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As it would happen, the sound of a shriek at Hogwarts Castle isn’t unheard of, especially as at the very least a quarter of the residents happen to be ghouls, ghosts, and even a poltergeist. And one must not forget that the inhabitants of the moving portraits are not exactly known for being quiet.
What is unheard of is the sound of a Hogwarts House Elf screeching, as it is incongruent with one of the aspects that they take most pride in; not being seen nor heard in completing their work.
But so it was on the early morning after the feast of Halloween, after the Azkaban escapee, Sirius Black, had attempted to break into the Gryffindor Common Room, the sound of a shrieking, wailing House-Elf had sent a chill down the spines of all the students and staff huddled in the Great Hall.
And as quickly as their nervous systems had been activated, a low thrumming murmur of voices rose spreading theories and creating rumors.
“Do you think Black struck somewhere, or actually got someone else?” Harry croaked sleepily to Ronald Weasley.
Who happened to have slept through it, however Harry being the best of friends, reached out with a foot to give a nice strong and swift kick, causing Ron to choke on a snore and fumble in the worn mummy bag he had been wrapped in.
“I’dunno,” he had responded, unhelpfully, as soon as he’d been updated, “you’ll have to try and call for Dobby and ask him. That is if they ever let us out. Although I suspect it would’ve had to have been a house elf for ‘em to be whinging so loudly as you said. Ow, bloody ‘ell! What’s that for?!” he grunted, while rubbing at the crown of his head, as Hermione had managed to maneuver her own sleeping bag near them.
“Don’t be so insensitive, someone may have very well have died this time,” she whispered harshly. Then her curiosity got the best of her, “Hogwarts has house-elves?”
And upon learning about the supposed symbiotic magical system in place betwixt Wizard-kind and the elves, another shriek could be heard, albeit, not as loud as it had been slightly muffled by a pillow.
-🔍-
By lunch in the Great Hall, classes cancelled without an announcement, speculation was at an all time high. And not unlike the previous year with the business of the Chamber and its Heir, students gave Harry a wide berth, and all the blame.
Which was just as well, as the lot began to become even more stir-crazed; the grandroom feeling smaller than usual, despite the enchanted ceiling projected to be a bright sunny and open sky to counteract the dark weather, beating against the window panes.
“Do you… do you think it could’ve been a teacher?” Hermione suggested more than asked, her voice smaller than usual having skipped breakfast and now lunch, she fiddled with a thin gold chain near the collar of her unruly uniform.
“Perhaps. I don’t know much. But it had to have been serious, possibly the Dementors got out of hand, for Dumbledore to not've said something about it by now. Cause it had to have been more than an elf,” Ron stated the last part firmly then winced, braced for impact that didn’t come.
“I wish I had my cloak with me, I don’t like just sitting here and waiting.”
“I don’t care for not having access to the library. I can’t even research to see if this is standard or not about the outrageous abuse of our fellow magical creatures.”
“Afternoon, Potter.”
“Granger.”
“Ronnikins.”
“Mind if we borrow persona-non-grata,” Fred or George stated, as they each took ahold of Harry’s arms.
Ron grunted an, “Oy!” of frustration as his brothers dragged his friend away towards the empty staff dias.
“Step towards our office”
“We only need a brief chat.”
“Do you by chance have it, with you?”
Mystified, Harry rolled his shoulders, the question bounced around between his focus on Black, dementors, and a potential murder. He casually takes off his glasses, cleaning them. A stall tactic to gather his thoughts, “the map, right?”
“Shhhhh…”
“Close quarters, ya know.”
“Unfortunately, not—” He didn’t have the opportunity to explain further before the twins throw their hands up and walked away.
The air growing even thicker and more tetchy.
But at least not colder.
-🔍-
Dinner.
Still no word.
The room almost unbearably hot.
And the meal had left something to be desired, for some. Not that Hermione would take part in it. Having discovered the unpaid labour that took to create the elaborate meals, she proceeded with her hunger strike.
A worse time could not have been chosen. As tempers were at an all time high, and besides the timely arrival of meals, there was no order to be had, despite Percy Weasley's consistent reminder that he was in fact Head Boy, mostly to his own kin. And between argument among the house tables, and their own prefects, and ever growing pitch of first years crying. The Great hall was practically deafening.
“Oy, Weasley!” Draco Malfoy, decided now was the time, to be, well, him. “Did your Mother decide to supplement your father’s wages by cooking for Hogwarts now. It’s utter rubbish!”
Malfoy hadn't had the opportunity to continue his long thought out insult on Harry’s lack of mother before two of the five Weasley's, you’d be surprise by which two, one may or may not have been a twin, had struck.
And with lack of the aforementioned supervision and drawn out descriptions of building tensions , after a breif moment of silence...chaos ensued, ruptured, unleashed, in the form of murder.
Well, not really, just a food fight.
Either way, Hermione had had enough. As a glob of potatoes had landed dangerously close to her mouth and the fragrant salty goodness only a tongue flick away, she stood upon the table, hair crackling blue-sparks, unleashing a loud sound from her raised wand, almost like a gun shot.
“ENOUGH!” she panted, “Their could be someone dead, or worse. And you lot are wasting precious resources created by slave labour! You should be ashamed of yourselves! GET OFF YOUR ARSES AND CLEAN IT UP, NOW!” she jumped down from the table. Still fuming and a bit unbalanced from low-blood sugar, and rushed toward the hall doors. Only for them to be opened with an astonished Professor McGonagall clutching at her chest, Professor Lupin with his brows raised, an affronted Professor Snape, and an eye twinkling Headmaster Dumbledore.
Clearing her throat, “May I be excused,” as an after thought, “Professors?”
-🔍-
Hermione had not been excused.
However, the school had learned, for the most part of what had happened.
It was in fact a House-elf.
And Ron was also, correct. The entire day wasn’t disrupted because the death of an elf but on the how.
“A gun? Here? At Hogwarts? In the UK?!” Hermione had said throwing herself back in a huff, against the foot board of Harry’s bed, arms crossed against her scarlet robe. Much to the bemused expressions of Ron and Harry’s dormmates, Dean, Neville, and Seamus.
They had all been ordered to return to their dorms as classes were to resume, and been ordered to stay silent on the matter. Which could’ve been a more easy task for houses like Slytherin, as they would not be as familiar with something as primitive, as clumsy as a revolver, compared to the more civilized, refined weapon, that is a wand.
However, commanding silence was a license to have it discussed.
“That’s exactly what I said!” Dean piped in.
“I don’t understand it. And they don’t know for certain if it was Sirius Black or not," wondered Harry.
“Why do you think he was in the kitchens?”
“I heard Filch had found the elf near the Hufflepuff dorms,” Neville chimed tucking a candlestick away.
“That’s where the kitchens are! Shite for brains yer are.”
“Boys,” Hermione grumbled, playing with that thin gold chain again.
“Someone said it was a silver bullet.”
“Like for werewolves?”
“What’s a bullet?”
“You know, Harry, we could maybe find out exactly what happened,” Hermione, had thought she murmured it low enough, when she realized they were all paying attention to her. “Nevermind, I just thought,” she carefully rolled out of his bed, “May I borrow that one thing though. I think I misplaced my cloak.”
Harry squints his eyes suspiciously before agreeing to it.
-⏳️-
Hunger and a disrupted sleep pattern may lead to poor decisions. Hermione was in the found out stage of her hunger strike, having used the cloak from Harry, and the time-turner issued to her by Professor McGonagall.
The scent of freshly baked bread guided or misguided her as it were, to the portrait of the ticklish pear. Not Gryffindor bravery, or that Slytherin ambition that she carried.
Although, she really had meant to use it, the time-turner, to make up for the loss of precious Library time. But if she happened to be able to solve the mystery of what happened to the revolver; which if she had been playing a game a time-turner would certainly be considered cheating, but the scent of the yeasty bread distracted her from that line of thought.
Perhaps a small morsel of it, and maybe a bowl of soup, to help her study, well all the better.
However, the way the crime scene played out in front of her, it was like being hit in the head with a lead pipe… had she known she wouldn’t have done it and now she had majorly spoiled it.
-🔎-
Wigby was an excellent, “Dessert Master,” and rarely strayed from sweets. However, the unwanted guest in the kitchen had been simmering something that had an odd odor to it. Wigby couldn’t quite put their finger to it. It smelt almost like Jasmine but not. And when the guest had failed or forgotten to vanish a few of the green leaves with florals, Wigby couldn’t help but, look.
It almost looked like ramsons; wild garlic.
But didn’t smell anything like it.
It smelt sweet and spicy, almost like Jasmine but, no.
It was... Wigby could almost recall being told its name.
Just when they thought it, and cried out “Poison!,” it went dark.
Then bright.
Wigby was only able to disapparate just outside the portrait door, before it went forever dark.
-⏳️-
Clutched in the hand of the poor elf was some greenery, and a white bell flower, splattered red, Hermione knew it by a few names, Convallaria- majalis or lily-of-the-valley.
-🔎-
Damned elf.
Damned stupid elf
He didn’t even know why he pulled it.
He could have obliviated the damned creature.
He only carried it, his father’s revolver, since the Headmaster had allowed, had hired Lupin to teach.
He scoffed out loud.
It was trigger reflex.
At being caught out by the damned elf.
It’s not as if the damned flower would’ve killed anyone.
Poisonous or not.
He had, more, creative brews of poisons and potions in his personal store, had he actually wanted to maim or kill, Lupin.
He could’ve easily have tampered with his wolfsbane.
But this one was more poetic. Lily-of-the-valley, Our Lady’s tears.
Especially if Lupin had been sharing meals with Black as he suspected.
It wouldn’t have killed them.
Just would have been humiliating.
No less than they deserved.
A small stomach upset, maybe make them a little green perhaps. Mr. Green. Perhaps a small heart attack, nothing compared too… what they did!
But that damned elf!
Sticking its nose where it didn’t belong!
And his damned muggle-father-given-anger.
Vanishing the contents of incriminating soup, Professor Severus Snape stepped out of the kitchen, tucking the magically silenced Revolver into the holster at his back. Stepping over the elf, he magically rebuttoned his robes and swooped toward the dungeons.
He had damage control to do.
A Headmaster to beguile, a werewolf to trap, and the traitor to kill.
Perhaps also in the kitchen, with the revolver.