At one o'clock in the morning, Draco Malfoy—dressed in light grey pyjamas—appeared in the Hogwarts kitchen, utterly dumbfounded.
Before him, more than a hundred house-elves in Hogwarts uniforms turned in unison, their faces bright with smiles as they bowed and curtsied.
This is a disaster. A respectable Malfoy would never appear before anyone in his pyjamas—not even house-elves.
This particular predicament had begun two hours earlier.
It was an evening after Easter. He had just finished a long and tedious essay on the magical history of the self-stirring cauldron and was preparing for bed when, with a sharp crack, a strangely dressed little creature appeared before him.
Draco barely recognised Dobby.
Its outfit looked as though it had been assembled by the most irresponsible child imaginable. From the teapot-shaped cosy perched on its head—festooned with a cluster of glittering, mismatched badges—to its horseshoe-patterned tie, its frayed shorts, and two wholly incompatible socks: everything about it was spectacularly out of place.
"Dobby has found it!" it shrieked, clutching a thin black book in both hands.
"Has he? Give it to me at once." Draco leapt up, immediately abandoning any thought of remarking on Dobby's attire.
Dobby presented the book with a respectful bow, and thoughtfully opened it to the correct page.
The passage on Horcruxes was only a few lines long—but it was enough. This was precisely the knowledge Draco had been lacking.
"If one wishes to create a Horcrux, the caster may employ the spell 'Animus Captivus' to seal a fragment of the soul into a vessel..."
Soul imprisonment. Draco tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, lost in thought.
"Copy it." He raised his wand and duplicated the book, then handed the copy—its cover so darkened as to be illegible—back to Dobby.
"Well done, Dobby. Return this copy to exactly where you found it." Noticing that Dobby's eyes were already glistening with tears at the praise, Draco wisely changed the subject. "Where did you find this book?"
He had barely finished the question when Dobby began slamming his head against the wall.
"Dobby is a bad elf! Dobby has betrayed his master's trust!" the elf wailed, as though he had committed some unforgivable crime.
"Dobby, I order you to stop this instant! Explain yourself," Draco commanded. He was grateful he'd had the foresight to cast a Silencing Charm on the room before Dobby arrived—otherwise the racket would have roused the entire neighbouring dormitory.
Dobby finally ceased, panting weakly. "Thank you, Master! Dobby searched the whole study! Dobby could not find it!" He blinked his great tennis-ball eyes miserably. "So Dobby searched and searched, and at last found it in that house—that evil house!"
Draco watched as the little elf worked himself back into a frenzy, bouncing and jigging with agitated pride, and asked, "Which room?"
"Oh! Master! It is the master's secret room—the one hidden beneath the drawing room! It is full of dark objects!" Dobby shrieked.
Then he shuddered and hurled himself toward Draco's wardrobe, clearly intent on punishing himself again.
"Stop! Dobby, I forbid you to punish yourself without my express permission." Draco pressed a hand to his forehead and beckoned the elf, who was already bowing and thanking him, back over. "Now—why were you punishing yourself?"
"The master forbids us from entering freely. It is a secret room. There are many Dark artefacts kept inside." Dobby shrank back, visibly shaken. "But the young master commanded Dobby to find the book—until Dobby found it."
"Dobby, you did very well." Draco made a silent resolution to visit that room over the summer.
He knew the room. It was the restricted collection chamber at Malfoy Manor.
In his previous life, he had not set foot inside until he was fifteen or sixteen—by which point it had been stripped nearly bare, with little of any obvious significance remaining.
What had been stored there during his early childhood was a detail he had never thought to investigate.
That was why the room had never crossed his mind before. In his memory, it had held nothing of consequence.
And later, of course, the Dark Lord had converted it into a cell—a filthy, wretched, and suffocating symbol of terror that he had refused to enter unless absolutely compelled to.
He did not wish to dwell on that.
Now, however, Draco found his curiosity piqued. He resolved to look in on the room the moment the summer term ended.
Dobby still stood there, trembling faintly, his complexion wan.
Draco regarded him with an unreadable expression and began to reassess his worth.
Dobby had actually found the Horcrux passage—something Draco had all but given up on.
The little elf was genuinely useful. Aggravating, yes—impossibly loud—but effective, and considerably more capable than Draco had credited.
He possessed the ability to read.
He could Apparate, and could do so even within the castle, which was supposedly impervious to such magic.
He had a cunning that rivalled many a wizard. In another life, he had spirited Harry and the others away from right under the Dark Lord's nose.
Most remarkably, he had accomplished all of this wandlessly. His raw magical ability likely exceeded that of many adult witches and wizards, and in a critical moment, that could prove invaluable.
On the whole, Dobby's abilities justified the expense of a wage. Better to bind his loyalty with a modest sum than to have him defect and carry the Malfoys' secrets with him.
"Do you like Chocolate Frogs?" Draco asked. "There's one on the table. Sit down and have a piece."
Dobby hesitated, shot Draco a cautious glance, and—satisfied that he was not being mocked—moved to do as he was told. He snatched a piece from the very edge of the plate, unwrapped it with unsteady hands, and nibbled at it cautiously.
"Better?" Draco asked.
"Dobby—Dobby feels much better," he said, still trembling. The colour had begun to return to his face. He turned the Chocolate Frog card over in his large eyes with open curiosity.
"Who did you get?" Draco asked.
"Cornelius Agrippa," Dobby said, blinking.
"Not bad. I hear that one is quite rare—very sought after among collectors," Draco said. "Keep it."
The little elf brightened at once. He turned the card over and over with great delight, seemingly having forgotten the whole unpleasant affair.
Draco studied his expression for a moment and then said, "My father has told me that you are now my personal house-elf, and that henceforth you answer only to me. My expectations will be higher than those of others—which also means you need not punish yourself over matters such as this."
Dobby bowed happily, his great ears drooping to the carpet.
Draco had long suspected that Dobby was an unusual house-elf—an anomaly, even by the standards of his kind. He had heard, courtesy of Pansy Parkinson and her self-appointed title of "Gossip Queen," that after leaving the Malfoys Dobby had approached numerous wizarding households seeking paid employment.
Which traditionalist pure-blood family would ever entertain such an unorthodox arrangement?
Even so, Draco had weighed the matter carefully and reached his conclusion.
"Dobby," he said, "you are a capable elf. I am willing to pay you for your work."
The undisguised astonishment in Dobby's eyes was immediate.
"Ten Galleons a week," Draco said. "How does that sound?"
"No!" Dobby recoiled as though the coins themselves were something monstrous. "Master, that is far too much! It would ruin Dobby entirely!"
"Five Galleons, then."
"Still too much! Little master, one Galleon can last Dobby several months!" Dobby squeaked.
"One Galleon a week," Draco said, with finality. "No lower. And weekends off."
Dobby seized his own ears and tugged at them furiously. "Too much freedom! Dobby likes to work! Dobby does not want so many holidays!"
"Dobby—stop." Draco let out a long breath. How in Merlin's name did any house-elf complain of being paid too much?
"Then tell me what you do want."
Dobby twisted his long fingers nervously and peered up at him. "Dobby wants one Galleon a month. And one day off a month."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Acceptable. Unused days may be accumulated—you could take seven consecutive days together, a proper holiday."
Dobby shuddered.
"Or," Draco added smoothly, "unused days may be converted into additional wages instead."
He gave a flick of his wand. Ten Galleons materialised on the table beside Dobby.
"That is your bonus for tonight's work," Draco said.
Dobby stared at the glinting coins as though he could not quite believe they were real. His lips trembled. "My great little master," he whispered. "No one has ever treated Dobby like this before..."
Draco said nothing, though he allowed himself a quiet sense of satisfaction.
"Alright—take it." He settled back in his chair. "And Dobby—how is it that you can Apparate into Hogwarts? Hogwarts: A History is quite explicit that Apparition is impossible within the school grounds."
"Dobby does not know." Dobby shook his head, his great pointed ears swaying. "Dobby has always been able to come to Hogwarts. He has even visited his friends here." He suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth, as though he had let something slip.
"Friends?" Draco asked, genuinely interested. "Another house-elf?"
Dobby blinked and gave a small, cautious nod.
"Here at Hogwarts?"
"Yes." Dobby relaxed slightly, reassured that Draco's expression had not darkened. "They are in the kitchens, preparing food for the school. There are hundreds of them."
"You'll have to take me to see it sometime," Draco said. "I've always wondered where the Hogwarts kitchens actually are."
He had barely finished the sentence when Dobby lunged forward and seized his arm.
The familiar crushing sensation of Side-Along Apparition overtook him—his eyes, nose, and eardrums felt as though they were being forced inward—
"We have arrived, little master," Dobby announced cheerfully.
"Yes, Dobby," Draco said, fighting down the nausea that accompanied Apparition. "I didn't mean right now."
Two house-elves had already conjured an armchair behind him; a small table floated into place before him. Several others arrived bearing a large silver tray: a steaming cup of cocoa, a teapot, a jug of milk, and a generous plate of assorted cakes and biscuits.
"No, no," Draco said quickly, as Dobby moved toward him again. "I cannot manage a second Apparition just yet."
He sank into the velvet armchair and raised the cocoa to his lips.
"Wonderful. Thank you," he said.
The elves looked enormously pleased. They bowed, curtsied, and retreated.
Draco sipped his cocoa slowly and let his gaze drift across the kitchen. It was enormous—easily the size of the Great Hall above. Four long wooden tables dominated the space, identical to those in the four House tables upstairs. Copper pots and pans were stacked against the walls, and a great brick fireplace crackled at the far end. The house-elves wore tea towels embroidered with the Hogwarts crest.
"Excuse me—" Draco said.
One of the elves stopped, turned, and curtsied.
"How does one find this place?" he asked.
The elf's voice was clearer and brighter than Dobby's. "Sir, you go down one floor below the Great Hall. In the corridor, there is a painting of a large silver bowl of fruit. If you tickle the pear, a door will open—and there you are, sir."
"Thank you, Wendy," Dobby said happily—evidently the friend he had mentioned.
"Why have I never seen any of you before?" Draco asked.
"We do not usually appear before wizards, sir," Wendy said respectfully. "When we clean the dormitories and common rooms, we keep ourselves out of sight."
"And you can all Apparate within Hogwarts?"
"Yes, sir. Most anti-Apparition enchantments do not affect us."
Draco absorbed this in silence.
Merlin. He had apparently stumbled upon a rather significant vulnerability in Hogwarts' defences. Had the Death Eaters ever thought to make use of house-elves, the castle would have been as easy to infiltrate as a sieve—and he would never have needed to spend months researching the Vanishing Cabinet in his previous life.
But of course, how many pure-blood wizards ever thought seriously about what their house-elves were actually capable of? Most regarded them as menial domestics and could not conceive of them as anything more.
He gave Wendy a nod of dismissal. She curtsied and withdrew.
The cocoa warmed away the last of his drowsiness and sharpened his thoughts. He turned them back to the Animus Captivus and Quirrell's current condition.
The Dark Lord had almost certainly possessed him—a far cry from actually imprisoning his soul in the back of Quirrell's skull. That would hardly account for how easily Voldemort had been dislodged in his previous life.
"Dobby," he said, "from now on, I want you to watch Quirrell. Report anything unusual to me. Keep your distance—do not let him notice you."
Dobby puffed out his chest with evident pride and gave a sharp nod.
With a crack, he vanished.
"Wait—" Draco stood and reached out, but it was already too late. Dobby's reflexes were absurdly quick.
He sighed and sat back down. He would simply walk back to the dungeons.
Finishing the last of his cocoa—it really was excellent—he allowed Wendy to guide him through the great vaulted kitchen at a leisurely pace. He cast a final, thoughtful look at the long tables, the gleaming copper, and the softly crackling fire, turning over in his mind the notion that all the food which appeared each day in the Great Hall was likely assembled here first, then Transported upstairs in one smooth, simultaneous conjuration.
As he made his way toward the door, a small crowd of elves pressed forward and loaded his arms with cream cakes, biscuits, and wrapped pies.
Draco accepted them with genuine courtesy and took his leave. The house-elves bowed him out with such enthusiasm that he half expected a formal send-off.
Crabbe and Goyle would sign up for a Hogwarts kitchen elective without a second's hesitation, he thought drowsily, biting into a chocolate muffin as he climbed the stairs toward the entrance hall. For them, this place—endless, free, and unconditionally generous—would be indistinguishable from paradise.
He had always thought sneaking food from the kitchens was some grand, forbidden adventure. It turned out the house-elves would simply hand it to you before you had even asked.
He finished the muffin, ducked down the brightly lit corridor, and slipped quietly back into the darkened passageway that led to the Slytherin common room.