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[HP] Chapter 158-160
🕑 Added 2025-09-06 16:05:01 +0000 UTC### Chapter 158: Dobby, Diligent but Meddlesome
Before leaving, Louis grabbed a secondhand wand from Ollivander’s shop and handed Garrick a list.
“Collect the materials on this for me, and send them over in September.” Louis tapped the brim of his hat as he spoke.
Garrick glanced over the list. “These are… some very strange things.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll be the one using them.” Louis set his hat firmly on his head. “Goodbye.”
“Why not stay for dinner?” Garrick checked the time. “Can you even make it home by now?”
“Of course I can. I’ve still got time to buy books.”
It was already six in the evening. Normally, it would take two hours to get home from central London. But Louis wasn’t normal—he could fly back.
After leaving Ollivanders, Louis stopped by Flourish and Blotts to buy a full set of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books.
Even though the official book list for the coming term hadn’t been released yet, Louis had a good idea. First, Lockhart’s complete series, then only Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2.
That shameless Lockhart would definitely force every one of his books into the curriculum, making a fortune in the process. A set was already absurdly expensive—and once Hogwarts confirmed the book list, prices would soar even higher.
Louis felt annoyed, but it didn’t matter. He’d be seeing plenty of Lockhart next term, and he’d settle the score then.
He left his address with the shopkeeper and arranged for the books to be delivered to his home. Carrying nothing but his new wand, Louis set out for home.
The wand was once again encased in elder wood, its core a dragon’s nerve—Garrick’s fallback attempt at making something close to the Elder Wand.
The combination wasn’t particularly special; in fact, its casting power was a little weaker than most. But Louis wasn’t picky. He didn’t rely on magic anyway.
Invisibility—takeoff—Louis sped back home at supersonic speed. But just as he landed at his doorstep, ready for dinner, something in his spiritual vision caught his attention.
There was a patch of unnatural refraction, like a half-transparent dwarf shifting about nervously.
Invisible to the naked eye, but in his spiritual sight, nothing could hide.
Louis frowned and instinctively swept it with his spiritual power.
Perception was different from scanning. The former was undetectable, but the latter gave the target the sensation of being watched.
Once swept, the transparent silhouette began trembling violently. Within moments, the magic failed, revealing a small, shabby-looking house-elf.
Clutched in its hands was an owl—clearly Confunded, its eyes glassy with confusion.
The Confundus Charm was a precursor to the Obliviate. Obliviate erased memories; Confundus scrambled the current ones, leaving the victim unable to recall what they’d just done.
This poor owl had been intercepted mid-flight, its letter stolen.
The elf had intended to release it, but under the pressure of Louis’s mental sweep, it froze—forgetting to let go.
The owl finally came to its senses. Seeing the elf still gripping it tightly, it flew into a rage, stabbing its sharp beak into the elf’s arm and tearing a hole.
The elf cried out in pain and instinctively released it. The furious owl squawked curses as it fled.
Not that it mattered. The letter was already gone, and the owl had been tricked into thinking its delivery complete.
But now the elf felt a much greater danger looming over it. Something terrifying had fixed its gaze on him—something far worse than a dragon.
He had to run—fast!
……
“That was Dobby, huh? Already stirring up trouble this early?” Louis watched the sneaky little house-elf scuttle away but made no move to stop him.
Dobby was the Malfoy family’s house-elf. Out of gratitude to Harry Potter—who had slain Voldemort and changed the lives of house-elves from utter misery to barely scraping by—he had come to repay him… or perhaps avenge him.
“Well, calling it revenge isn’t wrong either. His brain doesn’t exactly work right, and he thinks in ways no one else does. Even among house-elves, he’s an oddball,” Louis muttered to himself as he watched Dobby Disapparate in a hurry.
A house-elf, a wizard’s slave, the Malfoy family’s full-time steward—Dobby’s days were always piled high with work. Yet he still found time to “help” Harry, which was no small effort.
Too bad his way of helping was far too brutal—like intercepting Harry’s letters in an attempt to make him despair of the wizarding world and never return.
But how could Dobby know? For Harry Potter, the wizarding world was salvation. There was no way he would ever give it up.
And Dumbledore would never allow him to, either.
“…Wait. Could Dobby’s magic affect me too?” Louis frowned, tapping his forehead in annoyance.
Harry would be warned for using magic outside school, especially in front of Muggles, because of Dobby. But Louis lived just across the street—could the Ministry mix up their positions?
That seemed very possible…
“Troublesome. If it’s near my house, I can’t let Dio Brando or the Dark Assassin show up. Am I going to have to handle it myself?”
Still frowning, Louis went home, ate an ordinary dinner, and flopped down on his bed.
“Ugh, forget it. Worst case, I’ll just go to Dumbledore. He can’t possibly expel a descendant of Merlin, right?”
With that half-joking thought, Louis gave up worrying.
Over the next few days, once he finished his summer homework, Louis continued practicing stage magic in his spare time.
According to Mr. Wilson, in another two years Louis could try performing on stage. Since close-up tricks weren’t suited for large audiences, Mr. Wilson was already teaching him the essentials of big-stage magic.
Stage performances, huh… That could be a good way to earn Trick Points. Muggles might give fewer points individually, but there were so many of them. A flawless show in front of a thousand people could rival the points he’d earned in the last semester’s grand scam.
So Louis studied diligently.
In between practice sessions, he often sensed Dobby’s presence.
The elf came nearly every day. Though his bond would summon him back for chores, whenever he had free time he rushed over to intercept letters.
Diligent, hardworking—and utterly unreasonable.
This constant meddling left Harry depressed for quite a while. It also worried others.
Because none of them were receiving Harry’s replies.
On Louis’s birthday, he got a card from Ron Weasley—along with a letter asking if he knew how Harry was doing.
---
### Chapter 159: The Dursleys’ Invitation
Louis wrote a reply letter, briefly describing Harry’s current situation.
“At this rate, it won’t be long before those rascals from the Weasley family come drag Harry away,” Louis yawned, half-asleep.
“By then, Dobby should be pulling out his big moves…”
It was his birthday. Mrs. Wilson had gone all out to prepare a perfect meal, and Louis had eaten so much he was now drowsy.
Standing by the window, he gazed across at the brightly lit Dursley residence.
It would probably be any day now. They’d invite some business partners over, everything would end in chaos, and Harry would be locked up afterward.
But… that shouldn’t have anything to do with him, right?
That thought was soon overturned.
“The Dursleys invited you over, Dad?” Louis blinked at Mr. Wilson.
“Yes, a rather dull invitation.” Mr. Wilson clearly didn’t like the neighbors. “That family… hmph, nothing good to say about them.”
“I think they’re mostly after free magic tricks,” Mrs. Wilson said from her seat, flipping through a fashion magazine. “I heard they invited the Masons as well.”
“The Masons—ah, Mason,” Mr. Wilson realized. “That stuffy old man who loves watching magic shows. He’s insufferable. His favorite hobby is exposing magicians’ secrets—not by figuring them out himself, but by pestering endlessly with questions. Very rude behavior.”
“Then just decline. It’s not like we’re trying to get close to them anyway.” Louis picked up Lockhart’s Voyages with Vampires.
The book was exaggerated and, of course, not actually Lockhart’s own work—but the story was entertaining enough to enjoy as a novel.
“Decline? No, why would we decline?” Mr. Wilson suddenly grew excited. “Louis, this is the perfect chance to start your social life as a performer.”
“Huh? Me?” Louis pointed at himself.
“That’s right. A magician needs reputation—and reputation doesn’t come from your own mouth. You need others to spread it for you.”
Mr. Wilson clapped Louis on the shoulder. “Mr. Mason may be rude, but he has wide connections. A brilliant performance will spread your name quickly. So, shall we go? If yes, I’ll write back immediately.”
Clearly, Mr. Wilson feared that after seven years at wizarding school, Louis might become useless in the real world. He was impatient to pave the way for his son’s future career.
“Fine, do what you want,” Louis shrugged indifferently.
All he was really thinking was: If Dobby causes trouble, can I avoid a warning if I don’t bring my wand?
---
A few nights later, Mr. Wilson took Louis along to the Dursleys’ house as promised.
The door opened. Vernon Dursley and the Masons stood there in the doorway to welcome the Wilsons.
Everyone was dressed formally, the atmosphere proper and ceremonious.
This was the norm for families of their social standing—formal enough to show respect to important guests, but not overly complicated.
“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you so close, Mr. Wilson,” said Mr. Mason, a passionate magic enthusiast, clearly excited to see him.
“Good evening,” Mr. Wilson said with polite reserve, then pushed Louis forward. “This is my son, Louis. Tonight he’ll be performing a special magic show for you.”
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Louis removed his hat with perfect poise, his flawless smile lighting up his face.
His outfit was that of a classic stage magician, identical to Mr. Wilson’s performance attire—just one size smaller.
It had been specially tailored, with hidden pockets and compartments carefully built in.
He brushed a hand across his sleeve, and under everyone’s gaze, a rose appeared in his hand. He presented it to Mrs. Mason.
“For you, madam.” Louis had intended to add a compliment about her appearance, but when the words reached his lips, he swallowed them back.
Louis really couldn’t bring himself to say it—Mrs. Mason was simply too old. Instead, he opted for the safer route:
“Madam, your attire perfectly complements your refined elegance.”
“Why, thank you, young gentleman.” Mrs. Mason looked quite pleased.
“Handsome and promising—very much in your father’s style, Mr. Wilson,” Mr. Mason added with a broad smile.
“Let’s head inside, shall we?” Vernon Dursley, having been ignored until now, hurried to speak up to remind everyone of his presence.
Mr. Mason seemed to snap out of his daze. “Yes, yes, we shouldn’t just stand here. Let’s go in, Mr. Wilson.”
The adults entered the Dursley residence, exchanging pleasantries. Mr. Mason immediately pulled Mr. Wilson aside to discuss magic tricks, while the Dursleys chimed in from the sidelines.
Louis followed behind, about to step inside, when he suddenly looked up at the staircase.
A small, surprised face peeked from the landing—it was Harry Potter.
“Good evening, Harry.” Louis tipped his hat with a polite greeting.
“Good evening, Louis.” Harry’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You and your father were invited too?”
“That’s right.” Louis gave him a look. “Aren’t you coming down?”
“No… my uncle won’t let me. He’s afraid I’ll ruin this important dinner,” Harry explained quietly.
“The tree wishes to be still, yet the wind will not cease,” Louis said cryptically—words Harry didn’t understand—before putting his hat back on and walking into the Dursleys’ sitting room.
“Louis, how about a little impromptu show before dessert?” Mr. Wilson called out.
“No problem. Do any of you have taboos or restrictions for performances?” Louis asked, calm and poised, showing no arrogance or meekness before strangers.
“Please—no birds. My wife is terrified of them,” said Mr. Mason.
“Afraid of birds? Understood. Tonight’s performance will have no birds.”
With a snap of his fingers, Louis reached into his hat and pulled out a plump rabbit.
The show had begun.
---
For Hogwarts staff, summer holidays were a rare respite. But busy people never let themselves truly rest.
Dumbledore’s figure suddenly appeared in a picturesque seaside town.
It was nighttime, and no one noticed the sudden arrival of an elderly man.
This was in the south of Devon, a perfect place for a holiday retreat.
But Dumbledore was not here to vacation. He had come to apologize.
Passing through an invisible barrier, he arrived at a quiet home. He knocked on the door.
It was opened by an elderly house-elf—so aged, he might even have been older than Dumbledore himself.
“Welcome, Mr. Dumbledore. Master said you would come. Please, come in.” The house-elf stepped aside to let him in.
“How is your master’s health?” Dumbledore asked.
“Quite fine, nothing serious,” the elf replied, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “Though… if that thing hadn’t been lost, it would be better.”
Dumbledore looked faintly embarrassed.
“Mind your manners,” came a frail yet steady voice from within.
Out stepped a thin, delicate-looking old man, dressed in simple white linen.
Though his appearance was frail, Dumbledore treated him with the utmost respect.
For this was none other than the legendary alchemist—Nicolas Flamel.
---
### Chapter 160: The Eye in the Crystal Ball
“I’m sorry, Nico. I lost your Philosopher’s Stone,” Dumbledore said, voice heavy with guilt.
“That doesn’t matter, Albus.” Nicolas Flamel’s tone was calm. “As long as your goal was achieved, it’s enough. Didn’t you say in your letter? Voldemort hasn’t returned.”
“But the Stone still ended up in someone else’s hands,” Dumbledore frowned.
“The Stone is merely a catalyst for alchemical reactions. It cannot create something from nothing, nor can it grant true power. At most, it can extend a person’s life.”
As the master of the Stone, Nicolas was surprisingly detached about it.
“I worry Voldemort might use the stolen Stone to return,” Dumbledore admitted, still uneasy.
“Impossible. The prophecy has already shifted. Voldemort will return—but not yet.” Nicolas shook his head. “Though I am curious about those people you mentioned, the ones who stole the Stone.”
“‘All Villains Unite as One Big Family.’” Dumbledore repeated the absurd name with a grimace, as though it didn’t belong in this story. “We know nothing about them. Not I, not even my friends… not even him.”
The vague phrasing pointed unmistakably at someone. Nicolas understood exactly who Dumbledore meant.
“Even he doesn’t know?” Nicolas’s brow furrowed. “So you wish to consult the prophecy?”
“If possible,” Dumbledore nodded.
“I can try. But it may not succeed. Prophecy isn’t like reading a book—it doesn’t always give us the exact answers we seek.” Nicolas led him into the inner chamber.
The room was filled with magical items and tools—clearly Flamel’s workshop.
At its center sat a crystal ball, perfectly pure and transparent. As they approached, white mist swirled inside, twisting like the unpredictable threads of fate.
“Where’s Perenelle? Why don’t I see her?” Dumbledore asked.
“She’s gone back to France. After years of Voldemort’s disturbances, and now with his threat lifted, she feels freer. Knowing death is near has made her more active than ever.” Nicolas gave a faint smile.
“…I’m sorry.” Dumbledore could only offer another pale apology.
“No need. It was our decision long ago. Mortality has given us a deeper sense of life itself. Even our old memories shine more vividly now.”
Nicolas spoke with serenity, utterly unafraid of death. To him, it was nothing more than an invitation from the Reaper—one he would accept with grace.
“I’ve lived more than three hundred years. There’s nothing left to regret, is there?”
Standing before the crystal ball, he touched it lightly with a fingertip. The swirling mist inside shuddered and shifted.
“Tell me, what exactly do you wish to see?” Nicolas asked, his tone casual—like a waiter asking for an order.
After all, asking was one thing. Whether or not the dish could be served was another.
Prophecy was an unstable art. Even the greatest Seers couldn’t guarantee success—nor that the visions they spoke were true.
This is the common flaw of those with a touch of prophetic talent who try to self-study the art.
Unless one is born with a special bloodline that grants true foresight, most of their predictions are vague. But when they enter a special state, what they speak then is almost always something that will happen.
Professor Sybill Trelawney, who taught Divination at Hogwarts, was the perfect example of such “fate-favored” prophets. A great-granddaughter of the Seer Cassandra Trelawney, she might usually bluff and ramble, but in her trances she delivered prophecies of astonishing accuracy.
“I want to know what that organization will do in the future,” Dumbledore said.
“A wise choice,” Nicolas Flamel nodded. Prophecies with broader targets had a higher chance of success.
The mist within the crystal cleared, revealing a haughty face: short golden hair, and eyes so chilling that Dumbledore recognized him instantly.
“Dio Brando, one of their high command,” Dumbledore said grimly. “Can we see more detail?”
The image only showed Dio Brando’s dangerously handsome face, no hint of his surroundings.
“I’ll try,” Nicolas murmured, sweeping his palm to shift the viewpoint.
The image pulled back, showing Dio Brando’s full figure. He seemed to be speaking to someone, holding a gleaming arrowhead decorated with ornate insect-like carvings.
And standing across from him was someone both Flamel and Dumbledore knew all too well…
“Grindelwald?” Flamel’s arm trembled. Forty years ago, this man’s Fiendfyre had nearly consumed all of Paris.
He glanced at Dumbledore, doubt flickering in his eyes. Not doubt of Dumbledore, but of Grindelwald—for Dumbledore had once said that Grindelwald knew nothing of this strange organization.
“Calm yourself, Nico. This is prophecy—anything might happen in the future.” Dumbledore spoke quickly, unwilling to believe the man had deceived him. “Can we hear what they’re saying?”
“This is prophecy, not a Muggle recording machine,” Flamel rolled his eyes. “I can’t do that.”
“Then make another prophecy. A closer one,” Dumbledore urged. “Try to learn who leads this organization from the shadows.”
“That kind of precision is almost certain to fail. The odds of success are very low,” Flamel warned.
“We still have to try. You can’t abandon it just because it’s unlikely,” Dumbledore said firmly.
“You’re right.” Flamel nodded, stirring the fog inside the crystal ball.
To their surprise, the crystal responded immediately. An image formed: a map—an unmistakable map of the island of England.
There’s a lead!
Both Flamel and Dumbledore held their breath as the map zoomed in, becoming sharper and sharper, the location of the mastermind seemingly about to be revealed—
When suddenly, a faint starlight shimmered across the crystal, destabilizing the vision, scattering most of the map back into mist.
“No—something’s interfering!” Flamel exclaimed, trying to force the process, to accelerate the revelation. But the starlight fractured, tearing open a rift inside the crystal ball.
And then—a pair of cold, indifferent eyes, woven from countless stars, appeared within the orb, staring directly at Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel.
---
