novelraw Chapter 27: Birthday, Dobby, and Restorative Draught
Chapter 27: Birthday, Dobby, and Restorative Draught
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Birthday, Dobby, and Restorative Draught
Parents like Lucius and Narcissa, who spoiled their child from time to time, would never miss any little gadget on the market that could make their son cheer with joy—the latest sweets from Honeydukes, the latest racing broom on the market, or even a whole dozen racing brooms.
On the last day of July, after breakfast, Lucius gave Draco a Nimbus 2001, which was about to be released, as a birthday present.
"This racing broom was originally scheduled to be released in mid-August this year. However, I know someone who got me a finished one ahead of time." Lucius looked quite pleased with himself. "Draco, use it to practice and get used to the new broom. As for the others—the racing brooms donated to Slytherin—I've already ordered them and will pick them up in Diagon Alley in a few days."
Draco took the broom, eagerly unpacked it, and stroked his long-lost old friend with great nostalgia, a look of joy on his face.
"Draco, have you forgotten what I told you? Don't be so emotional," Lucius said in an affected tone, glancing at his overeager son.
Draco quickly composed himself, stood obediently to the side with the broom in hand, and glanced at his mother with feigned grievance.
Instantly, Narcissa, who'd been quietly drinking tea, seemed to have her "protective parent" switch flipped.
She immediately put down her teacup, a look of disapproval flashing in her beautiful blue eyes, and mercilessly exposed her husband's past. "Come on, Lucius, you were much more anxious than Draco when you were pulling strings to order this broom ahead of time the other day."
Lucius's carefully cultivated air of authority vanished instantly. He coughed, took a sip of tea to cover his embarrassment, and glanced at his son, who was feigning weakness to outmaneuver him. He felt he'd fallen into some kind of trap.
The child always managed to use a pitiful expression to make Narcissa his strong shield. In this situation, any strict discipline he gave his son would ultimately backfire.
*This boy isn't stupid at all. He's shrewd!* Lucius suddenly had this thought.
He looked at Draco with suspicion, seeing his obedient demeanor, and wondered if he might be overthinking things. So he ignored his son and instead diligently poured tea for his wife, trying to dispel the flickering anger in Cissy's eyes.
Draco smiled inwardly.
Sure enough, although Mother seemed gentle and quiet, she was the key to keeping Father in check.
For many years in his past life, Draco had been ignoring Mother's power.
He'd always thought of her as just a gentle, kind mother—a proud noblewoman who doted on her son, who'd once been a noble Black and was now a noble Malfoy, nothing more.
He'd been arrogant and ignorant, overlooking her dignity and skill as Mrs. Malfoy.
He'd only admired Father—his strength, sharpness, or just-right tact—but rarely thought of admiring Mother. It wasn't until later that he discovered the weakness and helplessness hidden in Father's heart, and Mother's unwavering will.
After Father went to prison, she stepped forward and took over everything.
Good things, bad things, and even worse things... nothing was easy.
She worked hard, desperately, and with all her might to protect everything the Malfoy family owned.
Draco Malfoy had been helpless.
He couldn't betray Mother.
He couldn't let Mother face all of this alone.
He would stand by her and protect the Malfoy family, regardless of right or wrong.
In his past life, with this thought in mind, Draco had stood beside Mother, almost abandoning all self-awareness.
Finally, his self-awareness awoke screaming in agony, and he realized he'd been terribly wrong.
It wasn't that they were wrong to protect their parents or the Malfoy family, but rather that the Malfoy family's initial beliefs and the side they'd chosen were wrong.
They went wrong at the source, at the starting point—a point that dated back to before their parents were even born.
Father and Mother were nothing more than people shaped by the inheritance of old ideals.
You couldn't blame anyone for this.
You could only proceed gradually, starting by changing yourself, Draco thought.
Narcissa was unaware her son was pondering such profound questions. She was simply enjoying her husband's attentiveness.
Now, she asked in a gentle tone, "Draco, how's your Quidditch practice going? Your father has already spoken with Severus, and they've arranged for you to participate in the tryouts next term, hoping to get you into the House team."
"I still want to rely on my own abilities, not just money." Draco was referring to Lucius's plan to replace all the brooms on the House team.
Lucius couldn't help but chuckle when he heard his son's foolish words.
Now he was certain Draco was still naive, not cunning.
"Don't be silly, child. Having connections doesn't mean you lack ability. I heard the Crabbe family also tried to use their connections to get their son into the House team—I've seen the boy—it's ridiculous," Narcissa said dismissively. "Severus isn't happy about the pressure the Crabbe family is putting on him. A few days ago, he came to Malfoy Manor specifically to ask your father for help. In the end, your father had to promise to donate a dozen racing brooms to shut the Crabbe family up—they can't afford to do that."
"The Crabbe family could afford it if they tightened their belts. However, not everyone can order a dozen brooms in advance and donate them to the House before the start of term. According to my contact, orders for this racing broom are already booked until next year—it's currently in high demand but short supply," Lucius said smugly, toying with his cane.
"To be honest, the Slytherin brooms really are quite old," Narcissa said.
"That's right. Slytherin's double defeat in the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup this year has made me lose face on the Board of Governors. Slytherin can't afford another defeat." Lucius said, leaning back in his favorite armchair and rubbing his temples.
Draco could only nod silently.
He was still quite confident.
He believed that with his abilities, he could make it into the House team during tryouts at the start of term. This was true in his previous life, and his skills were now far superior to what they'd been then.
All he lacked was a ticket to participate in tryouts.
Unfortunately, not everyone would readily acknowledge Draco Malfoy's strength.
Once a person had the financial means to donate a dozen racing brooms effortlessly, their physical strength became less important.
In a way, his brilliance was overshadowed by his own shining Galleons.
He still remembered how others viewed his joining the Slytherin House team in his previous life.
The rumors never stopped, and for a long time, they made him very unhappy. Even his teammates gossiped about him behind his back. He'd always known.
Although he put on an arrogant, nonchalant demeanor, he actually cared a lot.
A proud Malfoy craved praise and respect more than anyone else. He could only face sarcastic remarks with indifference and drive away skeptical gazes with an unyielding gait.
What other way could he possibly change people's prejudices? He was at his wit's end, with no other options.
Later, inexplicably, spurred on by someone's sharp words, he'd rallied and gradually won back others' respect.
Later on, people gradually recognized his Seeker skills and stopped mocking him.
Just as Draco was pondering this, Narcissa had already made her decision. "Draco, instead of hesitating, you should perform well and not disappoint your father."
Yes, there was nothing to complain about. It wasn't Draco's fault the Malfoys were wealthy.
The brooms definitely needed replacing, and he must make the team.
Those idle gossips were just repeating themselves.
He was no longer the arrogant, sensitive boy from his past life. Having experienced the harsh realities after Father's imprisonment, there was no pain he couldn't bear. This level of gossip was nothing more than a tickle.
Draco mulled over the morning's conversation and decided to let things take their course. But instead of heading straight to the potions laboratory, he walked back to his room down the marble steps.
He was disturbed by certain details revealed in several letters.
He opened a linden wood inlaid desk—an antique mechanical desk that had belonged to the King of England a century ago—and deftly pulled out several letters from the corner, rereading them carefully.
*Draco,*
*We've developed a new product: Punching Telescope! However, it still needs improvement—at the very least, we need to find a matching healing paste. George's eye is still swollen.*
*We've also improved our Puking Pastilles and plan to add them to our Skiving Snackbox line. A sample and instructions are enclosed—just in case you'd like to try them. Fainting Fancies and Fever Fudge are also under development... however, we still believe Nosebleed Nougat will be our most popular product.*
*We've already let Ron try some Nosebleed Nougat—which stained one of his favorite shirts—and he said he "didn't really like it." We'll soon have a chance to let Harry try it, since Ron seems to have managed to get invited to our house for the summer holidays through special Muggle connections.*
*Fred & George*
*Draco,*
*Thank you for recommending the book "Moste Potente Potions" to me. Yes, it was extremely useful—my summer holiday was anything but boring. I think some of the potions in it are quite controversial, but it can't hurt to learn about them.*
*Unfortunately, I couldn't make them like I did at Hogwarts because Professor McGonagall's notice before the holidays forbade us from using magic. Do children from wizarding families also abide by such restrictions?*
*Also, have you heard from Harry? I sent him letters, but he hasn't replied to a single one. Maybe I'm just being paranoid—I heard his aunt and uncle's family doesn't like wizards...*
*Hermione*
*Draco,*
*The suggestion you made in your reply was excellent. We've already sent some samples to students using Owl Post and have received more than a dozen orders.*
*A good start, isn't it?*
*Zonko jokingly asked if we sold the recipe for Canary Creams, and the answer was, of course, no. However, Zonko offered to provide us with shelf space to stock our products on commission... Do you think this is feasible?*
*Furthermore, we still haven't been able to get Harry to try our products. Ron has written three letters with no response, and we're worried he might have been kidnapped by Muggles.*
*P.S. Dad's been busy raiding wizards' houses lately, confiscating Dark artifacts and such. You'd better keep your secrets hidden, young master of the Malfoy family—we don't want to lose one of our major investors.*
*Fred & George*
Draco was silent for a moment, then suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Dobby," he said calmly.
"Master! You finally summoned me!" Dobby appeared before Draco with a face full of surprise.
Unsurprisingly, Dobby had changed into a new outfit. He wore a little dress with a picture of palm trees and island scenery, a sailor's cap, and clean socks—one white and one blue.
"Did you spend all your wages on new clothes?" Draco asked suspiciously.
He felt a pang of regret—should he have encouraged Dobby's eccentric aesthetic?
"No, little master, I only bought a few dozen items!" Dobby said cheerfully. "Dobby only buys the pretty ones!"
*Only... a few dozen items?*
Draco forced himself not to think about what kind of things Dobby had bought.
"Went on a beach holiday?" He patiently examined the outfit, understanding the implication.
"Yes, little master! A beautiful seaside town! Dobby has been exploring it for several days and has even eaten fish and chips..." Dobby said happily.
He interrupted Dobby's rambling. "There's something I need you to do right away."
Dobby immediately shut his mouth and looked at Draco, stopping his incessant chatter.
"Go check on Harry Potter at home—see if he's having any trouble. Remember, go invisible, don't speak, don't cast spells, and don't cause him any trouble." Draco gave the order.
Dobby's eyes widened with excitement—he was thrilled by the mission. As Draco's words escaped his lips, Dobby gradually jumped up and down with glee.
Before Draco could finish speaking, he vanished without a trace.
*Dobby, still so impulsive.* Draco's face twisted slightly.
This overly excited house-elf had never known what emotional stability was, nor did he know to ask his master if there were any other requests. He sighed at the empty room, then strolled off to the potions laboratory to tackle his Mandrake problem.
The timer on the table ticked away. Time slipped by unnoticed as Draco relentlessly battled to create the Restorative Draught.
"My little master! Harry Potter is being abused by Muggles!" Dobby cried out angrily as soon as he appeared in the potions laboratory, startling his little master so much that an extra Mandrake fell into the cauldron.
Inside, the potion that was about to take shape suddenly took on an eerie color—this Restorative Draught was completely ruined.
Draco rolled his eyes and Vanished the results of his afternoon's research.
"Speak properly, Dobby. Don't express meaningless emotions." For a moment, Draco couldn't tell whether the Mandrake's scream or Dobby's scream would be more deadly.
Dobby nodded sullenly, his big, watery eyes looking at his little master, and he pressed his slender fingers together, making a cracking sound.
"They locked his books, wand, robes, cauldron, and his racing broom in a tiny cupboard! Even his owl was caged—it's a blatant violation of his freedom! They made the great Harry Potter do servant work—Dobby really, really wanted to..."
Draco frowned in annoyance.
Although he was mentally prepared, he still hadn't expected Harry's Muggle relatives to be so intolerable—Draco couldn't stand having his wand confiscated.
Not even for a moment.
Savior Potter, Saint Potter, that arrogant Potter...
Was this the kind of life he used to live? Being bullied and humiliated at will by his ignorant Muggle relatives?
Dobby paused, then said sadly, "Today is Harry Potter's birthday! Dobby saw it all. He was singing 'Happy Birthday' to himself all alone, and he was being mocked by the Muggle children. He didn't even get a present! It's so pitiful! He's not even as well off as Dobby. Dobby gets paid and wears new clothes!" With that, he began to sob and wipe away his tears.
"You let him find you?" Draco asked warily.
"No, Dobby is hiding behind the hedge. Dobby listens to his master!" The little elf said, wiping away his tears as he proudly puffed out his chest.
"What was he doing when you left?" He ignored Dobby's tears and continued to ask.
"The Muggle men are inviting other Muggles over for dinner, and they've locked Harry Potter in his room upstairs! They won't even let him show his face, like he's some kind of vermin, like... like Dobby used to be!" Dobby looked at Draco with sad eyes.
"You seem to really like Harry Potter," Draco said thoughtfully, looking at Dobby.
"Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who! All house-elves should thank him!" Dobby said, his eyes brimming with tears. "Dobby understands that feeling. Master didn't like Dobby, and he didn't allow Dobby to show his face. Before becoming your personal elf, Dobby had no wages, no gifts, no new clothes... nobody cared about Dobby! Oh, it was so painful!"
He recalled his past and began to sob again, his expression showing extreme sadness.
Draco looked thoughtfully at the little elf before him.
He discovered that Dobby was more human-like in every way than any other house-elf he'd ever known. The other house-elves all wore the same standard smile, performed their duties flawlessly, and lived quietly in the manor.
It was less about living and more about simply existing.
They showed only two emotions in their masters' presence: respect, and even greater respect. So much so that Draco had previously assumed they were devoid of any personal joy or sorrow, that it was simply their nature.
In other words, they might not even be as distinctive as Lucius's two Irish Wolfhounds. At least those dogs' emotions could be perceived through tail wagging, licking, and barking.
Therefore, Draco's usual attitude toward house-elves was like that of a tool that does housework and never rusts, devoid of any emotion.
In fact, almost all pure-blood wizards viewed house-elves this way—it was common practice.
Mother Narcissa's family, the Black family, went even further, creating an entire wall decorated with the heads of dead house-elves. The Black elves considered it the greatest honor of their lives to "become part of the decoration."
How could you expect Draco, who grew up in this environment, to see house-elves as equals? Or rather, how could you expect any pure-blood wizard raised with traditional thinking to have such a radical idea?
Therefore, when Dobby, a house-elf with distinct emotions, appeared before pure-blood wizards, he became an anomaly. Just as if wood could speak and stone could sprout.
Without strong adaptability or sufficient psychological preparation, it was really hard to withstand this kind of culture shock.
Dobby was defined by Draco as: a rebellious little elf.
Draco wasn't sure if he could be considered fond of such an unconventional little elf.
But what did it matter? If he understood its needs, satisfied them, and made it work for him, wasn't that enough?
He could now roughly understand why Dobby in his previous life had become a staunch supporter of Potter.
It wasn't just because of Potter's "Savior" aura but also because they shared a common language—they had the same experience of being ignored and mistreated.
At this moment, Dobby had already begun to weep bitterly for what had happened to him and Harry, and his tears had gathered into a small puddle on the floor.
Merlin! Draco really didn't want him to soil the potions laboratory floor.
"All right, all right," Draco said, trying to comfort him. "I'll remember to bring you a birthday present."
This statement seemed to have made things worse. Dobby started another round of crying and endless, rambling gratitude toward him.
"Listen, Dobby, blow your nose, or you'll get your 'pretty' little clothes dirty." Draco reluctantly complimented its clothes, trying to distract it, but to no avail.
Draco gave up trying to persuade it amidst its wailing.
He clicked his tongue, thought for a moment, then pulled out a blank piece of parchment from an antique mahogany box on the other side of the room and quickly wrote a few lines with his peacock feather quill.
He quickly checked his wording, pulled a blank envelope from the gilded crystal envelope holder, folded the parchment and put it inside, then casually picked up a brass seal from the old rosewood box and stamped it with the Malfoy family's unique crest.
"Time is of the essence. I don't have time to send the message by owl. You have to make the trip. If you want to save Harry Potter, stop crying and get to work!" He instructed Dobby sternly. "Take this urgent letter and deliver it personally to his friend, Ron Weasley. Don't let anyone else find out. Be quick! If he asks you about Harry Potter, tell him what you saw. Bring me back his reply immediately."
Dobby suddenly fell silent. He seemed to have choked, his mouth tightly shut, even the tears about to fall held back in his big eyes.
He picked up the letter with the solemnity of holding a lifeline. Then, the little elf nodded respectfully to his little master and immediately Disapparated.
---
Ron Weasley was in a bad mood. His best friend at Hogwarts, Harry Potter, had been out of touch since the holidays began. He'd already sent him three letters, but Harry hadn't replied to a single one.
Perhaps he'd had too much fun during the summer holiday and forgotten about his impoverished friend. Perhaps he was being bullied by those Muggles, but Ron had said he'd give them a good scare because they didn't know young wizards weren't allowed to cast spells outside school. If that was the case, those Muggles would be too scared to dare bully Harry.
He lay on his back in his cramped room at the top of the Burrow, staring blankly at the orange poster of the Chudley Cannons on the ceiling, listening to the occasional explosions coming from his twin brothers' room, his mind filled with all sorts of speculations.
But reality wouldn't allow him to drift off into daydreams for long—his mother, Molly, was calling him again. Ron slowly sat up in bed, careful not to let the sloping ceiling hit his head. He put on Percy's old shirt and Bill's discarded jeans, and dejectedly went to the garden behind the Burrow to de-gnome.
The Burrow was located outside the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, and even the village postman didn't know its exact location, but these silly gnomes always managed to find their way back to the Burrow with perfect accuracy.
Just as Ron was throwing out his eleventh or twelfth gnome in the twilight of the evening, he heard a crack and a small, colorful creature appeared before him, startling him so much he almost screamed.
"Harry Potter's friend!" the little creature said in a high-pitched voice, a hint of curiosity in its big, round, watery eyes. "Is it Ron Weasley?"
"I am. But what are you?" Ron asked, backing away in terror.
*Has the gnome in my garden bred some new species? What is that? Is it wearing tea towels?*
"I am Dobby. My master asked me to give you this urgent letter." Dobby glanced at the Burrow and the dizzy gnomes around him with interest, bowed—his pointed ears almost drooping to the ground—and held an envelope high in both hands, handing it to Ron.
Ron cautiously took the letter, then tremblingly held it up to the still-setting sun, fearing it might contain some dangerous contraband.
Then he saw the pattern on the seal—it was the Malfoy family crest.
"Were you sent by Draco?" Ron asked him.
He roughly knew what this little creature named Dobby was—it was probably the house-elf his mother often talked about, saying, "I want one too."
"Yes! My little master said it's an emergency!" Dobby nodded hurriedly and said anxiously.
Ron was puzzled by Draco's sudden letter.
Was it really necessary to go to such lengths to send a house-elf to deliver the letter? And the envelope and the paper—was it really necessary to be so elaborate? He suddenly had some doubts. Had the letter he sent to Harry been too casual and sloppy? Was that why Harry hadn't replied?
When he tore open the envelope with some skepticism, took out the parchment, and glanced at it, he understood what was truly urgent.
*"Harry's been locked up at home by the Muggles. Today's his birthday—we have to get him out. Ask Dobby for details, he saw everything. —Draco"*
Of course, of course.
Harry wasn't writing to him because he was locked up. That one sentence alone dispelled Ron's summer-long gloom and lifted his spirits.
At the same time, feelings of worry, shame, and sympathy welled up, making his throat tighten.
What kind of life had Harry had during this half-summer holiday?!
If he couldn't even reply to letters, the Muggles must have locked Hedwig up as well.
She was a good owl—she never lost a single letter.
"Do you want to know about Harry Potter?" The strange-looking house-elf, seeing his gloomy face, suddenly perked up. "I can tell you, but you must write back to my master."
"Tell me everything you know," Ron said worriedly.
Half an hour later, Ron learned everything and his face turned as red as his hair.
He quickly scribbled a note, handed it to the house-elf named Dobby, then rushed up the stairs to his house and shouted toward the twins' room, "Fred! George! I need your help!"