Hob’s Fíon Milis Earraigh
Co. Cork, Ireland
May 21 2018

House elves weren't always part of groundbreakings this way. It was less a ground breaking and more of a ground returning, as far as Dingleheimer was concerned. He'd tried to back out of doing the speech, too, although Posey and Throp had out vetoed him. Voted. Dinghee had supported Tannin, who was elf about the winery who knew the most of the central craft.

But it was a small gathering. Mainly elves, not a human to be seen, as it was a personal celebration. After all, most of Hob Mil was built to scale for elven height rather than wixen. The showroom was the only space an average man could avoid banging his head on the ceiling. On the outside, the slightly reduced building had a similar layout to Kilcrea Friary, albeit a copy restored to its former glory rather than the ruin near Ovens.

Dingleheimer did one last shine on a gleaming, pristine cooking pot before setting it back on his head. House elves with their own clothes were always making sure they were well cared for (outside of stories he'd heard from Hogwarts on Winky) and the newfound sommelier's clothes were as pristine when Mistress Darla had sewn them. Dinghee was dressed in a smart tweed suit with brown and orange plaid, sturdy boots, and an orange bow tie for accent.

"Speech! Speech a'fore the digging!"

Dinghee hummed in a soundless way that was the antithesis of music. He had never figured out how to whistle. It had been long enough waiting. He coughed.

"Friends, elves," the elf began, "Dingleheimer knows this be a tremendous responsibility. And opportunity. We have seen what we have been able to craft from our own hands. Freed from bondage, manifest...manifesters...purveyors," and there went his notes. Stenography had been much simpler when he was just writing things for others. "...elves making our own destiny."

"Before, there was nothing 'ere, and now it brims forth with the fruits of our labors." The angled grey stone building sat at a right angle, covered in trailing veins and well varnished window shutters. Nestled against the hill, one could stand in the shadow of the building and see all of the green that had been returned. The berry gardens, vegetable plots, and apiary. You could hear the trickling brook from spring nearby, and the few lines of their first grapes stretched away towards the southeast. The best found flowers had been gathered for ornamentation, along with a garland around the main building that Bunghole had to be untangled from before the small assembly gathered.

"From roles we have chosen for ourselves, no longer beholden to cruel masters or mistresses. Even founders and not so unknown investors." Dinghee's own parents, Dollop and Dimple, had come from time off assisting the Hogwarts healer, Ms. Sage. With well wishes from Tipper, the not so secret investor being the richest elf Dinghee had ever known. It was a small but noted category. "Dingleheimer knows there are many at the trade better than he. Dollop and Dimple taught him everything to know. And Tannin has perfected every recipe. Throp manages the cellars and Posey does fantastic bottling. While Bunghole is a hard worker."

"Or hardly working!" which was quite the jeer in this group of beings.

"Duties we all share," Dinghee coughed, trying to save some shred of dignity for the youngest, klutzy elf. He didn't have much. "Much as Dingleheimer takes the most time to sell wines to happy patrons, for that we--"

He trailed off, spying something on the corner of the roof. Silvery, shaped like a siamese cat, faintly glowing in the shadow of the chimney. Dinghee's eyes grew wide with surprise. An awkward half-silence filled with the buzzing of insects and distant birdcalls.

Looking back at the group, looking back at him, Dinghee quickly recovered. "But Dingleheimer has spoken long enough. We have done well with our berry wines and meads. Today, we unearth the first batch of our white grapes we buried four years ago. May it mark a new chapter of prosperity for all."

Polite clapping followed. Dinghee kept an eye towards the roof, where the silvery cat clambered along the shingles. "Dinghee has forgotten to check on something," he said, setting off his shovel with some magic. Throp, Bunghole and Posey would dig up the vessels soon enough.

With a pop Dinghee was on top of the roof, looking for any sign of the silvery cat. A patronus, but it had vanished. He spotted something which didn't belong on a roof. He walked closer.

There was a pair of fresh woolen socks in a bright copper skillet. All tied together in a green ribbon.

Old emotions had Dinghee reach for his pocket square. He'd wisened up to keeping his own handkerchiefs, or else he'd be making a very poor excuse to go and clean his shirt. After the curious, loud honking of his sneeze into the cloth punctuated his soiling of the pocket square. As he bent to pick up the gift, there was a startled nose from those around the hole.

Dinghee popped back down to the ground, setting aside the skillet. "What's got everyone sounding so concerned?"

Throp mumbled in discontent. "The white wine is orange."

The first of the earthenware amphorae had been cracked open. They had saved up for a brilliant crystal cut bowl to display what should have been their first white whine. Only it was an amber color not too far off from Dinghee's bowtie.

"It's not ruined is it?" Dinghee asked.

Tannin, an older elf, trained his monocle on the amber wine. His nose was the most skilled of everyone's, although there was a slight gasp as he took a pipette from his jacket. The smallest drip was put on his tongue to taste.

"White grapes, but they were held with the seeds and peels for too long. More tannins than what white should have. But it be salvageable."

A small relief, although soon the rest of the winery elves was looking at their junior member. "Throp recalls Bunghole was supposed to finish peeling the grapes."

"It be a Bung'd up job," Posey sighed with a squeak.

"No 'un told Bunghole when to remove the skins!"