The SPEW meeting proved to be far more significant than anyone had anticipated.
On the day of the event, the previously unused classroom on the ground floor was almost unrecognizable. The slanted rows of benches resembled a small theater, with students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang filling every seat. Behind the podium on the tiny stage, a banner proclaiming the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare hung prominently. Candles floated above, creating a warm ambiance as hushed conversations filled the room.
What Hermione hadn't revealed to Harry was that Professor Sprout had invited a reporter from the Daily Prophet and a photographer. Their presence, scribbling notes and snapping pictures in the corner, instantly elevated the significance of the occasion.
Dobby was the first to address the crowd. Standing atop a small wooden box to be seen by everyone, the house-elf nervously wrung his hands before bowing to the audience.
"Dobby is… Dobby is happy to be here," he began, his voice shaking but gaining strength as he spoke. "Dobby is free now, but once... Dobby's master was cruel."
The room fell silent, all attention on the little elf.
"Dobby was told to iron his hands for mistakes. Dobby was told to… to shut his head in the oven door. Sometimes… Dobby was used for… entertainment." His large green eyes glimmered with emotion, but he held his head high. "But Dobby is here to say… elves deserve kindness. Elves can be happy and still work. Dobby works for Harry Potter now. Harry Potter pays Dobby, and Dobby is proud to serve him."
The audience burst into applause, the sound resonating against the stone walls. The reporter wrote rapidly, while the photographer leaned in for another image.
After Dobby stepped down, Professor Dumbledore took to the stage. His presence captured everyone's attention.
"I have known house-elves for many years," the Headmaster began, his tone warm yet serious. "They are not just servants—they are friends, allies, and valued members of our society. However, like any who serve, they deserve dignity. I believe that small steps—better treatment, appropriate living conditions, and respect—can lead to significant change."
Krum followed, his deep voice resonating in the room. "In my country, we… we don't see many elves. But I recognize how vital they are to your world. I support this… this movement. I believe it is… good for all." His brief remarks were met with enthusiastic cheers from the Durmstrang students present.
Although Harry hadn't intended to speak, he complied when the reporter signaled for him to come forward.
"I met Dobby in my second year," Harry said plainly. "He was trying to protect me… in his own way. Once I learned about his past, I knew I couldn't let it go on. I got him free from his old master. It was a small gesture—but it granted him freedom." He glanced at Dobby, who was beaming in return. "No one should live in fear of those they serve. If we can improve the lives of elves, even in small ways, we should."
The meeting concluded with cheers, applause, and camera clicks. Within days, the Daily Prophet featured the story on the front page, showcasing photographs of Dobby, Krum, and Harry together. Hermione's name was prominently displayed as the movement's founder, with quotes detailing her vision for fair treatment.
What no one anticipated was the rapid spread of the movement's impact. With prominent figures like Dumbledore, Krum, and Harry championing the cause, the story gained international attention. Wizarding communities abroad began to discuss elf welfare, and the Ministry of Magic in Britain reacted swiftly.
A new bill was passed within two weeks, mandating that all British households with house-elves register with the Ministry. Inspectors would conduct regular checks to ensure adequate food, clothing, and living conditions. Any abuse would result in fines or imprisonment. A new division—the Department for Elfish Welfare—was established to enforce the law.
When Hermione saw the headline, "House-Elf Rights Take First Step," her hands trembled slightly. She turned the page to find her own photograph, mid-speech, captioned: "Hermione Granger—Founder of the House-Elf Movement."
She slowly set the paper down, her eyes glistening.
"Harry… we actually did it."
Harry smiled at her from across the common room.
"No, Hermione—you did it."
For the first time in years, she felt proud of herself.
The weeks after the SPEW meeting were unprecedented for Hermione. Everywhere she went—between classes, in the library, even at meal times—students stopped her to shake her hand, congratulate her, or express their admiration for her efforts. While many were genuine in their praise, Harry quickly noticed the lingering looks from some pure-blood families, particularly those from established wizarding lineages.
The issue at hand wasn't the treatment of house-elves; most had adapted to the new Ministry regulations. The real problem stemmed from the fact that the initiative was spearheaded by a Muggle-born. To the pure-bloods, it tarnished their pride to be outshone by someone they deemed inferior.
This animosity seeped into the Wizengamot discussions, where inquiries arose about why such legislation hadn't been previously proposed. Harry understood the answer—most of the Wizengamot consisted of pure-bloods who were reluctant to disrupt long-standing traditions.
It didn't take long for the Daily Prophet to change its tone, with positive articles becoming scarce. Unnamed "sources" began to question Hermione's intentions, depicting her as an opportunist seeking political power.
Meanwhile, in the shadows of the Slytherin common room, whispers reached Rita Skeeter, who was already furious with Harry for spurning her interview requests. Learning of Hermione's close friendship with Harry provided her with a prime target, resulting in malicious articles.
One headline blared: "Ambitious Muggle-born Using Famous Friends to Gain Influence?" Hermione read it aloud in the common room, her voice strained. Harry could see the hurt in her eyes, but she resolutely folded the paper and set it aside.
"I won't back down," she declared, more to herself than anyone else.
Harry gave a grim smile. "Good. Neither will I."
Through it all, one person remained unaffected by public sentiment—Viktor Krum. The Bulgarian champion often walked with Hermione between classes or joined her in the library.
When Professor McGonagall announced the Yule Ball, Krum approached her without delay.
"Herm-own-ninny," he said with his slow accent, "vould you… go to the ball vith me?"
Her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Yes, Viktor. I'd like that."
Harry, observing from a distance, felt happy for her. But the Daily Prophet was not pleased.
Days later, a new piece by Rita Skeeter landed in the Gryffindor common room like a Howler.
"Love Triangle at Hogwarts? Triwizard Champions Compete for Brightest Witch's Affections!"
The article wove a dramatic tale of jealousy and betrayal—Krum enchanted by Hermione's intellect, Harry secretly longing for her, and Hermione "playing the hearts of famous wizards to further her own agenda."
Harry read it twice, his jaw tightening in anger. This wasn't mere gossip—it was deliberate and targeted.
He set the paper down and turned to Neville. "I think it's time ," he said quietly.
"Time for what?"
Harry smirked, his expression a mix of determination and resolve. "That I did something. Rita Skeeter is going to regret this."
The Great Hall had been alive with excitement ever since Professor McGonagall announced the Yule Ball.
Students began glancing at each other from across tables, whispering in groups, and summoning the courage to ask possible dates. Only a few bold individuals dared to make their intentions known in the bustling Hall, as rejection echoed in memory like a Howler. Yet, many exchanged glances and unspoken agreements, strategizing their approach before someone else could jump in.
Morning owls soared into the enchanted ceiling, scattering feathers as letters, gifts, and newspapers floated down to their owners. Harry spotted a familiar owl gliding in with a small, neatly wrapped package. He untied it and unfolded the note attached.
It was from Remus.
Harry,
Padfoot and I have left Britain for his safety. We trust you can take care of yourself, but we'll stay in touch as much as possible. I heard about the Yule Ball—so here's something you can't turn down. Don't wait too long; find a date before all the good ones are taken.
—Moony
Inside the package was a pair of dress robes—sleek, stylish, and far more fashionable than Harry had anticipated. It was clear that Sirius had helped pick them out.
Across the Gryffindor table, Harry noticed Ron struggling with a much larger package. Intrigued, he watched as Ron unveiled a truly hideous set of robes—ruffled lace, a faded green color, and a style that looked like it belonged to an elderly relative.
Ron scowled at the robes, then turned to Ginny. "Here, Ginny, these must be yours."
Ginny stared in confusion. "Um, no, Ron. They're yours."
The realization hit Ron, and his face went pale. Laughter rippled through the table as someone at the far end shouted, "Nice dress, Weasley!"
Ron's ears turned bright red, and without another word, he shoved the robes back into the box, seized it, and dashed out of the Great Hall.
Harry couldn't help but laugh, but he also reminded himself—he needed to secure a date soon, and unlike Ron, he wouldn't procrastinate until the last minute.
After their Charms class, Harry quickened his pace to catch up with Susan Bones, the red-haired Hufflepuff who had always treated him fairly. She hadn't joined in the whisper campaigns that painted him as the Heir of Slytherin in second year, nor had she accused him of cheating in the Triwizard Tournament. That alone made her stand out in the crowd of suspicious students.
There was another reason, too—her aunt, Amelia Bones, headed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If things went right, Amelia might be able to help Sirius someday.
"Susan Bones?" Harry called as the two Hufflepuff girls reached the corridor's turn.
Susan slowed, glancing back, and her friend Hannah Abbott stopped with her.
"What do you want, Potter?" Hannah asked, her tone more defensive than curious.
Harry's gaze shifted to her briefly, then back to Susan. "Nothing with you. I wanted to know if Susan has any date for the Ball?"
Susan blinked, taken aback, and shook her head shyly.
"Do you want to go with me to the dance?" Harry asked.
Her cheeks went pink, and she gave a small, quick nod.
"I want a verbal confirmation," he pressed, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Susan's lips curved into a nervous smile. "I… would love to go with you."
The words were barely out before she grabbed Hannah's arm and hurried down the hall, leaving Harry standing there with the smallest of satisfied grins.
That evening, Harry felt a sense of relief as he relaxed in the common room, observing his housemates rushing around in growing distress. Many had thought securing a date for the Yule Ball would be simple, but those who had procrastinated found their prospects already taken. The anxious expressions and hushed conversations about who might still be free amused him more than the chess game happening nearby.
Neville sat close by, nervously fidgeting. "I... I haven't asked anyone yet," he confessed quietly.
Harry reclined in his chair with a smirk. "What about Luna Lovegood? She's fun, attractive, and—here's the kicker—third years can only go if asked by someone older. You'd actually be helping her out."
Neville's eyes widened. "Do you think she'd say yes?"
"I bet she'd agree before you even finish asking," Harry responded.
Encouraged by Harry's words, Neville approached Luna, who was humming to herself while reading The Quibbler upside down. "Luna, would you... like to go to the Yule Ball with me?"
Luna's face brightened instantly. "Oh, I'd love to!" she exclaimed, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Neville stood frozen, his face turning beet red, before breaking into a dazed, childlike smile.
Across the room, Harry noticed a brewing conflict—Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas were in the midst of a heated disagreement. Dean had become one of Ron's close friends lately, but Ron still bristled when Dean announced that he had asked Ginny to the dance—and she had accepted.
"She's my sister," Ron snapped, his face flushing.
"So?" Dean replied. "She has the right to go with whoever she wants, Ron."
Their argument fizzled into low murmurs, but Ron's run of bad luck continued. Later that afternoon, Harry saw Ron striding confidently towards the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall, determination on his face. The Beauxbatons girls were seated there, their silvery-blue uniforms shining in the candlelight.
Ron halted in front of Fleur Delacour, squared his shoulders, and blurted out, "You—me—dance—Yule?"
For a moment, there was stunned silence at the table. Fleur blinked, then broke into a polite but amused smile. A few Ravenclaws behind her snickered.
Ron's confidence vanished. He muttered something incoherent, turned bright red, and bolted from the hall, laughter trailing behind him and bouncing off the stone walls.
Harry just shook his head, stifling a grin. It seemed the Ball was going to be much more entertaining than he had anticipated.