Freedom 55

Today is Ter’s birthday. She doesn’t want a splashy celebration—just a quiet day with a road trip to Sidney-by-the-Sea and lunch out—but I may have given her the greatest gift ever.

Freedom.

See, she’s been my house elf since we discovered, courtesy of the Harry Potter stories, that such things exist. For countless years, Ter has ensured that I am fed, chauffeured, and generally cared for/catered to while I go about pursuing my own self interests. We joke about me being her master (yeah, right), and she plays at cowering whenever something goes hilariously awry and I give her The Look.

According to the Potter tales, house elves often punish themselves. It’s a perfect setup, really, as I don’t even have to slam her ears in the oven door. She’ll do it herself and spare me the effort.

Or, she did. Once. Before I accidentally freed her.

While dressing for work on Wednesday, I poked a toe through my sock. Switching feet sort of took care of the problem, but Ter refused to let me go the distance in faulty footwear. “Don’t you have another pair of black socks?”

I did, and I had to agree with her given that the heel of said sock was worn too thin to be comfortable in my shoe. She put out her hand as I balled up the pair in preparation to toss. “Give them to me,” she said.

Without thinking, I did.

As soon as she touched them and before I let them go, I felt it: A weird, ripple-in-the-Matrix kind of hiccup that alerted me—too late—to what I had done. Horrified, I gasped, “I think I just freed you!”

She stared back at me, equally appalled, and yet more quickly accepting. “Oh,” she said.

I struggled to find a loophole, but the rule is pretty clear. A house elf is freed when her master gives her an article of clothing. That’s why I don’t give Ter anything remotely resembling clothes, not even on laundry day. I’ll put her clean undies on the coffee table and tell her to pick them up, just in case.

I guess it’s no longer an issue.

The good news—I think—is that I’m a pretty good master and she’s been quite happy slaving away in my background. Still, as she carried my traitorous socks to the dustbin, she cheerfully declared, “Maybe we can negotiate a contract.”

I can already feel control changing hands …

Happy birthday, elf.