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Words : 2014 Updated : Dec 4th, 2025

Chapter 484 of "Harry Potter: The Golden Viper" opens revealing: 0484 Follow In the dimly lit, musty classroom, Hermione found herself caught in a moment of... Keep going!

0484 Follow 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. 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. ******************************* For More Chapters; /FicFrenzy ******************************* Hermione & S.P.E.W Many readers have talked about Hermione and the usefulness or uselessness of S.P.E.W. So, Here is a theory on Hermione and SPEW: Hermione's fight for house-elf rights through S.P.E.W. was a complex projection of her own struggles and fears as a Muggle-born witch in an increasingly hostile wizarding world. Hermione's voice for house-elves was, in fact, a subconscious way of addressing her own experiences with discrimination and her fears about the rising tide of blood purism. As a Muggle-born witch, Hermione had faced constant prejudice from pure-blood supremacists like Draco who called her a "Mudblood." Despite her exceptional magical abilities and academic achievements, she must have realized that a significant portion of the wizarding community would never fully accept her due to her heritage. This realization likely became more acute as Voldemort's influence grew and he tried to eradicate the Muggle-born wizards like herself. Hermione had her intelligence and the drive to make a difference, but she found herself in a difficult position. She wasn't the "Chosen One" like Harry, nor did she have the pure-blood status of Ron. Her attempts to directly address the treatment of Muggle-borns might have been dismissed as personal bias or self-interest. In this context, the plight of house-elves presented an opportunity for Hermione to channel her activism and fears into a cause that, while related, was not directly tied to her personal circumstances. The parallels between the treatment of house-elves and historical justifications for human slavery were likely obvious to Hermione, given her Muggle background and education. The common refrain that house-elves were "happy slaves" eerily echoed similar arguments used to justify the enslavement of Black people throughout history. For Hermione, this connection was clear and deeply troubling. S.P.E.W., therefore, became Hermione's proxy battle – a cause she could champion without being accused of self-interest, and one where she could make difference in a world where she often felt powerless. It was her way of fighting against systemic oppression and ingrained prejudices in wizarding society. But, Ironically, in her eagerness to liberate the house-elves, Hermione sometimes overlooked their own expressed desires and cultural differences, pushing her own vision of freedom onto them. This misstep was a reflection of her youth and inexperience in activism, as well as her intense need to effect change in any way possible. In essence, S.P.E.W. represented more than just a campaign for house-elf rights. It was Hermione's attempt to grapple with larger issues of discrimination and injustice in the wizarding world, filtered through the lens of a passionate, intelligent teenager trying to find her place and make a difference in a society that often made her feel like an outsider.

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