"Boxing Day"

[hedwigs-bane.livejournal.com]

Author: hedwigs_bane   
Beta:  knic26 
Rating: G
Characters: The Trio
Word Count: 4,656
Summary: Hermione's new job and new home cause her a moral dilemma.

A.N.: Yeah, it's sort of a gen fic, though it is set in the "Tales From the Little Burrow" universe. And yes, I know Boxing Day was a month ago, all right? So I'm a little slow...

Boxing Day

 

            Harry looked up over the edge of his Daily Prophet to see Ron stomp across the kitchen in a huff. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Harry made a mental note to “thank” Hermione for ruining his Boxing Day by putting Ron in such a state that he'd actually broken his breakfast plate by nearly flinging it into the sink.

 

            “Reparo,” Ron growled, as if the plate had intentionally broken itself just to cheese him off. “Merlin’s piles,” he growled again, lifting the plate and examining the results of the charm. Clearly, his mind hadn’t been on the task, as the plate appeared oddly mutated, half of it face up, the other face down. There was a curious twist in the earthenware where the two halves had tried to join cleanly.

 

            Harry fought against the temptation to chuckle as Ron dropped the plate into the bin, knowing that his husband was walking a fine line between quiet, seething anger and a full-blown, raging rant. Remembering the Christmas evening argument between Ron and Hermione, Harry decided he’d rather allow Ron to stew alone in his own juices rather than be drawn into the pot with him.

 

            Besides, Harry couldn’t understand why Ron was so upset. Dimmy and Topsy were, after all, Hermione’s house-elves, and she was free to treat them as she liked, despite Ron’s disdain for her “Muggle-born cruelty”, as he put it. Harry knew that they both had very different ideas on the definition of “cruelty”, and that Hermione would never be deliberately hurtful to any living creature, though she could be misguided in her attempts to be kind. Harry’s current difficulty was that he could see the validity of both Ron and Hermione’s points of view, but he was reluctant to step into the breach, unwilling as he was to rile either his husband or his best friend.

 

            “Master Ron should allow Kreacher to do the cleaning up.” Harry had no idea where he had come from, but Kreacher had suddenly appeared at Ron’s elbow, pulling the deformed plate from the trash and waving a hand over it. The plate was not only restored to its original state, but was clean as well.

 

            “Yeah, cheers, Kreacher,” Ron grumbled, plopping himself down across the table from Harry. “It’s what you do, right? You don’t mind working for us, do you?”

 

            “Kreacher mind?” The house-elf replied in as close to a genuine laugh as Harry ever heard from him. “Kreacher is honored to serve his young masters!”

 

            “Exactly!” Ron proclaimed triumphantly. “That’s how it’s supposed to be. You should really talk to Hermione.”

 

            “Oh no, Master,” Kreacher said suddenly. “Kreacher does not like talking to Mistress Granger. She always tries to tell Kreacher that he should…” Kreacher’s eyes suddenly opened wide, as if he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he began looking frantically around the kitchen. Harry knew immediately what he was looking for.

 

            “Kreacher,” Harry said warningly. “You remember my orders?”

 

            “Yes, Master Harry. Thank you, Master Harry,” Kreacher replied croakily, clearly not grateful for the reminder. Harry had explicitly ordered Kreacher to never physically punish himself, and he knew the desire to do so would be strong after what he had just said, and almost said, about Hermione, and that a reminder was required.

 

            Still, all three of the beings in the room knew precisely why Kreacher didn’t like talking to Hermione Granger. Harry and Ron had both taken to running interference whenever Hermione had cornered the elf, trying to convince Kreacher that his servitude was demeaning, and that he should have the same rights as wizards. None of this was surprising, considering that Hermione had abandoned her promising career as a Healer at St. Mungo’s when Althea Persimmon, the Minister for Magic, had asked her to head the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

 

            Once in office, Hermione had directed her efforts, not to the control of magical creatures, but rather to their recognition and liberation, doing all she could to force the magical human community to recognize the rights and dignity of centaurs, goblins, giants and, of course, house-elves. She seemed totally unaffected by the near universal opposition to her efforts, shaking off Ron’s heated arguments, the advice of the entire extended Weasley Family, the jeers and insults of witches and wizards that met her whenever she spoke publicly, and even the pleas for caution from the Minister.

 

            Resistance wasn’t confined to magical humans, either. The Centaurs considered any talk of “equal status” with humans highly insulting. The Goblins were suspicious, thinking Hermione’s ideas yet another human ploy to wrest control of Gringotts away from them. The Giants seemed content to continue living in isolation and killing one another in internal battles for dominance.

 

            Though for very different reasons, and expressing it in very different ways, the house-elves were as insulted as the centaurs at the suggestion that they stop serving humans and accept clothing and, thus, freedom. Whereas the centaurs grumbled and sometimes shouted their offense at the “human arrogance” behind Hermione’s suggestion that they even needed human recognition, the house-elves literally squealed with mental anguish at the thought of having freedom forced upon them. Clearly, not everyone treated their servants as badly as the Malfoys had once treated Dobby.

 

            That fact that Hermione even owned house-elves (though she preferred to say they were “employed”) was a non sequitur on a par with Draco Malfoy having been named Philanthropist of the Year by the War Relief Association. Harry had trouble wrapping his head around either idea, though both were realities. Draco had been given the award after massive monetary donations to war relief, and the grant of Malfoy Manor to Hogwarts, which had been converted for use as a graduate extension of the school.

 

            Hermione, whose Gringotts account was commiserate with her high position in the government, had simply fallen in love with the large, Elizabethan era house overlooking the river at Bray-on-Thames. She had bought it from an elderly widow, who, after her husband had died, had decided to return to her native Germany.  With no children to whom to will the estate, and her husband having been the last of his line, she chose to sell his ancestral home.  Having been quite taken with Hermione, she had, in Harry’s opinion, nearly given the place away. There had been one proviso, however: ownership of the manor’s house-elves would pass to Hermione as well.

 

            Needless to say, Hermione had been terribly conflicted. On the one hand she found the entire idea of house-elf servitude repulsive. On the other, she quite simply and completely adored the house. Finally convincing herself that she could help to improve the lot of the elves “in her care”, as she euphemized the relationship, she had overcome her own moral objections and made herself at home. Dimmy and Topsy, her new house-elves, saw the “care” dynamic flowing in the opposite direction, of course, and had so far managed to resist Hermione’s attempts to convince them to strive for something other than servitude.

 

            “I know she didn’t grow up as a witch,” Ron spoke from behind Harry’s newspaper. He didn’t seem to care he couldn’t see Harry’s face, or even be sure he was listening. Not that it mattered. Harry had heard it at least fifty times before. “But she’s almost twenty-five now! She should know how it all works! Don’t those bloody books of hers teach her anything?”

 

            “On the contrary,” Harry sighed, lowering the Prophet to look across the table at Ron. “I think that’s where she got the idea.” He was torn between wanting to avoid the familiar discussion again, and trying to calm his husband a bit. Being the “saviour of the wizarding world”, however, had ingrained in him a desire to fix things, and so he was inclined towards the latter course of action. “The only problem is she also reads Muggle books.”

 

            “Muggles,” Ron growled, making the word sound as bad an insult as “Mudblood”. Harry knew, of course, that Ron harboured no such prejudice in his heart or mind, but when Muggle ideas were imposed on wizarding existence, he could be downright intolerant. “What sort of daft idea is that, anyway?”

 

            “Well,” Harry reasoned, “Muggles don’t have house-elves, do they? They only have human servants, and so things are different for them.”

 

            “Exactly!” Ron looked triumphant, as if he had just won the point. “So why can’t Hermione see that?”

 

            Harry sighed deeply. He might have been able to answer on Hermione’s behalf, feeling that he understood her sensibilities, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t help. “I dunno, Ron,” he said instead. “You’ll have to ask her tonight.”

 

            Boxing Day dinner at Hermione’s had become something of a tradition ever since Harry and Ron had set up house at the Little Burrow. The trio had actually sat down and chosen certain dates on which, each year, they would meet for dinner or lunch, just the three of them (or four, should Hermione ever marry), to ensure that no matter what else was going on in their lives, they would remain close friends. Such measures had turned out to be superfluous so far, as the three of them met quite regularly anyway. Still, they stuck to the original plan against the day that such careful preparation might actually become necessary. Harry had always looked forward to those gatherings… until that day.

 

            “Remember, Ron,” Harry cautioned later that day, as they stood in front of the Little Burrow’s fireplace, dressed in some of their Muggle finest, as Hermione had suggested the previous evening. “You promised.”

 

            “Yeah, yeah,” Ron nodded impatiently. “Not a word. Well, not unless she brings it up. I mean, I have to say something then, right? Just to be polite…”

 

            “Yeah, all right,” Harry conceded. “But even if she does, try not to start a fight, okay?”

 

            “Who, me?” Ron smirked before throwing Floo Powder into the fireplace and disappearing on his way to Hermione’s house. Harry worriedly shook his head before following Ron.

 

            True to form, never having fully mastered Floo travel, Harry tumbled out of Hermione’s fireplace onto his hands and knees into her large sitting room, and very nearly collided with Ron, who seemed frozen where he stood.

 

            “Ron, what’s wro—” Harry began before looking up and seeing one of the most curious things he’d ever seen.

 

            Facing the fireplace were two large armchairs, each with its own footstool and a table in between, in which sat Dimmy and Topsy. Though they sat back against the cushions, their bare feet resting on the footstools, they both looked distinctly uncomfortable and more than a little terrified. Their large eyes flicked back and forth between Harry and Ron, as if they were expecting to be severely reprimanded for taking such liberties in the house of their mistress.

 

            “What in the bloody hell..?” Ron began, as if he was about to confirm their fears. 

 

            “We is sorry, young masters,” Dimmy squeaked out, looking absolutely mortified. “But Mistress Hermione has ordered… ordered…” She was clearly ready to burst into tears of shame.

 

            “It’s all right, Dimmy,” Harry said consolingly as he stood and began brushing soot from his robes onto the hearth rug. “We know Hermione, and we know it’s not your fault.” He would have never used the word fault if Hermione was in the room. “We’ll see if we can help, okay?”

 

            “Oh, thank you, Master Harry!” Both elves gave pained smiles and nodded frantically. Harry noticed that their heads and eyes were the only parts of their bodies that moved. It seemed as their arms and legs had been bound to the two comfortable chairs, though Harry couldn’t begin to believe that Hermione would do such a thing. Besides, the only sort of magic necessary would have been for her to tell them both to “sit still”. Even if she spoke the words kindly, the elves would be bound to obey her, and thus bound to the chairs as securely as if held there by a Permanent Sticking Charm.

 

            “She really doesn’t have a clue, does she?” Ron asked, sliding off his overcoat and slinging it over his arm.

 

            Harry could only shrug in reply, feeling a surge of pity for the elves as they eyed Ron’s coat, clearly wanting to take it from him, and probably even clean it before hanging it up. He decided to wait for Hermione before removing his own in order to save the elves any more pain.

 

            Having just reminded himself of Hermione’s absence, Harry looked around the room wondering where she was. His eyes were immediately drawn towards the large bay window, in front of which stood a massive tree, beautifully decorated with the antique crystal ornaments Hermione loved so, and aglow with fairy lights. Scanning it from top to bottom, Harry saw at its base two of the ugliest little dolls he’d ever laid eyes on. They had large, grayish-faced heads, long, pointed ears and were dressed in what looked like knitted jumpers. Though, unlike Dumbledore, Harry was no aficionado of knitting patterns, he had seen enough of the hats she had made at Hogwarts to recognize the work of Hermione’s magical knitting needles.

 

            “Ron, look at those weird dolls under the –” Harry stopped talking as soon as he noticed the figures were moving! One was pushing a wooden toy train a few inches back and forth on the carpet. The other was pretending to poor tea from a toy teapot into a toy teacup. They both moved very slowly, staring at Ron and Harry with terror in their large eyes.

 

            Harry suddenly realized that he was seeing, for the first time in his life, house-elf children!

 

            “Harry!” Ron whispered excitedly. “Harry, are those..?”

 

            “Ron! Harry!” Ron was interrupted as Hermione strolled into the room, a fully laden tea tray in her hands. She quickly set the tray on the table between Dimmy and Topsy’s chairs and turned to give both boys a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

 

            “Hermione,” Ron turned again towards the Christmas tree. “Are those..?”

 

            “Ah, yes,” Hermione smiled towards the tiny creatures. “These are Dimmy’s children, Pippen and Miney.” Leaning in, she whispered, “I think Miney is named after me, but when I asked, Dimmy said she would never do anything so disrespectful, even though I told her I would be honored.”

 

            “B-But, what the hell are they wearing?” Ron asked, clearly too shocked to edit his thoughts before broadcasting them. “You… you didn’t give them..?” 

 

            “Ron!” Hermione glared at him. “I’m not a monster! Those aren’t clothes. They’re tea cozies!”

 

            “Look a bit big for – ”

 

            “It doesn’t matter!” Hermione insisted. “I made them to be tea cozies, and so, for all intents and purposes, they are tea cozies. And now,” she said, turning back towards Dimmy and Topsy and picking up the teapot, asked, “How do you like your tea?”

 

            “With milk and sugar, you know that,” Harry answered automatically.

 

            “I wasn’t talking to you,” Hermione giggled. “Topsy?”

 

            “Oh NO, Mistress!” Topsy shouted, clearly fighting against all her instincts in order to remain seated. “Mistress has guests! Please! Please let Topsy serve Mistress Hermione and her honoured guests! Please don’t embarrass Topsy in front of the young masters!”

 

            “Topsy!” Hermione spoke kindly but firmly. “I asked you to join us, not to serve us.”

 

            “Topsy should be ashamed,” Dimmy, the older elf, said quietly but vehemently to the younger Topsy. “Mistress Hermione has ordered us to sit here, and you must obey.” Topsy hung her large head in shame. “We is sorry, Mistress,” Dimmy concluded, glaring angrily at Topsy.

 

            “No, Dimmy,” Hermione corrected in a clearly frustrated tone. “I have not ordered you to sit there. I’ve asked you to make yourselves comfortable. I’ve invited you to join me and my friends for tea.”

 

            Unable to control himself any longer, Harry finally said, “Hermione, just what is going on here?”

 

            “It’s Boxing Day,” Hermione said, as if it explained everything, while she set the laden tray on a table between the two armchairs. 

 

            Harry glanced over at Ron, whose expression had gone from shock to confusion, and he doubted his own could have varied much. Probably because she could read their faces, Hermione explained further.

 

            “It’s a tradition, among Muggles anyway, that the Master and Mistress of the house would give gifts to their servants on the day after Christmas,” she said. “Well, I don’t know if you realize it, but it’s very difficult to choose an appropriate gift for a house-elf. Neither Dimmy nor Topsy would accept clothing – ” at this, both elves looked even more terrified, and Topsy actually whimpered quietly – “and they refused to take a day off to spend with their own families. So, instead, I thought I would invite their families here, so they could all spend the day together.”

 

            “Families?” Ron asked incredulously, as if such a thought had never occurred to him. “So, then where’s Pippen and Miney’s fa—”

 

            “Shhh,” Hermione cut across Ron and leaned in conspiratorially. “I just found this out myself. House-elves don’t really get married or anything. They just… mate. When they do have children, usually the females stay with the mother and the males go with the father. As I understand it, Pippen’s father’s master already has loads of house-elves, and so he ordered Pippen’s father to leave him with Dimmy. Can you imagine? So anyway, Pippen and Miney have never really known their father, and I have no idea who he is. I think it best if we don’t bring it up.”

 

            “What about Topsy?” Ron whispered in turn.

 

            “She says she doesn’t have a family, so I assume she’s never… never…”

 

            “Mated,” Ron nodded knowingly. “Okay, we won’t say anything.”

 

            “Hermione,” Harry said, staring again at the elf children, “Why do they look so… so..?”

 

            “Uncomfortable?” Hermione finished for him. Harry would have opted for “scared stiff”, but he replied with a simple nod. “Well,” Hermione reasoned in an undertone.  “I suspect they’ve already been taught that it’s their role in life to serve humans. I don’t think they’ve ever had toys before, and I don’t know if they even know how to play.” This much seemed clear as they were treating the toys that Hermione had undoubtedly given them as if they were made of crystal, and which they were terrified they might break. “Maybe later one of you can toss a ball around with them or something, help them see how much fun it can be.”

 

            “Are you mental?” Ron, apparently overcome with the absurdity of the entire situation, seemed unable to control himself any longer. “Play catch with house-elves? Seriously, Hermione, you’ve gone round the bend, over the edge and into the deep end! Can’t you see how miserable they are?”

 

            “Ron…” Harry spoke warningly to his husband, hoping that the evening could still be salvaged. While he actually blamed Hermione for not having told them about the situation they’d be plunged into, he thought it better to try to rein Ron in a bit. Ignoring the daggers Ron shot at him in reply, Harry turned to Hermione. “So, are you making dinner, then?”

 

            This time it was Dimmy who whimpered, apparently hurt by the suggestion that, while she still drew breath, her mistress would be reduced to preparing a meal.

 

            “No,” Hermione replied tersely while glaring scathingly at Ron. “I thought we’d go to The Duck. That is, if you can stand to be seen in public with an abusive monster like me.”

 

            “Ro-on,” Harry growled threateningly in an attempt to elicit an apology from his grumpy partner. After all, The Fat Duck was Harry’s favorite restaurant in all of Britain, and so far, in all the world. It was where the trio invariably chose to go when they felt the need and desire to indulge themselves, and to unburden themselves of five hundred or so Muggle quid in the process. Even Ron, a decidedly meat and two veg sort of bloke, enjoyed disrupting the posh atmosphere, entertaining himself by drinking lager from the bottle and raising his soup bowl to his lips to loudly slurp down the last few drops, thus scandalizing the wait staff. Harry was damned if he was going to be denied such an evening by Ron’s sudden altruistic concern for house-elf feelings.

 

            “M’sorry, ‘Mione,” Ron mumbled, apparently studying the weave of the Axminster. “Only, you sort of caught me off guard here with all… this,” he explained, waving his arm broadly about the room.

 

            Hermione took a deep breath and said, “I suppose it’s not all your fault. It wasn’t very fair of me, either.” After a long exhale, she added, “It’s just so hard to know how to help them. They simply refuse to accept that they’re worthy of respect and freedom.” Her face suddenly took on a shocked expression and she spun about to speak directly to Dimmy and Topsy. “Ooh, Dimmy, Topsy, I’m so sorry for talking about you like that, as if you weren’t here!”

 

            “Mistress mustn’t be sorry!” Dimmy squeaked, looking shocked in turn. “House-elves should not be seen or heard until we is needed!” Like Topsy, Dimmy seemed to be restrained by what Hermione had thought a request, but which they considered a command.  Were she not bound to the chair by obedience, she clearly would have been on the floor at Hermione’s feet, as if she had somehow failed to carry out her mistress’ orders.

 

            “Hermione,” Harry spoke cautiously. “Maybe you should let them get out of those chairs. I really don’t think they’re happy sitting—”

 

            “Of course!” Hermione almost wailed. “I’m such an idiot! Dimmy, Topsy, you don’t have to sit there if you’re uncomfortable. I’m sorry I didn’t explain that to you. Please, forgive me.”

 

            “No, Mistress!” Dimmy jumped up from her seat to stand before Hermione, Topsy quickly following suit. “You mustn’t be sorry to us! We is not wanting to be comfortable!” Harry noticed that she nearly spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. “We is wanting to serve you!”

 

            Harry saw Hermione move forward a half-step and quickly took hold of her shoulder. Leaning over to speak in her ear, he said, “Hermione, if you hug her it’s likely her head will explode!” She turned to him with a censorious look on her face, which faded so quickly that Harry wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it, until she added what he had just said to what they had all just seen and heard, and she nodded in agreement.

 

            “Dimmy, Topsy, my friends and I are going out,” Hermione’s tone dripped with munificence. “You may do as you please this evening, and I will see you in the morning. Oh, and…” she added, when a somewhat crestfallen look had darkened both elves’ faces, “please clean up the tea service before you leave.”

 

            “Oh, YES, Mistress!” Dimmy and Topsy gushed together. Harry smiled at this act of kindness on Hermione’s part, knowing full well what it cost her to treat a house-elf in the same way as all the rest of wizarding kind treated them.

 

            “Miney, Pippen,” Dimmy called to her children. “Come here.” The two titchy elf children stood and ran across the room, still looking rather frightened. But when Dimmy whispered into their large ears, their faces brightened considerably, and they watched in rapt attention as their mother and Topsy arranged the items on the tea tray. Harry suspected that Dimmy had instructed them to watch and learn how house-elves were expected to carry out their duties. Smiling and bowing, the quartet soon padded out of the room, obviously relieved to have finally escaped Hermione’s misguided beneficence.

 

            “I’m such a fool,” Hermione said, clearly dismayed by all that had happened.

 

            “You are not!” Ron insisted. “You’re ‘the brightest witch of your age’! You were just raised a Muggle, so you don’t know how to deal with house-elves.”

 

            “Ron,” Harry chuckled derisively. “You never even saw a house-elf until you were fourteen! How would you know how to deal with them?”

 

            “Well, no, I never saw one,” Ron rebutted, “but I listened to Mum whinge about how she wished she had one for long enough. I knew what they were and what they did.”

 

            “It doesn’t matter,” Hermione said none to happily. “I don’t think I’ve made one bit of difference in their lives. All this time, and I haven’t accomplished anything in anyone’s life. The humans won’t take me seriously, and the other magical races either hate me or are afraid of me! Shit, I can’t even convince Dimmy and Topsy. How am I supposed to convince any of the others that they deserve… more.”

 

            “Don’t worry, Hermione love,” Ron said, walking over and placing his hands on her shoulders, fixing her with a piercing gaze. “If anyone can do it, you can.” He pulled her into a conciliatory embrace, and Harry could see her face relax. For someone whom Hermione had once described as having the emotional range of a teaspoon, it was amazing how much power Ron had to send their best friend into a towering rage and yet still be able to comfort her in ways that Harry couldn’t even fully understand. 

 

            He decided it was just another aspect of being Molly Weasley’s son. Even at the height of her most fearsome anger, every word Ron’s mother screeched virtually dripped with love. It was that love, in fact, that fueled many of her rants, based as they were on her concern for the well-being of whomever had earned her ire. Harry knew this because he had been the lucky object of her wrath a number of times, and had come to love her for it in return. Growing up in such an atmosphere had undoubtedly taught Ron to see through all the bluster to the love behind it.

 

            “So,” Ron said lightly, disengaging himself from Hermione. “The Duck, huh?”

 

            “Well,” Hermione sniffled, failing extravagantly to match Ron’s lighthearted tone. “I thought it’d be nice, it being Christmastime and all.”

 

            “Absolutely!” Harry agreed enthusiastically. As far as he was concerned, the fact that it was Wednesday was a sufficient reason for a night at The Fat Duck. Now they had the added incentive of raising Hermione’s spirits. “Let’s go watch Ron give the toffee-nosed waiters a treat.”

 

            “After everything that just happened here?” Ron asked, looking surprised and strangely serious. “After what Hermione tried to do tonight?”

 

            Shocked, Harry looked back and forth between Hermione, who wore a stunned expression, and Ron, whose resolve was written across his face. He berated himself for believing that his husband and his best friend had really overcome such fundamental differences so quickly, or could ignore them for long. His good mood vanished like a light sucked into a Deluminator, and he began to resign himself to eating whatever leftovers he could find in the refrigerator at the Little Burrow.

 

            “I’m afraid we won’t be playing with any waiters tonight, Harry,” Ron said decisively. “We’ll be too busy figuring out how to get the S.P.E.W. started again. We have to help all those house-elves!”

 

            “Oh, Ron,” Hermione cried, flinging herself into his arms again, looking for all the world as if she intended to meld their bodies together.

 

            “Oi!” Harry said with false indignation and just the slightest sense of déjà vu. “I’ll have you know, that’s my husband you’re molesting!”

 

            “Oh, shut up, Harry,” Hermione said through tear choked laughter. “I’ll give him back when I’m done.”

 

            “Fine, I’ll be at The Duck,” Harry huffed, though he was fighting back his own giggles. “Oh, and by the way, Hermione, I suggest nibbling on his right earlobe. He seems to like that.” Smirking as he buttoned up his overcoat, he added, “But save room for dessert. I hear the Black Forest Gateau is particularly good.”