Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire hp-4

by J. K. Rowling

  “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.

  “We has your extra food!” squeaked an elf at Harry’s elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and some fruit into Harry’s arms. “Good-bye!”

  The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and Hermione and began shunting them out of the kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of their backs.

  “Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!” Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky.

  “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you, Hermione?” said Ron angrily as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. “They won’t want us visiting them now! We could’ve tried to get more stuff out of Winky about Crouch!”

  “Oh as if you care about that!” scoffed Hermione. “You only like coming down here for the food!”

  It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took Sirius’s food up to the Owlery that evening on his own.

  Pigwidgeon was much too small to carry an entire ham up to the mountain by himself, so Harry enlisted the help of two school screech owls as well. When they had set off into the dusk, looking extremely odd carrying the large package between them. Harry leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds, at the dark, rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest, and the rippling sails of the Durmstrang ship. An eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from Hagrid’s chimney; it soared toward the castle, around the Owlery, and out of sight. Looking down, Harry saw Hagrid digging energetically in front of his cabin. Harry wondered what he was doing; it looked as though he were making a new vegetable patch. As he watched, Madame Maxime emerged from the Beauxbatons carriage and walked over to Hagrid. She appeared to be trying to engage him in conversation. Hagrid leaned upon his spade, but did not seem keen to prolong their talk, because Madame Maxime returned to the carriage shortly afterward.

  Unwilling to go back to Gryffindor Tower and listen to Ron and Hermione snarling at each other, Harry watched Hagrid digging until the darkness swallowed him and the owls around Harry began to awake, swooshing past him into the night.

  By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad moods had burnt out, and to Harry’s relief, Ron’s dark predictions that the house-elves would send substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because Hermione had insulted them proved false; the bacon, eggs, and kippers were quite as good as usual.

  When the post owls arrived, Hermione looked up eagerly; she seemed to be expecting something.

  “Percy won’t’ve had time to answer yet,” said Ron. “We only sent Hedwig yesterday.”

  “No, it’s not that,” said Hermione. “I’ve taken out a subscription to the Daily Prophet. I’m getting sick of finding everything out from the Slytherins.”

  “Good thinking!” said Harry, also looking up at the owls. “Hey, Hermione, I think you’re in luck—”

  A gray owl was soaring down toward Hermione.

  “It hasn’t got a newspaper, though,” she said, looking disappointed. “It’s—”

  But to her bewilderment, the gray owl landed in front of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a brown owl, and a tawny.

  “How many subscriptions did you take out?” said Harry, seizing Hermione’s goblet before it was knocked
over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter first.

  “What on earth—?” Hermione said, taking the letter from the gray owl, opening it, and starting to read. “Oh really!” she sputtered, going rather red.

  “What’s up?” said Ron.

  “It’s—oh—how ridiculous—”

  She thrust the letter at Harry, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.

  YOU ARE A WICKED GIRL. HARRY POTTER DESERVES BETTER. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM MUGGLE.

  “They’re all like it!” said Hermione desperately, opening one letter after another. “‘Harry Potter can do much better than the likes of you…’ ‘You deserve to be boiled in frog spawn…’ Ouch!”

  She had opened the last envelope, and yellowish green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over her hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils.

  “Undiluted bubotuber pus!” said Ron, picking up the envelope gingerly and sniffing it.

  “Ow!” said Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she tried to rub the pus off her hands with a napkin, but her fingers were now so thickly covered in painful sores that it looked as though she were wearing a pair of thick, knobbly gloves.

  “You’d better get up to the hospital wing,” said Harry as the owls around Hermione took flight. “We’ll tell Professor Sprout where you’ve gone…”

  “I warned her!” said Ron as Hermione hurried out of the Great Hall, cradling her hands. “I warned her not to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one…” He read out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: “‘I read In Witch Weekly about how you are playing Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next post as soon as I can find a big enough envelope.’ Blimey, she’d better watch out for herself.”

  Hermione didn’t turn up for Herbology. As Harry and Ron left the greenhouse for their Care of Magical Creatures class, they saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle descending the stone steps of the castle. Pansy Parkinson was whispering and giggling behind them with her gang of Slytherin girls. Catching sight of Harry, Pansy called, “Potter, have you split up with your girlfriend? Why was she so upset at breakfast?”

  Harry ignored her; he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much trouble the Witch Weekly article had caused.

  Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his feet. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the crates—surely not another skrewt hatching?—but when he got near enough to see inside, he found himself looking at a number of flurry black creatures with long snouts. Their front paws were curiously flat, like spades, and they were blinking up at the class, looking politely puzzled at all the attention.

  “These’re nifflers,” said Hagrid, when the class had gathered around. “Yeh find ’em down mines mostly. They like sparkly stuff… There yeh go, look.”

  One of the nifflers had suddenly leapt up and attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson’s watch off her wrist. She shrieked and jumped backward.

  “Useful little treasure detectors,” said Hagrid happily. “Thought we’d have some fun with ’em today. See over there?” He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned earth Harry had watched him digging from the Owlery window. “I’ve buried some gold coins. I’ve got a prize fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus’ take off all yer valuables, an’ choose a niffler, an get ready ter set ’em loose.”

  Harry took off his watch, which he was only wearing out of habit, as it didn’t work anymore, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put its long snout in Harry’s ear and sniffed enthusiastically. It was really quite cuddly.

  “Hang on,” said Hagrid, looking down into the crate, “there’s a spare niffler here… who’s missin? Where’s Hermione?”

  “She had to go to the hospital wing,” said Ron.

  “We’ll explain later,” Harry muttered; Pansy Parkinson was listening.

  It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of the patch of earth as though it were water, each scurrying back to the student who had released it and spitting gold into their hands. Ron’s was particularly efficient; it had soon filled his lap with coins.

  “Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?” he asked excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil, splattering his robes.

  “Yer mum wouldn’ be happy, Ron,” said Hagrid, grinning. “They wreck houses, nifflers. I reckon they’ve nearly got the lot, now,” he added, pacing around the patch of earth while the nifflers continued to dive. “I on’y buried a hundred coins. Oh there y’are, Hermione!”

  Hermione was walking toward them across the lawn. Her hands were very heavily bandaged and she looked miserable. Pansy Parkinson was watching her beadily.

  “Well, let’s check how yeh’ve done!” said Hagrid. “Count yer coins! An’ there’s no point tryin’ ter steal any, Goyle,” he added, his beetle-black eyes narrowed. “It’s leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few hours.”

  Goyle emptied his pockets, looking extremely sulky. It turned out that Ron’s niffler had been most successful, so Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell rang across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set off back to the castle, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione stayed behind to help Hagrid put the nifflers back in their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching them out other carriage window.

  “What yeh done ter your hands, Hermione?” said Hagrid, looking concerned.

  Hermione told him about the hate mail she had received that morning, and the envelope full of bubotuber pus.

  “Aaah, don worry,” said Hagrid gently, looking down at her. “I got some o’ those letters an all, after Rita Skeeter wrote abou me mum. ‘Yeh’re a monster an yeh should be put down.’ ‘Yer mother killed innocent people an if you had any decency you’d jump in a lake.’”

  “No!” said Hermione, looking shocked.

  “Yeah,” said Hagrid, heaving the niffler crates over by his cabin wall. “They’re jus’ nutters, Hermione. Don’ open ’em if yeh get any more. Chuck ’em straigh’ in the fire.”

  “You missed a really good lesson,” Harry told Hermione as they headed back toward the castle. “They’re good, nifflers, aren’t they, Ron?”

  Ron, however, was frowning at the chocolate Hagrid had given him. He looked thoroughly put out about something.

  “What’s the matter?” said Harry. “Wrong flavor?”

  “No,” said Ron shortly. “Why didn’t you tell me about the gold?”

  “What gold?” said Harry.

  “The gold I gave you at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Ron. “The leprechaun gold I gave you for my Omnioculars. In the Top Box. Why didn’t you tell me it disappeared?”

  Harry had to think for a moment before he realized what Ron was talking about.

  “Oh…” he said, the memory coming back to him at last. “I dunno… I never noticed it had gone. I was more worried about my wand, wasn’t I?”

  They climbed the steps into the entrance hall and went into the Great Hall for lunch.

  “Must be nice,” Ron said abruptly, when they had sat down and started serving themselves roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. “To have so much money you don’t notice if a pocketful of Galleons goes missing.”

  “Listen, I had other stuff on my mind that night!” said Harry impatiently. “We all did, remember?”

  “I didn’t know leprechaun gold vanishes,” Ron muttered. “I thought I was paying you back. You shouldn’t’ve given me that Chudley Cannon hat for Christmas.”

  “Forget it, all right?” said Harry.

  Ron speared a roast potato on the end of his fork, glaring at it. Then he said, “I hate being poor.”

  Harry and Hermione looked at each other
. Neither of them really knew what to say.

  “It’s rubbish,” said Ron, still glaring down at his potato. “I don’t blame Fred and George for trying to make some extra money. Wish I could. Wish I had a niffler.”

  “Well, we know what to get you next Christmas,” said Hermione brightly. Then, when Ron continued to look gloomy, she said, “Come on, Ron, it could be worse. At least your fingers aren’t full of pus.” Hermione was having a lot of difficulty managing her knife and fork, her fingers were so stiff and swollen. “I hate that Skeeter woman!” she burst out savagely. “I’ll get her back for this if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Hate mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the following week, and although she followed Hagrid’s advice and stopped opening it, several of her ill wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the Gryffindor table and shrieked insults at her for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn’t read Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Harry—Krum—Hermione triangle now. Harry was getting sick of telling people that Hermione wasn’t his girlfriend.

  “It’ll die down, though,” he told Hermione, “if we just ignore it… People got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time—”

  “I want to know how she’s listening into private conversations when she’s supposed to be banned from the grounds!” said Hermione angrily.

  Hermione hung back in their next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody something. The rest of the class was very eager to leave; Moody had given them such a rigorous test of hex deflection that many of them were nursing small injuries. Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, he had to hold his hands clamped over them as he walked away from the class.

  “Well, Rita’s definitely not using an Invisibility Cloak!” Hermione panted five minutes later, catching up with Harry and Ron in the entrance hall and pulling Harry’s hand away from one of his wiggling ears so that he could hear her. “Moody says he didn’t see her anywhere near the judges’ table at the second task, or anywhere near the lake!”

  “Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop this?” said Ron.