Victor lay there for a moment, listening to the quiet after Dobby's pop faded.
House-elves were strange beings. Bound by magic, underestimated by almost everyone, and treated more like furniture than people—and yet they were efficient, loyal, and frighteningly capable when given even a small measure of freedom.
The wizarding world really was blind, Victor mused dryly. Wizards feared Dark Lords and ancient curses, yet ignored creatures who could bypass wards, Apparate freely inside manor houses, and perform powerful magic without wands or incantations.
Terrifying indeed.
"I wonder how those ancient wizards even managed to enslave them," he murmured.
House-elves were powerful—far more powerful than most wizards liked to admit. Which only made one question unavoidable: how had the wizards of that age managed to enslave them at all?
They must have been terrifying, those ancient wizards. Back when there was no Ministry of Magic, no laws, no regulations—nothing to restrain dark magic or reckless experimentation.
Many of the spells considered dangerous today were born in that era, forged through trial, error, and cruelty.
In those days, wizards were unruly, divided, and brutal. Power decided everything.
Victor could easily imagine ancient wizarding clans resorting to blood magic, binding spells, and oaths so old no one even remembered how they had begun—magic layered generation upon generation until obedience became instinct rather than choice.
And once chains like that were in place, time did the rest.
Custom turned into "tradition." Control turned into "nature."
Most house-elves of the current generation believed that serving wizarding families—especially pure-blood ones—was their highest honour. Without orders, without masters, they thought themselves meaningless. The belief had been pressed into them so thoroughly that it no longer felt like conditioning, but truth.
Generations had been raised to think obedience was purpose, and that freedom was failure.
And yet… there were exceptions.
Elves like Dobby—strange, stubborn, inconvenient anomalies who proved that the system wasn't absolute. That the obedience wasn't natural.
There was a sharp pop near the foot of the bed.
Dobby reappeared, arms stacked high with books of various sizes, their covers bright and mismatched, and a floating tray of snacks wobbling beside him.
"Dobby has returned!" he announced proudly. "With storybooks—many storybooks! And refreshments!"
The books were gently lowered onto the bedside table: wizarding fairy tales, adventure novels, a few thick histories.
The tray followed—pumpkin pasties, treacle tarts, chocolate frogs, and a steaming cup of something that smelled suspiciously like cocoa.
Victor turned his head toward the sound of rustling paper. "Good timing," he said. "I was starting to regret asking for 'refreshments' without defining the term."
Dobby beamed. "Dobby selected only the best!"
"Good," Victor said. "Now, Dobby—pick one of those books you like and read it."
Dobby froze.
"R-read?" he repeated, ears twitching. "Dobby is to read… for himself?"
"Yes," Victor replied simply. "Out loud, if you want. I can't see the pages anyway."
For a moment, Dobby looked as though the concept itself needed time to settle. Then he reached for a thin, well-worn book near the top of the pile, holding it with unusual care.
"Dobby likes this one," he said softly.
"Gilderoy Lockhart's Adventures," Dobby read aloud, squinting at the cover. "Dobby likes the pictures."
Victor's mouth twitched. "An… excellent choice."
Dobby opened the book and began reading in earnest, reciting Lockhart's dramatic exploits with absolute sincerity—every boast delivered as if it were gospel.
Victor listened, equal parts amused and resigned.
He knew, of course. Everyone who looked closely enough eventually did. Gilderoy Lockhart was a fraud—a thief of glory who took other people's real, often dangerous experiences and polished them into shiny bedtime stories with his name stamped on the cover.
Still… the irony was hard to ignore.
The adventures themselves were real. Vampires had been driven off. Dark creatures had been subdued. Curses had been broken. Someone had actually lived through those moments—bled for them, nearly died for them.
Lockhart had simply arrived afterward, smiled brightly, wiped memories, and wrote the book.
Victor exhaled softly.
At least the danger was genuine, he thought. Even if the author wasn't.
That is why his books are popular.
***
Like that, days passed quietly.
The world beyond Victor's room barely reached him—mealtimes marked by house-elves, Dobby's enthusiastic reading sessions, and long stretches of rest enforced by his mother. In the background of his thoughts, the progress ticked steadily upward.
[Eyes of the Dead — 99%]
Almost there.
Only four days remained until Christmas.
Victor leaned back against the pillows, letting out a breath that was half relief, half impatience.
"At least I won't be blind for Christmas," he muttered.
An hour passed.
[Eyes of the Dead — Awakened]
His vision returned to normal, the familiar grey restored as his pupils slowly reappeared.
Victor blinked.
And then he froze.
After ten long days, his vision finally returned—but the world was not the same as before.
Faint blue particles drifted through the air, subtle and constant, like dust caught in moonlight. They weren't solid, nor illusion. They moved—slow currents flowing through the room.
"What the heck… am I seeing things?" Victor muttered.
He lifted his hand.
The same blue energy coursed through him.
It threaded along his arms, traced his veins, and gathered densely around his chest—concentrated at his heart, pulsing in a steady rhythm.
Realisation dawned.
"…Magic," he whispered. "I'm seeing magic flow."
Not spells. Not incantations.
The current beneath it all—the raw movement of magic itself, inside living beings and lingering in the environment.
Victor sat up slowly, breath shallow.
Until now, the Eyes of the Dead had only shown him what should not be seen—souls, remnants, things hidden behind the veil. Useful, yes, but subtle.
This was different.
This was an upgrade.
"With this…" he murmured, a slow smile forming, "…finding Horcruxes just became a lot easier."
Blue light reflected faintly in his eyes.
"Master Victor, Dobby has returned with your lunch—"
The words cut off halfway.
Dobby froze near the doorway.
Victor was standing.
More importantly—his eyes were open. Fully open. The black pupils had returned, clear and sharp, no trace of the eerie white that had frightened everyone days ago.
"Master… Master Victor has regained his eyes?" Dobby asked
"Yes," Victor said, blinking once, then smiling. "Looks like they're back for good."
Dobby let out a tiny gasp of joy, nearly dropping the tray. "Dobby is so happy!" he squeaked.
But Victor wasn't looking at the food.
He was looking at Dobby.
Blue currents flowed through the house-elf's small body—dense, bright, and far stronger. The magic wasn't scattered or thin. It was innate, moving naturally, as if Dobby breathed magic the way others breathed air.
Victor's smile faded into thought.
'So that was it. House-elves were born with magic—more refined and instinctive than that of humans.'
'No wonder ancient wizards had gone to such lengths to bind them.'
*****
A/N : 🔥 On Patreon, the story has already been updated up to Chapter 43 🔥
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