"The House Elves."
Down past the clattering kitchens, beyond the fruit painting (tickle the pear, don’t be shy), and through a warm maze of copper pans and spiced pumpkin bread, the Hogwarts house-elves were deep in a midnight gossip session.
“I heard it again,” whispered Tipple, eyes wide as soup bowls. “Snape stormed out of the dungeons last night like a bludger to the head.”
“Mmhmm,” said Dilly, stirring a cauldron-sized bowl of treacle tart batter. “Master Lucius visited again, didn’t he? Always does when the moon’s feeling moody.”
“And leaves when the air feels cursed,” added Breezle, perched atop a stack of clean linens, sipping hot cider out of a thimble. “Last time, I saw Professor Snape kneeling in the dark by his bed, muttering ‘get out, get out, get out’ like he was hexing a memory.”
They all paused. Unspoken rule: don’t talk about Severus’s room too long. It remembers.
“Oh but Lucius,” swooned Peep, the youngest elf with floppy ears and a dangerous curiosity. “He walks into Hogwarts like he owns the stones. The portraits whisper behind him. Even the gargoyles shiver when he passes.”
“That’s because he smells like crushed roses and bad decisions,” muttered Glint, folding napkins at lightning speed.
Tipple nodded knowingly. “And because he looks at Severus like he wants to wear his skin like a coat.”
“Shhh!” said half the kitchen at once.
Later, while refilling the goblets in the Slytherin common room, Dilly caught the tail end of a look. Lucius. Severus. Across the stone hall. A second too long.
“They’re gonna snap,” she whispered to the air.
“Or kiss,” said the Slytherin fireplace, crackling in agreement.
Back in the kitchen, the elves had begun a betting pool.
1 Galleon on Lucius confessing with a dramatic poem.
2 Sickles on Severus slapping him with a potion bottle first.
4 Knuts on Narcissa showing up with divorce papers and tea.
But no matter what they bet, they all agreed:
“This is not gonna end clean,” said Tipple, wringing out a tea towel. “Too much fire. Too much silence.”
“Too much Lucius,” Glint muttered.
“Too much Severus,” Breezle added.
The enchanted ladles nodded solemnly.