The Chamber of Secrets was no longer a tomb.
Not since Dobby had moved in.
The house-elf took to his new job with devotion bordering on obsession. Harry Potter—his kind, noble friend—had offered him something no wizard ever had: freedom with purpose. Dobby was not just serving. He was helping. He was needed.
And in the gloom of that ancient chamber, Dobby thrived.
He had bought brooms that swept on their own, created floating lights to brighten the dark corners, and scrubbed the serpent-carved floors until they shone like polished obsidian. The vast space where the Basilisk once lay coiled was now orderly, lined with enchanted storage trunks, each one bearing labels in Dobby's careful scrawl: FANGS, HIDE – MAIN COIL, BONES– HANDLE WITH GLOVES, SHED SKINS.
But the most important errand of all had come that morning.
Dobby was going to Diagon Alley.
Not to buy socks or sugar cubes. Not to beg for work.
He was going to deliver Basilisk hide.
And not just to any wizard—but to Varkas Hideworks, the master craftsman whom Harry trusted with what might be the rarest magical material in the entire wizarding world.
With a snap of his fingers and a silent Apparition, Dobby appeared in the back alley beside Varkas' shop. He was carrying a magically lightened, securely sealed trunk, packed with folded sheets of Basilisk hide and several coils of the serpent's shed skin.
The moment he knocked, the heavy door creaked open, and Varkas—goggles on, sleeves rolled—froze mid-step.
"Bloody hell," the man muttered, peering down. "Who are you?."
Dobby puffed his chest proudly. "Dobby is Harry Potter's house-elf, sir! Harry Potter is my friend, and Dobby brings gifts and instructions!"
Varkas blinked, then grinned. "You're the one who helped skin the beast, eh?. Harry wrote me about you"
Dobby nodded. "Dobby harvested carefully, just like Varkas instructed! And now Dobby has measurements!"
He snapped his fingers again, and a floating parchment unrolled in the air, hovering neatly in front of the craftsman. Precise outlines of Harry's frame appeared, complete with notes in green ink: INNER ARMOR (thin, breathable), TROUSERS – reinforced knees, BOOTS – flexible sole, GLOVES – trimmed cuffs, wand-compatible.
Varkas whistled. "You really thought this through."
Dobby beamed. "Harry Potter must be protected! Dobby will not let bad wizards hurt him again!"
Varkas motioned him inside. "Bring it through. Workshop's clean. Let's see what we're working with."
Once inside the glowing forge, Dobby laid out the hide on a wide obsidian table enchanted to resist all forms of magical damage. Varkas unrolled the main sheets first—thick, jet-black with a faint emerald sheen under the light. He ran his gloved hand across it and shivered.
"It's still humming with magic. I've worked with dragons. Wyverns. Even manticore pelts. But this?" He looked up slowly. "This is alive."
Dobby nodded. "And that is why Dobby only brings some. Harry Potter says to keep most in the chamber for the future. Only these are for the first gear set."
Varkas pulled out a blade that have enchanted diamond tip to cut magical material and carefully slid it across the hide's edge. It sliced like butter—but didn't fray. The material healed its edges naturally.
"I can make the inner armor invisible under robes," Varkas said, eyes gleaming. "Flexible like silk. But if someone casts a Stunning Spell at him, it'll bend like leather and block it."
Dobby handed him a smaller scroll. "Also make for Dobby. A gift from Harry Potter. Same armor, but in small elf size!"
Varkas's grin widened. "So I'm kitting out a wizard and a house-elf in battle gear made of a creature people say hasn't been seen in a thousand years." He chuckled. "What's the world coming to?"
"Great things," Dobby said proudly.
By the end of the visit, Varkas had separated what he needed: one full hide sheet for Harry's trousers, another for the undershirt armor, a third for boots and gloves, and enough excess to craft a small jacket and full set for Dobby. The shed skin, tough and magically resistant, would be integrated as flexible padding and inner lining.
"Tell your master," Varkas said, rolling his sleeves back down, "this will take a few weeks. But when it's done, no curse is getting through this."
Dobby bowed low. "Dobby thanks Master Varkas! Harry Potter thanks Master Varkas!"
Then, with a snap, he vanished.
Back in the Chamber, Dobby returned to his work.
He organized the unused hide. Polished the statues. Reinforced the basilisk fang cases with spell-proof wrappings. He even set up a hammock for himself in a smaller tunnel off the main hall, nestled behind a carved wall that only opened to his touch.
The chamber felt… different now.
Not like a grave.
Like a sanctuary.
And just before he turned in for the night, Dobby returned to the strange metal structure.
The ship.
He ran his fingers along its smooth shell again, tracing the worn, alien lettering that shimmered faintly under his touch. He could feel the humming beneath his feet. The low vibration.
Dobby hummed cheerfully as he scrubbed the strange metal surface, working with a damp cloth and a thick lump of charmed dragon soap.
He had tried every house-elf spell he knew—cleaning charms, polish glimmers, even surface erosion incantations—but the metal had stubbornly refused to respond. It was like the thing was immune to magic. So he did it the old-fashioned way: scrubbing, wiping, and talking to himself.
"Stubborn metal snake-thing… doesn't like elf-magic… very rude," he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a narrow groove that looked more like a sealed seam.
Then his hand brushed something round and smooth.
A button.
Red. Faintly glowing. Hidden beneath a fine layer of dust and age.
Curious, Dobby gave it a little press.
Click.
There was a faint hiss—like a breath exhaled after a thousand years—and the seam before him suddenly split open with a deep mechanical whirring. Dobby jumped back, yelping in surprise.
A panel of the strange metal rotated outward, then lowered gently, unfolding and extending like a ramp until it touched the chamber floor with a soft thud.
A door. A staircase. A way in.
Inside, lights flickered on—cold and white, nothing like the glow of lanterns or torches. Strange panels blinked. Pipes ran along the ceiling. There were no runes, no wood, no parchment. Just steel, glass, and something deep and ancient humming in the air.
Dobby's ears twitched. His toes curled.
"I… I must ask Harry Potter," he whispered aloud. "Harry Potter said not to go inside strange things without him…"
He turned, raised his fingers, and with a sharp pop!—vanished.
The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with laughter and chatter when Dobby reappeared in a flash of displaced air.
Books tumbled off a table. A first-year screamed. Seamus Finnigan dropped his goblet, and Dean Thomas nearly fell off the couch.
"WHAT IN MERLIN'S—" someone shouted.
And there stood Dobby, in his patched tan trousers, mismatched socks—one green, one pink with golden stars—neatly buttoned shirt, and a floppy blue cap embroidered with a crooked "D".
Harry was at the table, bent over a half-finished Potions essay, quill in hand. He looked up—and grinned.
"Dobby!"
Several Gryffindors stared in stunned silence.
"Harry," Hermione said breathlessly from the corner, wide-eyed. "Is that a… house-elf?"
"Yeah," Harry replied casually. "My friend."
"Friend?!" Parvati gasped.
"I work for Harry Potter!" Dobby declared proudly, planting his fists on his hips.
Several students looked between Harry and the elf in disbelief.
Dobby turned to Harry and gave a low bow and very quietly started talking. "Harry Potter, Dobby has found something! A door opened on the metal thing!"
Harry's quill froze mid-sentence.
"A door?" he asked quickly, standing. "You mean the… thing in the Chamber?"
Dobby nodded quickly. "It opened like a ramp! Lights inside, Harry Potter! Dobby did not enter. Dobby remembered what you said—Dobby waits for Harry."
Harry nodded, heart racing a little. "You did the right thing, Dobby."
Before he could say more, a voice cut in—quick and passionate.
"Harry," Hermione said sharply, standing with a book clutched to her chest. "You shouldn't be using a house-elf to run errands for you! That's indentured magical servitude! I've been doing research, and I'm starting a group—S.P.E.W.—the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare—"
Dobby's eyes narrowed. "Dobby is not a slave, bushy-head girl!" he snapped.
Hermione looked startled.
"Dobby chose to work for Harry Potter! Dobby gets paid, has a bed, and socks! Dobby even eats whatever he likes! Dobby is not being tricked! Dobby is a free elf!"
Hermione blinked, clearly flustered, as several students stared. Ron, sitting on a couch nearby, snorted into his pumpkin juice.
Harry patted Dobby's shoulder. "It's alright. She means well."
Dobby crossed his arms, huffing.
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"I… see. Well, if you're truly happy, then that's what matters," she said carefully, though her frown remained.
Dobby gave a small, proud nod and turned back to Harry. "Harry Potter will come tomorrow? Dobby will be ready. The door is still open!"
"I'll be there," Harry said. "First thing after breakfast."
With another respectful bow and a pop, Dobby vanished back to the Chamber, where the metallic ramp still waited, humming with ancient power.
And in the heart of Hogwarts, a doorway long forgotten had awakened for the first time in a thousand years.
Dobby was bouncing like a Quaffle on a trampoline when Harry slipped quietly into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom the next morning, disguised under his invisibility cloak. Myrtle was thankfully absent, and the castle was still waking up—perfect timing.
"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Come, come, Dobby has been cleaning all night! The door is still open!"
Harry smiled and nodded. "Lead the way."
They reached the sink. A whispered hiss in Parseltongue opened the hidden entrance, and Harry once again slid down the long, grimy pipe, Dobby following effortlessly behind with a snap of his fingers and a puff of air.
They landed gently in the wide chamber, the once-dead Basilisk now stripped, stored, and preserved. In the far side of the chamber, the strange metal creature stood still—silent, imposing, otherworldly.
Dobby skipped toward it and pointed eagerly. "See, see! There!"
His long fingers pressed the same red button nestled in the side panel.
Click.
With a slow exhale of air and a faint hiss, the metal wall rotated open, unfolding into a ramp once again. Lights shimmered along the inside—soft white lines tracing the walls of the descending corridor.
Harry stepped forward, wand drawn. The air smelled strange—clean and dry, but tinged with something... metallic.
He placed one foot on the ramp, then another, the soft clinks echoing slightly.
Dobby followed behind, wide-eyed but resolute.
As they entered the vessel, the lights above them shimmered brighter. Long panels along the wall blinked to life, casting an eerie white glow that felt alien compared to the warm, flickering torches of Hogwarts.
Every time Harry stepped toward a door, it slid open silently with a whoosh, and a soft light flickered on within.
They found a bedroom, sparse and dark, with a rectangular sleeping pod instead of a bed. In another room, a large glass tank filled with thick, viscous fluid stood humming softly, connected to machinery. Pipes lined its sides.
"What... is this?" Harry murmured.
Dobby sniffed it. "It smells like potions, sir. But strange ones. Strong magic."
Harry shook his head. "Not magic. Something else."
They continued exploring until they found the front of the ship.
Harry stopped dead in his tracks.
"Bloody hell," he whispered.
The room curved forward like a cone. A pair of worn, cushioned seats sat before a vast slanted glass panel that overlooked the dark stone of the Chamber. In front of the seats, rows upon rows of buttons and switches blinked faintly. Some glowed green, others pulsed red. Screens—now cracked and flickering—lined the control surfaces. A thin layer of dust coated everything, but the design was unmistakable.
Harry had seen something like this in a movie once—Star Treck, he thought vaguely—when Dudley had the cinema for his birthday.
"It's a cockpit," he said aloud. "Like… like an airplane."
Dobby clutched his socks. "It can fly?"
Harry shook his head. "I don't know. It has no wings. Maybe it flies without them. Or maybe it… goes underwater?"
But that didn't make sense either. Why would something that traveled under water be buried in a sealed chamber under a castle in Scotland?
This… this thing was ancient. Hogwarts had been built over a thousand years ago. Which meant… this had been here first.
That made Harry's head spin.
He ran his fingers along the control panels, not daring to press anything. He didn't know what could happen. Then, as he moved behind the cockpit chairs, his eyes caught something strange—a faint shimmer behind a broken crate, like a glint of sunlight through red glass.
Harry leaned down and pulled out a small pyramid-shaped object, no larger than his palm.
It was black and gold, with smooth golden corners and a blood-red crystal embedded in its center. Strange runes lined its edges—runes Harry didn't recognize.
"Dobby," Harry whispered. "Do you see this?"
Dobby's ears twitched. "It looks like a toy, sir. Or a treasure."
Harry turned it in his hand—and the moment his fingers brushed a groove in its base, the pyramid shifted.
Click.
The corners twisted inward. The crystal glowed red.
Then—a flash of light.
A translucent figure, no taller than Harry's forearm, rose from the tip of the pyramid like a ghost sculpted in molten fire.
The figure was robed in black. His head was bald and severe. His eyes—though mere projections—burned with a gold-and-red hue. And the voice that followed was cold, powerful, and terrifyingly calm.
"You who have awakened this Holocron… speak your name."
Harry stumbled backward, wand out. "Wh—what?"
The image tilted its head. "This Holocron contains the teachings of Darth Bane, Dark Lord of the Sith. If you are worthy, you may learn. If not… you will be destroyed."
"Dobby," Harry said slowly, "I think that is … Salazar Slytherin."