DOBBY’S REWARD
“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harry, grinning. “Just promise
never to try and save my life again.”
The elf ’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide, toothy
smile.
“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harry as Dobby pulled
on Harry’s sock with shaking hands. “You told me all this had
nothing to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, remember?
Well —”
“It was a clue, sir,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as though this
was obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The Dark Lord, before he
changed his name, could be freely named, you see?”
“Right,” said Harry weakly. “Well, I’d better go. There’s a feast,
and my friend Hermione should be awake by now. . . .”
Dobby threw his arms around Harry’s middle and hugged him.
“Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he sobbed.
“Farewell, Harry Potter!”
And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared.
Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like
this. Everybody was in their pajamas, and the celebration lasted all
night. Harry didn’t know whether the best bit was Hermione run-
ning toward him, screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” or Justin
hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to wring his hand and
apologize endlessly for suspecting him, or Hagrid turning up at
half past three, cuffing Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders
that they were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and Ron’s
four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the House Cup for
the second year running, or Professor McGonagall standing up to
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