Quirly had only just begun to feel proud again. Her sock basket was upright, her sorting had been tidy, and Algamus hadn’t broomed her even once!

And then the machines began to howl.

“Oh noesies... oh dearies... not the spin-sies!” she squeaked. A shirt slapped against her ear and a couple of ties flew towards her and tangled around her elfsie limbs. Panicked, the little elf gave a squeal, flipped her own laundry basket upside down, and ducked beneath it like a frightened tortoise. “Quirly is not here! No flying clothies, thank yousies!”

One of the washing machines bumped into another, then whirled and whacked her covered form with a loud CLUNK! Unfortunately out of rage of Miss Krittikasies magic barrier, the soap-slick floor turned the upturned basket with Quirly under it into a Summoner’s Court ball mid-match at the Hogsmeade Highland Games.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!” she wailed from under the basket as she zipped across the soapy floor, picking up speed as she transitioned onto frozen ground. Her tiny form bounced once, then twice, before crashing with a FWUMPH into a tall, freshly-laundered pile of Gryffindor robes yet to be delivered to the common room that were soft, mercifully unoccupied, and scented faintly of cinnamon and boyish bravado.

The basket wobbled and tipped sideways as she poked her head out, dizzy-eyed and wide-eared.

“...Quirly is... done now. Quirly volunteers tributesies no more.”