**Later That Evening - Hospital Wing, Hogwarts**
The Weasley family had finally been persuaded to depart after what could generously be described as extensive negotiations involving promises, threats, and Mrs. Weasley's increasingly creative descriptions of what she would do to Harry if he failed to write regular updates about his condition. The twins had been physically removed by their father after suggesting they could help Harry "test the range" of his potential fire-breathing abilities by setting up targets in the Great Hall.
"More unusual than turning into a dragon-human hybrid," Fred had called back cheerfully as Arthur dragged him through the door. "That's setting quite a high bar for unusual, Harry! We're impressed!"
"Try not to accidentally incinerate any professors before we get back!" George had added helpfully. "Well, except maybe Snape. I think everyone would understand that one!"
The other students who had been petrified—Colin Creevey with his camera clutched protectively to his chest even in sleep, Justin Finch-Fletchley muttering about proper educational standards, and Nearly Headless Nick floating in ethereal recovery—had been moved to a separate observation section of the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey had arranged privacy screens with the efficiency of someone who had spent decades managing magical medical crises involving impossible teenage wizards.
Hermione occupied the bed directly adjacent to Ginny's, both girls requiring continued observation after their respective traumatic experiences. Despite her obvious exhaustion and the lingering effects of months under petrification, Hermione had somehow managed to procure parchment, quill, and ink. She was now conducting what could only be described as a comprehensive scientific analysis of Harry's transformation, complete with detailed measurements and theoretical frameworks.
"Your muscle density has increased by approximately thirty-two percent," she informed him with the clinical precision of someone who had found her new favorite research subject. "Your reaction time has improved by at least forty percent—I timed you catching that water glass when Ron knocked it over. You moved before the glass had fallen six inches."
Harry examined the glass in question, still held in his transformed hand. His fingers were longer now, more elegant somehow, with a strength that felt both natural and entirely alien. "I honestly didn't realize I'd moved. It was pure reflex."
"Exactly my point," Hermione said, making another note on her increasingly detailed chart. "Your enhanced abilities are integrating at a subconscious level, which suggests this transformation is following organic magical patterns rather than artificial enhancement. The magic is rewriting your basic neurological responses."
"Hermione," Harry said with fond exasperation, "I've been magically reconstructed by the two most powerful magical substances known to wizardkind. Could we perhaps postpone the scientific analysis until after I've figured out how to exist without accidentally setting the curtains on fire?"
"But this is historically unprecedented!" she protested, though her enthusiasm was tempered by obvious concern for his wellbeing. "Harry, you might be the first documented case of successful draconic inheritance in over eight centuries. The research applications alone—"
"Are going to have to wait," Harry interrupted gently, "because I'm still trying to come to terms with the fact that I'm apparently not entirely human anymore."
Ginny, who had been quietly observing this exchange with the weary wisdom of someone who had spent months being psychologically tortured by a piece of Voldemort's soul, spoke up from her own bed. "Harry, you're still you. Whatever else has changed, that hasn't."
"How can you be so sure?" Harry asked, and for the first time since his transformation, his voice carried a note of genuine vulnerability. "Ginny, I've grown six inches overnight. My eyes glow. I can hear conversations happening three rooms away and smell magical signatures. What if... what if I stop being Harry Potter and start being something else entirely?"
"Then you'll be something else entirely who still makes terrible jokes at inappropriate moments and refuses to let his friends face danger alone," Ginny replied with a small smile. "Trust me, Harry. I've seen what it looks like when someone stops being themselves. This isn't that."
The quiet conviction in her voice seemed to settle something in Harry's chest—or perhaps that was simply his developing fire abilities responding to his emotional state. He took a careful breath, focusing on Dumbledore's earlier advice about working with the changes rather than fighting them.
As the hospital wing settled into the peaceful quiet of evening, Harry found himself listening to conversations throughout the castle with his enhanced hearing. Somewhere in the depths of the school, Professor McGonagall was discussing the day's events with Professor Flitwick in voices tight with concern and relief. In the Great Hall, the house-elves were preparing for tomorrow's breakfast while debating whether the recent excitement warranted celebratory puddings. Three floors up, Peeves was apparently conducting some sort of midnight renovation project involving suits of armor and what sounded suspiciously like a catapult.
But it was the quiet conversation taking place just outside Madam Pomfrey's office that captured his full attention. His enhanced hearing made their whispered discussion as clear as if they were speaking directly beside him.
"The transformation appears to be stabilizing," Madam Pomfrey was saying, her voice carrying the particular tension of a medical professional dealing with a situation well beyond her considerable expertise. "His vital signs are remarkably strong, but they're completely outside normal human parameters. Body temperature consistently running four degrees above baseline, heart rate elevated but steady, lung capacity increased by nearly twenty percent..."
She paused, and Harry could hear the rustle of parchment as she consulted her notes.
"Albus, his magical signature has me completely baffled. Yesterday, he registered as a powerful but typically developing twelve-year-old wizard. Today, the monitoring charms I've placed on him are practically screaming warnings about magical overflow. It's as if his magical core has tripled in capacity overnight."
"The draconic inheritance," Dumbledore replied, his voice carrying the thoughtful cadence that usually indicated he was working through a complex theoretical problem. "Dragons are among the most magically powerful creatures in existence, Poppy. They don't simply use magic—they are magic, in many ways. If Harry has inherited even a fraction of those characteristics..."
"But at what cost?" Pomfrey interrupted, her professional concern overriding her usual deference to the headmaster. "Albus, these changes—they're irreversible, aren't they? He'll never be fully human again. Never be normal."
Harry's chest tightened at her words, and immediately he felt the familiar warm tingling that preceded his fire abilities. He focused on breathing slowly and evenly, trying to follow Dumbledore's guidance about accepting rather than fighting the changes occurring within him.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said quietly, and his voice now carried something that sounded almost like wonder, "being fully human was never Harry's intended destiny. Consider his history, Poppy. This is a child who survived the Killing Curse as an infant, who has faced Dark wizards and monsters that would reduce grown men to gibbering terror, who destroyed a piece of Voldemort's soul through sheer force of character and magical accident."
There was a pause, during which Harry could hear the distant sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his enhanced hearing.
"Harry Potter has always been extraordinary," Dumbledore continued. "Now his external nature has simply evolved to match what has always been true about his spirit. And perhaps... perhaps this transformation will give him the strength he needs for the challenges that still await him."
The ominous implications of that last statement sent a chill through Harry that had nothing to do with his elevated body temperature. Before he could dwell on what future challenges Dumbledore might be referencing, the peaceful atmosphere of the hospital wing was shattered by the sound of doors being thrown open with enough force to make the hinges protest.
"DUMBLEDORE!"
The voice that rang through the hospital wing belonged to Lucius Malfoy, and it carried every ounce of aristocratic outrage that centuries of pureblood breeding could produce. Harry's enhanced reflexes had him sitting bolt upright in bed before his conscious mind had fully processed the intrusion, his transformed body moving with an unconscious grace that would have been impossible just hours earlier.
Malfoy strode into the room with his characteristic arrogant bearing, his expensive robes billowing dramatically behind him and his serpent-headed walking stick clicking against the stone floor with each measured step. The man positively radiated the kind of controlled fury that suggested he had spent considerable time preparing for this confrontation.
Behind him, maintaining the careful subservience that Harry remembered with a surge of complex emotion, walked Dobby. The house-elf looked exactly as he had during their disastrous encounter at Privet Drive—enormous tennis-ball eyes, ears that could double as serving platters, and wearing what appeared to be a tea towel fashioned into the world's most depressing toga. The creature's obvious anxiety and fear triggered something fierce and protective in Harry's chest, a sensation that felt distinctly more draconic than human.
"What are you doing here?" Malfoy continued, his voice pitched to carry throughout the large room. "The board of governors suspended you! Surely even someone of your... flexible... relationship with authority wouldn't be so brazen as to ignore a direct order from your superiors!"
Dumbledore emerged from beside Madam Pomfrey's office with the unhurried calm of someone who had been expecting this confrontation. His blue eyes were twinkling with what Harry had learned to recognize as a particularly dangerous form of amusement.
"Ah, Lucius," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying the kind of polite warmth that could slice through steel. "How unexpectedly... prompt of you. I was under the impression that the governors had requested my immediate return to Hogwarts. Funny how these administrative details can become confused, isn't it?"
Malfoy's stride faltered almost imperceptibly, and Harry's enhanced senses caught the slight acceleration in the man's heartbeat that indicated genuine alarm beneath his theatrical outrage.
"Requested your return?" Malfoy repeated, his voice climbing half an octave. "That's quite impossible. The governors—that is, we were quite unanimous in our decision that your services were no longer required at this institution."
"Ah, but that was before word spread that a student had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself," Dumbledore replied conversationally, settling into a conjured chair with the air of someone preparing for a lengthy and entertaining discussion. "Funny thing about crises, Lucius—they have a remarkable way of clarifying people's actual priorities and loyalties."
Harry watched with fascination as Malfoy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. With his enhanced senses, he could smell the expensive cologne, the finest quality wool of the man's robes, and underneath it all, something that his newly developed instincts identified as suppressed anger mixed with genuine fear.
"The other governors contacted me personally," Dumbledore continued, his voice maintaining that same pleasant conversational tone. "They explained in considerable detail how they had been... encouraged... to support my temporary departure. Quite illuminating conversations, actually. I do so enjoy learning about the various pressures our community leaders face."
"Pressured?" Malfoy's voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could detect the slight tremor that indicated the man was fighting to maintain his composure. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Dumbledore. The governors simply felt that new leadership might benefit the school."
"Of course," Dumbledore agreed with the kind of knowing smile that had probably driven guilty men to spontaneous confession for the better part of a century. "I'm sure their decision was based entirely on educational philosophy and had nothing whatsoever to do with threats, blackmail, or implications about the safety of their families. These things so rarely do."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Harry could hear dust settling, could sense the magical signatures of everyone in the room shifting as tension filled the air like electricity before a thunderstorm.
"But surely," Dumbledore continued as if nothing had happened, "you're not here to discuss administrative politics? As a concerned parent, you must be far more interested in whether the endangered student was rescued? Whether the individual responsible for these attacks was apprehended?"
Malfoy seemed to remember that he was supposed to be playing a role. His posture shifted subtly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the carefully modulated concern of a devoted father and upstanding citizen.
"Naturally, Headmaster. The safety of our children is always my paramount concern. Please tell me the poor child was saved from whatever monster was stalking these halls?"
"Oh yes," Dumbledore said, reaching into the folds of his midnight-blue robes with the deliberate movements of someone savoring a particularly fine moment. "Young Miss Weasley was indeed rescued. And the culprit behind these attacks was identified. Though I should clarify—the individual responsible has been... dealt with."
He withdrew Tom Riddle's diary, its black leather binding scarred and torn from Fawkes's talons and the basilisk's venom. The book looked like it had been through a war, which Harry supposed was reasonably accurate. Even from his position across the room, Harry could see Malfoy's eyes fix on the ruined artifact with an expression of carefully controlled alarm.
Harry watched with growing fascination as Dobby's enormous eyes went wide with recognition and terror. The house-elf's gaze darted frantically between his master and the destroyed diary, and his entire small body began to tremble with what looked like a combination of fear and desperate hope.
"This," Dumbledore continued with the casual air of someone discussing the weather, "belonged to one Tom Marvolo Riddle. Quite a remarkable young man, fifty years ago. Brilliant, charismatic, and so extraordinarily talented that he managed to preserve a memory of himself within this very diary."
Malfoy had gone very still, and Harry could smell the acrid scent of perspiration beginning to mix with his expensive cologne.
"Young Miss Weasley found it absolutely fascinating reading," Dumbledore went on conversationally. "So engaging, in fact, that she spent hours writing in it, pouring her heart out to what she believed was a sympathetic friend. Of course, she never realized that the diary was reading her in return. Drawing out her life force, her magical energy, her very soul to give strength and substance to the memory preserved within."
"A... diary?" Malfoy managed, his voice admirably steady despite the obvious stress. "How extraordinary. And you're suggesting this book was somehow responsible for the attacks on students?"
"Oh, not suggesting," Dumbledore corrected gently. "The diary was quite definitely responsible. Tom Riddle's memory used Miss Weasley as a conduit to control the basilisk that Salazar Slytherin left in the Chamber of Secrets. A thousand-year-old serpent with a gaze that kills and venom that destroys anything it touches."
Harry saw Dobby flinch at the description, the house-elf's ears drooping with what looked like overwhelming guilt and misery.
"But of course," Dumbledore continued, his voice taking on a note of scholarly curiosity, "the truly interesting question is how such a dangerous artifact came to be in Miss Weasley's possession in the first place. After all, eleven-year-old girls don't typically stumble across the preserved memories of Dark wizards in their school supplies."
The silence that followed was so complete that Harry could hear individual heartbeats, could smell the shift in magical signatures as everyone in the room held their breath.
"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Malfoy said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Perhaps the poor child found it somewhere in the castle? Ancient institutions like Hogwarts do tend to accumulate... historical artifacts... in the oddest places."
"Oh, I don't think she found it in the castle," said a new voice, and everyone turned in surprise as Harry sat up to his full impressive height in his hospital bed. "I think she found it mixed in with her school books at Diagon Alley. Specifically, I think someone slipped it into her cauldron when her father was distracted by a fistfight."
The hospital wing went absolutely silent. Harry could hear dust motes settling through the air, could sense the sudden spike in magical signatures as shock and tension filled the room like a physical presence.
Malfoy turned toward him with the slow, deliberate movement of a man who had suddenly realized he was walking through a minefield. His gray eyes took in Harry's transformed appearance—the additional height, the broader shoulders, the lean muscle definition that definitely hadn't been there that morning—and his already pale complexion went a shade closer to ash.
"Mr. Potter," Malfoy said carefully, his voice carrying the particular tone of someone who had just realized the rules of the game had fundamentally changed. "You look... remarkably different. More mature. Older."
Harry smiled with the kind of lazy confidence that his transformation seemed to have gifted him along with everything else. It was the sort of smile that suggested dangerous possibilities and complete lack of concern about consequences.
"Creature inheritance," he replied casually, enjoying the way Malfoy's eyes widened with genuine alarm. "Turns out that basilisk venom and phoenix tears make quite the combination when you're magically reconstructed at the cellular level. Dragon genetics, apparently. Dormant for generations, but the trauma triggered a rather spectacular awakening."
"Dragon..." Malfoy repeated faintly, and Harry could smell the sharp spike of fear that accompanied the word.
"Draconic inheritance, to be precise," Harry continued conversationally, as if discussing his holiday plans rather than his fundamental transformation into something unprecedented. "Enhanced strength, supernatural senses, natural magical resistance, and apparently the developing ability to produce actual dragonfire. Quite the educational experience, really."
Malfoy seemed to gather himself, remembering that intimidating twelve-year-old boys had been well within his capabilities just that morning. "But surely you're not suggesting that I had anything to do with this diary reaching Miss Weasley? That's quite a serious accusation, Mr. Potter."
Harry's smile widened, and for just a moment, golden fire danced behind his emerald eyes. "Actually, Mr. Malfoy, that's exactly what I'm suggesting. I saw you slip it into her cauldron at Flourish and Blotts, tucked between her copy of The Standard Book of Spells and her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. Right after you finished rolling around on the floor with Mr. Weasley like a pair of schoolchildren fighting over the last piece of pudding."
"That's a very serious accusation indeed," Malfoy said, though his voice had lost much of its usual aristocratic confidence. "Of course, accusations require proof, which I rather suspect you lack, don't you?"
Harry tilted his head with the predatory grace of someone who had just discovered he was part apex predator. "Proof is such an interesting concept, isn't it? I mean, technically, I could simply testify under Veritaserum about what I witnessed. But then again, so could you. And I imagine that conversation would be absolutely fascinating."
The color drained from Malfoy's face so completely that Harry briefly wondered if the man might actually faint. Beside him, Dobby was practically vibrating with terror and something that might have been hope.
"Proof can indeed be... elusive," Dumbledore interjected mildly, his voice carrying the casual authority of someone who could end careers with a well-placed word. "However, I do hope you understand, Lucius, that if any more of Lord Voldemort's artifacts find their way into the hands of innocent students, the consequences could be quite severe indeed."
Malfoy flinched at the name, a reaction that Harry's enhanced senses caught immediately.
"The Ministry takes a very dim view of Dark artifacts being distributed to children," Dumbledore continued conversationally. "Arthur Weasley, for instance, would be absolutely fascinated to investigate how such items might have found their way into general circulation. His department has some truly remarkable methods for tracing magical artifacts back to their sources."
The threat hung in the air like smoke from Harry's nostrils, which, coincidentally, had begun producing thin wisps of vapor as his emotional state shifted toward something decidedly more draconic.
"Naturally," Malfoy said through gritted teeth, his knuckles white where he gripped his serpent-headed walking stick. "We all want to ensure the safety of our precious children. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have urgent business elsewhere that requires my immediate attention."
He turned to leave with as much dignity as he could muster, his expensive robes billowing dramatically as he strode toward the door. Dobby scurried to keep pace beside him, the house-elf's enormous ears drooping with the misery of someone who knew his situation was about to become considerably worse.
Harry made a quick decision based on impulses that felt distinctly more draconic than human—protective, territorial, and completely unwilling to allow injustice to continue when he had the power to stop it.
"Oh, Mr. Malfoy," he called out, his voice carrying the kind of casual authority that made everyone in the room turn to look at him. "I believe you've forgotten something."
Malfoy paused at the doorway, his shoulders tightening with obvious reluctance as he turned back toward the hospital wing. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mr. Potter."
Harry rose from his bed with the fluid grace that his transformation had granted him, moving with the kind of unconscious elegance that suggested predatory confidence. He walked over to where Dumbledore had placed the destroyed diary, his enhanced senses picking up the complex interplay of magical signatures in the room—fear from Malfoy, confusion from Dobby, and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation from Dumbledore.
"The diary, of course," Harry said, reaching for the ruined book with movements that appeared casual but were actually precisely calculated. "After all, it's evidence of Tom Riddle's crimes. Surely you'd want to ensure it's disposed of properly? Can't have dangerous Dark artifacts lying around where impressionable students might find them."
As he spoke, Harry smoothly withdrew one of the thick wool socks that Mrs. Weasley had knitted him for Christmas from his pajama pocket—he'd slipped it off his foot while Malfoy had been busy posturing at Dumbledore—and with enhanced dexterity that made the movement nearly invisible, he slid it between the diary's damaged pages.
"I hardly think that's necessary," Malfoy replied, but his voice lacked conviction. Refusing to take the diary would be tantamount to admitting his connection to it, and everyone in the room understood the game being played.
"Oh, but I insist," Harry said with a smile that didn't reach his glowing green eyes. "Consider it a gift from one concerned citizen to another. After all, we all want to see justice served, don't we?"
Malfoy's expression suggested he would rather handle a live Blast-Ended Skrewt, but the social and political implications of refusing were too dangerous. With obvious reluctance and barely concealed disgust, he snatched the diary from Harry's outstretched hand.
"Dobby," he snapped without bothering to look at the house-elf, his voice carrying the casual cruelty of someone accustomed to absolute power over another being. "Dispose of this rubbish immediately. And do try not to contaminate anything else with your incompetence."
He threw the diary toward Dobby with the careless disdain of someone discarding trash. The house-elf caught it instinctively, his reflexes honed by years of serving a master who viewed him as less than furniture. As he did, the damaged book fell open, revealing Harry's bright wool sock nestled between the torn pages like a flower blooming in a wasteland.
The change in Dobby was immediate and absolutely extraordinary. His enormous eyes went wider than seemed physically possible, his golf-ball-sized ears stood straight up like sails catching wind, and his entire small body began to glow with the kind of raw magical energy that Harry's enhanced senses could feel like electricity dancing across his skin.
"Master has given Dobby a sock," the house-elf said, his voice filled with such wonder and dawning joy that it seemed to illuminate the entire hospital wing. "Master has presented Dobby with clothes. Dobby is..." His voice broke with emotion. "Dobby is free."
The magical transformation that swept through the hospital wing was visible to everyone present. Ancient binding spells that had held Dobby in servitude for generations simply dissolved like morning mist, replaced by the golden glow of liberation that made the house-elf look like a small, pointed-eared angel.
"WHAT?!" Malfoy spun around with the fury of a man who had just realized he'd been comprehensively outmaneuvered by a twelve-year-old boy. His face flushed red with rage and humiliation, and his gray eyes blazed with murderous intent. "You! You've tricked me! You've destroyed centuries of—"
"Dobby is free," the house-elf interrupted, and his voice now carried a power that made the hospital wing's ancient windows vibrate in their frames. "And Dobby will not allow anyone to hurt the Great Harry Potter Sir!"
Malfoy raised his wand with the fluid motion of someone who had spent decades practicing the Dark Arts, the words of the Killing Curse already forming on his lips with the casual ease of long familiarity. "Avada—"
But before he could complete the most unforgivable of spells, Dobby raised one small hand and snapped his fingers with the decisive authority of someone who had just remembered what real power felt like.
The magical force that erupted from the tiny creature was like being caught in the path of a runaway dragon. Pure, undiluted house-elf magic—the same force that could apparate through Hogwarts' ancient wards, that could overpower wizard spells through sheer will—slammed into Malfoy with the impact of a battering ram made of concentrated fury.
The aristocratic wizard was lifted bodily off his feet and sent flying backward through the hospital wing doors, which slammed shut behind him with a sound like thunder rolling across mountain peaks. The echo of his impact against the far corridor wall was audible even through the thick stone, followed by what sounded suspiciously like several suits of armor falling over in a chain reaction of metallic destruction.
"Dobby has protected Harry Potter Sir," the house-elf said with fierce satisfaction, his enormous eyes blazing with righteous triumph. "Dobby has waited so long to do magic against the terrible Malfoy master."
Then he turned to Harry, and his expression shifted to one of desperate, overwhelming hope mixed with gratitude so profound it was almost painful to witness.
"The Great Harry Potter Sir has freed Dobby," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "Dobby is no longer bound to the terrible Malfoy family. Dobby can go where he pleases, work for who he chooses, wear what he likes."
Harry knelt down so he was at eye level with the trembling creature, his enhanced senses picking up the complex symphony of emotions radiating from the house-elf—joy, terror, gratitude, and an almost desperate need to belong somewhere safe.
"You're free, Dobby," Harry said gently, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that his transformation seemed to have gifted him. "Completely and utterly free. You can go anywhere you want, work for anyone you choose, or not work at all if that's what makes you happy. No one owns you anymore."
Dobby's eyes filled with tears that sparkled like liquid diamonds in the hospital wing's magical lighting, each drop catching and reflecting the soft illumination with prismatic beauty.
"Dobby would like to ask the Great Harry Potter Sir something very important," the house-elf said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying clearly in the suddenly quiet room.
"Of course," Harry replied. "What is it?"
"Would..." Dobby's voice broke slightly, and he had to swallow hard before continuing. "Would the Great Harry Potter Sir consider allowing Dobby to work for him? Not bound by the terrible old magic," he added quickly, his words tumbling over each other in their urgency, "but by choice? Dobby would work for fair wages and have time off and be treated with respect like a proper person?"
The request hung in the air like a soap bubble, beautiful and fragile and absolutely unprecedented in the wizarding world. Harry's enhanced hearing picked up the collective intake of breath from everyone else in the room—Hermione's sharp gasp of surprise, Ginny's soft sound of amazement, and Dumbledore's pleased chuckle.
House-elves who worked by choice rather than magical binding were essentially unheard of in wizarding society. The very concept challenged fundamental assumptions about the natural order of magical creatures and their relationships with wizards.
"You want to work for me?" Harry asked, genuine surprise coloring his voice. "Dobby, you're free now. You don't have to work for anyone if you don't want to. You could travel, see the world, find other free house-elves if they exist..."
"Dobby knows this," the elf replied with solemn dignity, standing as tall as his small frame allowed. "But Dobby likes the Great Harry Potter Sir very much. Harry Potter is kind and brave and treats Dobby like a person instead of a thing. Dobby would be honored to serve such a master—not as a slave, but as a friend who happens to be very good at cooking and cleaning and protecting people he cares about."
Harry considered this carefully, his enhanced senses allowing him to detect the absolute sincerity in Dobby's words. The house-elf genuinely wanted to help, wanted to belong somewhere, wanted to have a purpose that involved caring for others rather than being abused and treated as disposable.
Having a house-elf—even a free one working by choice—felt strange and uncomfortable to Harry's fundamentally egalitarian instincts. But Dobby clearly needed to feel useful, needed to have someone who valued his contributions, and refusing might be more cruel than accepting.
"Could we try it as a trial arrangement?" Harry asked finally, his voice gentle but serious. "See how it works for both of us? And Dobby, I'd insist on paying you proper wages—"
"Two Galleons a week?" Dobby asked hopefully, his enormous eyes bright with anticipation.
"Five Galleons a week," Harry countered firmly, enjoying the way the house-elf's ears shot up in amazement. "Plus room and board, regular time off, and the absolute understanding that you can leave anytime you want if you change your mind or find something better."
Dobby's smile could have powered the entire castle for a week, radiating pure joy and contentment that made everyone in the room feel slightly warmer just from witnessing it.
"Dobby accepts!" the house-elf declared, practically bouncing with excitement. "Dobby will be the very best free house-elf the Great Harry Potter Sir could ask for! Dobby will cook and clean and protect and be a good friend!"
"Just Harry," Harry said with a grin that felt natural despite his transformed features. "If we're going to be friends—and I hope we are—then you should call me Harry. The 'Great Sir' bit makes me sound like some sort of pompous aristocrat."
"Dobby will try," the house-elf replied solemnly, though his eyes were still dancing with happiness. "It may take some practice, but Dobby will learn to call Harry Potter Sir just Harry."
"Close enough for a start," Harry laughed.
From his position near the hospital wing's main desk, Dumbledore cleared his throat with the gentle authority of someone who had just witnessed history being made. "I believe, Harry, that you've just accomplished something truly revolutionary. A free house-elf working by choice rather than magical compulsion... it's absolutely unprecedented."
"Everything about my life seems to be revolutionary these days, Professor," Harry replied with the kind of dry wit that his transformation seemed to have enhanced along with everything else. "Dragon genetics, liberated house-elves, personally confronting Dark Lords... I might as well start charging admission for people to witness the impossible."
"You could make quite a fortune," Hermione observed from her hospital bed, her voice weak but filled with the kind of intellectual excitement that indicated her brain had found a new puzzle to solve. "Harry, do you realize what you've just done? You've challenged one of the fundamental assumptions of wizarding society. The idea that house-elves can work by choice rather than compulsion..."
She paused, her eyes growing bright with the kind of fervor that usually preceded her most passionate crusades.
"This could change everything," she continued, her voice growing stronger with enthusiasm. "If house-elves can work freely, receive fair wages, have legal protections... Harry, you might have just started a revolution in magical creature rights!"
"Brilliant," Harry muttered, though he couldn't quite suppress a smile at her excitement. "Add 'accidental civil rights reformer' to my increasingly ridiculous résumé. Right next to 'survived multiple assassination attempts' and 'part-time dragon.'"
"You're not a part-time dragon," Ron's voice came from the doorway, and everyone turned to see him entering the hospital wing with a breakfast tray balanced precariously in his hands. "You're a full-time dragon who occasionally pretends to be human for social convenience."
"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, relief evident in her voice. "What are you doing here so early?"
"Couldn't sleep," Ron admitted, settling the tray on a nearby table and revealing what appeared to be enough food for a small army. "Kept thinking about everything that's happened. Besides, I figured Harry might be hungry after being magically reconstructed and liberating house-elves and terrifying Malfoy into next week."
As if summoned by the mention of food, Harry's stomach produced a growl that could have been mistaken for a small dragon expressing displeasure. His enhanced metabolism apparently required considerably more fuel than his previous merely human body had needed.
"Actually, I'm starving," Harry admitted, looking at the laden tray with genuine appreciation. "Whatever changes are happening to me seem to require a lot of energy."
"Dragon genetics," Dobby said knowledgeably, apparently delighted to have something useful to contribute to the conversation. "Dragons need much food to fuel their magic and maintain their body temperature. Dobby can prepare special high-energy meals for Harry Potter Sir—er, for Harry."
"See?" Ron said with satisfaction. "Already earning his wages. Dobby, what sort of special meals are we talking about?"
The house-elf's face lit up with professional pride. "Dobby knows many recipes for magical creatures with enhanced metabolisms! High-protein dishes with magical supplements, energy-dense treats that taste delicious, special teas that support magical development..."
"This is going to be dangerous," Harry observed, though he was smiling. "I have a feeling I'm going to get spoiled very quickly."
"Good," Ginny said firmly from her bed. "After everything you've been through, you deserve to be spoiled a bit."
As Harry settled down to what promised to be the first of many enhanced meals, he couldn't help but reflect on the bizarre turn his life had taken. Yesterday morning, he'd been a relatively normal twelve-year-old wizard dealing with ordinary problems like homework and Quidditch practice.
---
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