Support me and be 20 chapters ahead of webnovel:
patreon.com/Draco_
******
Two bat-like ears drooped at the sides of a bare skull, with thin, white hairs poking out from the earholes. Its large, bulging green eyes were nearly the size of tennis balls, and its wrinkled, pale skin had a sickly, grayish tone that exuded an aura of death.
Harry had just witnessed the "ghost" that had barged into his bedroom. Before him stood a house-elf, a house-elf racing against death in its final moments.
The little creature was barely tall enough to reach Harry's waist. Its severely hunched back seemed unable to support the weight of its head, and the ragged strips of clothing that had been turned into makeshift bandages were soiled with festering, bloodied wounds. As it gasped in pain, a few drops of thick, murky blood splattered onto the floor.
The door, having been kicked open, was caught by a gust of wind. The howling breeze knocked the already weak house-elf to the ground. A hoarse, high-pitched scream escaped its mouth as the elf instinctively tried to Disapparate. However, it suddenly realized that its hand, wrapped in bandages, had been easily grasped by a large hand.
"Who are you, and why are you in my home?"
Squatting on the ground, Harry cast a giant shadow. His muscular form loomed like a mountain against the moonlight, and his cold, stern face, accompanied by his icy words, spread an invisible pressure. Anyone facing this human-like tyrant, no matter how bold, would inevitably feel a flicker of fear.
"You are Harry Potter, aren't you?"
To Harry's surprise, the house-elf, which had nearly been scared out of its wits, now appeared not afraid, but thrilled. Upon seeing Harry's face, the elf's previously frightened eyes gleamed with excitement, as if it had found a life raft after nearly drowning.
"Tell me your name, little elf. Who sent you here?"
"No one sent Dobby, sir. No one. It was Dobby who took it upon himself to come find you, sir!"
The little elf, now excited, rushed to explain, but as it spoke, a cough of blood interrupted it. The bandages wrapped around its body gave off a nauseating, decaying odor. Although the wounds were hidden, it was easy to imagine the extent of the damage.
"Take off your bandages and clothes." Harry paused for a moment before pulling out a few bottles of potions from his chest bag. "Let me treat your wounds first. Whatever your business with me is, I don't want anyone dying in my bedroom. That would be too much of a hassle."
As Harry prepared to help, the already frail little elf struggled to move backward, its large eyes filling with tears. As it shook its head resolutely, the dirty bandages became wet with murky tears.
"This will be discovered, sir. Dobby cannot... even if Dobby dies, he cannot let anyone find out he was out. This would cause trouble."
"Harry Potter, sir, you are a merciful person. Just as Dobby has heard, you are the greatest and kindest person in the world."
Starting to sob, Dobby wiped his tears with a trembling hand and looked at Harry with a pleading gaze, his voice quivering.
"Alright." Harry paused his actions, his tone softening slightly. The situation raised many questions in his mind, but for now, he could only proceed cautiously.
"Why are you here? This isn't the first time you've come to my bedroom, is it, Dobby?"
"Yes, sir, Dobby has been here for several days, but Dobby never saw you. Dobby was about to give up, but this is something only you can help with."
"Please, save Young Master Draco, sir, please!"
"My master has gone mad, and my mistress is severely ill. The last thing she said to me was to protect Young Master Draco. But Dobby couldn't do it... Dobby can't manage anymore. I couldn't protect my master and mistress. The only one I could protect—"
The little elf suddenly paused, then shook its head and continued, "I couldn't protect Young Master Draco... and I couldn't find anyone else who could help. But when Young Master Draco came home, Dobby heard him mention your name. That's why Dobby decided..."
"Would the great Harry Potter, sir, be able to help Dobby, given all the wonderful things he's accomplished?"
As Dobby spoke, his voice grew increasingly softer. After a cautious glance at Harry, he lowered his head, as if he realized that his request was a difficult one.
Listening to Dobby's words, Harry fell into deep thought. Something about the way Dobby spoke felt off, though he could understand the elf's plea for help. After all, in J.K. Rowling's books, Dobby is portrayed as a house-elf who deeply cares about himself. While some of his actions may be hard to understand, his intentions are mostly good.
To put it simply, Dobby was like a devoted fan of a young boy who survived a great disaster—someone akin to the obsessive fans in real life who might say things like, "I want to lay eggs for Giegie, marry it in a wedding dress," even knowing full well that violating rules by tipping Harry off could result in harsh punishment. Yet, Dobby would rather suffer that punishment than not inform Harry.
"I know this is a very difficult situation," Dobby said after a long pause, sensing Harry's silence. His voice was tinged with disappointment but held no blame. "It's my fault for disturbing you, sir. Dobby will leave now—"
"You just said something about not being able to protect your master and mistress's... what was it?" Harry asked, his gaze fixed on Dobby's eyes, his voice steady.
"Doesn't Draco have a sister? Cassandra, right?"
"Y-yes, yes..." Dobby nodded shakily, his voice trembling. "I misspoke, foolish Dobby, foolish Dobby. Miss Cassandra is a kind and gentle girl. She has always been good to Dobby. She is someone I..."
For a moment, Dobby faltered into silence, then continued, "She is someone I care for deeply..."
"Your mistress only asked you to protect Draco, then?" Harry's suspicions grew, but without enough clues, he couldn't piece the whole story together. His only source of information was the house-elf standing before him, and Harry waited for his answer.
"My mistress told Dobby to protect Young Master Draco..." Dobby repeated those words, his pupils beginning to dull. His frail body swayed dangerously, almost toppling again, but Harry, with quick reflexes, carefully set him back down onto the floor, holding onto the elf's torn, sheet-like clothing.
"Don't move."
Harry gave Dobby a stern look, then dripped a bitter potion into his mouth, one potent enough to paralyze him completely. Afterward, he tore away the elf's filthy bandages.
The sores were not marks from cuts or whippings. They were the result of a magical curse. The festering boils were a product of a painful spell—much like the Leg-Locker Curse or the Dancing Curse, a seemingly harmless jinx called the Boil Curse. Normally, it would cause painful, irritating boils, but it wouldn't lead to such severe consequences. Usually, the curse would wear off after a few hours, leaving only unsightly scars, but it would not cause the body to rot and fester like this.
"Unless..." Harry's gaze sharpened as he unsheathed a sharp, willow-leaf knife. Without hesitation, he began to carefully remove the decayed flesh from the wound, scraping out the necrotic tissue little by little.
(End of Chapter)