Chapter 102 — A Letter for Dobby

The coach carried us along the familiar road beside trees beginning to look thin against the sky. Ron unfolded his list again while Hermione described what she had read about the village’s early history. When I asked about one detail, she admitted the accounts disagreed, which made the place seem rather more real than a single tidy story would have done.

Hogsmeade looked busy before it looked historic. Deliveries waited outside shops, smoke rose from chimneys and people stepped round one another in the street. Older houses leaned into spaces between newer fronts, while candles burned steadily where I would have expected lamps.

Ron spotted the Three Broomsticks and proposed beginning there. Hermione reminded him that his list began at Honeydukes, but he explained it was not a prison. We were approaching the pub when the door opened and a small figure stepped out, stopping with a hand against the frame.

His clothes were still far too thin for the weather. I said Dobby’s name, and he looked up with an expression which changed so quickly that I smiled before he reached us. His ears moved with each hurried step away from the door.

‘Mr Mercer! Dobby is very pleased to see you, sir.’ He glanced beyond us after I asked how he was, searching the people coming along the street. I explained that Harry could not come today and promised to tell him we had met.

I introduced Hermione properly while Ron greeted him. She crouched to speak without making Dobby look so far upwards, then straightened as somebody needed to pass. We moved away from the doorway, and I asked whether he had been visiting anyone inside.

‘Dobby was asking about work.’ His ears lowered when I asked whether he found any. He had taken some time for himself after leaving Lucius, he explained, then started enquiring in different places. Cooking, cleaning and keeping a house in order interested people until he mentioned wages.

‘Some think Dobby is making a joke. Others say a house-elf should not ask.’ He twisted the edge of his pillowcase while Hermione pressed her lips together. I had been expecting news about where he lived, not another account of somebody deciding what freedom ought to allow him.

Hermione asked whether they objected to paying for work they needed done. Dobby nodded, then said he did not want another master. I looked back at the pub and thought about the managers I already had, the work they needed doing and the questions we could settle somewhere more useful than a cold pavement.

‘Would you like to work at one of my places in Diagon Alley? For wages,’ I asked. His fingers stopped moving, and I named Flourish and Blotts, Extra Sunday and Frozen. There were different jobs to discuss with the managers, I explained, so he could choose something that suited him.

He looked towards Hermione as though checking the names. She confirmed that I owned them, and his eyes returned to me. He said he would like work very much, with such urgency that I asked him to hear the details before deciding.

Hermione checked her bag when I asked for writing things. Finding none, she offered to buy some from a nearby shop. While she went, I asked Dobby which work he preferred; his first answer was whatever needed doing. I waited until he began describing kitchens and the pleasure of putting things properly in order.

He had experience, I told him. Learning the businesses would not make that disappear, and Ron nodded while suggesting he tell the managers what he had told us. Dobby listened, still holding the worn corner of his clothing, before asking whether he would have to obey them.

‘You’d agree on the job and follow the arrangements for doing it,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t let anyone hurt you or demand anything they like.’ He watched my face, so I tried a simpler example. A manager could explain where an order needed to go without owning the person carrying it.

‘And Dobby would still be free?’ he asked. I said yes, during work as well as afterwards. He released the corner of the pillowcase just as Hermione returned with a quill, a small supply of ink and paper. We found a dry surface to rest the sheet on, and I began writing to Tom.

The letter asked him to help Dobby meet the managers of the three businesses and authorised a paid position once Dobby chose the work and agreed to the terms. I included hours, pay, breaks and time off among the things to explain before he began. Extra responsibilities would need agreement too, and help finding somewhere to stay could be discussed separately if Dobby wanted it.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I read the letter aloud before folding it. Dobby listened without interrupting, then asked whether he could stop if the work made him unhappy. I explained that he should tell the manager so the work could be arranged, but taking my letter would not surrender his right to leave.

He wanted to take it. Hermione held out the envelope, and I put the sheet inside while telling him to start at the bookshop. Tom would know whom to speak to; if the arrangement sounded wrong when explained, Dobby could still refuse it. He accepted the envelope with both hands and held it carefully against his chest.

‘Dobby will tell Harry Potter when Dobby finds work,’ he promised. I said Harry would want to hear, then watched him leave along the street. A letter was not the same as a job already begun, but it gave him somewhere to go where the next conversation should be different.

Ron waited until Dobby was out of earshot before reminding me to make sure he was properly paid. Hermione added that being able to do a great deal should not mean doing three people’s work without discussion. I agreed while she packed the remaining writing things into her bag. Then Ron’s stomach made a noise which returned our attention to the pub.

The Three Broomsticks was warm enough for me to unfasten my coat before finding a table. Conversation moved around the room, including somebody near the fire explaining a delivery sent to the wrong address. Two witches beside us compared purchases from a small box, taking turns holding its contents up to the light.

Ron noticed Madam Rosmerta first. He sat straighter as she approached, answered one question twice and missed the next altogether. When she repeated the order for three butterbeers, I added food before he could agree to another three.

She smiled and left us to settle ourselves. Hermione reminded Ron that she had asked about sharing the bread, and his puzzled expression made her repeat that too. I concentrated on clearing space for the mugs, which arrived warm and smelling sweet.

The drink tasted faintly caramelised, with a little sharpness after it that stopped the sweetness becoming heavy. I took another sip while Ron recovered enough to answer Hermione’s question properly. She passed him the bread once he had, and by the time we finished eating they were arguing over his list again.

He had written Zonko’s three times. Hermione regarded this as unnecessary, but Ron said the entries referred to different sections. Honeydukes occupied the next substantial part of our visit regardless, and I soon understood why planning before seeing its shelves had been difficult.

Jars of boiled sweets stood above slabs of fudge, with enough chocolate to scent the air before a packet opened. Some products moved, while others made claims on their labels I wanted explained before giving them away. The proprietor answered with the patience of someone watching an order grow.

I asked for separate packets for presents and sharing. He brought a box to the counter, making Ron predict a considerable improvement in Harry’s afternoon. I pointed out that Harry would receive his own portion with his name on it, and Ron accused me of making generosity sound suspicious.

Hermione chose a smaller selection for her parents. She asked what would travel well and whether the labels could remain with the packets, since they would want to know what they were eating. A nearby display made a noise at that moment, strengthening the case for written explanations.

Our order grew larger than anything I normally carried out of a sweet shop. I checked what we had chosen before paying, particularly the separate presents, then had the larger box divided into parcels which fitted securely in my pouch. Ron bought some fudge of his own and set aside the coins intended for Harry’s gift before we reached Zonko’s.

He called it preventative planning when Hermione noticed. She said she was impressed, though he would have preferred less surprise in her voice. The joke shop soon justified his precaution, beginning with teacups whose teeth I would rather not have discovered while drinking.

Soap required a tray for its demonstration. Several other objects seemed unsuitable anywhere near my books, and Ron became occupied with the section responsible for most of the noises. Hermione examined a small brass box, read the warning and opened it cautiously.

The box gave a tremendous hiccup. She snapped it shut and laughed, bringing Ron round with an expression of triumph. When he claimed she had given the impression that nothing there was interesting, she reminded him that he had been describing something which smelled of sewage.

That distinction failed to trouble him. I spent a while examining how several tricks might work, but turning a box over revealed little about its construction. I resisted buying an armful merely to discover the interesting parts had been sealed where I could not reach them.

Ron left with his purchases and the money for Harry still set aside. Hermione led us next towards the Hog’s Head, comparing the building with a description in her notes once we stopped outside. Its dirty windows reduced the interior to dim shapes even when I leaned close.

She explained that the village had been involved in the goblin rebellion of 1612, and this was the inn named in the account she found. Ron asked whether it mentioned anybody cleaning the windows since. Hermione looked at him, then at the glass, and said we did not have to go inside. Neither of us needed persuading.