“Well, we doesn’t wish to become freed, sir,” the elf said, wagging his head with slow emphasis. “Especially now that the Vow of Secrecy is weakened. Well-meaning witches and wizards speak of freeing all the house elves now, even outlawing our service. They say it will look bad to the Muggles, should the two worlds merge.”
James was not a morning thinker under the best of circumstances. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger. “Like, the Muggles will think you’re slaves or something?
But, like, aren’t you basically slaves?”
Piggen stood up as straight as he could and squared his shoulders. “Piggen is in service to his masters, Master Potter, sir. Service is not slavery.”
“So you get paid, then?”
The elf’s eyes bulged so hard that they looked as if they might pop out and roll across the floor like grapefruit-sized marbles.
“Payment, sir! No elf is ever paid, sir! It wouldn’t be proper to take payment from one’s master for service rendered!”
“But you can’t just quit, either,” James went on, frowning at the elf. “Can you?”
The elf seemed distressed and baffled by the concept. “I suppose, er, begging your pardon, sir, that such a thing would be technically possible. At least, here at Hogwarts. But…” He blinked rapidly, glancing around the dim room as if for help. The rest of the beds were filled with faintly snoring Gryffindors.
James shrugged, too bleary to press the issue. “Sounds like slavery to me, no matter how you slice it. But if it makes you happy.”
“Oh, happiness doesn’t come into it, Master Potter, sir,” the elf said with a relieved sigh, as if content to put an uncomfortable subject behind him. “We elves don’t have any truck with things like happiness, sir. Happiness is the mortal enemy of jobsek-yerready.”
James knew he should abandon the conversation while he was still on moderately level footing, but couldn’t help blinking curiously at the elf again. “What do you mean, happiness is your mortal enemy?”
The elf looked around again, as if worried about being overheard. When he returned his gaze to James, he couldn’t quite look him in the eye. Nervously, he kneaded the knot of his napkin toga with his hands. “There’s another picture we have hanging on the wall of our rooms,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper so thin and high that it was almost inaudible. “Another house elf, by the name of Dobbyfoggynpuddleneff.”
James pushed himself back up to a seated position on his bed.
“You mean… Dobby? The house elf my dad knew?”
“Dobby was happy,” Piggen nodded gravely, meeting James’ eyes again. “He made friends with Harry Potter. And then, Dobby was killed. He was killed outside of service, with no master or mistress. His head was placed on no one’s wall with the heads of those who came before and after. Dobby died a free elf.” He said this last with a hand cupped around his mouth, as if he was repeating the most offensive swear word imaginable.
“And that,” James said as realization dawned on him, “is why you don’t want me to introduce myself to you.”
Piggen looked miserably uncomfortable. “Begging your pardon, please, Master Potter, sir. Piggen doesn’t wish to be free. He doesn’t wish to be happy. He doesn’t wish to be master’s friend, sir, and no offense meant. He just wishes to do his duties and keep his jobsek-yerready.”
James shrugged wearily. “OK, Piggen. We’re not friends. I’ll pretend I don’t even know your name.”
The elf’s face broke into a grin of abject relief. “Oh, thank you Master Potter, sir. And I’ll be out of your way in just a jiffy.” He turned back to the stove, closed the door with practiced care, and then scampered away into the shadows toward the bathroom, making no sound whatsoever in the dawn stillness.
Scorpius rolled over, gave an uncharacteristically undignified groan, and lifted his head, squinting in James’ general direction. In a muzzy voice, he asked, “Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody, it turns out,” James answered, swinging his feet to the floor. “Go back to sleep.”
“If it’s Cedric,” Scorpius murmured, letting his head drop back into his pillow, “tell him to go back to Hufflepuff. S’too early for class…” His voice trailed away into incoherence.
James decided to get up and be early to breakfast for once.
That Friday, the Gryffindor Quidditch team faced off against Slytherin for the first time that season. James stoically took his position high over the field, his goggles strapped over his spectacles against the steadily falling snow, the world a seamless tableaux of white all around.
The roar of the grandstands was interrupted only by the voice of Josephina Bartlett, who was calling the match from the announcer’s booth, clearly enjoying the amplification of her own words far too much.
“An important contest is today’s event,” she said, pausing to allow her words to echo around the grandstands, “as statistically, the team to win their first match has a seventy-seven percent chance of defeating that same team, should they appear together in the final tournament. Much rides on this performance for both teams, in particular on the new players in key positions, such as Mr. James Potter, who will be facing off against his own brother as Seekers for their respective teams.”
The roar of the grandstands increased to a fever pitch at this announcement. James knew he should feel abashed by such attention, and yet he secretly relished it. He’d been looking forward to this matchup for years, ever since Albus had been named Seeker for the Slytherin team. He was deeply committed to beating his younger brother and bringing home an important win for Gryffindor, and his assurance that he could do so was bolstered by the confidence that the team seemed to show on his behalf.
“We’ve got this!” Graham called through the snow, swooping into position. “Go crimson and gold!”
“Go Gryffindor!” Deirdre shouted in response, rallying the rest of the team into whoops and cheers.
James gripped his broom tightly, wearing the fingerless gauntlets he’d first worn three years earlier when he’d played Clutchcudgel at Alma Aleron, eventually accompanying team Bigfoot to their first win in decades. He looked wistfully at the slot on the right wrist, especially sewn into the gauntlet to store his wand. No game magic allowed in Quidditch, he mourned, although he had successfully brought it to the Night League, where Julian Jackson had proven herself right about quickly adapting and mastering the Clutchcudgel spells. All of the teams had borrowed and duplicated James’ old Clutchcudgel rulebook, and subsequently made very good use of Gravity Wells, Bonefuse hexes, Knucklers, Inertia Enhancers, and many others that even James had not yet fully mastered.
The slot on his gauntlet was empty now, however. No wands were allowed on the Quidditch pitch. James would have to defeat his brother using plain old grit, finesse, and determination.
Fortunately, as match official Cabe Ridcully blew his whistle and released the game balls, James was fairly brimming with grit and determination. He launched into motion, swooping immediately in pursuit of the snitch, even as it flashed its golden wings and flitted into the pall of densely falling snow, vanishing from sight.