It was a new day, and the clouds over London looked like old, over-bleached bedsheets, exuding a lifeless grey-white hue.
In the magnificent yet stern main atrium of the Ministry of Magic, a surge of green flames erupted from one of the fireplaces, and Minerva McGonagall stepped out first.
Immediately following her, Jerry's figure also materialized from the flames.
Jerry didn't look at the Ministry employees bustling around him, casting curious glances. He simply stood quietly beside Professor McGonagall, his black eyes like two bottomless ancient wells reflecting no emotion.
"Jerry!"
"The House-Elf Registration and Transfer Office is on the fourth floor, at the far east end of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
"I hope we can make this quick; I still have classes this afternoon!"
As the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall naturally had the authority to command the hundreds of house-elves in the school kitchen, but that authority was based on her position, not ownership.
Those elves belonged to the thousand-year-old castle of Hogwarts, to that ancient contract, and certainly not to Minerva McGonagall personally.
In fact, Professor McGonagall had never thought in her life that she would need, or rather, be able to afford, to "employ" a house-elf.
Professor McGonagall was a standard "moonlight clan" (someone who spends their entire salary by the end of the month) in the wizarding world. She had always kept a respectful distance from "assets" like house-elves, which could be considered luxury goods.
The "transfer fee," or to put it nicely, the "employment deposit," for a well-trained, pure-blooded house-elf with no bad record was enough to bankrupt an ordinary wizarding family.
This was far from as simple as giving away an old piece of clothing; behind it lay a set of ancient, cumbersome, and extremely expensive legal and magical procedures.
The lift ascended slowly amidst suffocating perfume smells and whispers, finally stopping on the fourth floor with a ding.
The corridor of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was far less grand than the main atrium. The air was filled with a strange smell of old parchment, animal fur, and disinfectant.
At the end of the corridor, they found an unassuming oak door with a heavily worn brass plaque hanging on it—"Office for House-Elf Relocation."
Jerry reached out and pushed the door open.
A thicker scent mixed with dust and ink hit them in the face.
The office wasn't big; one could even say it was cramped.
Two walls were occupied by huge filing cabinets reaching the ceiling. Each drawer had a handwritten, yellowed label stuck on it, filled with various ancient pure-blood family names.
The only window was blocked by stacks of heavy documents, cutting off most of the light and making the whole room dim and oppressive.
A wizard with thinning hair, wearing an outdated grey robe and half-moon glasses, was sitting behind a desk buried in documents.
The quill in front of him was automatically writing something on a piece of parchment, making an annoying scratching sound.
"What can I do for you?" The wizard didn't even look up, his voice as dry as a rusty door hinge.
"Minerva McGonagall, accompanying my ward, Jerry Rosier, to inquire about and handle the employment registration of a house-elf."
Professor McGonagall's voice was clear and steady as she placed her wand and a copy of the guardianship decree signed personally by the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot on the only clean corner of the desk.
Hearing the surnames "McGonagall" and "Rosier," the wizard, known as Mr. Crummley, finally put down his work.
He adjusted his glasses, slowly picked up the decree, and examined every magical seal and signature on it carefully against the light.
"Professor McGonagall... of course, I've heard a lot about you."
His tone carried a hint of formulaic respect, but then he frowned again, his gaze sweeping over Jerry's overly young face. "Rosier... employing a house-elf at this age?
With all due respect, Professor, the Ministry has extremely strict regulations regarding the transfer of domestic creatures."
"That is precisely why we are here, Mr. Crummley." Professor McGonagall's tone was neither humble nor arrogant. "We wish to understand and comply with all rules and regulations."
"Very well." Mr. Crummley cleared his throat and pulled out a large roll of heavy parchment from a locked drawer.
He unrolled the parchment on the desk with a whoosh. It was densely covered with clauses in Ancient Elvish, smaller than gnome teeth.
"First, the 'Employer Qualification Assessment'."
He tapped the opening of the parchment with a long, thin finger. "According to Article 17, Section 3 of the Magical Creatures Protection and Management Act, any wizard or wizarding family wishing to establish a contract with a house-elf must prove to this office that they possess the ability to 'provide a long-term, stable, and safe dwelling for the elf'."
He paused, looking up at McGonagall: "This includes, but is not limited to, the following points."
"First, Proof of Assets."
"The employer must present a legally binding proof of assets issued by Gringotts to ensure they can pay the elf's 'initial contract fee' and the 'risk deposit' for potential accidents (such as expensive magical treatment required for the elf due to work injuries).
Generally speaking, the minimum standard for this amount is ten thousand Galleons in liquid assets."
Hearing this number, even with Professor McGonagall's temperament, the corner of her eye twitched uncontrollably.
And this was merely the "minimum standard."
However, there was no expression on Jerry's face.
He simply took out a neatly folded letter made of top-grade dragon skin paper from his pocket and placed it gently on the table.
There were no superfluous words on it, only a private seal belonging to a senior account manager of Gringotts branded by magic, and a string of numbers long enough to dazzle the eyes.
At the end of the numbers, the unit "Galleons" was clearly marked.
Mr. Crummley glanced at it casually at first, but in the next second, his eyeballs looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets.
He picked up the letter, read it repeatedly three times, even taking out a monocle to look closer. Finally, he looked at Jerry with disbelief in a near-stuttering tone: "This... this is your... personal account?"
"To be precise, it is the fund for my personal living and business startup." Jerry's voice was calm and waveless.
Mr. Crummley gasped, and the look he gave Jerry instantly changed from scrutiny to a near-sycophantic awe.
He carefully put that "thin piece of paper" back on the table, as if it were some fragile artifact.
"Ahem... of course, of course.
The financial power of the Rosier family is beyond doubt."
He hurriedly skipped this item, his finger continuing to slide down. "Second, Residence Safety Assessment.
The employer must provide a magical defense structure diagram of the property under their name, or a safety certificate issued by at least two Ministry-certified Defense Masters, to ensure the elf's living environment is free from the threat of Dark Magic or dangerous creatures.
After all, once a house-elf signs a contract with a master, its life safety is closely related to the master's safety."
"My workshop just passed the joint approval of all Ministry departments. I think this document should be sufficient."
Jerry handed over another document, which was the property rights and safety certification report of his alchemy workshop in Hogsmeade.
It was covered with the flashy stamps of Fudge, Umbridge, and various Department Heads.
Mr. Crummley's forehead began to sweat.
He quickly scanned the document, seeing those names he himself had to look up to, and nodded repeatedly: "Sufficient, completely sufficient.
The defense level of the Rosier Workshop is probably higher than some departments of the Ministry..."
He felt like he was auditing whether Dumbledore was qualified to cast a "Lumos" today.
"Then, third, Background Check."
Crummley's tone had become very humble. "The Ministry prohibits any wizard with a record of abusing magical creatures from establishing a new contract.
We will conduct a quick retrieval of your background..."
As he spoke, he tapped his wand in the air a few times, and a mirror connected to the Ministry's archives floated in mid-air.
Materials of Professor McGonagall and Jerry flashed quickly in the mirror.
McGonagall's file was impeccable, a model for all wizards.
Although Jerry's file was very new and bore the unique mark of a Death Eater family orphan, it was annotated with a series of shiny titles such as "Completed frontline warband secret missions," "Assisted in repelling Death Eaters," and "Hogwarts Special Contributor."
These titles were enough to cover up the danger represented by that mark.
"...Flawless."
Crummley let out a long sigh of relief, finally completing this stressful assessment session.
He put away the qualification assessment form, put on a more solemn expression, and took out another roll of even older parchment.
"Since there are no issues with qualifications, according to the law, I must read the 'Mandatory Pre-Employment Notice for House-Elves' to you before you make your final decision. Please listen carefully, because once the contract is established, no terms can be reversed."
Professor McGonagall sat up straight, her expression serious.
Jerry, on the other hand, still looked detached, as if listening to a history unrelated to himself.
"First, the contract of a house-elf is absolute slavery based on bloodline and magic.
Once an elf accepts the first piece of clothing from the master, it means it will obey this master and their direct blood relatives unconditionally for life.
This obedience transcends its own will and life. Unless the master personally gifts another piece of clothing to it, the contract cannot be dissolved."
"Second, the master is obliged to provide 'covering for shame' for the house-elf, usually a rag, but this is not a mandatory requirement.
The master has no obligation to pay the elf any form of salary; all labor is unpaid."
"Third..."
...
Crummley read for a full half-hour. The lengthy and tedious clauses covered almost every aspect of a house-elf from birth to death. Each clause was like a heavy chain, firmly locking this magical race into the position of "slave."
"...The above is the entire content of the notice.
May I ask if you two fully understand and still decide to proceed?"
Crummley finally finished reading, took a sip of water, and asked.
"Understood." Professor McGonagall's voice was somewhat hoarse.
Jerry just nodded.
"Then, next is the selection."
From a drawer at the very bottom of the filing cabinet, Crummley pulled out a huge register as thick as a brick. The cover of the register was made of some rough biological leather with no text on it.
"This records all house-elves currently registered at the Ministry and waiting for re-employment," he explained. "Their origins vary.
Some are because the original master's family line ended, some were confiscated by the Ministry for violating laws, and some were... voluntarily abandoned."
He opened the register. Each page had a vivid portrait of an elf drawn by magic. Below the portrait, its name, age, families served, household chores excelled at, and the reason for "transfer" were recorded in detail.
"Generally speaking, elves from ancient pure-blood families have higher loyalty and ability because they have received systematic training and bloodline inheritance. Of course, the price is also the most expensive.
For example, this one, Dobby, used to belong to the Malfoy family..." Crummley's finger slid over a portrait of an elf looking terrified with disproportionately large eyes: "Oh, sorry, this one has been crossed out."
He continued to flip backward.
Jerry's gaze swept one by one over those elf faces with various forms and expressions of sadness, numbness, or terror.
Finally, his finger stopped on one of the pages.
"I want this one!"
"This one...?"
Mr. Crummley led them through rows of cages emitting various rustling sounds and finally stopped in front of an independent glass compartment reinforced with silver runes.
Inside the compartment stood a unique house-elf.
He looked extremely old, his skin like an apple that had been air-dried for a long time, covered with deep and fine wrinkles. His pair of huge, pointed ears drooped weakly, almost reaching his shoulders.
Most striking was his attire.
He wasn't wrapped in a tattered pillowcase or tea towel like other house-elves but wore a well-tailored, old-fashioned black tailcoat.
Although the edges of the fabric had become worn and white from years of washing, and the cuffs were somewhat frayed, this coat was still ironed without a single wrinkle, and the snow-white bow tie was tied meticulously.
On his chest, embroidered with almost faded silver thread, was a complex and magnificent crest—a black rose entwined with thorns in full bloom.
Jerry's breathing hitched slightly. Those eyes, always carrying a bit of laziness and playfulness, suddenly became sharp as a hawk at this moment.
Jerry might not remember anything from ten years ago; as an infant in swaddling clothes, he couldn't possibly recognize this old servant before him.
That was the crest of the Rosier family.
Mr. Crummley followed Jerry's gaze, adjusted his monocle, his tone carrying a bit of sympathy and helplessness. "This is Old Henry, whom you chose. He is a... very special case.
More than ten years ago, after... well, that unfortunate disturbance, he was sent here as an asset of a confiscated 'dangerous family'."
Crummley chose his words carefully, avoiding direct mention of the sensitive term "Death Eater."
"Frankly speaking, he is an impeccable servant, proficient in ancient butler etiquette and all household charms, and even knows some rare maintenance techniques for alchemical items.
However... precisely because of this, his price has always remained high.
More importantly, he refuses to serve any family with 'insufficiently noble bloodline' or 'insufficiently elegant manners'.
In ten years, he has stubbornly driven away at least twenty interested buyers.
The Ministry also wanted to assign him to certain departments, but he refused to work on the grounds that 'the environment there is unworthy of the glory of the Rosier family'.
We can't do anything about it either; forcing a house-elf who doesn't want to serve to work violates the Elf Welfare Act." Mr. Crummley sighed. "So he has stayed here like this, like a living antique.
If you want to choose him, according to the asset assessment back then, the transfer fee is thirty thousand Galleons."
Professor McGonagall gasped.
Thirty thousand Galleons!
This was enough to buy several shops in Hogsmeade. Paying this price for an aged and stubborn house-elf seemed too crazy no matter how you looked at it.
However, Jerry just gave a soft "humph." No joy or anger could be heard in that tone, but it carried an unquestionable decisiveness.
"I want him."
The moment Jerry said these words, the muddy eyes of the old elf, who had been standing quietly like a statue in the compartment, trembled violently.
He turned his head with some hesitation and looked at Jerry.
The moment his gaze met Jerry's deep eyes, when he felt the ancient Rosier bloodline radiating from the boy—though still young, pure beyond dispute, having been silent for ten years—a fierce radiance mixed with ecstasy, grief, and extreme piety instantly erupted on his wrinkled, old face.
"...Young... Master?"
His dry lips moved slightly, spitting out a word that almost dissipated in the air.
Immediately after, under the astonished gazes of Professor McGonagall and Mr. Crummley, this old elf, who had been stubborn for ten years, actually pushed open the unlocked glass door violently, rushed out with a vigorous posture completely inconsistent with his age, and then with a thud, knelt heavily on one knee in front of Jerry.
He didn't kowtow humbly like other house-elves but performed an impeccably standard kneeling bow of an ancient knight meeting his monarch.
"Old servant Henry... greets... Young Master..."
His voice was hoarse, carrying unsuppressable sobs. Large, muddy tears rolled down from the corners of his eyes like gullies, hitting the cold marble floor and spreading a small patch of dark water stain. "I am sorry... Young Master... when you needed care most... this old servant was incompetently trapped here... unable to be by your side... this is a sin... this old servant can never be forgiven for in this lifetime!"
This sudden scene plunged the entire office into deathly silence.
Jerry reached out and gently supported the old elf's trembling, bony shoulders.
His movement was light but carried an irresistible strength belonging to a lord.
"Rise."
His voice was calm, but the address stunned everyone present.
"Grandpa Henry."
Old Henry raised his head abruptly, his tear-filled muddy eyes full of unbelievable shock. His mouth opened, but he couldn't say a word.
"Blackfeather Castle is too empty and too messy." A helpless smile appeared on Jerry's face, fitting his age, as if complaining. "Cleaning it up is really too much trouble.
In the future, I still have to rely on you to make it look brand new again."
He didn't mention the past, didn't mention the ten years, and certainly didn't mention the thirty thousand Galleons "transfer fee."
"...Yes! Young Master!"
Old Henry finally recovered from the huge shock. He wiped the tears from his face messily with his worn cuff and stood up again. His waist and back, originally somewhat hunched due to old age, straightened at this moment, as if he were twenty years younger.
A light named "sense of mission" made his muddy eyes bright and sharp again.
"This old servant... obeys!
The glory of the Rosier family will surely... shine again in your hands!"
Mr. Crummley watched all this dumbfounded. He opened his mouth, but finally took out a brand-new magical contract made of dragon skin paper and that blood-writing quill flashing with ominous red light from the cabinet.
"Uh... since... since it is so..."
His voice stuttered a bit. Facing this long-lost reunion drama within a pure-blood family, he, an ordinary clerk, didn't know how to respond at all. "Then, please, guardian and the party concerned, sign your names on this 'House-Elf Ownership Return Contract'.
Given the special circumstances, I will apply to the Department Head to change the fee type from 'Purchase' to 'Lost Property Claim', so only ten years of storage fees need to be paid... about... five hundred Galleons."
Crummley wiped the sweat from his forehead and solemnly pushed the contract and pen in front of Professor McGonagall and Jerry.
He felt he might have witnessed a piece of history sufficient to be written into the Secret History of Pure-Blood Families today.
There was no ripple on Jerry's face, as if Mr. Crummley's presumptuous "reduction" was just meaningless wind in his ears.
Jerry didn't even look at the dragon skin contract pushed in front of him. Instead, he unhurriedly and methodically took out a checkbook bound in dragon skin, which looked extremely expensive, from the inside of his well-tailored black robe.
With a soft click, using a fountain pen that looked like it was made of hippogriff feather with a nib flashing with magical luster, he signed his name on it fluently.
Jerry's movements were elegant and skilled, not like a teenager at all, but more like a chamber of commerce magnate who had been in charge of a huge family business for years.
Rip. Jerry tore off two pieces of parchment.
The first one, Jerry pushed gently in front of Crummley. On the paper, it was clearly written in elegant flowing script—"Five Hundred Gold Galleons."
This was exactly the storage fee Crummley mentioned, not a penny more, not a penny less.
This represented compliance with the rules.
Immediately after, Jerry pressed the second piece of parchment with his fingertip unhurriedly and slid it slowly next to the first check.
On this check, there was only a simple number, but that number caused Mr. Crummley's pupils to shrink to the size of pinheads in an instant.
"Ten Thousand Gold Galleons."
This was no longer just a sum of money.
For Crummley, who worked in the "House-Elf Relocation Office under the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," which could be called the coldest and most profitless "clean yamen" in the entire Ministry, this money was equivalent to the total income he could save by working for ten years without eating or drinking.
This represented an overwhelming, irrefutable "goodwill" outside the rules.
"No, no, Mr. Rosier, this is absolutely impossible!" Mr. Crummley recoiled as if burned, his hands shrinking back violently, shaking his head desperately.
His professional ethics and long-standing caution made his first reaction to reject this huge sum that could completely swallow him.
"Rules are rules, five hundred Galleons... is already the maximum I can apply for you..."
Before he could finish, a slender but extremely powerful hand wearing a black lace glove reached over ahead of him.
Professor McGonagall said nothing. She picked up the two Gringotts checks lightly with two fingers.
Professor McGonagall's movement showed no hesitation, as if that piece of paper written with ten thousand Galleons was no different from an ordinary sticky note in her eyes.
Professor McGonagall didn't return the checks to Jerry, nor did she give them back to Crummley. Instead, she turned and walked to a dusty redwood shelf in the corner of the office used to store old archives.
Professor McGonagall casually placed those two checks, enough to drive any ordinary wizard crazy, face down under a dust-covered copy of House-Elf Relocation Regulations (1875 Revision).
After doing all this, Professor McGonagall slowly turned around. Those eyes that always flashed with stern light behind the lenses were now as calm as a bottomless lake.
Professor McGonagall gazed at Mr. Crummley, who was scared pale, her voice steady but carrying an unquestionable majesty belonging to the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.
"Mr. Rosier is simply feeling heartfelt joy at the return of his family's loyal servant and is willing to express a little insignificant gratitude for the hard work of his Ministry colleagues."
Professor McGonagall spoke every word very slowly and clearly, as if explaining the most basic spell to a student who knew nothing.
"I hope that everything that happened here today—including Mr. Rosier's generosity, Henry's return, and... any details that might cause unnecessary misunderstanding and discussion—will not spread out of this room."
Professor McGonagall paused, her gaze moving slowly from Mr. Crummley's face to that "ten thousand Galleons" pressed under the old book.
"Do you understand what I mean?
Mr. Crummley."
That sentence wasn't a question, but a statement, an order, a warning.
Mr. Crummley's Adam's apple bobbed violently up and down. He swallowed a large mouthful of saliva with difficulty, feeling his back completely soaked in cold sweat.
Crummley understood.
He understood thoroughly.
This was no longer a simple hush money. This was the double, inviolable will from the Rosier family and the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.
Accept this money, and he was "one of them," having to keep everything that happened today rotten in his stomach.
Refuse this money... he didn't dare imagine the consequences.
Crummley's struggle lasted less than three seconds.
In this corner belonging to the truest power game of the wizarding world, so-called professional ethics were fragile and vulnerable before absolute benefits and potential threats.
"Un... Understood! I completely understand, Professor McGonagall!"
Mr. Crummley made no further excuses. He straightened his back abruptly, a smile of unprecedented enthusiasm piling up on his face instantly.
He grabbed the blood-writing quill and wrote rapidly on the dragon skin contract with an attitude bordering on sycophancy.
"I will process the 'Special Asset Return' procedures for you immediately!
All processes will be simplified!
Guaranteed to complete all magic seal stamping within ten minutes!
The generosity of you and Mr. Rosier is the greatest affirmation of our department's work!
Please rest assured, today... only a trivial matter happened here today; a respectable old servant returned to his young master, that is all!"
As he spoke, his nib danced on the contract, while the corner of his eye kept glancing at the corner pressed under the old book!
That dusty old book, at this moment, seemed more dazzling than the deepest vault in Gringotts.
After completing all the paperwork in that office reeking of disinfectant at the Ministry of Magic, Jerry took Old Henry straight back to the Rosier Alchemy Workshop via Apparition.
Professor McGonagall did not follow. She seemed to tacitly accept Jerry's full capability to handle his own "family affairs." Before leaving, she only gave the old elf standing respectfully behind Jerry an extremely complex look, said nothing, and then left through the Floo Network.
"Is this... your current enterprise, Young Master?"
As soon as they entered the huge antechamber filled with the smell of metal and potions, a professional glint immediately flashed in Old Henry's muddy eyes.
He was no longer the old man feigning senility and stubbornness at the Ministry, but like a precise detection instrument reactivated, scanning everything around him.
"Just a start, Grandpa Henry."
Jerry's tone was flat. As he walked, he pointed casually as if introducing his toys. "Furnace No. 1, used for processing Dragon Blood Ore and Obsidian.
No. 2 and No. 3 are backups.
That row over there is the automatic potion brewing and cooling pipeline, Professor Snape's design, barely passable."
Jerry led Old Henry through the relatively open outer area managed by apprentices.
Along the way, those young wizards all cast curious glances at this suddenly appearing house-elf in an ancient tailcoat, but under Jerry's cold gaze, no one dared to ask a single question.
Old Henry followed silently behind Jerry. His seemingly frail body walked steadily, his gaze torch-like.
His sight quickly swept over those crucibles, conveyor belts flashing with runes, and crystal energy storage units hovering in mid-air.
"Young Master!" He suddenly spoke, pointing at a huge silver magic circle drawn on the floor. "This 'Third Generation Patriarch's Modified Magic Stabilization Matrix', you increased its energy reflux nodes from seven to thirteen... Is this to adapt to the instant switching of multiple magic sources with different attributes?
This idea... is too genius!
The old master back then had also envisioned it but was always troubled by the problem of node conflict."
Jerry's steps paused slightly. He looked back at Old Henry, a trace of approval flashing in his eyes.
"You noticed?
Correct, I solved the conflict problem with 'Phase Resonance Suppression Runes'.
Although it sacrifices three percent of energy transmission efficiency, it trades for absolute stability."
"Worth it! Absolutely worth it!" Old Henry's body trembled with excitement. "Stability!
This is always the first rule of Rosier family alchemy!
This old servant understands!"
Jerry said no more, just leading him deeper into the workshop.
They passed through magic doors requiring complex passwords and bloodline verification, and the surrounding scenery became increasingly precise and massive.
Various strange machines full of futuristic and classical alchemical beauty, which Jerry had never shown to outsiders, were operating quietly under the drive of magical energy.
Finally, they arrived before a gate composed of pure liquid mercury flowing like a waterfall.
"Here is the central control room of the workshop."
Jerry reached out and pressed on the mercury gate.
The cold liquid metal wound around his arm like a living thing, verified his bloodline, and silently parted to the sides.
Behind the door was a circular space as huge as a cathedral dome.
In the center of the space hovered a huge core over five meters in diameter composed of unknown crystal.
Inside the core was a torrent of multicolored magic power rotating slowly like a nebula.
Countless thick energy conduits extended from the core, connecting to hundreds and thousands of magic screens with constantly changing data on the walls.
This was the heart of the entire alchemy workshop.
"My heavens..."
Even the well-informed Old Henry couldn't help but utter a shocked exclamation upon seeing this scene.
He could feel that the magic power contained in this control room was enough to wipe the entire Hogsmeade off the map in an instant.
"I can't stay here twenty-four hours a day." Jerry's voice echoed in the empty control room. "Some core alchemy projects, such as the incubation of the golem's core neural network, require months of uninterrupted magic fine-tuning and data monitoring.
There can be no mistakes in this process."
He turned around, looking calmly at Old Henry.
"Snape has his own ambitions; I can't trust him.
Those apprentices are still just children, even less worthy of entrusting.
Grandpa Henry..."
Old Henry instantly understood Jerry's meaning. His old body shook violently, and then, a sense of mission granted with supreme trust, unprecedented, made his bloodline that had been dried up for years boil again.
He knelt down again with a thud, more pious than ever this time.
"Young Master!
You... are you willing to hand the lifeline of the family back into this old servant's hands?"
"This will be your post from now on." Jerry didn't help him up, just issuing orders. "I will grant you the highest authority. Except for me, no one can enter here.
You will be the guardian and operator of this 'heart'.
At the same time, I will buy some young, talented house-elves back in the future. Their training and discipline will also be fully responsible by you.
What I need is an absolutely loyal and absolutely efficient team, not a group of slaves who only know how to clean."
"Yes! Yes! This old servant obeys!
This old servant swears in the name of the Rosier family to guard this place with my life!
Until this heart stops beating!"
Old Henry was moved to tears. He knew he had not only returned to the family but also rediscovered the meaning of his existence.
He was no longer the antique abandoned by the Ministry, but the first and most solid cornerstone on the road to the Rosier family's revival.
After showing Old Henry all the operational logic and future plans of the workshop unreservedly, Jerry led him to a fireplace in the corner of the central control room.
Unlike those ordinary fireplaces outside, the flame here was pure silver-white.
"Blackfeather Castle."
With Jerry's low voice, he grabbed a handful of silver Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace.
The flames shot up with a whoosh, forming a stable and dazzling vortex.
Jerry stepped in first, followed closely by Old Henry.
After a spin, when the solid touch came from under his feet again, air mixed with the smell of ancient stone, fine dust, and pure family magic so thick it wouldn't dissolve instantly filled Old Henry's lungs.
He opened his eyes. What met his eyes was the magnificent, almost oppressive Gothic main hall he had dreamed of for ten years.
The towering dome, huge stained glass windows cutting moonlight into mottled fragments, sprinkling on the outlines of huge and ancient furniture covered with white cloth.
The air was so quiet one could hear their own heartbeat; time seemed to have stagnated here.
"...Hasn't changed."
Old Henry reached out those wrinkled, trembling hands, gently stroking a huge knight armor carved from obsidian by the fireplace.
The cold touch came from his fingertips, familiar enough to make him want to cry.
"Not a bit... has changed..."
Old Henry could no longer suppress it. His knees went soft, and he knelt on the black jade floor smooth as a mirror reflecting the stars, pressing his forehead deeply against the floor tile carved with the family crest, which was worn the most.
Large, hot tears slid down the gullies on his face, silently blending into the dust of this castle.
This was home.
He was finally... home.
Amidst this solemn silence, a slight sound of a book page falling suddenly rang out abruptly.
Thud.
Old Henry looked toward the sound and saw in the shadows far away in the hall, on a sofa made of velvet and golden nanmu wood that was somewhat exaggeratedly huge, a slender and long figure was slowly putting down a thick-skinned magic book in her hand.
It was a girl beautiful unlike a mortal creature.
She had long hair flowing like moonlight reaching her ankles, sharp and exquisite ears poking out from between her hair strands, her skin almost transparently white in the dim light.
She wore only a pale purple silk nightgown. The hem was extremely short, covering to the root of her thighs. Two slender, dazzlingly long legs were crossed in an extremely lazy and alluring posture.
It was the Elf Princess, Ylarnia.
When Ylarnia's gaze lifted from that obscure ancient rune book and locked precisely on Jerry stepping out of the fireplace, her amethyst-like eyes, originally full of wisdom and tranquility, were instantly ignited by a most primitive, purest flame named "ecstasy."
"Jerry!"
A tender cry filled with endless longing and desire, like the song of a nightingale, pierced the silence of the castle.
In the next second, Ylarnia didn't even have time to put on shoes. She threw the heavy magic book on the floor casually.
Ylarnia's delicate body, full of the flexibility and explosive power unique to the elf race, bounced up from the sofa instantly like a lit fuse.
Ylarnia didn't run over.
Ylarnia charged straight at Jerry like a precisely guided, fragrant "cannonball."
The thin silk nightgown drew a seductive purple afterimage in the air, her perfect body curves fully revealed in the run.
Those snow-white flesh mounds, wrapped in the nightgown, shocking in size yet perky and full, trembled violently up and down with her movements, bringing waves of flesh that made one's blood boil.
Old Henry didn't even have time to react from the emotion of returning home when he dumbfoundedly saw this noble Elf Princess, in a wild posture completely contrary to her elegant appearance, leap violently into the air two steps away from Jerry!
Thud!
A dull, soft impact sound.
Jerry was knocked back a step by this huge impact force, and Ylarnia had already "hung" her whole person on him like a large feline predator preying.
Her arms, like the toughest vines, locked Jerry's neck deathly tight.
And those two amazing long legs were wrapped tightly around Jerry's waist in an extremely lewd posture, ankles crossed and hooked behind him, forming a perfect, inescapable "lock."
Jerry's face, still carrying a bit of boyish childishness, was buried entirely and deeply into Ylarnia's warm, soft, and amazingly elastic full snowy mounds by this sudden action.
A body fragrance mixed with the forest grass unique to elves, the scent of soap locust after a girl's bath, and a most primitive, dizzying sweet scent unique to females instantly drowned Jerry's sense of smell completely.
"Woo... you're back... Jerry... I waited for you for so long... missed you so much... really missed you..."
Ylarnia's breathing was rapid and hot. She buried her face in the hollow of Jerry's neck, rubbing constantly and dependently with her tender cheek and sharp ears.
Ylarnia's body was like a fish that had been out of water for a long time, instinctively and greedily absorbing the scent on Jerry that obsessed her.
As a teenager only of average adult height, being entangled in this posture by an Elf Princess whose height and development far exceeded his, the visual impact reached its peak at this moment. Jerry was almost completely wrapped in Ylarnia's full and soft body, appearing so "petite."
However, this was just the beginning.
After confirming Jerry had been "captured" by her, Ylarnia's legs wrapped around his waist began to rub back and forth rhythmically uncontrollably, carrying a meaning of unbearable thirst.
Ylarnia's movement amplitude was small, but with every friction, her most mysterious and wettest valley below would make an incomparably clear, suggestive intimate contact with Jerry's lower abdomen through two layers of thin fabric.
Under this familiar, teasing stimulation, Jerry's unusual body reacted immediately.
Deep in his trouser leg, that sleeping giant, which would make even adult wizards ashamed upon seeing, began to awaken, engorge, and expand rapidly.
In just a few breaths, an extremely exaggerated contour full of brute force stood up tyrannically under his suit trousers, pushing the expensive fabric into a tent-like arc full of oppression.
"Mmh...!"
Ylarnia felt that familiar change immediately.
Her rubbing movement stagnated abruptly, and then a stronger, unsuppressable shudder rushed from Ylarnia's tailbone straight to her brain.
Ylarnia's breathing became even hotter, and her crystal-like eyes instantly misted over with a layer of blurred and moist water fog.
Squelch... hiss...
An extremely subtle yet erotic-to-the-extreme water sound rang out faintly in this silent hall.
That was the sound of her pale purple silk nightgown, thoroughly soaked because it couldn't bear the gushing body fluids, rubbing against her smooth inner thighs and Jerry's trouser fabric.
A dark, ambiguous water stain expanded rapidly between her legs, emitting a unique fragrance belonging to a female elf in estrus, sweet enough to make one flustered.
Old Henry standing aside was completely petrified at this moment.
On his wrinkled old face, first shock, then astonishment.
Finally, after seeing Ylarnia's intimate posture clearly and feeling the aggressive male aura on Jerry completely inconsistent with his age, all emotions turned into an extreme, heartfelt "gratification" and "pride."
Worthy of being the heir of the Rosier family!
Even young, he already showed the demeanor of a lord!
This loyal old butler immediately turned around quickly with an extremely professional and natural posture, facing the wall, as if studying the pattern of a faded family tapestry on the wall with concentration.
His huge ears even twitched quickly and closed, but his expression was as serious as if attending the Queen's funeral, taking the servant rule of "see no evil, hear no evil" to the extreme.
Ylarnia's hands began to be dissatisfied with just hugging Jerry. A boneless little hand slid down Jerry's back, accurately pinching his firm buttocks, pressing hard toward her body, embedding that giant object deeper into her crotch.
While the other hand quietly explored forward, tracing the terrifying outline of that giant object again and again through two layers of fabric with those slender, art-like elven fingers.
"Jerry... I want... I want to eat it..."
Ylarnia breathed pleas in his ear, her body grinding more urgently, as if she would execute Jerry right here in the hall in front of the old butler in the next second.
Facing the Elf Princess entangled on him like an octopus and already fully in the mood, Jerry finally made a move.
This Elf Princess didn't know what her unlucky Queen mother had fed her recently.
Her figure was getting fuller and fuller.
Jerry sighed, one hand supporting Ylarnia's round and perky buttocks to prevent her from falling, while the other hand raised, patting her exposed, smooth-as-jade back with a hint of comfort.
"Behave yourself, Ylarnia."
Jerry's voice wasn't loud but carried an unquestionable authority belonging to the master of the house.
"We have a guest."
Jerry's whisper, full of suggestion and unquestionable authority, was like a weak electric current instantly penetrating Ylarnia's entire body.
Ylarnia's delicate body, tense from passion, trembled violently. Her legs wrapped around Jerry's waist subconsciously squeezed tighter again, seeming to want to embed that scalding weapon, still frighteningly hard through the fabric, deeper into her already muddy crotch.
Ylarnia couldn't even help extending her pink tongue tip, sucking vengefully on the small ear she held in her mouth.
"...You said it."
Ylarnia mumbled in an almost inaudible breathy voice, full of satisfied laziness and cloying sweetness after being promised candy.
Despite being extremely reluctant, Ylarnia still knew her limits.
She released her vine-like arms and legs, her body sliding down from Jerry with endless stickiness like a boneless mermaid.
This process was full of amazing visual impact.
With her departure, that oppressive tent on Jerry's trousers was exposed unreservedly to the air.
Ylarnia's gaze lingered greedily on that amazing bulge for a second, the corner of her mouth hooking into a bad smile of "I'll deal with you later," before tidying her silk nightgown leisurely and tucking a strand of naughty silver hair behind her ear.
Jerry straightened his collar without changing his expression, as if that fragrant "attack" just now never happened.
He turned around and said to the old butler standing facing the wall like a stone sculpture in a flat tone: "Henry, turn around."
"Yes, Young Master."
Old Henry turned around with a military-like precise posture, his face still wearing that ancient-well-without-waves serious expression, as if what he studied just now wasn't a tapestry but the Rosier family's rise and fall plan for the next hundred years.
The moment he turned around, Old Henry's eyes stared at the ground.
His gaze didn't linger on Ylarnia's overly exposed body or Jerry's trousers for even a split second.
"Let me introduce you."
Jerry's tone was casual, as if introducing two friends who had known each other for a long time. "This is Ylarnia, Princess of the Forest Elves. Currently a... guest of Blackfeather Castle."
His imperceptible pause on the word "guest" made Ylarnia couldn't help but give a soft "humph," but her eyes were full of pleasure.
"This is Henry." Jerry turned to Ylarnia again. "The First Butler of Blackfeather Castle."
"Your Highness Princess."
Old Henry immediately performed an ancient court bow to Ylarnia, far more complex and humble than to Jerry.
He bowed, right hand on chest, head lowered, posture impeccable. "Old servant Henry is honored to serve you.
Your brilliance makes this castle, silent for ten years, revitalize with vitality."
Ylarnia looked up and down at this old house-elf with interest.
As a noble elf, she didn't have much emotion for these "service races" in her bones.
But she could keenly perceive that Henry's loyalty to Jerry came from the depths of his soul, without impurities.
This point made her feel a wonderful sense of identification.
Ylarnia lifted her skirt corner lazily and returned a curtsy, equally elegant.
Yet carrying a bit of elf-unique arrogance. This action caused another breathtaking shake of the snow-white fullness on her chest.
"Hello, Henry. Nice to meet you."
Ylarnia's voice was sweet and pleasant, carrying a faint smile: "Anyone loyal to Jerry can get my friendship."
The implication of ownership in this sentence was so obvious.
Old Henry just lowered his head more respectfully, understanding in his heart.
This beautiful Elf Princess was definitely not just a "guest"; she would be one of the future mistresses of this castle.
In this slightly wonderful atmosphere, a sudden change occurred.
Screech!
A sharp cry like metal friction came from the high dome of the hall without warning.
A blinding red flash, as if condensed from fresh blood, dived down like a meteor from an open stained glass window.
Its speed was amazingly fast, drawing a twisted afterimage in the air. Before Old Henry and Ylarnia could react, it precisely "spat" an envelope also burning with red flames into Jerry's hand, which happened to reach out.
After completing the task, the blood-colored owl exploded with a boom in mid-air, turning into sky-filling harmless red sparks, then completely dissipated, leaving only a faint magic afterwave like ozone.
"Howler?"
Ylarnia leaned over curiously.
Before her voice fell, that red envelope unfolded automatically as if possessing life.
A magically amplified, clear and capable female voice suddenly resounded through the entire empty hall.
This voice wasn't full of angry roaring like a traditional Howler but was unusually calm and professional, yet that penetrating power blessed by magic still made the entire space buzz.
"Mr. Rosier, apologies for this presumptuous communication.
My boss temporarily adjusted her schedule; she is free now.
The meeting can be arranged at any time convenient for you.
Please reply through our regular channel to finalize the specific time and location of the meeting. Message delivered."
After speaking, the envelope spontaneously ignited into a small pinch of black ash with a poof in Jerry's hand, drifting away with the wind.
Silence returned to the hall.
Mei-Ting Jin?
Is the "boss" behind her finally going to show her face?
A trace of imperceptible light flashed in Jerry's eyes.
This was much faster than he expected.
And Ylarnia beside him, upon hearing words like "meeting" and "location," her amethyst-like eyes lit up instantly, like a traveler trekking in the desert for days finally seeing an oasis.
Opportunity!
Before Jerry could digest this matter completely, a warm and soft touch pressed tightly against his back.
"Jerry..." Her voice was light and soft, carrying a nasal tone of grievance. "You're going out, right?
Outside the castle?"
"Take me with you, okay?"
Ylarnia began to sway her body gently, rubbing her breasts repeatedly on his back in a coquettish, grinding way.
Jerry closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
He knew Ylarnia was speaking the truth. This elf who loved nature by nature was indeed suffering being trapped in this magnificent but lifeless ancient castle.
Weighing pros and cons.
Taking Ylarnia, an incredibly beautiful Elf Princess, was too big a target and might attract unnecessary attention.
But... precisely because she was incredibly beautiful, Ylarnia herself was a most powerful weapon.
Whether used to confuse the enemy or to demonstrate his strength and heritage, it was more than enough. Moreover, Ylarnia's combat power was definitely not just for show.
"Alright."
When Jerry finally spoke, Ylarnia's grinding movement stopped instantly, even holding her breath.
Jerry reached back and grabbed that tender little hand still wreaking havoc on his trousers, holding it tightly in his palm.
"You can come with me."
"Yay!"
"However." Jerry's voice interrupted her movement; his tone became serious and full of unquestionable command: "Outside, you must completely, thoroughly, and unconditionally obey every order of mine.
If I say go, you cannot stop."
"Understood! Completely understood!"
Ylarnia agreed immediately without thinking, nodding excitedly like a large dog who finally got the owner's permission to go out and play.
The corner of Jerry's mouth hooked into a meaningful arc.
He turned his head and pinched gently on that peerlessly beautiful face flushed red with excitement.
"Very good.
Then, go change your clothes."
He paused, adding a sentence.
"Wear that black, velvet tight dress I bought for you last time."
"And..." Jerry's gaze became deep, full of malicious taste.
Using a voice only the two of them could hear.
"No underwear allowed."
"So mean!"