Chapter 187: Put On A Full Show
Walking out of the room and stepping onto the corridor again, the furnishings around were still eerie and dim, but Melvin had already gotten what he wanted, no longer so urgent, so his footsteps slowed slightly, observing the decorations on both sides along the way.
This castle might still hide many secrets, but the heavy moldy smell and the rustling sounds of the vixen in the darkness made him lose any desire to continue exploring. Melvin slowly walked toward the staircase.
“Sir, I just saw other treasures in the cabinet. That silver dagger has a blade that’s purple and black, clearly quenched with deadly poison. The viscous liquids in those boxes and bottles look truly disgusting, but they must be valuable. And the poisoned fangs and sharp claws on the tray—though I don’t know what animal they’re from—they’re kept in the cabinet, so they must be worth a lot.”
Dobby came down the staircase holding an oil lamp, walking ahead of Melvin, keeping his duties in mind. “Malfoy Manor has things like this too. Whenever the Ministry of Magic inspects, they sell them to Borgin and Burkes. Once the fuss dies down, they buy them back.”
“They’re all vicious and cruel dark magic items, unmaintained for years, with hardly any magic power left. They’re not worth much when sold.”
Melvin said casually as he lowered his head to examine the gold key in his hand.
It bore the Lestrange family’s raven crest and also the Gringotts mark. All signs indicated it was the key to the underground vault.
Melvin put away the gold key and turned his gaze to the foyer: “Scritch, we’re leaving. Do you want to stay here?”
The elderly house-elf still stood in the foyer, his cloudy eyes fixed straight on the oil portrait, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, dripping one by one onto the carpet, his face full of remorse and guilt.
Scritch was immersed in his own world, completely missing Melvin’s question.
“Thank you very much for your help, Scritch. If you want to stay here to reminisce about the past, you can stay as long as you like. I’ll ask Headmaster Dumbledore for leave on your behalf.”
Melvin walked through the dim hall to the foyer corridor, following Scritch’s gaze to examine the oil painting on the wall. Dust and oxidized melted wax obscured the details, but the prominent facial features were still clear.
The central portrait was of Corvus IV, the father of that stillborn infant.
Like other Lestrange family descendants, he had dark curly hair, deep-set eyes, light blue irises, and a thick beard.
“I’ve been in the Hogwarts kitchen too long. I’ve completely forgotten my manners. As a house-elf, I actually ignored the wizard’s question.”
Dobby muttered under his breath, standing next to Scritch, almost right by his ear.
“Scritch is probably moved by the scene, reminded of the years he lived here. It shows his deep bond with the Lestrange family. Such loyalty is admirable. Let him stay here to reminisce.” Melvin withdrew his gaze. “Let’s go, Dobby. We have things to do.”
“Coming, sir.”
“…”
Leaving that mansion, a fine rain was still falling outside. The rain threads were blown by the breeze toward the hurrying wizard and house-elf, but before getting close, they were blocked by an invisible bubble film, changing trajectory and sliding to the ground.
Dobby walked beside the young professor, his short legs moving quickly, though he wasn’t watching the path, his gaze distant.
He was still thinking about what Melvin had said earlier, unable to figure out how to earn freedom or why it couldn’t be priced. This answer probably wasn’t something an uneducated house-elf could come up with. Freedom might not come in the short term.
But Dobby was still quite happy, treating it as just changing masters.
Unlike Mr. Malfoy, Professor Levent wouldn’t whip him or scald his hands and feet with boiling water. In the few hours of their brief time together, there were no signs of sudden beatings or threats of death. He even used magic to shield the rain and included him, just as Harry Potter had said—Professor Levent was clearly a kind wizard.
“But…”
Dobby secretly glanced at the young professor.
This professor had once transacted with Malfoy at Borgin and Burkes, conspiring in some unspeakable plan, seemingly to cause a disturbance at school that nearly involved Harry Potter. Today, he had sneaked into the Lestrange mansion and taken the vault key.
He didn’t seem like a good wizard in the conventional sense.
“I went to the Lestrange house for the gold key not to scheme for their treasures, but to get one particular item.”
Melvin said to Dobby beside him as they walked along the valley path. “Hufflepuff’s Goblet—have you heard of it? A relic of a Hogwarts founder. For some reason, it ended up in Bellatrix Lestrange’s hands, sealed in the vault.”
“I understand!”
Dobby said with wide eyes. “Harry Potter said professors are good wizards. You definitely wouldn’t scheme for someone else’s property. You’re just taking back what belongs to the school! That’s returning things to their rightful owner!”
“…”
Melvin neither confirmed nor denied it: “The Lestrange family vault is at the deepest underground level. Gringotts’ verification process will be strict, so I need you to help me with some preparations.”
“Dobby obeys your orders!” the house-elf said firmly.
…
Once the young professor and house-elf were far away, darkness enveloped the castle room again. Scritch took a long time to snap out of it, lighting the candlestick left on the wall, revealing a series of clear footprints on the carpet.
For some unknown reason, Scritch followed the footprints up the staircase to the second floor, along the path they had just taken, to the room at the end of the corridor.
The collection in the cabinet was mostly intact: various dark magic items, raven statues, and the family tree tapestry. Though old, the raw materials were precious and the craftsmanship fine. Selling them might not fetch a high price, but there would still be profit.
Scritch’s expression was complicated as he looked toward the tray that had held the gold key.
Due to years in the cabinet, its surface was dusty but only lightly so. After the key was taken, it left a neatly shaped gap, like some kind of mark—but not quite like a key; more like a strange ring.
Scritch leaned in close to see clearly: it wasn’t a ring; it was an ouroboros.
…
Knockturn Alley, 13B, Borgin and Burkes antique shop.
The shop’s decorations were unchanged. The shop window glass was still smeared with unidentified grime, a rusty copper bell hung behind the door, hollow bird bones, shelves displaying dark magic items that looked scary but only scared people in effect.
It was clearly daytime, yet a “closed” wooden sign hung in the shop window.
The shop lights were dim, but bright candlelight shone from the back room, where a house-elf stretched out thin, slender fingers, cutting the fabric on the table to the right size, then taking needle and thread to stitch it together a few times, adjusting for size and finishing details like cuffs and underarms.
Shaking the collar, he produced a rough little piece of clothing.
Malfoy Manor had almost no sewing chores, or perhaps Dobby wasn’t the elf in charge of that, so the clothing was just passable—not ugly, but the style was unremarkable.
Borgin stood quietly nearby, a glint in his eyes, sly and oily.
Melvin was examining items on the counter and casually asked: “Borgin, do you know about the Lestrange family’s history? About that stillborn infant.”
“Corvus V? That takes us back to his scoundrel father, Corvus IV…”
Borgin hunched over, his hair gleaming with oil. “Back then, he was obsessed with Sir Karma’s Muggle wife Laurina. Under cover of night, he sneaked into their home, used the Imperius Curse to abduct her, forced her to marry him and bear a daughter, Rita Lestrange.”
“The Rita who was close to Scamander?” Melvin recognized the familiar name.
“Yes, yes…” Borgin was slightly excited. “Laurina was a Muggle and died from excessive bleeding after giving birth. Corvus IV had only lusted after her beauty; he felt no sorrow. He soon took a new wife and fathered little Corvus.”
“The stillborn Corvus V.”
“Yes. Shortly after little Corvus was born, Sir Karma learned the truth. On his deathbed, he made his and Laurina’s son Joseph swear to kill little Corvus and avenge the Lestranges, as she was the only one he ever loved.”
Mr. Borgin gave a mocking chuckle. “To protect his son, Corvus IV had servants escort the two children to America. That girl named Rita, annoyed by her brother’s crying, swapped him with the child next door… and then… they encountered a shipwreck.”
Melvin spent a few minutes piecing the whole story together. By the time he sorted out his thoughts, Dobby’s clothes were ready.
“Put them on once they’re done.”
“This is… for me?”
Dobby held the finished clothes, his eyes full of surprise.
“Or I could hand them to you myself.” Melvin smiled meaningfully.
Dobby’s eyes suddenly widened, frozen in place. For a house-elf, a master handing them clothing meant severing the master-servant bond and granting freedom.
“This… I… sir…”
Dobby clutched the clothes, at a loss, panicked and fearful. He wanted freedom, to completely escape bondage—it had always been his dream. But when the choice was right there, within reach, he felt timid, afraid to accept easily.
He felt he shouldn’t accept.
The professor had paid a price to Mr. Malfoy to save him. Though he didn’t know what price or how expensive, Dobby believed he should repay it, compensate for the professor’s loss before he could freely take this freedom.
After some struggle, Dobby shook his head with difficulty, refusing the gift—or handout.
“Then let’s go. We have proper business.” Melvin said indifferently.
Half an hour later.
Dobby stood before the towering marble building, heart pounding. He was about to scam Gringotts with the professor and suddenly thought Malfoy Manor wasn’t so bad—at least it was stable. He kind of wanted to go back.
“Remember, no matter what happens, your identity now is Lestrange family servant, the old elf Scritch. I’m Corvus V. Got it?” Melvin looked down at Dobby.
“Got it.”
Dobby looked up with a bitter face, the smooth bronze door reflecting their faces.
The young professor no longer looked young: graying beard covering mouth and nose, deep-set eyes with pale blue irises, features distinctly adjusted, overall seventy percent similar to the portrait in the Lestrange manor.
And the house-elf beside him had shriveled, saggy skin, bald head, white tufts growing in his ears—exactly like Scritch.
