Dobby's Treasure

Dobby's Treasure

A small house-elf is running under Malfoy Mansion. Not on the spotless shiny black marble floor of the upper levels where the family lives. Not up there, never up there. The house-elf fears the bright, shiny and indecently richly furnished upper levels where the family lives. The upper levels where he has been hurt again and again and again since his birth. The family levels where he has suffered enslavement since birth, as had his mother, grandmother and great-grand-parents before him.

His still misses his mother, who was so casually murdered by the family-head once she was too old to carry breakfast trays.

No, the elf is running through the dungeons situated beneath the vast and green estate, heading for the one secure place he has known in this place, the one place where neither the Master nor his wife would ever think looking for him.

Dobby is heading for HIS safe place, his home for the past twenty years.

His huge, green eyes are filling with tears again and he clutches his treasure tightly to his chest. The dungeon is pitch-black, but Dobby has long since memorised the turns and twists of the maze. Nobody ever comes here anymore, not since you-know-who has disappeared.

Before that time, oh god yes, before that blessed event, the family brought poor Wizards and Muggles down here to torture for information or fun with their ugly friends. Dobby's mother had told him so. Master's friends were just as terrifying as himself, especially that bad, bad woman, Bella. But Bella is in Azkaban now and nobody comes down here anymore. Nobody, but Dobby.

His back is still hurting so much from the blows his Master delivered to him earlier that he can't straighten up, but for once Dobby does not care. He loves the welts he knows are forming on his back. The welts were a symbol, a symbol for change.

Dobby is used to getting hurt, he had to hurt himself countless times when he dropped something, when the Master or the Mistress were having a bad day, when young Master Draco dropped by for vacation and was bored. They enjoy watching him hurting himself and he has no choice, the rules of enslavement are burned so deep in his soul, he can't disobey his family without punishment. And if they are not there to deal it out to him, he has to punish himself.

Dobby's small feet are frozen, but he does not care. He crouches down and shoves at the old oak trapdoor and blindly lowers himself into the slender cylinder. The pit does not fill with water anymore as it did when the family was still using it as oubliette. Dobby has seen to that. The pit is nice and warm and dry and he has a blanket.

Down here, Dobby finally dares making some light. He looks around at the many articles from the Daily Prophet magically stuck to the stone walls and beams.

Fifty dark-haired boys with vivid green eyes and lightning bolt shaped scars on their foreheads look back at him and smile. Articles from the Daily Prophet, old pictures that he had exchanged with other house-elves. Dobby's hands tremble, as he touches them, reverently, one by one. They are everything he has ever possessed. Up to today.

"Harry Potter." Dobby whispers the name. It is the ritual. Touch the pictures, say the name. Hope.

He closes his eyes, remembering. He remembers overhearing Master Malfoy's laughter when he told his wife about you-know-who's diary, the diary the Master had hidden in the school supplies of a young wizard girl going to Hogwarts. Dobby remembers his horror, when the Master confidently announced that he finally has found the means to get rid of the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, to get rid of the boy who lived and felicitated himself on using one of the the mudblood-lovers Weasley children.

His master had been so confident then that Harry Potter would die that Dobby had fled back to his place, terrorised, desperate to see his only hope in danger.

Dobby's long pointy ears tremble as he recalls his own mad attempts to protect the boy from harm, from going back to school, the stolen letters, the closed magic portal leading to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, the enchanted Bludger. Harry Potter must not die! Harry Potter is the only hope all the house-elves have left. He has to be protected. Dobby would gladly have given his life if he thought it could help Harry Potter grow up and fight you-know-who and all the bad wizards like Dobby's wizard family.

He runs a long caressing index over the nearest picture, then he pries it loose from the wall. One by one he pries them all loose and gathers them in a small heap of paper on the old blanket.

He points at the heap.

"Incendio."

The heap erupts at once into flames. There will be nothing left for Master Malfoys to trace or curse him with now.

Dobby smiles and looks at the beautiful thing he is holding. Harry Potter's sock is dirty, stained with blood and slime and it smells bad, but to Dobby it is a priceless treasure. His eyes are dry when he straightens his back to stand as tall as he can, shoulders back, proud. For the first time in his life, he is looking forward to the future.

"Thank you, Harry Potter. Dobby will watch over you for the rest of his life. Dobby is free now."

The sound of his disapparating rolls like thunder through the now empty oubliette.

The End