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Chapter 433: Dobby's Search Journey
Departure from Hogwarts was still one day away, but Michael had already packed his school trunk and couldn’t wait to return. He was eager to see the Headmaster and ask about the progress on rescuing Wade.
These past few days, he’d written dozens of letters—each one unanswered. The owls grew so frustrated they’d peck at his hand repeatedly.
In the Weasley household, news was scarce. Mr. Weasley was always out, rarely home, while Mrs. Weasley would simply say, “You’re just children,” and “This isn’t something you should be involved in.” Even the living room’s streaming mirror had been warded by Mrs. Weasley, sealed shut so no one could open it. If Harry hadn’t still had a small mirror of his own, Michael thought he might have gone mad.
To be fair, Mrs. Weasley was incredibly kind and attentive, doing everything she could to care for the two guests as if they were her own children. But her overprotective, infantilizing approach was unbearable for Michael.
Harry, on the other hand, saw it as the natural way a mother should be. He always responded with quiet obedience—though behind her back, he’d still sneak out to break the rules.
Michael, by contrast, had always been raised in a home full of love and freedom. His parents had never micromanaged him, and he was used to taking care of himself. He wasn’t willing to be treated like a child.
After dinner, Harry and the Weasley children quickly cleared the table, then claimed they were heading to their rooms to finish assignments—really just to sneak a peek at the streaming mirror and catch up on what was happening outside.
But Michael surprised everyone by not joining them. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll just take a walk around the area.”
Harry blinked in surprise, but recalling Michael’s recent mood, he figured he needed some space. He didn’t press the issue.
The others chattered cheerfully upstairs. Percy paused, puzzled by his younger brothers’ sudden burst of enthusiasm for studying. But he had a letter to Penelope to write, so he didn’t dwell on it. He hurried back to his room.
Since Ron had moved back into his own bedroom, Percy felt like he could finally breathe. The once-crowded room now felt precious. As long as those troublemakers stayed away, he didn’t care what they were up to.
Just… please don’t let Ginny get corrupted…
…
Michael pulled on his cloak and stepped toward the door—only to be pulled back by Mrs. Weasley.
A few minutes later, he emerged wrapped in thick scarves, gloves on his hands, a warming flame bottle tucked into his pocket, and enchanted boots that repelled water and damp. Only then was he allowed to leave.
Holding the bottle of magical fire, Michael stepped out into the snowdrift. The hillside was empty—just him moving through the quiet, blanketed world. Below, in the village, faint smoke curled from chimneys, and silhouettes of people moved along the path.
Michael walked slowly through the trees.
He didn’t want to look at the streaming mirror today. It only showed short clips of the Wizard Purity Party’s activities—repeated rants about Muggles being vile, claiming their actions were purely defensive, protecting the magical world. But there was no sign of Wade.
The Ministry had sent agents to search the sites of attacks, but they were only cleaning up after the Purity Party’s mess. They found nothing.
Frustrated beyond words, Michael wandered aimlessly. As he rounded a tree, he suddenly froze.
Something was wrong.
He spun around—and saw a figure standing beneath a nearby tree.
The house-elf was dressed in a bizarre, ancient style. The deer hat atop its head seemed absurdly out of place against its ragged, threadbare appearance.
Michael almost gasped—but before he could flee, the elf bowed deeply. The gesture stunned him, halting his instinct to run.
“W-Who are you?” Michael gripped his wand cautiously. “What are you doing here?”
“Dobby, sir,” the elf said, clutching its hat with trembling hands. “I am a free house-elf. Dobby.”
“Dobby?” Michael relaxed slightly. “I’ve heard of you… After you left Malfoy Manor, didn’t you find a new master?”
He noticed the rare word—“free”—used so rarely for house-elves.
“No one was willing to hire a house-elf who wanted pay,” Dobby admitted. “But that’s not important now. I’ve searched far and wide to find Michael Conner, because I know you’re the closest friend of Mr. Gray. I need to know… where can I find Mr. Gray?”
“A good question,” Michael said, forcing a weak smile. “I wish I knew the answer.”
The elf tilted its head, sighing. “Dobby understands. I’ll try elsewhere.”
Just as it began to apparate, Michael suddenly called out, “Wait!”
Dobby paused, looking up at him.
In an instant, an idea struck Michael. He began pacing back and forth across the snow, trampling it flat. Then, abruptly, he turned to Dobby, eyes gleaming.
“Even if I don’t know where Wade is,” he said, “I can give you three directions to search.”
He began organizing his thoughts rapidly.
“Whoever took Wade must be Gellert Grindelwald. They need Wade to disrupt the FMC’s signal so they can broadcast their own videos to the entire wizarding world.”
“But the Wizard Purity Party can’t trust someone Dumbledore favors. To force Wade to cooperate—or even join them—they might resort to desperate measures. Like threatening his parents… or worse.”
“So first,” he held up one finger, “check Wade’s parents’ home. Look for anyone acting suspicious, watching them from afar.”
He raised a second finger.
“Second, the Purity Party’s base is likely somewhere extremely cold and remote.
You’ve seen their videos—those wizards are always bundled in thick layers, tall and lean. They’re clearly from a harsh, cold region. And a place that can hold hundreds of wizards? It can’t be near many Muggles.”
He raised a third finger.
“Third, the videos show at least two or three hundred wizards. When they’re not attacking Muggles, what are they doing? Eating, drinking, resting. They need someone to wash their clothes, clean their rooms.”
He looked directly at Dobby. “So you understand? Their base must house hundreds of house-elves—more than Hogwarts!”
“And you, Dobby,” Michael added, “are a house-elf looking for work. Find where a large number of house-elves have recently gathered. That’s far more useful than tracking wizards.”
As he spoke, more ideas poured out.
“And—look at the injured wizards in the videos. They need healing potions! Even if they can brew them, the ingredients are hard to get.”
“Mending potions require unicorn tail hair, wormwood, and white fresh—fresh, not dried. Blood-replenishing potions need unicorn horn and mandragora.”
“Mandragora can’t be stored long-term. White fresh must be used within a year. So if someone’s been buying these ingredients in bulk recently… that could lead us to them.”
“Ah… tracking?” Dobby’s eyes widened, nearly swirling with excitement. He shook his head, clenched his fists, and whispered, “Dobby… Dobby will try everything!”
Michael smiled.
“No… you probably can’t do that alone. I’ll write to Professor Dumbledore. They may have already thought of this, but… just in case.”
“Dobby, just focus on the first three leads. That’s all you need.”
Dobby exhaled in quiet relief. “I… I understand now.”
Ever since leaving Hogwarts, he’d wandered aimlessly, unsure if his efforts meant anything. But for the first time, he knew what to do.
Michael turned and hurried back toward the Weasley house, eager to write his letter. He left Wade’s address with Dobby, then dashed away.
A sharp crack echoed through the snowy hillside. Dobby vanished.
…
The village still bore traces of Christmas decorations, but the cold was growing sharper. Night had fallen, and the streets were nearly empty.
Dobby clutched the note, pressed it against a wall’s horn, and began searching along the path.
“Fourteen… fifteen… sixteen… seventeen… this must be it?”
He peered through a gap in the fence, catching a glimpse of a figure moving by the window, lit by a single lamp. Before he could focus, a small, pale shape appeared right in front of him.
Dobby barely had time to react before a skeletal hand clamped around his neck, slamming him against the wall.
His eyes bulged in panic. Before him stood an ancient house-elf, so old his skin looked like fossilized bark. The long, bony fingers dug into his throat.
“Hmph,” the old elf muttered, voice low and rasping. “What have we here? A troublesome little brat, spying on our master?”
“W-What are you doing?” Dobby gasped, struggling to pry the hand off.
“Kreacher will take you to the master,” the elf hissed. “Spendthrift Master will hollow out your skull and dig out every wicked thought inside.”
“Wait—please!” Dobby finally managed to twist his hand, yanking the edge of his hat upward. From inside, he pulled out a small greeting card and held it up.
[To my beloved Dobby:
Merry Christmas!
Your friend,
Wade Gray]
Kreacher stared. The handwriting—familiar, unmistakable—made his grip loosen slightly. His expression shifted, flickering with something like surprise.
“…This odd little rogue… is he a friend of Wade Gray?”
“Yes,” Dobby coughed. “Dobby is Mr. Gray’s friend. I’m searching for him. I thought I’d find someone suspicious here.”
Kreacher released him, but snorted. “The most suspicious thing here is you.”
Dobby flinched, staring at the powerful elf. “I… I don’t know who you are…”
“Kreacher,” the elf said proudly, “house-elf of the Black family, sworn to the noble and pure bloodline. Master commands me to guard Mr. Gray’s parents.”
He sneered at Dobby’s tattered clothes—rags so thin they barely covered him.
No family crest, no proper pillowcase even. Clearly cast out.
In truth, Kreacher had once worn nothing but rags. Now, he wore a neat little suit, a family crest pinned to his chest.
House-elves couldn’t receive clothing from their masters, but accepting a gift from another was allowed. This suit—complete with the Black family crest—had been a gift from Wade. Kreacher had dug the crest from the attic himself.
Sirius Black had disliked the crest constantly on display, but he never forbade Kreacher from wearing it.
Dobby watched him with a mix of envy and pity, fidgeting with his torn clothes.
Then—suddenly—the front door of the house creaked open.
Both elves froze. They darted into hiding behind the fence and snow-covered bushes.
Through the gap, Dobby saw a middle-aged Muggle man step out in pajamas, wearing a coat and holding a bright lantern that lit up half the courtyard.
“Everything okay, Ferdinand?” a woman’s voice called from inside.
“I thought I heard something,” the man replied, glancing around. “Maybe just a squirrel.”
“Alright… I’m going back to bed. I don’t know if Wade will be home before school starts.”
A light flickered on upstairs—then went out.
The man stood there, cheeks red from the cold, but still lingering. He circled the yard, checked the roof, even bent down to peer under the bushes. After a long, frustrated search, he finally turned back.
Dobby exhaled, trembling with relief.
Then—pitter-pat—a sparrow hopped from a pile of dead leaves, mistaking Dobby’s outstretched finger for food. It pecked at him sharply.
Dobby yanked his hand back. The bushes shook, snow cascading down.
The Muggle man spun around instantly, stepping forward, shouting, “Wade? Is that you?”
The lantern’s beam fell on a pair of large, glowing eyes—like tennis balls—staring back from the shadows.
Ferdinand gasped, nearly collapsing. He stumbled back, clutching his chest, fighting the urge to run or scream.
“W-What… are you?” he whispered, voice trembling.
Unlike most house-elves, even in Malfoy Manor, Dobby had never hidden away.
Now that he was discovered, he remembered how humans treated guests—when visiting friends’ families.
With a deep breath, he stepped out from the bushes, still holding his deer hat against his chest.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, bowing slightly. “I am a house-elf. Dobby. A friend of Wade Gray. I’ve come to search for him.”
To prove it, he showed the card again.
Ferdinand stared.
Then, slowly, he noticed the creature’s eyes—though strange in appearance—were clear, sincere.
After a long silence, he said, “Wade isn’t home. But… since you’re his friend… please, come in.”
(End of Chapter)
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