Hagrid’s been in loads of trouble before, and Dumbledore’s never sacked him,’ said Ron consolingly. ‘Worst that can happen is Hagrid’ll have to get rid of the Skrewts. Sorry … did I say worst? I meant best.’

And then they all laughed. Instead of wondering why they have to take care of and endanger themselves because of Hagrid’s ill-gotten magical beasts?

I’m dead fucking serious. Draco is the best and the most intelligent thing that came out of these books. I will adopt that precious dork and give him all the good things in the world.

Harry thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that afternoon; they were still doing star charts and predictions . . .

If they’re doing star charts, why aren’t they doing a joint class with Astronomy? Actually, I don’t think astronomy has been mentioned since… Book Two? Book Three?

Professor Trelawney, who had been so pleased with the pair of them when they had been predicting their own horrific deaths, quickly became irritated as they sniggered through her explanation of the various ways in which Pluto could disrupt everyday life.

Okay, serious question: Why is it that this subject is treated as a joke unlike the centaurs’ “mars is bright tonight” nonsense or arithmancy which is divination by numbers?

And if they are studying the planets for divination in this class, then why are they studying the planets in astronomy?

But Hermione wasn’t at dinner, and nor was she in the library when they went to look for her afterwards. The only person in there was Viktor Krum.

Hey, maybe he does actually enjoy reading?

You know, I like the idea of Viktor and Hermione. That Viktor enjoys reading, they met in the library, got to know each other over it, and Hermione has that thing for useless celebrities. But since these are Harry Potters and we can’t have nice things in these books, that’s probably not what happened.

But I’ll totally make Hermione run off with Viktor in that Ron/Ginny fic. I was wondering why Ron and Hermione would break up, and that’s as good a reason as any.

She turned left at the bottom of the staircase, and hurried towards the door through which Cedric Diggory had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire had regurgitated his and Harry’s names. Harry had never been through here before. He and Ron followed Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the one which led to Snape’s dungeon, they found themselves in a broad, stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food.

So the Hufflepuff dungeons are near the kitchens? How am I not surprised?

‘Harry!’ she panted, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised). ‘Harry, you’ve got to come – you’ve got to come, the most amazing thing’s happened – please –’

‘I’m not asking you to!’ Hermione said impatiently. ‘I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found – oh, come on, Harry, I want to show you!’

Why not just tell him first?

. . . when something small hurtled towards him from the middle of the room, squealing, ‘Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!’

Next second all the wind had been knocked out of him as the squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff, hugging him so tightly he thought his ribs would break.

‘D-Dobby?’ Harry gasped.

Oh gods, no. Not this fucking creature again.

Here’s a kind reminder about Dobby:

Dobby stole then threatened and blackmailed Harry with his own letters, got him imprisoned and starved for days, prevented him from going to school, almost quadriplegied and murdered him, and didn’t have a single ounce of respect towards Harry or his wants. He did all of this for “Harry’s own good” when he wasn’t even anything to Harry.

And in true creepy abusive fashion, he blamed Harry for it. Because the little twerp dared to go back to Hogwarts instead of listening to this little creep.

Dobby deserves the fucking cliff. Not some sweet surprise reunion.

‘It is Dobby, sir, it is!’ squealed the voice from somewhere around his navel. ‘Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come to see him, sir!’

And I find it hard to believe that this creature wouldn’t have made a beeline for Harry to harass him.

When Dobby had worked for the Malfoys, he had always worn the same filthy old pillowcase.

You know, aside from the above there are several problems with how Rowling is presenting Dobby and the Malfoys.

For one thing, the Malfoys are supposed to be an old and rich aristocratic family. I find it hard to believe that they would only have the one house-elf — I mean, even Hogwarts has at least a hundred — who was an incompetent lunatic, and that they would seriously let their servant dress and prance about in a filthy old garb. Because, here’s the thing, the appearance and the behaviour of their servants were the reflection of the master of the house.

Secondly, I have this headcanon that Dobby was actually an anomaly among the house-elves. And by that I mean that the Malfoys never actually told him to punish himself, but he did it on his own and they just let him get on with it because why not?

DRACO: Dobby? Oh, that thing. He was always making a mess of things and punishing himself for it. I think he was getting some weird kind of pleasure out of it. Father would’ve fired him years ago if it didn’t make the little freak happy.

One of these, Harry saw, was the black one he had removed from his own foot and tricked Mr Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free.

He’s talking about the sock he hid in Tommy’s diary. Lucius tossed the sock over his shoulder which Dobby snatched out of the air and this made him “free”. If it’s this easy to free house-elves, and it doesn’t actually involve the master’s deliberate volition, then how are any of these house-elves “enslaved”?

And you know, as an aside, there is a French folklore creature called “farfadet”. These are sort of like brownies or Scandinavian house elves, they are described as “small, wrinkled and brown-skinned”. And they can be frightened away by leaving new clothes out for them.

Now, however, he was wearing the strangest assortment of garments Harry had ever seen; he had made an even worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the World Cup. He was wearing a tea-cosy for a hat, on which he had pinned a number of bright badges; a tie patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of what looked like children’s football shorts, and odd socks.

And come to think of it, from where’s he getting these clothes?

Winky’s lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed down her front, just as they had done at the Quidditch World Cup.

At this, Winky howled even harder, her squashed tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though she made no effort to stem the flow.

Is it really so hard for Rowling to write any of these characters with even a modicum of dignity?

And you know what’s funny? Here Hermione has a distressed house-elf who needs help or consoling, and she’s ignoring her.

At least a hundred little elves were standing around the kitchen, beaming, bowing and curtseying as Dobby led Harry past them. They were all wearing the same uniform; a tea-towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky’s had been, like a toga.

‘Only a week, Harry Potter, sir!’ said Dobby happily. ‘Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed –’

And come to think of it, where and how and when did Hogwarts get all of these house-elves? I mean, aside from Winky and Dobby most of these elves seem to be, well, non-fired elves. Dumbles apparently became the headmaster in the fifties. I doubt these elves are older than that so he must’ve bought them from somewhere if we’re going by the whole slavery thing Rowling is so eager to bastardise.

What I’m getting at is, why weren’t all of these elves, elves who were fired, freed or stray? Then Rowling could’ve actually pretended that Dumbles is so wunderfull he hires elves no one else wants.

‘Dobby has travelled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!’ Dobby squeaked. ‘But Dobby hasn’t found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!’

The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been listening and watching with interest, all looked away at these words, as though Dobby had said something rude and embarrassing.

Hermione, however, said, ‘Good for you, Dobby!’

Yes, Hermione. I’m sure that blatant manipulation is going to work on creatures who’ve been “enslaved” for hundreds of years. When there is a house-elf right there crying inconsolably over her sacking and you’re ignoring her.

‘Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid, Harry Potter … Dobby likes being free!’

…..Rowling does realise that there’s more to freedom than getting paid and clothes? Right?

Ha ha, you know, I just bet Dobby actually isn’t any more free than previously and Dumbles is just humouring him with clothes and a paycheck.

At this, Winky flung herself forwards off her stool, and lay, face down, on the flagged stone floor, beating her tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with misery. Hermione hastily dropped down to her knees beside her, and tried to comfort her, but nothing she said made the slightest difference.

Oh, hey. She’s finally trying to do something about Winky.

‘And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!’

A Galleon a week?

In Rowling’s fake currency: 5,58 euros.

In the actual value of gold (going by the weight of one euro coin): 373,70 euros.

I want almost 380 euros a week too.

‘That’s not very much!’ Hermione shouted indignantly from the floor, over Winky’s continued screaming and fist-beating.

Plus the holidays, housing and food but okay.

‘Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off,’ said Dobby . . .

Ten Galleons a week?

2615,90 euros a week?

Rowling seriously does not have any idea how money or gold works. That, or this world is suffering from some serious inflation.

‘And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you, Winky?’ Hermione asked kindly.

‘Ashamed?’ said Hermione blankly. ‘But – Winky, come on! It’s Mr Crouch who should be ashamed, not you! You didn’t do anything wrong, he was really horrible to you –’

A kind reminder: this girl is supposed to be the “empathic” character in these books. This girl who can’t relate to anyone else but herself.

‘’Tis part of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir, we upholds the family’s honour . . .’

‘. . . we upholds the family’s honour . . .’

And yet the Malfoys supposedly let Dobby prance around in a filthy old garb?

‘Dobby could tell Harry Potter that his old masters were – were – bad Dark wizards!’

You know, Rowling, you could show us how the Malfoys are so bad or dark. Any day now.

Dobby stood for a moment, quivering all over, horror-struck by his own daring – then he rushed over to the nearest table, and began banging his head on it, very hard, squealing, ‘Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!’

To be honest, I wish this thing would just beat himself to death so I don’t have to suffer him any more.

‘Mr Bagman comes, too?’ squeaked Winky, and to Harry’s great surprise (and Ron and Hermione’s, too, by the looks on their faces), she looked angry again. ‘Mr Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!’

‘Bagman – bad?’ said Harry.

HARRY: How can someone I like be bad!

‘Dobby is going to buy a jumper next, Harry Potter!’ he said happily, pointing at his bare chest.

‘Tell you what, Dobby,’ said Ron, who seemed to have taken a great liking to the elf, ‘I’ll give you the one my mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from her. You don’t mind maroon, do you?’

Dobby was delighted.

‘We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you,’ Ron told him, ‘but it’ll go well with your tea-cosy.’

And again, Ron did more for the house-elves than our resident “hero” or Miss House-Elf Liberation. Even if it is a bit self-serving.

And, in a brilliant inversion of reality, the fandom presents Ron as clueless. This fandom is beyond help.

‘Harry Potter … can Dobby come and see you sometimes, sir?’ Dobby asked tentatively.

No.

‘I think this is the best thing that could have happened to those elves, you know,’ said Hermione, leading the way back up the marble staircase. ‘Dobby coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it’ll dawn on them that they want that, too!’

‘Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at Winky,’ said Harry.

‘Oh, she’ll cheer up,’ said Hermione, though she sounded a bit doubtful. ‘Once the shock’s worn off, and she’s got used to Hogwarts, she’ll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man.’

I really do not like this girl.

‘Yeah, well, Percy wouldn’t want to work for anyone with a sense of humour, would he?’ said Ron, now starting on a chocolate éclair. ‘Percy wouldn’t recognise a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby’s tea-cosy.’

Seriously, can we already stop this with Percy?

And here’s a thought: maybe he doesn’t have a “sense of humour” because you’re not funny?

At least this chapter was relatively short. The headache still persists, though.

Harry’s spell count so far: eight.

“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.”