“It’s half past three,” said Hermione.
“You’d better get back to school,” Sirius said, getting to his feet. “Now listen…” He looked particularly hard at Harry. “I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.”
“No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of Grindylows,” Harry said, but Sirius scowled at him.
“I don’t care… I’ll breathe freely again when this tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?”
He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and went to pat Buckbeak good-bye. “I’ll walk to the edge of the village with you,” said Sirius, “see if I can scrounge another paper.”
He transformed into the great black dog before they left the cave, and they walked back down the mountainside with him, across the boulder strewn ground, and back to the stile. Here he allowed each of them to pat him on the head, before turning and setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way back into Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts.
“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?” Ron said as they walked up the drive to the castle. “But maybe he doesn’t care… It’d probably just make him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves rules. He’d just say Crouch was refusing to break them for his own son.”
“Percy would never throw any of his family to the Dementors,” said Hermione severely.
“I don’t know,” said Ron. “If he thought we were standing in the way of his career… Percy’s really ambitious, you know…”
They walked up the stone steps into the entrance hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted toward them from the Great Hall.
“Poor old Snuffles,” said Ron, breathing deeply. “He must really like you, Harry… Imagine having to live off rats.”
28. THE MADNESS OF MR. CROUCH
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, asking, as Sirius had suggested, whether he had seen Mr. Crouch lately. They used Hedwig, because it had been so long since she’d had a job. When they had watched her fly out of sight through the Owlery window, they proceeded down to the kitchen to give Dobby his new socks.
The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome, bowing and curtsying and bustling around making tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about his present.
“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!” he squeaked, wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes.
“You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you really did,” said Harry.
“No chance of more of those eclairs, is there?” said Ron, who was looking around at the beaming and bowing house-elves.
“You’ve just had breakfast!” said Hermione irritably, but a great silver platter of eclairs was already zooming toward them, supported by four elves.
“We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles,” Harry muttered.
“Good idea,” said Ron. “Give Pig something to do. You couldn’t give us a bit of extra food, could you?” he said to the surrounding elves, and they bowed delightedly and hurried off to get some more.
“Dobby, where’s Winky?” said Hermione, who was looking around.
“Winky is over there by the fire, miss,” said Dobby quietly, his ears drooping slightly.
“Oh dear,” said Hermione as she spotted Winky.
Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was sitting on the same stool as last time, but she had allowed herself to become so filthy that she was not immediately distinguishable from the smoke blackened brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged and unwashed. She was clutching a bottle of butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring into the fire. As they watched her, she gave an enormous hiccup.
“Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,” Dobby whispered to Harry.
“Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,” Harry said.
But Dobby shook his head. “’Tis strong for a house-elf, sir,” he said.
Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the eclairs gave her disapproving looks as they returned to work.
“Winky is pining, Harry Potter,” Dobby whispered sadly. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is her master now.”
“Hey, Winky,” said Harry, struck by a sudden inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, “you don’t know what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the Triwizard Tournament.”
Winky’s eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils focused on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, “M-Master is stopped—hic—coming?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “we haven’t seen him since the first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.”
Winky swayed some more, staring blurrily at Harry.
“Master—hic—ill?”
Her bottom lip began to tremble.
“But we’re not sure if that’s true,” said Hermione quickly.
“Master is needing his—hic—Winky!” whimpered the elf. “Master cannot—hic—manage—hic—all by himself…”
“Other people manage to do their own housework, you know, Winky,” Hermione said severely.
“Winky—hic—is not only—hic—doing housework for Mr. Crouch!” Winky squeaked indignantly, swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer down her already heavily stained blouse. “Master is—hic—trusting Winky with—hic—the most important—hic—the most secret…”
“What?” said Harry.
But Winky shook her head very hard, spilling more butterbeer down herself.
“Winky keeps—hic—her master’s secrets,” she said mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at Harry with her eyes crossed. “You is—hic—nosing, you is.”
“Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!” said Dobby angrily. “Harry Potter is brave and noble and Harry Potter is not nosy!”
“He is nosing—hic—into my master’s—hic—private and secret—hic—Winky is a good house-elf—hic—Winky keeps her silence—hic—people trying to—hic—pry and poke—hic—”
Winky’s eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away across the stone flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly, hiding her from view.
“We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!” squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. “We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and miss!”
“She’s unhappy!” said Hermione, exasperated. “Why don’t you try and cheer her up instead of covering her up?”
“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the house-elf, bowing deeply again, “but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work to be done and masters to be served.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Hermione cried. “Listen to me, all of you! You’ve got just as much right as wizards to be unhappy! You’ve got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you don’t have to do everything you’re told—look at Dobby!”
“Miss will please keep Dobby out of this,” Dobby mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as though she were mad and dangerous.