Early was a House Elf. A happy House Elf, if anyone had cared to ask, which they did not. Wizards seldom noticed her kind, unless it was in relation to a cup of tea or a late-night sandwich, but this had never troubled Early, who had heard the horror stories of House Elves from Outside, where notice came more in the form of 'Oh, there's Dobby. Give him a kick'. By comparison, obscurity held a powerful attraction.

Even without such cautionary tales, the ethos of the Elves was subtlety. We go by quiet and secret ways. The Goblins looked down on them, she knew, proud, surly, clever creatures with long, skilled fingers and sneering ways, but wasn't there also pride to be taken in swiftness and silence, in a task neatly and promptly performed? Let the Goblins mutter and grumble, and carry on their feuds and grudges for all the good that it did them. The wizards were creatures of habit, and it would take something more powerful than sour looks and snide remarks to change the way they treated Goblins, or House Elves. A full-scale rebellion...

Stirring herself from her reverie, she looked down at the tray floating before her, checking its contents with care, despite knowing perfectly well that all was in order. She was a House Elf, ergo she checked, and would have done so even if the tray's only cargo had been a single glass of water. It wasn't, of course - there was a staff meeting due to begin shortly and a crowd of cups jostled and clinked; to Early the small sounds were homely and eager, the assorted vessels keen to fulfil their purpose.

In the centre of the tray, towering over its neighbours, the two-handled earthenware mug that belonged to Rubeus Hagrid filled itself at her command, a bubbling, savoury-smelling concoction, made to the professor's own recipe. If it had a name, she did not know it, only that - in Professor Hagrid's words - "It'd put hairs on yer chest, tha' stuff." Large though the professor was, Early wasn't entirely sure that there was room on his chest for any more hair - quite aside from the giant influence, there was speculation amongst the Elves that a bear had figured somewhere in the shambling wizard's ancestry. Possibly several. She lifted the mug in both hands, placing it reverently on the table beside Hagrid's enormous chair, then turned back to the tray.

Professor McGonagall's cup was delicate bone-china with an elaborately arched handle and a thin pattern of blue-and-green tartan around the rim. Early admired it for a moment before giving it the nod - tea, fragrant and pale-gold, welled up to just beneath the decorative band. The House Elf put some careful consideration into arranging two shortbread fingers just so, not wanting to obscure too much of the matching pattern that ran around the edge of the saucer, and she carried the cup and saucer to the long, low coffee table that was the focal point of several chairs and a threadbare, unashamedly chintzy sofa. While free from any signs of tartan, Professor McGonagall's chair distinguished itself by being one of the only two in the room liberally adorned with claw-marks...

At this end of the sofa, the cushions were squashed and somewhat grubby, in spite of a hundred assorted cleaning charms and liberal applications of Magical Mess Remover. Pomona Sprout was an earthy soul in every sense, and even if she had been away from the greenhouses for most of the day, she usually managed to leave her mark. Early had come to the conclusion that the Hogwarts soil simply loved the plump witch, and wanted to be with her wherever she went. Strong, unsweetened tea for Professor Sprout, served in a sturdy cup glazed with a pattern of daisies, and the biscuit tin placed close at hand. There was no point delicately arranging biscuits for her - Early had learned this quite soon after she had been old enough to serve in the staffroom. Professor Sprout could go through a regiment of carefully layered chocolate digestives like a shark through a goldfish bowl, although with marginally less thrashing.

Next along the table, elegant and ethereal beside the cheerful solidity of Pomona's cup, a straight-sided glass mug engraved with scrolling, feathery designs awaited Professor Flitwick. This was Early's favourite cup; the clarity of the glass made it seem as if the tea was captured in a filigree cage. She liked to see the deep amber tea pouring itself out of nowhere, infused by the firelight with a barley-sugar glow, and only her sense of duty kept her from admiring it until the staff arrived. Professor Flitwick required a single spoonful of sugar and a thin slice of lemon, and his biscuit of choice - a ginger Knut, was placed with precision directly beside the mug, safe from the predations of the Herbology professor. Well, reasonably safe.

Early reluctantly tore her gaze away from the glass and set down a tiny periwinkle-blue cup so that it was in reach of the less grimy end of the sofa. A soft hissing sound accompanied the arrival of a small measure of syrupy-strong black coffee, and the air immediately above the rim began to shimmer with a volcanic haze. This would be Irma Pince's third of the day, her fondness for kávé és aprósütemények doing nothing to sweeten her abrupt and brittle temper. It was a wonder, Early reflected, as she tweaked the pile of sticky pastry swirls into a more pleasing arrangement, that the witch managed to remain rail-thin in defiance of all that sugar. The job of a librarian, after all, was quite sedentary, wasn't it? On the other hand, anyone who could manage three cups of strong Hungarian coffee before eleven o'clock probably spent most of their free time buzzing around like a demented housefly...

Blushing, she glanced around as if someone might have overheard her thought, and she slapped herself on the wrist. Thinking of a Hogwarts teacher with such disrespect - Early, you're a caution, you are. It wasn't a very hard slap, though, and in her heart of hearts, the idea of the skinny witch scuttling from shelf to shelf with an armload of books and a manic look in her eyes was too amusing to make her feel truly remorseful. Early found that she quite often entertained thoughts about the staff, and the students - and other House Elves, for that matter - that were distinctly un-House Elf-like. To begin with, she'd dutifully admonished herself - an impassioned, severe talking-to, or a long, hard look in the mirror, where she could not hide her chagrin. Nothing more than that, though - Dobby was a bit of an oddity amongst the Hogwarts House Elves, who regarded his history of violent self-flagellation as an unpleasant reminder of the perils lying in wait for Elves condemned to serve a Bad House.

Over time, and wrestling with the deep-rooted conscience that was the core and curse of every House Elf, Early had learned to distinguish between having an opinion and neglecting her duty. That wasn't to say that she didn't suffer a twinge of guilt if she had a critical thought, or made an unflattering observation about one of her many masters, but she'd come to a satisfactory arrangement: so long as she did her duty with every ounce of diligence she could muster, it was permissible to think of Argus Filch as a rancid old curmudgeon in the privacy of her thoughts and get away with no more than a stern "Oh Early!"

A lump of wood shifted in the fireplace, and she jumped, glancing towards the clock on the mantel. Almost half-past ten - they'd be here soon! She worked briskly now, still careful, but not lingering over her work. A tall blue china mug embellished with silver for Professor Sinistra, the coffee within swirled with just enough cream to leave it a fraction of a shade lighter than her skin. No biscuits for the slender astronomer, but a carefully selected peach, sitting demurely on a small plate beside a round-handled silver knife. A heavy crystal glass of hot water with a slice of orange floating in it for Madam Hooch, along with three shocking-pink wafer biscuits. Given the animosity between these two witches, Early wasn't entirely sure that putting a knife on the table between them was a good idea. It was always possible that one more jibe from the yellow-eyed professor about 'Sicknote' Sinistra's reluctance to leave the confines of Hogwarts for a dose of healthy fresh air and daylight might cause her to snap and apply the little paring knife to Hooch's acid tongue.

Strong, sweet tea for Professors Lupin and Vector, his in a rust-coloured bisque mug with four squares of Honeydukes' best milk chocolate, hers in a floral china cup with a single Rich Tea biscuit nestling on the saucer. Early sighed. Poor Professor Lupin always looked so drawn and weary - it was a constant struggle not to slip something extra in his tea - a few drops of invigorating tincture, maybe, or a spoonful of honey. Speaking of which -

She moved around to a heavily carved armchair, the arms, seat and back padded and upholstered in deep red leather that was faded and worn soft with use. On the table nearest to this she set a majestic purple and gold cup emblazoned with the school crest, its saucer similarly adorned, and surrounded it with Albus Dumbledore's required accoutrements: a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk, and a jar of bright gold honey, a lump of thick honeycomb lurking in its depths like a delicious sea-monster. She checked the time again, then fussed with the cup, as it filled with strong, dark tea, turning it so that the handle was conveniently angled towards the chair, and spent another precious thirty seconds moving the honey jar so that it caught the firelight in a pleasing manner. There. Just right.

Two cups remained on the tray. Nothing for Argus Filch, who tended to drink his own suspicious concoctions from a bottle, half bound in greasy parcel twine, and who seldom attended staff meetings, because "Someone's got to keep an eye on the little buggers." Early didn't like that bottle - the glass was warped and lumpy, and had a milky quality that made her think of cataracts.

Nothing for Poppy Pomfrey, either, who would have her pale green tea served to her in the Hospital Wing by Ruskin, one of the oldest House Elves at Hogwarts. While the staffroom was served by any of the House Elves - the duty passing from one to the next through a tacit rota that worked entirely on some undefined instinct - individual members of staff usually found that one or two Elves would gravitate to them, collecting laundry, cleaning office and quarters, and answering their summons.

Professor Sprout had three. Comments about gravity were discouraged.

Here, then, was a paper-thin china cup with a spindly handle. Early's closest friend, Tindle, had spoken of it with almost superstitious awe, but as far as Early could see, it was just a cup. Of course, Tindle was one of the House Elves that kept Professor Trelawney in fresh scarves and clean tablecloths, so she was bound to be at least a little biased. Early stared at the cup before setting it down on a small, round table, resting the saucer on a teal-coloured square of cloth ("It helps to purify her Inner Eye," Tindle had advised her, the words tailing off into an excited squeak at the very thought of it). The inside was plain white, and the outside was glazed with an opalescent finish that was almost lost in the fire's ruddy glow. On closer inspection, she noticed that there was a fine fracture on the handle and thought two uncharitable thoughts that probably warranted more than an "Oh, Early", but she really didn't have the time.

The cup filled itself, a light rose-coloured tea with a fruity scent and, Early was careful to ensure, no leaves. Professor McGonagall had been most insistent about that.

Last one. She'd left it until last because it made her nervous. He made her nervous. Professor Snape reminded Early of the Goblins - proud and suspicious, ready to find fault and as deathly accurate with a sharp word as the Malfoys were with a well-placed boot. The rumour that rippled uneasily around the kitchens was that amongst the preserved plants and creatures that floated dreamily in their preservative liquors was a pickled House Elf, although whether the professor had bottled the poor thing himself or had acquired it from another source was a moot point. As a result, unsurprisingly, Severus Snape was one of the few members of staff without a House Elf to take personal responsibility for his errands.

The professor's chair was a little way apart from the main group, just to one side of the fire and so close to the hearth that Early couldn't see how he managed to avoid setting his severe black robes alight. The elderly wing-back chair was the legacy of the previous Head of Slytherin - a rotund, avuncular creature - and consequently there would have been room for even the matronly Professor Sprout to have had a good try at fitting herself into the space left over when Snape sat there. The mental image of Professor Sprout squidging herself comfortably down next to the Potions master with a companionable "Budge up, dear", and the answering look on his face gave Early a fit of the giggles that lasted for a good minute or so and, when she had calmed herself, she saw that there was barely another minute to go. Hurry up!

The cup that she set down on the little table nearby was dark and matte - black, perhaps, or a very dark green; Early had never dared take it out into the daylight to check. A low plinth supported the bowl, which had the unmistakeable shape of a stylised cauldron, and the underside of the large, angular handle was kicked into a shallow curve that fitted snugly between his fingers. The shallowly indented disk that served as a saucer remained innocent of biscuits. "I don't eat the wretched things. They leave crumbs everywhere" was Professor Snape's reasoning, and Early had yet to find an ulterior motive for that instruction.

Any sort of tea at all stubbornly failed to appear; this wasn't a error on Early's part but a matter of insistence by the Potions master, who complained bitterly about the quality of the brews the House Elves had timidly supplied him with in the past. It had occurred to Early quite quickly that there was nothing actually wrong with the tea they were making for him. She had watched, from a place of concealment, as Professor Snape had hung the ancient black kettle on its hook, set the pot on its warm stone in the inglenook, spooned the leaves, poured the water... With his back to the staffroom, no one could see the small, utterly serene smile he wore. That was the real reason for his permanent dissatisfaction - he enjoyed making the tea and didn't want to relinquish the small pleasure to a House Elf. Why he didn't want this to be known by the other staff was quite beyond Early, but she could see from the indulgent glances exchanged by Professors Sprout and McGonagall that his dark secret wasn't as much of a secret as he imagined.

It was a little harder to be scared of Professor Snape, knowing that. Still, she'd never breathed a word of it, not even to Tindle.

Emboldened by the memory, Early found a sudden sense of devilment was sweeping over her with the movement of the second-hand. Glancing around, a spot of lively colour burning in each cheek, she turned the cup and saucer so that the handle was pointing away from the empty chair, positioned awkwardly so that the professor would have to lean over the arm of his chair to manoeuvre the cup into a manageable position. Almost immediately, she turned it back. What if he knocked the cup over, reaching for it and spilled hot tea over his hand because of what she'd done? The idea of causing a Hogwarts teacher harm through her mischief made Early feel momentarily fretful and the empty tray floating in the middle of the room dipped queasily in response. No - something like that would be Going Too Far.

What wasn't Going Too Far? Thirty seconds...

Ohhh... she darted over to the coffee table and back to the fireside, took one last furtive look at the door, then vanished as if she was nothing more than mist blown by a strong gust of wind.

On the edge of the Potions master's saucer, perched in unassuming, chocolate-coated splendour, was a single digestive biscuit.

The House Elf rebellion had begun.