Oof, I’ve been writing a lot of Author Notes lately.

In the previous chapter, the reason I referred to sixth-year students as “O.W.L.s” was because I was thinking of them like grad students. That said, when I first published this chapter, I was told the same thing. I meant to change it, but either the edit didn’t go through or I simply forgot. All in all, N.E.W.T level doesn’t feel right either, since they are two years away from that.

In any case, the Twin Gryffindors, Cedric, etc. are all sixth-year students. It wasn’t timeline issue but that I used the wrong term.

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Cassian was nearly out the door, halfway through deciding if the staff room tea was worth seeing Severus’s face, when the door banged open and Hermione barrelled in. Neville trailed behind her, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, including a Potions quiz.

Cassian blinked. “Where’s the rest of you?”

Neville tried to mumble something vague, but Hermione steamrolled him.

“They’re brutal slave-owners.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Sorry, what now?”

Neville sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “She learned about the house-elves. In the kitchens.”

“Ah,” Cassian said, nodding. “That’ll do it. Did you think your birthday cakes floated up from the sewers?”

Hermione looked like he’d just drop-kicked a unicorn. “I thought it was Hogwarts magic!”

He spread his hands. “Well, it is. Just… attached to very small, very overworked bodies.”

“You…?” Her voice cracked halfway up the octave scale. “You knew all this time?”

Cassian shrugged. “I’ve been to the kitchens more often than I’ve been to my classes. So yeah.”

She gawked at him, eyes wide and blazing. “How can you say that so casually? This is exploitation! A whole species, forced into it!”

Cassian sighed. Honestly, he’d thought the same at first. Coming from 2025, the idea of tiny magical creatures ironing pillowcases for free was a hard one to swallow. But… House-Elves were called that for a reason. And no lecture was going to fix it.

He turned on his heel. “Come on.”

Hermione stomped after him, bag swinging. Neville lingered.

“Am I needed?”

Cassian shot him a grin. “Yes.”

Neville groaned and followed.

They stopped outside the heavy painting of a fruit bowl. Cassian reached out, tickled the pear. It giggled, then turned into a doorknob.

He pushed it open with a flourish. “Ta-ta. Welcome to the Kitchens.”

The warmth hit first, stew, fresh bread, something sweet. The clatter of pots, the rush of spells, and more than a few squeaky voices filled the air. Dozens of House-Elves bustled about, bouncing between enchanted ladles and floating trays like a swarm of tiny, apron-clad hurricanes.

Hermione froze, eyes wide.

Cassian ignored her. “Boppy!”

With a sharp crack, a small House-Elf appeared right in front of them. His ears flapped as he bowed so low his nose brushed the flagstones.

“Master Professor!” Boppy squeaked, beaming. “What can Boppy do for you?”

Cassian crouched, one hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Say, Boppy. How’s Hogwarts treating you?”

Boppy’s eyes went glassy. “Oh! Hogwarts be blessing Boppy, sir! Warm beds! Kind masters! Magic work! Boppy be so proud!”

“Would you like to do anything else?” Cassian asked.

Boppy blinked. “Else… what, sir?”

Cassian raised both brows. “What if you didn’t have to work? Just stayed in Hogwarts, did whatever you liked, no orders, no cooking?”

Boppy made a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. “No working? No ironing? No cooking? No magic?”

Cassian shrugged. “Yeah. Lounge about. Kick your feet up. Nap in the sun like a cat.”

Boppy clutched his apron, horrified. “That be horrible, sir! Horrible! Boppy be useless then! Good-for-nothing elf!”

Hermione opened her mouth. Cassian shot her a glance. She closed it again.

He kept going. “All right. Say we let you leave Hogwarts. Go anywhere. Live in Diagon Alley, eat biscuits, see the world. No masters, no duties.”

Boppy blinked. “Leave Hogwarts?”

The idea clearly hadn’t registered until now. His knees wobbled. “Leave Hogwarts, where Boppy be born, where Boppy’s great-great-great-granny polished the third-floor gargoyles with toothbrushes?”

Cassian winced. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Sir,” Boppy whimpered, lip trembling, “Boppy loves Hogwarts. Boppy never wants to leave. Never!”

Hermione’s fingers twitched around the strap of her bag. Cassian didn’t give her a chance to interject.

He crouched a little closer. “Last one. You want a sock?”

Boppy recoiled like he’d been offered a live scorpion. “No! Master, no! Please, no! Boppy be good! Boppy don’t need clothes! Boppy don’t want clothes!”

The tears hit full force then, great wobbling drops sliding down his cheeks. He grabbed Cassian’s robes and wailed, “Please don’t be giving Boppy a sock, Master Professor! Boppy be loyal! Boppy never betray Hogwarts!”

Cassian sighed through his nose. “No sock, Boppy.”

The elf sniffled, clung a little tighter, then let go with a series of exaggerated bows that nearly knocked his forehead into the stone floor. “Thank you, Master Professor, thank you!”

Cassian rose, turned to Hermione.

She looked stricken.

He spread his hands. “I don’t make the rules. This is what you’re dealing with.”

Hermione swallowed. “But… but they don’t know better. They’ve been conditioned-“

“They’ve also been around for centuries, and trust me, most of them have more magic in their pinky than a sixth-year Ravenclaw on sugar,” Cassian said, accepting a tray from Tweak, who gave a low bow before vanishing back into the blur of kitchen noise. Neville took one from Nitwit with a quiet thank you. Hermione refused.

Cassian waved Boppy off. “I’m not giving you a sock, Boppy. Settle down. Was just asking.”

Boppy’s whole face lit up, then he zipped off with a crack of glee.

Cassian turned and headed for the door, already biting into one of the pastries. He spoke through it.

“What are dragons, Miss Granger?”

Hermione blinked, still a bit glassy. “Er, magical creatures. Large, winged. Reptilian. Breathe fire. Extremely dangerous. Native to several regions…”

“Mm.” Cassian crammed more pastry into his mouth. “And what’s their nature?”

She frowned. “Predatory.”

“Why?”

“They… well, they’re carnivores.”

“Plenty of carnivores don’t go setting forests on fire. Why’re they so violent?”

“They’re territorial,” she said slowly, “and defensive. Most attacks are provoked.”

“Right,” Cassian nodded, licking sugar off his thumb. “So what’s the fire for? You reckon that’s polite conversation in dragon culture? Bit of flame to say hello?”

Hermione pursed her lips. “It’s an evolved defence.”

“Against what?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder. “The sky? Trees? I don’t remember hearing about any airborne fireproof predators giving dragons grief.”

Neville cleared his throat softly. “Could be other dragons?”

Cassian shot him a finger-gun. “Possibly. Not bad, Longbottom. But if you’re a massive apex predator, what’re you defending yourself from? Most creatures back off when you sneeze.”

Hermione folded her arms, stubbornly clinging to logic. “It’s instinct. Dragons don’t think like people.”

“Nope,” Cassian agreed. “They think like creatures who were hunted. Long time ago, before wand-wielding became fashion, magical beasts weren’t at the top of the food chain. Dragons learned to torch first, ask questions never.”

Hermione hesitated. “So you’re saying it’s memory?”

Cassian tilted his head, tray balanced against his hip. “Not memory like yours. Memory like… baked-in dread. Comes out in instinct. Magic makes it worse. Puts the fear right in the bones.”

He popped the last bite of pastry in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Now swap dragon with house-elf.”

Hermione’s face twitched. “That’s not the same.”

Cassian pointed at her with the empty tray. “Isn’t it? Creature with loads of magic, but unlike dragons they don’t fancy fighting or roasting villages. They like house work. Properly like it. They’ve got this… symbiotic thing with the families they bond to. Their words, not mine. They live through the house, and the house lives through them. Peace is the whole point, so they made a pact ages ago, they serve, we protect.”

Hermione opened her mouth, nothing came out.

Cassian gave her a little shrug. “Do you know Dobby?”

She nodded.

Cassian clicked his tongue. “Good. Dobby.”

A sharp crack. A tiny blur of tea‑towel and nerves appeared.

“Professor Rosier!” Dobby squeaked, bouncing on his toes.

Cassian smiled. “Dobby, you’re a free elf, right?”

“Yes,” Dobby said proudly. “Dobby is a free elf.”

“Brilliant.” Cassian gestured at the kitchen around them. “So what’re you doing in Hogwarts?”

Dobby tilted his head. “Working. I gets paid.”

Cassian nodded. “And why’re you doing elf‑work?”

Dobby froze. Fully. Like someone had unplugged him.

“House‑elves can’t do anything else,” he whispered.

Cassian reached out and gave the top of his head a quick pat. “Cheers, Dobby. Sorry for the bother.”

Dobby bowed low, then vanished with another crack.

Cassian turned back to Hermione.

She looked gutted. Like someone had walked over her blueprint for a better world.

Neville hovered near the wall, pretending to read the spice labels within a painting.

Cassian spread his hands.

Hermione pressed her lips together. “But… but they could be more. They should be more.”

Cassian shrugged. “Maybe. And maybe one day they will. I’m not saying the world’s perfect. I am saying you can’t bulldoze creatures into living the way you think they ought to.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened.

Cassian pushed on. “And before you say it, yes, I agree they should be treated fairly. Cruelty and orders that hurt them mustn’t exist, no one should be treating them like furniture. I’ll back that. Gladly.”

Hermione leaned in. “But they’re enslaved-“

“Hold that thought,” Cassian cut in. “Did you know Dobby saves every Knut he earns to buy Mr Potter things?”

Neville blinked. “He does?”

“Oh yes,” Cassian said, nodding. “He’s got a stash the size of my desk drawer. Buys Harry socks, books, snacks, whatever he can think of. He doesn’t even know what else to spend money on. Headmaster agreed to pay him because the idea of refusing made him itch. If the others came asking, he’d pay them too.”

Hermione paused. “He would?”

“If they want it,” Cassian said. “He’s not a bad man. Well… jury’s out on the sherbet lemon addiction, but the rest is all right-ish.”

Neville snorted under his breath.

Cassian lifted a hand. “But listen properly, because this bit matters. If you try to shove elves into a life they don’t want, you won’t be helping them. You’ll be ripping them out of the one thing that gives their magic stability. They’re sentient. They choose service. You can’t be offended on their behalf.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “I’m not offended. I’m trying to help.”

“That’s the trap,” Cassian said, softer this time. “Thinking you know better. Thinking your morals outrank their instincts. That’s the same ladder the people who hurt them stand on, ‘I know what’s best.’ Different direction, same root. It comes from the arrogance of false superiority.”

He held Hermione’s stare. “They’re not pets. They’re not children. They’re not props. They know what they are, what they’re built for, and what happens when that bond breaks. If you want better treatment for them, fine. I’m with you. If you want to free them all at wand‑point… you’ll have me in your way.”

Hermione’s shoulders dipped. Like her thoughts were crowding each other and she didn’t know which one to grab.

Cassian stepped back from the door. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. Kitchens are warm, but I’m not holding a lecture between the soup pots.”

She didn’t move.

Neville nudged her gently. “Hermione… you all right?”

Her voice came out small. “I wanted it to be simple.”

Cassian exhaled. “Nothing in this castle is simple. Especially not the bits older than the plumbing.”

(Check Here)

Some minds are like bottomless wells. Because no one ever heard a splash.

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