Cornwall, Tintagel.
On a gloomy weekend morning, an abandoned monastery stood perched on the edge of a cliff. The air was damp and chilly, with a fine drizzle soaking the early spring flowers by the roadside.
Three figures trudged along a secluded valley path, occasionally glancing up. The soft patter of rain on leaves formed glistening droplets that dripped down, making the February shrubs greener and sparking memories for an aging house-elf.
Cornwall, the southwestern tip of England, was renowned in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. It boasted rugged coastlines and mysterious tin mines. Melvin knew this area was once a famed mining district, and Professor Sprout often rambled about the world's largest greenhouse, built by Muggles and called Eden.
Wizarding history here stretched back even further. In Bodmin and the western highlands, farmers and craftsmen skilled in agriculture and metalwork thrived. Wizards here traded directly with precious metals—bronze, tin, and gold.
After the Romans left Britain in the Middle Ages, Normans conquered England militarily. Under the Plantagenet dynasty, many wizards who followed William the Conqueror settled here, building their manors.
According to historian Bathilda Bagshot, after the International Statute of Secrecy was enacted in the 17th century, some wizarding families began living among tolerant Muggles. Tintagel, nestled by the coast, became a hub for such wizarding families.
Arithmancer Bridget Wenlock once lived here, discovering the magical properties of the number seven.
Whether out of respect for the Lestrange ancestral home or because its location had faded from memory, Kreacher couldn't recall the manor's exact spot. When apparating with Melvin and Dobby, he set their landing point outside the valley, forcing them to walk the rest of the way.
"Dobby, did Lucius tell you everything?" Melvin asked, stepping through the soft, wet earth.
"Yes, sir…" Dobby's voice was high-pitched, tinged with unmistakable dejection.
Compared to the elderly Kreacher, Dobby looked far more spirited. His gray-green skin stretched taut over his bones, giving it an elastic sheen. His large, round eyes shimmered with emotion, and his bat-like ears showed delicate veins. He was wrapped in a tattered curtain.
"Mr. Malfoy instructed me to deliver the invitation and myself to Hogwarts, into your hands. From today, you're my new master," Dobby said glumly.
Kreacher shot him a disdainful glance, and Dobby's head sank lower.
"You don't seem thrilled about it. Do you want to stay at Malfoy Manor, or do I make you uncomfortable?" Melvin gave him a curious look.
"No, no! It's an honor to have a master like you…" Dobby's eyes widened in panic. "Mr. Levent is famous! Serving you is my privilege. Harry Potter says you're a good man—kind, gentle, though a bit mysterious at times."
"Is that how Harry describes me?" Melvin mused, then refocused. "So why the long face?"
Kreacher let out a hoarse, mocking chuckle. "Because only useless house-elves get passed on by their masters. A truly loyal, dutiful elf is cherished. They'd rather have their heads chopped off and mounted on the wall than be let go. Being handed off by Malfoy proves he's incompetent—unworthy!"
"And didn't you leave the Lestrange family?" Melvin shot back, exasperated. He'd thought Kreacher, working at Hogwarts, might be less servile, but apparently not.
"I was forced to leave!" Kreacher snapped.
"Why didn't you chop your own head off and hang it on the wall?"
"Only a master has the right to do that!"
"…"
Melvin shook his head, too tired to argue with the stubborn old elf. House-elves' minds were warped—Dobby included. He clearly didn't want to serve the Malfoys, yet leaving them left him distressed.
"Your life belongs to you. You're your own master. I know that's hard for you to grasp, and I'm not here to lecture you like students," Melvin said, summoning a gust of wind to sweep the rain off Dobby. "Dobby, you're different from other house-elves. You've tasted freedom and know its value. So, I want to make a deal with you."
"A deal?" Dobby's eyes widened.
"I'm a professor, but also a businessman. Business is about give and take. I paid a price to get you from Malfoy—consider that my investment. You work for me, provide your labor and service. When you feel you've given enough to match what I paid, you can earn your freedom and be your own master."
Melvin glanced ahead; they were nearing the valley's end.
"Business… cost… freedom…" Dobby's face showed confusion mixed with a flicker of joy. He didn't fully understand the young professor's words, but his gut told him this was important. He tucked the words, along with Melvin's tone, into his heart.
For some reason, the sadness in his chest seemed to drift away with the breeze.
In the early February drizzle, the air carried the scent of earth and grass.
Across the valley, a flat clearing stood out against the wild, overgrown woods. To passing travelers eager to leave the valley, it might go unnoticed. But once spotted, its oddity was impossible to ignore.
Melvin pointed his wand at the clearing, a gentle pulse of magic blending with the rain.
A mist rose, shrouding the area. Space rippled, a breeze stirred from the grass, scattering the drizzle and fog. When the valley cleared, the breeze stilled, and the clearing returned to calm.
"Muggle-Repelling Charm, Illusion Magic, Protego Totalum, Salvio Hexia, and a Room-Sealing Charm…" Melvin listed the spells softly, glancing at Kreacher. "Simpler than I expected. I thought there'd be a Fidelius Charm."
"Only weak families need a Fidelius Charm to fend off other wizards. The Lestranges were the ones attacking others," Kreacher said, staring at the grassy patch with a wistful, pained look as he inhaled the damp air. "These spells just keep Muggles away."
The Lestrange family, of French wizarding origin, carried noble magical blood and centuries of glory. But twelve years ago, their legacy crumbled.
The Ministry once proposed seizing this manor, but the two Lestrange brothers and Bellatrix refused to yield. They chose life in Azkaban over trading their family's wealth for leniency.
"Stop standing in the rain. Take me inside," Melvin said.
Kreacher, trembling, glanced at Dobby. "I need to see the invitation again."
"What, you think someone's fooling you?" Dobby muttered, rummaging through his tattered curtain to produce an ornate invitation. "Not even Mr. Levent, or even Malfoy…"
His face froze, realizing he was badmouthing his former master, and he fell silent.
Kreacher shakily inspected the invitation, addressed to "Professor Levent" and signed by "Narcissa Malfoy, sister of Bellatrix Lestrange."
The old elf stared at the signature for a long time before handing it back. He wanted to ask if the young professor had ulterior motives or coveted the Lestrange fortune but couldn't bring himself to speak.
The family line was broken, its last heirs rotting in Azkaban. Malice or not, it hardly mattered. Besides, Melvin knew the manor's location. If he meant harm, he could've brute-forced the protective charms.
Kreacher pointed a frail, trembling finger at the clearing.
Like ink spreading in water or memories pooling in a Pensieve, the space shimmered, revealing a grand manor.
The towering iron gates bore dark red rust, their vine patterns faded. The old copper hinges groaned painfully as they opened.
The path to the garden was lined with lush oaks and overgrown hedges. Rose branches encroached on the walkway, and a dry fountain held weathered statues—perhaps griffins or basilisks, maybe ravens or occamies—covered in vines, their former menace lost.
Further in stood the castle, its rugged walls solid but asymmetrical, with towers and spires adorned with iron railings and gargoyle drains. Stained-glass windows depicted the family's history, unmistakably Victorian in style.
Pushing open the oak door, a musty, stale smell hit them.
The entrance hall was lined with tapestries and portraits of Lestrange ancestors. The wizards who crafted the paintings were skilled; traces of magic lingered, but years of neglect had yellowed the varnish, cracked some frames, and coated them in dust. The portraits barely stirred.
A tapestry bore the Lestrange crest: a raven.
Next to it, in Latin, was the family motto: "A raven does not peck out another raven's eyes."
"Wah…" Kreacher's sudden, heart-wrenching sob echoed through the castle. "The raven's children are gone, and only cuckoos remain in the nest!"
"…"
Melvin, unmoved, found it noisy. This cuckoo was here to plunder the raven's nest today.
"According to Peter's intel, the vault key is on the second floor."
Melvin scanned the portraits as he entered the hall. The castle's layout was familiar, and he soon found a staircase in the corner. Dust-covered marble steps creaked underfoot, with faint rustles from the shadows—perhaps bowtruckles or doxy-like creatures, nothing worth noting.
The second floor held several rooms: a study reeking of moldy parchment, a potion room with bottles of dried-up residue, and a grim bedroom with faded silk curtains on a four-poster bed, now woven with spiderwebs. Everything was blanketed in dust.
Melvin had no interest in rummaging through books. No matter how grand the Lestrange legacy, could it rival Hogwarts? Could their library compare to the school's?
No point wasting time here.
Dobby trailed behind, somehow finding a working oil lamp to light Melvin's path. "Master, how many Galleons did you spend to get me from Malfoy? And how much is my lighting worth? When will I earn my freedom?"
"First, just call me Melvin, or Professor, or Mr. Levent," Melvin said, searching for a cabinet or safe. "Dobby, not everything has a fixed price like bread or potatoes in a shop. What I paid and what you provide—they're hard to quantify."
Dobby's eyes widened. "Then how will I know when I've earned enough?"
Melvin paused, meeting the elf's protruding eyes with a smile. "You'll know when you've earned it."
Though the young professor smiled, Dobby sensed his seriousness. Melvin didn't see him as a slave but as an equal. There was depth in his words, though Dobby couldn't quite grasp their meaning.
"When I've earned it, I'll know… when I know, I've earned it…" Dobby muttered.
Melvin reached a door at the corridor's end and pushed, but it wouldn't budge. A closer look revealed an Anti-Alohomora Charm.
His mood lifted—he'd found the right place. With a flick of his fingers, Transfiguration melted the oiled oak door like thawing ice, revealing the room inside.
A dusty, ornate antique cabinet gleamed dully under the lamplight, its crystal-carved doors protecting its contents.
A cast-iron raven statue, the Lestrange emblem.
An ancient tapestry, its colors faded but gold and silver threads still glinting, traced the family tree from the Middle Ages. Three bloodlines branched neatly, ending with Rodolphus and his kin.
Some names had birth and death years. Most spanned decades or centuries, but one stood out: Corvus V Lestrange, born 1901, died 1901.
Wizards rarely lost children to childbirth or congenital illness, especially in peaceful times. Infant deaths were exceedingly rare.
Noticing Melvin's focus, Dobby spoke up. "I heard the… my former mistress mention that name. Their house-elf was escorting him to America by ship when it sank. The elf mixed him up with another child during the escape. They didn't learn the truth until 1927."
Melvin nodded thoughtfully, his gaze shifting to a tray beside the tapestry.
A golden key lay there, waiting.