"Dobby?"
Using the candlelight, Harry clearly saw the figure by his bedside. The face peering at him had large, tennis-ball eyes, a long, pointy nose, slender limbs, grayish-green skin, and a thick scarf wrapped around his thin neck, making him look rather comical.
"Yes, sir, it is me," Dobby's high-pitched voice echoed in the hospital wing.
"I remember... I think I fell off my broom?"
Harry moved his arms and legs. Aside from a bit of stiffness in his back from lying down and a slight headache, he had no injuries. His bones were intact, and his knees and ankles were still flexible.
He rubbed his aching temples, letting out a small sigh of relief.
When he lost consciousness and fell on the Quidditch pitch, he had been chasing the Golden Snitch while climbing high. From a height of several hundred feet, if it hadn't been for Headmaster Dumbledore's spell, he probably would have been scattered in pieces, just like his broom.
"Madam Pomfrey checked you, sir. No injuries on your body. Your head might hurt a bit because several hundred Dementors stared at you up close all at once, which makes your soul tremble. Rest easy, and you will be fine," Dobby muttered in a low voice, sighing as he used a sponge to wipe Harry's forehead. "Harry Potter is in the hospital wing again because of a match."
"Again?" Harry repeated.
"Harry Potter didn't know Dobby in first year, but Dobby heard Master Malfoy talk about it. Last year and this year, Dobby saw it with his own eyes, sir. Every year during the Quidditch match, you get hurt and end up here."
Dobby stared with his bulging eyes. "Dobby warns Harry Potter again, ah, sir, why don't you give up this dangerous sport?"
Harry paused, then smiled. "You don't understand, Dobby. My teammates need me, and Gryffindor needs the victory."
With Dobby chattering nearby, he felt much more relaxed. He propped himself up on the pillow, took the sponge, and cleaned himself.
"Even with Harry Potter playing, Gryffindor still lost," Dobby pouted. "That Malfoy caught the Snitch in the end. Their players cheered toward the stands and even called you a coward. Mister Weasley was furious and almost got into a fight with them."
Harry put the sponge back on the tray and pressed his temples.
His memory was still a bit jumbled. He remembered seeing Professor Lewent's Patronus before he passed out, and his two friends rushing towards him after he fell. As for the Snitch and the match result, he couldn't quite recall.
He vowed to win every remaining match to make up the lost House Points.
"Where are Ron and Hermione?"
"They returned to Gryffindor Tower, sir. It's almost lights-out time."
Dobby refilled the glass with water and handed it over. "Madam Pomfrey said Harry Potter isn't injured, just fainted after seeing Dementors. Mister Weasley and Miss Granger said this is an old habit and nothing to worry about."
Harry felt a pang of resentment. It really did sound like he was a coward, fainting every time he saw a Dementor.
"I really need to learn the Patronus Charm quickly."
He vaguely remembered the long-horned water snake Patronus he saw before losing consciousness. The snake's body coiled around the entire pitch, and with a simple flick of its tail, the hundreds of Dementors were swept away like falling leaves.
Taking a sip of the plain water, Harry looked up and finally remembered to ask, "Why are you here?"
"It is Dobby's job, sir. Someone commissioned Dobby to look after Harry Potter."
"..."
Harry stared at the ceiling of the hospital wing, not paying much attention to the hint in the house-elf's words, assuming the Headmaster or a professor had asked him to look after him.
With his face washed and water drunk, Dobby, watching Harry lying in bed and clearly having no need to use the toilet or eat, blinked, somewhat at a loss for things to do.
"Does Harry Potter want something to eat?"
"No, I'm not hungry yet."
"Does Harry Potter need to go to the washroom?"
"No, I just want to lie down."
"..."
Dobby continued to stare at Harry's green eyes, then paused. "Then what Christmas gift does Harry Potter want, sir? Is there anything you've always wanted to buy but haven't?"
The sudden change of topic surprised Harry, and he found it a little amusing. House-elves' minds were certainly jumpy.
"What? You want to buy me a Christmas present? Aren't you saving your wages to buy your freedom? Don't you want to be free anymore?"
"Freedom is not bought, sir. Repaying debt has nothing to do with freedom..."
Dobby looked at Harry seriously, reciting the statement with solemn earnestness, clearly demonstrating a level of knowledge unexpected for a house-elf.
"So that's how it is..."
Harry looked thoughtful. Last year, when Dobby first mentioned this, neither he nor Hermione had considered the implication of buying freedom versus repaying a debt, yet someone else had managed to figure it out.
Thinking it over, it actually made a lot of sense.
"But Professor Lewent gave you that task because he wanted you to figure it out yourself. If someone just gives you the answer, is it still your answer?"
"..."
Dobby froze, his face once again showing an expression of conflict.
After long, hard thought, he decided to abandon the idea of finding the answer himself for now and prioritized completing his commission: "Never mind that, sir. What gift do you want?"
Harry joked casually, "Alright, I want a new broom. A Firebolt would be best."
"A Firebolt?"
"It costs 2,800 Galleons."
"That is 47,600 Sickles, or 1,380,400 Knuts..."
Dobby silently calculated the cost against his weekly wages, instantly becoming reverent.
Third floor of the castle, Muggle Studies office.
"Knock, knock, knock..."
A young witch's clear voice came from outside the door: "Professor, it's me. I'm here for my tutoring session."
Melvin was sitting behind his desk. He tapped the desk twice with a curved finger, and the lock clicked open. The door silently swung inward, revealing Hermione, whose small face was flushed. The hem of her school robes was still smeared with dried mud.
The young witch was a little disheveled from watching the match earlier and hadn't had time to clean up. After waiting for a long time outside the hospital wing without news of Harry waking up, she had decided to come to class herself.
Melvin was surprised that Hermione still remembered the tutoring session. He felt a sense of relief. "Ah, Hermione. You've come at a good time. I've prepared a detention for you."
The young witch's eyes widened instantly, her surprised look quite endearing.
"Why do I have detention?" Hermione looked utterly confused. "Shouldn't it be Neville for losing the passwords list? Or George and Fred, who are always tinkering with new prank items? Is it because I yelled at Malfoy earlier for winning dishonorably?"
"You'll know in a while. Just accept your punishment for now."
Melvin couldn't reveal the secret now and tell her it was because her pet broke a school rule by helping an outsider sneak into the castle. He could only play the Head of House riddle-master.
He pulled a stack of documents from the drawer beneath his desk and pushed them toward Hermione. He glanced at the clock on the wall.
"There are two hours left until lights-out. This is nearly two hundred years of Patronus Charm documentation from the library. I need you to organize the valuable content, filtering out the fabricated fairy tales and the false travel accounts where old wizards brag about themselves."
"Patronus Charm documents... for teaching?"
Hermione vaguely guessed the purpose of the documents, and her mood became slightly excited.
Melvin nodded. "Because of the accident on the pitch, Headmaster Dumbledore has asked Professor Lupin to tutor Harry, hoping he can quickly master the Patronus Charm. Professor Flitwick suggested we shouldn't just focus on Harry, so he recommended incorporating the Patronus Charm into the Duelling Club curriculum. He hopes all students will be capable of dealing with the threat of Dementors."
"And then I became the invited assistant," he sighed wistfully. "The Duelling Club is for all students, unlike a tutoring session for just two people. It requires more focus on details and fundamental knowledge."
Hermione's heart fluttered slightly. She recalled the World Serpent that coiled around the Quidditch pitch. Professor Lewent lecturing on the Patronus Charm would certainly be authoritative and convincing.
"So, Professor, you're using me as free labor to prepare your lesson plans?"
Melvin calmly nodded without the slightest shame. "If you hadn't failed to master the Patronus Charm yourself yet, I would have had you up on stage as the Teaching Assistant."
"We are gathered here today, not to grieve the passing of a rat, but to celebrate a particularly ordinary rat who lived a particularly extraordinary rat life."
"Scabbers was never the kind of rat who stood in the spotlight. He couldn't sing like a toad, nor could he hold an important job like an owl."
"But he always quietly kept me company in my pocket, listening to my complaints about homework and my teenage worries. He would just lie there..."
Ron stood beneath the leafy canopy of a beech tree on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his right hand clenched into a fist over his chest. In front of him was a small, recently dug hole, soaked with mud from the recent downpour.
Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid stood behind him, their expressions serious, staring intently at the Chocolate Frog box in the pit.
Hagrid had wanted to whittle a wooden box for a coffin, but Ron said Scabbers loved candy boxes and would find peace inside one.
"Scabbers' contribution was immense! He was always by my side, accompanying me through those long, difficult days and nights."
Ron prayed for Scabbers, his eyes red-rimmed. "Percy, that cold, heartless fellow, Scabbers was with him for years, and he refused to attend the funeral just because of a date. Scabbers won't let him get away with it, even as a ghost!"
"Absolutely won't let him get away with it!" Harry, the chief mourner, echoed.
"The funeral ends here. I'm sure Scabbers wouldn't want to see you wallowing in sorrow. Why don't you head to Hogsmeade? A few Butterbeers will make you feel better," Hagrid suggested.
Hagrid was experienced in this area, whether it was holding funerals for animals or drowning his sorrows in a pub. His advice was quite valuable.
Half an hour later, the trio pushed open the oak door of the Three Broomsticks. Behind the counter stood the inn's proprietress, Madam Rosmerta, who was mixing drinks. She was a voluptuous and graceful middle-aged witch, her purple robes outlining her mature charm.
Sitting at the counter was a group of middle-aged wizards, including the short, stout figure often seen in the papers—the current Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.
"The Minister for Magic is drinking in a pub... shouldn't he be in his office reviewing documents?"
Ron scoffed, his gaze resting on the attractive proprietress, feeling that the grief over losing his pet had somewhat subsided.
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. By unspoken agreement, they quietly walked to a seat diagonally across from the counter, right behind the Minister.
They could eavesdrop on the conversation without attracting Fudge's attention.
Eleven in the morning, Hogsmeade.
Snape hurried through the muddy path from the village back to the castle, carrying a briefcase. The cold-faced Potions Master walked quickly, his robes billowing, the back hem snapping in the wind.
Professor McGonagall had casually divided the Deputy Head's work by saying that the Heads of House should be responsible for purchasing teaching supplies for their respective subjects. The Potions portion fell to him. Hogwarts' seven year groups consumed a large amount of ingredients for their potions.
This wasn't the first time he'd handled the procurement. As a Potions Master, he was familiar with market prices and secured a discount from the apothecary owner using his professional knowledge. The whole process wasn't difficult, but it was tedious and annoying.
The apothecary owner also grumbled about the change, saying it used to always be Professor Lewent.
"That Melvin fellow..." Snape scoffed internally.
It was the day after the Quidditch match, and Hogsmeade weekend activities were proceeding as usual. Students could be seen in the shops along the street. Remembering Slytherin had won the first match, he felt confident about the House Cup this year, and his mood was relatively pleasant.
The village entrance was quite isolated, and the shops gradually thinned out. After passing Honeydukes, only the dilapidated sign of the Hog's Head Inn remained.
This place didn't serve students. Inside, there were only a few scattered drinkers of various races and sizes, all wearing similar hoods or masks. Several cloaked wizards looked rather suspicious.
Snape's peripheral vision scanned the pub when a short, stout figure suddenly darted out and came up to shake his hand: "Professor Snape, it's a pleasure to run into you. We've met before. Care for a drink?"
Judging by the voice, it was a middle-aged wizard wearing a hood, making his face beneath the brim impossible to see.
Snape was about to refuse when his eyes landed on the short, stout wizard. He suddenly noticed certain characteristics. Staring at the hood for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed slightly, a cold look flashing in his eyes.
He smiled coldly, as if unable to refuse the kind invitation, and followed him into the pub. He ordered a Firewhisky in a corner. He held the glass and swirled it but showed no intention of drinking.
"Perhaps Professor Snape doesn't recognize me. We don't need to recognize each other. It's just that I have some information here..."
"Enough, Peter. This isn't an alumni reunion party."
Snape cut him off coldly. "Who do you expect to fool with that clumsy disguise? Not to mention the stench on you hasn't faded since our school days. Even after more than a decade, it's still repulsive and impossible to ignore."
Peter Pettigrew froze, stiffening in his seat.
After a moment of silence, he slowly reached out his fingerless hand and pulled back his hood, revealing his pale, plump face with an ugly grin:
"I forgot. Your memory was excellent back at school. Now you're a Potions Master. Your nose can distinguish herbs, and it can also recognize insignificant little people like me. What do you say, my classmate, Mister Severus Snape?"