Chronicles Of Arth: Prince Of Shadows

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer in here.

Arth, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and insuring that his head didn't wobble too much on his severed neck.

"Good evening," he said, beaming at them.

"Good evening," Replied Arth with a grin. "What terrible weather we are having today."

"I wonder when the sorting is going to begin?" Asked Ron with a sigh. "I'm bloody starving."

As if reading his mind, Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song.

(Due to massive complaints about chapter originality, I'm just going to plop the song out of the chapter, if you are curious, go read the original book.)

After the song had ended, it was time for the first years to be sorted.

To be fair, Arth had no d.e.s.i.r.e to learn all of the new first years name, for he was way to eager to see his beloved once again.

His turkey legs.

The sorting ended and Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away.

"About time," said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.

Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome.

"I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."

Seeing the students gorge themselves on food, Headless Nick sighed.

"You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," said Headless Nick. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."

"Why? Wha' 'appened?" said Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak.

"Peeves, of course," said Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. "The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast — well, it's quite out of the question, you know what he's like, utterly uncivilized, can't see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost's council — the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down."

"So what did he do in the kitchens?"

"Oh the usual," said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits —"

Hermione stopped eating and dropped her fork. She looked down to her plate horrified.

"There are house-elves here?" she said, staring, horror-struck, at Headless Nick. "Here at Hogwarts?"

"Certainly," said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."

"I've never seen one!" said Hermione.

"Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?" said Headless Nick. "They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning . . . see to the fires and so on. . . . I mean, you're not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?"

Hermione stared at him.

"But they get paid?" she said. "They get holidays, don't they? And — and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"

Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff slipped and his head fell off.

"Sick leave and pensions?" he said, putting his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her.

"Oh c'mon, 'Er-my-knee," said Ron, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. "Oops — sorry, 'Arry —" He swallowed. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself !"

"Slave labor," said Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labor."

And she refused to eat another bite.

Arth sighed.

"Just leave her alone Ron. If she doesn't want to eat then leave her alone."

Arth picked up a turkey leg and was about to dig in when Hermione scowled and slapped the leg out of his hand.

Arthur stared at his empty hand with confusion before switching his gaze towards Hermione.

"Why?"

"Don't eat. You are eating the labor of slavery."

"But I don't really care about House elves?"

"That is exactly the reason why you shouldn't be eating. You need to be made aware."

Arth frowned.

"What about Harry and Ron? Why not stop them from eating?"

"I don't care about them. They can do what they want but you need to be on my side."

"Can I at least have one turkey leg to eat-"

"No."

Hermione slapped Arth's hand that was slowly inching towards the plate of turkeys away before giving him a cold glare.

Arth sighed and resigned himself to his fate.

No turkey legs.