Chapter 186: Lestrange
Cornwall, Tintagel.
On a gloomy weekend morning, the abandoned abbey stood at the edge of the cliff, the air damp and cold, with fine drizzle like silk threads wetting the early spring flowers by the roadside.
Three figures walked along the path in the remote valley, occasionally looking up to gaze into the distance, the fine rain falling on the leaves with a slight rustle, gathering into wet traces that dripped down, making the February early spring shrubs even greener, reminding the elderly house-elf of many years ago.
Cornwall is the county at the southwestern end of England, renowned in both the wizarding world and Muggle society, with winding coastlines and mysterious mine shafts. Melvin knew it had once been a famous tin mining area. Professor Sprout always raved about the world’s largest greenhouse here, built by Muggles, named Eden.
The history of magic recorded by wizards is even more ancient and distant. Bodmin and the western highlands were home to farmers and artisans skilled in farming and metalworking. Wizards here were accustomed to paying directly with precious metals in transactions: bronze, tin, and gold.
After the Romans abandoned Britain in the Middle Ages, Normans conquered England militarily. As the Plantagenet dynasty ruled here, many wizards who had followed William I the Conqueror early on settled here, building their own manors.
According to historian Bathilda Bagshot, after the International Confederation of Wizards Secrecy Law was implemented in the 17th century《》, some wizarding families began living among tolerant Muggles, and Tintagel on the coast was such a wizarding family settlement.
Arithmancy scholar Bridget Wenlock once lived here, where she discovered the magical properties of the number seven.
Whether out of respect for Lestrange Manor or because the years were too distant, Scritch could no longer remember the exact location of the mansion. When apparating Melvin and Dobby there, he set the landing point outside the valley, making them walk a stretch themselves.
“Dobby, has Lucius told you everything?” Melvin asked, stepping on the wet soft mud.
“Yes, Mister…”
Dobby’s voice was shrill, but his tone could not hide his dejection.
Compared to the aged Scritch, his appearance was much more spry. Gray-green young house-elf skin clung to his bones, presenting a taut and elastic texture. Two round bulging large eyeballs, moist and full of emotion. Bat-wing-like ears where veins were visible. He was wrapped in an old curtain.
“Mr. Malfoy instructed me to deliver the invitation and myself to Hogwarts, into your hands. From today, you are my new master.” Dobby looked dejected.
Scritch nearby cast a disdainful glance, and Dobby’s head drooped even lower.
“You don’t seem very happy. Do you want to stay at Malfoy Manor, or do I embarrass you?” Melvin looked at him somewhat strangely.
“No, no, it’s an honor to have a new master like you…” Dobby’s eyes were panicked. “Mr. Lavent is very famous. Serving you is my glory. Harry Potter also said you’re a good person, kind and gentle, except occasionally a bit mysterious.”
“So that’s how Harry evaluates me?”
Melvin said thoughtfully, then came back to himself and asked, “Then why do you look so dejected?”
Scritch sneered twice, his voice aged and hoarse: “Because only unqualified house-elves are given away by their masters. Truly loyal and dutiful house-elves are favored by their masters, who would rather chop off their heads and hang them on the wall than let them go. He was proactively given away by Mr. Malfoy, proving such a house-elf is incompetent, unqualified!”
“Didn’t you also leave the Lestrange family?” Melvin found it speechless, thinking he worked at Hogwarts and his servility would be less ingrained, but he turned out to be a slave-minded one too.
“I was forced to leave!”
“Why didn’t you chop off your own head and hang it on the wall?”
“Only the master has the right to chop off a house-elf’s head!”
“…”
Melvin shook his head, too lazy to deal with this old stubborn fool. House-elves’ minds were all abnormal. Dobby had issues too—clearly not wanting to serve the Malfoy family, yet feeling upset after leaving.
“Life is your own; only you are your own master. I know it’s hard for your minds to understand this concept, and I don’t want to enlighten or educate you like students.” Melvin summoned a whirlwind with a wave of his hand, sweeping the rainwater off Dobby. “Dobby, you’re different from other house-elves. You’ve already touched freedom. You know how precious it is, so I want to make a deal with you.”
“A deal?” Dobby’s eyes widened.
“Besides being a professor, I’m also a businessman. Business is about buying and selling. I took you from Malfoy at some cost—that counts as buying. You work for me, providing labor and service. One day, when you feel the value you’ve provided is enough to offset the cost I paid, you can exchange it for your freedom, to be your own master.”
Melvin looked ahead; they were almost out of the valley.
“Business, cost, freedom…”
Dobby’s face showed some confusion, mixed with faint joy. He couldn’t fully understand what the young professor said, but his intuition told him it was important, so he silently memorized it in his heart, along with the content of the words, the professor’s voice, and tone.
For some reason, the dejection in his heart seemed to drift away with the wind.
In the fine rain of early spring February, the moist air carried the scent of soil and grass.
On the opposite hillside of the valley, there was a flat open space, covered only in green grass. Against the surrounding wildly growing woods and shrubs, it seemed somewhat abrupt. Casual passersby or travelers focused on hurrying out of the valley might not notice the anomaly, but once they did, they could no longer ignore it.
Melvin pointed his wand at the open space and tapped lightly; warm, secretive magic power melted into the fine rain.
At some point, valley mist had risen, gradually enveloping the entire open space.
Space rippled, a breeze arose from nowhere on the grassland, dispersing the sparse rain threads and hazy mist. When the valley cleared and the breeze stilled, the open space returned to calm.
“Muggle-Repelling Charm, illusion magic, all protections, peaceful guarding, and room-sealing charm…”
Melvin softly inventoried the spells on the open space, glancing at Scritch. “More ordinary than expected. I thought there’d be a Fidelius Charm.”
“Only weak family manors need the Fidelius Charm to guard against attacks from other wizards, but the Lestrange are wizards who attack others.” Scritch looked at the flat grassland, deeply inhaling the moist vapor, his eyes showing reminiscence and sadness. “These spells are just to repel Muggles.”
Lestrange, this wizarding family originating from France, with noble magical bloodline flowing in their veins, glory sustained for a thousand years, but declined twelve years ago.
Someone at the Ministry of Magic once proposed seizing this manor, but the two gentlemen and Bellatrix did not yield, preferring lifelong imprisonment in Azkaban over using family wealth for a reduced sentence.
“Don’t stand here in the rain. Take me inside.” Melvin said.
Scritch raised his head shakily, looking at Dobby beside him: “I need to confirm the invitation again.”
“Who do you think would trick you?” Dobby muttered, lowering his head. His fingers rummaged in the wrinkled curtain, pulling out an elegantly framed invitation. “Not to mention Mr. Lavent, even Mr. Malfoy…”
His expression froze, feeling like he was speaking ill of his former master, and he shut his mouth resentfully.
Scritch took the invitation and flipped through it shakily.
「Dear Professor Lavent」 at the beginning, signed 「Bellatrix Lestrange’s sister, Narcissa Malfoy」.
The elderly house-elf stared at the signature for a long time, handed back the invitation, and looked at the young professor. He wanted to ask if he harbored some unspeakable purpose or plotted to scheme for the Lestrange family’s wealth, but ultimately couldn’t voice it.
The family lineage was already severed; the remaining bloodline was in lifelong Azkaban imprisonment. No matter the malice, it didn’t matter. Moreover, the young professor already knew the manor’s location—if truly ill-intentioned, he could brute-force crack those protective magics.
Scritch extended his aged slender finger and tapped shakily at the open space.
Like ink dropping into water, or a memory into a Pensieve, the space above the grass rippled slightly, revealing a massive manor.
The tall iron gate had dark red rust stains; the carved vine patterns were blurred. When opening, the old copper hinges groaned under the weight with a teeth-gritting creak.
Along the straight path to the garden, oaks were lush, hedges overgrown, rose branches encroaching on the main road. The fountain was dry, filled with magical creature stone carvings—perhaps griffins and basilisks, or ravens and occamy—covered in green plants, their former ferocity and majesty unrecognizable.
Further in was the castle, its outer walls rugged and sturdy, with asymmetrical towers and spires, decorated with cast-iron railings and gargoyles, windows embedded with stained glass depicting family history, clearly Victorian style.
Opening the oak door, stale moldy air rushed out.
In view were tapestries and portraits on the foyer walls, all Lestrange ancestors. The wizards who painted them had exquisite skill; the portraits still retained magic, but long untended, the surface oil varnish yellowed and aged, some cracked and dusty, unresponsive to the outside.
The tapestry bore the Lestrange family crest, a raven.
Beside it, the family motto outlined in Latin: 「A raven will not peck out another raven’s eyes」
“Woo…”
Scritch’s sudden sob echoed in the castle, heart-wrenching sorrow pouring out: “The raven’s children are gone; the nest holds only cuckoos!”
“…”
Unfortunately, Melvin was utterly unmoved, only finding it noisy. This cuckoo was here today to raid the raven’s nest.
“According to the intelligence Peter scouted, the vault key is on the second floor.”
Melvin examined the portraits while entering the foyer. Such castle layouts were similar; he soon found the staircase in the corner, ascending the dust-covered marble stairs, occasionally hearing movements in the shadows.
Possibly vixens, possibly roosting bats—irrelevant magical creatures anyway.
The second floor had several rooms: a study permeated with stale parchment smell, a potions room scattered with potion bottles whose liquids had dried into black residues, and a gloomy bedroom with a four-poster bed draped in faded silk curtains, spider silk replacing former wool threads… everything covered in thick dust.
Melvin had no interest in rummaging through those books. No matter how ancient the Lestrange family history, could it surpass Hogwarts? No matter how rich the collection here, could it beat the school library?
No need to waste time here at all.
Dobby followed beside him, having somehow scavenged an oil lamp that actually lit, holding it to light Melvin’s way:
“Master, how many Galleons did you spend to get me from Malfoy? How much is my lamp-lighting worth for you? When can I earn back my freedom?”
“First, you can call me by name directly, Melvin Lavent, or professor, mister…” Melvin searched around for a cabinet or safe-like cupboard, saying, “Dobby, you must know not everything is like bread and potatoes in a shop, with a fixed price. What I paid, and the service you provide—these things are hard to value.”
Dobby’s eyes widened: “Then how will I know when I’ve saved enough?”
Melvin stopped, looked down into those protruding house-elf eyes, and said softly with a smile: “You’ll know when you’ve saved enough.”
Though the young professor’s brows and eyes smiled, Dobby felt this professor was very serious. He didn’t see him as a slave, but as an independent equal individual. He was sure the professor’s words held deep meaning, but didn’t understand what they truly signified.
“You’ll know when you’ve saved enough, and when you know, you’ve saved enough…”
As the house-elf muttered, Melvin had reached the room door at the corridor’s end and pushed with some force, but it didn’t open.
Upon close inspection, there was an Unlock Spell on the door.
Melvin was in a good mood, sensing he’d found the right place. He crooked his finger to knock; Transfiguration acted on the door. The tung-oiled oak melted away like thawing ice and snow, revealing the room inside and its contents.
He saw a cabinet, a dusty luxurious antique cabinet glowing with ancient black ash under the oil lamp, crystal-carved doors preserving the contents inside.
A cast-iron raven statue, the Lestrange emblem.
A very old-looking tapestry, colors faded, but the gold and silver threads still gleaming—a sprawling family tree originating from the Middle Ages, three bloodlines neatly arrayed until the recent Rodolphus trio.
Some names beside marked birth and death years. Compared to others’ dozens or hundreds of years, one Corvus V Lestrange stood out—
Born 1901, died 1901.
Wizards didn’t have difficult births; infants rarely had congenital diseases. In peacetime without war or disturbance, wizard child mortality was extremely rare.
Seeing Melvin staring at that name, Dobby seemed to sense his puzzlement and volunteered: “I heard the female ma… former mistress mention this name. The family house-elves escorted him by ship to America, encountered a shipwreck, and during the escape, mixed him up with another child. The truth wasn’t discovered until 1927.”
Melvin showed a thoughtful look and turned to the tray beside—
A gold key lay quietly there.
